Crashing Heaven Page 5

  Chapter 7

  Kanji Square was at its busiest. People bustled in and out of bars, queued to enter nightclubs, or just staggered randomly up and down ’ti Bon Ange Street. Most were talking and laughing. Some danced, twitching to beats that only they could hear.

  [ Now that’s done, we’ll find Andrea,] said Jack.

  [Stalk her, you mean. And anyway, how? We don’t know where she lives, where she goes.]

  [ The old-fashioned way. We’ll visit all the places she used to perform, and we’ll keep going till we track her down.]

  Jack was standing in a brilliantly lit, manically driven entertainment district, surrounded by flaring light, pulsing beats and fashion-crazed teenagers. East and the Twins ruled here, showering thrills on their acolytes, tossing out loyalty points by the score. But Jack was offweave, so he saw only blandly identical buildings, lit with blandly identical light, full of blandly identical people. Perhaps the weave sigils changed with each face and façade, but he was not machine enough to scan each one and differentiate between them.

  The only people who stood out were the sweatheads. As long as they took their drugs in private, they could move at will through the city. Every so often he’d spot one, stumbling through the crowd. They were invisible to all but him, deleted by overlay. It was easy to see why people would rather not see them. The drug had bitten at their faces, removing noses or chewing through cheeks. Tattered clothes covered most of the deeper damage. Some were still in relative control of themselves, but most staggered and shook as they went. Occasionally, one would tug at a sleeve, or pull at an arm. There’d be a whispered request for money, made close enough to its target for a touch and a voice to break through obscuring weavecode. Most people froze and did nothing. Some would move to brush away the supplicant, risking physical contact and further overlay breakdown. A very small minority would wave a little cash into the sweathead’s account.

  Above Jack, the spinelights flicked from evening to night. He quickly realised that, offweave, he couldn’t even tell nightclubs from bars or theatres, let alone read individual billings to see if Andrea was performing. Her act had always been deliberately retro in feel. He spent a while wandering at random, hoping that she might have decided to advertise herself with words that he could read – a poster stuck to a wall or a flyer handed out to one or other of the club queues that he passed. Perhaps that was all the advertising she was doing nowadays, explaining why Charles hadn’t been able to find her. He wondered if he might even recognise one of her friends tottering out of a venue, or just bump into Andrea herself. But there was no trace of her anywhere.

  [ This is a waste of time,] grumbled Fist. [ Why can’t we just ask someone?]

  [ You’re only offweave if you’re a criminal. You saw what happened in the café last night.]

  But after more fruitless searching, Jack gave in and tried to talk to people. Most ignored him, treating him as if he were some new, deceptively healthy form of sweathead. Three stopped and listened until they understood what he wanted them to do. The first person told him to fuck off. The second ran. The third threatened to report him to InSec.

  [OK, Fist, let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll try again tomorrow.]

  [ Well that IS a relief.]

  A long walk back to the Wound, and Jack found himself again striding past the little Twins café – empty now, not even a haven for lost Grey acolytes. There was an alleyway just next to it, leading back into darkness. Muffled shouting erupted from it. Jack paused and took a couple of steps back.

  [Can you see that, Fist?]

  A couple of Sandal’s wheelie bins half-blocked the view. Beyond them, Jack could just make out sudden, violent movement. A raised hand, gripping a piece of piping, disappeared sharply downwards. A strained voice, dense with static, shouted ‘Help!’

  [ Jackie, that’s a biped – no, don’t!]

  Jack pushed the bins aside and threw himself into the passageway. It was so much darker than the street.

  [Come back! You’ll get hurt!]

  That made some stubborn part of Jack want to damage himself. But he’d have to live with the consequences too. He ran forwards. Wet concrete was slippery underfoot. Damp had corroded brickwork. Empty walls stretched up and away. There was a smell of piss. A girl and a boy – not even teenagers – were standing over a fallen biped. Violet light glowed feebly out of its head. It had pulled itself back into a doorway, curling up in a weak attempt at self-protection. One arm waved feebly. The boy pushed it aside and brought the lead piping down again. It hit the victim’s chest and sank in. The biped groaned. ‘Fucking squishy,’ said the boy. The girl kicked the prone figure. It squeezed a little further back into the door. The soft light it cast illuminated its attackers’ tired faces and exhausted clothing. Neither of them noticed Jack.

  [ Well, if we must,] grumbled Fist, resigning himself to helping Jack. He hissed combat options. [ Take the boy first. Twist his throat out. The blood panics the girl, she runs.]

  [ For gods’ sake. You know I won’t do that. Just manifest.]

  [ What?]

  [MANIFEST. Lightshow. Blow their little minds.]

  A crack and a flash of light, and the two attackers turned, surprise becoming shock then fear. Jack stood there, a bright point of light hanging next to him. That point began to grow, emitting whiplash cracks of brilliance. Fist’s cage expanded into dark bands, made silhouettes by the vivid luminosity that they contained. There was one last great crackling burst, then all was silence. The cageware rings revolved slowly and deliberately. Within them hung the little figure of Fist, apparently lifeless.

  Then they blurred and shimmered and vanished, and the little puppet looked up. The attackers gaped at his red-painted cheeks and lips, dead glass eyes, perfect little hairpiece and perpetual grin. His body floated beneath his carved face like an afterthought dressed in a blue-grey suit, a starched white shirt and a little red bow-tie. He clacked his mouth open and shut twice, the snap of wood on wood echoing down the alleyway. Then he roared in fury:

  ‘I’LL EAT YOU ALIVE, YOU LITTLE FUCKERS!’

  The two children stepped back, first slowly, then more quickly.

  ‘I’LL TEAR YOUR OVERLAY OFF YOU! I’LL KEEP YOU OFFWEAVE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIVES!’

  Now they were turning, now running. They reached the corner of the little alleyway and the boy was gone. The girl stopped and looked back.

  ‘Puppets don’t scare me!’ she shouted. She suddenly seemed terribly young. Another pulse of light from Fist and he was next to her. She stood there unmoving. He leant in, a dream of wood almost touching real flesh.

  [ Just tell her to go, Fist. Try not to scare her too much.] Uncomprehending silence from Fist. [ Remember how young she is.]

  The girl’s eyes widened, unsure of what Fist would do next. Her hand trembled up and she touched the cageware, as if to make sure it was real. It flashed, and she snapped her hand away as if it had been stung.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted the boy. ‘We’re done here!’

  The girl was still frozen, staring at Fist.

  ‘He’s right,’ whispered Fist, leaning in towards her, his voice soft with barely controlled rage, ‘you really are. RUN!’

  At that she broke and was gone.

  Jack was leaning over the figure in the doorway.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘They took me by surprise.’ The static that clogged the biped’s shout was a little less pronounced at lower volume. ‘The male kicked my voice box,’ it explained as it rolled over. Its head was a blank oval of nanogel. Light indentations represented eyes, nose and mouth. Its neck was a round metal collar. Its attackers had torn a black poncho away from a softly-moulded body. One of its legs was bent awkwardly beneath it. Jack went to help it sit up.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They jumped me, pulled me in here and started to beat me.’

  ‘They’ve gone now.’

  ‘The funny thing – I’m running full diplomatic
weaveware. It should have been impossible for them to attack me.’

  Fist was floating at Jack’s shoulder. ‘Their weaveports are stunted,’ he said. ‘I had to force them to see me.’

  ‘Strange,’ said the biped. ‘It was racially motivated, I am sure.’

  ‘Race?’ said Fist. ‘You’re not a race. You’re machines. Just like me.’

  ‘Hush, Fist,’ said Jack.

  ‘I’ve heard of creatures like you,’ said the biped, ‘but I never thought to see one so close.’

  ‘You should be scared of me.’

  ‘You’re well caged. And your master is kind.’

  ‘I know seven hundred different ways to purge your neural net.’

  ‘I will live on in the Totality as memory. Something like your poor, sad fetches.’

  ‘Those cripples are nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Be quiet, Fist,’ said Jack. And then, to the biped, ‘Do you think you can stand up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jack put an arm beneath its shoulders and supported it as it tried to rise. It tottered slightly as its leg unfolded and stiffened, then stood firm. ‘That’s better,’ it said. ‘Can you walk?’ Jack asked. It took a couple of experimental steps.

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Then let’s get you home.’

  [ This really goes against my programming, Jack,] grumbled Fist as they disappeared from the alleyway, the biped leaning against Jack as they went.

  Chapter 8

  The biped was also staying in the Wound. ‘There’s less interference there,’ it said. They stumbled back to its hotel in silence. It insisted on buying Jack a drink. He turned down the offer of a whisky. The shabby bar was empty. Music played from exhausted speakers. Each song was a tinny parody of itself, a sketch waiting to be filled in by weave-delivered content.

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask,’ said the biped, once they’d sat down, ‘I thought everyone here was onweave? But those children …’

  Its words were clearer than they had been. Repair systems had done their work. The poncho hid its body, but its head was uncovered and glowed gently in the gloom. It was how an alien moon might look, if softly lit by a dying sun. The nanogel it had been carved from was translucent. Jack could make out the bar beyond it, its outlines blurred and made ambiguous as if seen through a badly scuffed lens.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jack. ‘I haven’t been on-Station for seven years. They’d never have slipped off the net back then.’

  He tore the top off a sugar sachet and poured it into his coffee, stirring the white powder into the murk with slow, deliberate strokes. The mug warmed his hands when he picked it up. He swigged at the black liquid, letting the heat run into his mouth and down his throat, savouring the hard touch of reality. Because he was offweave, it barely tasted of anything. Fist sang out in his head, [Caffeine this late keeps us both up.] Jack shut him away.

  ‘And you’re not onweave yourself ?’ asked the biped. Jack didn’t answer. ‘I’m sorry, that was tactless of me.’ Silence grew between them again. ‘Thank you for helping me just now. Not everyone would.’ Jack shrugged. ‘And may I ask one more indelicate question?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘You’re a puppeteer? I hope you don’t mind the word.’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘There are hardly any of you left.’

  ‘There’s only one – me. And two puppets – Fist and Mr Stabs.’

  ‘Mr Stabs? He doesn’t have a human counterpart?’

  ‘He did. David Tiamat. But you know what happened to him.’

  There was a moment’s silence. The biped stiffened as it accessed the relevant records. ‘I’m sorry,’ it said. ‘It always seemed best to cripple ships, rather than kill their occupants. We assumed he’d be rescued quickly.’

  But Tiamat hadn’t been. His ship had drifted alone for too long. Unable to bear the solitude, he’d handed himself fully to Mr Stabs, dying gratefully as the puppet took full possession of both his mind and body. The story had become a favourite with the other puppets, passed between them like a talisman.

  ‘Your intentions were good,’ said Jack. ‘You can’t be blamed for the Pantheon’s carelessness.’

  ‘They’ve been careless with you, too. You don’t have long before …’

  The biped shifted in his seat and looked down. Jack assumed the movement was meant to communicate awkwardness and pity.

  ‘Three months until Fist’s licence runs out,’ he said. ‘Then he’ll own my body. Just like Mr Stabs does Tiamat’s.’

  Fist cackled in Jack’s mind.

  ‘You can’t revoke the terms and conditions?’

  Jack smiled sadly. ‘Another file you need to access,’ he replied. ‘The removal systems were part of the last puppet management facility, in high orbit around Mars. It held all the puppets that had been stripped out of their puppeteers, and all the systems that extracted and then supported them. It was all vaporised towards the end of the war. The hardware and software designs were lost too. So there’s nowhere I can go to get him taken out of me, and no way of building a new facility to do it.’

  ‘But why can’t things carry on as they are now?’

  ‘I don’t own Fist – I just hold a seven-year usage licence for him. When it ends I can’t return him to the Kingdom subsidiary that looked after the puppets, so some pretty stringent penalty clauses kick in. What remains of the company is empowered to seize any or all of my assets, up to his replacement value. Puppets are very sophisticated, so they’re worth a lot. And I’m a homeless, godless traitor, so I’m not. Which means the company gets the only real assets I have left – my body, my mind. And there’s nothing left of the company but Fist. So he’ll own me, unconditionally and absolutely. And as soon as his corporate management systems register that, they’ll move to fully occupy my mind and body.’

  ‘Can’t Fist stop them?’

  ‘Not even Kingdom could. It’ll happen automatically. There’s no way of changing that.’ Jack paused for a moment. ‘Not that Fist would want to, of course,’ he finished, unable to hold bitterness out of his voice.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said the biped. ‘And there’s definitely nothing else of the company left?’

  ‘There were rumours that six unmounted puppet embryos survived, but nobody’s ever found any trace of them. No systems for them to survive on. So there’s nowhere else but Fist to go but,’ and Jack tapped his head, ‘here.’

  Fist winked into existence, letting the biped see him too. ‘He’s stuck with me now, squishy!’

  ‘We’ve talked about this before. Don’t use that word.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Jack went to slap Fist, but the puppet was too quick. By the time his hand reached him, Fist had disappeared. ‘I’m sorry,’ Jack said. ‘He can get a bit out of hand.’

  From the depths of his mind, a voice echoed up – [ I’ll out of hand you, Jackie boy …]

  ‘Not an easy time.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack. ‘Not at all.’

  Two young women tumbled into the room and rolled up to the bar. Both were wearing tight white T-shirts and shorts, spattered with weave sigils. Jack wondered what they became when they were seen by their target audience. They turned and caught sight of the biped. One of them shrieked. The other started giggling. The first one hit her friend, then shouted: ‘My brother. You took my fucking brother.’ She stumbled towards them but her friend pulled at her and stopped her. There were incoherent accusations and tears.

  ‘Such a shame that so many believe we were responsible for that atrocity,’ said the biped, turning his head away from the girls.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack.

  ‘Pantheon propaganda. You have nothing to apologise for.’

  The barman was leaning over the bar, whispering urgently to the women. They staggered back out into the street. The barman glared at Jack and his companion.

  ‘You see,’ said the biped. ‘That’s what should have happened when
I was attacked.’

  ‘Didn’t her friend stop her? And the barman?’

  ‘They were reacting to my weaveware. It flashed up a warning. If anything had happened – InSec would have arrested them, he’d have lost his licence.’

  ‘I guess the kids that attacked you don’t have anything to lose.’

  The biped nodded. ‘You can’t threaten people like that,’ it said. ‘We know that from experience.’

  ‘So, for your diplomatic protocols to work – you must be onweave, then?’

  ‘We have to be.’

  ‘I’d have thought the Pantheon wouldn’t have let you.’

  ‘We like to be permanently linked to each other. The Pantheon understand the need for it. It’s written into the ceasefire agreement.’

  ‘So why didn’t you call InSec?’

  ‘I did. They can be a bit slow responding to Totality calls.’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘It comes with the job. And I should introduce myself. I’m a human interface element. IS/2279A0E2/BE/HIE/Biped/723CI4. It shortens to Ifor. I identify as male.’

  ‘Ifor,’ said Jack, reaching out. ‘Good to meet you. I’m Jack Forster.’

  Tiny schools of light shimmered through Ifor’s head as he shook Jack’s hand. Memories carved through Jack’s mind. He thought of how Fist could shock nanogel, make it flare up and burn as he broke the intelligence it embodied. Those colours were strident, the patterns they made harsh. Ifor’s subtler, unpanicked display showed surprise and excitement.

  ‘You’ve heard of me, then?’ said Jack.

  ‘Oh yes. We were all very impressed by you.’

  ‘I did nothing heroic.’

  ‘You saved one of our most valued hubs.’

  Deeper memories awoke in Jack. He’d stumbled on the snowflake Ifor was referring to on a routine ’roid patrol. It was the first time he’d been out since the death of his mother. He didn’t sleep much. Whenever he dreamed he would find and then lose her, over and over again.