She feels a pang of guilt, thinking of how long it’s been since she worked up a sweat with her clothes on. Then she realises it’s only a dormant reflex. She used to feel bad any time she saw someone working on their fitness, but eventually it wore off. She’s past the stage of worrying she ought to be in better shape. Now it’s more like she’s feeling bad about how long it’s been since she even felt bad about it. Meta-guilt.
She’s got the build of a skinny drinker these days: someone who doesn’t mind missing a meal if there’s good liquor to be had instead. Or even not-so-good liquor. Fuck it, Qola too if it’s all that’s on offer. When it comes to getting down and dirty, she’s still got the moves when she needs them, but she’s not as strong or as fast as she used to be.
She flashes on a time when she was strong and fast, the tired-limb feeling she used to luxuriate in when she had pushed herself to the limit. The memory instantly makes her feel blue. Where did that come from?
Had to be the smells in here: a warm fug of sweat, leather and muscle rub, taking her back to a place where she used to lose herself in pumping the weights and pummelling the bags until the salt sweat was stinging her eyes. Back in Venice. Back in LA. Back when she was a real cop.
She hates the way that shit can simply pop into her head, unbidden. She wishes she could stop it, put a seal on it.
She knows there are options. She had the mesh implant way back, and though they don’t publicise it, the technology doesn’t only allow them to add memory data, but to take it away also. The latter is in the pilot stage, far less advanced and far less sought-after, but she knows people who have had it done, such as Liberty, one of the hookers she looks after.
Like many workers on Seedee, Liberty came up here to get away from something terrible, only to realise she had brought it with her in her head. In desperation, she signed up for the pioneering procedure of having a specific memory erased. It worked, but Nikki isn’t sold on it.
“I don’t get the nightmares any more,” Liberty told her. “I’m not scared all the time. But I have this emptiness, this hole in my mind that I can almost touch. I still feel the same sadness but I can’t remember why.”
Nikki’s not sure whether that might be worse. Her memories eat away at her, attacking without warning and laying a siege that only an oblivion of drink, sex and sometimes violence can lift. But she also knows there’s a part of her that needs her pain.
Nikki casts an eye around the machinery, the glistening limbs and straining faces. She’s got lucky. Sol Freitas is locked into a gyroscopic weight-resistance machine, knocking out reps with those powerful arms of his. He’s in the moment, totally focused, mind elsewhere.
She approaches from the side so that he doesn’t see her until it’s too late. He can’t even begin to disengage from the locking mechanism before she has placed one hand on the modulator, the other guarding the safety override.
His eyes bulge upon recognising her, a shake of the head from Nikki warning him not to move. He knows that if she ratchets up the frequency on this thing, it could rip even his arms out of their sockets.
She senses movement from behind and in a twinkling drops her hand from the safety and seizes the jizz cannon, pointing it into the face of the guy who was planning to intervene.
“Seguridad,” she warns, but it’s the resin gun that really makes him back off. Nobody wants to be dealing with the aftermath of a cum shot.
What the guy doesn’t realise is that the paperwork she’d have to fill in to officially report discharging her weapon is just as messy and takes even longer to be fully free of.
Freitas stares at her wordlessly. It’s more than the usual code of silence—more like he’s trying to contain his rage.
She stares back for a few seconds, seeing if frustration and curiosity cause him to break first.
“What?” he grunts aggressively.
“I’m looking for your buddy, Omega. Hear he didn’t show up for work and everybody’s just worried sick about him.”
She says this so she can monitor his reaction, see if he knows.
He rattles the gyro-grips like he might burst free, enough to rattle the whole frame of the machine. It’s not a show of defiance. He’s angry and he’s hurting. Probably down here working out because he doesn’t like where his head would be otherwise.
Oh, he knows.
“Yoram didn’t need to send his pet rentacop around. We already got his message.”
“I’m here on official Seguridad business. Yoram didn’t send me. What message are you talking about?”
“For all the practice they get, you’d think cops wouldn’t be such shitty liars. You know what I’m talking about. That fucking slaughterhouse. We saw pictures.”
“Yoram sent you pictures?”
“Well he didn’t put his signature on them but like I said, we got the message. I take it the Seguridad already ruled it an accident?”
“Well, we like to be thorough, so we’re not ruling anything out and we’re not ruling anything in. That’s why I’m here asking questions.”
“Yeah, so I heard. You and your sidekick. FNG got you on their leash pretty good,” he adds with bitter derision.
“Don’t kid yourself. She’s nobody.”
Something about this pleases Freitas. Something Nikki doesn’t like.
“Used to be Nikki Fixx was the one with eyes everywhere. These days looks like you’re gonna be the last to know.”
Nikki ignores this. These assholes love making out they’ve got the skinny on something to try and take your eye off the ball. She isn’t falling for it. Something is bothering her, though: a niggling thought in the back of her mind that she can’t quite pin down. It’s that feeling like she missed something that was right in front of her, but when she tries to concentrate on it, it only seems to get more clouded. It is something to do with Omega, Freitas and Dade, beyond their link to Julio and yet central to it too.
“What time did you last see Omega?”
“Fuck you, Freeman. I ain’t telling you shit.”
“I’m just trying to find out what happened here. Could be there’s someone very dangerous on the loose.”
“You know what happened. Omega jacked your shipment and this is Yoram getting payback.”
She scoffs.
“You seriously think Yoram would cross that line over missing whisky?”
“Six months ago, probably not. But now he’s overreacting because he’s seeing the straws in the wind.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Sol. I ran Julio and his chimps out of town once before. Yoram knows I could do it again if it came to it. He wouldn’t need to do this.”
She’s trying to provoke him, but instead he looks kind of smug behind the anger, like this is the one thought giving him comfort.
“You look kinda tired, Nikki. Old. Like you been up all night and you can’t take the pace no more, you scope me? Gotta be tough work, cutting a man up like butcher meat. Need a strong stomach for that shit. But we’ll see how strong your stomach really is when we come back at you, because you’re right: someone dangerous is on the loose, and his name’s Julio fucking Martinez. Julio got a play he ain’t made yet, and when that comes through, Yoram’s gonna need more than some ageing rentacop bitch to protect him.”
A FEARSOME PROSPECT
Alice shudders with fright as the door flies open, trailing sparks from whatever has shattered the lock. It pivots violently on its hinge, catching the edge of a table hard enough to scatter the contents of the half-empty takeout cartons that were resting on it.
The first person through it moves like he was propelled forward by the blast. Even as Dreads lunges towards a workbench, perhaps to retrieve a weapon, this guy is already upon him, unleashing some kind of telescopic cosh that extends and whiplashes in a single movement, catching Dreads on the temple with a horrible sound. It spins him into a second, even more sickening impact with the wall, from which he rebounds and tumbles to the floor like a dead weight.
&
nbsp; By this time the second man through the door is on top of him, raining down four or five sharp blows to his back that knock the wind and any residual fight out of him.
They are followed by a woman dressed in a flight suit, like the one Alice was given for her journey here from Earth, except this one looks like it’s clocked up a lot more miles. Better fitting, too. She looks Indian or Middle Eastern, mounds of thick black hair tied up in a bun.
Dreads raises his head to look up at her, like he’s having to peel it from the floor. From this angle, Alice can’t see his expression.
“What the fuck?” he splutters, breathless and shaky. “What is this about?”
“We need your toys and your services, Trick. Urgently and exclusively.”
Trick, Alice thinks. It’s a nickname, but it’s a start.
The guy with the cosh prods it into Trick’s back by way of warning, while the other one carelessly disconnects Alice’s wrist sensor and tosses it aside. It’s the tech it’s connected to that they are interested in—and its designer, apparently.
“Come on, you can’t take my stuff. I make my living from that shit. I’m always for hire, everybody knows that. You want me to do something for you, you just need to cross my palm.”
“No, Trick, you don’t work for yourself. Not any more. You work for us now. Starting right away.”
She gives a nod and the guy with the cosh lashes him once on the back of each leg. He screams with pain and tries to curl up, but his assailant has a foot pressed to the base of his spine, pinning him in place.
“What the fuck is in your heads?” he yells. “You want me to help you, why you got him beating on me? You think physical pain is conducive to my ability to carry out complex calculations? You think this is gonna encourage my cooperation?”
“I’ve got him beating on you so you understand that this isn’t a negotiation. You’re not helping us. You’re doing what you’re told. Starting with getting to your feet, right now. We’re shipping out.”
The man with the cosh steps aside, allowing Trick to climb up on shaky legs. He casts a glance towards Alice, and it’s like she has been suddenly noticed, or belatedly considered relevant.
“Who’s this?” asks the other man, bundling Trick’s kit into a shockproof case.
“She’s nobody. I gave her a sedative. Her eyes are open but she isn’t gonna remember shit. Her unit is detached too, so no grabs. Leave her alone.”
“Wendy Goodfellow,” Cosh Man states. He’s getting this from his lens, Alice deduces. Her detached wrist unit is already spoofing her ID, and Trick must have given her an off-the-peg alias. “She’s a vital-systems officer on test-flight vehicles. Sounds like the kind of person who would remember details.”
“That isn’t her name, you asshole,” says the other one, walking over to the table where Alice is restrained. “Why do you think she’s in this chop-shop? That’s hacked information.”
“Well, either way, I reckon we better check how responsive she is.” A horribly lascivious grin plays threateningly across Cosh Man’s face as he speaks. “Long as you’re saying she isn’t going to remember anything.”
Alice feels her pulse race, her wrists and ankles straining against their bonds. She looks towards the woman, who is staring back intently, scrutinising her. Her fingers are tapping commands, her expression one of growing disquiet.
“Walk away now,” she states firmly. Gravely.
“Why?” Cosh Man asks.
“Because I don’t care what anybody else’s lens is telling them.” The woman’s voice is calm, but in a manner that indicates she’s trying hard to contain her true emotion. “I’m running off primary and I know what I’m looking at.”
“Which would be what?”
“Project Sentinel.”
Both react instantly to these words. They don’t ask: “Are you serious?” They don’t ask: “Are you sure?” They know she is serious. They know she is sure.
“Holy fuck.”
“Well, shit, why you saying walk?” asks Cosh. “Can’t we solve ourselves a serious problem while she’s restrained like that?”
Alice looks to Trick in desperation. He is in no state to stage any kind of rescue. His fingers are moving though, like he is working something via his lens.
“Did you hear what I just said?” the woman demands, her voice rising. “Don’t you understand what she is?”
There is a moment of silence in response, punctured by the smooth whir and clunk of Alice’s restraints being unlocked and withdrawing into their housing.
The three intruders trade looks, the two males looking to the woman for their cue.
Alice pulls herself slowly into a sitting position, causing both of the men to start.
Their boss finds her voice once more: resolute, controlled and unmistakably fearful.
“Let’s grab what we came for and get the hell out of here.”
FROM THE VINE TO THE BOTTLE
It feels hot up here on Yoram’s rooftop. It always does. Nikki wonders whether he bribed somebody to adjust the localised temperature settings so that it’s more like his native Beirut, or maybe the temperature up here is supposed to be warmer for the benefit of the crops. Almost all of the roofspace on Seedee is used for growing, as these are the only areas that are sufficiently expansive and exposed enough to catch much sunlight. There is a soil bed a metre deep, lined with irrigation channels and programmed sprinklers. Yoram’s rooftop is at such a height that there is just about enough gravity to hold the soil in place, but there is the standard breathable membrane on top anyway, to prevent it all floating away if there’s an all-stop. On Seedee, every square metre of soil is accounted for and its yield carefully audited: botanists monitoring conditions, rotating crops and adjusting what gets planted according to constantly shifting supply and consumption data.
Nonetheless, cross the right palm with a lot of silver and you can carve a little slice for yourself. Yoram treats this place as his personal oasis, though there’s only one small corner that he actually tends. He’s got a decent-sized pad by Seedee standards, but when he’s home he’s usually to be found up here, tending his vines or just sitting out feeling the sun through the canopy.
Nikki is reminded of jetlag any time she’s up here. It’s that sensation of being out in daylight when your brain is telling you it’s night. It’s a result of her usually having come from Mullane, where it always seems dark, even outside on the street. The buildings are close together, keeping the ground level permanently in shade, whereas if she’s up here with Yoram, it’s always daytime.
Back in Lebanon, Yoram ran a wine export business. He wasn’t a crook, but he was, by his own description, a slippery operator who played every angle to get the best deal. He was a family man too: a wife and two daughters.
Then he lost all of them in a heartbeat when a truck driver had a seizure and crashed into the café where they were eating.
He came to Seedee because there was nothing left below. His business collapsed after he couldn’t bring himself to work there any more, couldn’t live in the wreckage of the life he had built. He got a job here on Wheel One in import logistics. Officially he still has it, but he needed other ways to occupy himself. He needed something new to build.
Nikki slept with him once. They don’t talk about it. He cried, showed her a ruined side of himself he didn’t intend her to see and that Nikki didn’t have it in her to deal with. She just had too much wreckage of her own to shore up.
Yoram is crouched at the trellis, secateurs in his hand, a safety line clipped to his belt. The gravity is light up here, and it’s easy to forget, especially if you just came from below. Move too fast or trip over your own feet and you could accidentally hurl yourself over the barrier.
He normally seems more relaxed when she visits him in this, his sanctuary. Instead he is agitated and irritable.
“I don’t get what is going on, Nikki. It’s a mess, but I thought there was a sense to it, you know?”
Nik
ki doesn’t follow, but she knows better than to say as much. She lets him talk. It’s better that way.
“These people on the dock. Felicia told me. I get it. High-level operatives, confiscating our stuff. They’re shutting us down, I figure. Shutting everybody down. There’s a load of new-broom bullshit coming down from FNG. New people in oversight positions, trying to make a name for themselves. We’ve all seen this before. I can ride it out, I figure. Everybody’s in the same boat.”
He turns and looks up at her, restless frustration in his expression.
“But now I’m seeing my goods showing up all over Seedee. And I’ve no doubt it’s my goods, because you could walk down Mullane and play bingo with the manifest. Talisker, check. Craigellachie, check. Glenfarclas, check. What the fuck, Nikki? What the fuck?”
She stands there and takes it, being scolded like a schoolgirl. She doesn’t have a comeback anyway, but she’s primarily interested in watching Yoram, listening to him vent, so she can sniff out what he knows. He hasn’t mentioned Omega, or even asked why she’s here, and that’s worrying her.
She knows she shouldn’t let Sol’s smack-talking get into her head, but there is a part of her that still can’t help thinking like a cop, and that part knows Yoram is the obvious first suspect. Whatever other bullshit Sol threw into their conversation, he clearly believed Yoram was responsible. What she’s having to ponder is whether she believes Yoram would do something as crazy and reckless as this, never mind as brutal. Surely he’d know the firestorm it would bring down?
But what if Sol wasn’t talking smack about this play Julio hasn’t made yet? Yoram’s just lost a major shipment, leaving him without product and therefore without presence. What is he capable of if he’s pushed into a corner?
“Used to be nothing happened around here without you had the skinny. That’s what I paid you for. Now I’m starting to wonder whether your eye is still on the ball.”
This last bothers her, recalling what Sol said about her being the last to know. Is it possible he wasn’t just yanking her chain? The last to know what?
Places in the Darkness Page 15
