Xenoform (23 page)

A more pressing matter asserted itself then – Whistler needed to pee. She resisted the urge to force her company on the two buttonheads and instead left the lab and headed up the stairs to the big room, where items of business such as pissing and eating could all be attended to, utilising the respective areas set aside for such activities. The room was cavernous and deserted.
Nobody else up,
she thought with some disappointment. Bright yellow light enforced perpetual day up here, illuminating islands of junk that had lain untouched for years mingled with areas of furniture that the team used every day. On the lower level piles of rubbish – old paint tins, vehicle parts, rusting hunks of arcane machinery, reels of cable and hose, boxes of outdated storage media, decaying bales of somebody else’s paperwork – filled the furthest fifty metres of space, entirely blocking what had once been a large factory door but was now a heavily-reinforced wall. On the nearside of
crap alley
, as Spider had dubbed this minor wasteland, was a large area that served as some sort of living room, with assorted sofas, coffee tables, stereo and holo-projector. The impression given was as if somebody’s house had fallen down around them and they had simply dragged the remaining pieces of furniture out from under the wreckage and replaced said items atop the heap of debris, then attempted to continue with their normal lives.

Double doors led away from this living area to a large bathroom. Doors on the opposite wall led into a smaller, even less user-friendly storage space. An old flight of metal steps connected the main floor to the smaller mezzanine that housed the kitchen. Whistler looked up at it longingly. Had she been a buttonhead she could have mentally started the kettle boiling and toast toasting while she went to the toilet, but meathead as she was it would have to wait.
First thing’s first
.

She moved through the dusty gloom silently on bare feet, to the bathroom. She went into one of the cubicles and relieved herself, then washed her hands and face in one of the large basins. It was made of real porcelain, its surface crazed but clean. She turned to an airspace defined by a bright blue holo-field and let the intelligent air blades dry her hands and face. The cleanliness was good, if a little localised. She decided to allow herself a bath later.

She headed back into the big room and bounded up the stairs to the kitchen. The steps banged and clanged beneath even her slight weight, filling the deserted room with echoing noise. Whistler set the kettle going and began the task of locating a mug. They had never managed to install a smart drinks system for some reason – maybe because Tec, who would otherwise have done it, didn’t actually drink hot drinks. Whistler hated to use disposable vessels, refused to have them in the base.
Although
, she thought, ransacking the cupboards with increasing irritation,
I could bloody use one now
. She turned, empty-handed, from the cupboard as the kettle was rattling to the boil, and her gaze happened upon one of Spider’s reeferette ends that was propped on the edge of a plate on the central counter-top, breadcrumbs and ash scattered around it liberally. Whistler’s brain apparently re-prioritised the morning’s agenda based on this new find, for she found herself sitting on the bench and smoking the reeferette almost before she knew she was doing it, having apparently acquired a lighter from somewhere.

The dope was strong – unusually strong – and, on an empty stomach, slightly nauseating. The world, already oddly unreal this morning, took on the shallowness of an image printed on translucent film, or an incredibly intricate stained glass scene. It looked, mused Whistler, almost unbearably fragile. She took another drag. The tobacco was dry and it burned incredibly hot – she began to cough in dry punches that pressurised her head around the temples. When she finally could, Whistler stubbed the end back onto the plate and ground it vengefully into nothing. Her eyes were watering and the coffee seemed more urgent than ever. If only she could move.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her –
bang, clang, bang
– making her start. Spider, grinning broadly, came striding onto the mezzanine, huge boots ringing off the metal floor. One side of his neck was speckled with rubbery data spots like adhered leeches, and his expression was tired but typically good-natured. ‘‘Sup, sleepy-head?’ he asked over one shoulder, already at the counter and making coffee with mugs that two of his arms produced from seemingly nowhere.

‘How did you do that?’ asked Whistler, broadly indicating the drinks-making process as a whole and the sourcing of mugs specifically with a vague sweep of one arm. She was spinning out a little.

Spider turned, one thick eyebrow arched. ‘You fuckin’ stoned?’ he asked.

She fought vainly for some cutting remark, scrutinised intently by Spider as she did so, then settled simply for, ‘Yes.’

‘I bloody thought so,’ he agreed, turning back to the counter. ‘Coffee?’ he asked without looking.

‘
Please.’
See
, she thought,
all things come to she who waits
.

He poured two mugs, handed one to Whistler and sat at the table opposite her with his own. He took a sip of the scalding coffee, wincing at the heat. Whistler pulled her mug to her and cradled it like a sleeping child, delicately breathing its fragrant steam. ‘You met Debian yet?’ he asked, turning on an audio news feed by DNI. The monotonous voice of the bias-free-certified virtual being newsreader scratched away in the aural background.

Whistler sipped her coffee and began to feel better so immediately that she knew some of the effect must have been psychosomatic. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Who is he?’

‘Some guy,’ said Spider, searching on the tabletop for something. ‘You smoked my one, then,’ he said with no surprise, relaxing back onto his seat.

‘Sorry.’ Whistler found that she was grinning. It was good to be home, rested, high and sitting here with Spider, whom she had always found amusing.

He noticed her beaming face. ‘State of you,’ he commented simply, fumbling a packet of smokes from a pocket and shaking a new reeferette out of it. A tiny butane flame flickered on his claw and he drew deeply on the reeferette. ‘Might as well make a morning of it, eh?’

‘Why not,’ agreed Whistler. ‘So who’s the guy? He was in Tec’s lab when I got up. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of geek mating ritual or something, so I left them to it. Quite good-looking, in a way.’

‘Don’t get any ideas, you.’ He fixed her with a stern eye but amusement glinted in there too. ‘You know about business and pleasure. He’s some hacker. Quiet type, strange sort of fella. Couldn’t find much to say to him, if I’m honest with you. He thinks there’s something wrong in the net, says some sinister organisation is after him. Jalan sent him here for help. He was shot with a solid round, but he’s been patched up and it looks like he’ll be okay.’

‘What sort of help does he want?’ Whistler took the offered reeferette and began to smoke it, alternating drags with sips and feeling better all the time.

‘Shelter from these people who are after him, lab facilities. It’s pretty much Tec’s department so far. He seems trustworthy. They’re gonna try to pry some funds from one of his accounts, but until they do, we remain unpaid. Seems the only problem with the arrangement so far.’

‘We have to charge top dollar for this shit, Spider. I don’t like it. Is this shadowy organisation real? If so, then this could be pretty dangerous for us, right?’

‘Tec thinks the danger to Debian is probably real. The danger to us is another matter, of course. With HGR backing we’re pretty much untouchable, barring one or two renegade police forces, naturally. I don’t think we need to worry.’

‘If he’s...er...’ Her mental train slid slowly off the tracks and crashed into a metaphorical ditch. ‘Er...’ She handed the reeferette back to Spider, who laughed at her. ‘What was I saying? Oh yeah – if he’s right about the danger, is he right about there being something wrong with the net?’

‘I dunno – could be. I’ve certainly been having some grief with the mag-rifle. It had to do an auto update and it’s been fucked ever since. I’ve been up half the night with it.’ He tilted his chin to indicate the spots dappling his neck. ‘Tec can’t make sense of it either. Also, Junior’s been acting fuckin’ weird. I dunno – if the problem is with the net, it seems minor so far. Little things.’

‘We had trouble communicating with the van the other night, and Tec couldn’t get us either. Seemed odd to me. Maybe something really is up.’

‘Well Debian certainly thinks so. He thinks he might have been partially responsible in some way. You’ll have to ask him. I don’t know much about it – as I said, it’s Tec’s show, really.’

‘Yeah, I will. Any food?’

‘Tins. As always. Not many.’ Spider’s face distorted in exaggerated disgust.

‘
Fresh
food.’

‘Oh, yeah, actually there’s fake eggs and real bread in the cupboard. Go for it.’

‘Thanks.’ She went to the cupboard on shaky legs and fumbled the required items from its otherwise empty depths. She brushed a pad with her fingertip and a hob ring glowed to life. She dropped two synthetic eggs into a pan and two slices of bread into the toaster. The thing was supposed to be automatic but nobody ever reloaded the hopper and, faithful to tradition, Whistler didn’t do so now. The audio stream rattled on. Sounded like bad news all round: stock prices falling, public computer systems grinding to a halt, a minor bank in its death-throes. She stopped and leaned against the edge of the counter-top, listening as the eggs spattered and hissed in their pan.

Spider was listening, too. Their eyes met. ‘Maybe there is something to what this Debian says. Listen to that shit – it’s madness.’

‘Computer problems everywhere,’ mused Whistler. ‘All of a sudden.’ In her mind’s eye an image began to replay itself, but an image that had nothing to do with computers: Vivao’s blood pooling on the dirty floor of his flat, separating into two distinct colours, flecks of dust and debris caught in its slow currents. She felt her good mood slipping. ‘Hey, Spider, this other thing with the greenshit...’

‘So what happened with that? Sofi said you guys found the surgeon but she wouldn’t really speak about it. Because she couldn’t be arsed, not because it was a sensitive subject, was the impression I got. I ain’t seen her since.’

‘It’s fucked up,’ she sighed. ‘Unsurprisingly enough.’ She plated the toast without bothering to butter it and slid the eggs from the pan on top of it. Her stomach growled as she took the plate back to the table. These new synthetic eggs were surprisingly close to the real thing, if you could get over the fact that they came in plastic bubbles rather than eggshells. ‘He didn’t understand where it’s coming from either, though he had a few guesses for us: could be one of the drugs they use leaving people prone to some sort of infection, some virus targeting people with mods, or some sort of glitch in the nanovat software used to grow parts.’

Spider looked up. ‘A computer glitch,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Whistler, suddenly unable to eat the forkful of food she had lifted to her mouth. She let it lower slowly back to the plate. ‘A fucking computer glitch. I want to talk to this Debian. What, precisely, does he think is up with the net?’

‘I’m not sure
– something about an AI. Dunno what’s so bad about it, though – I mean, AIs are all over the net, right? Worryingly, he did
keep using the phrase
unprecedented power
. If he’s right...’

‘Then maybe this fucking AI of his could be planting the greenshit infection in people.’

Spider swallowed heavily, the reeferette burning away unnoticed in one shiny claw. ‘Why?’ he breathed. His eyes were glassy. Whistler could only shake her head.

The newsreader on the satellite feed said: ‘...the infection that has been termed Genetic Degenerative Disorder, or GDD
. Health authorities assure us that nobody has died directly from it but that it is important that
any
recent bodymod implantees report at once to the nearest hospital emergency department. The government has agreed to meet all hospital charges for check-ups and treatment related to the infection, having labelled the situation a
Category-A Public Health Concern
, an action not taken since the
orbital flu
breakout that killed nearly three million citizens. Famed think-tanker and health lobbyist Jackson Jilletti issued a press statement saying,
‘If you suspect anything wrong after recent body modification, my advice is don’t just get pissed and forget about this one, guys. Sounds serious. Go to hospital
.’ The government, despite their usual protestations at Jilletti’s choice of phrasing, took the unusual step of fully backing his statement. Some people are suggesting that the recent rash of mutant sightings is in some...’

‘World’s going fuckin’ crazy,’ declared Spider, mentally turning the feed down and shaking out another reeferette. Whistler could find no argument to this.