Hardwired (30 page)

“I’m Gorman,” he says, and opens the helicopter’s door.

*

“Infiltration,” says Roon. “Interpenetration of attacker and target. The coiling of subtlety into subtlety. It has become the metaphor of our age. Action is crude, foolish. A waste of energy.”

He sighs, holding his crystal goblet to the air. Cowboy sees the holographic stars in its beveled edges. “Couceiro and his Acceleration Group people have no understanding of this, no subtlety. They treat everything as if it were war. War is what they understand. Their attacks are direct, savage, aimed always at the obvious target. Never realizing that if the ground is properly prepared, no direct strike will ever be necessary. Only the Acceleration Group would try to fight on two fronts at once, against Korolev and the thirdmen at the same time. The war on the thirdmen had been in preparation for some time, and the plans wouldn’t have been damaged by a delay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Like viral Huntington’s,” he says. “Diseases that operate by crude assault are too easily dealt with–– to survive these days, a disease has to be subtle. Infiltrate the target years before the assault, lie dormant in brain and nerve tissue. Then turn contagious, spreading its offspring to people who have no warning, before coming alive at once, a nest of viral saboteurs, to bring the target down. The disease was in the population for years before we were even aware of it. Spread by the aftereffects of the war. Millions have been exposed who don’t know it.” He laughs.

“We could only cure it by being more subtle than the disease. By creating a tailor-made virus, a tiny infiltrator that can mimic the Huntington’s virus. That uses the Huntington’s numbers against itself. That can approach the target, then inject the enemy with a lab-born DNA strand that will ligate with their own and mutate it. Turn it from black to white, from a Huntington’s virus to one of our own. So that the infected cell becomes a new infiltrator, changes its allegiance to the side of life.” He smiles in satisfaction. His eyes turn to Cowboy.

“I like your plan for its subtlety, Cowboy,” Roon says. “I like the idea of using this viral cure as a way of bringing down Couceiro. Turning his biggest triumph against him.” He caresses the back of his cupbearer absently, not turning his eyes toward her. “I will put your plan into my crystal,” he says. “Match your logic against the logic of data.” He smiles with brown teeth. “Then we shall see whether your architecture is worthy of the sky.”

*

Gorman pilots manually, not facing in even through a headset. He wrestles with the chopper as if it were an alligator. Cowboy winces at his clumsiness.

From the air Roon’s place is as much sculpture as dwelling, a twisted hyperboloid driven into the soil, the surfaces–– silver lattice supporting black glass–– stretching toward an impossible singularity. It’s built of patterned Orbital alloy in reckless Gaussian curves that seem only conceivable outside of gravity; no terrestrial metal could possibly support the design. The grounds are bare of life, dark metal threaded with silver, as if the building had spread itself thinly across the earth surrounding it. Cowboy thinks of the four-dimensional model of Tempel built by Thibodaux, its own complex geometries and interrelationships. Brought to Earth, here, an analog of Orbital power.

Gorman wrenches the helicopter to a landing, fighting a gusting wind. As the blades whimper to a standstill he looks over his shoulder and reaches in his pocket for another caffeine stick. “Mr. Roon will tell you his house is a metaphor,” he says. “Agree with him.”

Cowboy shrugs. “Okay. If it’s important.”

Gorman’s unobtrusive artificial eyes look into Cowboy’s. “Dirt walks carefully here. That was a nice trick you pulled on Hideo, but don’t even think of something like that around Roon.” Heunbuckles his safety harness and opens the door, blowing mint-scented smoke. “If he doesn’t like you,” Gorman says, “he’ll probably have me kill you. And since I don’t get paid extra for things like that, I’d really rather not.”

Cowboy looks at Gorman curiously. “Would you do it quietly in the basement, or would Roon want to watch?”

Gorman considers. “Depends on what lesson he was trying to give. He’s big on lessons.”

Cowboy and Sarah step out of the chopper. Cowboy finds the metal yard cool under his bootsoles, even in the afternoon sun. There must be some kind of heat absorption underneath. He’s surprised to see a pair of children, nine or ten years old, walking quickly to the helicopter across the metal yard. They’re dressed alike in dark pants and crisp white shirts, their hair cut short. They have to get close within a few feet before Cowboy can tell the boy from the girl. Another wave of surprise rises through Cowboy at the sight of sockets in their heads.

“You’re Roon’s people, right?” Sarah is asking Gorman. “Not company security?”

“Company security’s run by Couceiro. You know who he is, right? Roon doesn’t want those people around.”

“Glad to hear it,” Cowboy says. The boy and girl walk up to the helicopter, open the cargo door, take out their bags. Begin their silent return to the house.

Gorman closes the chopper door behind them. “Follow the boy and girl,” he says. “And give thanks to God you were born before the war.”

“It’s never occurred to me that I should be thankful for that,” Cowboy says. He watches the bright white backs of the children recede across the silver-threaded metal, then another thought strikes him. He turns to Gorman. “Do you pray a lot, then, Gorman?”

The mercenary gives a low, angry laugh. “Here? Just every goddamn day.”

*

Cowboy’s window looks east. He stands gazing out at the pale predawn, and above the shadowed mountain peaks can see a diamond scratching a line across the glass sphere of sky. The exhaust trail of a rocket rising from La Gran Sabana, turning in the cold thin air to crystals that refract the sunlight, climbing toward the last dim stars and the high constellation of Orbital worlds. He can feel things out of place here, shifting under his feet.

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s going on here. The children, the way he talks. This place.”

They’ve cleared his room of the mics Roon had planted. Jammed any they’d missed with the electronics Flash Force had provided. This is as safe a place for conversation as Roon’s place will ever be.

“You really don’t know what’s going on?” Sarah untangles her long limbs from the bed sheets. “You don’t know what he’s doing?” She comes up behind him, puts her arms around his shoulders. He can feel her cheek resting on his shoulder. Thinks of the thing in her throat. Watches the rainbow contrail, feels the longing rise in his heart…

“He’s fucking them, Cowboy,” Sarah says, and he can feel his mind fill with ice. Her voice is soft, gentle, all the streetgirl hardness gone. “He’s fucking all those little boys and girls. And he’s studding himself into their brains so they can’t get away from him, not even into their own heads. That’s what his religion is about. That’s this new arrangement he wants to make with the children of Earth.”

The knowledge rises like bile in Cowboy’s gorge. He takes a breath, swallows. The sockets in his head burn at the thought of an alien mind riding him.

He shakes his head. His voice quavers. “I’m not dealing with him.”

“You can’t help them.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to help him.”

He feels her step back. He braces for her whipcrack voice, but her tones are still low.

“He and Couceiro and those other people...they killed millions. They killed almost all my family and they put scars on me and on my brother. If I could, I’d shoot Roon and Couceiro and Grechko and the others in the guts with soft-nosed bullets and toss them onto anthills to die. But I can’t do that.”

“I won’t...” He shakes his head again, the words fading away completely.

“There’s only one difference between Couceiro and Roon, so far as I can see. Couceiro wants to kill us. Roon will let us live.” He feels Sarah’s hands on his shoulders again, heavy as iron, heavy as the Earth.

“That’s not it,” he says. “I want to stay...clean.”

“Lucky Cowboy.” For the first time the edge of sarcasm is in her voice. Her voice drifts lazily to his ears. “Lucky Cowboy and his clean hands. By chance you had a talent somebody wanted, and now you’re able to afford principles. Good for you.”

The weight comes off Cowboy’s shoulders and he can hear her pacing behind him. Her words come in little bursts, run together like gunfire, obeying some internal sense of rhythm. “There are better ways to live than fucking old men, but there are some that are a lot worse. Let me tell you...” She steps up behind him, so close that he can feel her breath on his neck. He tries to control a tremor.

“My brother is a whore and a junkie. He had some surgery and took a lot of hormone suppressants to look young, because that’s how his customers like them. The hormone blockers mean the couldn’t respond very well, but even that appeals to a certain kind of taste. But there are other kinds of tastes on the streets...let’s call one of them a taste for reality.” The words come slowly, unstoppably, each with its own impact. Slow bullets. Cowboy wants to shudder with each one.

“Whores offer fantasy. They get good at figuring out what their customers want, and how well they latch onto those fantasies has a lot to do with how well they get paid. It’s fake, but most of the customers don’t notice, or care. These other people, the ones who want reality–– they care. They want things to be real. Real sex, real orgasms. Real love, even. And when they don’t get it, they get mad. They want what happens between them and their boy to be real. Even if they have to torture him to death to get a real reaction. People like that are called thatch.”

“I’ve heard the word.”

“Yeah. You just don’t know what it means.” He can feel her stepping back. “Some people are thatch, and that’s bad. Some people get killed or hurt by a thatch, and that’s bad. You know what’s worse?” She waits for him to answer. The silence beats at Cowboy’s ears. “What’s worse,” Sarah says, “is that a thatch has no end of victims. Because there are people who are so desperate, or so tired, that they don’t care anymore. They don’t take any kind of precautions, because it’s just too much trouble to hang onto a life that’s become a pointless, endless misery. Some even go with a thatch, half hoping they’ll die, when doing what’s necessary to stay alive is just too much trouble, because life’s just become a pain that won’t stop.”

There is another heartbeat of silence.

“That’s my brother,” Sarah says. “That’s Daud.”

Cowboy stares out the glass, seeing the long rainbow fingernail-scratch of the rocket fading, vanishing in the high winds. He finds his voice. “So,” he says, “Lupe and what’s his name, Raul, they’re in good shape, huh?”

“No. They’re victims. Roon is evil. I’m just saying my brother would trade places with either one of them in a minute. And once upon a time, I would have done the same.”

The last of the contrail vanishes. Cowboy takes a deep breath and turns to face Sarah. She stands deep in his shadow, her hands cocked on her hips. Watching him with cold eyes.

“I want to kill him,” he says. “Kill Roon. I’ve never wanted anything more.” He’s surprised at it. Even Arkady had never seemed worth the trouble of hating–– just a Russian thirdman who was foolish enough to stand between Cowboy and his legend. But Roon is something else, a shadowy foul-breathed evil hovering in his silver-laced Gaussian nightmare... A creature worth the killing.

Sarah tosses her hair. “So kill him. I won’t stop you. Two months from now.”

“After he’s out of the well, where I can’t reach him.”

“Kill Couceiro first. He’s the one that’s trying to kill
you
.”

Cowboy moves through the connecting door to Sarah’s room, to the white plastic bar that stands outlined with holograms of old neon tropical images, green palm trees, blue water, girls in oscillating grass skirts. He reaches for a bottle and feels the cool glass against his fingers, sees the holo images glowing through the crystal, distorted, nightmarish. He drops the bottle, tastes sweat on his lip. He realizes that he’s shifted into a hardwired state, that impulses are screaming through his Santistevan nerves, the dark room seeming to bend in toward him as the rushing adrenaline distorts his vision…

He closes his eyes and looks up. Sees behind his lids the twists and turns of the wire and crystal world, the victors drifting out of the well, building their architecture of power, contemplating the earth with artificial raptor eyes. Earth’s billions in their ratholes, scrabbling for their diminishing portions while the air grows hotter, the grip of the blocs stronger, the pressure of numbers greater. In the black night alleys of the war of all against all, Sarah’s cybersnake is only logical, a piece of cyborg cunning that can kill only those trusting enough to come close. They’re the only ones she can reach. The others fly too high, out of her sight. That she is desperate enough to have such a thing marks her as a victim before it marks her as anything else.

An alliance with Roon? Easily done. A few children will lose their childhood, and who’s to say they wouldn’t have lost it anyway, here or in the streets? At least they’re being fed well. For dirt.

He opens his eyes, seeing the cold and brilliant hologram of the night sky that covers all the ceilings here, the burning stars and the stationary platinum beacons of the geosynchronous robot factories. “
You’ve lost your choices long ago
,” the constellation whispers, “
and whatever moves you make are the ones we let you. And Cowboy– we do not permit innocence as an option. That is the first thing you give us
.”

Cowboy is aware of Sarah standing in the doorway, her body in shadow, her eyes concerned but still demanding a choice. Whatever innocence she once possessed had gone long ago, cut away by the razors of the streets. The cybersnake is less a horror now, more a pathetic attempt at defense, at making a place for herself in the dark new order.

He tries to tote up the debts he owes, to Sarah and the Dodger and Warren, to a couple of kids huddled in a single sleeping bag in some decaying barn in Missouri. To the children here in Roon’s palace. To his own burning dreams.