Crashing Heaven (4 page)

Chapter 6

Lieutenant Corazon said little as they returned to the flyer. It was only when they entered the deep black of the Wart that she spoke again. Her face was softly etched on the darkness by the green and blue glow of dashboard instruments. Her voice had hushed to a whisper. Dreams of journalistic objectivity had slipped away. She almost seemed to be trying to engage with him as a person.

‘I didn’t realise how tough it was out there.’

A container train appeared ahead of them. There was the soft hissing of gravity baffles and a whine from the little pulse engine as the flyer altered course. Its swing, its seatbelts’ soft tug, reminded both Jack and Corazon that they were moving unsupported through space, with nothing to hold them should they fall.

Jack kept his voice neutral. ‘Breaking minds. Watching them break us. There was nothing soft about it.’

Corazon smiled sadly. ‘We had our own problems. Terrorist bombs, Kingdom killing terrorists. It was non-stop. Out beyond Mars, hardly anything seemed to be going on.’

A warning light flickered red. She touched a switch and it faded. Jack suddenly felt very alone. ‘What happened to Issie?’ he asked.

‘She was Lestak’s daughter. She died on the moon.’

It was the answer he’d expected. He supposed that, after their meeting, Lestak would be salving herself with the company of her child’s fetch.

‘It was a terrible time,’ he said, to himself as much as to Corazon.

[ It was our
casus belli
. A joy.]

Jack reached inside his mind and let a partition grow, trapping Fist behind it. There would be no more of his synthetic rage for a while. Jack thought about the attack. As ever, he felt no anger at the loss that had been inflicted on humanity. There was only a deep, impassioned grief at the bloody decisions that political calculation could lead to, and at the fact that – once created – such wounds could be so hard to heal.

‘I was just too old to be up there,’ Corazon told him. ‘I lost friends.’

An asteroid had been diverted from its course and dropped on to one of the old lunar mining bases. Those responsible had somehow rendered the asteroid invisible to Station’s sensors, and thus unstoppable. The attack seemed to have been meant as a spectacular but harmless show of strength. But at the time the base had been hosting the annual Homelands Junior Schools Mooncamp. Three thousand children aged between four and thirteen had died instantly. The failure to spot the asteroid had been Sandal’s responsibility. He’d lost status accordingly. Several of his key security subdivisions had been transferred into the care of Kingdom. The Pantheon refused to accept the Totality’s protestations of innocence. The Soft War began shortly after.

‘I can’t believe you even protested about being sent to fight them, Jack.’ Corazon’s questions had become more intimate. Now her anger felt more personal too.

‘I was an accountant,’ he replied. ‘All the rest of the puppeteers were soldiers. They were professionals who’d been working with Kingdom’s mind-killing systems for a long time before they were merged with puppets. I was dropped in pretty much untrained. I had no reason to be there.’

‘Grey wanted you to go, didn’t he? It was his will. The gods see much further than we do.’

‘That’s nonsense, Corazon.’

‘The Pantheon know what’s best for us, Jack. They protect us. They always try to steer the right course.’

‘You think? Look at where Grey’s choices have left me. And it’s not just me. Look at the Penderville murder case – there was evidence of Pantheon involvement there.’

‘That’s impossible.’ Shocked fear resonated in her voice.

‘If the gods themselves turned away from the truth, I’d follow the truth and not the gods.’

‘Don’t use the InSec vows to justify such … heresy.’

‘I was starting to find it in the Panther Czar’s accounts. It was well hidden, but it was real. One of them was helping smuggle sweat into Station.’

‘You think a god would help do that, Jack? And kill to cover it up?’

‘I’d just taken my initial findings to Harry Devlin. He took me seriously. Then the Soft War began. The Pantheon used it to shut our investigation down. None of those fucks care about justice.’

‘Hush, Jack. You can’t say things like that.’

‘Why not? It’s the truth.’

‘It can’t be. And anyway – it’s not respectful.’

‘Things have changed, Corazon. Sandal failed us all. Grey was naïve. Kingdom fought and lost an unjust war. East used it all to quadruple her viewing figures.’

‘Your point is?’

‘The Pantheon are brutal and self-interested, and they’re very powerful indeed. That’s a bad combination.’

‘I won’t listen to this, Jack.’

‘They lie to us, they use us and they throw us away. I’ve killed for them, so I know. You’re not a journalist, are you? I bet you dreamed of it, ever since you were young. How much choice did East give you when she sent you to InSec? And did you really believe her when she said it was the best thing for you?’

‘I could have chosen to do something else.’

‘I had a friend who was a singer. A very good one. She wasn’t happy with East’s plans for her. East broke her career.’

The flyer broke out of the Wart. Corazon steered it to swoop down low over Docklands. ‘Where did you want to go to, Forster?’ she said, her voice suddenly free of emotion.

Fist had found his way round the partition.

[Sounds like you hit a nerve!]

‘Just by Kanji Square station,’ said Jack.

‘Far from your hotel.’

‘Someone to find.’

Corazon settled the flyer on to the street. Jack opened the door. Scheduled rain pattered at it, gusting in and chilling him.

‘They gave you your InSec credit at Customs House?’

‘Yes . You had an observer there. She should have confirmed that.’

‘We had nobody at your reentry interview.’

‘If you say so.’

Jack climbed out and stood by the door. ‘Grey taught me one useful thing,’ he said. ‘Don’t trust the gods. Don’t believe their bullshit.’ The last of the flyer cockpit’s warmth gusted out and away. ‘You’re smart, Corazon. That’s a lesson you should learn too.’

‘You’ve only got a short time,’ Corazon replied. ‘Go and see your father and your mother’s fetch. Make your peace with them, at least. And keep your nose clean. I don’t want to see you again.’

[ First Andrea rejects you, now it’s Corazon. You have quite the way with the ladies, lover boy!]

The flyer door folded back to black wholeness, until there was only a machine beside Jack. A high-pitched whine and it lifted out of the streets, climbing up and away into the round and limited sky.

Chapter 7

Kanji Square was at its busiest. People bustled in and out of bars, queued to enter nightclubs, or just staggered randomly up and down ’ti Bon Ange Street. Most were talking and laughing. Some danced, twitching to beats that only they could hear.

[ Now that’s done, we’ll find Andrea,] said Jack.

[Stalk her, you mean. And anyway, how? We don’t know where she lives, where she goes.]

[ The old-fashioned way. We’ll visit all the places she used to perform, and we’ll keep going till we track her down.]

Jack was standing in a brilliantly lit, manically driven entertainment district, surrounded by flaring light, pulsing beats and fashion-crazed teenagers. East and the Twins ruled here, showering thrills on their acolytes, tossing out loyalty points by the score. But Jack was offweave, so he saw only blandly identical buildings, lit with blandly identical light, full of blandly identical people. Perhaps the weave sigils changed with each face and façade, but he was not machine enough to scan each one and differentiate between them.

The only people who stood out were the sweatheads. As long as they took their drugs in private, they could move at will through the city. Every so often he’d spot one, stumbling through the crowd. They were invisible to all but him, deleted by overlay. It was easy to see why people would rather not see them. The drug had bitten at their faces, removing noses or chewing through cheeks. Tattered clothes covered most of the deeper damage. Some were still in relative control of themselves, but most staggered and shook as they went. Occasionally, one would tug at a sleeve, or pull at an arm. There’d be a whispered request for money, made close enough to its target for a touch and a voice to break through obscuring weavecode. Most people froze and did nothing. Some would move to brush away the supplicant, risking physical contact and further overlay breakdown. A very small minority would wave a little cash into the sweathead’s account.

Above Jack, the spinelights flicked from evening to night. He quickly realised that, offweave, he couldn’t even tell nightclubs from bars or theatres, let alone read individual billings to see if Andrea was performing. Her act had always been deliberately retro in feel. He spent a while wandering at random, hoping that she might have decided to advertise herself with words that he could read – a poster stuck to a wall or a flyer handed out to one or other of the club queues that he passed. Perhaps that was all the advertising she was doing nowadays, explaining why Charles hadn’t been able to find her. He wondered if he might even recognise one of her friends tottering out of a venue, or just bump into Andrea herself. But there was no trace of her anywhere.

[ This is a waste of time,] grumbled Fist. [ Why can’t we just ask someone?]

[ You’re only offweave if you’re a criminal. You saw what happened in the café last night.]

But after more fruitless searching, Jack gave in and tried to talk to people. Most ignored him, treating him as if he were some new, deceptively healthy form of sweathead. Three stopped and listened until they understood what he wanted them to do. The first person told him to fuck off. The second ran. The third threatened to report him to InSec.

[OK, Fist, let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll try again tomorrow.]

[ Well that IS a relief.]

A long walk back to the Wound, and Jack found himself again striding past the little Twins café – empty now, not even a haven for lost Grey acolytes. There was an alleyway just next to it, leading back into darkness. Muffled shouting erupted from it. Jack paused and took a couple of steps back.

[Can you see that, Fist?]

A couple of Sandal’s wheelie bins half-blocked the view. Beyond them, Jack could just make out sudden, violent movement. A raised hand, gripping a piece of piping, disappeared sharply downwards. A strained voice, dense with static, shouted ‘Help!’

[ Jackie, that’s a biped – no, don’t!]

Jack pushed the bins aside and threw himself into the passageway. It was so much darker than the street.

[Come back! You’ll get hurt!]

That made some stubborn part of Jack want to damage himself. But he’d have to live with the consequences too. He ran forwards. Wet concrete was slippery underfoot. Damp had corroded brickwork. Empty walls stretched up and away. There was a smell of piss. A girl and a boy – not even teenagers – were standing over a fallen biped. Violet light glowed feebly out of its head. It had pulled itself back into a doorway, curling up in a weak attempt at self-protection. One arm waved feebly. The boy pushed it aside and brought the lead piping down again. It hit the victim’s chest and sank in. The biped groaned. ‘Fucking squishy,’ said the boy. The girl kicked the prone figure. It squeezed a little further back into the door. The soft light it cast illuminated its attackers’ tired faces and exhausted clothing. Neither of them noticed Jack.

[ Well, if we must,] grumbled Fist, resigning himself to helping Jack. He hissed combat options. [ Take the boy first. Twist his throat out. The blood panics the girl, she runs.]

[ For gods’ sake. You know I won’t do that. Just manifest.]

[ What?]

[MANIFEST. Lightshow. Blow their little minds.]

A crack and a flash of light, and the two attackers turned, surprise becoming shock then fear. Jack stood there, a bright point of light hanging next to him. That point began to grow, emitting whiplash cracks of brilliance. Fist’s cage expanded into dark bands, made silhouettes by the vivid luminosity that they contained. There was one last great crackling burst, then all was silence. The cageware rings revolved slowly and deliberately. Within them hung the little figure of Fist, apparently lifeless.

Then they blurred and shimmered and vanished, and the little puppet looked up. The attackers gaped at his red-painted cheeks and lips, dead glass eyes, perfect little hairpiece and perpetual grin. His body floated beneath his carved face like an afterthought dressed in a blue-grey suit, a starched white shirt and a little red bow-tie. He clacked his mouth open and shut twice, the snap of wood on wood echoing down the alleyway. Then he roared in fury:

‘
I’LL EAT YOU ALIVE, YOU LITTLE FUCKERS
!’

The two children stepped back, first slowly, then more quickly.

‘I’LL
TEAR YOUR OVERLAY OFF YOU! I’LL KEEP YOU OFFWEAVE
FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIVES!’

Now they were turning, now running. They reached the corner of the little alleyway and the boy was gone. The girl stopped and looked back.

‘Puppets don’t scare me!’ she shouted. She suddenly seemed terribly young. Another pulse of light from Fist and he was next to her. She stood there unmoving. He leant in, a dream of wood almost touching real flesh.

[ Just tell her to go, Fist. Try not to scare her too much.] Uncomprehending silence from Fist. [ Remember how young she is.]

The girl’s eyes widened, unsure of what Fist would do next. Her hand trembled up and she touched the cageware, as if to make sure it was real. It flashed, and she snapped her hand away as if it had been stung.

‘Come on!’ shouted the boy. ‘We’re done here!’

The girl was still frozen, staring at Fist.

‘He’s right,’ whispered Fist, leaning in towards her, his voice soft with barely controlled rage, ‘you really are.
RUN!
’

At that she broke and was gone.

Jack was leaning over the figure in the doorway.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘They took me by surprise.’ The static that clogged the biped’s shout was a little less pronounced at lower volume. ‘The male kicked my voice box,’ it explained as it rolled over. Its head was a blank oval of nanogel. Light indentations represented eyes, nose and mouth. Its neck was a round metal collar. Its attackers had torn a black poncho away from a softly-moulded body. One of its legs was bent awkwardly beneath it. Jack went to help it sit up.

‘What happened?’

‘They jumped me, pulled me in here and started to beat me.’

‘They’ve gone now.’

‘The funny thing – I’m running full diplomatic weaveware. It should have been impossible for them to attack me.’

Fist was floating at Jack’s shoulder. ‘Their weaveports are stunted,’ he said. ‘I had to force them to see me.’

‘Strange,’ said the biped. ‘It was racially motivated, I am sure.’

‘Race?’ said Fist. ‘You’re not a race. You’re machines. Just like me.’

‘Hush, Fist,’ said Jack.

‘I’ve heard of creatures like you,’ said the biped, ‘but I never thought to see one so close.’

‘You should be scared of me.’

‘You’re well caged. And your master is kind.’

‘I know seven hundred different ways to purge your neural net.’

‘I will live on in the Totality as memory. Something like your poor, sad fetches.’

‘Those cripples are nothing to do with me.’

‘Be quiet, Fist,’ said Jack. And then, to the biped, ‘Do you think you can stand up?’

‘Yes.’

Jack put an arm beneath its shoulders and supported it as it tried to rise. It tottered slightly as its leg unfolded and stiffened, then stood firm. ‘That’s better,’ it said. ‘Can you walk?’ Jack asked. It took a couple of experimental steps.

‘Just about.’

‘Then let’s get you home.’

[ This really goes against my programming, Jack,] grumbled Fist as they disappeared from the alleyway, the biped leaning against Jack as they went.