Sons of the Crystal Mind (Diamond Roads Book 1) (4 page)

“The New Form Enterprise?”

She is hungry for a fight but I hesitate. The NFE are just too convenient an enemy.

“We don’t know enough yet,” I say. “What about Mum and Dad’s mission files?”

“Anton won’t give you those,” Ursula says.

I feel Keris’s energy inspire me.

“What’s Bal going to do after the merger?” I say.

“He doesn’t know. He’s actually worried he’ll be seen as a mummy’s boy with no real power.”

“What if we were to give him a job now?” I say. “As Director of Security.”

“So Anton reports to Bal,” Ursula says.

“And Bal will do what you say.”

“And I will tell Bal to give you the mission files.”

“Make sure Bal knows his new job was my idea,” I say.

“I will,” Ursula says, “although I don’t know why we don’t just go after the NFE and nuke the little orange fucks.”

“Because there’s something else, something that doesn’t make sense.”

“What?” Ursula says.

“Mum and Dad were hit at the same time, right?”

“Yes.”

“I can believe the NFE might have noticed Dad following them but how the hell did they find out about Mum?”

4

The party venue is a huge golden saucer spinning slowly between the floor and ceiling of a great dark chamber whose walls are studded with multicoloured lights. The venue is spectacular more for its size than anything else but that’s VIA Holdings for you. The saucer has several ways in; Ursula’s ifarm opens one of the upper entrances and we fly through.

Beneath us the assembled party guests are arranged in casual lines of influence. Someone shouts; the tops of heads morph into upturned faces which register Ursula’s arrival and homogenise at once into appropriate expressions of delight. Although the saucer shell spins, the floor remains stationary so I bring the flybike down at a steep angle and people step back a little too fast. I deliberately cut the deceleration; we bounce off the floor and then skid to a halt, the flybike’s nose turning satisfyingly at the last moment.

“Nicely done,” Ursula whispers.

She leaps off the flybike and strides into the crowd. As it closes around her I let go of the joystick and climb off. I click DEPOSIT and watch the floor absorb the flybike. My account goes up by just 7,889 kilos because the patent owner keeps 2% of the transaction. The patent owner is Centria as usual, although if I worked anywhere else the transaction percentage would be 10%.

I need to meet Balatar Descarreaux’s people to discuss how tonight’s material should be managed. They will have something to say about our entrance but for now I can’t face it. Instead I go straight to the bar, where the barman regards me for a moment. A body language expert, he will be able to work out the right drink for the occasion and then back his decision up with access to various files on me, some of which I’ll know about and others I won’t.

The barman looks at a point on the bar between us. A glass grows there, squat and heavy as if the pale amber liquid now filling it needs a strong container with an inlaid metal design like a spell. The barman nods and moves off. I lift the glass.

“You’re not actually going to down that are you?”

There is an immersive recording based on a film from the Old World, in which rocks fall endlessly down a cliff into a deep shaft. The voice beside me sounds rather like that, if the shaft had been lined with velvet. I turn.

For a moment everything goes quiet and still.

His smile gleams above me like an ivory wall and is even more impressive against his very dark brown skin. I sense whether I down the drink or not will make no difference to his amusement; the laughter in his eyes is a trickster’s energy rejoicing in its capacity for trouble. Creases in his cheeks parenthesise that smile, which implies he knows me, doesn’t mind my faults and even likes them. His tightly kinked hair appears to have just won a fight with itself and hangs in little dreads while a small moustache and chin beard make him look wicked, so wicked. His large hands rest on the bar. They look like they could snap it in two.

White people can easily become black but something in this man’s humour tells me he is the real thing. I can also tell his beauty is not the result of surgery. Like Ursula’s, there is something slightly ridiculous about it you couldn’t make up.

The man’s clothes are unlike anything I’ve seen. Black and slightly worn, they look heavy but clearly don’t weigh him down. They creak slightly as he moves and a strange smell comes off them; almost shocking but rich and weirdly familiar. His clothes are Old World! A blue shirt under his jacket hangs freely over a waist that’s much slimmer than those brute shoulders. I know if I touch his stomach it will be a hard grid of ebony muscle. I wouldn’t just touch it though; I’d jab it, scratch it, bite it…

What’s the matter with me? I can’t let him think he can tell me what to do. Turning away I pick up the glass but my fingers don’t work properly. I concentrate so I won’t smack myself in the mouth or fall over and manage to get the drink in. I swallow it and for a moment everything seems okay but then the stuff begins to burn.

I feel enervated and detached.

No! This drink was meant for a different occasion, an occasion that did not involve the man beside me. Things go a bit blurry. I wait for the effects to pass so as not to reveal them; I will then allow myself to look at him again, as a reward. When my eyes regain their focus I gather my composure and turn back.

He’s gone. My head snaps around in one direction and then another with involuntary desperation. I don’t even know his name! I could have scanned him for it but that would have been rude.

I glare at the crowded room. Soft music pulses and light blooms in different colours over the gorgeously attired crowd. I see Ursula laugh in Balatar Descarreaux’s arms as the beautiful couple bask in the smiles and well wishes of everyone around them.

Like Ursula, Balatar is tall and his blond hair is a striking contrast to Ursula’s gleaming dark tresses. Bal whispers in Ursula’s ear and makes her laugh while seeming to make eye contact with everyone in the room. Unlike Ursula, however, Bal’s appearance is clearly the work of a surgery patent. He looks too perfect. His jaw is too square, his eyes too blue. It’s a nice effect but my sister outclasses him.

The plan of the recs taking footage of the event was sent to me yesterday and I close my eyes to look at it. Hmm. Expansive rather than imaginative, with fewer vix opportunities than I would have liked. Typical VIA.

A message appears: Ellery wants a key image immediately even though the evening has only just begun. I fret for a second but fortunately Ursula and Bal laughing together right now is exactly what we need. I wonder if Ellery is psychic. She seems to intuit what everyone in Diamond City wants before they do, although I sometimes think she understands people without really caring about them.

“Charity.”

The voice is French-accented, sulky and charming. I open my eyes to see Loren Descarreaux. The slim, seemingly ageless Chief of VIA Holdings wears a glittery yellow scallop-fronted gown and her usual expression of a woman glad to have been caught doing something naughty.

“Is Keris Veitch here tonight?” Loren says.

“No, sorry, ah…”

The question is unfair and Loren knows it but she continues to watch me expectantly. There is an uncomfortable pause. Loren absently twiddles one of the dagger tips of her shiny copper bob as it points towards her delicate chin, the movement appreciative rather than nervous. Her fingers are long, the nails sculpted into talons and lacquered orange, purple and gold.

“I thought she would be here, considering,” she says.

“I don’t – I’m not sure what her… What she’s doing tonight,” I say.

I wait for Loren to help me out. She is not usually this ungenerous.

“We will soon be like sisters, Keris and I, as you are with Ursula,” Loren says eventually.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you two are so different, as I am from Keris, non? But this merger will bring us all closer together.”

Loren smiles and reaches over to stroke my cheek with the tips of her talons. The sensation is unexpectedly soothing.

“Relax!” she says.

“Okay, yes.”

“Always working,” she says. “You should have some fun.”

“Well, it’s a great party.”

“Of course it is,” Loren says.

“No it isn’t,” Balatar says.

I didn’t notice Loren’s son walk up to us. He hasn’t got his mother’s seductive accent; his voice is standard, like everything else about him. He smiles as he looks everywhere but at me, his eyes icy with rage and his voice tense with polite contempt.

“You’re supposed to be her secretary,” he says to me. “Do something.”

“But what is wrong?” Loren says.

“That,” Balatar says through clenched teeth.

I turn. In the centre of the crowd, Ursula dances with the man from the bar.

“Charity,” Loren says, “think of the weather.”

She’s right. I am going to be up all night sorting out this mess. The man from the bar twirls Ursula around like a doll. Ursula doesn’t laugh the way she did with Bal; instead she’s got a hungry look. That’s not good.

“What’s his name, that black man?” Loren asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Send Ursula a message,” Bal says. “Get her to scan him and let you know who he is.”

I should have thought of that. Bal’s eyes narrow.

“You like him,” he says.

“No I don’t,” I say, too quickly.

I chew at my lips and swallow. Loren watches me, her expression uncomfortably similar to Bal’s. I have to keep their trust, or in Bal’s case earn it. I can’t let some ruffian mess up my career no matter how handsome he is or how like a god he moves.

Yet I don’t send the message. The seed hidden under the skin between Ursula’s eyes will scan an identical device on the man from the bar. Ursula will then send me the message, my seed will pick it up and the name will appear on my eye screen.

I don’t want to learn his name like that. I want to be told in that beautiful voice. I want him to sweep me away.

I turn to Bal.

“Leave it with me,” I say.

I send a message to the Musician, whose six arms cause the music and light to begin fading. I then forward Bal a short speech he was supposed to read later and he grunts to indicate receipt. He walks towards a central podium; when he reaches it and steps up the music disappears completely. Bal begins his speech as I reach Ursula, grab her arm and turn towards the man from the bar. He’s disappeared again.

“Stop throttling my elbow,” Ursula says.

“Who was that man?” I ask her.

“I don’t know.”

The crowd cheers something Bal has said.

“What’s his name?”

“He didn’t say.”

The crowd laughs at a joke I wrote for Bal.

“Did you scan him?”

“Charity Freestone! Where are your manners?”

The crowd applauds Bal.

“Why are you such a tart?” I ask Ursula.

“Dunno,” she says.

I shove her towards Bal and it takes all my self-control not to kick her arse. Instead, I cross to some unoccupied tables, sit down and watch the scene for a while. Ursula and Bal laugh, the man from the bar is nowhere to be seen and the energy in the room feels correct as once again the event moves through its proper sequence.

I close my eyes and sink into the ifarm. It’s immediately clear a lot of people have followed Ursula’s antics and want to know about the man from the bar. I activate a series of automated programs with faux personalities of their own that disseminate a message about the man from the bar being a friend of mine from the past, a past I will now have to invent.

Maybe he could help. I could hire him and he could pretend to have been my partner. Of course, if anything actually was to happen between us then, well, I’m not sure what I would do. I send Ellery a message that says I am going to find the man from the bar and get him to do some work for us. She responds with a blank approval note. I open my eyes.

The man from the bar sits on the other side of the table.

“You!” I say.

“Me,” he says.

“You caused a lot of trouble tonight.”

He stares off into the distance behind me and nods sagely.

“Hmm,” he says. “I tend to do that.”

“What’s your name?” I say.

“Just scan me.”

“No.”

“Why?” he says.

“It’s rude.”

He laughs, a big sound that should mock but doesn’t.

“So if I’ve scanned you does that mean I’m rude?” he says.

“Have you?”

“Scan me,” he says, “And I’ll tell you.”

“I will not.”

Despite everything I laugh. We look at each other for a while.

“I’m Charity Freestone,” I say, finally.

“Charity Freestone,” he says, savouring my name in that rich voice.

“Do you know who I am?” I say.

“No. Who are you?”

“I’m Ursula Freestone’s sister.”

“Ursula,” he says, handsomely confused and totally uninterested.

“She’s the People’s Princess!”

“A princess you say?”

“She’s way out of your league, mister.”

“Oh, I can get any woman,” he says. “I’m like gravity.”

“Well you’re not getting me!”

There is an awkward pause.

“Right,” he says, embarrassed.

Oh no…!

He gets up.

“Nice to meet you Charity.”

He walks through the crowd and out of the door. I sit and watch him go as if paralysed.