Rising Sun (6 page)

What do I think? The idea that Vienne is jealous makes my heart soar, but I’m not about to spill my guts to Pinch. So, instead, I examine the hole in the splinter. “She’s using full metal jacket rounds.”

“To be precise,” Mimi says, “three-thirty-eight magnum rimless bottlenecked center-fire cartridges.”

“Mimi, aren’t you supposed to warn me when I’m in danger?”

“You were in no danger,” she says. “Based on the available data as well as our combined experience, if Vienne had intended to hit you, you would be dead.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” I say.

“My purpose is to provide information, Cowboy, not to provide solace.”

“Thanks for clarifying that.” I unlace my hand from Pinch’s and tell her, “Maybe it’d be better if we weren’t so—”

“Cuddly?”

“Demonstrative.”

“Afraid the Sidewinder’s actually going to shoot you?”

“Nope. Afraid she’s going to shoot
you
.”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

“You don’t know Vienne,” I say, “I once saw her take down a Mahindra brigadier from over three hundred meters. Didn’t even bat an eye.”

“I’m wearing symbiarmor.”

“So was he.” I touch the base of her skull. “The bullet hit the sweet spot. Blew his head right out of his helmet.”

Pinch steps away from me. “You’re a handsome hunk of man flesh,” she says, “but not worth taking a bullet for. I’ll have to find another way of yanking the Sidewinder’s chain.”

“You make a habit of buggering off expert snipers?”

We turn to the left, down the main street—if you can call a mud-pit path wide enough for four people to walk abreast a street.

“Not so much,” she says. “This is different. I don’t like the way she looks at Aziz. Just like you don’t the way Aziz looks at her.”

Point taken. “That’s bad,” I say.

“What is?”

“That noise.”

Pinch cups a hand to her ear. “Nothing. Not a sound.”

“Exactly.” I scan the alley. It’s empty. All of the shacks are empty, too. The only noise is a tugboat horn sounding on the river. The stink, however, has faded. “They’re setting up an ambush.”

“That didn’t take long, did it?”

“The faster the better for them,” I say. “We studied urban guerilla warfare in Battle School.”

“Stow it.” She touches the handle of a combat knife hidden under her coat. “I’ve got no use for school lessons.”

“Wait,” I say. “They’ll show themselves.”

“If we’re lucky, you mean.” Pinch is starting to feel antsy; I can tell by the way she pushes a lock of red hair out of her face. Sweat beads on her brow and her upper lip, which she wipes with the sleeve of her coat.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You don’t strike me as the nervous type.”

“I don’t like being out in the open,” she says. “Makes me feel exposed.”

“No worries. Vienne’s got us covered. As you may have noticed, she can shoot the wings off a fly.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a whole lot more than one fly, innit?” She nudges me and nods toward a latrine at the end of the alley. “Movement.”

“Roger.” I note the target. “Keep walking. Casual, like. Until we can get a visual.” As we move down the alley, I ask Mimi, “Can you do a quick scan of biorhythmic signatures in the area?”

“Affirmative,” she says. “The scan will be complete in approximately sixty-two seconds.”

Too slow. I need that intel now.

Sixty-two seconds later, Mimi says, “Biorhythmic scan has detached an entity ten meters on your twelve. From the rapid heart rate, I can postulate that it is—”

“A little susie,” Pinch says, pointing.

Without hesitating, I turn toward her.

“Wait.” She grabs my arm. “It could be a trap.”

I shrug. Of course it is. “That’s the whole point.”

When I reach the child, she’s cowering against a wall. Her hair is matted. Her face is dirty, except from two tracks running from her eyes. She has no shoes, and the thin nightdress she’s wearing is so threadbare it’s almost translucent.

“Hey.” I squat before her, but she scoots back, terrified.

“Not a good idea,” Pinch warns me, but I don’t look back at her.

“My name’s Durango,” I ask the susie. “What’s yours?”

No reply. Just wide eyes filled with terror. Her lips are cracked and her stomach bloated from starvation. I touch my empty stomach and realize that I have no idea what real hunger is.

“Hey,” Pinch calls, her voice tight as a wire. “Not. A. Good. Idea.”

“She’s half starved.” From my coat pocket, I take out the tea biscuits I nicked. Her eyes go wide. She snatches them, then disappears through a hole in the tarpaper. “See, she just wanted food.”

“Oh, Dur-
ango
,” Pinch says, sing-song. “Wobblies on our si-
ix
. Turn aro-
ound
.”

I stand and turn. Surrounding us, guns drawn and ready to fire, are a couple dozen
đibui
. They look as malnourished as the child, but instead of fear, their eyes are filled with hatred.

I raise my hands. The wobblies herd me and Pinch together so that we are back to back.

“You got wax in your ears?” she says.

I grin. “Told you I knew what I was doing.”

“That makes one of us,” she says, hands in the air.

The wobblies part, and a thin man with juggish ears, a long neck, and a black unibrow walks up to us. Circles. Sniffing like a scavenger deciding if the kill is still fresh enough. “Frisk them!” he barks.

The
đibui
grabs at bodies. Pulling, yanking. Tearing the clothes that hide our armor. They find Pinch’s combat knife but get nothing from me.

“Nada else on ’em,” Krill,” one of the
đibui
says as he delivers the knife.

Krill grunts and slides it under the cord he uses for a belt. “What you doing in the Warren?”

“We came to buy,” I say, trying to sound scared.

“Too confident,” Pinch whispers. “Whine.”

“Liar!” Krill howls. “You’re eyes ain’t the pinkish.”

“Take anything you want,” I say, making my voice crack as I whine. “Just don’t hurt us, please.”

Krill smacks me across the face. “
Đibui
take what they want. Don’t need no pretty boy’s permission.” He runs a filthy hand through Pinch’s red hair and licks his lips. “As for hurting, the Razor’ll be deciding how much pain you get.”

Chapter 4

The Warren
ANNOS MARTIS
238. 2. 3. 17:58

With the
đibui
screaming and chanting so loud my ears ring, Pinch walks before me, her hands tied behind her back. I drag my feet, taking blows from Krill, who keeps pounding my shoulder blades with butt of a blaster.

“When I get loose,” I whisper to Pinch, “I’m going to shove that blaster down his throat.”

“You still curse like a cobber,” she whispers back. “Try
Himmel, arsch und Zwirn!
”

“
Himmel, arsch und Zwirn,
” I whisper. “Mimi, got that?”

“Affirmative, Cowboy. The phrase is stored for later use. Would you like me to translate it into Common?”

“No, thanks,” I say. “I can pretty much figure it out.”

“There’s also
Fick dich in Knie
,” Pinch says.

I say the phrase, and Mimi stores it. We repeat the process again and again until Krill shouts, “Shut up! No more yak!”

Pinch smirks as he pushes us, driving us down the alleys until we reach our destination—the Razor’s hideout. It sits atop a semiconical volcanic hill with three steep sides. A rickety staircase winds up front of the hill, leading to a cobbled-together deck. In the middle of the deck is a slapdash shack made of tarpaper and sheets of corrugated metal. It’s been painted bright blue.

Inside the shack is where we expect to find the target.

Krill calls ahead to the
đibui
standing guard. “Tell the Razor that Krill has brung him some prezzies.”

A rumble of thunder shakes the sky. Above us, black clouds roil, coming together in one of the flash storms that make this part of Mars so inhospitable.

“That sounds ominous,” Pinch says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I hate rain.”

“I meant the presents bit,” she says. “I’m not chuffed about getting unwrapped.”

As we reach the door, the wobblies stop. Then spread out to form a perimeter. Krill pulls open a corrugated-metal door.

“Keep them here,” he snarls, and moves out of sight.

Time to locate our target and trip this snare we’ve built. “Mimi, do a scan of biorhythms in a six-meter perimeter.”

“My current capabilities are restricted to a three-meter perimeter due to the mass of bodies,” she replies. “Will you grant permission to access neuronano functions to increase capacity?”

“Granted,” I say. “Just get on with the scan.”

“Before I proceed,” Mimi says, “I am obligated by directives to state the warning that access to neuronano functions may lead to unintended consequences.”

“You’ve got permission to do whatever you have to do. Just hurry.”

“Affirmative. I will do whatever I have to do.”

Krill returns to the door. “Inside!”

The wobblies shove us forward. I trip. Bump into Pinch. Who staggers back against Krill. He shoves grabs her by the coat, then does the same to me and shoves us both inside. We land on our knees in a dark room lit by a LED bulb on a thin wire hanging from the roof.

“Stay!” Krill screeches.

“Strong for a malnourished alley rat, isn’t he?” I say.

Pinch cracks her neck. “Looks like one, too.”

Rain beats down on the tin roof. The Razor’s headquarters is little more than a tacked-together room sixteen by sixteen with a metal floor, metal walls, and tarps separating the rooms. The windows are covered with empty aminos sacks. A rickety table. A rickety chair. One man seated on it. Using a deck of playing cards to build a house.

This must be the Razor.

One look, and I know where he got the name. From a scar running from ear to ear across his throat. His face is hardened and unshaven, but he looks familiar. Where have I seen his face before? Medici said he was
dalit
. Could I have served with him?

“Negative,” Mimi says. “I have mapped his biorhythmic signature and compared to my database of all of your known acquaintances, and you have never had a significant relationship with this person.”

“Fanbloodytastic! You can do that?” I say. “Since when?”

“Since you granted permission to access neuronano functions. Doing so has greatly enhanced my capacity to take advantage of the advanced telemetry in your symbiarmor, as well as allowing me to access and compile previously inaccessible data.”

Oh,
Arsch offen
, what have I done?

Before Mimi can answer, the Razor
says
, “
Welcome.”

I shrug, pressing the mic hidden under my coat with my chin, opening a channel to Vienne. “Thanks,” I say. “Fancy meeting you, Mr. Razor.”

“What sins,” the Razor says, “would you like to confess before you die?”

In the room on the fifth floor of the
ryokan
, Vienne pulls back from her scope. Durango and Pinch are in the shack. The
đibui
are still lounging around, waiting for action. Only the one with feathers on his head, the one who pushed Durango and Pinch inside, seems anxious. He’s leaning against the shack, listening, trimming his fingernails with a combat knife. Military issue. That makes him dangerous. And the prime target.

Her earbud buzzes. Durango’s voice comes across the channel.

“Fancy meeting you, Mr. Razor,” he says, like it’s a big joke. Will he never grow up?

“What sins,” comes a deeper voice, “would you like to confess before you die?”

Bingo.

She touches the mic looped over her ear. “Target marked. I’m in position. Call the shot.”

From the windows of a shack on the main causeway leading to the Razor’s hill, Aziz dials in on the penthouse using pair of omnoculars. He watches the
đibui
with the feathers manhandle Pinch and shove her inside. The face is familiar. What’s he called again? Something to do with fish. Krill. That’s it.
Well, Krill, you’re going to get some payback very soon—if you’re still alive when I reach that hill.

Then the Sidewinder’s voice comes through his earbud. “Target marked. I’m in position. Call the shot.”

“Confirmed,” he says, pressing his mic. “Keep eyes on target.” He closes the channel, then buzzes Sarge. “Move into position!” For a few seconds, there is no answer. “Sarge! Do you read?”

Sarge is leaning against the inside of a latrine. He hocks a loogie and spits into the pot.

Aziz repeats, “Sarge! Do you read?”

Sarge lets out a loud belch. “Yeah, I read. Did you read that?

“The window is open!” Aziz commands. “Move out, soldier!”

“Roger that,
Chief
.” Always in such a carfarging hurry. Somebody ought to explain that this ain’t the military no more. It’s every blaggard for himself.

Sarge grabs a glass bottle from the wall. He barges out of the latrine, drinking from the bottle. He staggers down the alley until he reaches the end.

He looks up.

The bright blue shack.

Pay dirt.

He turns for the stairs. “Look out, Turtle and Pinchie. Sarge’s about to put on a show.”

“What sins would you like to confess before you die?” the Razor says, flashing a coy smile at Pinch.

Death and coy smile. The two don’t mix. “Sins?” I ask.

Razor
turns his attention to me
. “
That’s what I said.”

“I don’t believe in sin,” I say. “Just in keeping your word.”

Razor returns to the house of cards he’s building. “You are a proud man. Pride goeth before the fall, they say, and I have always found it to be so.” He places two cards together to make a V on the layer below. He raises an eye to Pinch. “What’s your opinion on the matter?”

“Let loose of me,” she says, “and I’ll confess any sin you want. Even make up a couple for the nonce.”

“You have no pride at all,” he says, looking away from her. More cards. A loud noise outside. The Razor’s elbow shakes the table.
“Who sent you?”