Cold Comfort
by
Bret Tallman
The original colonists named the planet
Mahatma in the somewhat overly optimistic expectation of how conflicts would be
resolved there. Over the following
century, citizens of the more mainstream systems came to call it Roanoke in the
hopes that it would somehow disappear.
But it didn’t. The dusty little
planet at the end of the Hominid Road continued to revolve around its
smoldering M dwarf, barely skirting tidal lock, developing one gleaming rash of
a super-city after another, incubating dissidents and spewing discontent out
into the cosmos.
Julius Rose pretended to live on
Roanoke. Yes, in his real life he still
lived on Roanoke (what other world would be safe for someone like him?) but not
in the beta-credit part of Porky Town and not in a tasteful townhouse cluttered
with the expressions of an artistic talent he didn’t really have. Abe Qadir, visiting his friend’s new digs for
the first time, almost dropped his carton of eggs.
“You’re involved in something really,
really bad, aren’t you?” Abe set the
carton on the table, did a double take, and gingerly fingered the silk
tablecloth in disbelief. He looked
around skeptically at the various paintings awaiting completion. “This can’t be for real.”
“Of course not,” Rose nodded. “I’m being very well paid to pose as a
decadent, frequently drunk genius while I sit here and babysit a certain
item.”
His smile was much more evident in his eyes
than anywhere else. He was a striking,
verging on elegant, figure: thin, angular, deathly pale, with sandy blond hair
pulled into a topknot. He dressed in
simple, dark clothes that never looked out of place and he was rarely less than
polite. But the way he moved unnerved
people; still as stone one moment, sudden as a snake the next.
Abe unsnapped and removed his gelmet and
ran a hand over the black bristles of his hair expecting, against experience,
them to be wet. “Who’s paying you? And did they really specify that you be
frequently drunk?”
Rose pointed a lecturing finger. “To craft a convincing cover, I must
disappear into the character.” He jumped
up from his seat and tore the tablecloth away with a theatrical flourish,
ignoring the soft patter of breaking eggs.
Abe sighed and watched the yokes bleed
slowly from the wreckage. He was used to
impulsive behavior from Rose but wondered if it was getting worse. The cerebral implants that made Enhanced Ops
squads so effective were supposed to be removed before a soldier’s
discharge. But Rose had never been
discharged and could never go back. The
neuromorphic microchips and silicon glial net were still in there, years longer
than they were supposed to be.
Rose cleared his throat loudly, calling Abe
back from the tragedy of the eggs and drawing his attention to the metal
cylinder that had been under the tablecloth.
“A cryobed.
A Cold Comfort cryobed judging from that logo. These are supposed to be the best kind,
loaded with fail-safes.” Abe bent to
peer through the glass cover. “Ugh. Who’s the old man and why can’t he be wearing
pants?”
“This is Skippy Brechs of the Brechs Excess
family. You know, the company behind all
those gel-form products, like your helmet there. Very wealthy.” Of course, Skippy wasn’t the man’s real
name. Another side effect Rose’s friends
had to get used to was his aphasic inability to say any other first name.
Rose sat back down, put his feet up on the
cryobed, right over the old man’s face, and continued, “He got stung by some
new poisonous beast while on safari. His
people froze him while they break the animal down and engineer some treatment
for him. I have to check in with his
counselor three times a day and read his glucose levels to her. You should stick around for that call, it’s a
hoot.”
Abe’s stomach started churning. “So they hired someone like you to guard him
while under a false identity? Well,
that’s a perfectly normal and not at all shady thing to do.”
“Oh, it gets worse,” Rose answered
cheerfully. “I gather there’s some kind
of decoy over in his Swirl Town place.”
Abe peered down at the cragged, still face
beneath the glass. Brechs managed to
look crotchety even in temporary death.
“Why? What are you involved with
here?”
“Who cares?” Rose shrugged. “Want some lunch?”
Abe blinked, processed the sudden change of
subject, and answered, “I brought lunch but now we’d have to lick it up off the
floor!”
Rose grimaced. “The eggs?
You brought a carton of eggs for lunch?”
“They were Healthy Shells from Sizuki’s
stall. Those aren’t cheap.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter what you paid,
curb transgenics are always a waste of money.”
“Not while this new splotch virus is going
around! I’m eating nothing but
medfoods. I saw on the news that another
little kid died last night. I know guys
our age are surviving it but-”
Rose stopped him with a raised hand and
cocked his head in the silence.
“Someone’s in the foyer,” he murmured.
“When you closed the door, did you trip the security mesh?”
The figure that stepped into the living
room wore an any-environment suit, its face-screen set to reflective. It lifted a silver cylindrical device in its
right hand and a large photo of a gunshot victim in its left. Rose saw the gristly picture and understood
in an instant what was about to happen.
He lunged over the cryobed but the figure was already activating the
device.
On some level, Rose knew that focused
magnetic waves were triggering the anterior insula of his brain and pushing it
to hyper-active levels. But that didn’t
stop him from crashing to the floor alongside Abe, both men absolutely
convinced they were gushing blood from jagged bullet-holes in their torsos.
Their attacker dropped the photo between
them and groped around under the cryobed’s carriage, releasing the steering
handle and unlocking its small wheels.
With a soft whisper, the intruder steered the cryobed into the foyer and
out the front door.
Seconds passed while Rose’s mindware sent
self-correcting hormones sloshing around his braincase and then he was up on
his haunches, leaning over Abe. “Lie
still, Scotty. The effects should wear
off in a few minutes.”
“W-wear off?” Abe gasped and winced in
imaginary pain. “I’ve been shot.”
“Only with a dose of concentrated empathy,”
Rose assured him. Then, just for laughs,
he placed both of Abe’s hands on his chest.
“Here. Keep pressure on the wound. Or you’ll bleed out and die.” Then he jumped up and bolted out the front
door.
“Man down,” Abe called out, weakly. “Man down.”
The streets of Porky Town, even the
beta-credit ones, were never empty. On
every corner, kids grouped and gamed on smart-tarps draped over mailboxes,
water hydrants and old people.
Holographic transmitters embedded in the sidewalk projected sexy
Commercial Sapiens on fixed yet casual strolls.
The other, terribly unsexy pedestrians were real humans marching and
sometimes running to and from places of fleeting opportunity. And of course there were the addicts and the
lovelorn, wandering around in a damaged daze looking exactly like each
other. The city was the usual passionate
mess.
But a fully environment-armored person
loading a cryobed into the back of a clean, obviously new truck? Picking that out from half a block away
wasn’t hard and Rose had almost reached the truck before it spun on its three
gyroscopic wheels and escaped into traffic with fishlike grace. Rose stole a bike from one of the kids too
busy gaming to pay attention and took off in hot pursuit.
Most of the kids hopped on their own bikes
and took off in hot pursuit of him. One
in particular, a boy who always kept his hood up to hide the stubby little
antenna sticking out of a festering hole in his skull, was bad news. He was a member of the Sin Send Circle and
what he saw, every frequency mate in the area saw too.
#
Almost an hour later, Abe was amusing
himself by making some additions and alterations to Rose’s paintings when Rose
returned, accompanied by the figure in the suit. There were minor tears in Rose’s clothes and
a small cut over one eye. The figure’s
face-screen was clear, revealing pixie-ish, feminine features.
“Sit,” Rose told her, curtly. He turned to Abe and made introductions.
“Skippy Qadir, this is Skippy Brechs.
Skippy Brechs, Skippy Qadir.”
“I thought the fossil in the freezer was
Skippy Brechs,” Abe murmured, putting the last touches on a Venus that now had
elephant ears.
“Neither one of is!” Even through the
helmet speaker, the woman instantly identified herself as a master of the
princess pitch, that perfect blend of anger and whininess that simultaneously
attacks and wheedles. “I’m Helen
Brechs. My brother is Bernard Brechs. Please, we have to get him back!”
Rose dabbed at his head with a clean corner
of canvas. “I just about had her down on
Mercer Street when we both got jacked by a half dozen Circle jerks.”
“Yikes.”
“Yes.
You know how coordinated they are.
They had us both flat on our backs in no time. I crippled the two who were on me easily
enough but they got away with the truck.”
Helen rapped her gloved fingers against her
face-screen. “I can’t stay in this suit
forever. I can’t do it. I’m going crazy. We have to get him back.”
Rose caught the confused look on Abe’s
face. “She thinks her brother released a
virus engineered to target their family.”
“He did!
My father is on life support up on Soclean Station. He doesn’t have much longer. Bernard wants to cut down on how many kids he
has to share the fortune with. Five have
died already. I received an anonymous
message that warned-”
“Wait a minute. The geezer’s dad is still alive? How old-”
“He’s 131.
He was an active man. I have
eighteen brothers and sisters. On
Roanoke. That I know about. While Daddy’s been sick, the company’s gotten
into trouble.”
Rose went to the minibar and poured himself
a scotch. “It’s funny how broke rich
people can sometimes get. But it’s still
not my problem.”
“You have to believe me!”
“No, I don’t. And I certainly don’t have to care. I have a job to do. I’m going to go get my client back. My friend here is going to watch you until
your brother’s counselor calls in and then you can talk to her. I’ll let that sort itself out.” He looked at Abe. “If she gives you any trouble, pull her
helmet off.”
“Right.”
Abe matched the frosty indifference in Rose’s voice pretty well,
considering he was just a bike courier who had seen plenty of weirdness and
violence on Roanoke but had never actually killed anyone.
Rose drained his glass and headed for the
door. Helen called after him, “Sir, I
know my brother. He must have an
antivirus or some other kind of failsafe with him in the cryobed. He wouldn’t just hope-”
But Rose had left.
#
Law enforcement was more than a little
spotty on Roanoke but that was in keeping with the spirit of the colony’s
founding. Consenting adults came to the
planet to live free of mores the rest of the Hominid Road tended to enforce
with baton-twirling zealousness. The
only kind of public surveillance allowed were the magnetic sensors in the
traffic lights that recorded any bits of metal moving faster than a hundred
meters per second, in the projectile-weapon speed range, and notified
authorities. It was a charter fact that
guns were verboten on Roanoke and getting caught with one was an excellent way
of getting immediately exiled.
None of which meant the streets were really
safe. The three demographics of the
colony were the creative, the violent, and the creative violent. The Savannah was the part of Porky Town where
they went to talk to each other.
Julius Rose made his way through streets
lined with the giant quill-like trees that gave Porky Town its name and stabbed
angrily into the sky at an equally furious crimson sun. He swung his gyrojeep
into the alley next to Chunk’s Bar, suction-deflated the seat bench and locked
the collapsible steering panel.
He paused for a moment outside the bar, and
centered himself on the memory of his fight with the Circle boys, heightening
the activity of his temporal lobe until the memory eclipsed his current surroundings,
then eliminating the data streams one by one until only his olfactory sense was
left. There had been a strange smell to
the carjackers, not of them but on them, a salad-like smell, almost bacterial. He let the memory sink back down into his mind
and entered the bar.
Unfortunately, the only scent he recognized
was howler monkey. Nearly a dozen of
them where leaping all over a booth in the corner, shrieking and clapping and
shrieking and stinking and shrieking. He
hated them. There were only a few human
patrons this early in the day and none of them looked likely. That was okay because he was really here to
see Chunk Johnson except Chunk wasn’t behind the bar. Instead, he found himself staring at a dusky,
raven-haired woman who was staring back with electric-blue eyes. She was leaning languidly on the bar, one
breast nearly ready to slip out of her scoop-neck top. He sighed because he knew immediately that
she wasn’t real.
“Give me a scotch and tell Mr. Johnson I
think he’s a sell-out for installing one of you,” he said brusquely.
She gave a slight lip twitch and a widening
of the eyes to indicate hurt, as if she had been hoping he was a nice guy, but
not so much as to seem excessively vulnerable, which could be annoying. Teams of behavioral psychologists worked with
AI programmers to ensure each Commercial Sapien’s maximal attractiveness.
“Chunk went on a much deserved vacation and
asked me to watch the bar for him,” she answered, patiently. Segmented mechanical arms uncurled
noiselessly from the counter behind her and started to assemble his drink. She slid a little closer. “Have you ever been to the Sunshine Islands?”
Rose wasn’t interested in a ton of
brochures being mailed to his house.
“Yes, I have and I accidentally disturbed a wasps’ nest and was stung
repeatedly on the ass. Just the ass
too. Seven times on each buttock. Damnedest thing.” This was an absurd fabrication but he just
wanted to see what she’d say.
Her brow furrowed sympathetically but she
didn’t miss a beat. “Ouch. You’ve gotta take care of that tush of yours;
it’s too nice. There’s a cream for that
kind of thing, though. Feathersoft makes
a different healing lotion for every part of the body, targeted for the
different pH levels-”
“Okay, okay.” He snatched his glass up from the counter and
dropped some cash in its place. He
turned to go but then had a thought.
“What can you tell me about Brechs Excess?”
The holographic woman looked confused. “Um, nothing really. I know one of their competitors is really-”
He walked away. Easing up on the rabid advertising wasn’t
necessarily a sign that the company was in trouble but it was still interesting
that Brechs Excess wasn’t on her sponsor list.
Without Chunk, there was only one thing
left to do: he’d talk to the
proxies. He approached the monkeys
warily and all at once they went silent, staring at him with their runny simian
eyes.
Rose cleared his throat. “I’m looking for something the SSC stole
earlier today. It was in the back of a
truck they jacked. Now they can keep the
truck but I need the other item back.
They’re not going to have any use for it, so I assume they’ll want to
offload it quickly.”
This was either dangerous or useless. A different person was receiving from the
optic nerve and sending to the motor cortex of each of these animals; they
could be anything from delusion psychopaths looking for victims to bored
adolescents playing a game. But this was
how information was had in the Savannah.
One
of the howlers leaped up and scampered across tables until it was three booths
away and motioned for Rose to follow it.
Rose drained his glass and slid in across from the little
abomination. It opened a pouch strapped
around its waist, pulled out a piece of blue chalk and scribbled on the
tabletop: WHAT WAS THE ITEM?
“A man in a cryobed.”
The monkey cocked its shaven, surgically
scarred head, as if thinking. Then it
screeched and wrote: MEAT MARKET
Rose was skeptical. “The man was pretty old. Mean Cuisine types aren’t going to want to
eat him and how good could his organs be?”
The howler squatted and dropped a load
right on the table.
“Uh, was that your response or an ad-lib by
the monkey?”
GENETIC MATERIAL STILL GOOD. CRYO PARTS STILL GOOD.
Rose wasn’t sold but if this was the only
lead… “Is there a meat market tonight?”
YES.
Rose took out a hundred and offered
it. The monkey didn’t move. Rose snatched the thing by the throat,
aborting a shriek with a press of his thumb, and held its panicked little face
up to his. “I own a rottweiler. Are you going to take what I’m offering or am
I bringing a special snack home for Skippy?*”
A grimy paw reached for the hundred.
“Good. Now tell me when and
where.”
#
Abe felt his cuff link vibrate, pressed it
and watched a low-resolution image of Rose’s face appear on his sleeve.
“It’s Rose.” His voice sounded from the link’s
micro-speaker. “How are you guys doing?”
“I’m sooooooo sorry,” Abe began.
“Uh-oh.”
“I lost her. Helen.
I lost her.”
“You lost her? But… I left you at the house. You were both stationary. How do you lose someone when neither of you
is moving?”
“Yeah.
That’s a good point,” Abe admitted sheepishly. “But the patterns on the front of her suit
started moving.”
“So?
Her suit had an outer layer of electronic smart fabric. We’re talking on the same thing right
now. So what?”
“Yeah, but the display on hers had all
these patterns. It was so cool. I started watching and then I just… zoned
out. When I snapped out of it, she was
gone.”
“Clever,” Rose muttered.
“Sorry.”
“Well, it’s not the first time your brain
shut down while you were staring at a woman.
Hop on your bike and pick me up at Mr. Johnson’s Bar.”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“Apparently, some vandals thought it would
be fun to spray it with foam cement. All
the foldable components are under a nice thick coat. Damn kids.”
“Ha ha.”
“I’ll have to rent a sonic hammer to
liquefy that garbage and there’s no time for that now. We need to be at a meat market by seven
tonight.”
Abe groaned. “There’s something you should know.”
Rose waited.
“After Helen ditched me, I hooked up my
pocket tarp and searched for any deaths in her family. I found three and the obits listed them as
splotch victims.”
“Okay.”
“Do you not understand, Julius? Bernard made the splotch. He made it to wipe out his family but viral
weapons aren’t as precise as bullets; it’s infecting others. What if it mutates and-”
“Skippy,” Rose interrupted, “the woman has
literally messed with your head twice now and you’re letting her do it a third
time. We can talk more about this when
you pick me up.”
#
Julius Rose learned a number of things that
evening:
Abe’s bike had a swing-out second seat,
resilin shock absorbers, smart rubber friction-adjustable wheels, and four
double-jointed legs guided by a very rudimentary AI. It was a dream to ride on any terrain. But two men riding a bicycle still look like
two men riding a bicycle and they get about as much respect as you’d think.
The basement of a monastery is a
surprisingly good place to sell black market organs, especially when the
cloisters are a virtual environment and the paid-off rector is the only monk
not sealed in a hermetic pod.
Hands are a seller’s market. People are always needing a new set of
fingerprints or a replacement for the limb that got eaten by the disposal. (Not enough people heeded the recall on the
homicidal Yes Dear kitchen AI)
And the Sin Send Circle had not contributed
any wares to tonight’s meat market. The
only cryo-equipment present were organ cabinets.
#
They had milled around the market for
almost two hours, long enough to annoy the businessmen and traumatize Abe, and
Rose was ready to call it a night when a familiar smell came barreling into his
nostrils. It was the same scent he had
caught from the Circle boys but this was the source.
Rose wasn’t the only one who noticed the
smell; all eyes, watering, were trained on a rough-looking newcomer with a frizzy
mass of brown hair and an unshaven, glowering face. The area around his lips was speckled a
strange yellow and he wore a frayed military-issue jacket with Enhanced Ops
insignia on the shoulder. The reeking
stranger scratched his chin, opened his mouth and released the most thunderous
belch Rose had ever heard. It
reverberated through the dim passageways of the monastery like a mournful howl.
The
stranger motioned to a man working a sprawling display of oily intestines and
the two of them retired to a side passage.
Rose followed them. Abe protested
and followed him.
Rose didn’t hesitate to interrupt the two
men’s whispered conversation. “Pardon
me, but were you in Enhanced Ops?
Because I would take great offense if that wasn’t your jacket.” The truth was he wouldn’t give a damn, but he
figured forming a slightly hostile rapport with the man would be his best shot
at getting what he wanted.
The stranger glared at him, then barked out
a brief, bitter laugh. “What? You can’t tell?” This was followed by three rapid bursts of
flatulence that seemed to almost echo the laugh. The stranger crossed his arms as if he had
made some kind of point.
Rose realized who he was talking to. It had taken him a moment because he had only
heard rumors and never actually met any of them. “You were in St- uh, Sustained Squad,
right? The experimental team.”
The stranger’s jaw clenched as he growled,
“You were going to say Stink Squad, weren’t you?” His hand unconsciously brushed a bulge in one
of his pants pockets and it didn’t take mindware to figure there was a weapon
in there.
“What?
No, of course not.” Rose was
usually a much better liar than this but the overpowering smell of rotting
jungle was wreaking more havoc on his brain than the magnetic resonator
had.
“What’s Stink Squad?” Abe asked and, as if
the question itself wasn’t tactless enough, he was actually pinching his nose
shut while he asked it.
The stranger was starting to seethe so Rose
altered his voice slightly with his soothing-tone subroutine as he answered,
“Sustained Squad was an attempt at making soldiers who could go without food
indefinitely. Their stomachs were
replaced with stabilized bacterial mini-ecosystems supported by a hydrogel frame. They only made one batch and then
discontinued the project.”
Abe was amazed. “Well, duh.
How could they not foresee the side-effects?”
The stranger, who had seemed almost
mollified, exploded, “That’s what I said!
That’s what I said!” The second
“said” turned into another belch, drawing the word out over several agonizing
seconds, but it was still fairly intelligible.
“We’ll talk later,” the intestine man
mumbled nervously and slinked back to his display.
The stranger watched him go, positively
gripping the bulging pocket now, and snarled, “I’m trying to do some business
here, fellas.”
“This is business,” Rose assured him
smoothly. “I believe you associate with
the Sin Send Circle, yes? They stole
something from me earlier today and I would like it back.”
The stranger shook his head. “Yes, I know those idiots but I’m not
responsible for what they do. They’re
getting stupider every day. Literally. Somebody they pissed off retaliated by
poisoning their transmission loop with some weird hypnosis-based virus. It makes them temporarily schizo and they
just keep re-infecting each other over and over again.”
“I’m not interested in holding anyone
responsible or retaliating. But it’s
imperative I get the object back. How do
I find them?”
Now the stranger smiled and his teeth were
a ghastly, almost luminescent mess.
“Well, now. Like you said, I do
business with them. Wouldn’t be smart to
sell them out. Not smart on any
level.” A high-pitched whispery fart
played in accompaniment.
Rose isolated the synapses around his
olfactory bulb and suppressed them.
Blessed relief.
“Understandable. But what would
you suggest I do?” He had a feeling.
The man put his hands together, deep in
thought. “This is about the Cold Comfort
tube they nabbed, isn’t it?”
Rose was perfectly pokerfaced but knew from
the way the stranger’s eyes flicked over at Abe that his friend’s expression
had given it away. He repeated, “What
would you suggest?”
“I can get it back for you. Those morons told me they only stole it
because they saw some folks fighting over it and figured it had to be something
good. They were a bit disappointed. They’ve probably already forgotten about it.”
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.”
“Well, yeah. You better, considering the favor I’m going
to need from you first.” Quiet
belch. Pause. Louder belch.
“Ah.”
“You’re one of the mindware boys, aren’t
you? And you’ve still got it in
you. Your eyes are too shiny and your
voice is too perfect, too precise. You
guys used to give the rest of us the creeps.”
Of course, this confession was followed by a cheek-shuddering expulsion
because really, how could it not be?
“What do you want?”
#
Abe and Julius were still arguing about it
as they pushed out through the heavy doors of St. Michael’s into the muggy
night air.
“Please just call Brech’s counselor,” Abe
begged. “She’s got to have enough money
to pay this guy off.”
Rose was still looking at the card the man
had given them. It had a name, Corbin,
and a number on it, but no occupation.
“She’ll never believe I’m not trying to shake them down. And even if she did, she’ll try to screw me
over for screwing up. She’s already left
a dozen messages on my link and they’re a tad hostile. Can I crash on your couch?”
Abe pulled his gelmet on with a rubbery
squelch. “Sure. You think she’s sent someone to your place?”
But Rose didn’t answer; he was too
preoccupied with the disheveled man sitting on the curb, nursing what looked
like a broken nose, a few feet from where Abe had wired his bike. “Sir, are you alright? Did you get mugged?”
The dazed man looked up and Abe saw the
pink marks on his cheeks and forehead.
“Don’t touch him, Julius, he’s got the splotch!”
“No, I’m okay.” The man’s voice was muddy, thick. “I think I’m past the contagious stage. I’m getting better.”
“Well you should stay home until you’re
completely better!”
“Relax!” Rose snapped. “Sorry.
He’s a bit of a hypochondriac.”
“I just wanted to look at lungs,” the man
said. “My daughter’s lungs are filling
up with gunk and… I just wanted to look and see if I could afford anything but
they said I could infect their stuff. I
refused to leave and they did this.”
“I’m very sorry,” Rose said, suddenly
brusque. He joined Abe at the bike and
climbed on the second seat.
“I can’t wait until I’m well enough to go
in; she’s getting worse,” the man mumbled.
He wasn’t really talking to Julius Rose anymore but Rose heard him all
the same.
#
He was feeling a bit surly by eight the
next morning. Abe had let him sleep on
his couch and borrow his old bike but Rose was still annoyed with his friend
for arguing with him. Abe had started
harping about going to the police but he couldn’t know how dangerous it would
be. If the whole fiasco made the news
further up the Hominid Road, Rose could find himself in the Ministry’s
hands. Add to that the indignity of
riding a bike all the way out to the Babylon Blocks while being trailed by a
chimp on a motorized tricycle and you had a man not in the mood for trifles.
Unfortunately, no area of Porky Town was
more trifling than the Babylon Blocks, where virulent anti-post-human folks
stewed in their pure gene-pool. No
altered citizens, genetic or cybernetic, could live there and gangs that styled
themselves the River Watchmen patrolled the streets and doled out savage beatings
to those who trespassed. To be sure,
there were some brilliant minds living there; the area had the best natural
greenhouses on the planet and made efficient use of particle-accelerator fueled
robotics. But most viewed the Blocks as
a violent slum where paranoid zealots gnashed their teeth at a siege against
them that didn’t really exist.
It was the ideal place for a girl who
didn’t want to be reached by someone as obviously altered as Corbin and his
associates. Rose figured he’d be okay as
long as he avoided anyone with a portable MRI; even then, it would take six or
more Watchmen before he had a problem.
He glanced back over his shoulder in time
to see the chimp bring its tricycle to a sudden halt at the Blocks’
border. Whoever was piloting the
animal’s brain, Helen or the counselor or even Corbin, it didn’t really matter;
just as long as they were shaken.
#
The girl returned home to her squalid
little apartment around noon. As soon as
she stepped through the door, Rose clamped a hand over her mouth and twisted
one arm behind her in a hammerlock.
“You are going to make no noise, do you
understand?” Rose layered his voice with
menace. “I’m not armed but I can break
your neck in an instant. All I want is
to talk with you a moment.” He gripped
her jaw and twisted her head painfully to make his point and not one piece of
gear in his head could suppress the guilt.
He released her roughly and the two of them
sized each other up. Cece Kidder was tan
and muscular, her blond hair shaved in lightning patterns. She was a vital-looking young woman, just as
Corbin described, but her pregnancy wasn’t showing yet, which was strange. Rose wondered if he had made a mistake. The woman he had spoken to in the opium den
had seemed so sure.
“Who are you? How did you get past my mesh?” Her voice was a little shaky but
forceful. Fear didn’t freeze her. Good.
“I didn’t.
You left your window open and I climbed down from the roof.”
“Are you crazy? We’re twelve stories up. Did Corbin send you? It sounds like something someone who works
with Corbin would do.”
This was getting more distasteful by the
second. “They might try but they’d
fall. Listen, miss, I’m here to take you
to see him.”
“Oh, no.
Oh, no.” She shook her head
emphatically.
“Just listen. I made a deal. He just wants to talk to you. I’m going to be there the entire time and I
won’t let him hurt you.” He modulated
his delivery from menace to reassurance.
But it didn’t work. “It’s over.
Why can’t he understand that?
We’re not getting back together.”
“Why-”
The word was out of his mouth before he even realized it, so he just
decided to go with it. It was, after
all, a burning question. “Why did you
get together with him in the first place?
My god, the man…just, why?”
The girl looked momentarily nonplussed,
then she falteringly answered, “Well, He was…so betrayed by the people he was
trying to protect, by the Ministry he was trying to serve. I felt sorry for him. And he was just so far outside the boundaries
of the world I knew. He-”
“Ah, I understand.” Rose’s subliminal smile made a
nonappearance. “He was completely
inappropriate. In fact, he was the
epitome of inappropriateness in every way, a nuclear warhead fired at your
parents and all the square boys who couldn’t have you. That’s dedication.”
His dark mood lifted slightly and he
savored the return of the genial contempt he usually felt while
socializing. His eyes swept over the
ugly and boring wire sculptures that littered the apartment, poorly proportioned
figures in ridiculous states of union.
As a fake artist himself he recognized a kindred talent. “Sk- Your man says you’re a somnartist.”
The girl nodded. “Yeah, I watch a somnambulist flash program,
then my subconscious expresses itself while I sleep.”
Rose suspected a subconscious with a
relentless interest in fornicating wasn’t the most unique voice in the world
but refrained from saying so.
“I used it to sleep with him with him too,”
she added with a strained little smile, “it was the only way I could get it
done.”
She was trying to establish a rapport with
him, Rose realized, trying to capitalize on his apparent disgust with
Corbin. It was a buzz-killing reminder
that she was in fear of her life and he was the cause. “Let’s just get this over with. You don’t have to get back together with him
but he’s determined to be a part of the baby’s life. This is probably the only chance at
fatherhood this guy is going to get unless he can find someone who’s literally
lost her senses.”
“I already gave the fetus to the Cattle
Drive,” she answered, cringing a little as if she expected to be struck.
Rose groaned and pinched the bridge of his
nose. The latest of the Hominid Road’s
spasms of reproductive queasiness had mated with its dream of empire and given
birth to the Cattle Drive, a program in which unwanted fetuses were implanted
and carried to term in the wombs of engineered cows. Every colony, even Roanoke, now had herds of
bovine surrogates that would produce the first generation of Owned Ops.
“Corbin would have been a terrible father!”
“Worse than growing up an indentured
servant and then being used as military fodder?” Rose paused to consider his own
question. “Well, maybe.”
“So there’s no point in me talking to him.”
Rose was silent, thinking furiously. Finally, he said, “You’re right. But I can’t go back empty-handed. What clinic did you go to? They must have records of where they sent the
fetus or something.”
“Are you insane?” Cece’s eyes went wide with alarm. “They’re not going to tell you that. They wouldn’t even tell me if I asked.”
“But I’m more convincing.”
“No.”
The girl suddenly sounded like she had some steel in her. “I’m not going to do it. You’ll hurt people.”
“I’ll hurt you if you don’t.”
Her voice quavered a little but she stayed angry. “Is this what you do? You do bad things for bad people?” She clasped her hands together imploringly. “Please, there’s nothing to be gained from
this. Do the right thing. It’ll feel so much better. You don’t seem like a bad guy.”
Rose processed this bit of naivete and
nodded, mockingly. “Right. Let me help you understand something. Just four years ago, I was part of an
Enhanced Ops squad sent to Beatrice III to wipe out a nest of Chimneys.
“They were the Road’s favorite villains at
the time, violent monsters who wiped out every contact team they met. Except it wasn’t their fault. It turns out that the cells of their immune
system communicate with each other like synapses, just as they do in humans but
to a much greater degree; their cytokines are capable of much more complex
behavior and can even interface directly with their actual synapses.”
He noticed the completely uncomprehending
look on Cece’s face but pressed on.
“These cells are in the mist, the supposed biotoxin, they constantly exude. See, they communicate through a form of
aerosol telepathy. But it interacts with
the human immune system in some unfortunate ways.
“By the time my squad arrived, the Ministry
knew the truth of their mistake, knew quite a bit about the Chimneys, in
fact. But the campaign was already
underway and they didn’t want to give any ammunition to the folks who said we
shouldn’t stray from the Road.
“So we were supposed to wipe them out. I tried to do my part but I just… It was
killing me. I was standing there in my
any-environment suit with a flechette gun pointed at a family, and that’s what
they were, and I just snapped. I turned
the gun on three of my squad-mates.
“The family got away but I never will, not
for too long.
“There are two facts to be taken from this
story: One, I did the right thing once
and screwed myself forever in the process, so don’t go looking for any more of
that from me. And two, I’m willing to
kill men who put their trust in me, so I’m probably capable of doing terrible
things to a girl I don’t even know.”
With only a slight hesitation, Cece added,
“And three, you’re willing to do right by aliens you can’t even talk to but not
by other human beings.”
“Just about any creature deserves it more,”
Rose snapped, truly annoyed.
“So you’re one of those people who treat
people like crap because people treat people like crap?” she asked. “That’s just crap, man.”
Rose took a few moments to parse the
question and then didn’t want to answer it anyway. It was unusual for him to become frustrated
but the little bourgeoisie poser not only refused to be cowed by a killer’s
story, she was fumbling around in his head like some idiot psychologist.
It was time to push his bluff to its
limit. With a snarl he tore a wire from
one of her sculptures and pulled it taught between his fists. “Tell me now or I’ll garrote you.”
He backed her into a corner until she
blurted, “The Keener Clinic down on Benton Street.”
He turned to leave. “Tell anyone of this and I’ll be back.”
“Wait,” she called after him and
disappeared into her bedroom. She
returned a moment later and shoved a box into his arms. “This is Corbin’s stuff and I don’t want to
be caught holding it. Tell him we’re
totally over.”
On the elevator ride down, Rose peaked into
the box. The narcotics and contraband
spore canisters didn’t bother him as much as the gun did. If this was the kind of merchandise Corbin
moved, then he was both more dangerous and more stupid than Rose had guessed.
#
“I’m very sorry, sir, but we can’t give out
that information,” Lauren Hilltop, director of the Keener Clinic’s parenthood
program, informed him with every appearance of sincere regret.
Rose glanced around her spare office, then
gazed at the droopy little woman behind her black desk. He gave his amygdala a slight nudge so that
his eyes were glassy and his voice was thick with real anguish when he said, “I
wanted this child so much, Ms Hilltop.
Kidder didn’t even tell me she was making this decision.”
Hilltop’s eyes swam with their own
tears. “I’m so sorry but the fetus is
the property of the Ministry now.”
Rose bowed his head as if in prayer. “I know.
I know I can’t have it back. But
I need to know it’s been implanted safely.”
His foot nudged the duffel bag he had brought with him. Helen’s magnetic emoter hummed only very
faintly inside. He made eye contact
again and let a tear slide down his face.
“I need to know where it is.”
Hilltop’s lower lip started visibly
quivering. “I can’t. It’s against the rules.”
His voice was barely a whisper. “Please.
It’s the only way I’ll ever be able to love my child, to know this only
thing I can know.” It occurred to Julius
Rose right then that he had never actually loved anyone in his life, not in a
parental way, not in a passionate way, not in any kind of way. It occurred to him then that he never
would. He gave his amygdala a slight
nudge in the other direction.
He almost didn’t hear Hilltop say,
“Alright.” She touch-triggered the
desk’s surface and began scrolling through files. Within a minute, she had called up a record
and rotated the display so he could read it.
Rose quickly memorized the
information. It would have to do; he
certainly wasn’t going to go steal a cow for Corbin.
He kissed Hilltop’s surprised, soggy face,
slung his bag over his shoulder and left her office. Whatever small flush of victory he felt died
as he entered the clinic’s packed lobby.
Sick kids covered in splotches slumped feverishly against pale
parents. With the emoter still running
in his bag, Rose almost fell when a wave of dizziness crashed into him even as
his forehead burned in an instant fever.
Worse still, everyone else in the room started to reel, imaginary
symptoms compounding real ones. Rose
tore open the bag’s zipper, fumbled around inside and deactivated the device as
he lurched towards the exit.
But the feeling that their illness was
somehow inside him never left.
#
The Graveyard began its strange existence
as Porky Town’s first spaceport and gradually became where old hulks were left
to rust after being gutted and cleaned out.
But a few years after it got its morbid name, the mood of the place
began to change. The squatters who
claimed the ships as their own were ignored by the rest of the city until it
became apparent that a real community was forming there. City Hall’s halfhearted attempt to oust them
only made them popular and it soon became a playground for defiant misfits,
activists and sculptors of the communal form.
These days, the old hulls gleam in a sea of
smart-tarp shantytowns swirling with information and art; nowhere else in Porky
Town do people feel as alive as they do in the Graveyard.
Rose stood at its outskirts, at the entrance
of a maze of tarp hung from improvised frames and fastened together with
fiber-optic clips. He touched the
nearest sheet and a keyboard display presented itself. He typed his last name and a bright orange
butterfly icon appeared and began to flit across the surface of one sheet to
the next. He followed it through the
maze.
At one point, a man wearing a
plastic-muscle suit leapt out from around a corner in a clumsy mugging
attempt. Swiftly breaking the man’s arm
was the only acknowledgement Rose gave him.
He was oblivious to the torrent of images and words rushing to their
destinations on either side of him. His
mind churned and he followed the butterfly.
It led him to an exit that opened on a
large clearing populated by foam cement effigies of famous figures about
town. Corbin was waiting at the center,
sitting on the cryobed, picking at the layer of yellow crud that encased his
teeth.
He jumped up and scowled when he saw
Rose. “You’re early, man! I said seven exactly. And where’s Cece?”
Rose cocked his head and considered this
odd reception. “I didn’t bring her. She donated the fetus to the Cattle
Drive. I do, however, have the herd’s
location and the serial number branded right in the cow’s hide. That’s as good as it gets.”
Corbin mulled this over for several
gas-embroidered moments, then scanned the sky nervously. It was a quiet night on the neighboring
landing field. “I need some time to
think about it.”
Tension began to creep into Rose’s back and
shoulders. He sincerely didn’t want to have
to kill this man. “What’s there to think
about? You give me the bed and I give
you the location.”
Corbin held up a finger. “Hang on, I’m getting a call.” He slipped a private receiver into his ear
and turned his back on Rose, belching hello to his caller.
Rose tapped on his sleeve, bringing up the
keypad display. He typed Corbin’s
number. It rang in, unimpeded. Corbin jumped a little in surprise and spun
to find himself at gunpoint.
Rose’s smile was a bit more visible than
usual and far more chilling. “Your ex
wanted me to return this to you. Now
why, oh why, would you fake a call like that?”
“Look-”
“If I think you’re lying, I’ll just kill
you and take the bed. You set up another
trade, didn’t you? You put your ear to
the street and came up with someone else who wanted the old man.”
“I found out who he was,” Corbin gasped
between nervous croaks, “and contacted his people. They said you work for them anyway. I just decided to get some cash from them
while you got my girl.”
“And I’m sure you would’ve used it for baby
clothes but-” Rose caught the flicker in
Corbin’s eyes and turned to see Brechs’s counselor and two chillingly
nondescript men exit the maze.
Corbin drew on him while he was
distracted. Except he wasn’t really
distracted and Corbin’s gun made a tiny, fatal whispering noise against the
fabric of his pocket as he pulled it out; if he had been farting or burping
right then, even Rose would’ve missed it, but the moment aligned with a rare
oasis of silence for the unluckiest man on Roanoke.
Rose shot him twice in the chest. The bullets, designed to penetrate the
carbon-weave armor of peace officers, punched two small holes through Corbin’s
front and two huge holes out his back.
Corbin dropped to his knees, a foul flute duet playing from both ends of
him, and crumpled to the ground, dead.
Rose sighed and fired over the heads of the
counselor and her cronies, sending them fleeing back into the maze. He listened to the distant, wailing siren of
the bullet sensors and wondered idly when he had made this decision or even if
he had. Perhaps the devices in his brain
had driven him mad; that might make for a good defense.
Peering through the cryobed’s window, he
spotted a canister under Brechs’s gnarled feet.
That would be it.
“My apologies, but I don’t see your
counselor giving me the combination to this thing any time soon,” he told
Brechs while fiddling pointlessly with the bed’s keypad. He took a step back and aimed the gun at the
cover. “If it’s any consolation, we both
get to bring a dangerous criminal to justice today.”
This was followed by the sound of
shattering glass and the dull thud of bullets hitting frozen flesh. By the time Rose had fished the canister out
of the bed, a police aircraft was already making its way across the city
skyline. It turned sharply and was soon
bearing down on him.
He brushed bits of broken glass from his
sleeve and waited.