Crashing Heaven Page 2

  Kingdom’s visuals were always minimal. As the architect of humanity’s presence in the Solar System he liked physical structure, the heart of his power, to be exposed. So, the iron would have been left to show through the weave. Sandal’s offices would have been glossed with an overlay of smiling faces and positive thoughts. He was responsible for cargo, docks and related transport logistics. He liked to show how important he was to the smooth movement of goods and services, and so to general human happiness.

  And of course six Pantheon icons would be watching over Docklands from far above, clustered around the Spine and backlit by spinelight. Five of them would be fully aware, tending visibly to their enclosed world.

  Only Grey’s raven would be blinded and hobbled. Station’s master corporate strategist had been silenced for years.

  Being offweave, Jack could see none of this.

  [ I’m sure you’re not missing anything,] said Fist, his thin, high voice singing in Jack’s mind. The little puppet had run a dozen paces ahead. The rain was falling through him. He looked back at Jack, varnished eyes gleaming excitedly out of a glossy painted face. [Come on!] he shouted. Then he clapped his wooden hands together twice and disappeared beneath the elevated rails that crossed the end of Calle Agua. There was something almost innocent about his excitement. As Jack followed him beneath the single high arch that supported the bridge, carefully avoiding puddles, a train bumped and swayed over it. Light flashed down, showing buildings that were already a little lower and less imposing. He turned towards Hong Se De Market. Fist was standing on the pavement just ahead of him, staring at a figure that was looking up at a warehouse.

  [Look at that, Jack! A Totality biped. He’s far from home.]

  [ If he’s identifying as male, he is. Otherwise, she is.]

  [Pedant. What’s it up to?]

  The rain shimmered off the biped’s dark poncho. It was about the height of an average human. After a few seconds it turned away from the warehouse and moved down the street, stopping when it was in front of the next building. As its head moved to stare upwards again, its hood slipped. It had no face. Light glowed out of a soft blank oval, tinting the wet night purple.

  Fist was all hungry fascination. [ If I wasn’t caged,] he muttered. Jack crossed the road to pass the biped. Fist ran after him. [Snowflakes out there, squishies in here,] he panted. [ I don’t know what things have come to. No wonder your customs friend was so unhappy!]

  [Don’t call them squishies, Fist.]

  [ I don’t see why not. I don’t mind being called a puppet.]

  As they approached the market, gloomy metal facades gave way to ramshackle assemblages of plastic, tin and canvas, barely holding together as the rain lashed them.

  [Docklands’ biggest market? It’s a dump.]

  [ It’s better when you’re onweave.]

  Jack remembered dancing words hanging in midair, enticing passersby into market booths. Ghostly data sprites touched at potential customers with viewer-appropriate fingers, whispered viewer-appropriate promises, displayed viewer-appropriate genitalia and hinted at viewer-appropriate wonders – on sale NOW! By contrast, reality was sodden and heavy, a failure to be anything but its tarnished, non-negotiable self.

  The booths were all closed, but some of their weave systems had been left running, beaming content into the darkness. There were men and women – sometimes in groups, sometimes alone. They all stood rapt, dreams dancing like whispers around them.

  [Don’t let any of them see you.]

  [ I’d give them such a scare,] cackled Fist. [ I wonder if they’re watching the same thing as the squishy?]

  [ I doubt it. The Totality aren’t weave fans.]

  [Look at that fellow!]

  An old man was standing in front of a particularly rundown group of stalls, smiling beatifically at the rain. One hand hung at his side. The other was inside his trousers, tugging at himself. There was a dark hole in the centre of his face where his nose had fallen in. Jack started. He’d forgotten how brutally sweat could degrade its users. Nobody else was reacting to the sweathead. Their weaveware would be actively masking his presence.

  Jack began to walk more quickly. Hunger bit, intensifying the cold and the wet. Memories of Andrea haunted him, more persistent than any sprite. She’d loved hunting through the market for bargains. He so wanted to make new moments with her, sharded with fresh joy. He’d worked so hard to make sure that rage and bitterness wouldn’t corrode them. He pulled his coat closer around himself and shivered. There was so little time left. Another train hummed by, slowing for Hong Se De station.

  The streets emptied as they left the market behind and neared the Wound. Jack let its deeper, more impersonal history distract him from Andrea’s absence. Centuries ago, a stray asteroid had gouged into Homeland’s outer skin. The district whose streets and buildings sat just over the damaged area, hugging Homeland’s curved interior, had been renamed to commemorate the event. Kingdom’s architects had built down into the gash, creating buildings whose lower floors saw out through it into space. The Wound attracted people who wanted that kind of view. It became popular with the dockers who worked on the edge of the void, and the spacers who spent their lives travelling through it. Few of them would be out at this time of night. Most were sleeping, shattered by the brute physicality of their working lives. There was little need for nightlife in the neighbourhood.

  Fist announced that he was bored. He started pulling himself back into Jack’s mind. [ Find us a hotel,] Jack told him. [ Then we’ll start looking for Andrea.]

  [ How?]

  [ We’ll search.]

  [ I can’t go onweave yet. I haven’t broken all the security glyphs.]

  [Shit. How long till you’ve got full access?]

  [Perhaps a week, probably two. This fucking cage.]

  They kept walking. After a few minutes a Twins weave sigil announced a café. Soft light spilled out of its window, turning falling raindrops into streaks of fire. A ventilator whirred, filling the cold night with the hot, beckoning reek of frying oil. Jack pushed through the door, hoping for food and help with a weave-search.

  A woman and two teenage boys were hunched over a zinc bar. The woman was finishing some soup, spooning green liquid carefully into her mouth. A hood hid her face. She was clearly a deep spacer. Her right arm had been held at Customs House, leaving only a bright metal socket attached to her shoulder. A long cloak covered the rest of her. Her crutch was leaning against the bar. Jack wondered if they’d also confiscated one of her legs. Sandal’s officials must have reasserted a Pantheon limited tech use licence. Such licences no longer applied in the Totality-controlled regions of the Solar System. Jack wondered if she’d be able to replace her limbs when she returned home.

  [ They strip the limbs from good honest working folk. Shocking!]

  [ That’s the Pantheon for you. You never own anything. You just license it from them.]

  The two teens displayed Grey logos, carefully stitched into bandanas. One went to cover his up. The other glanced at Jack. ‘It’s OK, he’s not InSec.’

  [ Your old boss still has some supporters. Impressive pair!]

  ‘I want food. Something hot and quick,’ said Jack, taking a seat at the bar. ‘And I’m looking for a hotel. And a friend.’

  ‘You can see the menu. And do I look like a search engine?’ the barman snapped back.

  ‘I’m not onweave.’ Now Jack had his attention. ‘I’ve only just arrived on Station. Sandal certified me safe.’

  ‘There’s a hotel a couple of streets away, left then right. But if you’re not onweave you can’t pay for a room. Or food. Not that you’d taste it anyway.’

  ‘I’ve got money.’ Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash card.

  ‘That’s InSec. The kids were right. You are police.’

  There was a muttered ‘shit’ from the teenage boys.

  ‘No,’ replied Jack. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘You’re on parole, aren’t you?’ ask
ed one of the teens.

  ‘Worse than you fucks, chasing your traitor god,’ the barman told him.

  ‘Oi, watch it – they never proved anything.’ The teen’s friend hushed him.

  ‘Kingdom believed Grey was knowingly helping terrorists, East reported it all, that’s enough for me,’ replied the barman. ‘And you’ – turning back to Jack – ‘you can get out. I don’t know what you’ve done, but if it’s enough to get you offweaved I don’t want you in here.’

  One of the teens whispered, ‘Probably a skinner. Coming down hard on them just now.’

  As Jack left he heard the barman say ‘scum’.

  [ I’ll have him for every shilling he’s ever earned. I’ll mail pictures of him screwing a six-year-old to everyone he’s ever met. By this time tomorrow they’ll have thrown him out of his life and he’ll be begging on the fucking streets,] whispered Fist, his thin, high voice a malevolent whip cracking inside Jack’s head.

  [ No you won’t,] Jack thought back. [ You’ll remember what would happen if you got caught and you’ll do what I tell you.]

  [ Yes, that’s always worked out so well for us, hasn’t it?]

  [ Fuck you, Fist.]

  Chapter 3

  The hotel was easy to find. A half-broken sign spat sparks at the night every time a raindrop hit it.

  [ Very vintage. Andrea loves this sort of thing, doesn’t she? Shame you’ll probably never get her here. Could be quite the love den.]

  [Don’t be so sure, Fist.]

  [ Remember all that counselling you did when we found out I’d be taking over? What was that thing they said was so bad? Ah yes. Denial.]

  The door refused to open. Jack barged it with his shoulder and it flew back. A bell jangled too loudly. The reception area was dimly lit. A plastic counter pretended to be wood. At first Jack thought that the desk clerk was a young man, but when he got closer he saw that age had carved lines in his face. There was something very boyish about his greeting, though.

  ‘Oo, hello! Dear me, you’re soaked. We’ll get you a room nice and quickly.’

  He stood up, swaying slightly. There was a sharp herbal scent in the air. Jack recognised Docklands gin. He’d not tasted alcohol for seven years. He’d forgotten how it could slur words, make a hand shake as it sketched patterns in the empty air.

  [ You should get some and celebrate being home.]

  [ No distractions, Fist. Especially not cheap shit like that. We’re here to find Andrea.]

  ‘Single room?’ asked the clerk, unaware of their conversation. ‘Staying how long?’

  ‘A few weeks.’

  Fist laughed. Jack thought of glass breaking in darkness. The clerk waved a hand, confirming the booking.

  ‘I need a deposit. Just mesh with our server.’

  ‘I’ll pay with this,’ said Jack. He slapped the InSec card on the plastic countertop. ‘Is that a problem?’

  The clerk looked at Jack, then back at the card, then at Jack again. ‘Well, I should be worried. But it’s a simply horrid night. And I’m sure you can’t have done anything too bad. I can trust you, can’t I? You won’t let me down, will you?’ He fumbled uncertainly in the air for a few seconds. Somewhere in the distance a buzzer rang. He sat down heavily, then reached for a glass and swigged transparent liquid. ‘The Twins would want me to,’ he muttered, to himself as much as to Jack.

  [Old soak,] said Fist.

  [ If he wasn’t so smashed, he probably wouldn’t be giving us the room.]

  ‘You know,’ slurred the clerk, ‘for a bit extra you can even have a view of the stars. And it’s not as if it’s your money you’re spending, is it?’ He giggled hysterically. Jack nodded. The clerk made a swooping gesture, nearly losing his balance. ‘That’s all done for you then. I’ll call the porter to show you to your room. I’m Charles, by the way.’

  ‘One more thing. Can you find a friend for me? She’s a singer, there should be gig listings.’

  ‘Can’t you just message her?’

  ‘I want to surprise her.’

  ‘Aha!’ Charles put a finger to his nose and winked heavily. ‘I see.’ But he couldn’t find any trace of Andrea. ‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. Fist giggled. ‘And here’s our porter.’

  An old man prowled into reception. His face was as battered as a mined-out asteroid. He had a hunchbacked stance to match. He didn’t offer to take Jack’s suitcase. Jack followed him out of the reception area through a door that was little more than a hole hacked in an iron wall. ‘Sweet dreams,’ Charles called after them. Then: ‘Mr Forster’s not onweave.’ The porter grunted in surprise.

  [Pisshead,] grumbled Jack. [ He probably spelt her name wrong. Or just didn’t see it when it came up.]

  They moved down a long corridor. Broken candelabras hung from the ceiling over a once-red carpet that reeked of mildew. There was an ornate elevator that looked like a cage, its bars encrusted with broken circuit boards. Jack made out a tattered Twins logo. Between them, they were responsible for everything from medical services and pharmaceuticals to food production and every kind of accommodation. They probably hadn’t given any thought to this place for a very long time.

  ‘Not working. Through here,’ spat the porter, indicating a door marked S RVI E.

  Jack followed him down several flights of stairs. Even in the Wound, having a room with a view meant descending far into Station’s crust. Metal steps clanked beneath the two men. A stream of water hissed down the middle of the stairwell, splashing them.

  ‘So what did they take you offweave for?’ asked the porter. ‘You can tell me, I won’t let on.’ Jack didn’t reply. ‘Go on, I won’t peach. I’m one of Kingdom’s, we always keep mum. What’s it like?’

  They were soon at the door to Jack’s room. There was another Twins logo on it, cheap blue plastic showing through scuffed gold leaf. The porter pushed against it. After a moment’s wait it recognised his touch and opened.

  The room’s windowless walls were grey. A few niches contained soft lights. Most were dark, bulbs gone and not replaced. A double bed squatted in one corner, a desk in another. There was a cupboard without any doors. A generic altar hung on one wall, ready to hardlink each new guest to their particular deity. The room was at least spacious. Jack put down his suitcase.

  ‘Minibar, bathroom,’ said the porter, pointing. ‘Touch your hand here.’ There was a white square on the wall by the door. Jack pushed his fingertips against it and it flashed.

  ‘The door’s set for you.’

  ‘Any room service?’

  The porter laughed.

  ‘What about opening the window?’

  ‘That’s extra.’

  ‘That’s not what Charlie said.’

  ‘Charlie’s smashed. Just pay onweave.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot.’

  The porter cackled to himself as he shuffled away down the corridor. [ I’d let you break his life, but it’s already broken,] thought Jack.

  [ I could take him lower.]

  [Can you crack the room?]

  [ Jack, this is a shitty room in a flophouse. If I was free I could crack every sodding rathole for half a kilometre without breaking a sweat.]

  [ Fist.]

  [ Yes, I can. It’s a local system. No need to go onweave, so it won’t trigger the cageware alarms. A minute or two, and I’ll own their server too.]

  [ No quicker?]

  [ The cage. It’s like wading through mud. Still, it’ll give you a minute to hang up your shirts and unpack your wash bag.]

  [Do it.]

  Fist flickered into being and went to work. Jack thought of him free and at war, a little black shape carved out of darkness, giggling as he shattered artificial minds in the voids beyond Jupiter. Now he was so much more limited. He moved to the centre of the small room and knelt down. ‘I just need to reach in,’ he explained, splaying his hands on the floor. He shimmered slightly, resources drained by the effort of breaking through his cag
e, then muttered ‘gotcha’. His fingers sank into the stained carpet, a visual metaphor for deep and subtle combat between invasive and defensive coding sets.

  The other puppets had always looked down on Fist. Grown on an accountant’s rather than a soldier’s mind, they’d perceived him as a flawed weapon, one rooted in barren civilian ground. Jack had had to deal with similar contempt from his own peers. In his own case, he’d had to admit that they were partially right. He wasn’t a trained soldier and he didn’t adapt well to military life. But he’d never felt anything other than deep respect for the ease with which Fist penetrated and subverted complex information structures.

  That admiration came from Jack’s sense of the limits of his own professional skills. He could read and understand commercial systems, even – to an extent – hack his way into and through them himself. He loved to follow number and data flows, reading the health of a company from the trails they left behind. But at an absolute level he lacked the carving fluency of engagement that was hard-wired into Fist’s deepest being. Not for the first time, he wondered what such intimacy with the abstract felt like.

  ‘Got the window,’ grunted Fist. Unreal ripples span away from him, rolling lazily across the carpet. They died to nothing before they reached Jack. Hidden machineries groaned into action, and the floor’s movement shifted from virtual to real. External blinds irised open. Suddenly Fist was kneeling on a rapidly expanding circle of stars. The pool of darkness spilled out across the empty room. He stood up, a little prince suspended above the kingdom he’d lost.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said happily.

  For both of them, it was a kind of homecoming, a return to the violent emptiness of space. Jack stepped forward and looked down. He was standing on the edge of the window, the point where scabbed flooring gave way to black infinity. For a moment he could pretend that he was no longer staying in a cheap hotel in the Wound, but floating between solar systems. Earth – ruined and abandoned – wasn’t visible. There were no snowflakes, only the hard, tiny stars, barely present in light millennia of void.