Well, maybe a gleech, he allowed sourly. They don’t got much use for this kind of merchandise.
He glanced up at the brothel’s skyline billboard - the name in vampiric spidery red lettering the original Tabitha would never have agreed to if she hadn’t sold up and moved to the Rim as soon as she had the capital. Behind the spiky-thin lettering, as if caged in by it, female figures switched back and forth in full flesh-toned colour, pixelled almost - but, legal requirements and all, not quite - up to human footage perfect.
Gleech wouldn’t be out here on the highway anyway. They don’t drive.
That you know of.
That Kenan knew of, and he fucking was one, smart guy.
Smart guy? Yeah, you’re some fucking smart guy, Max, out in the parking lot of Tabitha’s with whore’s snot on your jacket and not even a blowjob to show for it. All your plans and schemes, your carve-out-a-new-life bullshit, look where you’re standing still. Snot on your clothes and no blowjob. That’s how fucking smart you are, smart guy.
‘Smart guy . . .’
He heard his own mutter, final echo off the abrupt, tinny dispute he’d just mounted in his head, knew he was subvocalising again, knew why. Knew too why he hadn’t bothered, couldn’t be bothered to push Chrissie into blowing him.
Never can fucking leave it at just one shot, can you.
He’d dumped the synadrive into his eyes a couple of hours earlier, and the thing was, this was quality product, right out of his own stash, not the stepped-on shit he shifted to the kids in Van Horn and Kent on a Saturday night. So he fucking well knew he’d only need that single squirt - and initially that was what he settled for, just the one dropper load dribbled down onto the quivering surface of his left eye, what the kids called pirate dosage. But pirate shots always, fucking always, left him feeling weirdly unbalanced, and that was on a good night which tonight wasn’t and so as the synadrive came on, that feeling of fucked-up symmetry built and fucking built until it seemed like the whole right side of his body was just too slow and sleepy to bear, and so he gave in and tipped his head back one more time before he hit the road, and the fluid rolled down his right eyeball like tears.
Was a time, he recalled, you had the discipine. Discipline or self respect, either way something that wouldn’t let you do this to yourself.
He was remembering that time a lot these days, staring into mirrors at rooms he abruptly couldn’t believe he belonged in, wondering how he’d wound up here and where it had all leaked away to. That time when syn was a tool like any other, useful and used with a wired confidence that would have been arrogance if it hadn’t all felt so fucking clean and right. Back before it all turned to shit and a black pall of smoke across a Wyoming sundown sky.
Was a time ...
Sure. And there was another fucking time the summers never seemed to end and you’d never paid for it in your life. Remember that? Time passes, Max - get over it. Skip the fucking nostalgia, let’s get where we’re at.
And here he was. Snot and no blowjob, out in the night.
He wiped a hand down his jacket, not bothering to look. The synadrive hooked in visual memory and sparked a link to neuro-motor precision, put the gesture right on target, and his fingers came away gummy with the snot. He rubbed them back and forth, grimacing. He didn’t need this shit right now, not the way things were. Not like he didn’t have enough stress. He told her, he fucking told her he had other stuff cooking, stuff that needed managing, not like this pimping shit was his main gig-
Yeah, right the syn told him crisply. How many years we been saying that, exactly? Smart guy?
Different this time. This pays off like it has been, this time next year we’re out. Out for good.
And if it doesn’t?
If it doesn’t, we’re already set up to cover. Quit worrying.
Set up to cover, yeah. And go on being a pimp for life. What you going to do about Chrissie then?
What he was going to do then, he reflected sombrely, was going to have to do about Chrissie then, was probably something violent. Should have seen that one all along - fucking bitch always had been high-maintenance, even back in Houston when she was still working street corners. Cotton-candy mane of blonde and that manicured fucking Texan drawl, and now the sub-cute tit work he’d got for her, he should have fucking known she’d start with the airs and graces as soon as she settled in at Tabitha’s. Acting just like she actually was the bonobo purebred they’d packaged her as. Calling him at all hours, or pushing Tabitha’s management so they called instead, bitching about how she wouldn’t work on account of some headache or stomach cramp or just plain didn’t like some fat fuck who’d paid good money to get between her legs, sitting there on the fucking bed, bright-eyed and whining Eddie this, Eddie that, Eddie the fucking other, forcing him to wheel out the whole nine yards of bully-threaten-cajole like it was some favourite comic routine she liked to see him do.
So why the fuck didn’t you just take Serena or Maggie for that sub-cute work instead. Either one’d be half the fucking trouble.
In the hyper-lucid blast of the syn, he knew why. But he turned on his heel and put the knowledge at his back along with the blink-blink carnal come-on of Tabitha’s skyline billboard. The relative gloom of the softly lit parking lot darkened his vision. He blinked hard to adjust.
‘Hello Max.’
The voice jolted him as he blinked, kicked him back to the Scorpion memories, to times and places so vivid he opened his eyes and almost expected to find himself back there, back before Wyoming in that other, cleaner time.
But he wasn’t.
He was still here, in the deserted parking lot of a second-rate Texas bordello, with a sassy whore’s snot drying on his fingers and too much syn for his own good sparking through his brain.
The figure detached itself from the shadows around his car, stood to face him. Soft violet light from the lot’s marker lamps threw the form into silhouette, killed facial recognition. But something about the stance chased up the memories the voice had stirred. The syn gave him a name, features to put on the darkened form. He stared, trying to make sense of it.
‘You?’
The figure shifted, made a low gesture with one hand.
‘But . . .’ He shook his head. ‘You . . . You’re on fucking Mars, man.’
The figure said nothing, waited. Eddie moved closer, arms raised towards a tentative hugging embrace.
‘When’d you get back? I mean, man, what are you doing back here?’
‘Don’t you know?’
He made a baffled smile, genuine in its origins. ‘No, man, I’ve got no fucking-’
-and the smile collapsed, bleached out with sudden understanding.
For just an instant, the desert quiet and the rushing away of an autohauler on the highway.
He clawed across his belly, under his jacket. Had fingers hooked around the butt of the compact Colt Citizen he kept cling-padded at his belt—
He’d moved too close.
The knowledge dripped through him, and it was a Scorpion knowing from that other time, somehow sad and slow despite the speed at which he could see it all coming apart. The figure snapped forward, bruising grip on his wrist and pinned his gun arm where it was. He flung up a warding left arm, chopped at the other man’s throat, or face, or, too close, too fucking close in, and here came the block, he had nothing, could do nothing. A low kick took out his legs from under him, a full body shove, and he went down. He rolled, desperately, don’t let the fucker get on you with his boots, land on your back maybe, the gun, the fucking gun-
The cling-clip held. He got a grip of the Colt’s butt again, dragged it loose and sprawled backward with a snarl of relief, raising the pistol, the Citizen had no safety, just squeeze hard and-
The figure stood over him, black against the sky. Arm down, pointing-
And something flattened him to the ground again, something with godlike force.
Muffled crack. His ears took it in, but it took him a couple of
moments to assign it any importance. The stars were right overhead. He watched them, abruptly fascinated. They seemed a lot closer than you’d expect, hanging low, like they’d taken a sudden interest.
He wheezed, felt something leaking rapidly, like cold water in his chest. He knew what it was. The syn forced a merciless clarity.
He lifted his head and it was the hardest work he’d ever done, as if his skull were made of solid stone. He made out the figure of the other man, arm still pointing down at him like some kind of judgement.
‘I figured you’d fight,’ said the voice. ‘But it’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it. Too long. Maybe that’s why.’
Why what? he wondered muzzily. He coughed, tasted blood in his throat. Wondered also what Chrissie was going to do now, stupid little bitch.
‘I think you’re done,’ said the voice.
He tried to nod, but his head just fell back on the gritty surface of the lot, and this time it stayed there. The stars, he noticed, seemed to be dimming, and the sky looked colder than it had before, less velvet soft and more like the open void it really was.
Dead in a brothel parking lot, for fuck’s sake.
He heard the blastpast of another autohauler out on the highway, saw in his mind’s eye the cosy red glow of its tail-lights accelerating away into the darkness.
He ran to catch up.
PART II
OFF THE HOOK
‘Curtailment of freedom is a powerful social tool and must be deployed as such, with wisdom and restraint. It is therefore vital to distinguish between the genuine and quite complex parameters of what is socially necessary, and the simplistic and emotive demands of a growing popular hysteria. Failure to make this distinction is likely to have unattractive consequences. ’
Jacobsen Report August 2091
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the end, it went down in the chapel, pretty much as he’d expected it would. Prisons like this didn’t offer many places free of surveillance, but Florida’s faith-based approach to rehabilitation meant that a man had a Charter-enshrined right to privacy in prayer at any hour outside of the night lockdown. No securicams, no invasive scrutiny. The theory was, presumably, that in the House of the Lord the corrections officers didn’t need to be watching you, because God already was. No one seemed to have noticed that the Lord was falling down on the job. In the three months since Carl transferred in from Miami, there’d been at least a half dozen bloody showdowns in the low-light arena of the chapel. Two ended in fatal injury.
Carl wasn’t sure if at some level prison staff were giving sanction to the fights, or if quiet and massive pressure from above kept the matter clean of investigation or review. In the end, it came to the same thing. No one wanted to buck the system, no one wanted to hear about it. Sigma Corporation, by invoking religious status for its operation, effectively sidestepped the bulk of what weak administrative oversight the Confederated Republic was prepared to endorse, and glowing testimonials at Congressional level pissed all over the rest. The bodies were taken away, shrink-wrapped in black.
See, niggah, you gotta put your trust in the Lord, grinned the Guatemalan when he sold him the shank. He nodded at the little oil lamp altar he had on a corner shelf, though it was the black-skinnned Virgen de Guadalupe behind the flickering flame. Like the governor always sayin’ at the assemblies, the Lord got your back. But it don’ never hurt to equalise, right.
The shank itself was a splinter of homegrown practicality that echoed the pragmatism in the Guatemalan’s words. Someone had taken the monofil blade off a workshop fretsaw and piece-melted an array of coloured plastic beads around the lower half to form a garish, pebbly-surfaced grip. The whole thing was less than twenty centimetres long, and the beads had been carefully selected for a surface that resisted fingerprinting. That left genetic trace of course, but the Guatemalan was thorough and he’d carefully anointed his customer’s hands from a tiny bottle he kept on the same shelf as the Virgen. Brief hi-tech reek of engineered molecules cutting through the fart-and-patchouli warmth in the cell as Carl rubbed the fluid in, then the volatile bulk evaporated and left a fading chill on his palms. For a good three or four hours now, any skin cells he shed from either hand would be useless to a gene sniffer. The hi- and low-tech mix sent a faint shudder of recollection through him. Going equipped among the night-time shanties of Caracas. The city centre spread out below him like a bowl of stars, the close warmth of barely lit streets up where he prowled. The confidence of well-chosen weaponry and what it would do.
Eventually, of course, the monofil would cut into the plastic enough to loosen the mounting and with time the blade would drop out. But by then the whole weapon would have been dropped through the grate on some basement ventilation duct. Like a lot of what went on inside the South Florida State Partnership (Sigma Holdings) Correctional Facility, it was strictly a short-term option.
It was also expensive.
Seventeen, the Guatemalan wanted. He liked Carl enough to add explanations. My boy Danny gotta run big risks down in the shop, puttin’ something like this together. Then I gotta hold it for you. Do your hands for you. Find the downtime for handover. Full service like that don’t come cheap. Carl looked back into the man’s polished coal features, shrugged and nodded. There was a degree of race solidarity operating in South Florida State, but it didn’t do to push it too far. And he had the seventeen. Had, in fact, nearly two dozen of the twenty-mil endorphin capsules that served the prison as a high denomination contraband currency. Never mind that he’d need them in a couple of weeks to trade against whatever debased form of griego Louie the Chem could swing for him this time around. Never mind that he might need endorphins for his own wounds a few hours hence. Short-term focus. Now, he needed the shank. Worry about the rest later, if and when he had the leisure.
Short-term focus.
It was a profoundly depressing feature of life in the prison that increasingly he caught himself thinking like his fellow inmates. Adaptive behaviour, Sutherland would have tagged it. Like finding himself masturbating to cheap porn, something he’d also done his share of since Florida’s penal system swept him up into its clammy embrace. Best, he’d found, to simply not think about it at all.
So he stepped out of the Guatemalan’s cell and went casually back down the B wing thoroughfare, right arm held slightly bent. Under his sleeve, the chill of the monofil strip warmed slowly against his skin. Grey nanocarb scaffolding rose on either side of him, holding up three levels of galleries and the tracks for the big surveillance cams. The wing was roofed in arched transparency, and late afternoon light sifted down into the quiet of the hall. Most of general population were out on Partnership work projects, paying their debt to society into Sigma’s corporate coffers. The few who remained in B wing leaned off the galleries in ones or twos, or stood in small knots across the hall floor. Conversation evaporated as he passed, eyes swivelled to watch him. On the lower right hand gallery, a grizzled longtimer called Andrews stared down at him and nodded in fractional acknowledgement. Suddenly, despite the sunlight, Carl felt cold.
It wasn’t the coming fight. Equipped as he now was, Carl was reasonably sure he could take Dudeck without too much trouble. The Aryans either weren’t hooked up outside the prison or just hadn’t done their research; all they knew about Carl Marsalis was that he talked funny for a nigger, was up from Miami on some foreign national retention loophole and, at forty-one, was old. Possibly, they thought he was some kind of terrorist, therefore foreign and a coward who had everything coming to him. Certainly, they believed that lean-muscled tat-covered twenty-something Jack Dudeck was going to rip his shit apart, whoever he fucking was. That nigger had to learn some respect.
It wasn’t the fight. It was the creeping sense of the trap that came with it.
Three months in this corporate newbuilt shithole, before that five weeks in the Miami High Risk unit. No trial, no bail. Release assessment dates set back time and again, access to lawyers refused. Appeals and diplomat
ic pressure from UNGLA summarily thrown out, no end in sight. He could feel the time getting away from him like blood loss. There was an on-going investigation that no one was prepared to talk about but Carl knew it had to do with Caracas and the death of Richard Willbrink. It had to be. Relations between the UN and the Republic had never been great, but there was no way the Florida state legislature would have held out against major diplomacy for the sake of a single low-grade vice bust that already screamed entrapment. No, somewhere in the processing when the foetal murder team took him downtown, his documentation had tripped a high-level wire. Connections had been made, whether in Langley or Washington or some covert operations base further south, and the national security beast was awake. Ghost agencies were looking for payback, cold covert vengeance for one of their own; they were going to make an example of Carl Marsalis, and while they tried to assemble the necessary legal toys to do it, he was going to stay safely locked down in a Republic prison. And if he shanked Jack Dudeck today as he fully intended to, they might not be able to pin it on him, but it was still going to put him back into Close Management and provide the perfect pretext for another lengthy extension of holding time, maybe even a subsidiary sentence. More than a few times in the last month he’d awoken with a panicky shortness of breath and a dream-like certainty that he would never get out of this place. It was starting to look like premonition.
He locked down the fear, siphoned it carefully into anger and stoked it up. He stopped at the B wing gate and raised his face for the laser. The blue light licked over his features, the machine consulted its real-time records and the gate cracked open. He paced through. The chapel was left and halfway down a fifty-metre corridor that led to kitchen storage. Surveillance would have him for twenty-five metres along the passage, would see him turn in through the impressively sculpted genoteak double doors, and that was all they would know. Carl felt the mesh shudder online, jerky and grating with Louie’s substandard griego chlorides.
The Complete SF Collection Page 217