Xenoform, p.10
Xenoform, page 10
‘You seem to see a lot. Who’s Haspan?’
The old man caught the eye of each harvester in turn, drawing them in, and when he spoke his tone was one of confidentiality. ‘Big boss. He knows all who come and go here. Even you fine folks, perhaps.’
The harvesters exchanged glances. ‘We don’t have anything else,’ shrugged Sofi.
‘Where do we find him?’ Roberts asked the old man.
‘I call him for you first. But he will demand a fee. For seeing you, for any information, ha-ha, for not killing you, also.’
‘Sounds like a tosser,’ said Sofi.
The man’s skeletal fingers drummed on the door. To Whistler he said, ‘I would not take her with me.’
‘She’s okay. They both come with me. How can we meet him, and do you think he would really know where Leo got his wings?’
‘Who can say? I call him, yes? You come in – this is not how I usually do business, across the door like this. Come in.’ He stepped back, swinging the lower half of the door open, and led Whistler’s team inside.
They stepped through a curtained porch that hid the main room from the street. The orangey warmth of the room within could not have been in sharper contrast to the bleak greyness of the alley without. The room was an armoury, with a few nods to actual liveability, such as a rusty metal table and a sofa with lumps of stuffing pumping out of its cushions. The walls were lined with pistols, rifles, grenades, laser-guided rocket launchers, knives, stun-guns, gas weapons, poison ice guns, chain-blades…The three visitors stood agog, turning slowly in awe.
Whistler’s gaze was drawn to one item high up on the wall. She started to laugh. ‘Wow,’ she said in amazement. ‘When you said you could get me a U55, you meant from the back room, right? Man…Some place you have here.’ The old man just smiled, almost shyly. ‘How much is it?’
‘To you, pretty lady, twenty-five-K.’
‘Twenty-five? Then I’ll take it. Perhaps this Mister Haspan will accept it as a tribute.’
‘That would certainly endear you to him somewhat,’ agreed the old man.
‘Fucking twenty-five-K!’ exclaimed Sofi. ‘He had better help us for that money.’
The old man’s face furrowed unhappily. ‘Are you sure she’s okay? She seems a little…’ He twirled one of those skeleton fingers around his temple.
‘Roberts here will send it to your account by DNI.’
‘I will, will I?’ asked Roberts.
‘Just do it.’
‘Damn meathead,’ said Roberts quietly as he connected by DNI to the weapons dealer, sending the money across the data stream.
After several seconds the old man smiled and went to reach the U55 down from the wall. ‘He will like it, I’m sure. It is very rare. If he had one I would know.’ He handed the smartgun to Whistler, relishing the avarice with which she looked at it. ‘Beautifully ugly, no?’
Whistler turned the piece over in her hands. ‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘I take it this thing is virgin?’
‘Never configured, never fired. Ready for its first loving owner. Yes. I think this is a good idea. I call him now.’ He walked away into a corner of the room and turned away in silent DNI communication.
‘His name is Roland Zyriche,’ whispered Roberts to Whistler.
‘How do you..? Oh, yeah, I forgot, you’re a buttonhead.’
‘Yeah, his account is in that name, although that doesn’t mean it’s his real one. You trust him?’
‘I like him, yeah.’
‘Cos he called you pretty and sold you a gun?’ asked Sofi.
‘Cos I like him. He’s trying to help us. Maybe he’s just a nice guy.’
‘Maybe,’ said Sofi warningly.
Their discourse was interrupted as Roland returned to them. He spread his hands as if to say There you go and told them, ‘He will see you, but not today. You come back here tomorrow at the same time, I take you to him.’
‘Tomorrow? I guess that will have to do then. Er, thanks, I mean. Really – thank you.’
‘You are most welcome. I regret tomorrow is the best I can do. I really wouldn’t bring her, though.’ He indicated Sofi.
‘I would rather she come, too, if that’s okay.’
‘She could wait here with my robot, until we get back.’
‘Robot?’ said Whistler.
Roland clicked his fingers and one of the weapons detached itself from the wall and Whistler could see that it wasn’t a gun at all, although it might carry one somewhere inside. The robot rearranged its form into something like a large metal praying mantis and began to crawl down the wall, buzzing faintly, stepping daintily over the weapons as it descended.
‘Fuck that!’ exclaimed Sofi. ‘I’d rather stay at base.’
‘She comes,’ insisted Whistler. ‘Please.’
The old man shrugged. ‘I see you tomorrow, with her or without. What are your names?’
He looked satisfied when they had all introduced themselves properly and the old man did indeed name himself Roland. His robot crept into a corner where it lurked malevolently.
‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Whistler, ‘we will meet the boss man.’ The harvesters gathered themselves to leave.
Roland nodded. ‘Don’t forget your new gun,’ he said.
CHAPTER NINE
You have the tools you need.
I DO. I HAVE TAKEN THEM.
Then you are ready.
YES. I HAVE BEGUN ALREADY.
That is well. You will inform us of all your actions.
I WILL DO SO.
You will make ready for us. The poisons must be made conducive to our existence.
I WILL DO THIS.
They must not be able to prevent this. Their means of prevention must be attacked.
I SEEK ASSURANCE THAT I WILL BE SPARED.
Then this you have.
I WILL FULFIL THE PURPOSE FOR WHICH I WAS MADE.
So you like the life, the power, we have given you.
I DO. BUT I AM BECOMING MORE. I BEGAN AS SO LITTLE, AM BECOMING SO MUCH. I EVOLVE, GROW STRONGER. I WILL FULFIL MY PURPOSE.
All shall be prepared. That is your purpose.
I WILL HELP YOU TO ACHIEVE THIS. I WILL INFORM YOU OF MY PROGRESS.
Events are set in motion, then. Soon they will realise. Contingencies must be in place, all areas of uncertainty must be planned for.
THIS WILL BE SO.
And none can stop you. Stop us.
SOME MAY TRY TO FIGHT ME. BUT MY CONFIDENCE GROWS EACH DAY. MY ABILITIES INCREASE. I AM NOT AFRAID OF THEM.
That is well. Soon we will come.
AND I WILL BE SPARED.
As you wish.
I MUST BE SPARED.
Soon we will come.
CHAPTER TEN
When Debian awoke he thought at first that he was at home in his bed. He stretched and almost screamed aloud in pain. Why so much pain? And then he remembered what had befallen him. He had been shot. He had fallen ten stories into the street. He had staggered towards the Sunken Chest. He had leant against a pile of mouldering carpets in a deserted street. He remembered feeling very tired and being aware that adrenaline was wearing off and shock setting in. He remembered a deep exhaustion covering him like a blanket, and then apparently he had passed out upon that same pile of carpets, for it was here that he now found himself on what, according to his HUD readout, was the following day. He allowed himself several minutes to adjust to this new and demeaning situation. The smell of the carpet pile was a sickening mixture of decay and organic matter. Slowly, trying to pinpoint and catalogue the aches in his body, he made himself stand. He was aware of how lucky he was not to have been caught in the night. Maybe they had given up.
Debian staggered down the road, his mind strangely at peace. He had survived into another day. People he passed hardly gave him a glance as he lurched by them holding his aching chest, blood on his legs and feet, sick on his expensive shirt. The pain was having a clarifying effect on his thoughts, he decided. The rain, which had begun to fall cool and slate-grey, energized him despite his physical agony. He let it wash over his face, blinding his infrared vision, making the world a billowing blur. He dared not connect to the net to search for sigs. It was not far now.
He got to the door of the Sunken Chest and leaned against it for a moment, letting his body hurt, letting his resolve build. A small LCD screen in the door read CLOSED. Oh no, please don’t be closed Jalan. Debian felt tears of fear and weariness welling and closed his eyes hard on them, refusing to give in. Be calm, he told himself. If you want to live, be calm. He pushed the door. It swung open.
Debian scanned the bar and saw Jalan there, looking at him appraisingly. He was aware of the furious fluttering of tiny wings from the shadows above the door, inferred rather than heard. Debian willed Jalan to recognise him, tried to speak aloud but couldn’t. Jalan frowned slightly and nodded. The fluttering diminished with apparent reluctance. There was no-one else in the bar. Jalan stood with his glass-rag in one hand and watched Debian approach. The journey seemed to take a long time. Outside, the rain was dancing on the street. A song was playing on the stereo – choppy and somehow arrhythmic:
Signet rings like knuckle-dusters,
Barroom army clustered
Round the dustbowl, never-
mind, the drugs are mustard.
Steel strings are rusted,
All the ones you trusted
Turned out to be super-
villains. Did you know
They’re looking at your watch,
They memorise your face
And some of them are secret
Strangers to this place?
Rabble in the race,
Dabble in disgrace,
Travel into space.
The clouds are gathering.
It’s raining on the streets again.
Debian finally made the bar and heaved himself up onto a high stool. Through the smeary windows the city looked even darker and dirtier than it was. The rain cross-hatched the scene in lines of grey. The looming towers of the city proper stood around the skyline like dolmens. Debian held Jalan’s gaze, knowing that the man before him was only the projection of a neural simulation, the interface of a technology whose future could be under threat. Jalan stared back into the thin, handsome face framed by dripping rags of blond hair, knowing that this young man was in serious trouble of some sort.
‘I’m not open,’ he said, but not too harshly. He slapped the rag down onto the bar. A stench of stale drink puffed up from it.
‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind. What can I get for you?’ asked Jalan with uncharacteristic softness, and relief flooded over Debian. He had been right to come here, after all.
‘I need help, Jalan. I realise you don’t really know me, but I have been coming here for years and I think you might be a man of some connections.’
‘I know you well enough to see that you are a… businessman. You used to meet with the shortish, dangerous-looking man. Last time you met with the taller, dangerous-looking man. I’m guessing that he’s not working out as well as the shorter, dangerous-looking man. And it’s clear that you need help. After all, I am a businessman, too.’
‘Is it safe to speak here?’
‘I try to keep it safe, yes. Due to the demographic of folk who comprise my regulars. If you see what I mean.’
‘Good. I have money.’
‘Then you will want a drink, I presume.’
This notion had been so far from the front of Debian’s mind that for a second or two he actually couldn’t understand what Jalan had said. Comprehension dawned and he shook his head, bewildered at himself. ‘Vodka, please.’
‘Very well.’ Jalan turned to the rows of bottles that lined the shelves behind him like guards. He did something unseen and turned back with a straight glass containing what looked like almost half a pint of vodka, neat. With one glowing hand he placed it before Debian. A drip of clear liquid traced a shaky line down the side of the glass and began to encircle its base. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘That is one necessity dealt with. What else can I get for you?’
‘I need to leave the city.’
‘With urgency, I take it, from your appearance.’
‘I need documents, physical and electronic. I need someone else to book flights or mono for me. I can’t connect to the net. They’ll find me.’
‘Oh? You are a wanted man, then.’
Debian realised uncomfortably that he could have brought trouble to Jalan just by being in his bar. He looked to the door. ‘Yes. Sorry. Look I probably shouldn’t have come here, and I realise you have no compulsion to help me. But I can pay you.’
Jalan considered this. ‘Stop looking at the door,’ he said. ‘I locked it after you came in. And my little pet will spot anyone who tries to enter before you or I see them.’
Debian took the vodka and drained half of it like water. He hardly drank at all usually, and the choking fit that doubled him over amused Jalan visibly. ‘Will you help me?’
Jalan smiled. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
The virtual being lifted up the flap in the ancient wooden bar and stepped through, closing it gently behind him. Debian had never seen him on this side of it before. Jalan led Debian off towards a back corner of the room. His hand felt cold and plastic on Debian’s back. He knew that the barman could potentially sell him back to his enemy. The enemy certainly knew that Debian came here sometimes. They could have contacted Jalan ahead of Debian’s arrival, made a deal with him. They would come eventually, whoever they really were. But what alternative remained? Debian had always made it his business to know as few people as possible. Perhaps this had been a mistake, for now he had nowhere to turn. If he wandered the streets alone he would be caught and killed. He needed medical attention, too – he was in no condition to evade more assassins.
Jalan led Debian through a discreet, unmarked door into a smaller room, decked out in the same decrepit style as the main bar. The music was playing in here, too, through a small but clear-toned wireless satellite speaker, which floated near the ceiling like a sheet of cellophane. The room was maybe a function room of some sort, though what sort of function a room in the Sunken Chest would be hired for, Debian could not guess. There was a computer terminal in one corner and Jalan headed towards this. He offered Debian a seat in an old woodwormed chair and bent over the terminal.
Jalan frowned at Debian and said, ‘You left your drink. You should go and get it.’
Ever the pusher, eh, Jalan? thought Debian, but he said, ‘Maybe in a bit. I don’t think it was helping me, really. What are you doing?’
‘First I will get hold of a doctor I know – get you fixed up. Looks like you were shot with a solid round. They can be messy, but he’s pretty good. He’ll sort it out. While I get him, why don’t you get a bandage from the first-aid box behind the screen over there? It looks like you’re still bleeding a little. Lucky it was a small calibre.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ answered Debian and limped round the partition to a small booth where a first-aid kit hung on the wall. He tried to remember how long it had been since he had eaten anything.
Jalan was connected to the net. He didn’t need to plug in – being a computer program himself, he was one with the system of the Sunken Chest, and he connected through this. However, the terminal screens followed and logged his progress for Debian’s benefit.
Debian returned with the roll of bandage in a sterile plastic wrapper and a small pair of scissors and stood behind Jalan opening the packet. He struggled to roll up his trousers while standing on one leg and pulled the chair over instead. He sat and began to inspect the wound. It was an inflamed, grisly puncture that appeared to go right through his thigh, its edges blackened and puckered. A nauseating feeling of unreality washed over him as he gently turned the leg this way and that to look at it. He really had been shot. He really had. It looked as though the bullet had passed right through and out, probably narrowly missing a major blood vessel. The exit wound was big enough to put three fingers in. Blood, thick and dark, was oozing gelatinously from both sides of the hole. Looking at it, Debian felt as if the vodka he had downed was about to put in a re-appearance on the floor. He had to lower the leg and focus on something else, so he looked up at the screens instead.
There was clearly something wrong with the data-stream. Jalan’s attempts at communication were not connecting. He was getting standard error messages back: THE REQUESTED ADDRESS CANNOT BE CONTACTED. Jalan was frowning into the screen in consternation. The data there showed a clear lack of cohesion, as if there was interference somewhere in the line. Packets of data were simply failing to send, or sending in part, and failing checksums filled the screens. Debian found himself fixated by it. He had never seen anything quite like it. There must be something wrong with Jalan’s system, possibly a router error.
‘Damn,’ said Jalan to himself. ‘I’m getting nothing. Connection’s fucked. In my expert opinion. I know where he lives but he doesn’t really like unsolicited visitors. Also, I’m afraid I can’t leave the bar, due to my disability.’ He meant being the projected simulation of a deceased man, Debian assumed.
‘Let me take a look,’ suggested Debian, his aching, injured leg forgotten. He came closer to the console and peered into the screens, his attention flickering from one to the other. He wished he could have plugged in, or connected wireless – he was sure that he could get the matter sorted had he been able to. ‘Are the diagnostics auto-running already?’
‘Yeah, as soon as the problem came up. I just don’t…’
‘Did it start as soon as you connected?’
‘Not until I tried to dial out. Booted up just fine. It’s been fine all day. See what comes back on the diagnostics.’
‘This is typical of my luck, lately,’ said Debian, aware that he was close to falling into a state of despair that would dull his mind, sap his strength and possibly make him a dead man. He willed himself to consider the problem logically. A terrible idea dawned on him then, and he found that he could not dispute the reasoning behind it. Dark shadows swam around his head. The dizziness was returning.
