This was stupid.
I can’t threaten someone like that.
He turned and walked out on to the street.
‘Lovely, luscious girls,’ said a dark-skinned woman in front of him, her low-scooped top displaying large, soft cleavage. ‘They’re sitting around in their underwear at the house right now.’
‘I don’t—’
‘And you can choose any you want.’
Blood pulsed in his groin.
Oh, God.
‘For you, lover, there’s a discount. It will be—Oh.’
A tall man was extending his fist, his tu-ring flashing a holo sigil directly into Roger’s eyes.
‘Peacekeeper,’ he said. ‘We’re watching this area, just so you know.’
Roger nearly fell to the ground, as if the ligaments in his knees had detached.
‘You look like a nice lad,’ he continued. ‘What do you do for work? Her, we know.’
‘I’m a, er, student. At the multiversity.’
‘Good for you.’
‘I . . . Thank you, officer. Thank you.’
He backed away, waves of sickness washing through every internal organ, nodded to the officer, then strode to the corner, turned and carried on walking to the end of the block. There, he leaned back against the wall, not caring about the faint scent of ancient urine, just rubbing his eyes and trying to bring his mind together.
‘Hey, lover.’ It was the woman again. ‘Don’t pay any mind to him. The girls are still there waiting, and you know they’d just love to meet you.’
‘No. Just . . . No.’
‘Are you sure?’ When she wiggled, waves of motion rippled up her cleavage. ‘Really, really sure?’
‘Go away.’
Something seemed to snap out of existence inside her eyes, and she simply turned and walked away. Once at the corner of the main street, her gait changed, becoming a saunter once more.
Roger turned away, and realized he was at the head of an alleyway that ran behind Killian’s Dive. One step at a time, while an internal voice complained, he made his way to the rear wall, then stopped.
The wall was black quickglass, worn and crusty outside, its interior still malleable. He stared at it for a moment, then pulled up a menu in his tu-ring, checking the expanded list of commands available to him now: the maintenance services and engineering aspects normally hidden beneath security.
He formed the instructions, pressed his forearms against the wall, and waited. It took some twenty seconds for the inner layers to respond and seep through the hardened parts like liquid tar. First several drops, then runnels of black quickglass twisted around his forearms.
When he backed off, the quickglass came free with squelches and popping. He gave it another two minutes, allowing it to merge with the smartmaterial sleeves of his clothing, and begin to creep downwards. While the integration continued, he set up several shortcut commands, and kept them in the tu-ring’s execution space, ready to initiate.
Earlier, fear had made him want to throw up. Now he felt like a sick patient in the euphoria when the vomiting was past, able to move and not care. He was almost lightheaded as he walked back on to the side street, then turned again and found himself at Killian’s Dive; and then he went in.
The huge bartender was still there.
‘Excuse me,’ Roger said.
But the bartender pointed to one of the other customers, then at the man’s empty glass.
‘You want I should get you another purple stripe?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Big fingers, his hands like crushing machines, tapped a control sequence on the metal countertop. An iris opened before the drinker, and a glass rose up, its contents a Turing pattern that reminded Roger of fog in the hypozone.
‘So whaddyou want?’
‘Um, one of those, please. Purple stripe.’
‘Huh.’
The command was a single tap against the countertop. The bartender was already starting to turn away when Roger held up his fist, a small holo image floating above his tu-ring.
‘Have you seen her?’
The man’s eyes flickered to his left.
‘No, pal. I serve drinks.’ He raised his massive shoulders then pulled them down, causing them to widen. ‘You drink ’em. That’s it.’
‘Please, I think she’s in trouble.’
‘Huh. Girl like that in here’ - when he sneered, an old scar twisted the bartender’s pale lips - ‘she’s past caring, pal.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Fuck off.’
The bartender walked to the far end of the bar, and folded his massive arms.
Now what?
All his years of schooling, and there had been nothing to cover situations like this. Teachers lived in a world where clever words were everything, including weapons; but here was reality.
Oh, shit. Here I go.
As Roger walked behind the bar, his sleeves stirred and began to flow downwards, covering his hands like slick gloves.
‘Hey.’
‘Sorry. ‘ Roger held one hand up, palm forward, not threatening. ‘I just wanted to ask about the woman.’
The bartender unfolded his arms, and grabbed Roger’s shoulder with painful force.
‘Go back around the—’
Roger’s palm slapped against the muscular slab of the guy’s chest.
‘I don’t—’
And when the big hands pushed him back, strands of quickglass hooking inside the bartender’s flesh pulled the skin outward.
‘—think so.’
‘The fuck is this?’ The big man took hold of Roger, squeezing and hauling him off the ground. ‘Get this off me or I’ll snap you now.’
Roger’s bones felt about to give way.
‘No,’ he said.
His free hand slapped against the back of the man’s neck.
‘You lose.’
Quickglass tendrils infiltrated the cervical vertebrae, a narrow filament targetting a ventral junction of the spinal cord. The big man shuddered, then collapsed.
Roger fell on top of him.
‘You saw her.’
‘No, I—’
A stench grew in pungency.
‘You just shat yourself,’ said Roger. ‘I keep this in your neck much longer, the paralysis is permanent. Or you can tell me where she is.’
I really can’t believe I’m—
‘Not . . . here.’
—doing this.
‘Tell me.’
‘At . . . Ingram’s Corner, man. You know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘No . . . Uh. Drone Dollies. Garber picked her up.’
‘Who’s Garber?’
‘Pro-procurer.’
‘What does he procure?’
The bartender was beginning to cry.
‘Come on,’ said Roger. ‘What does he procure?’
‘Girls, man. Drones.’
‘Are you talking mindwipe here?’
‘They’re far gone when they come here.’ A sob. ‘Like, almost drones already.’
‘Drones.’
But he was not going to get anything more from the paralysed bartender. He formed the command, and the quickglass sucked free from the man’s body.
When Roger stood, only one of the drinkers was looking in his direction, raising a purple stripe in toast.
Roger looked at his own untouched drink, and considered knocking it across the counter or throwing it at the supine, sniffling bartender. But he carried on walking.
Did I just do that?
Whatever had happened to Alisha was more terrible than he had thought. And he realized, as he came out on to the bright, sleazy street, that he himself was capable of so much more, and so much worse, than his comfortable life had taught him.
His quickglass gloves glistened on his hands.
FORTY-FOUR
LABYRINTH, 2603 AD (REALSPACE-EQUIVALENT)
They tried to stop Carl; but they could not.
His former interrogators, Clayton and Boyle, were perhaps overwhelmed by the thought of their own impending amnesia treatment, Carl’s innocence in the matter they were investigating - Admiral Kaltberg’s murder - and their genuine sympathy at Miranda Blackstone’s death.