by Gary Gibson
‘Miss Merrick,’ he repeated, in a voice drier than a desert grave. ‘If you’d care to follow me, Mr Bourdain is waiting for you.’ He gestured towards a door set into one wall, and began to turn away.
‘Wait a minute.’ She put up both hands as if physically trying to stop him. He halted and regarded her with a baleful eye. ‘I don’t have any intention of going anywhere unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve done my job. Just pay me now so I can get out of here.’
Moss smiled, revealing a row of yellowing tombstone teeth. ‘It seems Mr Bourdain wants to talk with you first.’
Dakota chuckled nervously. ‘C’mon, what for? He must have a hundred cargo shipments coming in here every day. What’s to discuss?’
‘That’s a matter for yourself and Mr Bourdain.’
Dakota studied him for a moment. ‘Is there some problem?’
Moss shook his head. ‘No problem.’
‘But there’s no point in my meeting him now I’ve done my job, right? I could just get paid and go. How does that sound?’
Moss regarded her silently for several moments, then shook his head slowly. ‘Speaking to Mr Bourdain is now a condition of payment’—that tombstone smile again -’and then you can be on your way.’
Dakota thought for several seconds, the sudden pounding of her heart merging with the sounds of the party around them. ‘I’m going to tell you right now, I don’t like this.’
One corner of Moss’s mouth curled upwards. ‘Nonetheless.’
Dakota made an exasperated noise, shook her head and waved a hand at Moss. Go on, then. He started moving towards the door again, and she followed him.
—
They passed a whole circus of people in their progress. There were at least a dozen Catholic priests standing together in a loose knot, a few of them engrossed in conversation with an entirely human Imam wearing the gold earring of the Ministry of Islam. She caught a glimpse of a woman in a long dark gown, her hair pulled back in a tight bun—one of the many avatars of Pope Eliza, who stood in the centre of this gaggle of metal-skinned priests. Perhaps they were explaining to the Imam how they were free of sin because they were free of corruptible flesh.
Gas paintings partitioned the hall into sections, forming curtains of dry ice that trailed down from the ceiling, with images of mythical beasts projected on them, creating the illusion of ghostly monsters rampaging high overhead or wheeling through arched spaces on vast ribbed wings. In the centre of the hall a small artificial lake lapped at shores of finely crumbled marble, again creating the impression that the walls around it had stood here for millennia.
Mosses and vines wreathed the statues scattered here and there around the perimeter of the miniature lake, while clearly non-Terran shapes moved through its waters, sending up spumes of water from their blowholes as they surged from one side to the other. Hidden holo-projectors painted the air with abstract patterns of light through which guests passed as they walked from one fresh attraction to the next. Significantly, each constantly evolving pattern was based around the logo for Concorrant Industries.
Despite her qualms, Dakota felt a tug of excitement at the sight, mingled with deep unease. There was no doubt that Sant’Arcangelo was impressive, being one of the first asteroids to be equipped with a planet engine, but this one had it solidly beat.
But a darker side to Bourdain’s Rock quickly became evident. She followed Moss through the door, and then along a corridor opening into an enfilade of cavernous spaces that managed to make her feel claustrophobic after the sheer epic scale of the Great Hall behind them.
There were even more guests gathered here, but their activities were rather less salubrious. In a pit a pair of mogs—half-human, half-dog hybrids—fought with steel-tipped claws, while a crowd cheered and jeered encouragement from above. The beasts were vicious, lupine things, their human element barely recognizable in the dull vacancy of their eyes.
Even by the relatively lawless standards of the outer solar system, for all its lawlessness, breeding mogs was stunningly illegal. By such a display, Bourdain was openly flaunting his power and influence in the face of the Consortium.
Moss led her along past the edge of the pit and she glanced down on hearing an agonized howl. Just then one of the mogs collapsed, bright red blood gushing from its eviscerated torso.
The next cavern they entered was given over to the darkest sexual desires. There were mogs here too, hairless muzzled bitches with perfumed bodies, caged and set on plinths and awaiting the attentions of those whose tastes were so inclined.
Moss led her blithely through this cavern and on into the next, where human whores cavorted or copulated or danced with their clients, many glassy-eyed from the skin euphorics Bourdain’s employees had painted on their flesh. None of this would have bothered Dakota, except that some of these whores, male and female alike, were bead-zombies.
Moss escorted her through a final door, and into a large office space so relatively mundane that it took Dakota a moment to adjust. Subdued lighting cast gloomy shadows across expensively upholstered couches and chairs arranged casually around coffee tables. Bourdain had clearly been waiting for her. He stood up from behind a vast desk made of dark wood and stepped forward to greet her, instantly recognizable from a thousand newscasts and any number of scandals reported in the media.
‘Dakota, I’m delighted you made it to my little party.’ He smiled, revealing a row of expensive teeth. ‘Go on, admit you’re impressed,’ he continued, his smile broadening as if he meant to take a bite out of her.
She glanced around and noticed that Moss had taken up a position by the door, as if to block her exit, his hands folded casually in front of him.
‘If I have to be honest, I’m a little surprised you wanted to see me in person,’ Dakota replied, not able to keep a quaver out of her voice. ‘If there’s anything wrong with the consignment, it’s nothing to do with me, I assure you.’
Bourdain perched on the edge of his desk, with his arms folded in front of him, and gestured with a nod towards one of the visitor’s chairs near by.
‘Sit down, Dakota. I promise this won’t take long. I just want to clear up one or two small things, and then you can be on your way.’
Dakota stared at him, not moving. She heard Moss step up behind her.
Piri ? Are you there ?
Only silence. She felt the first swellings of real panic.
‘I can’t contact my ship.’
Bourdain shrugged. ‘Sorry about that, but I’d like anything we say here to remain private. Now, the sooner this is over the better, so please do sit down.’
Dakota obeyed with a show of reluctance. ‘All right, tell me what’s wrong, Mr Bourdain.’
‘Nothing,’ interrupted Moss from behind her. Dakota twisted her head to study him, and then realized Moss had been addressing Bourdain. ‘No scanning devices, recorders, weapons, nothing inside or outside of her body apart from her black-market machine-head implants. And we’re blocking them, of course.’
‘Nothing’s necessarily wrong’ Bourdain finally said in reply to her question. He hadn’t even glanced at his subordinate when he spoke. ‘But I’d like to know for sure if, at any point, you carried out a remote scan of the contents of your ship’s cargo hold.’
‘Never.’ Dakota shook her head. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’ve got in there.’
‘You were involved in the Port Gabriel massacre, am I correct?’ A fresh grin spread across Bourdain’s face. ‘Don’t look so startled, your secret’s safe with me, Dakota. You see, I don’t like too many surprises.’
She stared at him, for a moment more surprised than afraid. ‘That’s none of your business,’ she snapped. ‘I. . .’
Bourdain laughed as Dakota faltered, then he flashed a look at Moss. Dakota glanced to the side and saw the corner of Moss’s mouth twitch upward again in an attempt at a smile. Watching it made her think of a corpse exhibiting the first symptoms of rigor mortis.
‘You were sub
sequently tried for war crimes,’ Bourdain added. ‘That’s one hell of a thing to have in your resume.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Surprise gave way to renewed anger. ‘What does any of this have to do with me being here?’
Bourdain leaned forward. ‘I want you to realize there’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know. All I’m asking now is that you tell the truth. Did you ever try to find out what was in the cargo hold of your ship?’
‘No, of course I didn’t. I—’
Moss grabbed her head in two vice-like hands. She struggled desperately, but he was deceptively strong.
Then her sense of survival kicked in, and she let herself suddenly relax. As she felt Moss’s hold on her ease marginally, she thrust herself away from him and towards Bourdain.
Two strong arms yanked her back down into her seat, and held her there. Moss’s fingers dug hard into her flesh, Dakota screaming as overwhelming pain ran through her entire body.
She glanced down at Moss’s hands where they held her, and she saw he was now wearing insulated gloves coated in fine metal mesh.
Lightning gloves.
Dakota tasted blood and realized she’d bitten her tongue. Bourdain continued looking at her as if nothing had happened. Somewhere behind him a concealed door slid quietly open and two ambulatory nightmares stepped into the room: bead-zombies.
The door closed silently behind them, and they stood behind Bourdain, awaiting orders.
Bourdain was speaking again. ‘Port Gabriel was, what, almost a decade ago? Now look at you. Scraping a living in a stripped-down cargo ship that can barely haul itself from one lump of space-borne slag to another. And then this unfortunate business with the Bandati on Corkscrew?’ Bourdain shook his head, and looked almost sympathetic. ‘I heard a little rumour you took something from them, and didn’t tell me. Now, what kind of way to do business is that?’
Quill.
How else could Bourdain have found out so much about her?
The first thing she was going to do, if she ever got out of this, was find Quill—and kill him.
‘Fuck you,’ she swore weakly ‘I don’t respond too well to torture, so fuck you. Just tell me what you want and let me go.’
‘Not the answer I was looking for.’ Bourdain turned to the two bead-zombies, each of which came around opposite ends of the desk to stand on either side of Dakota. One male, one female, both tawny-skinned. Dakota wondered who they’d been when they were still alive, and why Bourdain had them killed.
Their heads had been surgically removed, and then cloned skin grown over the neck wound. Tiny low-level control beads implanted into the top of each of their truncated spinal cords allowed the bodies to respond to external orders, as well as controlling the basic functioning of the body and acting as a guidance system hooked into the local computer networks. Their bodies had been steroid-pumped, the skin shining and glossy. Each was dressed in a complex arrangement of fetishistic leather straps wrapped over their shoulders and under and around their groins, barely concealing the naked flesh underneath.
Bourdain nodded to Moss. Dakota gritted her teeth and heard herself scream when a high voltage current ripped through her once more.
Once it passed—surely the jolt had lasted only a second or two, but it was starting to feel like she’d been in Bourdain’s office for a couple of hours—the power of speech took a moment to return to her.
‘I don’t know what’s in the cargo hold,’ Dakota croaked, with such an overwhelming sincerity in her voice it surprised even her.
Bourdain stood up and went to kneel next to Dakota’s chair, laying one hand on her thigh in an almost paternal gesture.
‘Let’s get it straight exactly how much shit you’re in right now, Dakota.’ His hand slid up closer to her crotch and she tried to jerk away, but it was impossible with Moss holding her so tightly. ‘If you’re legitimate, you walk away. That’s the truth. If I’m anything, I’m fair. But if you’re lying’—he looked up, nodding at each of the headless monstrosities on either side of them—‘this is what Hugh’s going to do to you, too. That right, Hugh?’
A breathy sound from behind her, like air escaping from a flatulent corpse. It was too easy to picture those greasy yellow teeth bared expectantly.
‘So I think you’ll agree, Dakota, that doing what I want you to is really going to be in your best interests.’ He stood and looked down at her with what appeared to be real sorrow. ‘I hate this kind of situation because it’s so distasteful, you know? But that’s business.’
‘I haven’t done anything!’ she screamed. ‘And, besides, the cargo is still in my ship, Bourdain. You can’t get hold of it without my say-so, you understand me? If you go near it—’
Bourdain shook his head sadly, cutting her off. ‘I own you, Miss Merrick, same as I own Quill. We know that someone or something probed your ship, and also probed the control systems for the cargo. Maybe you knew about it, maybe you didn’t. If you didn’t, I’m sorry, but I just can’t afford to take any chances. Hugh, let her speak to her ship for a second, then . . .’ He waved a hand towards her. ‘Then find out what you can. Just make sure you clean the place up before I get back.’
Moss nodded as Bourdain walked out of the room, before leaning down to whisper in her ear.
‘My dear Dakota, it’s so good to be alone together at last. I can’t tell you how much I’m going to enjoy you, after I remove your head.’
Piri!
Panic-stricken relief swept through her. She probably only had a few moments before Moss managed to close the connection again.
I need you to get me out of here.
What? Override that, Piri.
Dakota twisted around to face Moss, seeing the look of triumph on his face. It was the same look she’d seen on Quill’s face once she’d agreed to take this job. Who else would have been able to supply Bourdain with the necessary overrides?
What ‘appropriate personnel’?
Dakota closed her eyes, opened them again. Moss chuckled quietly.
‘You and I are now going to have a long talk, Miss Merrick.’ He deliberately drawled the word long.
Emergency systems override, Piri.
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, she subvocalized, rattling the words together in her panic.
Remember me to one who lives there, she continued.
Somewhere inside the Piri, carefully hidden higher-level systems were coming alive as Dakota spoke her own secret code phrases.
She once was a true love of mine, Dakota finished in a blur as Moss leaned in towards her ear.
‘Your connection’s cut,’ he said. ‘Now it’s just you and me.’
Dakota’s heart skipped a beat.
Create a distraction, Piri. Anything.
One of Moss’s fingers stroked her ear, and she winced at the stench of his breath. Then he suddenly stood bolt upright, but kept one hand resting on her shoulder.
‘Sir?’
Dakota twisted around further and saw Moss seemed to be talking to the air, one finger to an earlobe. She guessed he was speaking to Bourdain.
‘I just received an automatic alert, sir. Comms report receiving warning of a terrorist threat through a secure police channel.’
Moss nodded to the empty air. Dakota
could almost hear the sound of her heart trying to bludgeon its way through her ribcage, her hands gripping the chair.
‘It’s a secure channel routed through the Consortium Outer System Patrol offices,’ Moss continued, for the benefit of his invisible employer. ‘They’re claiming an unmanned helium dredge has been programmed to alter course and hit the Rock within the hour. No details beyond that, at the moment. And given the number of guests we now have in the Great Hall. . .’
Piri, I love you.
Please.
Bourdain reappeared a moment later, so clearly he hadn’t gone far.
‘It’s still only an automated alert,’ Bourdain snapped. ‘I need someone human to tell me what’s going on.’ He reached up and tapped his earlobe, looking over Dakota’s shoulder. His eyes gradually unfocused, and she guessed he was seeing and hearing someone on his technical staff as if they were standing next to him.
‘Tell me what’s happening,’ he suddenly demanded of the empty air. His expression got grimmer. After a moment, Bourdain shook his head, clearly unhappy.
He appeared to suddenly notice her, as if he’d forgotten what had only just taken place in his office. ‘This isn’t over,’ he told her, venom in his voice. ‘Hugh, come with me.’
She heard Moss shift away from behind her. ‘Stay here,’ he warned her. ‘Don’t make it any worse for yourself than it already is.’
They left, closing the door as they exited.
She was on her own.
Almost.
The bead-zombies remained standing on either side of her, like frighteningly detailed statues. Dakota realized, with a start, that neither Moss nor Bourdain had yet given them any orders, and without directions they were about as dangerous as a pair of well-muscled vegetables. She sat there frozen for a couple of seconds more, filled with sick fascination at the steady rise and fall of the zombies’ chests as they hovered beside her. As they would wait, for ever, or until instructed to go elsewhere.