From Thumbnail Biographies
Pelter became aware of them almost instantly, and couldn’t help but wonder what they hoped to achieve. Did they think they might be able to rob him, with Mr. Crane walking just behind him? He stepped from the pavement and over a deep storm gully onto the compacted and fused stone of what was once a road for hydrocars. Crane followed, maintaining the two-pace distance he had kept to since their arrival here. On the other side of the road Pelter caught the reflection of the two in a darkened shop window. They hesitated, then hurried after him. Pelter smiled nastily, then moved on to the next window. This one was well lit and he surveyed what was on display inside. It amused him to have stopped directly in front of the display window of an arms dealer. He inspected the various projectile weapons and hand lasers. Nothing here for him. He needed something with a little more punch. He glanced aside.
The two men had stopped further back down the pavement. They made no attempt to appear nonchalant, but both stood and watched him. He turned towards them and folded his arms. Both looked boosted, had shaven heads, and wore clothing that was similar in its utility: close-fitting green shipsuits with plenty of pockets and subtly—but not wholly concealed—armour pads. They also carried pulse-guns in stomach holsters and large knives sheathed in their boots. Even though they looked tough, Mr. Crane could flatten them in a second. With a kind of bitter relish, Pelter hoped they’d be stupid enough to try something.
‘Well?’ he shouted, at last getting fed up of waiting.
The two men eyed each other, then advanced. Pelter gave Mr. Crane his instructions, and accepted the briefcase the android handed back to him. It was not so much that Crane needed to be instructed on what to do, rather, on what he must not do. Pelter waited. Neither man made a move for his weapon, not that it would have achieved much. They were only a few paces away from Crane, before they slowed up and started looking hesitant.
‘Arian Pelter?’ said the one on the left.
He had time to say no more, because Crane took two huge paces forwards, moving so fast that his clothing snapped. He had both his fists clenched in the fronts of their shipsuits before they could do more than gawp at him. Then he lifted them clear of the ground, turned, and slammed them against the toughened-glass window.
‘Before Mr. Crane kills you, I’d be interested to discover how you know my name.’
‘The boss . . . the boss,’ the first speaker gasped.
‘How do you know my name?’ Pelter repeated, his voice and his expression flat.
The other one spoke quickly. ‘Come with us to see him,’ he croaked. He had his own hands around Mr. Crane’s one hand, and was staring down into the android’s black eyes.
‘Why should I do that?’ Pelter asked.
‘Because you and he have a mutual interest in a place called Samarkand.’
Pelter stared at the man for a long moment. Then he reached up and touched his aug, and Mr. Crane lowered the two of them to the ground. Almost reluctantly he released them and stepped back. Pelter handed him back the briefcase, then continued to watch while the men straightened out their clothing. They waited for a cue from him, but he gave them nothing but silence.
‘This way . . . then,’ said the first speaker hesitantly. He carefully moved out of Mr. Crane’s range and led off.
* * *
The man was fat, almost ball-shaped, and Pelter could not understand why. Surely there was no interruption to food supplies here, therefore no need to store it up internally? That sort of thing was only required on very primitive worlds. The fat man did not have one of those reptilian augs behind his ear—like the two cases who had brought Pelter here—but he did have a somewhat reptilian appearance. His shiny skin was broken into small diamond patterns, almost scalelike. Pelter studied the man for a long moment, then glanced back at the other two. They had moved away to stand on either side of the armoured door. Pelter was not concerned by this. Mr. Crane, standing just a few paces in from the door, would be more than adequate should things turn nasty.
‘Arian Pelter?’ said the fat man.
‘I am—and I am curious to know how you know that,’ said Pelter.
‘Please have a seat.’ The man gestured to the chair placed before his desk.
Pelter moved forward and sat down. Mr. Crane moved up to stand behind him. Pelter had the android turn round to watch the two by the door.
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he said.
‘I am here to help you.’
‘And who might you be?’ Pelter asked.
‘You may call me Grendel,’ said the fat man, giving a little smile as if at some private joke.
‘Well, Grendel, I have things I need to do. Your men told me we have some mutual interest. The only reason I’m here is because they mentioned a place called Samarkand.’
‘Yes, I do have an interest in Samarkand. But let us be clear what this conversation concerns.’ Grendel paused, as if listening to something, and then he went on. ‘My client and yourself both have a special interest that is pertinent to that place. That interest is one Ian Cormac.’
Pelter looked down at his suddenly clenched fists. After a moment he opened his hands and looked up. The thin-gun hovered at the edge of his vision again.
‘Talk, and talk fast.’ He spoke through clenched teeth. Behind him Mr. Crane moved his head in that characteristic birdlike manner as he turned his head from one to the other of the two men by the door.
‘First, I feel I should assure you that you need look no further than these premises for your requirements. I have all those things that the Polity frowns upon.’
‘I won’t ask again,’ said Pelter.
‘As you will . . . You want to kill Ian Cormac. I can help you kill him.’
Something frigid rested a hand on the back of Pelter’s neck. ‘Go on.’
‘My client will assist you. Through me he will provide weapons which you will, I am afraid, pay for, but then you expected that. There are, though, other ways in which he can assist you. You have the determination and the ability to deal with Ian Cormac. What you lack is a suitable source of information.’
‘I can get information,’ said Pelter tightly.
‘You can?’ wondered Grendel. ‘Information like . . . that at this moment Ian Cormac is in a small carrier-wing overflying Samarkand? That he has with him Sparkind soldiers?’
Pelter was silent for a moment. Mr. Crane froze into stillness. ‘That . . . kind of information would have to come from the AI net,’ he said. ‘The only people who could obtain it would have to be gridlinked. Are you gridlinked? Because if you are, then it means you are ECS, and very shortly to die.’
Grendel smiled. ‘No gridlinks as you see them. Perhaps you have noted these?’
Grendel opened his compartment and took something out. He placed it lovingly on the surface of his desk. It was one of the strangely reptilian augs like those Svent and Dusache wore. It seemed alive to Pelter.
‘This explains nothing,’ he said.
‘You haven’t asked me who my client is,’ said Grendel.
‘Who is your client, then?’
Grendel told him.
* * *
The Sharrow provided just about any entertainment you cared to pay for under one golden and baroque roof. There were restaurant platforms raised above the more rowdy drinking area. This lower floor was scattered with ring-shaped bars, so the clientele were never far from their next drink. Caves led off from here towards gaming rooms, bordellos and places that provided more esoteric entertainments. Suspended on chains below the flat ceiling was The Sharrow’s milder version of the arena. In a cylindrical armour-glass tank, hideous crustaceans the size of men hammered at each other in an unending battle. Each time one was ripped apart, it dropped to the bottom of the tank, where smaller crustaceans reassembled it. It would be a matter of dispute as to whether or not these qualified as living creatures. They were a product of that very thick and very blurred line between biotechnology and w
hat Svent would describe simply as ‘tech’.
For a moment Stanton watched the creatures battling, then he turned his attention to the various people scattered at the tables about the place, who were operating the same creatures through virtual gloves and face cups. Just then, one of them removed his face cup and punched his fist into the air. The others at his table began grudgingly handing over his winnings. Stanton switched his attention away once he spotted a small, elfin woman with long, straight, black hair, a very tight acceleration suit, and spring heels, swaying her way to one of the spiral staircases. He let her move from sight before he crossed the chaotic room and followed her up.
The staircase led Stanton to the accommodation floor of The Sharrow. Here he entered a corridor that was a tightly curving pipe lined with old ceramic shuttle tiles. The outer edge of its curve had oval repro airlock doors inset at intervals. This corridor, he knew, spiralled out to the edge of the circular building he was in. He kept going until he reached a certain door, thumped his fist against it and stared at the small optic chip set in its surface. After a moment the door swung open.
The room was a very curious shape, having the outer curves of two corridors for its walls. The ceiling was low, and Stanton reflected that this would definitely not be a place for Mr. Crane. He looked around him. To his right was a large round bed, and to his left a large combination of shower stall and circular bath contained inside a perspex egg. Between stood a round table made of polished white stone, behind which were two repro acceleration chairs.
In one of these chairs sat the woman he had followed. She had already removed her acceleration suit and had belted about her a short silk robe. She was very pretty, but the pulse-gun she was pointing at Stanton was not.
‘As I live and breathe: Arian Pelter’s big faithful dog,’ she said. ‘Did he let you off your lead, then? Or have you been a very naughty doggy and just run away?’ She stood up and sauntered over, then stood in front of him with the pulse-gun resting against her breast.
‘He wants you for the trip back out,’ Stanton said.
‘Oh really? What if I don’t want to go?’ she said.
Stanton stepped forward, took the gun from her hand and tossed it on a thick rug nearby. ‘We’ve got two hours,’ he said, and then reached down and violently tugged open the belt of her robe.
‘You brute you,’ she said, and ran her hands down over her breasts, her stomach and pressed them into her pubis.
Stanton reached up and slid his finger into the seal on his shirt. He slid his finger down, undoing it, then pulled the catch on his trousers.
‘Jarvellis, just get on the bed,’ he said.
The Lyric’s captain shrugged her robe off her shoulders, then walked back and sat on the stone table, a cheeky smile on her face as she watched Stanton undress.
‘I rather thought we could start in the bath, then work our way gradually to the bed,’ she said.
‘You’re going to regret not turning that heating on,’ said Stanton.
‘Ooh, are you going to treat me roughly, big boy?’
Stanton chased her screaming towards the circular bath.
* * *
Pelter held the aug in the palm of his hand and inspected it. It could be the edge he needed, but how much trust did he have? None at all. On the back of the aug were three bone-anchors not much different from those on any other aug. The fibre-injector ring was no different either. Like standard augs it would connect through into his cerebellum, to the back of his optic nerve, and in behind his ear. He was not entirely sure of all the connections that augs made. What he was sure of was that the fibres were delicate and could be easily broken, and that this aug was soft as a mouse and could be crushed just as easily.
Pelter made his decision. Some might have thought it the height of idiocy, but he knew that it was by taking such risks that in the end he would win. While he studied the device he quickly constructed a program between Sylac’s aug and Crane’s command module. It took only seconds. He looked across at Grendel.
‘I will not be controlled,’ he said.
‘We did not think that you would, Arian Pelter. This aug is, as I stated, for you to receive the information Dragon wishes you to have,’ he said. ‘Take it away and have it studied, if you wish. I would not want you to go into this blind.’
Pelter nodded. That meant that whatever was concealed in this aug was concealed very well. But there had to be something. He brought the thing up to the side of his head and slapped it into place. For a moment nothing happened, then he gasped as the bone-anchors went in unanaesthetized. He kept his hand in place and suddenly the thing felt warm, febrile. He felt Mr. Crane’s brass hand lifting to mirror the position of his own, and images of the android’s foolish toys flashed through his mind. Grendel stood behind his desk, worry in his expression. The two by the door, Pelter saw through Mr. Crane, had their hands poised over their weapons. Coldness suffused the side of Pelter’s head. He did not feel the links going in. The nanonic fibres would be passing through cells and through bone, like stiff hairs through foam. He did feel the connections they made.
For a moment there was a doubling of function with the aug he had from Sylac, then that first aug switched off. He got control again, closed his eyes and linked through to Mr. Crane and had him lower his hand. Control and access was slick. He froze Crane into complete immobility and accessed a local server. Fast, very fast. He found a search program in the aug, and sent it after any references to himself. There were none at the server, but information came through. He knew now that a network of people wearing these augs had been waiting for him. They had known as soon as Dusache and Svent had bought their tegulate augs and placed them on the sides of their heads. The information had been passed on, whether willingly or not. Pelter opened his eyes and stared at Grendel.
‘I repeat: I will not be controlled,’ he said.
‘I assure you again, Arian Pelter. Your and my client’s purposes are one and the same.’
Pelter closed his eyes again. He reached in, closed down the second aug and reinstated Sylac’s. It was like switching from colour to black and white. Knowing he now could do this, he sent an instruction to stand down the program he had sent to Mr. Crane. In another thirty seconds the android would have killed the two at the door, next killed Grendel, then torn this soft aug from the side of Pelter’s head. He opened his eyes to see Grendel settling his ponderous bulk behind his desk again.
‘Now, to business,’ said the fat man, smiling his jowly smile. ‘What exactly do you require in the hardware department?’
Pelter said nothing for a moment. He watched through Mr. Crane as the two men at the door moved their hands away from their weapons. When they had done this, he spoke very precisely. He reached up and rested his finger on his aug.
‘I have an extensive list,’ he said. ‘Amongst other items, I require seeker bullets and Drescon assault rifles. I require seeker missiles, laser carbines, explosives, and the various delivery systems of said. I also require surveillance drones, proton guns and a dropbird.’
‘Obviously you understand the difficulties entailed in acquiring the last three. Luckily I do have two proton guns and some surveillance drones. The dropbird may present some difficulties, but not difficulties that cannot be overcome. Let me have your list.’
Pelter called up the list he had been steadily building since his arrival on Huma, and transmitted it on a secure link to Grendel. The fat man showed momentary surprise, but then smiled.
‘You like to be prepared,’ he said.
Pelter did not bother replying to that. Grendel rubbed his hands together and leant forwards.
‘Now to the details and, of course, the price.’
Pelter sat back and stared past the fat man. In his new aug he felt something poised in the background. It was there behind the frames and graphics. It was there when all of that was gone. He knew that, at some point, he would hear a voice. He did not yet know how he would respond to it. He squinted, conce
ntrated, and raised Sylac’s aug, while running the other. It was a balancing act, but one he considered necessary. He would not be controlled. He again focused his attention on Grendel.
‘Price,’ he said flatly.
* * *
Jarvellis lay with a smug cat-after-cream expression on her face. Stanton inspected the various scratches on his body and wondered just from where she got the energy. She wasn’t boosted like him, but she certainly tended to wear him out. He studied her and wondered just how much he could trust her. She returned his regard, then reached under the pillow to her left. He read, for a second, a craftiness in her expression, and abruptly rolled across her and clamped his hand down on her left wrist.
‘John, where is your trust in people?’ she asked him.
‘I lost it when my mother turned my father in to the proctors, and when they dragged him from our apartment in the arcology and shot him through the face,’ he said.
Jarvellis lost her mocking expression. ‘I keep forgetting. You came from Masada, didn’t you?’
‘I did. Religious law and the theocracy ruling from orbital stations. Nobody trusted anyone and the heresy laws were exactly what the proctors wanted them to be at any time.’
‘John, you can trust me.’
Stanton looked at her for a long moment. It frightened him just how much he wanted to trust her. He released her wrist and slid his weight off her. He did not move too far back, and every muscle of his body was taut as a guitar string. Trust; it was hard for him. With care she slid her hand out from under the pillow. She held out to him a long and flat box made of rosewood.