Xenoform (43 page)

He repeated the vow he had made to himself –
I will have my vengeance, I will kill Blake and Ramone, and I will escape
– but it sounded less convincing to him than ever. He was starting to see disturbing visions of a future in which he died of starvation in this tiny cell, strapped to this damnable wheel, while war raged across the city outside. How long since the Freak had entered his room? An hour? He thought that sounded more or less right. A long time for nobody to come and check on him. Things must be getting worse outside.

A vile smell was on the air, he noticed – faint, but gradually strengthening. He thought at first that the stench was coming from the remains of the Freak, but he soon discarded that idea. There was something
strange
about it, as well as repulsive. It was like rotting vegetable matter and bile, organic yet somehow chemical-tainted. Soon he could taste it as well. Spider tried to clear his throat and spit the vile taste out, but his mouth was completely parched. Maybe thirst would kill him first, he decided. Wasn’t that what they said would happen? How long could you last without water, again? Three days? He wasn’t sure.

After another hour of faint screams, gunfire and explosions in the distance, Spider would almost have welcomed the re-appearance of Blake and Ramone. Somebody in a nearby cell began to pound rhythmically and mindlessly on their wall:
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
It was a sound, he decided, that could rapidly drive an already-teetering man insane. He shut his eyes tight, as if by doing so he could also shut his ears. The banging continued, each repetition making his head swim. Nobody else passed his cell door. The twisted hulk of the Freak seemed to fill the room, somehow larger than its mere physical dimensions should allow. After a while he began to feel as if it was looming over him, bearing down on him, defiantly alive and malevolent.He would have embraced death now, he decided, if only he could have had a cool drink of water first. He tried to de-focus his mind, let it go blank, and waited. Nobody came.

Debian and Tec followed Sofi into Whistler’s room, where an old man with eyes of pure black sat upon a futon mattress beside a metre-long robot shaped like a praying mantis. The old man was drawing deeply on a cigarette and Whistler was leaning against a chest of drawers, clearly waiting for everyone to arrive. The room was a complete mess – clothes and ammunition everywhere – and Debian was mildly surprised that Whistler, seemingly so well-organised, lived like this. The room’s usual occupant was looking deeply unsettled. She was chewing her lower lip with her small, pointed fangs, her icy eyes darting restlessly around. She looked as if Get-Up was the most nutritious intake her body had received in the last few days. The lighting was low, set to emergency to preserve generator fuel – a scattering of dull red embers that made the room feel like a bunker in a war-zone.

‘Come in, guys,’ Whistler said unnecessarily as Sofi, Tec and Debian shouldered their ways into her room. ‘This is Roland, the gun trader. Who Roberts and Spider went to see?’

‘Yeah, sure, hi,’ said Debian. He found himself reaching out to shake the man’s hand and wished he hadn’t when it was coldly enclosed in a grip of fleshless bone. For a moment those jet-black eyes looked into his own. A shiver ran down his spine, but he thought he hid it quite well.

‘Meechoo,’ said Roland. ‘Shit sure is crazy out there, fellas. Some weird, bad stuff going down.’

‘I know, we saw some of it, man,’ said Tec, not offering his own hand. ‘Nice robot. Not affected by the virus? You sure it’s safe?’

The robot sat up, cocking its small triangular head at the mention of itself.

‘Yeah, seems okay. Damn rust bucket’s pretty much as normal,’ said Roland, tapping ash into an old coffee mug on the floor. ‘So far.’

‘I fail to see why you need to denigrate me in this manner, frankly,’ said the robot, a trifle prissily.

‘See?’ asked Roland. ‘Fucking thing sounds like my wife.’

‘Ex-wife,’ said the robot
sotto voce
, settling back sulkily.

‘Right, guys, Roland has some news for us,’ interrupted Whistler. ‘I’ve waited for you all to be present. Debian, I think you have the right to hear this, too. Something bad is going down here, and until we’re either out of it or dead we’re all in the same boat. You’re paying us for protection, and I’ve decided that your being kept informed is a part of the service.’

‘Er, thanks,’ said Debian, catching her eye. Beneath her worry and exhaustion she looked more stunning than ever, as if she was somehow thriving on extremity. She was not exactly his type, of course – allegedly violent and possibly unhinged – but he was a little touched by her trust in him. New thoughts began to filter into his head, mixing with and colouring those already swirling there. A small, questioning part of his mind wondered what new trial he was about to be involved in. He silenced it.

‘No worries.’ She managed a wan smile. ‘Shoot, then, Roland. Gang’s all here.’

‘Ari found your van.’

‘
The robot?’ asked Tec. ‘
What
?’

Roland nodded. ‘Ari gathers intel for me, y’know? It ain’t just guns I deal in.’

Whistler’s face was wide-eyed, alarmed and anxious. ‘
And
?’ she demanded.

‘Ari misused its initiative, as I allow it to do. Interrogated your vehicle’s computer, despite some resistance from it. I hope you not offended.’

‘That’s hardly the issue, is it?’ answered Whistler, a little sharply. ‘What did the logs show?’

‘Bad news, I’m afraid. Fellow with the scar – Roberts? – was killed in a skirmish with RPC troopers.’ He exhaled a smooth stream of smoke, his face grim.

There was a collective intake of breath followed by a silence that fell like a suffocating blanket, deep and oppressive. The harvesters exchanged dumbstruck looks. Clearly, although they had been warned of bad news, they hadn’t expected this.

‘
Dead?’ asked Sofi, as if this was a foreign word that she had never heard before. She tried it out again: ‘
Dead
?’

‘I’m sorry, but yes. Ari says the vehicle couldn’t have stopped the killing, I’m afraid. Seems the computer was off at the time – Ari had to switch it on remotely to talk to it. Video cam was running on mechanical, independent.’

‘What!’ yelled Sofi, moving towards Roland. Debian saw that her fists were clenched. ‘This is so much bullshit, Roland! No way, no fucking way!’

‘Sorry, but it seems to be true,’ said Roland, not flinching from her. His tone was gravely serious. ‘Ari took the logs straight from your van. Don’t shoot the messenger, eh?’ Sofi shuddered, as if the anger had been suddenly purged from her body, and relaxed. She began to shake her head slowly from side to side as if she could refute this news into non-existence. ‘Lucky that Ari bumped into your vehicle, I think,’ said Roland softly. He looked to Whistler, who was slumped against the wall, limp and stunned, her eyes distant. She looked like she’d been gut-punched. ‘Yes. And also, all is not lost. The other man – Spider? – he lives still. At least he did.’

Whistler looked up now, her eyes alive again, cold and bright. ‘Where?’ she demanded.

‘I–’ began Debian, uncertainly, unsure how to explain what had just happened to him, unsure of how much he should even tell them. ‘I saw–’

‘They took him,’ said Roland, overriding Debian completely. ‘We pretty certain they took him to Resperi HQ. Pretty certain.’

‘The answer is about to be provided for you,’ Debian muttered under his breath. He laughed softly, a humourless sound that nobody else noticed. How did the AI know these things? Because, as it had said, it had eyes and ears everywhere. What a power to possess, the combined and centralised resources of the net, answerable to only one entity. Maybe two. Maybe. Debian’s gaze was drawn to Roland’s robot. It stared back at him levelly, making him wonder if the knowing glint in that stare was inferred or actual. Eventually Debian had to look away. ‘He’s safe,’ he said aloud. The chatter died around him as this time the others took notice. ‘Spider’s safe. Well, not safe. But alive for now, at least.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Whistler. ‘Did you find something?’

Debian rubbed his head, feeling the ghost of the AI inside it like distant white noise. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty weird in the net, pretty messed up. Something catastrophic is happening in there. But I found Spider. They were going to interrogate him surgically, but it, er...Well, I guess we, er, I stopped them.’ Images of the shredded flesh of the Freak flashed across his mind’s eye and he shivered. He imagined Spider still there in that room, knew that time was against them. Would –
could
– the AI protect him further? ‘He’s alive for now, I know that much. At least, he was alive when I disconnected. If he is at this police station then we need to get him out. And soon.’ It occurred to him how thoughtlessly he had used the word
we
.
Two sides
, he thought.
A choice
.

Whistler nodded, the faintest shadow of a smile on her lips, and Debian thought that he was seeing her inner self shining through now. She was staring intently at him, and he thought he read both admiration and suspicion in that steady, icy gaze. And also a twinkle of excitement, as if something inside her relished the proposition of forcibly retrieving Spider from RPC, maybe enjoyed the thought of vengeance. And why not. ‘Yeah,’ said Whistler in a far-away voice. ‘Let’s get him.’ The smile was floating to the surface now, feral, and the points of her fangs showed whitely in the shadowy room.

‘
Fuckin’ right,’ wheezed Roland, heaving himself to his feet. From within the folds of the old man’s coat emerged the most improbably large rocket launcher, seemingly appearing in his bony hands by magic, actually making Debian jump. The weapon whined as its systems came online and LEDs lit up along its barrel. How the hell had he concealed
that
? ‘Me and Ari brought some toys.’ He laughed – a dry, popping sound. ‘With just that eventuality in mind. Show them, Ari.’

The robot moved across the bed, in a graceful ballet of limbs, to a large, nondescript holdall that had lain unnoticed on the floor. It gripped the zipper in its two foremost claws and opened the bag, a little showily, Debian thought.

‘Toys for the boys,’ it said. It cocked its head at Whistler. ‘Girls, too.’ It held the bag open for them to see inside. They gathered round and peered in at what was clearly a hand-picked assortment of serious equipment from the gun trader’s stock. A jumble of lumpy metallic shapes lay heaped inside. Debian, certainly no expert, thought he identified a plasma thrower and a shuriken launcher amongst them. Serious non-civilian kit. The shuriken launcher was a military weapon designed primarily for jungle warfare. He whistled through his teeth. The old guy was clearly in with some heavy people.

‘Bloody hell, man,’ said Tec in awed tones. ‘Is that stuff safe to use?’

Roland shrugged, hefting the rocket launcher nonchalantly. Clearly its weight was at least partially borne by suspensor. He leaned over to deposit his cigarette end in the mug. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Some of the shit I seen on my way here, who knows? But we got no chance without some emphatic persuasion.’

‘Besides, he has a gun fetish,’ said the robot, doing the bag back up deftly. ‘If you hadn’t noticed.’

‘One more thing,’ said Whistler.

‘What’s that?’ asked Roland.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Helping? Guess I got some spare time on my hands. Anyway, what else am I gonna do? I ain’t actually affiliated to any gang, and Haspan’s dead, apparently. My usual support network fallen apart overnight. I was getting a bit nervous staying there just waiting to see what goes wrong next. Your guys said come round if I wanted, and when Ari found the van, well, I sorta had to come, right?’

‘And also,’ said Ari, ‘that gun fetish. It’s too compelling for him.’ Roland kicked the machine, but only playfully. He looked as if he might break his leg if he tried too hard. Ari skittered away from him and took up a petulant lurking station in the corner.

‘Can I trust you?’ asked Whistler.

‘Can you trust anybody? Look, I leave you the guns on long-term and you go it alone if you want. But me and Ari, we pretty good in a fight.’ Despite his clearly advanced years nobody doubted the truth of this. The man projected a subtle but dangerous vibe.

‘They killed my friend, Roland. I’ve known Roberts for fifteen years, since I was little more than a kid. He was family, near as. A killer, okay, but a good one. A good man. And I am going to get my remaining friend out of RPC HQ. I will shred anything or anybody that gets in the way. I need to trust you. Fuck with me, or let me down – just the merest hint of the slightest intention – and you get gunned down.’ She smiled, slow and vulpine. ‘This is my show, all mine. Just so we’re clear.’

‘Trusted you, didn’t I?’ he asked softly. He didn’t sound at all offended. Debian guessed that Roland came from a scene where suspicion was a healthy business practice, the first layer of interpersonal defence. ‘I ain’t asking for anything back. I kill an RPC-man for fun, any day, any week. For you, I kill ’em all. Guess I like you, some reason.’