Slab City Blues - The Collected Stories: All Five Stories in One Volume (3 page)

“I too was once a slave, as Tyger Joe is a slave. What do all slaves dream of?”

I pulled my gun from its holster, a standard issue Sig 4mm, checked the magazine and made sure I had my spares. “Twelve, huh?”

“Yes. Comms indicate they’re getting desperate and will use extreme measures. MEC has already offered me a large sum to provide information. Naturally I refused.”

“Well they don’t know you like we do. I’ll need you to jack into the security net and do the tactical. Like Langley, remember?”

“Of course.”

“So where do I find this Dr Janus?”

*

Quad Gamma of Yang Fifteen is mostly deserted in the early evening when the devout neo-Catholic locals troop off to mass leaving a perfect shoot-out set.

“Ready?” Freak via the smart’s earpiece.

I reached into my jacket, gripped the Sig. “Yup.”

“Targets one, two and three directly behind you. One: red shirt. Two: blue raincoat. Three: suit and tie. Be advised: Jeds in the area.”

“Got it.”

I stopped abruptly and turned. They were good, barely a flicker. Red Shirt just kept walking. Blue Raincoat and Suit veered off to the right. They’d walk on by and let their colleagues take over the tail.

There was a time when policemen had to give a warning before they shot someone, which is a pretty good idea when you think about it, ethically speaking.

I put the Sig’s laser-dot over Red Shirt’s throat and pulled the trigger. A pre-programmed ten shot burst of 4mm caseless is usually pretty messy and Red Shirt was no exception. His head stayed on though, which is unusual.

The few Jeds on the street vanished like ghosts. No screams or panic. Fucking Demons, shooting people again…

I caught Blue Raincoat with the second burst and swept Suit into a shop window with the third.

Freak in my ear: “Four at three o’clock. Reading weapons: H&K Mark Six tazers. They want you alive, Alex.”

I took cover behind a newsstand, firing as they rounded the corner. I could tell they were professionals by the way they didn’t bother to pull their wounded into cover.

“Three more on the rear flank.”

Pivot and fire, Sig’s inhibited recoil feeling like a dentist’s drill, making them dance and spin and fall, provoking a fierce blaze of war nostalgia.

“On the grocery roof, six o’clock.”

Drop, tazer dart shatters on the pavement, pivot and fire, sniper spinning on the roof. Magazine fires empty and ejects. Slam in a new one. Scan for targets. Bodies, some wounded moaning, dropped weapons, and blood of course. Hey, even a sad sack like me is good at something.

“Freak?”

“That’s it.”

“You said twelve. I count eleven.”

“There’s nothing on the scope. You better get moving.”

I ran to the Pipe and took the Grey line for the Extremity.

*

I checked my watch: 2030. Joe had about ten more hours before his heart went bust.

“Alex, I’m reading an encrypted transmission from the Extremity to MEC Orbiting HQ on St Rowan. Running decryption now… It’s tough stuff, very expensive work.”

“Let me guess. She’s selling him out.”

“Decryption complete. I’ll patch you in.”

A click then a woman’s voice, educated Downside vowels grating on my underclass ear: “-uarantee my reinstatement with the UN Medical Ethics Committee?”

Male voice, not so educated: “Our Chairman plays golf with the Secretary General, Doctor. He’s a very compassionate individual, and a Christian. He knows the value of forgiveness.”

“Well, what I have is also very valuable.”

“You have my personal assurance. And if you check your Zurich account you’ll find a substantial gesture of good faith.”

A pause as Janus checked her smart. “I see.” Her voice was actually quivering. “I am now transmitting the whereabouts of the item.”

“Get me there, Freak,” I said.

“Clear the carriage.”

I looked around. Four Jeds, a couple of them too Blissed to care either way, but Freak has this morality problem. I waited until we pulled into Yang Twenty then showed them the Sig. Had to slap the Blissfuls around a little before they followed the others onto the platform.

“OK.”

“Hold tight.”

A lurch as Freak diverted the carriage from the main line to one of the rapid access tunnels. The Pipe main lines run around and through the Slab in gravity-change friendly spirals but the techs need to move around the system quickly hence the vertical tunnels intersecting the network. First time I used one I found out the true meaning of free-fall. I gripped the nearest hand-hold with both fists and braced myself against the wall, mentally saying goodbye to my lunch.

“You’re not going to scream again, are you?”

“Let’s go!”

The floor tilted, my guts tried to wrap themselves round my spine and I screamed. I couldn’t help it.

*

The Yin Extremity is a symphony of architectural elegance and a wonder of engineering where dolphins play in shimmering pools and young lovers stroll the tiered forests hand in hand beneath a square mile of pre-tensile glass revealing an endless canvas of stars.

The Yang Extremity is equally spectacular but it’s also a garbage dump. There are mountains of the stuff, all the stinking, unrecyclable crap we’re not allowed to flush into space any more. A few years ago several tons of junk collected into a ball and failed to burn up on entry, leaving a pretty big crater in Toronto.

Unsurprisingly, the Extremity is one of the places Demons generally avoid which makes it an attractive locale for Slab fugitives. They’re grouped together in three unhappy, constantly feuding shanty towns called Faith, Hope and Charity. Whoever said criminals have no gift for irony? If you thought Yang-side was bad you should take a walk down here, just don’t expect it to be a long one.

Freak guided me from the Pipe exit, through the foothills, stumbling over non-biodegradable shit and keeping a wary eye out for an opportunist with a crossbow. Janus’s place was an aluminium hab-pod surrounded by razor wire, floodlights and automated mini-guns. “How the hell do I get in there?”

“I’ve already cut the power. Left the lights on to keep the locals away.”

There were a few corpses in advanced stages of decomposition littering the no-man’s land between the hills and the pod, testament to the fact that Extremists took a long time to learn some obvious lessons.

The outer gate was on an electronic seal and swung open at the first touch. “How many inside?”

“Just Joe and the Doctor. She’s jacked him into an immersion couch, we’ve been having an interesting conversation.”

“Glad you’ve made a new friend.” I kicked the door in. Janus, tall and Downside elegant in an obligatory white coat, was speaking into her smart. Joe, four hundred pounds of fur and muscle, lay on a couch with a king size drip in his arm and immersion leads on his temples.

“Hello, Doc” I said. “You’re under arrest for conducting an unlicensed medical procedure. Hope there’s enough in your Zurich account for a good lawy–”

This was when MEC Security Operative Number 12 shot me in the back with a tazer. I never heard a thing. Very slick.

Tazer shock feels a bit like being hit by a jackhammer travelling at a hundred miles an hour. It also makes you piss yourself and gibber around on the floor, all very embarrassing for tough guy detectives.

I was still in paralysis when I resurfaced. Janus was predictably dead with a hole in her forehead and Number 12 was staring down at me. He had those perfect teeth no-one is born with and a leathery face that didn’t match the dentistry.

“How you feeling, Inspector?”

“Schlumph,” I replied.

“Never mind. Won’t last much longer.” He wandered over to Joe, still sedated into oblivion on the couch. “Will you look at the size of this guy? Don’t appreciate it when you see him on the hol. But up close like this he’s really incredible. Had six hundred riding on him for the Ortega fight…”

He droned on as I swivelled my eyes about desperately. The Sig was on the floor a few miles away. Something was scratching nearby, something out of view because I couldn’t turn my head.

“… that mega-mutant of yours has shut down the pipe so my colleagues are having to climb down here. It’ll take a few hours so I thought I’d pass the time with you.”

“Thnshks.”

“You’re welcome. You know, that job you did on my team was remarkable. ‘Course, none of them had our experience.”

My eyes flicked up at him.

“Yeah, I’m a Vet too. On the other side of course. Still, all over now eh? No hard feelings.”

He was wearing a stealth suit of non-reflective, insulating fabric. That’s why Freak missed him. All he had to do was stay in the shadows while I scragged his friends then follow me to the Pipe. Latched onto the carriage somehow when Freak put it in free fall. Real hard-core space commando shit. He must have killed dozens of us in the war.

The scratching got louder. I had regained enough mobility to crane my neck a fraction of an inch. There was a large white box under the operating table about three feet away. The scratching stopped, started, stopped again. I heard something sniff the air.

“…after the war I had some trouble reintegrating into society. Not that there is much of what you’d call a society anymore. You should see it down there, Jesus…”

There was a catch on the front of the box and I was starting to lose the numbness in my arms. But Number 12 was certain to kill me the nano-second I moved.

“…I mean the poverty, you wouldn’t believe it. There I was, a three times decorated war hero for Christ’s sake, and what do they offer me? Refuse disposal specialist. I guess that’s when my anger management issues first manifested themselves…”

“Alex?”

I’d forgotten about Freak. “Yspls?” I kept it to a whisper. Number 12 probably thought I was throwing up.

“I can see the box on the room scanner. If I give you a diversion can you move far enough?”

“Uh.”

“OK. Just a sec.”

The box was starting to shake as what was inside got angry.

“…one day this MEC suit turned up at the psych ward with a contrac-”

Joe moved, not much, just a spasm as Freak ran a pulse charge through the immersion leads, but it was enough to get Number 12’s undivided attention. “What the fuck!”

I lurched across the floor, trailing saliva and piss, scrabbling at the box, finding the catch more through luck than judgement. Number 12 was already putting the laser dot on my forehead when a streak of black erupted from the box and latched onto his face.

The Emperor was trained to put on a show so it took longer than it should and Number 12 made some disgusting noises before it was over. The Emperor sat on the body, licking blood from his snout and regarding me with the cold, baleful stare singular to rats. I knew he was smart enough to tell friend from foe but he was such a vicious little bastard he might kill me just for the hell of it. After a few seconds he turned away, hopped up onto Joe’s massive chest, curled up and went to sleep.

“I estimate you will regain full mobility within two hours. That provides us with an adequate window to move Joe and destroy this place before the arrival of MEC Security. I can provide transport but we’re lacking a destination. Colonel Riviere has refused asylum for Joe in the Axis…”

“Ishokay.”

“Pardon?”

“Isst’s OK. Uh’ve got shumwer fer im.”

*

“I don’t really know why I did it,” Joe was saying. “I saw the little guy was about to get torn to pieces and I just couldn’t leave him there.” He paused to look around. “Nice place.”

“The Black Forest,” I said. “As it was in the thirteenth century. There’s a wide selection in the library if you want a change. Just ask Freak.”

“Thanks, Inspector. How long will it take?”

Shorn of his fur and muscle it was surprising how ordinary Joe was. Big and tough, certainly. But nothing special. I mean that in a nice way.

“About seven months. Standard de-Splicing period. You’ll be pleased to know you died in a shuttle crash last night. Along with most of your management team.”

“These things happen.”

I smiled. “Gotta go, Joe. I’ll come and visit soon.”

“I’d like that. And hey, remember what we talked about, you know, about Sniffy.”

“I can’t believe you called him Sniffy.”

“He likes it.”

I shook my head. “Jack me out please, Father.”

*

I was standing over Joe’s body. The machine grafted onto his chest was already starting the programmed alterations: blood change, DNA realignment, everything he needed to make him human again. In the meantime he could stay here with Father Bob.

I pulled the leads from my temples and turned to Consuela’s couch, laid my hand on her face, traced her profile.

“Would you like me to leave?” Father Bob asked.

“No.” I bent down and kissed her forehead. “The blue switch, right?”

He nodded.

I looked down at her hawk face for the last time. I had always liked to think she looked as if she was sleeping but I knew now she just looked like a dead woman plugged into a third-rate life-support system. She was right. I had made her a prisoner, a slave. And what do all slaves dream of?

“‘Bye, Con.” I hit the switch and she sighed, face going slack, head lolling to one side. She sounded relieved.

*

I carried the box to the air ducts on Yang Twenty-Four. They lead directly to the mid-outer hull, Rat Country. I undid the catch and stood well back as he ambled out, stopped at the lip of the duct to sniff the rush of air, ears pricking up at the scent of so many brothers and sisters. He glanced back with that same glittering, baleful stare, then was gone.

I dug my hands into my pockets, feeling something cold and sharp, realising I’d forgotten to give Consuela the dolphin brooch. It was raining as I walked away. I hate the rain.

END

A Song for Madame Choi

Doc Owuga cast
a dubious eye over the old 2D I’d given him then took a long look at my face, propped none too comfortably on a chin support in front of his dermal scanner. “You sure?” he asked.

“Sure I’m sure, Doc,” I said brightly. “Surer than sure.”

Doc Owuga rechecked his screens, he hid it well but I noticed his hands were trembling a bit as he punched the keyboard. We’d done some business back in the war and I guessed I’d left a lasting impression.

“This,” he waved at the screens where the face that I wore revolved in all its flawless glory. “This is art. This…” he glanced at the 2D, “…is -”

“It’s me, Doc,” I told him. “You remember me right?”

Doc Owuga sighed and sank into a swivel chair that was two parts duct tape to one part faux leather. “Sure, you’re a tough guy Demon who killed a shit-load of people during our glorious revolution and a shit-load more since.”

“And you sold the Resistance anti-biotics at a three hundred percent mark-up, when you weren’t trafficking organs to both sides of course.”

“There was an amnesty…”

“Not from me.” I undid the velcro strap from my forehead and freed myself from the scanner. “I can pay. You want the work or not?”

Doc Owuga had been through eight faces in the time I’d known him, each more youthfully handsome than the last. But whilst the faces grew younger the rest of him didn’t, he was pot-bellied with liver spotted hands and an old man’s stoop. The face he wore now, darkly handsome and reminiscent of some old action-movie star I dimly recalled from late-night free-flix reruns, looked like a particularly bad joke.

“Hear they’re doing accelerated, full-body remodelling on the Downside,” I pushed. “Asking price is twenty thousand in folding green if you know where to go, and I’m sure you do.”

He arched an eyebrow and I got a part fix on the face. Roves was it? Reeves maybe? “Where’s a Demon get twenty thou in green?” he asked.

“Fuck d’you care?”

“Why not go to a Yin-Side clinic? Nice and clean and legal.”

“There are… ethical issues, apparently. Cosmetic surgeons have a legal code of practice. Who knew?”

He glanced back at his screens, sighed and stood up, moving to the coat rack to toss me my jacket. “Half now, got expenses.”

I nodded, peeling bills onto his desk.

“Mind if I ask why?” he said as I went to the door. “What you’re wearing would cost a lot, and you got it for free.”

Consuela’s eyes, that first time, taking me in, scars and all, liking what she saw… “It’s not my face,” I said, yanking the door open. “See you in a week.”

*

I bought noodles from a vendor near the Yang Four Pipe entrance, sat on a bench and watched the crowd as I slurped. Yang Four used to be mostly normo but there were a lot more Splices these days, hence Doc Owuga’s new surgery. Youthful vamps and cats eyed each other warily from street corners and overpasses, horned and scaly hellspawn muscled past waif like elf maidens, all genres represented in the genetic soup.

My smart buzzed as I wiped away soy with a napkin. ID withheld. That’s never good.

“Yeah?”

“Alex.” Flat even tones, cultured Yin-Side vowels. Voices from the past, I hate them.

“Mr Mac. How’s the criminal overlord business?”

“Fair to middling. We need to meet.”

“No we don’t. I’ll kill you on sight, you know that.”

“Not today. Got an opportunity for you to play the hero, be the knight errant, save the day, et cetera. There’s even a damsel in distress.”

I tossed my empty noodle carton into a nearby hopper. “There’s always a damsel in distress around you, y’fucking psychopath.”

A pause, maybe I’d hurt his feelings, as if such a thing were possible. “It’s a child.”

I stared at the crowd, noticing how even the pseudo-demons avoided my gaze. Mr Mac and I had been playing this game for five years and there were rules. Mr Mac was always a stickler for rules, number one being you don’t lie to me. He would conceal, omit, prolong or carefully phrase. But he wouldn’t lie.

“Where?” I said.

*

The last time I’d seen Mr Mac he was repelling from a second storey window, nimbly hopping between lines of SWAT team tracer. I was out-ranged with the Sig but fired off a whole clip anyway. He’d waved as he touched down, no irony or affectation, just the friendly greeting of an old friend. I was sprinting towards him, slamming in a fresh clip, when the building he’d just exited blew up, taking most of the SWAT team with it. The blast earned me some new scars, oddly none to the face, and a week in hospital. It’s fair to say the experience hadn’t made me like him any better.

Mr Mac’s new abode rested in a corner of Yang Thirty-Three, one of the commercial levels clustered around the main freighter docks. Warehouses and bland two-tier office blocks, anonymous and thinly populated, just the way he liked it.

I circled the place twice before approaching the entrance. It was a mid-size warehouse with flickering holos proclaiming itself the home of Fairweather Import Export: Customs Clearance Specialists. I counted ten unremarkable grey-green boxes on the roof, positioned at the corners and mid-way along the edges. Auto-guns, I decided, noting the inter-locking fields of fire. Each box contained a 7.62mm minigun and sufficient ammo to turn any assault into a Somme rerun. Every passer-by would be scanned and relayed to Mr Mac’s smart who could and would deal out instant death with a thumb-flick if your appearance aroused even the slightest suspicion. For someone in his position, paranoia was an essential survival trait.

The doors slid open as I approached. In the lobby Nina Laredo waited with two blocky security types, obvious weapon bulges creasing their suits.

“Nina,” I said. “Not dead yet?”

“Inspector.” She inclined her head, perfect Latin features impassive. Unlike me Nina’s beauty was all natural, though like me, entirely skin deep. Six years at Mr Mac’s side, uncountable kills to her name and she never picked up a single scar, nor apparently, anything resembling a human emotion. The Department’s criminal psychologists had her pegged as either a sociopath or an ultra-rationalist personality. I preferred my own diagnosis of Grade A Evil Bitch.

“Your weapons, please,” said Nina, holding out a hand, short nails, impeccably manicured, no rings. Nina had no need of ornamentation.

“Fuck you,” I replied amiably.

“You know he won’t harm you. It’s for his protection.”

The knowledge that she was right and I was entirely safe here did nothing to improve my mood. I unholstered the Sig and handed it over, followed by the tazer in my inside pocket and the knife strapped to my forearm.

“I better not find a tracer on these later,” I warned her, knowing it was a redundant threat. Mr Mac had no need of tracers.

“This way please.”

Mr Mac’s office was a picture of Victorian elegance, as much as an ignorant Jed like me understands Victorian elegance. Antique real oak-wood desk, leather bound books on the shelves, horse bronzes and automata, actual oil paintings on the walls. If knowing he would have to move everything as soon as I left perturbed him at all, he didn’t show it, coming from behind the desk to offer his hand, smiling warmly. “Alex!”

I ignored the hand, gesturing at the office. “Where’d you get all this shit?”

“Downside auctions mostly. Passion of mine for a while now.”

I made a mental note to profile a customs search on future antiques imports and sank into the chair opposite his desk. “So? This child.”

Mr Mac smiled tightly, resting against the desk, arms folded, dressed in sweater and slacks. He’s a tall man, Mr Mac, every inch the blond, good-looking Yin-Sider. At his age he should have been running Daddy’s procurement division, making partner or approaching the climax of a sporting career before commencing a run for political office. Instead, here he was, quite simply the most feared organised criminal on the Slab, which potentially made him the scariest gangster in the populated solar system. He came over the Axis during the war, running medicine through the blockade, then joining up with our Active Service Unit. For three years we blew stuff up and killed people together. Even back then I could tell he was really enjoying himself. He disappeared shortly before the Langley Raid, we all assumed he’d been pinched by Federal Security. A year or so later, not long after I joined the Department, rumours started circulating about a Yin-Sider gang boss with a ruthless attitude to conflict resolution.

“I heard about Consuela,” he said. “I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah, mention her again and I’ll beat you to death with one of your bronzes.” It had always irked me greatly that Consuela had liked him so much. “Tell me about the kid.”

He took a smart from his pocket, thumbed up a holo and tossed it to me. The holo showed a pretty little girl, seven or eight years old, Eurasian features.

“Name?” I asked.

“Don’t have one.”

“Nature of distress?”

“She arrived twelve hours ago, economy-class ferry from the Jakarta Hub. Accompanied by a twenty-something male of European appearance. They walk through Customs and security without a blip and promptly disappear. Two hours later the accompanying male is found dead in a dock-level warehouse along with two others, both armed. No sign of the girl.”

“Manner of execution?”

“Neat made to look messy if I’m any judge. You can double check with Doctor Ricci.”

The little girl’s image revolved in my palm, it was a still shot but the sadness evident in her face was unnerving. Kidnap or not her expression told me she needed protection. I wondered briefly if she was an avatar, imaginary bait on Mr Mac’s hook, but then he didn’t lie. Not to me.

“What’s she to you?” I enquired.

“A child in need of rescue.”

“From what?”

“Nothing good, Alex.” He’d moved into dissembling mode. No lies, but no more truth either.

“If I find her, there’s no way I’d ever hand her over to you.”

“If you don’t find her, I strongly believe she’ll be dead very soon.”

I switched off the holo and pocketed the smart. No need of tracers.

“I need more to go on than this,” I told him.

“Come on, Alex.” He laughed and shook his head. “No you don’t. You never do.”

I levered myself out of the chair and went to the door. “Have fun moving your stuff. And tell Nina, if I see her within a mile of this, I’ll put her out the nearest airlock.”

*

“See it?” Ricci pointed a gloved finger at a patch of slightly discoloured skin.

I shrugged. “Not really.”

“Needle mark. Easy to miss, if you’re not me.” He eased the corpse over onto its back. European appearance, mid-twenties, extensive blunt-force trauma and penetrative injuries to the face and torso.

“Bruises don’t look post-mortem,” Sherry Mordecai observed. She wasn’t looking at the body. She was glaring at me over the autopsy table and she wasn’t happy.

“Syteline on the needle,” Ricci told her. “Paralysing agent. Somebody froze our boy up before doing all this.”

“Easy to come by?” I asked.

“Syteline? Shit no. Fast acting synthetic weaponised compound. Strictly controlled and very expensive. Haven’t seen it since the war. Federal Black Ops types liked to use it when they disappeared someone.”

“ID?” Sherry asked.

“No documents found. No make on any database. His prints are grafts though so I guess he’s been a bad boy somewhere along the line. DNA sequencing indicates a high probability he originates from the Mediterranean basin.” Ricci paused, he always tries for dramatic effect when he can. “Specifically southern Sicily. Can anyone else smell spaghetti and meatballs?”

“They don’t come here,” I said. “There’s a treaty.”

“With Mr Mac?” Sherry asked.

“Yeah,” I grated, more forcefully than I intended. “With Mr Mac.”

Sherry bit down her anger and turned to Ricci. “What about the other two?”

“Same thing. Syteline needle to the neck, extensive injuries to the upper body. I’m guessing a low velocity dart gun.”

Three precisely placed shots in barely two seconds to put them all down so quickly. Using a weaponised compound favoured by Federal Black Ops no less. This wasn’t shaping up well.

“Did manage to ID them, though,” Ricci went on, calling up files on his wall screen. “No-one you’ve ever heard of. Fairly long entries on CrimInt, violent assaults and robberies in their youth, numerous criminal associations and a few drug busts as they grew into fully fledged gang-members. Affiliated with one of the more high-end Yang Ten crews. CrimInt says they tend to sub-contract a lot, security and courier services.”

“Take a team to the crime scene,” Sherry told him. “Full work-up. See if anything got missed. Alex, let’s talk.”

*

The Bosnian café near the morgue sold cevapi - chopped up sausage meat in pitta bread with a yoghurt dressing. Sherry loved the stuff but I always found it a little bland. We sat next to the window, the blue holo-sign outside making her scars stand out, red and angry. There were four of them, traced across her face like badly drawn tiger stripes, the legacy of some wartime escapade she never talked about. She’d been a marine, an archaic term adopted by the poor bastards who put on armoured pressure suits and tried to fight their way into Fed ships and defence stations. Their casualty rate had been predictably appalling and the few survivors tended not to bother with reunions.

“You got a take on this?” Sherry asked around a mouthful of sausage and pitta.

“Hand-over gone wrong and Mr Mac’s got the contract to clean up the mess.” It’s what he does, Mr Mac. He deals no drugs, doesn’t steal, doesn’t smuggle. All societies require rules and the enforcement of rules, criminal society being no exception. That’s the service he provides and anyone who does business on the Slab is required to put him on retainer. It’s not just a protection racket, it’s a genuine insurance policy, for times like this.

“Hand-over?” Sherry said. “The girl you mean?”

“What else?”

“Child prostitution? Organ trafficking?”

I shook my head. “Plenty of home grown fodder for that. This is something new.”

She washed down a mouthful with a gulp of Dragon Fire, the only beverage produced on the Slab that could rightfully lay claim to the title of beer. “We’re handing this off to the SOCU.”