The Rig

by Levy, Roger

  I looked at Pellonhorc. His expression was flat and impenetrable. What was he? What had made such a man as him?

  He observed Ligate for a moment. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Don’t just stand there, Alef. I can’t do everything by myself. Ligate, we’ll try not to be long. Don’t bleed too quickly, will you, Father? Help might reach you in time. There’s always hope, isn’t there?’

  I gathered myself to follow him, trying to clear my mind. Fifteen paces to the door, but the numbers weren’t helping. I couldn’t clear the thoughts that were gathering in my head, the belated understanding of what I had discovered in the dormitory.

  Ligate and Pellonhorc had collected the workers together, made them all lie down in their beds and pull the covers over their faces. They had told them to be still, be silent, and wait, and it would be all right. Only instead of locking them inside and leaving them, Ligate and Pellonhorc had gone quietly from bed to bed, pulling back the covers and cutting their throats in a single swift move, one by one, until all were dead and quiet. All but one. And the killings had been unnecessary. I wondered: had that been Ligate’s idea or Pellonhorc’s? But of course I knew the answer, even though Pellonhorc would claim he had done it to prove his allegiance to Ligate.

  Pellonhorc and I went through the outer airlock, our masks on. Pellonhorc’s flycykle was concealed among the workers’ transports. My mind was still in the dormitory. The numbers couldn’t take me away from the thoughts.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Pellonhorc told me. We wheeled up into the sky, dizzyingly fast. ‘Now, I need you to go to the bar and stay there for two hours. Drink some caffé, keep yourself awake. Some of my people are arriving, and I’ll need to concentrate. Then go to The Floor and steady your people. They’re sealed in at present. It’s safer for them. There will still be some disruption, I’m sure.’

  This tone of voice was new to me. There was always a tension to Pellonhorc. He was never relaxed. While we had been in the midlock, he had been controlled but excited. Now he was totally calm. For a moment I wondered whether he’d been dummied and someone else was talking to me, but in my heart I knew that this was Pellonhorc as he had always been preparing to be. The ground fizzed past below.

  ‘Tell them my father’s away and won’t be returning.’ He paused. ‘No. Say he may not be returning. Let them get used to it slowly.’

  ‘Your father –’ I started.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Alef. We don’t need him any more. His time is done. This is our time. It’s been a long while coming, but it’s been worth the wait.’

  We were approaching the shield. I said, ‘What about Ligate’s businesses?’

  ‘We’ll be amalgamating. I have it all, the templates and the detail. I’ll send them to The Floor for you. Ligate helped me prepare them. Of course he was expecting a slightly different basis for amalgamation, but the principles are sound.’ He took his eyes from the console and smiled at me as he said, ‘I have full confidence in you, Alef. I’ve always had confidence in you. You know that.’

  Everything around us was a blur. The flycykle shuddered and Pellonhorc’s hand trembled on the control stick. We screeched through the shield and fell into the scoured air of the city. Pellonhorc took us down in a shallow curve, losing speed until we were two anonyms in a domestic vehicle heading nowhere special. He let the putery take over and sat back in his seat and rubbed his neck. ‘A good day,’ he sighed, and then, with more energy, added, ‘That’s a fine house, Alef. Your foreman was kind enough to give us a tour when we arrived. When will it be ready?’

  Twenty-seven

  RAZER

  The night before Bale was to take her down the Chute, Razer couldn’t sleep, so she worked. She always found it comforting to write her notes by hand. It was more secure, but there was also something special about the way the pen scurried across the pad, the penned words never looking the same twice. On screenery, words became just data.

  In any case, they ended up that way, once TruTales had swilled her observations with all the other fragments, not only using them straight but also changing details to create fresh data. TruTales’ writers provided the ParaSite’s core stories, but their additional notes and augmemories were the seeds of the thousands of other TruTales synthesised every month by the putery. She sometimes thought that TruTales valued her notes more than her stories.

  She chewed the end of the pen, wondering what Bale really thought of how she made her living. She couldn’t get him out of her head. What was it about him?

  She returned to the piece she’d written when she’d thought he was dead. Generally she could skin people of their stories in a few hours, but here she was spending a week on a single tale. And screwing it up, too. No one wanted to read quite this much detail. Readers wanted to learn something, but they also wanted clarity. They wanted the good to be shining bright, and the bad to stink of evil. They wanted justice and punishment, closure with a smile, and the reassurance that no matter how hard life is now, this is how it will be in the end.

  And TruTales readers also seemed to want something of the teller. Razer’s unique slant was to personalise herself as a writer, as Kestrel Dust, in her stories; to give some of it away, show the subscribers how it worked, how it was built, and then – with luck – still surprise them at the end.

  Razer wondered how Bale’s real story would end. Not as she was about to construct it, that was for sure. In that story the killer would be outplayed by Bale, who saves Tallen’s life and foils a plot to destroy Lookout’s shield.

  By four in the morning she knew it was as good as it would ever be. The last thing had been to change Bale’s name. She’d chosen something with three syllables, emphasis on the first. She fed the story into the faintly humming puter, then sent all her notes after it: the snatches of conversation, the dislocated descriptions of places, of breakfasts and journeys and colour and pain.

  Thank you, Razer. Material intact. Now loading data.

  She poured a slug of vavodka over the dregs of her caffé and let her eyes settle on the empty wall. Suppose Bale was right, that the K hadn’t been acting alone. Once you got to that point, the story fitted together well.

  Loading data.

  If it were hers to write, she’d invent a co-psycho exactly as Bale had proposed, and that would explain how Bale survived, the co-psycho killing Fleschik just as Fleschik was about to kill Bale. That would mean the co-psycho would be even better than Fleschik, which was hard to believe. But what motive would the co-psycho have?

  She knocked back the gritty drink and chewed on the caffé grounds. This was just a story, though. You could do it in a story. People want to believe. As long as you distracted them and kept it fast, they’d swallow it.

  Data loaded.

  The puter stopped humming. She conned the augmem to it and waited.

  Data consolidated. Clearing memory source field. Wait.

  She picked up the pen and held it over the pad. Maybe she could make something of it.

  Clearing source field. Wait.

  All that was missing was that motive, and of course it wouldn’t make sense, since they were a pair of psychos. And the reader would feel cheated. You could get away with one psycho, but you couldn’t put a pair of psychos in a story, no matter how fast you moved it forward. It was like rolling two sixes. She picked up the pen and chewed on it.

  Clearing source field. Wait.

  Unless they weren’t psychos at all. Neither of them.

  Source field cleared. Thank you, Razer.

  So what was the motive? Letting the pen dangle from her lips, she reached to clear the screen and froze, staring at the words forming there.

  Critical stop.

  She’d never seen that before.

  Please do not repeat do not terminate your note-taking and story at this time. Please gather more material on this subject. This category material is currently in high demand. Please provide more data. This subject is of critical importance.

  She whispered, ‘What subject?’


  Bale subject.

  Razer looked at the instruction for a long time. She read the two words as if they were simply telling her that Pax-related feelgoods were currently popular, and then she read them telling her that TruTales had seen something interesting in Bale’s story. No, not TruTales. That Cynth had seen something.

  And then she acknowledged the instruction, closed the secure screenery and went to bed. She woke up once in the night, thinking about Cynth. She tried to remember that night, the night Tallen had nearly died and Bale had saved him. She remembered coming home from the red bar, talking to Cynth about Larren Gamliel, but she couldn’t remember going to sleep. Had something else happened?

  She felt suddenly cold. There had been an outdated piece of tech. She’d heard it spoken of, but never used. Was that the solution? Had she been dummied? Cynth was acting weirdly. Had Cynth’s program been corrupted?

  No. That made no sense at all. No one ever remembered going to sleep. Bale’s paranoia was catching.

  * * *

  Tallen

  Lode said, ‘We are worried about you, Tallen.’

  ‘And for you,’ said Beata.

  Tallen tried to keep his eyes open. He shouldn’t be so tired. Why had they woken him up? He needed sleep. He said, ‘What day is it?’

  Beata said, ‘It is day. Can you remember what you did last night? Or what you last did?’

  Lode said, ‘Please talk to us. Tell us about the rig.’

  He looked at Lode, trying to concentrate. ‘When I’m in the cage, I can see the net cradle. I can remember it catching me. But when I’m not in the cage, I can’t remember it at all.’

  ‘But you remember it now, Tallen.’

  He looked around. Time seemed to have passed. Were the humechs standing where they had been a moment ago? ‘What?’

  Lode said, ‘Tell us what you can see from the cage.’

  Tallen tried to think. ‘I can see the gantries around the deck.’

  Beata said, ‘How many gantries can you see?’

  ‘Five,’ he said. ‘Located equidistant around the deck. There’s a caged walkway behind me, leading me directly to the cage, and caged walkways to the gantries. I can see the emergency landing facility and the doors to the residential and recreational facilities.’ He closed his eyes, exhausted.

  When he opened them, Beata was standing where Lode had been and the light had changed. He also seemed to be sitting differently. ‘That’s good, Tallen,’ said Beata.

  Lode said, ‘Do you ever remember arriving in the cage? Or leaving it? And does your back itch?’

  Beata said, ‘Can you move in the cage? Can you turn?’

  Tallen said, ‘You know I can’t. I’m only conscious when I’m there, and then I’m here again. I can’t remember arriving in the cage or leaving it.’

  ‘And yet you see so much,’ Lode said, ‘and your back itches.’

  Tallen said, ‘Am I really in the cage? Is it real? You said it was.’

  Beata said, ‘The cage is as real as you are, Tallen, and you are real. Can you remember anything else about the rig? Tell us what you remember. Is your back itching now? Does it itch when you remember?

  He shook his head but it wouldn’t quite clear. ‘Remember what?’

  Lode said, ‘Yes, Tallen, what do you remember?’

  ‘I can remember –’ But it was gone.

  * * *

  Razer

  Razer took the rented flysuit on the shuttle to the Chute. She was there an hour early, but Bale was already on the platform, waiting.

  ‘I’m not ready to ride yet. I want to look round the place first,’ she told him.

  ‘No. We go straight in.’ He was glancing around as they walked slowly, letting people overtake them. A few other passengers were coming from the same shuttle, and Bale stared at each of them as they passed. Some ignored him, some held his gaze, but none of them said a thing to him. As Razer and Bale left the platform, he said, ‘You recognise anyone?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  He glanced at her, then said, ‘Maybe I’ll give you a tour afterwards.’

  She saw in his face that it wasn’t worth arguing, and followed him down the roughly carved entrance tunnel with its snaptures of blurred riders, its lists of records broken and of the dead. She thought about TruTales setting her on him again and felt as if she should tell him. But he was paranoid already, and what would be the use of feeding it?

  In the ready chamber, she peeled off her clothes and started to pull on the rented flysuit. She didn’t know what Bale’s hurry was. He said to her, ‘Are you set?’

  ‘You tell me.’ She turned round and let him check her lines and fins.

  He ran his hands over her arms and then slowly across her hips, and she closed her eyes for a moment, felt an ache in her throat, and wondered if there might be, after all, any hope for them.

  Bale stepped back and said, ‘Where did you get the suit?’

  No, there was no hope. She said, ‘The shop was called Blown Away.’ She’d taken a few lessons in the tanks, too, even though Bale had told her she didn’t need to if she’d done sims before, and she hadn’t done too badly, the skills broadly the same as those she’d learnt skinriding and cascading elsewhere in the System.

  ‘Your left wristfin’s scree-scored,’ he said. ‘See where it’s jagged? They should have polished it before they gave you the suit. Keep your arms well out if you deploy that fin. Catch yourself with that edge, you might rip your suit.’

  ‘It’s insured.’

  ‘You think this is funny?’

  ‘No, Bale. I rip the suit, I’m dead. I know. Could you happy up a little? I should have checked the suit. Look, should we put this off a few days?’

  ‘No. Just be careful. Main thing is no one saw you. You just went and came back. Yes?’

  There was no gain in telling him about the tank, so she nodded. And maybe she would have done as he’d told her in the first place, if he wasn’t being so stupid about the whole thing.

  He was saying, ‘All you need to do in the Chute is what I tell you. Keep straight and central. Ride the node. If the worst happens, you just snap back to auto and the suit’ll guide you in.’

  ‘What worst is this? I thought you were showing me the Chute. It’s a ride, is all.’

  ‘We need to talk, too.’ He was taking out a translucent box. She saw a pair of fine golden boots apparently suspended in it. Fairytale shoes, she immediately thought.

  ‘Are they yours, Bale?’ She made twinkles with her fingers, her mood lightening a bit. ‘I never thought this was your style. Aren’t you putting them on?’

  ‘Not yet. Let’s go.’

  At the gate, he checked her suit again and said, ‘Go in on auto. When I tell you, lock on me.’ He was still holding the box.

  She said, ‘Are you going to tell me about those? You’re already wearing boots.’

  ‘These pull over mine. They’re NTGs. Never Touch Ground. Stay right behind me.’

  She watched him slip through the gate and down into the lead-in. She counted ten and went after him head-down and was instantly hurled by the wind and gasping for breath. The suit straightened her out. When she was breathing evenly, she tried nilling the auto and managed to hold it for two seconds before shuddering and losing it, and let the auto catch her again.

  This was not like the tanks. It was not like cascading or skinriding or anything else. It was wonderful. She let out a yell.

  There was Bale, way up ahead. She watched as in the turbulence he ripped the box open and started to pull the NTGs on, all the time tumbling over and retrieving himself just as he seemed sure to smash into the wall. Razer was aware of her lungs pumping. The wind was screaming past her. She remembered her routines and experimented with the fins and flaps, cutting left and right, trying a spin and losing it altogether, bringing herself back with the auto program. The jagged wristfin added a flick of turbulence. She folded both wristfins away. They weren’t vital.

  Bale was
whirling like a pyrotechnic, struggling with the second boot. She came level with him and suddenly could hear him swearing. His commed voice was tinny.

  ‘What’s the point of this, Bale? You could kill yourself.’

  ‘You can only put NTGs on once you’re in wind.’ He was breathing hard. ‘You need to be good just to put them on.’

  ‘And to want everyone else to know it. That isn’t you, Bale. And actually, you don’t look that good.’

  He swore again, tumbled and came straight, both boots on. The wind whipped fine dye-streaks of gold from them, like he had flames at his heels. He said, ‘If you see another pair of these, it’s trouble.’

  She saw the Chute’s final entry-warning ahead. He went first, the soles of the golden boots becoming dots and then a single point, but too bright to disappear, and she let the suit take her in his wake.

  Now they were in the main Chute. The suit adjusted again, repressurising.

  This was amazing. It was like being in space, at ship-speed, naked. By shifting her shoulders she could curve away and back, and a jink of her hips would flip her left or right.

  ‘Is that you or the suit?’ Bale said from beside her.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Not bad. Keep it simple. And keep your eyes open.’

  She flicked away from him, suddenly furious at his incessant talk of trouble. ‘There’s always a threat for you, isn’t there? You’re always in shit. I’m fed up with it.’

  She let herself fade, drifting from him, or so it felt despite the walls passing by so fast they seemed smooth, and the comms cut out.

  ‘You need to keep close to me,’ he said, abruptly back at her shoulder. ‘I’ve limited our comms range to five em. This is the only place in Lookout where we can’t possibly be monitored without being aware of it. I’m going to tell you what I’ve found. You might know some of it.’ He paused. ‘The only thing I’m still not sure of is whether you’re a part of it.’