It wasn’t much, but she knew scams well enough that she could go to reception and cash the key in. It would be enough running expenses to get her as far as Proudhon. She couldn’t buy passage, but there were ways around that. She could manipulate a ship’s manifest as easily as a corp’s database.
But she was no surer now than she had ever been of making such a software jimmy last all the way to the destination. There were just too many people to fool for too long a period of time. Ships were too careful when they made landfall on Bakunin. And stowaways often found themselves spaced, or tagged as inventory for planets with rather repressive ideas about personal freedom. Even the best case would get her to another planet, yes, but stranded, with no cash. In a situation where her only marketable skills were probably frowned upon.
She rolled the card between her fingers.
She had also made a deal. It had been her idea, and she had convinced Dom to go along.
Tetsami had never thought of herself as a particularly honorable person. She’d always pictured herself as riding the midline of corruption on Bakunin. Looking out for number one was the overriding priority.
Despite that, she realized she wouldn’t skip.
But she was going to ask for a hell of a lot more than 50 kilos if they pulled this off.
Tetsami ran the card through the reader and walked into her room.
* * * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Depreciation
“History is written by those in power to justify the present. Memory is the same thing on a smaller scale.”
—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom
“The slaves to the past are all volunteers for its tyranny.”
—Jean Honore Cheviot
(2065-2128)
Dom did not sleep.
Ten years of chronic insomnia, and it never bothered him as much as it did now. He was sprawled, naked, on a bed in a luxury suite in the Waldgrave, and he couldn’t stop thinking. His first chance to sleep, and he couldn’t wrest his mind away from what had happened. He picked over the events of the past thirty-two hours like some ghoulish spectator who couldn’t tear himself away from the bloody remains of an aircar pileup.
Could he have done better?
Could he feel something?
Dom sat up, feeling the side of his face vibrate. The room was dark, and he didn’t bother heightening the gain on his photoreceptors to compensate.
The nightmares were bad.
The memories were worse.
“Damn it,” Davis had said, back during his last day on Banlieue, “you’re not a machine.”
It had been ten years and the memory was still a fresh scar. “Yes, I am, Dave,” he had responded. He had been a machine even before the “accident.” He had been an automaton ever since Styx. The cybernetics were simply an external manifestation of his inner landscape.
He was a machine, but an imperfect one. A perfect machine wouldn’t agonize over its own continued existence.
Davis Maclntyre was his second in command, the man who now controlled the small arms empire Dom had built after his “retirement” from the TEC. Davis was from Earth and had nearly as many unsavory contacts in the Confederacy as Dom did himself. He was, arguably, the man who had saved Dom’s life.
“You would prefer it if we had left you in that tank?”
They were standing on a small porch adorning one of Banlieue’s millionaire’s villas. The view looked over a small vineyard, which the company also owned. Dom tapped his fingers on the railing. “Maybe it would have been better.”
“Do you actually buy into Klaus’ bullshit?”
Dom didn’t answer.
Was it Helen’s death? Or was it simply what her death represented for him? If he had known, ahead of time, that she was one of those thirty-five thousand people, would he have acted differently?
He had joined the TEC to escape her.
Her death had made escape impossible.
He kept staring out at the vineyard, tapping his finger.
David grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “Say something, you ungrateful bastard! Rage, scream, cry, something! It’s still you in there. The brain was one of the few things the bacteria didn’t get to.”
Dom found himself wishing he could do something to comfort his old friend. After a while he said, “I do appreciate what you did for me.”
Davis dropped his shoulder as if that wasn’t the right thing to say at all. “You’re burying this. It won’t go away.”
Dom nodded. It never went away. People died, but their accusations lived long after them.
He’d almost fooled himself into believing he was over it. Then Klaus had appeared, nearly killing him. Now, it was as if the wounds had become gangrenous, killing the nerves, leaving him numb.
Davis was still talking. “Someday all that pent-up anger is going to explode on you.”
“I know.”
“You’re a different person than you were.”
“I know.”
Davis shook his head and headed for the door. “We have the transport and the account transfer ready for you— Are you sure you want to do this?”
Dom nodded.
“Just because I can handle the company without you doesn’t mean we don’t need you.”
“You know you can’t afford to hide one of your officers from the TEC indefinitely. You’ve done it too long already.”
“But Bakunin?”
“A new name, a new planet—I can disappear there.”
Davis gave him a backward look over his shoulder that told Dom that he doubted he could disappear anywhere. After a pause, he said. “We had to, you know. With all the damage to you and the TEC on our necks, there was no time to clone a real body.”
Dom raised his hand to the side of his face to hide the tic he was developing. “I know that. It’s nobody’s fault.” Besides, if Dom were to be really honest with himself, the cybernetics weren’t the real problem.”
“It’s Klaus’ fault, damn you!” Davis left, leaving Dom with no opportunity to think of a response.
Dom had been left, standing on the porch of the villa, trying to scrape together a hatred for his brother. Like every effort to pull together the pieces of his broken mind, it left him with no tangible results.
That was the last time he had seen Davis Maclntyre.
The last time he had someone he could call a friend.
Dom got off of the bed. After all this, if all I can feel for the loss of ten years of work is this vague unease, what’s the point?
He walked into the plush bathroom and up to the washbasin. At a touch, the chrome-metal basin began to fill from an invisible faucet. He placed his right hand, the mostly real one, in the basin, covering the drain. The metal was cool against his hand, and the sink beeped at him as the basin began to overflow.
With the left hand he turned on the lights. The panels around the mirror in front of him lit.
Water washed over the counter and splashed his thighs.
He put his left hand on one of the lit panels that surrounded the mirror. He began to slowly apply pressure to the plastic covering the light.
Water washed across his thighs, his calves, and his feet.
He had thought of this a few times since his reconstruction. A clean way to do it. The veins that pumped the clear fluid that passed for blood were self-sealing. His digestive system was artificial and would filter out most of the poisons he could think of. Most falls and projectiles wouldn’t touch his brain within its chromed prison.