No Going Back (13 page)

“No, no,” I said, “we’re not quite done.”

“Excellent, sir. What else would you like?”

“Granddaddy used an exoskeleton to help him get around. If you’re going to do a thing, he would always say, do it right, so I want to get one, too. At the same time, if I’m going to buy one, I’d like to be able to use it later, so I was thinking one of the sporting models, something very strong, very fast, and very lightweight. That’s not what he wore, but it will be under my clothing, so it should work.”

“The very best exos,” the holo said, “should meet all your requirements and more, but they are, as you’re no doubt aware, quite a lot more expensive than the entry-level models.”

“As I said earlier, cost does not matter to me.”

The holo bowed slightly. “I apologize, sir. I mentioned it simply because we are now in an entirely different price range from the earlier items and services you are seeking.” The image leaned closer and lowered her voice again, her tone now conspiratorial. “You know how athletes are: The more serious they are, the more they’ll spend on their sports.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

I had to hope that by now the software had flagged me as not only wealthy but also eccentric, because the body armor had the potential to trigger some flags. Still, I needed it. “Granddaddy was also more than a bit paranoid,” I said. I forced a chuckle. “The things he would do. Anyway, he always wore a layer of full body armor. I figure I can impress everyone else by getting that detail right, so I need some high quality but lightweight body armor as well.” I thought about how hot I would be while wearing it and added, “Ideally something self-cooling; these parties tend to run long, and I do hate sweating.”

“Of course, sir. That should not be a problem. Is there anything else I could do for you, or should I now prepare your personalized guide?”

I was getting hungry, but with the profile I had built so far, any mention of food would cause this thing to send me to some expensive, high-end restaurant. I preferred to eat from street vendors who wouldn’t give me a second look, so I said, “No, that should do it.”

“If I might have your name, sir, so I could personalize your guide.”

“That won’t be necessary. As I mentioned, our family is rather private.”

“Very good, sir. Your wallet, please.”

I thumbed open a quarantined area in my wallet. I’d opted for the very best wallet I could afford, and Lobo had further enhanced its security, so I didn’t worry that this standard city software could break into any other part of it. Nor should it even be trying, but it cost me little extra effort to be safe.

“You are all set, sir,” the holo said. “I’ve provided you with five excellent options for the clothing, three for the aging make-up, three for the exoskeleton, and five more for the body armor. Is there anything else I could do for you? I exist to serve.”

Sixteen vendors to visit! My head hurt even thinking about doing that. I would be ready to kill someone by the time I fought my way through the crowds as I went from store to store to endless store.

“Yes,” I said, “there is. I am not a fan of shopping, nor do I like to wait. The clothing will obviously require tailoring.”

“Obviously,” the holo said. It nodded in agreement.

Companies clearly felt people liked their service agents to be this subservient and agreeable, but it was driving me crazy.

“So what I would appreciate is if you would highlight for me the single store in each category that has obtained the highest buyer ratings locally and that, in the case of the clothing, can most quickly do the tailoring. I’d also appreciate the most efficient route that ends at the clothing store.”

“In what way would you like the ratings to be highest? As I’m sure you’re aware, our clientele rate our vendors on a broad range of criteria.”

“Best product,” I said, “and fastest service. Just those.”

“Very good, sir. If you would please...”

I reopened access to the area in my wallet.

“Thank you, sir. Your wallet now contains all of the necessary information. I could also, if you prefer, supply paper or standalone versions at a small fee; many visitors to York find they make excellent souvenirs. Not to imply, sir, that you are necessarily a visitor; I am simply extending the offer.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m set.”

“Very good, sir. Is there anything else I could do for you? I exist to serve.”

“No.”

I left and walked toward the market. When I was a few meters away from the shops directly on its edge, I found a spot where I could lean on the wall of a wooden building whose signs and holo barker proclaimed it to be the best place on Haven for interactive hats. I brought out my wallet. I studied the route, which suggested I head first to a store to examine exoskeletons. That made sense, because then that purchase could carry my others.

I followed the wallet’s route into the market. The moment I hit the street where I’d been before, the crowds grew thicker. I hated the exposure of walking in places like this, because there was no way even Lobo could be sure everyone around me was safe. On my own, all I could do was try to avoid bumping into people and watch for suspicious looks or people who kept reappearing. I didn’t expect Kang could possibly have tracked us here, and certainly not so soon, but still, the place jarred me a bit.

I was also even hungrier than before. When the route took me by a few stands from which smells wafted over me, my stomach churned. I decided to stop and eat.

When I’d lived here, most of the market’s vendors sold food. Today, that had changed, and no one type of vendor dominated the area. You couldn’t walk far, however, without encountering a small clump of food sellers. The rear of the one nearest where I stood housed a huge grill, on which a man and a woman were roasting skewers of meat and vegetables. Another man on the left was assembling the skewers from thin, almost white wooden sticks and containers holding chunks of three different types of meat and half a dozen vegetables. Up front, two women handed over the skewers or pulled off their contents, wrapped them in a thick bread, added some sauce, and then passed those to customers.

I joined the line, third in place behind two singles and a trio. The singles, one man and one woman, knew what they wanted and moved quickly. The trio, a pair of men each of whom was holding one hand of a woman, stood and debated their selection. I hated that. When you stand in line at a busy stand and can see what’s on offer, use your waiting time to figure out your order.

The woman waiting on them glanced up, saw the expression on my face, and rolled her eyes at them.

I suppressed my laugh and smiled at her.

When the threesome had finally placed their orders and paid, I stepped forward.

“Don’t you hate it when...” the woman said as she titled her head toward the trio.

“I really do,” I said.

“Anyway, what can I do for you?” she said.

“Give me the deluxe combo,” I said, “and whatever fruit juice you think would go best with it. I trust your taste.” There’s always a deluxe combo at a street vendor, and it’s almost always a bit overpriced and too much food. Too much food sounded just about perfect to me right now. Fortunately, the nanomachines flush from my system any food I don’t need for calories, so I never gain fat.

The woman handed me a large cup containing a clear liquid and some ice. “I like this one,” she said. “Sweet but still acidic enough to cut the grease.”

I thumbed her my payment and took a sip of the juice. It was delicious, cold and sweet with a tart edge. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s great.”

She nodded and turned to the next person.

When my food was ready, I grabbed the plate—a bread roll of three meats and three veggies, a side of chunks of lightly fried veggies—and wandered until I found a large old tree between two stands selling scarves and other bits of fabric whose purposes eluded me but that seemed of great interest to many of the people walking by. The tree stood in a three-meter-wide circle of rich black dirt that had been packed by people walking and standing on it. I leaned against the tree, as others had so clearly done many, many times before me, and I wolfed down my food. It was everything you could hope for from street fare: hot and juicy and delicious and very, very filling. By the time I finished the last of my drink, I was stuffed.

A recycling bin ambled over from behind the stand on my right. “Your refuse, sir?” it said. A slot opened in its top.

I tossed in my plate and cup.

“Thank you, sir,” the bin said. “Enjoy your time in York.” It rolled back behind the stand.

York had certainly taken its market upscale. Few cities bothered to spend that kind of money on collecting bins; it was cheaper to let the sloppier customers drop their trash and have the cleaning bots pick it up after business hours.

I stared at the crowd and enjoyed for a few seconds longer the relative solitude of the tree. My stomach was full, no one was bothering me, and for a moment I forgot all of my cares. I had too much to do, though, to tarry for long.

I checked the route on my wallet. My first stop was the exoskeleton shop. I considered how best to explain that I needed it both to pass casual inspection as something an old man would wear and also be fast and powerful should I have to leave Pimlani’s estate in a hurry.

I pushed off the tree.

Something hit the back of my head.

Black spots flashed in my eyes, something else tripped me, and I fell face-first toward the packed dirt.

CHAPTER 18

Jon Moore

I
managed to break my fall somewhat with my arms, but my head still smacked the ground hard. My right elbow popped oddly as I hit. Pain shot from it. The impact of the fall knocked most of the air from me. I couldn’t focus enough to tell the nanomachines to block the pain.

Hands rolled me over. A large man and a smallish woman stared at me. The woman kneeled near my head. The man squatted next to my torso. Both were between the crowd and me.

“Are you okay, buddy?” the man said loudly. “That was a hell of a fall. You gotta watch those roots.”

Much more softly, the woman said, “You yell for help or move, and I’ll cut you.” She showed me a knife with a blade as long as my palm and almost as wide as two of my fingers. “Nod if you understand me.”

I did nothing. My head was clearing more with each passing second. I slightly flexed my right arm. The elbow worked, so if it had popped out of joint, it hadn’t stayed out. My breath still came rough. I blinked my eyes a few times as if trying to focus.

She pushed the knife against my neck.

“I don’t buy it,” she whispered to her partner.

“Give him a second,” the man said to her. “He hit hard.” He slapped my face lightly. “You with us?”

My breathing was slowing. My vision was clear and, aside from the pain, so was my head. I instructed the nanomachines to block the pain, and it stopped instantly. They’d take care of my elbow automatically.

“Yeah,” I said.

The woman held up the knife for an instant, then put it back against my throat. “You feel that?” she said.

“Yes.”

“You yell, move, or do anything else we don’t like,” she said, “and I’ll cut you deep. If you’re lucky, I won’t hit anything they can’t patch. If you’re not lucky or I’m sloppy, then you’ll die right here—and you’ll do it fast.” She leaned over my head. “You understand?”

“Yes.”

If they’d wanted to kill me, they would have already done so. Neither of them had pinned my arms or tried in any way other than the knife to immobilize me; sloppy. Whoever had sent them should have hired better help.

I made a choking sound. “Gonna throw up.” I retched again.

Most people hate vomit, and they really hate the thought of someone getting it on them. These two were not exceptions. They pulled back a little. As they did, I rolled toward them fast, as if I were about to do it, then shot my right fist into the side of the woman’s head and my right knee into the man’s side.

Her head snapped to the side, and she fell backward, already out.

I hadn’t hit him hard enough to do any real damage. He started to fall toward her but steadied himself with his right arm. I reversed my right arm’s direction and back-fisted his face.

He yelped and punched me weakly in the stomach with his left hand.

I grabbed his neck and pulled him across my body. I rolled with him so I ended up on top of him and punched him hard in the side of his neck.

He grabbed his throat and made choking, gasping noises.

I punched him in the stomach three more times before I realized he wasn’t a threat any longer.

He gagged, turned his head to the side, and threw up on the ground.

I picked up the woman’s knife. She was still out.

I kneeled in front of the man. I spoke loudly, both so anyone walking by would hear and so I could hear myself over the blood pounding in my ears. “You okay, buddy?”

I glanced toward the market. A man and a woman had stopped and were staring at us. I waved at them. “My brother,” I said. “Too much to drink. He’ll be fine.”

They moved on.

I wouldn’t have much time before more people would notice, and eventually someone would call the police.

I pulled the man’s hand away from his throat and bent back his thumb until his eyes widened. “No noise,” I said, “or I break it.” I showed him the knife. “Or worse.”

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“Who sent you?”

He looked around in panic. “What?”

I wrenched his thumb further back. As I did, I checked the woman. She was moaning but not doing anything else.

“Who sent you?” I said again.

“What?” he said. “Nobody. I don’t understand.”

Had Kang already found us? Had Omani learned I was on the planet and somehow tracked me?

I let go of the man’s thumb, punched him in the stomach again, and grabbed the thumb once more. My breath was coming fast as I fought both the effects of the adrenaline from the unexpected attack and my anger at being so sloppy as to let them surprise me.