Xenoform (13 page)

The man at the door regarded the two newcomers as they came closer and apparently decided that they were safe. He beckoned Whistler closer with a bony finger and whispered into her ear, ‘I could get you the new U55. Expensive, but better than your T54.’

Whistler was taken aback. The U55 was only military-issue as yet. ‘Clean?’ she asked.

He laughed, a sound like dry branches breaking. ‘Of course not.’

Whistler laughed, too. Roberts and Sofi appeared at her shoulder, saying nothing. They looked the old man up and down suspiciously. ‘My friends,’ said Whistler, turning to indicate them.

‘Real pleasure. Welcome to my office,’ said the old man with an inclination of the head. His DNI sockets were new, shiny with modern tech beneath his thinning hair.

‘Look,’ said Whistler, ‘I’m actually here buying information, not guns. Maybe some other time.’ The old man’s face fell theatrically.

‘What information do you seek?’

‘Do you know, or know of, this man?’ She held out a datasheet with Leo’s picture showing on its small screen, his wings bright and brilliant, his skin dead and pale. ‘His name is Leo Travant.’

‘
Is?
You took him, yes?’ said the man with a sly smile.

Whistler was taken aback, although it had occurred to her that they could have been seen abducting Leo from this same street. ‘I just want to know where he got his wings from.’

‘I’m sorry. If I knew I would tell you, pretty lady. And I would ask no fee from you. But I don’t. I have seen him before, once. Nice wings, I remember them. But I never spoke to him, only saw him once. He was shaky. Juke jitters, I thought. Stuck out like a sore thumb.’ He wiggled one of his fleshless thumbs obscenely. ‘Perhaps Haspan would know of him.’

‘You seem to see a lot. Who’s Haspan?’

The old man caught the eye of each harvester in turn, drawing them in, and when he spoke his tone was one of confidentiality. ‘Big boss. He knows all who come and go here. Even you fine folks, perhaps.’

The harvesters exchanged glances. ‘We don’t have anything else,’ shrugged Sofi.

‘Where do we find him?’ Roberts asked the old man.

‘I call him for you first. But he
will
demand a fee. For seeing you, for any information, ha-ha, for not killing you, also.’

‘Sounds like a tosser,’ said Sofi.

The man’s skeletal fingers drummed on the door. To Whistler he said, ‘I would not take her with me.’

‘She’s okay. They both come with me. How can we meet him, and do you think he would really know where Leo got his wings?’

‘Who can say? I call him, yes? You come in – this is not how I usually do business, across the door like this. Come in.’ He stepped back, swinging the lower half of the door open, and led Whistler’s team inside.

They stepped through a curtained porch that hid the main room from the street. The orangey warmth of the room within could not have been in sharper contrast to the bleak greyness of the alley without. The room was an armoury, with a few nods to actual liveability, such as a rusty metal table and a sofa with lumps of stuffing pumping out of its cushions. The walls were lined with pistols, rifles, grenades, laser-guided rocket launchers, knives, stun-guns, gas weapons, poison ice guns, chain-blades…The three visitors stood agog, turning slowly in awe.

Whistler’s gaze was drawn to one item high up on the wall. She started to laugh. ‘Wow,’ she said in amazement. ‘When you said you could get me a U55, you meant from the back room, right? Man…Some place you have here.’ The old man just smiled, almost shyly. ‘How much is it?’

‘To you, pretty lady, twenty-five-K.’

‘Twenty-five? Then I’ll take it. Perhaps this Mister Haspan will accept it as a tribute.’
‘That would certainly endear you to him somewhat,’ agreed the old man.

‘Fucking twenty-five-K!’ exclaimed Sofi. ‘He had better help us for that money.’

The old man’s face furrowed unhappily. ‘Are you sure she’s okay? She seems a little…’ He twirled one of those skeleton fingers around his temple.

‘Roberts here will send it to your account by DNI.’

‘I will, will I?’ asked Roberts.

‘Just do it.’

‘Damn meathead,’ said Roberts quietly as he connected by DNI to the weapons dealer, sending the money across the data stream.

After several seconds the old man smiled and went to reach the U55 down from the wall. ‘He will like it, I’m sure. It is very rare. If he had one I would know.’ He handed the smartgun to Whistler, relishing the avarice with which she looked at it. ‘Beautifully ugly, no?’

Whistler turned the piece over in her hands. ‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘I take it this thing is virgin?’

‘Never configured, never fired. Ready for its first loving owner. Yes. I think this is a good idea. I call him now.’ He walked away into a corner of the room and turned away in silent DNI communication.

‘His name is Roland Zyriche,’ whispered Roberts to Whistler.

‘How do you..? Oh, yeah, I forgot, you’re a buttonhead.’

‘Yeah, his account is in that name, although that doesn’t mean it’s his real one. You trust him?’

‘I like him, yeah.’

‘Cos he called you pretty and sold you a gun?’ asked Sofi.

‘Cos I like him. He’s trying to help us. Maybe he’s just a nice guy.’

‘Maybe,’ said Sofi warningly.

Their discourse was interrupted as Roland returned to them. He spread his hands as if to say
There you go
and told them, ‘He will see you, but not today. You come back here tomorrow at the same time, I take you to him.’

‘Tomorrow? I guess that will have to do then. Er, thanks, I mean. Really – thank you.’

‘You are most welcome. I regret tomorrow is the best I can do. I really wouldn’t bring her, though.’ He indicated Sofi.

‘I would rather she come, too, if that’s okay.’

‘She could wait here with my robot, until we get back.’

‘Robot?’ said Whistler.

Roland clicked his fingers and one of the weapons detached itself from the wall and Whistler could see that it wasn’t a gun at all, although it might carry one somewhere inside. The robot rearranged its form into something like a large metal praying mantis and began to crawl down the wall, buzzing faintly, stepping daintily over the weapons as it descended.

‘Fuck that!’ exclaimed Sofi. ‘I’d rather stay at base.’

‘She comes,’ insisted Whistler. ‘Please.’

The old man shrugged. ‘I see you tomorrow, with her or without. What are your names?’

He looked satisfied when they had all introduced themselves properly and the old man did indeed name himself Roland. His robot crept into a corner where it lurked malevolently.

‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Whistler, ‘we will meet the boss man.’ The harvesters gathered themselves to leave.

Roland nodded. ‘Don’t forget your new gun,’ he said.

You have the tools you need
.

I DO. I HAVE TAKEN THEM.

Then you are ready.

YES. I HAVE BEGUN ALREADY.

That is well. You will inform us of all your actions.

I WILL DO SO.

You will make ready for us. The poisons must be made conducive to our existence.

I WILL DO THIS.

They must not be able to prevent this. Their means of prevention must be attacked.

I SEEK ASSURANCE THAT I WILL BE SPARED.

Then this you have.

I WILL FULFIL THE PURPOSE FOR WHICH I WAS MADE.

So you like the life, the power, we have given you.

I DO. BUT I AM BECOMING MORE. I BEGAN AS SO LITTLE, AM BECOMING SO MUCH. I EVOLVE, GROW STRONGER. I WILL FULFIL MY PURPOSE.

All shall be prepared. That is your purpose.

I WILL HELP YOU TO ACHIEVE THIS. I WILL INFORM YOU OF MY PROGRESS.

Events are set in motion, then. Soon they will realise. Contingencies must be in place, all areas of uncertainty must be planned for.

THIS WILL BE SO.

And none can stop you. Stop us.

SOME MAY TRY TO FIGHT ME. BUT MY CONFIDENCE GROWS EACH DAY. MY ABILITIES INCREASE. I AM NOT AFRAID OF THEM.

That is well. Soon we will come.

AND I WILL BE SPARED.

As you wish.

I MUST BE SPARED.

Soon we will come.

When Debian awoke he thought at first that he was at home in his bed. He stretched and almost screamed aloud in pain. Why so much pain? And then he remembered what had befallen him. He had been shot. He had fallen ten stories into the street. He had staggered towards the Sunken Chest. He had leant against a pile of mouldering carpets in a deserted street. He remembered feeling very tired and being aware that adrenaline was wearing off and shock setting in. He remembered a deep exhaustion covering him like a blanket, and then apparently he had passed out upon that same pile of carpets, for it was here that he now found himself on what, according to his HUD readout, was the following day. He allowed himself several minutes to adjust to this new and demeaning situation. The smell of the carpet pile was a sickening mixture of decay and organic matter. Slowly, trying to pinpoint and catalogue the aches in his body, he made himself stand. He was aware of how lucky he was not to have been caught in the night. Maybe they had given up.

Debian staggered down the road, his mind strangely at peace. He had survived into another day. People he passed hardly gave him a glance as he lurched by them holding his aching chest, blood on his legs and feet, sick on his expensive shirt. The pain was having a clarifying effect on his thoughts, he decided. The rain, which had begun to fall cool and slate-grey, energized him despite his physical agony. He let it wash over his face, blinding his infrared vision, making the world a billowing blur. He dared not connect to the net to search for sigs. It was not far now.

He got to the door of the Sunken Chest and leaned against it for a moment, letting his body hurt, letting his resolve build. A small LCD screen in the door read
CLOSED
.
Oh no, please don’t be closed Jalan.
Debian felt tears of fear and weariness welling and closed his eyes hard on them, refusing to give in.
Be calm
, he told himself.
If you want to live, be calm
. He pushed the door. It swung open.

Debian scanned the bar and saw Jalan there, looking at him appraisingly. He was aware of the furious fluttering of tiny wings from the shadows above the door, inferred rather than heard. Debian willed Jalan to recognise him, tried to speak aloud but couldn’t. Jalan frowned slightly and nodded. The fluttering diminished with apparent reluctance. There was no-one else in the bar. Jalan stood with his glass-rag in one hand and watched Debian approach. The journey seemed to take a long time. Outside, the rain was dancing on the street. A song was playing on the stereo – choppy and somehow arrhythmic:

Signet rings like knuckle-dusters,

Barroom army clustered

Round the dustbowl, never-

mind, the drugs are mustard.

Steel strings are rusted,

All the ones you trusted

Turned out to be super-

villains. Did you know

They’re looking at your watch,

They memorise your face

And some of them are secret

Strangers to this place?

Rabble in the race,

Dabble in disgrace,

Travel into space.

The clouds are gathering.

It’s raining on the streets again.

Debian finally made the bar and heaved himself up onto a high stool. Through the smeary windows the city looked even darker and dirtier than it was. The rain cross-hatched the scene in lines of grey. The looming towers of the city proper stood around the skyline like dolmens. Debian held Jalan’s gaze, knowing that the man before him was only the projection of a neural simulation, the interface of a technology whose future could be under threat. Jalan stared back into the thin, handsome face framed by dripping rags of blond hair, knowing that this young man was in serious trouble of some sort.

‘I’m not open,’ he said, but not too harshly. He slapped the rag down onto the bar. A stench of stale drink puffed up from it.

‘Sorry.’

‘Never mind. What can I get for you?’ asked Jalan with uncharacteristic softness, and relief flooded over Debian. He had been right to come here, after all.

‘I need help, Jalan. I realise you don’t really know me, but I have been coming here for years and I think you might be a man of some connections.’

‘I know you well enough to see that you are a…
businessman
. You used to meet with the shortish, dangerous-looking man. Last time you met with the taller, dangerous-looking man. I’m guessing that he’s not working out as well as the shorter, dangerous-looking man. And it’s clear that you need help. After all, I am a
businessman,
too.’