Hammered (7 page)

He’s checking out my sidearm. I keep my hands well away from it, shoving them deeper into my pockets.
There’s no danger here.
I even half-believe it. “I heard there’s some new shit. Army shit, make you ten feet tall. You got that?”

“Ah, nah, babe. One batch came through, and some of the shit was bad. I got some tailored uppers though, good stuff.”

“Maybe. You maybe know somebody who has some of the army shit left? Or knows where it came from?”

He steps back. “Nobody. Nobody got any. Anybody got any not gonna sell it. Burned it if they’re smart. There’s some cop with a hard-on for anyone dealing it, I guess some other cop he was screwing got her head blown off.” A raucous laugh. “Teach her to fuck around in the North End. And word is the Razor says he’ll fry the balls of anybody he catches selling that shit. I know what’s good for me.”

He’s sidelit for a minute, gaunt pox-scarred cheeks and eyes like buttered rum, hair black as the moonlit river sleeked away from his forehead. Something must have showed in my face in the glow of headlights sweeping past, or maybe he knows who I am once he can see me, because he purses his lips and nods once, then turns away. He crosses the street by the waterless fountain with its statues supposed to represent the native peoples of the Northeast. Which include the Lakota, apparently, but then Europeans always have had trouble telling us apart.

I try to hook him back—“Ah. Sorry, man. Look, about the other stuff …”—and he just shakes his head and stalks away.

Made.
Damn, and I’m not even a cop. I don’t know how I’m supposed to trace this shit back to a source when even a street-corner drug dealer won’t talk to me.

Goddamn.

And then the creak of leather and I turn as Razorface himself stops about ten feet away, waiting for me to notice him. He knows. He’s seen it happen. “Face.”

“Maker. Walk and talk with me.” He’s got seven or ten of his ducklings tonight, my targeting scope picking out weapons on every belt and up every sleeve. That’s four or five more than he usually travels with, and Emery, his right-hand man, is with them—all scarred nose and bulging eyes, pinched and wary as a hungry dog. On the far side, I recognize Whiny—Derek—and a gangster named Rasheed, whose momma raised him right.

I wonder if trouble’s afoot. Last time anybody got on Face’s bad side, 20-Love and Hammerhead blood got spread from here to East Hartford. I pull my hands out of my pockets, letting moonlight glitter on the scratched steel of the left one. “Bringing your friends?”

He shakes them off without looking at them and comes
forward. I sense the little knot of dealers melting away behind me, jackals when the lion comes back to the kill. Emery moves toward them, hand in his jacket, just to be sure.

Razorface ducks down a little, speaking into my ear. “Whatcha doing out here at night, talking to trash?”

“Talking to trash,” I answer. I turn to walk alongside him, down to the bowl of a filthy little mud-choked lake. There’s an underground river in Hartford, the Park River. They buried it, back in the last century, after it flooded one time too many. Now it breaks the surface in a few places, and mostly runs through concrete channels underground.

Some places, you can still see phantom bridges, high arches the water doesn’t run under anymore. There’s one a few hundred yards west, in fact, ending the long sweep of lawn up to the wedding-cake-baroque Capitol Building. People sleep under it.

“He offer to sell you anything?”

“Nah.” I kick a rock out of the way. “Said you’d eat his balls with ketchup if he tried.”

“Good.” Moonlight shatters off steel teeth, gleams darkly on the oiled smoothness of his scalp. “Gonna answer my question, Maker?”

“Favor for a friend. No harm, no foul.”

He grunts and gives me an odd, hard kind of look. “Anything you wanna tell me?”

I shake my head. “I’m cool. I don’t think he wants his business spread around, is all.”

“All right, Maker. You mind that’s all it is, though. Things about to get ugly. I got maybe some little boys, think Razorface getting old and slow.”

“Funny that should happen just now, Face.”

“Yeah,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder roughly. It could be an endearment. It could be a warning.
It’s probably both—Face didn’t get where he is by trusting anybody. He turns away. “Funny thing.”

Razorface turned back, frowning over his shoulder, watching Maker’s skinny form slink northward through the darkness.
She probably parked at the train station.
He let a breath roll out through his frustration and shook his head slowly, rubbing his jaw. “Derek.”

“Razor. My man.”

Don’t you forget it, little boy. I know you think I getting old, but I ain’t so old I can’t take your ass.
Razorface peeled lips off a glinting smile and slid it up the kid and then over to Emery, who was strolling back down the hill, stride swinging. He gestured up the hill to the ornate white building at its crest, taking in the whole of the park, the hookers and the dealers and their clientele with a sweep of his hand. “You boys get this trash off my lawn.”

Valens watched excursion-suited Charlie Forster stop at the lip of the extensible, the xenobiologist’s right foot planted on its metal rim. Valens himself checked his glove and mask seals one final time, smiling when Forster snuck a glance over his shoulder. He knew the man was wondering if Valens was really in command of Scavella-Burrell Mars base, or if anybody but Unitek could really be said to be calling the shots.
Money talks.

Bare overhead luminescence stung his eyes. Valens
glanced around one last time, thinking how mundane the whole apparatus looked.
Like a big gray vacuum cleaner hose.
No different from a jetway, or the access tube leading into the Unitek-Brazil beanstalk from the bustling equatorial port. The Galapagos and Malaysian orbital elevators weren’t much different: a train station is a train station the world over, and beyond.

The differences lay before him. Beyond the improvised transparent atmosphere lock—just a foot or two ahead—he could make out the ragged outline of a hole torched in the hull of the alien vessel.

Valens took a breath of recycled air and stepped through the airtight film after Forster, broadside into a corridor like nothing he would expect a human engineer to design. Work lights on yellow cabling had been strung the length of the gangway, their steady light revealing curved, ribbed walls and floor mottled black and red like cocobolo wood. Charlie moved to one side to clear the lock, turning to watch Valens, who gestured him forward. “The bridge—what we think is the bridge—is on your left. Follow the lights.”

“What you
think
is the bridge?” Charlie stepped over a raised, gnarled ridge in the floor. Valens couldn’t tell if it was buckled plating or a design feature. “Haven’t the engineers looked the ship over yet?” The xenobiologist paused. “I’m walking on a
starship,”
he said, and Valens felt a slow thrill run from his rubber soles to the crown of his head.

Concealed behind his breathmask, Valens saw Forster’s shoulders go up in delight and grinned himself.
Like an idiot. And so what. This is
an alien starship. He wanted to yank his gloves off and run his hands over the waxed-looking surface of the walls. “They have, briefly,” he said instead. “Of course we left everything that looked like biology to you. We’ve identified what we think are the engines.
There’s some residual radiation; they’re set away from the ship on a shaft.”

Valens kept talking, giving Forster a few moments. The xenobiologist took advantage of the time to marvel at the low, knotty-looking ceilings. A seam or a spine of sorts ran down the center of the passageway, knobbed at regular lengths. “The front of the ship seems to have been largely destroyed, although the pilot’s skill must have been enviable. Both recovered craft were in very good shape, considering what you might expect a space vessel found planetside to look like.”

Forster nodded inside his heated suit, leaning closer to examine the smooth, mottled wall: polished as paneling, but without obvious joins. “I would swear this was organic.”

“It appears to be. Akin to cellulose, if you can believe it. I thought you would find that interesting, as a biologist.”

“Colonel. You’re telling me this is a
tree
?”

Valens laughed, working to make it seem charming and easy. “No, it’s a starship.”

“The other one was carbon, ceramics, and alloy, though. That tells me—two different civilizations. Or years of tech development. They lost one ship here and sent another looking? Which raises the unsettling question of what they ran into.”

“I’m not going to tell you that the hull wasn’t
grown
, Dr. Forster. It incorporates nanotube technology in addition to the organics, however. Carbon, like the space tethers.”

“Strong. And it’s held up for some thousands of years, based on areological analysis. Do we have any indication that there
was
a pilot, rather than this being the remains of some autonomous starfaring vegetable?”

“Other than it being laced with tunnels and chambers, and some things that might be furniture? There’s not a
damned thing that looks like an instrument panel, if that’s what you mean.”

“Hmmm.” Forster reached past the hanging lights in their yellow cages and ran his gloved fingers along the knobby ridge at the center of the double-arched ceiling. “Colonel.”

Valens licked his lips behind the faceplate. “Something?”

“These are handholds. Colonel, I’m going to go out on a big old limb with a hypothesis. This appears to be a ladder.”

“Why would you want a ladder on the ceiling?”
I bet I know the answer to that.

Charlie was reasonably fresh off the shuttle from Friendship Station. “For freefall, Colonel. Something to haul yourself about with.”

“Ah.” Valens tilted his head back, reaching up to push one of the work lights to the side. “Come on. Let’s go look at the thing that might be a bridge.”

It was a long walk. Valens didn’t see how the echoing space could have housed a command crew’s instruments without some sign of where they had been removed, and he was wary of jumping to conclusions, no matter how tempting. For one thing, presuming that the engines were aft, this large chamber wasn’t anywhere near the front of the ship—despite cracked and shattered crystal panels that had once hung against the walls. “Those look like view screens or interface panels. But I don’t see anything like controls.” He shook his head inside his helmet. “So how did they fly the damned thing?”

“And why aren’t there any bodies on this one, either?” Forster wandered in slow circles around the diameter of the room, footsteps stirring swirls in the rust-colored fines that blanketed the chamber. As large as the center ring of a circus, the “bridge” contained nothing except those panels and a number of raised concave structures that invited comparison to unpadded papasan chairs. Or perhaps bowls on
stilts. Here, there was metal—flexible coils like segmented snakes lay across the floor or dangled over the papasan chairs, tangles of hair-fine wires drooping from the tips.

Forster selected one and raised it in a gloved hand, holding it up to the light. “Interesting.”

Valens wandered over, leaning into Charlie’s light. “Some of the wires are sheared off. Broken,” he commented after a minute. “What’s that dark stain?”

“Given that—without oxygen, in the cold, without microbes—it could have lasted this long …” Forster laid the cable down on the papasan and reached into his kit for scrapers and sample envelopes. “Blood, Colonel Valens. I think it’s blood.”

“Did it bother you to be called a baby killer?”

I shrug and start unbuttoning my shirt. “No more than it might bother you, Simon. What the hell brought that on?”

My neurologist—who also happens to be a friend—shrugs and turns his back to give me a little privacy. He’s already taken my vitals. We’ve long since gotten past the first-names stage. Never mind the silliness with paper sheets and hospital johnnies.

The office is cold. I’ve spent an awful lot of my life perched on examining tables, and the percentage gets higher every year. I let my question hang on the air, but Simon doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns on the water and starts soaping his arms to the elbow.

I drape my shirt over a straight-backed green plastic chair
and unbuckle my holster before skinning my jeans off, too. The boots are already neatly side-by-side on the floor under the chair seat. I keep my undershirt and panties on. I got out of the habit of wearing a bra when my burns were still tender. Never really needed one anyway, except for running.

I change the subject. “Did you get those pills analyzed for me, Simon?”

He turns back as I put my good-side foot on the black rubber step and lift myself up on to the examining table. “I did,” he answers. “Where did you get that stuff, Jenny?”

Lifting my shoulders, I lie facedown on the sterile paper-covered table. “Street.”

His hands are very gentle as he pushes my shirt up over the long-faded ridges of scar running the length of my spine. Cool latex-wrapped fingers find the lumps of the nanoprocessors at the small of my back, the nape of the neck. “Some minor inflammation here, Jen. Any soreness?”

“It hurts less than physical therapy,” I answer.

He grunts. “What doesn’t? What have you been taking for it?”

“The usual. Booze, caffeine, aspirin.”

“You look like you’ve lost weight.”

I sigh and press my face into the padded headrest. Paper crinkles against my forehead and cheek. “I’m clean. Promise. Years now.”
Change the subject.
“Simon, you look tired.”

“I was up late. So how did you happen to get possession of a half-dozen tabs of rigathalonin?”