Crashing Heaven Page 8

  ‘Soon be king, soon be king, soon he’ll sleep and I’ll be king. Even Stookie Bill will bow, even Stookie Bill will bow!’

  That was a name Jack hadn’t heard since he’d been deep in the Soft War. Stookie Bill was a twentieth-century ventriloquist’s dummy. Humanity’s first ever television signal had encoded his image. When Fist’s fellow puppets found this out, they’d been unbearably excited. Their virtual ancestor became an obsession, almost an object of worship. ‘Simple-minded idiots,’ Fist had commented. But the cult of Stookie Bill had clearly had an impact on him, too.

  Jack shuddered. He didn’t want to let Fist know he was aware of this jarring moment of triumph. He pretended to grunt and then rolled over, so at least he didn’t have to see any more of it. He reminded himself that there was no escaping Fist, that the only alternative to working so hard to have a tolerable relationship with him was dark and painful, and would break the possibility of finding any sort of peace before the end came. And of course the puppet was a powerful tool. Jack needed his full cooperation if he was to have any chance of finding out who’d killed Andrea and Harry, and forced him into exile.

  At last, sleep took him, but Fist’s glossy wooden face haunted his dreams. The puppet’s false, grinning mouth clacked out soft, determined words. ‘Soon be king’ alternated with ‘soon be mine’, the two phrases chasing Jack through the night until his alarm rang and shook him back to wakefulness. Fist was perched on the end of the bed, watching. [Quite the disturbed night,] he said, his thin voice piping against the alarm’s harsh beeping. This time Jack did snatch at him and wall him up in darkness.

  He waited until late evening to set out for the Panther Czar. Docklands’ streets were pretty much deserted. Pedestrian workers had long since hustled themselves away from offices and factories. A buggy whined by, its electric motors straining at the weight of a trailer piled high with scrap metal. As he walked, Jack looked up at the Spine. He imagined Grey’s hooded raven, regretting that he wasn’t able to see it. He remembered hearing about Grey’s fall. The strange, vindictive joy that had filled him then pulsed through him once again. Perhaps soon he’d help bring down another god. He smiled to himself.

  After about three quarters of an hour they reached the Panther Czar.

  [So this hovelbox belongs to Pierre Ilich Akhmatov? The man who plots with the Pantheon? Fuck’s sake, Jack, if you can judge a man by his enemies you really did hit rock bottom.]

  The club was just across the road from them. It was a long, low warehouse, constructed from fluorescent yellow plastic sheeting. Words had been roughly hand-painted above a single pair of red double doors: ‘Panther Czar’. Teens and twenty-somethings jostled each other in a long queue, dressed in more or less artfully ragged weavewear. Some was noticeably high quality, flagging up modish Homelanders who were self-consciously slumming it. Several smartly dressed, thick-necked gentlemen kept the peace at the doors.

  [ Why didn’t you just raid the place?]

  [ We were setting it up when they sent me out-system. They needed me to finish making the case for it. That was a big reason why it never happened.]

  [Ooo – get you, Mr Important!]

  Jack waited for another buggy to pass, then started across the road to join the queue. Fist hung in the air for a second before bouncing after him, floating along like a children’s balloon.

  [Can you feel any of their core systems yet?]

  [ No. We need to get closer. Where the action is!]

  Fist’s voice was a gleeful, triumphant cackle. Jack wondered how far he could trust him. The little man was becoming more capricious as the change rushed towards them.

  [ Joining the crowds! Partying! My kind of night!] Fist chirped. [Champagne and oysters!]

  [ Remember it’s business, not pleasure.]

  They joined the back of the queue. Jack wasn’t too much older than the other clubbers. Most were wasted on drink or drugs. The club’s weave presence entranced them. ‘Oh, the panthers are beautiful!’ sighed a girl just ahead, her fingers kneading invisible fur.

  [ We’ve hit their security perimeter,] said Fist, suddenly more serious. A silence opened in Jack’s mind as Fist concentrated. [Let’s start by pretending we’re one of these bouncers. And ping the system for a headcount …] More silence, filled with thought. Then Fist yawned. [ This is far too easy.]

  [Don’t be complacent.]

  [Complacent? The only real challenge is staying awake. Anyway, there’s a couple of hundred punters in there and about twenty staff. Almost all on the ground floor and in the basement. Just one person upstairs.]

  [Could be Akhmatov.]

  [ Without any guards? I’m meant to be the one with the wooden head.]

  [Can you get what we need from out here?]

  [ No. The core commercial systems are on the first floor. They’ve kept them off the main club network. We need to be closer.]

  [Makes sense. Half the kids in there would be hacking them for free drinks otherwise.]

  The queue moved on. The club loomed above them, glistening dully in the spinelight glare. It was the colour of a cheap hangover. Every time the red doors opened to let more punters in, bass rhythms thumped out.

  [Almost there,] said Fist. [ Not too fussy about who they let in.] Jack reached into his pocket and fingered the InSec card. [Let’s hope you don’t get recognised, Jack. Wouldn’t want you getting bounced. Protect the meat!]

  Jack tried to watch the door staff without looking at them too directly. None of them were paying him any sort of attention. The camera cluster above the door glanced at him and looked away. Another minute or so, and they were through the red double doors. The bouncer didn’t want to know why he was offweave. ‘Just don’t start anything,’ he said. The girl in the ticket booth took Jack’s money without comment.

  [ I told you it’d be all right,] he said casually, careful not to let Fist know just how relieved he was. [Good thing it’s not one of Akhmatov’s classier joints.]

  They were in a black-painted corridor that smelt of cheap alcohol and cheaper drugs. Clubbers bustled past them and pushed through another pair of double doors. The corridor exploded with light. Music roared, higher frequency noise rounding out the simple repetitive beats they’d heard outside.

  [ THAT’LL BE THE DANCEFLOOR, THEN,] screamed Fist. [ NO CHARLESTON, DAMMIT!]

  [ NO NEED TO SHOUT, JUST NEEDS A BIT of dynamic recalibration. There, that’s it.]

  Jack started towards the doors. A soft but definite stickiness pulled at every step.

  [Akhmatov certainly doesn’t waste any money on keeping his carpets clean,] said Fist.

  [ Who’s around us?] said Jack. [Any more security?]

  [ No, the closest is the other side of the main dance floor. There’s some virtual muscle too, but we don’t need to worry about that.]

  [And the person on the first floor?]

  [ Hasn’t moved.]

  [ I think it could be him. Now, let’s get close to those servers.]

  The main dance floor was a ferocious transmedia vortex. Jack felt overwhelmed, and he was offweave and undrugged. An anonymity of clubbers leapt and bounced around him, gurning faces and shaking bodies blurring into one ecstatic mass. By the time he’d pushed halfway across the room he was sweating hard. Elbows hit his face and torso. Once they’d been all round the ground floor he was soaked and covered in small bruises.

  [Still no joy, Fist?]

  [Signal’s too weak.]

  [ For fuck’s sake.]

  They kept trying for about half an hour. Jack started to wonder how honest Fist was being. He remembered the previous night’s triumphant dance. Fist hadn’t seemed like someone who’d just agreed to something dangerous. Rather, he’d come across as someone celebrating the avoidance of any risk at all.

  [ Fuck this,] Jack said. [ We’re not getting close enough down here. We’re going upstairs.]

  Fist laughed. [ Well, I’m glad you’ve kept your sense of humour, Jack. We’ve done our best, this hasn’t wo
rked, what a terrible shame. We should leave now.]

  Jack set off for a set of stairs he’d spotted earlier. They were roped off and marked ‘Private’.

  [ Think you’ve got turned round, Jack. The exit’s over there.]

  [ I know exactly where I’m going.]

  [Come on now, Jackie boy, a joke’s a joke.]

  Jack shouldered his way through some particularly energetic dancers. One of them shouted at him, but the words were inaudible.

  [ You really mean it, don’t you? You’re a lunatic, Jack. You’ll get yourself beaten up. At best.]

  [ Just like when some of the prison’s biggest thugs came looking for me after your dodgy card games. It won’t be any worse than that.]

  [ But I didn’t know I’d be taking over then!]

  They were off the dance floor and into the corridor. Fist sulked in silence as Jack climbed the stairs. Halfway up, there was a landing.

  [ Think about Andrea!] wailed Fist. [ If you get caught, they’ll go after her too.]

  [ We kept our relationship secret. There’s nothing to connect us. She’s perfectly safe, whatever happens.]

  A disinfectant reek stung Jack’s nose. There were two doors marked with little barcodes, one shaped like a man, another like a woman. A third door had a little combination keypad by its handle.

  [Physical security! There’s nothing I can do about that. We can stop playing at burglars and leave.]

  [ Read one of the staff. Get me the combination.]

  [ They might pick me up. That could be dangerous.]

  [ They definitely will do if I go down and tell them what we’re up to here. Which I will do if you don’t start helping me now. Do it, Fist, or I’ll get the shit kicked out of us both.]

  Fist swore and closed his eyes. His body shook slightly. Jack imagined his consciousness skipping from bouncer to bar staff to DJ, brushing against their virtual selves, looking for cracks to seep into.

  Fist’s eyes flicked back open.

  [ I’m only helping you to get in so we can get out as quickly as possible.]

  [ Yes.]

  [ I really don’t think you should be doing this.]

  [ There’s only one person up there. And we’ll avoid him. Now what’s the number?]

  [2754.]

  [ That was nice and easy, wasn’t it?]

  [ Fuck off.]

  They stepped through the door and into luxury.

  [Got a signal?] said Jack.

  [Getting stronger.]

  [Go to work.]

  The corridor was padded with pale, thick carpets. Soft uplights illuminated pastel walls, studded with glyphs. Jack wondered about the onweave art that the glyphs represented. When Jack first started investigating Akhmatov’s business affairs, he’d watched interviews with a few young Station artists. Akhmatov had a habit of arriving at their studios unannounced and paying substantial amounts for one or two pieces of their best work. None of them had been either able or willing to give much information away about their patron. Akhmatov’s interest made sure that these stylish young people patronised his more exclusive events, lending them an air of cutting edge excitement that made them some of the most popular nights in Docklands. They’d even attracted a regular Homelands clientele.

  No doubt these glyphs pleasured onweave viewers with sounds and visuals from the servers of today’s bright young things. No doubt Akhmatov’s art patronage still helped keep his venues at the cutting edge of fashion. And of course, such patronage would please East. As maker and breaker of Station fashion, her interest and indulgence were essential to the success of Akhmatov’s business. Jack wondered briefly if she was the Pantheon member whose influence he’d made out in the Panther Czar’s accounts. She’d certainly always been close to Grey.

  Soon he’d know for sure.

  [ Now we’re talking,] said Fist, pulling Jack out of his reverie.

  [ You’re in?]

  Fist tittered, irritation all but forgotten in the joy of action.

  [Part of the way. Got the basics.]

  [So who’s that up ahead?]

  [ It is Akhmatov. Looks like he’s asleep.]

  [Must have had a hard day’s night.]

  For a moment, Jack remembered the best parts of his time with Fist – the sense of vastly more efficient systems grafted on to his own mind, working both with and beyond it to achieve the impossible.

  [Getting any info on him?] he asked.

  [Some basics. He’s discreet, but not discreet enough. The meat’ll be deeper in. I need to get up close to one of his servers. Second door on the left.]

  Fist bounced ahead of Jack as they walked up the corridor. The door was decorated with a particularly complex, tiger-shaped glyph. It was unlocked. Jack tiptoed through, then carefully shut it behind him. All was pitch-black.

  [ Right,] said Fist.

  And then the lights came on.

  Akhmatov was sat behind a large stone desk. He was dressed in a smart white suit. His pale face hovered beneath grey-black hair. There was a tightly trimmed moustache at its centre, sitting above precise, fussy lips. His eyes were masked by round black lenses. He was lighting a cigarette. There were men dressed in black, two to his left, one to his right, and one behind. All four had the same face. There was a leather armchair in front of the desk. The rest of the room was empty.

  ‘I always thought, Jack,’ said Akhmatov, exhaling smoke, ‘that you had a little more style than this. But then, you have been away from us for rather a long time. And your little man is so easy to fool.’

  [Shit,] said Fist. [ This fucking cage.]

  Chapter 11

  ‘All these years,’ said Akhmatov. ‘And we finally meet.’

  [ Fist,] Jack whispered, [what happened?]

  [ He spoofed me. I TOLD YOU THIS WAS A FUCKING STUPID IDEA!]

  ‘Your little man is less effective than he boasts,’ said Akhmatov. He contemplated the tip of his cigarette for a moment. ‘I’ve force-opened some of your weave channels. The cageware should stop me from doing that, but it seems that somebody’s cut a little hole from inside. Naughty naughty!’

  [ He’s overloaded my weaveports,] said Fist. [ The cage is reading it as a potential hack, so I can’t manifest. I’m all locked down, you’re on your own. Run! Don’t let him hurt you!]

  [ Bouncers’d be on us straightaway.]

  Akhmatov gestured, the cigarette trailing smoke in the air. ‘But where are my manners? You should sit.’

  An attendant appeared at Jack’s side and waved him towards the armchair. There was no other choice. Jack let himself subside into it. The faded leather was soft and welcoming. It sighed as Jack sat back, exhaling a fusty reek of cigars and privilege.

  ‘It’s really just plastic,’ smiled Akhmatov. ‘Rather well programmed, isn’t it?’ The dark glasses gave him the look of an insect.

  ‘What do you want, Akhmatov?’ said Jack, barely keeping his voice steady.

  ‘Your return has caused, let us say, quite the stir. In circles that I move in, at least. In fact, I was warned not to receive you. To shut you out, to let your licence run out, to let you die and your puppet take the strings.’ Akhmatov’s smile became a chuckle. ‘Of course I’ve always resented being told what to do. I think you might sympathise with that?’ He leant forward in his chair and inspected Jack. ‘No, I really don’t see it. Jack, there are entities that scare even me. You’ve slept with Grey, you know what I mean. And some of them’ – Akhmatov raised his hand and pointed at him – ‘are mortally afraid of you, and of the little cuckoo in your nest.’ He sat back. ‘No, I don’t understand it either.’

  Jack realised that Akhmatov was looking at him expectantly. But there was nothing to say. He shrugged, hoping to at least display some bravado. ‘I really wouldn’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Still the same old ingénue. I watched you, Jack, watched you trying to draw your strings around me, back in the old days. You were very sharp. Of course I was aware of every move you took.’

  Jack was at
once shocked by Akhmatov’s revelation and surprised to hear real respect in his voice. Memories of the investigation shimmered through him. ‘Perhaps that’s what they’re scared of,’ he replied. ‘I would have had you, Pierre. A month more, maybe two. And your backer too.’

  Remembering deep competence helped Jack’s self-control reassert itself. It was surprising how relaxed he felt. He started wondering how he could make use of Akhmatov’s evident interest in him. He had his own abilities to draw on. He’d always been the most forensically precise of Grey’s auditors. That skill set had existed long before Fist had climbed out of his subconscious and into the processing nodes nestled snugly against his spine.

  ‘Oh no, Jack. You couldn’t have touched us.’

  ‘Really? We knew that Bjorn Penderville was working for you. We were about to prove that you’d had Aud Yamata kill him. I had most of your network analysed. I knew when your shipments were coming in, how you used sweathead avoidance codes to make them invisible, who your dealers were, how they transferred their profits to you and how you laundered them – even how you paid your suppliers.’

  ‘Aud Yamata,’ spat Akhmatov. ‘That bitch.’ He took a moment to recover himself. ‘But let’s not get sidetracked. Your investigation was very impressive, but you didn’t have the most important thing.’

  ‘Yamata’s Pantheon protector? I saw the traces. I would have followed them back and found out who it was. And Harry and I would have shut them down.’

  ‘And taken down a god. You know, I think that’s something you might have been capable of. You were certainly very good at your job, the best perhaps. Yamata and her master saw you as a very major threat. They wanted you dead. Grey must have fought hard for you, to keep your punishment so light. And Harry – well, you heard how we had to deal with him, in the end.’

  Akhmatov slowly and deliberately made a pistol shape with his hand. He pointed a two-fingered nozzle towards Jack. His thumb came down like a hammer.