“What are you staring at?”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“What do you want, you perv?”
Dev ignored the comments. He tried to see past the pouting defiance, the resentful glares, the postures of calculated affront...
Tried to see if there was a particular absence behind the eyes.
Something missing.
Uncanny Valley.
Then he asked questions.
Mostly they were about God.
“Do you believe in a supreme being?”
“Do you believe in fate or destiny?”
“Were you created by a divine force, or are you just a random assemblage of molecules?”
“What’s going to happen to you after you die?”
The answers varied, but the common thread was incredulity.
“What are you on, man? This is the second century Post-Enlightenment. Are you having a joke?”
“Newsflash. God died. Like, a hundred years ago.”
“No heaven, no hell. Just oblivion.”
“I haven’t heard anything so daft in ages.”
“Oh, yeah, there’s a God. There are also fairies and unicorns.”
Only one person, out of the forty or so Dev spoke to, twigged what was going on. He was Ben Thorne, a miner who headed up one of the more militant unions, the Fair Dues Collective. Thorne led protest rallies calling for higher wages, better benefits packages and more generous pensions. He had clashed with the city’s governor several times on social media, branding him a corporate stooge and telling him to pull his head out of the mining companies’ backsides.
He was not popular with the Calder’s Edge authorities.
He was also fiercely smart.
“You want to know if I’m a Plusser, huh?” Thorne said after Dev had posed a couple of his God questions. “See if you can provoke me by challenging my faith.”
“Do you have faith?” Dev said.
“I have faith that you’re a chump. Do I look like I’m an AI sentience trying to pass myself off as human? Am I dead behind the eyes? Lights on but nobody home? Uncanny Valley, isn’t that what it’s called? Do you see that here?”
Dev did not, but he forged on anyway. ‘Union activist’ would be an ideal cover identity for a Polis+ agitator.
“Are you scared of death, Mr Thorne? Or do you live comforted by the falsehood that, when you pass on, your soul becomes subsumed into the Singularity?”
“Do I go to that big database in the sky when I die? I doubt it.”
“The Singularity is bullshit, right?”
“Maybe not to the Plussers, but as far as I’m concerned, yeah.”
“It’s a fantasy for fanatics. Does it upset you when I say that?”
“What upsets me is that this is illegal arrest,” said Thorne. He sat back in his chair with the cocksure aggressiveness of a man who knew his rights. “The cops have just hauled in a bunch of citizens for no good reason whatsoever. That’s a lawsuit in the making. Someone, somewhere, will pay for this.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
“I think I did. Pretty well, too. One call when I get out of here, and my union’ll sick its best lawyer onto Calder’s Edge PD.” He rubbed index and middle fingers against thumb. “I smell a big fat compensation claim.”
“Do you hate people like me? Just like your nonexistent Singularity tells you to?”
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. Like a moleworm gnawing a scroach. All those trigger words – ‘falsehood,’ ‘bullshit,’ ‘fantasy.’ Designed to make a Polis Plusser lose their cool. Get them to flip out and break role. Military-trained, huh?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Couple of my co-workers fought in the war too. They’ve told me how you’re taught to bust Plusser infiltrators and spies. Not easy, but if you push the right buttons hard enough...”
Dev studied the man. If Thorne was Polis+, a digital sentience housed in a flesh casing and trying to pass for human, then he was doing a superb job. More likely he was just what he appeared to be. A very cool customer, too.
“You can go,” Dev said.
“Oh, thank you, my lord,” the miner drawled. “Too kind. Tell the chief of police I’ll see her in court.”
There was only one other detainee who caught Dev’s attention. He was a young unemployed man who, according to Kahlo, was a confirmed user and dealer of illegal homemade pharmaceuticals, and such a frequent offender that they were thinking of installing a revolving door at police headquarters especially for him.
His glazed, watery eyes, with their hugely dilated pupils, gave away little. He was off his face on some sort of psychoactive substance, probably one of the customised opiate alkaloids or partial dopamine agonists he synthesised on a printer in his apartment. His responses were slow and puzzled.
Of course, if you were a Polis+ infiltrator and wanted to pass the Uncanny Valley test, you could do worse than pose as a dull-witted junkie.
Dev spent quarter of an hour with the dopehead – his name was Franz Glazkov – before concluding that it was hopeless carrying on. The kid kept drifting off mid-sentence, or else simply repeated Dev’s questions back at him. Drug use had turned his brain into a kind of echo chamber, where sounds reverberated meaninglessly.
Doubts remained, however, even after Dev had dismissed him.
“I’m going to follow Glazkov, see where he goes and what he gets up to,” he told Kahlo. “I’d like you to release him from custody first and let the other detainees stew a little longer.”
“He’s just a junkie. Knowing him, he’ll head off somewhere to score or deal, one or the other. Waste of your time.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“Fine.” Kahlo shrugged. “Me, I’m off to the rail network HQ. I’ve managed to get through at last to the controllers.”
“They worked out what happened?”
“No clue as yet. All they can tell me is that it was some kind of mass systemic failure. They lost all power to the mainframe, the backups didn’t kick in, and they were impotent for about ten minutes, not to mention incommunicado. Blind, deaf and dumb. Couldn’t do a thing, not even activate a complete network shutdown. It happened twice. Once around the time of the first crash, and again when the shuttle came after us.”
“Have them check for an externally transmitted virus.”
“As in a Polis Plus virus?”
“Could be. Just have them run a Polisware scan. They might not have thought of that. They can download the software off the ISS central office hub if they haven’t got their own.”
“Okay,” said Kahlo, “but only because I think it’s a good idea. Don’t get the impression I’m taking orders from you, Lieutenant Harmer.”
“Ahhh. ‘Lieutenant.’ You’ve been doing some homework on me, captain. I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I’m thorough, that’s all. Lieutenant Dev Harmer of the Ninth Extrasolar Engineers. You were a sapper. Speciality: neutralising and demolishing Polis Plus hardware in the field, mainly mechs. Served all nine and a half years of the Frontier War. Started out as a private, rose rapidly as you racked up the combat hours until you were leading your own platoon. Highly decorated.” Narrowing her eyes a smidgeon, she added, “Also, a veteran of the Battle of Leather Hill – or should I say a ‘survivor’?”
Dev deflected that last statement as quickly as possible. “Yes, well, before my head swells too large, I should point out that I’m not in the army any more, so strictly speaking I’m not a lieutenant now, and none of those other facts are pertinent. Also, the police hierarchy and the military hierarchy aren’t compatible, so you don’t outrank me.”
“You’re a civilian in my city, so I do.”
“Fair enough. Good luck with your enquiries. Let me know what you find out.”
“If I feel like it,” said Kahlo. “Mostly, though, I’m looking forward to tearing someone a new hole.”
“Then enjoy.”
> “Believe me, I’m going to.”
8
FRANZ GLAZKOV LEFT CEPD headquarters. Dev followed a little way behind.
Glazkov hopped the first train back to the city centre. Dev lurked in the next carriage along, keeping a surreptitious eye on him through the window of the connecting door. He had a feeling that this would be a fruitless journey, just as Kahlo had said. But as long as there was a chance, however slender, that Glazkov was Polis+, it was worth a shot.
Night was falling over Calder’s Edge, the illumination clusters gradually dimming. Crepuscular half-light gave way to an almost total blackness, and in that blackness Dev found he could see...
Everything.
His eyes showed him the world in silvery, pristine definition. There was a sharpness to textures and surfaces that he found disconcerting. The faces of other passengers became agglomerations of smooth planes and creases. The texture of the seat covers was so rough and porous it could have been a lunar landscape.
His own body seemed to glow, unrecognisably. The back of his hand was no longer familiar. He had to wriggle his fingers to remind himself they belonged to him.
He was so distracted by his first true experience of nocturnal vision that he almost failed to notice when Glazkov got off the train. Dev darted out through the doors just as they closed.
“North Three station,” said an automated announcement in a seductive female voice that echoed along the platform. “North Three station. The train is now departing. Please stand clear.”
The station was in one of the city’s seedier areas, judging by its litter-strewn shabbiness and the relatively small number of people alighting there. Just Dev and Glazkov, as it transpired.
Glazkov shambled waywardly to the exit. If he had been in less of a narcotic stupor, he might have noticed that someone was dogging his footsteps. But he didn’t even turn round once, and besides, Dev moved with a practised nonchalant stealth, hugging shadows, maintaining a casual air, as though he were just any old Calder’s Edger on his way somewhere.
Crossing a plaza, Glazkov headed up a ramp leading to the base tier of one of the towering residential columns. Habitats lined a spiral roadway that wound up and around the rockface like a helter-skelter slide. The roadway was fitted with dual, contra-running travelator belts for pedestrians, although there were also mass-transit elevators for quicker access between tiers.
Glazkov didn’t use either. Instead he ducked into an alley between two buildings. At the far end lay a narrow stairwell carved into the core of the column.
Dev, still keeping his distance, tiptoed after him down switchbacking flights of steps, which were slippery underfoot. The air was thick and cloyingly humid.
He detected the thump of a bass beat vibrating up the stairwell. Deeper he went, until he arrived in a kind of vestibule presided over by a doorman built like a stone monolith.
The doorman invited Dev to deposit funds in a specified back account. Shortly afterward, Dev was ushered through into a long low room whose rugged ceiling dripped condensation.
Music roared, all growling low-frequency chord layers and thundering drums. Ultraviolet lamps strobed in darkness, picking out streaks of fluorescent paint on the walls and making them blaze vividly. Bodies cavorted to the rhythm. Hands, also coated in fluorescent paint, flickered to and fro.
Dev recoiled, squinting and flinching. The bass drum boomed like heavy artillery. The flashes of brightly coloured light resembled muon beam weapon discharges. Where the dancers revelled in the sensory overload, he was repulsed by it.
Too many battlefields.
Too many memories.
Too many nightmares.
His gut clenched in fear. His brain was sending out warnings, like flares. Plussers! Check your six! Prioritise threats! Maintain formation! Move!
He told himself he was not in a firefight; he was in a nightclub. There were no enemy mechs advancing on his position, no comrades beside him, no omnipresent terror of death. That life was in the past. Safely in the past.
“You all right?” a stranger asked. It was hard to sound truly, sincerely concerned when you had to scream at the top of your lungs to be heard.
Dev couldn’t even nod. It was stupid. Pathetic. Crippled by loud music and lights. Get a grip. He was drawing attention to himself.
He looked up to find Franz Glazkov standing a few metres away. Glazkov had been deep in conversation with a smartly dressed man, conducting some kind of transaction. But now both of them were staring at Dev, as were several other people around them.
Recognition dawned in Glazkov’s dulled eyes. He shouted something to the smartly dressed man, gesticulating in alarm. Dev didn’t catch what he said, but it was clear that Glazkov was fingering him as an undercover cop or something similar – the guy who had been interrogating him just now at police headquarters.
The smartly dressed man gave a curt, grim nod. His expression slackened briefly as he thought-sent a message.
Dev struggled to shake off the paralysis and regain control of himself. He straightened up, tuning out the auditory and visual assault, focusing on Glazkov.
He lunged forward. Glazkov turned tail.
Someone grabbed Dev’s collar and spun him round.
He came face to face with the monolithic doorman. The smartly dressed man was, it seemed, the club owner. He had summoned the doorman to deal with an unwelcome guest.
The doorman yanked Dev off his feet and began escorting – more accurately, dragging – him towards the club entrance.
Out in the vestibule, where the music was marginally more muted, he told Dev that cops weren’t welcome at Inferno. It was a private club. All above board, strictly legal, permits paid, paperwork in order. But punters came here to have a good time, to forget their troubles, and that meant, among other things, not having plainclothes law loitering on the dance floor.
“Got it?” he said. “So off you go, nice and quiet, and we’ll pretend this never happened. Okay?”
He was genial about it, as though there had been a misunderstanding, that was all. As though Dev had carelessly crossed a line, transgressed some unwritten rule. Least said, soonest mended.
“I want Franz Glazkov,” Dev said, sounding just as reasonable. “He’s a suspect. Let me back in there to fetch him. I’ll only be a moment.”
The doorman’s massive spherical head oscillated slowly from side to side. “Please don’t be awkward, pal. My boss has asked me to help you leave. There’s room for interpretation in the word ‘help,’ if you catch my drift.”
“Don’t get in my way.”
“Don’t make me.”
“You seem like a decent guy. I wouldn’t like to have to hurt you.”
“You?” the doorman scoffed. “How?”
“Induced sarcoplasmic hypertrophy, yes?” said Dev, casting an eye over the doorman’s excessively muscled bulk. “Desensitised pain receptors. Extra epidermal layers.”
“I’ve had the full suite of professional-security modifications,” the doorman confirmed. “Only an idiot would do this job without. Also, I’m –”
Dev’s arm shot out, delivering a throat strike with the outer edge of his hand.
“Still tragically vulnerable to a bruised trachea,” he said.
The doorman sank, wheezing horribly.
“Try to breathe as normal,” Dev advised. “Your windpipe’s swelling up, but I gauged the blow so that it won’t close altogether. You’ll be fine.”
The doorman made a feeble, ineffectual grab for Dev’s leg as he stepped round him. Dev shook him off.
This time, as he re-entered Inferno, he was mentally prepared. The shock and disorientation were minimised, tolerable.
He searched for Glazkov, but couldn’t find him. A hundred or so faces in the club, many of them spaced-out and vacuous, none of them Glazkov’s.
The club owner was loitering in one corner, glugging down water from a two-litre bottle. Even though he wasn’t dancing, his face was slick with perspiratio
n. Inferno was like a sauna, and no Alighierian could afford to lose so much sweat without regular rehydration.
He didn’t even see Dev until he was down on his knees with his head being forced back at a sharp angle.
Dev upended the bottle and tipped water down the man’s throat. The club owner spluttered, gargled and gagged. Water started spilling out of the sides of his mouth and splashing down the front of his silk shirt.
Dev didn’t even ask the question. It was obvious.
The club owner, half drowned, still choking, pointed to a back room.
Dev held up the bottle menacingly.
The club owner made a pleading, exaggeratedly sincere face.
Dev let go of him and tossed the bottle neck-first into his lap, soaking the crotch of his trousers.
The backroom was cramped, the floor covered in tumbled mounds of cushions and throw rugs that were patterned with stains from spilled drinks and other less easily identifiable substances. Womb-pink illumination. Mirrored walls. A chill-out area for when the intensity of the music and dancefloor lights became too much.
A stranger was in here with him, image reflected countless times in the mirrors, receding away in infinite recursion.
It took Dev a moment to realise the stranger was himself.
Otherwise, himself aside, the room was empty. Had the club owner lied?
No. One of the mirrors was angled slightly out of true, attached to a section of hinged false wall. A secret door, which Glazkov had left slightly ajar in his hurry to flee the premises.
Dev pried it all the way open to reveal access to the top of a vertical shaft.
An emergency escape route, known only to a favoured few, the owner’s inner circle. A back exit for patrons who needed to leave in secret, for whatever reason.
Dev climbed down.
9
HAND OVER HAND Dev scaled down a crude ladder – metal rungs bolted to raw rock. One hundred metres below, he emerged into a low-ceilinged passageway, a natural tunnel.
Patches of bioluminescent slime mould clung to the walls, shedding a spectral blue glow. To Alighierian eyes, this was equivalent to broad daylight.
World of Fire (Dev Harmer 01) Page 5