Use of Weapons (33 page)

'Zakalwe!
We're supposed to be the good guys!'

'I
know, but if I can get our Governance pals to think I've taken over Vanguard,
and I think the way they do...' He paused. 'Sma; do I have to spell it out?'

'Ah...
ouch. What? Oh... no; you think they might try and get you to convince Beychae
that Vanguard's still doing what
we
want it to do, and so get him to declare for it?'

'Exactly.'
He clasped his hands under his neck, adjusting his pony-tail. This bed had
mirrors on the ceiling above, not a painting. He studied the distant reflection
of his nose.

'Long...
um, shot, Zakalwe,' Sma said.

'I
think we have to try it.'

'It
means wrecking a commercial reputation it's taken decades to establish.'

'That
more important than stopping the war, Diziet?'

'Of
course not, but... ah... of course not, but we can't be certain it'll work.'

'Well,
I say we do it now. It has a better chance than offering the university those
goddamn tablets.'

'You've
never liked that plan, have you, Zakalwe?' Sma sounded annoyed.

'This
one's better, Sma. I can feel it. Get it done now, so they've heard about it by
the time I get to the party tonight.'

'Okay,
but that thing with the tablets...'

'Sma;
I've re-arranged the meeting with the Dean for the day after tomorrow, okay? I
can mention the goddamn tablets then. But make sure all this Vanguard stuff
goes through now, all right?'

'I...
oh... ah... yeah, right. I suppose so... so... oh, wow. Look, Zakalwe,
something's just come up; was there anything else?'

'No,'
he said loudly.

'Aww...
great
. Umm... right, Zakalwe; bye.'

The
transceiver beeped. He tore it off his ear and threw it across the room.

'Rampant
bitch,' he breathed. He looked at the ceiling.

He
lifted the bedside telephone. 'Yeah; can I speak to... Treyvo? Yes please.' He
waited, dug between two molars with a fingernail. 'Yeah; night-clerk Treyvo? My
very good friend... listen; I'd like a little company, you know? Indeed...
well, there's a largish tip if... that's right... and, Treyvo; if she comes
with a Press pass secreted anywhere, you're a dead man.'

The
suit was vulnerable to a shortish list of comparatively heavy battlefield
weaponry, and not much else. He watched the capsule vibrate its way back under
the surface of the desert as the suit clasped itself around him. He got back
into the car and drove back down to the hotel, just in time to meet the
limousine sent by his hosts for that evening.

The
cluster's media had been cleared from the hotel courtyard that afternoon, on
his instructions, so there was no undignified dive through their lights and
mikes and questions. He stood, dark glasses in place, on the steps of the hotel
as the great dark car - significantly more impressive than the one he'd almost
been killed in that morning, he was somewhat disappointed to note - drew
smoothly to a halt. A huge man, grey haired, with a pale, heavily scarred face,
unfolded himself from the driver's compartment and held open a rear door,
bowing slowly.

'Thank
you,' he said to the big man as he stepped into the vehicle. The fellow bowed
again, and closed the door. He sat back in plushly luxurious upholstery that
couldn't make up its mind whether it was a seat or a bed. The car's windows
dimmed in response to the lights of the media people as the vehicle exited from
the hotel courtyard. He gave what he hoped was a regal wave, all the same.

The
evening city lights streamed past; the car thundered quietly. He inspected a
package on the seat/bed beside him; it was paper-wrapped, and tied up with
colourful ribbons. "MR STABERINDE" said a hand-written note. He
brought the suit helmet over, pulled carefully on a ribbon, opening the
package. There were clothes inside. He lifted them out and looked at them.

He
found a switch on an arm that let him talk to the grey-haired driver. 'I take
it this is my fancy-dress costume. What is it exactly?'

The
driver looked down, took something from a jacket pocket, and manipulated it.
'Hello,' said an artificial voice. 'My name is Mollen. I cannot talk, so I use
this machine instead.' He glanced up at the road, then down again at whatever
machine he was using. 'What do you want to ask me?'

He
didn't like the way the big guy took his eyes off the road each time he wanted
to say something, so he just said, 'never mind.' He sat back and watched the
lights go past, taking the suit helmet off again.

They
drew into the courtyard of a large, dark house down near a river in a
side-canyon. 'Please follow me, Mr Staberinde,' Mollen said through his
machine.

'Certainly.'
He lifted the suit helmet and followed the taller man up the steps and into a
large foyer. He was carrying the costume he'd found in the car. Animal heads
glared from the walls of the tall entrance hall. Mollen closed the doors and
led him to an elevator which hummed and rattled its way down for a couple of
floors; he heard the noise and could detect the drug-smoke odour of the party
even before the doors were opened.

He
handed the bundle of clothes to Mollen, keeping only a thin cloak. 'Thanks; I
won't be needing the rest.'

They
went out into the party, which was noisy and crowded and full of bizarre
costumes. The men and women all looked sleek and well-fed; he breathed in the
drug smoke that wreathed the motley figures about him; Mollen led the way
through the crowd. People fell silent as they passed, and a babble of
conversation started up in his wake. He heard the word 'Staberinde' several
times.

They
went through doors guarded by men even bigger than Mollen, down a flight of
softly carpeted stairs, and into a large room walled with glass on one side.
Boats bobbed on black water in an underground dock on the far side of the
glass, which reflected a smaller but more bizarre party. He peeked under the
dark glasses, but the view was no brighter.

As
on the floor above, people walked around with either drug bowls or, for the
especially daring, drink glasses. Everybody was either badly injured or
actually mutilated.

Men
and women turned to look at the new arrival as he followed Mollen in. Some men
and women had arms broken and twisted, the bones tearing through the skin,
showing whitely under the plain light; some had huge gashes cut into their
bodies, some had whole areas of their flesh flayed and seared, some had had
breasts or arms amputated, or eyes put out, often with the removed article or
articles dangling from other parts of their bodies. The woman from the street
party came towards him, a hand-wide flap of her belly hanging down over her
glistening skirt, her belly muscles rippling inside like dull red glistening
chords.

'Mr
Staberinde; you've come as a space man,' she said. There was an over-elaborate
modulation to her voice he found instantly annoying.

'Well,
I've sort of compromised,' he said, swirling the cape and fastening it across
his shoulders.

The
woman held out her hand. 'Well; welcome, anyway.'

'Thank
you,' he said, taking her hand and kissing it. He half expected the suit
sensory fields to pick up a whiff of some deadly poison on the woman's delicate
hand, and signal danger, but the alarm remained quiet. He grinned as she took
her hand away.

'What
do you find funny, Mr Staberinde?'

'This!'
he laughed, nodding at the people around them.

'Good,'
she said, laughing a little (her belly quivered). 'We did hope our party might
amuse you. Allow me to introduce our good friend who is making all this
possible.'

She
took his arm and guided him through the grisly multitude to a man sitting on a
stool next to a tall, dull grey machine. He was small and smiling and kept
wiping his nose with a large kerchief which he stuffed raggedly into his
otherwise immaculate suit.

'Doctor,
this is the man we told you of, Mr Staberinde.'

'Sincere
greetings and things,' said the little doctor, his face collapsing into a moist
and toothy smile. 'Welcome to our Injured Party.' He waved round the room at the
wounded people, and waved his hands enthusiastically. 'Would you like an
injury? The process is quite painless, and causes no inconvenience; repairs are
speedy and there aren't any scars. What can I tempt you with? Lacerations?
Compound fracture? Castration? How about a multiple trepanning? You'd be the
only one here.'

He
folded his arms and laughed. 'You're too kind. Thank you, but no.'

'Oh
don't, please,' the little man said, looking wounded. 'Don't spoil the party;
everybody else is taking part; do you really want to feel so left out? There is
no risk of pain or permanent damage of any sort. I have carried out this sort
of operation all over the civilised universe, and have never had any
complaints except from people who get too attached to their injuries and resist
repair. My machine and I have performed novelty injuries and wounds in every
centre of civilisation in the Cluster; you may not have this chance again, you
know; we leave tomorrow, and I'm all booked up for the next two years standard.
Are you absolutely sure you don't want to participate?'

'More
than absolutely.'

'Leave
Mr Staberinde alone, Doctor,' the woman said, 'If he does not want to join us
then we must respect his wishes. Must we not, Mr Staberinde?' The woman took
his arm in hers. He looked at her injury, wondering what sort of transparent
shielding kept everything intact. Her breasts were frosted with small,
tear-shaped gems, and kept high by tiny field projectors on their undersides.

'Yes,
of course.'

'Good.
Would you wait a moment, please? Please share this.' She pushed her drink into
his hand and stooped forward to talk to the doctor.

He
turned to look at the people in the room. Strips of flesh hung from beautiful
faces, grafted breasts swung from tanned backs, slender arms hung like bloated
necklaces; chips of bone peeped from torn skin, veins and arteries and muscles
and glands squirmed and sparkled in the plain light.

He
lifted the glass the woman had given him and wafted some of its fumes into the
fields around the helmet neck; an alarm sounded and a small screen on the
suit's wrist revealed the specific poison in the glass. He smiled, pushed the
glass through the suit's neck-field and knocked the contents back, then coughed
a little as the half-alcohol concoction went down his throat. He smacked his
lips.

'Oh,
you've finished it,' the woman came back to him. She was patting her smooth
belly, now whole again, and motioned him towards another area of the room. She
donned a small, glittering waistcoat as they walked through the mutilated
throng.

'Yes.'
He handed her the glass.

They
went through a door into an old workshop; lathes and punches and drills stood
around under layers of dust and flaking paint and metal. Three chairs stood
under a hanging light, a small cabinet beside them. The woman shut the door and
waved him into one of the low seats. He sat down, placing the suit helmet on
the floor at his side.

'Why
didn't you come in the costume we sent you?' She altered the lock on the door,
then turned to him, suddenly smiling. She adjusted the glittering waistcoat.

'It
didn't suit me.'

'You
think that does?' she nodded at the black suit as she sat down, crossing her
legs. She tapped the cabinet. It opened out with chinking glasses and already
smoking drug bowls.

'I
find it reassuring.'

She
leant over, offering him a glass of gleaming liquid, which he accepted. He
settled into the chair again.

She
sat back too, cradling a bowl in both hands and closing her eyes as she leant
over it, breathing in deeply. She flapped a little of the smoke under the
lapels of the waistcoat, so that as she spoke the heavy fumes curled back out
between the material and her breasts, and twisted slowly into her face.

'We
are so glad you could come, whatever your attire. Tell me; how are you finding
the Excelsior? Does it meet with your requirements?'

He
smiled thinly. 'It'll do.'

The
door opened. The man he'd seen with the woman at the street party and when they
had chased him in their car was outside. He stood back for Mollen to enter
before him. Then he strode to the remaining seat and placed himself in it.
Mollen stood near the door.

'What
have you been saying?' the man asked, waving away the woman's hand with a glass
in it.

'He's
about to tell us who he is,' the woman said; they both looked at him. 'Aren't
you, Mr... Staberinde?'

'No
I'm not. You tell me who you are.'

'I
think you know who we are, Mr Staberinde,' the man said. 'We
thought
we knew who you were, up until a
few hours ago. Now we're not so sure.'

'Me,
I'm just a tourist.' He sipped at the drink, looking at them over the top of
the glass. He inspected his drink. Minute specks of gold floated in its
glittering depths.