by Eric Brown
‘How the hell . . .?’ Barney began.
Wellman, his injured hand red, raw and stripped of skin, raised his good hand and pointed at the flatscreen.
Barney stared as the yak, miraculously transformed into something metallic and ferocious, dived at the Buddhist monk and rendered him to shreds.
‘LINx,’ Wellman whispered. ‘It found him in VR . . .’
Barney backed into the hall as the image on the flatscreen broke up, became so much static. He was suddenly aware of the stench of cooking flesh.
‘Hal . . .’ he said. ‘Oh, Christ, Hal was in there with him.’
‘Kruger - LINx was monitoring them in VR. It knows where the program is.’
Barney was hardly aware of what Wellman was saying. He tried not to let the image haunt him, but try as he might he could not banish the thought of Hal lying dead in the Mantoni VR Bar.
‘I’ve got to get over there, Wellman! I’ve got to see if Hal’s...’
Maybe if Hal had managed to get out of the tank in time . . .
He pulled his com from his pocket, tapped in Hal’s code.
The tone pulsed, unanswered. ‘Come on! Come on, Hal!’
Wellman grabbed his arm. ‘Kruger, don’t you realise? There’s nothing you can do. If LINx got Hal, then he’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.’
‘I need to find out!’ He tried to pull away from Wellman.
‘First go to Connelly’s,’ Wellman said. ‘Get the program.’
‘But LINx has no more human slaves,’ Barney objected. ‘Reeves was the last.’
‘I know, I know - but think about it. LINx knows where the program is. All it has to do is ... I don’t know, contact a courier over the com-system and ask to have the package collected and delivered somewhere. I don’t know where,’ Wellman hurried on, forestalling Barney’s objections. ‘LINx doesn’t need possession of the program. It just needs to make sure that we don’t get it.’
Wellman was staring at Barney, gripping the wrist of his burned hand. He ran to the bathroom and turned on the cold water. Barney stood there, paralysed with something like fear as his mind swirled with the consequences of what he had just witnessed.
He nodded, more to himself, to set his resolve. ‘I’ll go to Connelly’s,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll go to the Mantoni Bar, see if Hal. . .’
Wellman stared at him from the bathroom, pain contorting his features as he submerged his hand in the basin of water. ‘I’ll see you back here, Kluger.’ He pulled something from the pocket of his suit jacket. Keys. ‘Take the car.’
Barney grabbed the keys and made for the stairs. More than anything he wanted to reassure himself that Hal was okay, wanted to forget the program and drive down to the Mantoni VR Bar on West 23rd Street.
He told himself he had to get the program. That, ultimately, was the important thing. LINx had killed too many people already: it was time that it was stopped.
He squeezed into the Benz and swung it into the road, heading south at speed. He fumbled one-handed with his com, tapped the repeat function. The ringing tone filled his ear, monotonous. He almost wept with rage. ‘Answer the bastard thing! You hear me, Hal?’
He left the call on repeat as he worked through the possibilities. If Hal had survived the attack in VR, then why wasn’t he answering the call?
A possible answer occurred to him. Earlier, at the stake-out, Hal had set his communicator to vibrate. If it was still on that setting, and perhaps in the outer pocket of his thick jacket, then no wonder he wasn’t answering.
Even though he wanted desperately to believe, he knew it was a feeble explanation.
He drove through the snow, leaning forward over the wheel and peering through the windshield at the empty, blizzard-swept streets. He’d get the package from Connelly’s, make straight for the VR Bar.
He saw Joe Kosinski’s contorted body again, tried to push the image to the back of his mind. It remained, haunting him.
He wished he was away from here, in the VR world of California, with Estelle, in the cottage by the ocean. Christ, to, hold her in his arms after all the shit of the past few days . . .
He found Connelly’s, pulled up outside and dashed across the sidewalk through the driving snow. After the bitter cold, the warmth embraced him. A few drinkers sat at tables, watching sport on wallscreens, but the long bar was deserted. Barney slipped onto a stool and nodded to the barman. ‘Joe Kosinski, he left something here earlier. Asked me to pick it up.’
‘Sure thing.’ The barman pulled something from a shelf behind the bar, a slim silver envelope, and handed it to Barney. ‘Get you a drink?’
He saw the familiar red and gold label of a Ukrainian wheat beer in the cooler. God knew, he needed one. He ordered, knowing that he was delaying the inevitable. He told himself that if Hal was dead, then there was nothing he could do about it. He needed a beer or three before he made his way over to the VR Bar.
He tipped the bottle, and the cold wash of the alcohol cut through his thirst. He was getting too old for this kind of work, he thought suddenly. What, forty years now as a cop or an investigator of some kind? That was long enough, in anyone’s book. He’d paid his dues to the city that had trained him. He needed to start thinking about retirement. Hand the reins of the agency over to Hal and get out, find somewhere quiet and warm . . . Christ, but if Estelle had lived, they’d be planning their retirement together in the real world now, not living out a fantasy in VR.
The door opened with a howl of wind. A tall black guy stepped in, paused and scoped the place. Barney turned back to his beer, took a long swallow. He’d order another, then try to get through to Hal. If he heard nothing, he’d drive to the VR Bar. He knew he should call now, but the thought of getting no reply filled him with dread.
The black guy came to the bar, leaned over and gestured to the barman. ‘You have something for me?’ the guy said in a high, nervous voice. ‘Guy called Joe left it, Joe Kosinski?’
Beer frozen mid-lift before his lips, Barney turned to look. With his free hand he reached for the envelope on the bar and slipped it into his pocket.
Later, he knew he should have shot the guy then. At the time, forty years of conditioning - of ensuring positive identification -would not let him simply shoot first and ask questions later. Even though, he told himself, the guy had to be working for LINx. Another slave, or merely some innocent runner LINx had contacted to do the dirty work? He glanced at the guy’s head. He wasn’t implanted, but then an NCI wouldn’t show if he was wearing a chu.
He knew he couldn’t bring himself to shoot the guy in cold blood.
Instead, he left his beer and slipped from the stool. The bar had a rear exit, next to the john. He’d be less conspicuous if he made for the rear of the place. As he walked, his back felt horribly exposed, as if he were wearing a target pinned between his shoulder blades.
He pushed through a door, paused and looked back. The barman was gesturing to the seat Barney had occupied, and the black guy looked up and across the room. Barney saw him reach into his jacket, pull something out, and decided not to stay around to see what that something was. He slammed the door behind him, found himself in a cramped corridor as a shot rang out, shattering the glass in the door and confirming his fears. The guy was another slave -someone hired by LINx wouldn’t resort to shooting in a bid to get the program.
He pushed through the fire exit at the end of the corridor. An icy blast of snow-laden wind hit him in the face. He pushed past empty steel kegs and polycarbon beer crates, pulling them down after him. He came to an alleyway and turned right, losing no time in making a decision. It was a law he’d schooled himself in for longer than he cared to recall: faced with two directions, and you don’t know where you are, turn right to save time deciding.
As he set off at a sprint down the snow-covered alley, his com went off. Christ, great timing. He wondered if it was Wellman, checking to see if he’d collected the program, or maybe even Hal. He looked over his shoulder. No sign of the g
uy, but then he heard the fire exit crash open and the spilled crates being kicked out of the way. He left his com in his pocket and seconds later the summons ceased. He concentrated on running, pulling in drafts of cold air. It was times like this when he wished he’d paid more attention to the wise words of Doc Symes. A few less beers and ham-on-ryes in the past month and he’d be pounds lighter, a little quicker on his feet, just enough to make the difference between life and death. He told himself not to be so goddamned morbid. He was doing okay, for a fat guy the wrong side of sixty.
He reached for his holster and pulled out the automatic. He looked over his shoulder. His pursuer was a small shape in the distance, running. Barney looked around for somewhere to conceal himself without being seen. Then he’d have no compunction about ambushing the guy and blasting his brains out. But first he needed to get out of his line of sight.
A narrow gap between two high buildings appeared to his left, and Barney turned at speed, shoulder-charging the far wall and almost winding himself. He looked for somewhere to hide, somewhere to give him a little cover for the fraction of a second it would take to draw a bead on his pursuer and fire off six rapid shots. A small voice in the back of his head said that the guy was another slave; an innocent implanted technician who had no choice but to obey LINx’s programming. A second voice in his head told the first to shut the fuck up. If he messed this one up, he was dead.
He ran down the alley, looking frantically for something, a trash can or crate, which he could duck behind.
The alley was empty, not even a doorway to slip into. Worse, he saw, he was approaching a dead end. He registered the fact and something turned cold in his gut. A wooden fence barred the way. It looked old, rotten, and Barney kept on running and turned sideways on, bracing his shoulder for the impact.
He heard a shout behind him, the whine of gunfire. Bullets tore though the fence before him. He hit the wet timber, the planks giving beneath his weight, and staggered through into a long side-street. He turned right and ran. He knew he was slowing. There was only so far an old guy could sprint without some part of him beginning to protest. It seemed to be his legs that had turned treacherous, or more specifically his right knee. A razor blade seemed to be working its way around the joint, slashing at cartilage.
He limped on, wincing at the pain. Behind him he heard a sharp cry. He looked over his shoulder. The guy had dived through the fence, lost his footing and sprawled in the snow. He picked himself up, gave chase. Barney felt his lungs begin to protest in sympathy with his knee. More in desperation he turned and took aim. He fired, three times. The third shot hit the target. The guy pirouetted with almost balletic grace and spilled across the snow in a tangle of long limbs.
Barney was away again, elated at the time he’d earned. He glanced back. Hell, the guy was up and running, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side. So he’d only winged the bastard, and still he was pursuing. Barney felt himself weaken, his lungs blazing with pain. There was nowhere up ahead where he might take cover and fire. He felt panic seize him, winced as another shot missed by inches.
Then, ahead, he saw a lighted sign on the corner. He was approaching a main street. The establishment on the corner of the block was a taxi office, and ranked outside on the street was a line of green cabs. He almost wept with relief, all thought of ambushing the guy now forgotten. He’d take flight, live to fight another day. At least he had the program. Once LINx was eliminated from the Net, they could take their time and track down the slave.
He slowed his pace to a respectable jog, crossed the sidewalk and ducked into the back of the first cab, exhilaration surging through him. He told the driver Battery Park and a second later the car eased away. Barney glanced down the alley. The guy came into sight and raised his revolver, but by that time the cab had carried Barney past the alley and away.
He turned in his seat and stared through the rear window. The guy was climbing into a cab. Barney estimated they had a lead of around a hundred, a hundred and fifty metres. At least now he wasn’t running. He could use the time to recuperate, let his legs and lungs recover.
They sped downtown through the quiet, snow-covered streets. Behind them, the second cab kept pace. Barney tried to assess the situation, weigh up his options. His pursuer was going to be hard to shake. In a worst-case scenario, the guy caught him, found the program. He had to avoid that at all costs. The important thing now was to get the program to Wellman. He could go straight to Battery Park, as he’d first intended when boarding the cab ... Or he could head for the nearest police station, seek the protective custody of his old buddies.
He had a better idea. He leaned forward. ‘Want to earn yourself five hundred bucks?’
The driver gave him a quick glance. ‘Legit?’
‘I need something delivered.’ He lifted the envelope. ‘A hundred bucks now, and the rest tomorrow.’
‘Where to?’ the cabby asked.
‘Offices of Kluger and Halliday.’ He gave the driver the address. ‘On second thoughts, knock on the door next to the office. There should be a girl there; tell her it’s from Barney.’
He passed the envelope and a hundred-dollar note. The cabby said, ‘And four hundred tomorrow, right?’
‘Come by the office. I’ll give you the balance.’
The driver nodded and repeated the address. ‘You got it.’
Barney glanced through the rear window. The second taxi was only fifty metres behind. He felt fear rise like bile in his gullet.
They were approaching West Village. He’d get out here, try to lose his pursuer in the back streets, then pick up another taxi and decide on his destination then.
He touched his communicator, considered contacting Hal. The thought of receiving no reply made him almost physically sick.
He leaned forward. ‘Drop me here.’ His voice cracked with strain.
‘See you tomorrow, bud.’
‘Sure thing.’ Barney opened the door while the cab was still slowing and hopped out. He darted down a sidestreet. He heard the second vehicle halt with a squeal of brakes. He could not bring himself to look over his shoulder. He turned right down a quiet alley and began running. Two hundred metres ahead were the lights of Christopher Street. He’d hail a cab there, contact Wellman and arrange a rendezvous.
He heard something behind him, half-turned. The sight of the guy, perhaps twenty metres away and closing, filled Barney with disbelief.
He turned, reached for his automatic. He’d stand his ground and fight.
The guy slowed and Barney took aim, but something stopped him from firing. He stared, incredulous. It couldn’t be. His vision swam. He aimed again.
The guy stepped forward. Where earlier his head had shown the black face of an African-American, now Barney looked into the familiar, smiling face of Estelle.
He could not bring himself to pull the trigger, even though he knew his life depended on the action. A chu, he told himself; that’s all it was. LINx had accessed the Mantoni system, discovered his secret, and now was cruelly using it against him.
It came to him, then, that there was another answer: he might very well be hallucinating.
Barney stared into Estelle’s smiling face, and wondered if it would be the very last face he would ever see. It would be fitting, in a way.
He backed off, came up against a range of trash cans, and raised his automatic.
* * * *
Thirteen
In panic, Halliday hit the scarlet disc on the back of his hand, and instantly the image of the ravaging silver yak and the idyllic Himalayan background disappeared.
He had no time to feel relief. As his vision blanked and he floated without bodily sensation in the jellytank, he became aware that he was burning. His flesh seemed to be on fire as the enclosing jelly began to simmer. He leapt up and rolled from the tank, gasping with pain as he yanked off the leads and the faceplate. He slid across the floor, slippery with gel, and managed to haul himself into the shower cubicle. He switched on t
he unit and turned the level to cold, and the icy jet of water was like a balm against his skin.
A noise from the jellytank made him turn. The jelly was hotting up now, giving vent to great belching bubbles as the liquid reached boiling point. Then it began to burn. He watched incredulously as flames flickered across the surface of the tank, giving off an unbreathable, acrid stench. He heard something crack, saw a diagonal fracture appear in the side of the tank, and dived back into the cubicle as the jellytank exploded, showering the booth with shards of glass and molten gel.
He was saved from injury by the wall of the cubicle. He leaned against the cool tiles as the water beat down on his skin. He lifted an arm, saw that his flesh was red and blotched.
He heard someone knocking at the door of the booth. Seconds later a security guard appeared, followed by a hostess and a small guy in a suit. They fetched a gown and bundled Halliday from the shower, the hostess recovering his clothes from the wall-unit. He was ushered across the waiting room to the privacy of a small office. The man in the suit introduced himself as the manager. ‘Ah . . . this is a most unprecedented occurrence, sir. I assure you...’
