by Gavin Smith
Once he had worked out how to use it, he no longer had to rely on contractors. King Jeremy could augment and hardwire the skills he required to mimic most of the characters he played in games. He had done this and then taken out the contractors just to be on the safe side. Since then he had got hold of more of the lost tech. Some of it was spectacularly advanced software, some biotech, but most of it was hardware. He had bought some, though rarely for money; most of the rest he had killed and stolen for, or arranged proxies to do so. In one spectacular case, an entire nanite-slaved battalion of the Chinese army had done his dirty work on a mountain plateau in Tibet.
Then through a series of games he had designed himself to psychometrically and intellectually test other gamers, he had recruited the rest of the Do As You Please Clan.
He was reading a blog about some emo kid with hallucinogenic blood on some vampire wannabe’s blog. As he watched, the words started to disappear.
‘What the fuck?’ he muttered to himself. He had set his systems to automatically save any information he came across on the Portsmouth situation. It was a minor AI search routine. Not only was the search routine violated, but when he checked his own internal systems he saw the scant information he did have being eaten.
‘No, no, no, no!’ The amount of time it had taken to violate his security, security far in advanced of what modern technology was supposed to be capable of, had been so small it had been difficult to measure. Only someone with access to lost tech would be able to do this, and they would either have to have better lost tech or be more skilled at utilising it than Jeremy was. He had been aware that other groups had access to the powerful technology but had always tried to avoid them unless he was stealing from them. Even then he tried to pick on people on the lower echelons, for example the ultra-rich who had just stumbled on the technology or poorer countries’ black science programmes that had found the technology purely by chance.
King Jeremy stared at the monitor, which was swiftly becoming a focus for his rage. The sounds of heavy metal and simulated warfare came from the other room. Dracimus was playing a first-person shooter. This acted as Jeremy’s soundtrack as he tore the monitor off the table, flung it across the room and reduced the rest of his immediate surroundings to so much destroyed junk.
Seething, he headed towards the pleasure dome – what they called the main area of the Boston warehouse. They had used Cornucopia to terraform, as they liked to term it, the warehouse.
When King Jeremy had found himself capable of redesigning flesh, he had kept his basic look but got rid of his imperfections, made himself more handsome and a lot more athletic, aping the look of characters he saw in films, games and comics. The irony – that he now looked like the high-school alpha males he hated – was lost on him.
Dracimus was gaming old-style. There was little challenge in gaming now, when you could control the characters with your mind. Besides, they had the capabilities to make the real world like their games if they so chose. At the moment Dracimus was using an old-fashioned controller on one of the intermediate levels on the hardest setting of the Wild Boys FPS. He was playing the hacked game at lightning speed, slumped in his shorts in the middle of their massive line of sofas. The future war played out on the cinema-sized screen that took up one of the warehouse walls.
Dracimus, if anything, looked more like a high-school jock than Jeremy, if the jock had a serious steroid problem. He acted like one as well. What Dracimus wanted he had to have, immediately.
Baron Albedo was asleep, entwined with three of his latest sex zombies. After all, nano-technology was better than Rohypnol. His face was still white from burying it in the small mountain of synthetic cocaine on the table in front of him.
Inflictor Doorstep – King Jeremy had no idea where the name had come from – was looking more and more demonic. His skin had taken on a grey cast and was starting to look more like armour plate. His eyes were black-and-red spirals. He was rendering down one of the sex zombies he had broken. Feeding the woman head first into Cornucopia, something he liked doing. Inflictor Doorstep even scared Jeremy a little.
‘We’ve just been hacked.’ That even got Inflictor’s attention. ‘We’re going to England.’
Another night on the street. Despite the warmth during the day, Beth had spent most of the night awake, shivering in her sleeping bag and staring at graffiti. Someone had painted the words THE EMPIRE NEVER ENDED on the wall opposite. Beth had no idea what it meant but had initially thought it a little profound. Now it was just irritating her.
She was going to go back tomorrow. Hitch to London and get a train home. She had no idea what she was going to tell her dad. She could not see her sister as a terrorist. It would have been too much like hard work. Even with Talia’s near-suicidal taste in men, Beth still couldn’t see her even getting involved with that. On the other hand, Talia hadn’t visited her in prison, and a lot could have changed in the years since she had last seen her sister. Maybe she had been unknowingly sharing digs with a bomb-maker, but even that sounded far-fetched. On the other hand, Beth thought, someone had to share digs with terrorists. You just never think it will happen to someone you know. Her dad was going to have to be happy with what little she could give him. Maybe she should tell him to get in contact with the police.
Every time Beth felt herself falling asleep, the same question echoed around her head. Who’s to blame? She hadn’t liked Talia, but she was family. Beth couldn’t accept the pure bad luck of Talia being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone had to know more about this than she did. Talia had always been the tragic social butterfly on the alternative scene. Everyone had known her in Bradford. It would have involved a radical change of personality for her not to want to be the centre of attention in Portsmouth as well. If nothing else, someone would know what she had been doing in the run-up to this.
In the early hours of the morning Beth got up and found a place to hide her kitbag. She took an old picture of Talia, the Balisong knife and her brass knuckles, and started to wander.
It hadn’t been difficult. The clothes might have changed a little, same with the hairstyles, but all subcultures had their uniforms. She spotted them on a wide street called Elm Grove. Followed them into a narrow street with what looked like some kind of clock tower at the bottom of it where it intersected with another road. Beth was pretty sure she wasn’t too far from the sea.
The pub was in the middle of the street. It was called the Colonial Arms and had a late licence. She had heard the bustle and noise as soon as she turned into the street. It had a paved beer garden packed with people.
Inside it was warm and seemed to Beth to be full of light, though the atmosphere was strangely subdued. She wondered if it had anything to do with the terrorist incident. Had these people lost friends? The pub was made up of two large wooden-floored rooms and a smaller area up some steps set back from the bar. The bar was close to the door and it was standing room only. Beth had to push her way to the bar to order a pint of bitter with her scarce cash.
She got some looks on the way in but she had on her leather, her combat trousers and her army-surplus boots. She wore the uniform even if it was an older variant. The bouncers had sized her up on the way in as well. Wondering if she was going to be trouble. Beth hoped not but she was pleased they hadn’t searched her.
She took stock of the place and then started showing the photograph around, asking people if they had seen Talia. Beth started with the goth/emo crowd and got negatives. She was pretty sure some of them were lying because they didn’t want to get involved but she wasn’t going to push it yet.
Eventually she spoke to someone who at least admitted to having seen her. This led to Beth cornering another girl in the bathroom. Beth had put a leather-clad arm in the girl’s way and asked her to look closely at the picture. The frightened girl had tried to bluster her way out of it, but Beth had just stared at her. Finally she had given her a name. Jaime. Beth had got her to describe this Jaime. He was in tonight
. He was here every night. Where was he sitting? How many people were with him? Finally she’d let the girl go.
Beth found him quickly. She had intended watching him for a bit before going to speak to him. He had a narrow pockmarked face, long lank hair pulled back into a ponytail. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She reckoned he was a bit older than the majority of those in the pub, probably of an age with her. He was at a table with a couple of cronies and several girls a few years younger. He had minor-league dealer written all over him.
Beth sighed when he saw the girl from the toilet rush over to Jaime and point at her. He said something harsh to her and the girl backed away. Then he looked over at Beth. She sighed and headed over to his table. He glared at her all the way over.
‘You looking for me?’ he shouted over the din of the music and people talking. Beth nodded and showed him the picture.
‘You know her.’ She made sure that it didn’t sound like a question. Jaime barely glanced at it.
‘She’s dead,’ he told her. Nice, Beth thought. People were starting to listen now. One of the girls at the table, a pretty young goth who had the look of a nice middle-class girl slumming – Beth knew the type – was trying very hard not to look at the photo.
‘I know. I’m her sister.’
‘So?’ She was getting hard stares from the two guys with Jaime.
‘Look, I’m just trying to find out about her. Speak to someone who knew her. It’s been a long time.’
‘Bit late now, isn’t it? Should’ve picked up the phone.’
‘I’ve been away,’ she told him evenly, hoping he got the message. He did, and looked at her with renewed interest, maybe a bit more caution.
‘That supposed to impress me?’
‘I’m not trying to impress you. Look, if not you then point me in the direction of one of her friends, and I’ll get out of your hair.’ As she said ‘friends’ one of Jaime’s cronies, an ugly skinhead with blue biro tattoos, glanced over at the girl. Beth tried not to let on that she’d noticed.
‘Why don’t we go and talk about this outside? A bit quieter. Hear ourselves think, like. Delicate stuff this.’ Suddenly he was all smiles. Here we go. Beth sighed.
They’d come out of the pub and headed down towards the sea but turned off into a parking bay underneath some flats. Beth couldn’t help but think that the little block of flats looked like a nice place to live. She couldn’t even be bothered to ask Jaime why he needed his two mates for their private little chat. Reaching into a pocket she turned to face the three of them. As she did, he was on her, grabbing her leather jacket and slamming her against the wall. Something about it made her think that he was used to trying to intimidate women – there was a rehearsed familiarity to his actions.
‘You’re one ugly—’ he managed to get out. There wasn’t much power in the headbutt but she’d placed it correctly and nobody likes getting hit in the nose. Jaime grabbed his nose instinctively. Beth pushed him back to give herself room and kicked him in the knee, hard. There was a crack and he screamed and went down. The ugly skinhead moved faster than the guy in the shell suit. He grabbed for her, but his momentum brought him onto Beth’s hook. His nose exploded and he staggered back holding his face. The brass knuckles came away bloody. She hit him again, a fast jab to the side of the head just to discourage him from any more involvement. He sat down hard on the ground.
The click of the switchblade opening was unmistakable. Beth turned to look at the guy in the shell suit. Jaime tried getting up. Beth helped him back to the ground with the sole of her boot. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a blade pulled on her. Most of the time it was just a threat. Shell suit looked like it was just a threat, like he was used to showing people the blade and getting what he wanted. Problem was, it could be difficult to be sure.
‘Come on then,’ she said and gave him the hard stare. Even if he went for her she was pretty sure she could take him. He looked like a long streak of piss to Beth.
Shell suit looked at skinhead and Jaime and started backing away. If he left there was always the chance he’d come back with friends, but she didn’t think he would tell anyone. When you’re a guy you don’t expect to see your mates knocked down by a girl, particularly if you think you’re a hard man.
Beth had to smile as he turned and tried to walk away casually. She turned back to the other two. Skinhead was trying to get up. His eyes couldn’t focus. Beth was a little worried that she had hit him too hard but didn’t think he would bother her any time soon.
‘You fucking ugly bi—’ Jaime started. Beth kicked him in the ribs, very hard.
On the doors she remembered working with another bouncer called Thomas, who had been a member of the infamous Derby Lunatic Fighters football firm in the early 80s. He had once told her that if you wanted to know something and someone wouldn’t tell you, then all you had to do was let the tip of your knife touch the lens of their eye. You had to be very careful not to puncture it, though Thomas had been of the opinion that scratching it was okay. That way, every time they opened their eyes they’d think of you.
The Balisong knife opened easily in her hand as she knelt down by Jaime. He tried to get up so Beth punched him in the ribs, the same place she had kicked him. He yelled and she grabbed his face. Seeing the blade of the knife heading towards one of his eyes, Jaime closed them.
‘Open your fucking eye or I’ll put it out,’ she snapped. He seemed to believe her. Resting the tip of the blade against the lens of the eye was harder than Thomas had led her to believe. He kept blinking, but she was pretty sure that he got the point.
‘Stop being a prick and tell me about my sister,’ she demanded.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked desperately. That stopped her. What did she want to know? What she had been doing for six years? Had she grown up? Was she happy? Or was she still destructive and miserable? What was it about Beth that Talia had hated so much when all she had wanted was to be her older sister?
‘What happened to her?’ she asked.
‘We don’t know,’ he finally managed. ‘Nobody does. Some kind of terrorist bomb, but there’s nothing in the papers. What, you don’t think that I . . .’
Beth took the blade away from his eye and sat down on the ground. What the fuck am I doing? she asked herself. This was a good way to get put back in prison.
‘What was she to you?’ she finally asked. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ she added.
‘We saw each other for a while, you know?’
Yep, you’re just about a big enough sleazebag for her to be interested in you.
‘But she was just using me, you know? Because I had gear and she liked it.’
She hadn’t changed, Beth thought.
Jaime had been in love with her, he said. Beth felt more embarrassed than anything else when he started crying. ‘I miss her, I really miss her,’ he wailed.
Brilliant.
‘Who did she hang out with?’ she asked, wondering why she was bothering.
‘That goth bunch. They were weirdos. I mean they all are, but they were dead cliquey. Called themselves the Black Mirror or something wanky like that. They said they were like hedonists, like Burroughs – exterminate all rational thought, drugs, orgies, all sorts. Modelled themselves on the Hellfire Club, read de Sade. They all went up in the house.’ Then he really started to cry, sobs racking his body.
She believed him. It sounded exactly like the sort of bullshit that Talia would get involved in.
‘Was she doing a lot of gear?’ she asked. Jaime nodded. ‘What?’
‘Pretty much everything and as much as she could get.’
Beth grabbed him by his hoodie. ‘From you?’ she demanded, the threat back in her voice.
‘Not after I found her messing with H. I went mental at her.’ He started sobbing again. ‘That’s when she called me a small-minded little man and left.’
‘Where were they getting the money from?’
‘I don’t know.’ Beth shook him
. ‘Really, I don’t know!’
‘What’s going on down there?’ The owner of the voice sounded like he had been building up the courage to shout for some time. ‘I’m calling the police!’
Beth got up and headed back to the street.
Head down, hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, she walked up the little street. It had started to rain and the lights from the pub reflected off the wet tarmac. It was kicking-out time. Few people spared her a look. If they had seen her leave with Jaime they would have assumed she was buying from him. Only the girl from the toilets who had grassed her up was staring at her. There was no sign of shell suit.
‘Excuse me?’ the question sounded like it was the third or forth time it had been said and Beth had only just noticed it. She looked round to see the pretty little goth who had been sitting with Jaime.
‘Yeah?’ Beth was glancing around, eager to get away in case the police turned up.
‘You don’t look like her.’ Beth turned back to fix her with an angry glare, and the girl shrank back. Beth was sick of the comparison.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded.
‘Talia was my friend,’ the girl said. She looked like she was about to cry. Talia didn’t have friends, Beth thought, just people she could use.
‘You got any money?’ Beth asked. The girl seemed taken aback.
‘A little.’
‘Buy me a kebab and we can have a bit of a chat.’
‘You’re just like her,’ the girl said, smiling. Beth clenched her fists. No, I’m just skint.
It had been a bit of a walk to where Elm Grove curved round onto another road with a theatre on the corner. It was lined with shops, closed pubs and open junk-food shops. Beth was tucking into the kebab before it occurred to her to ask for the girl’s name.
‘Leticia.’
‘Really?’ Beth asked sceptically.
‘Well, it’s really Maude.’
‘Maude’s a nice name.’ This time it was Maude looking sceptical. ‘Okay, it’s really not.’