by Pat Cadigan
The other cyborg had to be Chase. The armour he was sporting was unmistakably Motorball—bright holographic-orange flames on a royal-blue background. He wasn’t as large as his opponent—he was compact, streamlined, lithe. Definitely Chiren’s work, right down to the guy’s narrow face framed in orange flames. She’d intended him to look cunning; to Ido he looked like a cunning twelve-year-old boy.
Having acknowledged the crowd, the cyborgs turned to each other. There was no referee, no announcer, no apparent signal. Ido climbed up on top of the bar to see better. The patchwork cyborg’s telescoping arm shot out towards Chase, who was now standing on his left.
Chase swept the other cyborg’s legs out from under him. By the time the patchwork cyborg had fallen all the way down, Chase was back at his original position, feigning surprise.
Then he flickered and suddenly he was leaning on a corner post, looking at his opponent with innocent confusion. Another flicker and he was in a different corner. The patchwork cyborg lunged for him with an angry yell; Chase appeared behind him and gave him a kick. The other cyborg sprawled on his belly, then scrambled to his feet, or tried to. Chase swept his legs out from under him again.
The patchwork cyborg scuttled forward and tackled Chase clumsily. Ido could see by Chase’s expression of irate surprise that this wasn’t supposed to happen. The other cyborg gripped Chase by the shoulder and tumbled forward, forcing Chase to roll with him. He ended up kneeling on Chase’s back, pulling his arm up behind him. There was a sharp metallic whine and a spinning circular-saw blade began to emerge from the patchwork cyborg’s middle.
The crowd was still roaring when the patchwork cyborg lost his balance and tipped over. A moment later, Chase braced one foot against his side, took the flexible arm in both hands and tore it from his shoulder.
The crowd bellowed in collective delight and horror as cyber-blood splattered the ring and more than a few people at ringside. Ido felt sorry for them as they drew back with repelled expressions. Action that was wildly entertaining in the Motorball stadium became unnervingly gruesome when it was scaled down to life size.
The fallen cyborg was clutching his shoulder and grimacing in pain. Ido spotted heart’s-blood seeping out between his fingers. He struggled to his feet, and a few people at ringside held the ropes apart so he could climb out of the ring. Chase watched, his expression still enraged. As the cyborg and his friends started to leave, Chase called to them; when they turned, he flung the arm at them. More bright-blue cyber-blood decorated the ring and sprinkled people nearby. Ido winced.
Another cyborg dropped down into the ring from overhead. This one was twice Chase’s size and looked like a clumsy imitation of Claymore, but without any of the shine or the fancy weapons. Or the skill—within thirty seconds Chase punched him into a pile of dented metal with no visible effort.
Ido felt a tug on his leg and looked down. “Does it look any better from up there?” asked the bartender.
Ido shook his head. “I can’t believe nobody here cares about the Game tonight.”
“They’re amateurs,” the bartender replied. “Motorball isn’t low-rent enough for them.”
“But he’s not an amateur,” Ido said, exasperated. “He could be on the track right now. He’s supposed to be, anyway.”
“You tell him what he’s supposed to do,” suggested the bartender. “See what happens.”
Ido squatted down to talk to him. “What do you know about him?”
In the semi-dark he saw the bartender’s eyes narrow slightly. “Told you, Doc, I’m just a bartender. All I know are drinks.” He paused. “But I’ve heard stories—whispers—about Watchers.”
“‘Watchers’?” Ido was baffled. “Watchers? Where?”
The bartender’s gaze was on the ring. “Watchers behind the eyes.”
“Watchers behind the—” Ido felt a mix of disbelief and revulsion. “Whose eyes? Watching from where?”
The bartender’s eyes swivelled to him. “Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. Do me a big favour, Doc, and forget I said anything.”
“Watchers from where?” Ido demanded in a whisper.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” the bartender told him firmly.
Ido looked at the man’s hands, which had contracted to normal size. “Maybe you should come by the clinic so I can make sure your expanders are working right.”
“They’re fine,” the bartender replied. “You’re missing the fight.”
Chase’s new opponent was trying to box him with over-sized fists. He managed to land a few blows before Chase tore both his arms off and tossed them into the crowd on the right side of the room.
Well, it was the armed side, Ido thought, wishing that were funny.
More bright-blue cyber-blood splattered the ring and the crowd, many of whom weren’t thrilled about it. But Ido could see some of them did enjoy it, far too much. He was familiar with the concept of blood lust but only academically, from historical records. Now he was starting to get an idea of what the real thing was like. This wasn’t the cartoon violence of Motorball. This was something a lot more primal, something that made him wonder about the odds of his getting out of this room alive.
Chase’s complexion didn’t look good; his lips had gone brown. His heart’s-blood wasn’t circulating quickly enough to keep up with the physical demands he was making on his body. Chiren should have caught this, Ido thought; it wasn’t like her to miss something so important—
She wouldn’t have, Ido realised, if the cyborg hadn’t run off. Because the chip had turned him from a regular person into a loose cannon with no impulse control and a mean streak. And if he were being honest, Ido thought, he should have seen the potential for that himself when he was working on the chip. Everything you did to the body affected the mind. The Law of Unintended Consequences never slept.
Chase was now stomping around the ring, pounding his chest and yelling for a new opponent. He stopped in the centre, looked up and roared a demand. Nothing happened. Cheers turned to boos, although Ido wasn’t sure whether they were booing Chase or the fact that no one else wanted to fight him.
The cyborg began pointing at people in the crowd, challenging them. They drew away from the ring, some of them turning their backs on him and averting their faces, moving for the exit. Infuriated, Chase vaulted over the ropes onto the floor. People melted away almost magically, leaving him standing alone with his fists up, looking around for someone to fight.
“Bitch-ass punks,” he snarled. “Screw alla you.” He headed for the door, and Ido jumped down off the bar to follow him.
The cyborg took the stairs three at a time, stamping his foot so hard on the steps that Ido was sure he heard a few of them crack. As a Hunter-Warrior, Ido was in better shape than most men his age, but after coming out of a badly ventilated room to run up seven storeys he was shaky and panting, barely able to call to the cyborg striding up the dark alley, bashing his fists against the buildings on either side, as if he thought he could shove them away and make the narrow space wider.
He was at the end of the alley when the cyborg finally heard him and turned around. “What do you want, old man?”
“There’s something you need to know,” Ido panted, taking a step towards him. “About that speed of yours. Or rather, what gives you that speed.”
“What about it? You looking to get some yourself?” Chase sounded amused as well as pissed off. “You couldn’t take it.” He turned away and kept going up the street.
“Wait!” Ido huffed. The cyborg stopped and turned around with a dangerous expression on his face. “The chip,” Ido said. “Chip’s faulty.”
“Nah. Works just fine,” the cyborg said in a low snarl.
Ido took another step forward on shaky legs and had to lean on a wall to stay upright. Seven flights of stairs had kicked his ass. “It’s black-market tech,” Ido said breathlessly. “And if you don’t let me remove it, it’ll kill you.”
“Is that so,” the cyborg s
aid.
You tell him what he’s supposed to do. See what happens.
Ido looked around. The street was empty. He wasn’t in midtown, where life went on around the clock. This was southie, where nobody heard or saw or knew anything.
The cyborg tilted his head to one side. “I should let you remove my chip,” the cyborg said quietly. “Or you’ll kill me.”
“Not me—the chip,” Ido said desperately. “It will kill you. You can feel it’s not right, can’t you? It runs away on you. Or you want to do something and nothing happens—”
“Okay.” The cyborg grinned at him. “Tell me if nothing happens.”
Ido never saw him flicker.
CHAPTER 16
According to Tanji, it was stupid to live with regret. Hugo thought Tanji was probably right. The problem was, Hugo couldn’t seem to stop doing things he regretted; the latest one was telling the Duchess he’d wait on the cathedral’s front steps for her.
The Duchess herself was inside with some people she called her enforcers. Hugo hadn’t seen them but he’d heard them, or rather he’d heard their effect on the three south-town guys. The Duchess had stationed her enforcers inside the cathedral to wait for the south-town crew to come back for more of her inventory. Now the enforcers were explaining to them in no uncertain, albeit nonverbal, terms how wrong it was to trespass and steal, especially after taking such vigorous exception to parking violations on their own turf.
Hugo wasn’t sure how the Duchess had found out about that. He certainly hadn’t told her. But drug dealers could find out anything, which was probably how they survived.
The Duchess had survived for quite a while; if she had an ordinary name, no one knew what it was. Hugo suspected that someday he’d be summoned to a limo meeting and find her sitting in the back seat instead of Vector. He had no idea whether this would be an improvement or not. He couldn’t picture her running Motorball like Vector did—she seemed too coolly reserved.
The sound of the south-town crew leader begging whoever was hitting him to stop—he’d learned his lesson, really—brought Hugo back to the present. He thought about covering his ears, but he was afraid the Duchess would be offended if she saw him like that. Offending the Duchess was the last thing he wanted to do.
As if his thoughts had summoned her, the lady herself came out of the front entrance. Half-remembered manners learned in another life made him start to get up, but she motioned for him to sit as she went down the steps to stand in front of him. She was dressed in her usual outfit: a slim black gown that seemed to be made of dozens of black scarves of various sizes and types. Some were lacy, some diaphanous, some silky; combined, they covered her from neck to ankle, revealing nothing except the slender yet curvy outline of her body and underscoring the grace of her movements. Hugo had noticed, however, that her graceful arms were very subtly well-muscled. Only a fool would mistake grace for weakness.
“Awful, isn’t it?” She looked at the dark flat-screen on the buildings across the street. “Too bad it only lights up when it senses three people. Watching it would distract you.”
She usually kept her hair covered with another black scarf, with only a few locs trailing down her back. This evening they were all hanging free, and Hugo saw small charms and beads woven into them.
“Even a lady in black likes a little sparkle here and there,” she said, amused.
“I’m sorry.” Hugo looked down at the steps. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“I’m not offended.” She was about to say something else when there was a bloodcurdling scream from inside the cathedral that made them both jump. “Excuse me,” she said, looking annoyed and went back inside.
Hugo rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin in his hands. He told himself to remember lying on the ground while the southie crew punched and kicked the hell out of him, and peeing blood for days after. But that seemed so far away now, over and done. Except for one thing.
He heard the Duchess saying something he couldn’t make out; someone answered, just as indistinctly. Probably an enforcer—the voice was unfamiliar. One of the south-town crew spoke, complaining and defensive.
“Oh, boo-hoo! Don’t be such a big baby!” the Duchess scolded. Maybe she could run Motorball, Hugo thought.
There was a loud slap and a southie guy yelled, “Okay! Okay!”
There was another slap. A few moments later the Duchess came out again. This time she sat down beside Hugo. “I swear,” she said, “there’s nothing in southie but a bunch of big babies. The only reason they’re still alive is nobody told them to die.”
That jerked a surprised laugh out of Hugo in spite of everything.
“I’m not the only one who says so either,” she added. “My Aunt Frida works in the—” She cut off and made a small dismissive gesture with one hand. “Never mind. Instead of gossiping, I should be thanking you—again—for letting me know I was being ripped off. I feel like I should give you more of a reward than this.”
She produced the bracelet from somewhere among the scarves and veils, holding it in one hand, looking at the hammered copper and the fake green jewel set into the middle.
“That’s okay,” Hugo said. “That’s all I want.” Pause. “Also that those guys never find out I tipped you off.”
“It’s that important, is it? I mean the bracelet.” The Duchess ran a finger over the bracelet, feeling the texture of the hammered metal, then looked at him expectantly.
“It was a very long time ago,” Hugo said. “I was just little.” He had intended just to tell her that it had belonged to his mother. Instead he found himself giving her a condensed version of the story that included his brother’s death, but not the circumstances, and saying only that he’d found the bracelet, sans details.
“Ah, family,” the Duchess said. “Nothing else could make it so valuable.” She pressed it into his hand and Hugo felt his heart leap. “Now it’s yours again. Along with my gratitude and friendship. I’m a good friend to have, you know.”
“Thank you,” Hugo said, feeling awkward and a little anxious.
“I bet you’re a good friend too,” she went on. “But you’ve got better things to do than listen to some south-town wimps get what’s coming to them.” She tilted her head at Hugo’s gyro parked at the curb. “Go ahead, get outta here.”
Hugo stood up, hoping he didn’t look as relieved as he felt. He took a step down, then hesitated and turned back to her. “Hey, you’re not gonna—you won’t—those guys—” He winced. “They’re gonna—you know, go home after this?”
The Duchess laughed as if he’d just told her a joke. “Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head, Hugo. There’s no point to taking so much time and trouble with our south-town friends unless they live to regret what they’ve done. Now get yourself gone while we’re all still young.”
Hugo got himself gone.
* * *
Sitting in the CAFÉ café, Tanji glanced at the bracelet on Hugo’s wrist. “Yeah, there it is.”
Koyomi gave him a dirty look. “Nice, Tanji. Real nice.”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Tanji said. “It’s jewellery. I’m a guy. What am I supposed to say?”
“What about not ragging on a dead mom?” Koyomi asked.
“I wasn’t,” Tanji said.
“I think it’s beautiful,” Koyomi told Hugo. “It really is.” She gave Tanji a look.
Tanji let out a heavy put-upon sigh. “Really goes with your outfit, Hugo,” he said in a flat voice. “The green brings out your eyes.” He turned to Koyomi. “Okay?”
“I got it back,” Hugo said. “That’s all I care about.” He pulled his sleeve down to cover the bracelet, then changed his mind and let it show. “Now let’s get back to our unfinished business.”
Tanji gave a short, humourless laugh. “Oh, yeah. About that.”
“What?” Hugo looked from Tanji to Koyomi, who had a pained expression on her face, and back again.
“We shoulda taken
him that night,” Tanji said. “Because nobody’s seen him since. Dif and Louie’ve been keeping an eye out, but it’s like he disappeared.”
Hugo shook his head. “He’s somewhere. We just have to find out where. The guy’s a show-off. They look anywhere but northland?”
Tanji gave an awkward shrug. “How many more people you want to bring in on this?”
“None. Just Dif and Louie,” Hugo said.
“Good,” Tanji replied. “The take’ll be thin enough split five ways. Any more than that and we might as well not bother.”
Hugo nodded; he’d been thinking the same thing. He might have tried doing the job with just the three of them anyway, except his tailbone and his armpits still hurt, as if to remind him how much he wanted payback.
* * *
The key to going down steps after every part of your body had been bruised, pounded and pulped to within an inch of your life, Ido discovered, was to make no sudden movements. Patience, concentration, precision—it was like surgery. As long as he concentrated, going downstairs hurt less than getting dressed.
The sound of Gerhad chatting away to a patient made him smile, although even that hurt a little. Once again, he could thank whatever gods or forces he didn’t believe in that he’d had the good judgment to hire a nurse who could cover for him when he’d had the bad judgment to confront a rogue cyborg whose anger management was as non-existent as his impulse control.
When Ido finally reached the bottom of the stairs, he went to the hook where he usually hung his lab coat only to find it wasn’t there.
“Jeez, Doc, I hope you got the number of the ass-kicking machine that ran you down,” said the patient. That was Corky—agriculture and produce. His job had him working sometimes out at the orchards and sometimes at a predistribution and quality-control centre, picking through all the best orchard fruits to be sent up to Zalem. The Factory put a lot of demands on his specialised arms but were lousy when it came to maintenance.
