Nightside City

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

I had an instant of fear that I'd picked a rogue, that it wouldn't let me out, but then the door opened with a soft hiss and I stepped out onto Kai Avenue, into that hard, warm wind and the roar and blaze of the city.

  "I put my number on your card, as you suggested, Mis' Hsing," the cab said behind me. "I hope you'll ask for me specifically, next time you need a cab."

  That caught me off-guard, and the door closed before I could answer. To every cab I'd ever ridden before that, unless I'd asked it to wait, I ceased to exist once I stepped out the door; the new models were a bit more sophisticated.

  In fact, I suddenly wondered just how sophisticated they were-was the request for a tip to buy its freedom genuine, or had Q.Q.T. come up with a little scam to coax a few extra bucks out of the tourists?

  Was the cab really trying to buy free, or was it just following orders in saying that it was?

  That might be a way to play on customers' sympathy without having to actually use freedom-minded software, and might well bring in some additional credits from soft-hearted passengers. It substituted misleading advertising for sadism.

  That was a hell of a choice, between lies and cruelty. I wasn't sure which I preferred.

  Whichever it was, it wasn't any concern of mine; the cab had lifted and was gone before I could say anything more, and I had no intention of using that number it had put on my card. The poor thing would be better off without the business of someone like me.

  I looked up at the bank, then scanned up the street until I spotted a clock readout amid the jumble of advertising displays-a readout at the Nightside Bank and Trust, ECB's chief competitor, as it happened.

  The numbers were 16:25. I had half an hour. The New York was three blocks away, just across Deng on Fifth.

  I decided to take a look.

  Chapter Five

  THE STREETS OF THE TRAP ARE BLACK-NOT JUST THE dark stone of the burbs but smooth black synthetic. Nonreflective, at that. Above me Trap Over was a flashing panoply of pleasures, advertising images battling each other for airspace as they struggled to lure in their prey, while spy-eyes and advertisers zipped unheeding through them, and the towers soared up around them sleek and bright. They sang and whispered and cajoled, and most of it was blurred into white noise by the constant wind.

  Below my feet, though, there was only darkness and the low rumble of Trap Under going about its business. I looked down and felt the vibration through the soles of my worksuit.

  I was studying that darkness, the street that was a roof for Trap Under, and I was thinking about the people down there, human and artificial both, the ones I'd seen or talked to on my last case, and all the others I'd never met, and I was wondering what would become of them when the sun rose, when someone called my name.

  I looked up, startled, and saw a spy-eye staring at me. It was a cheap one, about twenty centimeters across, black and red finish with chrome and glass fittings, with a central lens and a few scanners, nothing fancy.

  "You're Carlisle Hsing?" it asked.

  "What if I am?" I answered. I wasn't any too happy about being spotted like this.

  "Just wanted to be sure," it said.

  "Why?" I asked.

  It didn't answer. It just hovered there, watching me.

  I pushed back my jacket and hauled out the HG-2. I stepped back against the side of a building to brace myself against the recoil, then pointed the gun at the spy-eye. Tourists up the street stopped dead in their tracks and stared; I saw personal floaters and built-in hardware locking onto me, ready to defend their owners if I went berserk. I saw security scanners pivot toward me on two of the nearby buildings, as well, but nobody moved in my direction.

  No cops were in sight, which was nice.

  "What the hell do you want?" I demanded. "Tell me or I'll blow you into scrap." I flicked the gun on and felt it shift in my hand as it compensated for the wind and gravity. I didn't think I needed to tell it its target.

  "Just a minute, Hsing," it said. "I'll consult with my superiors." It hummed briefly, then informed me, "I can't tell you anything, and my boss says that if you shoot, he'll sue."

  "And I'll claim self-defense, and I've got a hell of a good case," I said. "How do I know you weren't sent to kill me?"

  "Why would I want to kill you?" it asked.

  "How the hell should I know?" I said. "I don't know who sent you, or what you're capable of, or what the fuck you think you're doing in the first place."

  It hummed again, then said, "All right, all right, don't shoot; I'm expensive."

  That was a lie, in a way, because it wasn't exactly top of the line, but then, any eye costs serious juice.

  "I'm just keeping an eye on you, Hsing," it told me. "You're not welcome in the Trap, and I'm here to make sure that you don't do anything you might regret later, that's all. No harm meant. Look, I'm not armed." It popped its inspection panels. The side compartments, where the armament normally goes, were empty. So was the belly chamber. The opened panels ruined its streamlining, and it began to drift off to the right as the wind whistled across the curved surfaces. I followed it with the gun.

  "Don't give me that," I said. "You could be hiding almost anything in there. Your fucking motherboard could be explosive, for all I know."

  The thing had me rattled, or I wouldn't have said that. It's a hell of a thing to say to a machine. It's true, but it's a hell of a thing to say.

  "Take it easy, Hsing," it said. "Look, if I were going to kill you, I'd have done it already, wouldn't I?"

  I knew that; that's why I hadn't already fired. The thing was a machine; its responses had to be faster than mine. But it had made its point, really. What could I do about it? The streets were public; it could follow me if it wanted to. And I sure as hell couldn't afford the bill if I shot it down and it turned out to be harmless.

  "All right," I said. I lowered the gun and turned it off.

  And damn it, I couldn't think of a graceful exit line. I just shoved the HG-2 back where it belonged, gave the spy-eye the three-finger curse, and turned away.

  I almost ran into a tall tourist in a vermilion party coat, who had been staring at our little confrontation. His eyes were blue and milky, with no pretense of nature at all. I pushed past him and marched on.

  The spy-eye cruised along, following me.

  I had a pretty good idea who had put it there. IRC wasn't petty enough to bother, and most of my other enemies couldn't afford it or wouldn't have thought of it. I figured it had to be Big Jim Mishima, still pissed at me over the skimmer at the Starshine Palace. The bastard wanted to make things difficult for me, same as I had for him.

  I debated turning around and yelling a message for Big Jim at the damn floater, but I resisted the temptation. Shooting off my mouth wouldn't do any good, any more than shooting off the gun would, I told myself. Pulling the gun at all had probably been a mistake.

  Then it occurred to me that Mariko Cheng might not like having Big Jim's little toy watching us.

  Well, there were plenty of floaters around; she wouldn't notice that one in particular unless it did something to draw her attention.

  I decided to shoot my mouth off, after all. I turned and said, "Hey! You!"

  "Yeah, Hsing?" it replied. The inspection panels were sealed again, and it cruised up smoothly to look me in the eye.

  "I just want to tell you something," I said. "I'm working. It's a case that nobody in the Trap would touch, and it's a waste of time, but I need to eat. Mishima would laugh at what I'm getting paid for this, but it'll buy me a dinner. Now, I guess I can't get rid of you while I'm on the street, but by god, if you interfere in my work I'll slap your master-and yes, I know who it is-with a harassment suit and I'll make it stick, too. And I will blow you into scrap. So you don't talk to me or anybody with me, and you don't get too close, unless you see me do something you don't like-which you won't, because this case isn't for the casinos and it isn't any polish off your nose. And if I lose you, and you find me again, you just keep quiet-I probably h
ad a hell of a good reason. You got that?"

  "I hear you," it said.

  I opened my jacket again and put my hand on the gun.

  "Have you got that?" I said.

  "Yeah, I got it," it answered.

  An advertiser cruised up beside the spy-eye and said, "Hi there, and welcome to Nightside City! Say, if you haven't dined yet…" Its holo was warming up.

  I pulled the gun and pointed it at the advertiser. "I'm a native. Beat it."

  Those things have always annoyed me.

  The advertiser beat it. The spy-eye didn't say anything, and I put the gun away. I hadn't bothered to turn it on.

  I'd been pointing that thing a lot, I realized. I was edgy. I couldn't name a single big reason for it, but there were plenty of little ones. Dawn was closer every day, business was bad, my social life wasn't any better, and this case I was on sucked-my com bill on it might already be more than my advance on the fee. So I was edgy, which still didn't make flashing the HG-2 all over the place a good idea. I sealed the front of my jacket; I'd need a second or two more to get the gun out next time, and that might give me time to calm down and reconsider.

  After all, I didn't think the thing was legal. Pulling it out and waving it around every few minutes wasn't a really brilliant idea. And my reaction to the spy-eye probably just got Mishima more interested.

  With or without the gun, though, I was in a foul mood. I stamped off down the plastic pavement.

  The spy-eye followed, but it kept a discreet distance and it didn't say anything.

  I turned on Fifth, and there above the tourists hung the New York's marquee, old-fashioned neon tubes rotating three meters above the street. That harsh red glare lit the black glass walls the same color as the eastern horizon.

  That was the main entrance, but I suddenly decided I didn't want the main entrance; after all, that was a casino, and I didn't want Big Jim misinterpreting anything. Around the corner of Deng was a side entrance into the Manhattan Lounge; I'd be heading there later anyway, to get Cheng that drink, so it wouldn't hurt to take a look at the crowd.

  As I turned the corner I wondered who the hell Manhattan ever was that they should name a bar after him, and what he had to do with New York. All these weird old names are so damn confusing.

  Traffic on Deng was lighter, and by walking through the light fog of Stardust that drifted along the facade I had a clear path to the entrance. The door slid open as I walked up to it, and the music and light and smoke poured out at me, unhindered by suppression fields-a sort of advertisement, I guess, for what was inside. The wind whipped the smoke away immediately and tore at the music, as well.

  The music was something slow and rhythmic, and when I stepped across the threshold I saw why.

  The show was in full swing, in a column of white light at the center of the room, where a man and a woman hung, weightless and naked, in midair. She had her face in his crotch and was moving her tongue in long, slow caresses. He was trying not to look bored.

  About half the crowd was watching, while the other half went about their business. I sympathized with the second group; the entertainment value of watching other people screw has always escaped me. Even in zero gravity, there just isn't that much variety to it, and I'd seen it all before. Hell, I'd done it all before-though not in zero gee. And not recently. Not in too damn long, in fact, not since I moved out to Juarez. I'd never had anyone who was serious enough to follow me when I left the Trap, and I'd never found anyone out in Westside I wanted. I'd always been too picky for my own good, I suppose-every time I broke up with a man, I hated it, but I never rushed to find another.

  This time, with the reduced opportunities out in the burbs, I hadn't rushed at all, and I hadn't found anything, either, not even the occasional one-shot.

  I didn't really need the damn floor show reminding me of that.

  There's one thing, though-at least in zero gee they don't do those frustrating last-minute withdrawals that the male fans seem to like so much. It's too messy when the stuff can float free. In zero gee shows everything goes where nature intended-at least, when they do it straight.

  It's still not my idea of great entertainment.

  Well, I didn't have to watch, and for all I knew Cheng would love it.

  The bar was long and ornate. I assumed that the old glass bottles along the wall behind it were purely for decoration, but if not, then it was certainly well stocked. A man in a white apron, looking like something from a bad vid, stood behind it rubbing a glass with a piece of fabric- more decoration.

  The bar wasn't crowded. Most of the customers were at the tables on the floor, and the place was only half-full.

  That didn't accord very well with what the cab had told me, but hell, it was still early in the day.

  The lighting was mostly blue and green, shifting slowly, and the smoke came not only from the customers, but also from a small burner on the end of the bar nearest the door. It was mostly just for scent and effect, but I thought I could smell a little cannabis in the haze, and maybe a few synthetics, as well. I assumed that the psychoactives came from the customers; it didn't look like the sort of establishment that would give anything away for free.

  The place wasn't exactly tasteful, but it seemed okay. I stepped down to the floor and crossed to the bar, but didn't take a stool; after all, I only had a few minutes. I leaned my elbows on the bar and watched the show for a moment. The woman was still licking. The man was even more obviously bored than before.

  Behind me, someone snapped, "Hey! You can't come in here!"

  I turned and saw the spy-eye hanging in the doorway, and the man behind the bar holding an ancient jammer.

  "You get the hell out!" the man said. "This is private property, and we won't have any damn machines harassing our customers!"

  The spy-eye hesitated, looking in my direction.

  "Out, or I fry your circuits!" the man said, lifting the jammer.

  The spy-eye retreated, and I smiled to myself.

  I hadn't really counted on that, but it was a nice side-effect. Without wasting a minute I marched on through the lounge and out into the hotel lobby.

  I knew that the spy-eye would try to catch me coming out, but where would it expect me to come out? Did Big Jim have other spy-eyes on hand that he could use to cover all the exits?

  Not bloody likely. He had a hell of a lot more money than I did, but he was still just a free-lance detective, not a goddamn casino owner. He wouldn't have a whole flock of eyes in the air-not unless something was up I didn't know about, and even then, unless he'd gone completely berserk, he wouldn't have a whole flock looking for me. I wasn't worth it.

  So I only had to worry about one or two exits being covered, at most.

  The logical exits were the way I came in, the main entrance, and the casino's back door on the far side of the block. If I were trying to be obvious about losing someone, I'd use a service entrance-except those were all in Trap Under, at least one level down.

  I shrugged. Trying to outguess a machine when you don't know a damn thing about its programming is pointless. I'd just have to pick one at random and hope I got lucky.

  I headed for the gate where the shuttles to the port loaded, squeezed out past a waiting shuttlecar, and then took a long, rambling route back to the Epimethean Commerce Bank, cruising through the crowds with one eye on the overhead traffic.

  I hit the corner of Third and Kai on the dot of 17:00, and there wasn't a sign of the spy-eye in sight.

  A moment later Mariko Cheng stepped out the side door of the bank, and I looked up at her and smiled and said, "Mis' Cheng! Fancy meeting you here!"

  Chapter Six

  CHENG WATCHED THE SHOW WITH A SORT OF PUZZLED amusement. Blue-green light rippled across her face in time to the music.

  She hadn't bothered to act surprised when I greeted her at the bank. She had said hello, and after a little chat about the weather I suggested that, as old friends bumping into each other by chance, a celebratory drink m
ight be in order.

  She agreed, and I suggested the Manhattan Lounge at the New York.

  That did surprise her a little, I think, but she agreed again, and there we were. The spy-eye hadn't yet spotted me again, so far as I could see.

  "Is it really worth the cost of a zero-gravity field in here just for that?" she asked, pointing at the floor show. The woman was bent almost double, the man behind her pumping away. It wasn't the same couple that had been in there when I first checked the place out, but the act was the same.

  "No," I said. "It's not. I'd bet you anything you like that that's not a zero-gravity field."

  She looked at me. "No? What is it, then? Or what do you think it is?"

  "It's a holo," I said. "A really top-quality one, and those two lovelies are in orbit somewhere, transmitting down here on a closed-circuit beam. It's a lot cheaper than any sort of zero gravity they could make at ground level. That's why the performers always exit through the top or bottom of the field when they go to clean up, and never come out through the audience. You can tell it's not taped, because they'll react to the audience sometimes-I guess it's a two-way hook-up-but those two are in orbit. Literally."

  She looked back at the cylinder of white light and stared for a moment, then flicked a hand in front of her face.

  "You're right," she said. She watched for another moment. "It's a good one, though. Look, you can see every hair."

  I nodded without looking, and our drinks finally arrived, delivered by floater instead of through the table. I suppose it had something to do with the "olde Earthe" motif. Maybe the slow service did, too.

  I sipped mine; it was decent enough. Cheng sipped hers and glanced back at the show.

  "Mis' Cheng," I said. "I was hoping you could tell me something."

  "Hm?" she said, as she turned back. "Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Listen, call me Mariko." She smiled.

  I smiled back. "Call me Hsing," I said.

  That startled her, I think, and she looked at me a bit more closely, but didn't ask anything.

  I appreciated that. I like my first name just fine, but I don't want it used lightly-and I don't much like discussing it, either. It's just a quirk of mine. I have plenty. Ask anyone at Lui's. They call me Hsing there, and we don't discuss it.