Cowl

by Neal Asher

  TACK WAS INHERENTLY IMMORAL. He had been grown for immorality and trained for it. He knew the rules, all of them, and he knew how to break them with a thoroughness that was frightening. The rule he knew how to break most efficiently was ‘Thou shalt not kill’ or any legalese derivation of such.

  Tack did not have a mother or father in the usual sense. He had been cloned from a particularly efficient CIA killer, and vat-grown two hundred years after that same killer had paid a visit to a crematorium furnace without the benefit of being dead. The burned killer’s genetic tissue had been taken from him years before as part of one of the top-secret loony projects of that time. Tack’s accelerated upbringing had consisted of, during daytime, an enforced training that had killed off many of his classmates—all surprisingly similar in appearance to himself—and at nights being hooked up to a semi-AI computer via the surgically installed interface plug in the base of his skull. At the age of ten he was physically an adult, mentally an adult, but mentally something else as well. His intensive knowledge of both Eastern martial arts and modern weaponry blended into a coherent whole that made him the supreme killer. His understanding of the world at large came not from personal experience but via uploading. In him his makers and masters had achieved their goal: they had both soldier and secret agent, and did not have to worry about whether or not he would obey orders, for he was programmable.

  Glancing back now at the little whore, he wondered what Nandru Jurgens hoped to achieve with her, for it was evident to Tack that she was as dispensable to the Task Force soldier as she was to Tack himself. Some time soon the sale would have to be made and in any such transaction there was always a point where one party must, however briefly, be prepared to trust the other party. And it was in such brief intervals that Tack operated most efficiently. He expected some kind of threat and some kind of double-cross, but was confident of his own and his comrades’ ability to circumvent this; confident that by the end of this day he would be in possession of both the item itself and the money, and that Jurgens and this little whore would be dead.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked.

  ‘Head for the Anglia Reforest and put down by the old thermal generating tower,’ Polly replied.

  As the driver changed course, Tack faced forward again and briefly scanned the console on the side of his seeker gun. Since first pointing it at the whore it had, by laser and ultrasound scanning, recorded her recognition pattern and now it literally contained bullets with her name on them, though they were not the ones he had it presently set to use. Right now the gun was programmed to track the one whom Tack considered the greater danger: Nandru Jurgens himself. Tack would probably not need to use the gun on her anyway, since he intended to keep her close, and for close work he preferred the seven inches of kris flick knife in his pocket.

  Soon they were heading out beyond the residential areas and passing over the old wall that had held back the sea before the U-gov-sponsored land-reclamation project—one that, like all such projects, had spiralled out of control costwise and was now on the brink of failure. Below lay the plain of the Anglia Reforest, seeded with nettle elms, binding grass, and endless brambles, thistles and stinging nettles. The Green contention that the place would become overrun with GM rape and maize had been fallacious—man’s small tinkerings with code were yet to prove effective enough to counter billions of years of evolution.

  Tack pointed to the tower rising like a giant iron tulip out of a copse of small oaks. ‘The clearing. Down by those ruins,’ he told the driver.

  The man nodded and brought the Macrojet spiralling down towards a clearing that had probably in the past been a farmyard.

  Tack turned to Polly. ‘You will now take us to the item. Understand that I will kill you if there are any problems. There will be no problems?’

  ‘Look, I don’t wanna be here. Nandru roped me into this without asking me,’ Polly replied, her hand flicking up to the Muse at her throat.

  Only the presence of that device caused Tack any qualms, for even he did not have sufficient clearance to know its capabilities. It was recently developed military tech and, as such, an imponderable in this situation. However, he judged it to be tech whose purpose was merely informational, not some form of weaponry, its presence being only required by Jurgens as a secure comlink.

  The Macrojet landed, blasting about it, like confetti, old crab carapaces whose owners had probably been washed inland during the over-flooding of the incompetently built sea wall that lay some miles to the east. Immediately the two either side of Polly piled out of the vehicle and ran to investigate the surrounding buildings and tangled vegetation, pulling guns from concealed holsters as they went. Tack glanced at Polly and gestured her with his thumb to the open door, before himself climbing out. He did not rush for cover—he had every confidence that the other two had the area covered sufficiently. The driver remained in the car.

  ‘Where to now?’ he asked Polly.

  She held a finger up to the earring that he reckoned had to be an inducer. Tack understood the technology because he too wore a device that used electrostatic induction to vibrate the bones of his inner ear—in his case to relay instructions from his Director of Operations in Brussels. After a moment she pointed to a nearby ruin—all tumbled breeze blocks and heaped mud. When Tack made no move to head in that direction, she frowned and led the way.

  Walking behind, Tack scanned his surroundings. The sunlight was bright, so he flicked up his polarized nictitating membranes, once again mirroring his eyes.

  No one in the immediate area, Glock told him over comlink.

  Traffic control hasn’t got anything within five kilometres, said Airan.

  There is the tower, though, added Provish, the driver.

  ‘Stay alert and keep all detectors on,’ said Tack, getting a querying look from Polly. ‘This guy took out two in Prague with a door mine.’

  As they reached the ruin, the whore froze and lost all interest in her surroundings. Looking past her, Tack saw that the item was there, resting on a large fragment of polystyrene, and it was on this that her attention was now riveted. Tack knew about this reaction, but had never felt it himself, perhaps because of his programming. He then noted the explosive charge fixed to the side of the item, and began to guess what Jurgens’s game was.

  IT CALLS TO YOU … it calls to you all the time.

  The nettles were dead and dry in the cavity walls, and the grass was brown and crunched underfoot. Glancing at her stolid and lethal companion, Polly stepped sideways into the shade cast by the low oaks. She was thirsty, and scared, not only because of her present situation but of the reaction she had immediately felt. For a moment she thought the thing was some chitinous object washed in by the over-flood, like the pink and white crab carapaces all around. It looked like a mutated crustacean from the sea, and some weird things had been turning up in seas greenhouse-cooked and radioactive. However, white plastique was jammed around its thorny outgrowths, and the miniscreen of a matt-black detonator connected to this explosive displayed a revolving spiral of red lights.

  There it is, Nandru told her, and she was bemused by the avidity in his tone.

  ‘What do I do now?’ she asked out loud.

  The heavy was staring at her but offered no reply.

  Tell him the detonator is net-linked and programmable. I know he’s monitored and in constant com. His DO can run a diagnostic probe from wherever he is and that won’t cause a detonation. He’ll find a hard link from the numbered account.

  Polly relayed Nandru’s words, while still staring at the object. It was seemingly all thorned glass and silver; a perilous thing to slip onto her forearm—as she desperately wanted to do. Groping in her hip bag for a smoke, she spotted Tack immediately pointing his seeker gun at her.

  Interdiction initiated. Seeking …

  Ignoring the dead voice of Muse 184, she slowed her movements but did not stop them, as she was aching for that smoke. With shaking hands she opened her tobacco pouch and roll
ed a cigarette. Lighting up, she turned directly towards Tack, deliberately away from the temptation of the strange object, and blew smoke towards him provocatively. His air was somewhat distracted, he was obviously listening to his comlink, but the barrel of his weapon never wavered from her face.

  ‘The hard link has been found and the diagnostic probe is in,’ said Tack. ‘What is the purpose of this?’

  After listening to Nandru, Polly replied, ‘He tells me you’ll find that, when the specified sum is transferred to the numbered account, the detonator will shut down.’

  ‘And we are to believe this?’ asked Tack, his tone conveying respect at the neatness of the set-up.

  ‘He also tells me that at some point there has to be trust.’

  Tack was silent again, for long-drawn-out moments. Polly could feel sweat trickling under her blouse. She did not convey what Nandru told her next.

  As I thought, the fuckers are trying to break the hard link. No way in, dick-heads … They’ll have to do it—they’re too desperate for the damned thing.

  ‘It is agreed,’ said Tack after a moment. ‘The transference of funds will be made. Inform Mr Jurgens that if the detonator does not shut down then, or if there are any other … mishaps, I will personally hunt him down and feed him into a trash compactor.’

  I can hear you, fucker. And your hunting days are over.

  Polly eyed the spiralling lights on the detonator’s screen and stepped back into the hot sunlight, preparing to bolt. Suddenly the lights went out and, realizing she just was not far enough away, Polly closed her eyes and cringed inwardly.

  ‘Transaction complete,’ said Tack.

  Polly opened her eyes to see him stepping in towards the object and its clinging explosive, his weapon again concealed while he pulled on surgical gloves. He stooped, pulled off the detonator and cast it to one side. He then stripped away the plastique, balled it, and tossed it in another direction.

  You know, Polly, if it hadn’t been for you, Marjae might still be alive. You can tell your friend there that I acquired him and his companions when they were walking over. The deal’s done and now it’s payback time.

  The detonation came from behind and Polly turned in time to see the underside of the Macrojet as it turned in a conflagration. Two other hits swatted it along the ground as if it was fashioned of balsa and papier mâché, blowing it to pieces. Glancing back, she saw Tack raising his seeker gun and she ran for the trees.

  Interdiction find.

  The mosquito whining of seeker bullets was suddenly all around her—their winged shapes whipping through the air like June beetles. Coming out of brambles some way ahead of her, with leaves stuck to his long coat, she saw one of Tack’s companions levelling his gun at her. Then he doubled over, and the dull thud of a muffled detonation spread his insides across the dry grass.

  Not target. Interdiction pause.

  Behind her she could hear the killer, Tack, pursuing. She turned to her left as there came the low coughing of a nearby gun.

  Interdiction find.

  A seeker round whined past her and hit a sapling just ahead, blowing it in half. Another round whined overhead, made a strange whuckering sound, then spiralled into the earth directly in front of her and exploded. She leapt the smoking hole and just kept on running. The shots were missing her and she just did not understand why.

  PROVISH WAS RIGHT. IN the fucking tower! In the t—

  That was Airan, the remains of whom Tack passed only a minute later. The seeker round had taken off his head, which was especially unlucky for him because he, like Tack, had taken the precaution of wearing a moly-Kevlar undershirt.

  Firing again at the girl dodging between the trees, Tack watched in amazement when the round—programmed to hunt her down—veered left and slammed into the remains of an old brick wall. With no time to check his weapon, Tack thumbed off its programming facility, took careful aim, and held his finger down on the trigger. Retaining their casings the rounds now went where he aimed. Trees flared and burning bark showered down, as the girl jumped a drainage ditch. Too many trees and she was moving fast. Tack sprinted after her, only to hear a familiar whining behind him. The round fired from the tower slammed into his back, knocking him face-down next to the ditch. He struggled upright and another round exploded on his chest knocking him backwards into the ditch. Briefly he caught a glimpse of the girl turning and sprinting back towards the ruins, then he blacked out.

  WELL, THERE WENT THE super-killers and you are still in one piece, little Polly.

  Gasping, Polly stumbled into the ruin and flopped down in some shade with her back against the breeze-block wall.

  ‘You fucking bastard, you nearly got me killed!’

  Only a little bit and, anyway, you’ll get paid because now I have their money and their precious objet d’art.

  Polly stared across at the thing he referred to and once again felt a powerful urge to just go over and pick it up—to slip it onto her forearm like a piece of baroque jewellery. What the hell was it? It looked organic rather than made, was a tube seemingly rolled from a holly leaf the length of a person’s forearm, that leaf itself fashioned of white and silver metal. As she contemplated it, she found herself standing, inexorably drawn to it. Somehow, it had the same attraction for her as a roll of drug patches. She could feel the yearning, the addiction …

  I’ll be with you in a moment. Just you wait there for me.

  Polly squatted by the object, reached out and touched it. Inside her something snapped shut and she knew exactly what she had to do.

  Polly, keep away from that! I said, fucking keep away from that!

  It was heavy. She had to take it up with both hands, and as she did her hands bled. The pain was ecstasy. She slid it over her right forearm. Skin peeled and flesh parted like earth before the plough. She screamed as blood jetted from slit arteries, and she fell to her knees.

  Don’t! Don’t! It comes when you touch it directly!

  Very quickly she ceased to bleed. She stared at the thing. It was bonding to her flesh. She could feel it bonding to the bones beneath. Looking up, she saw Nandru running towards her, his weapon braced across his chest.

  ‘What the hell have you done?’ he shouted.

  The air distorted, and something harsh inside her dragged her upright. She could feel something washing through her like citrine fire. The drugs and the dullness they induced were going. Elements of her mind blossomed and opened out. True wakefulness hurt as no physical pain possibly could, and she understood why so many humans spent most of their lives fleeing it.

  ‘Oh Jesus.’

  In the distortion Nandru turned to face a flaw in reality. The flaw opened out to expose two vast rollers of living tissue turning against each other. Polly realized they were land and sky composed of living flesh. Out of this, looming into the day, came a living door, throated with teeth and shadows, and lipped with razor bone—the horrifying terminus of some huge trainlike tentacle that stretched back into that landscape of flesh.

  There came a roaring sound, a high-pitched keening, then the stench of carrion.

  No! No! I don’t want to …

  It closed on him, drawing him in.

  Casualty link established. Uploading …

  Nandru was gone, eaten alive. She watched him go, torn apart and ground away.

  Then the flaw snapped shut thunderously, and all distortion fled. Polly saw everything clearly now and did not for one instant believe she had been hallucinating. Just as she wasn’t hallucinating the killer, Tack, who was walking out of the trees towards her.

  HE WAS GAINING ON her. That first burst of adrenalin had taken her some way but she was quickly tiring. The thing on her arm had made her thoughts oh so clear, but it had not repaired a body damaged by years of drug abuse. Glancing back, she saw him raising and lowering his seeker gun as she dodged amid the trees. He was aiming at her legs, and in his other hand she saw the ugly glitter of a knife. Her shoulder clipping a tree, and with brambles ta
ngled round her feet, she sprawled and knew terror. The killer was so close. Then he was standing over her, a look of cold satisfaction on his face, his mirrored eyes reflecting the surrounding green.

  ‘Get up,’ he said.

  Polly looked into the mouth of the gun, then at the knife. As she stood he holstered the gun and she knew only panic at what he intended to do. She turned to flee as he stepped in with the knife held low for a disembowelling cut. He grabbed her arm, then grunted in pained surprise and released her. Glancing back while stumbling away, she saw he was walking after her now, knowing he had her. Polly had to escape. The flaw—that distortion. She felt herself reaching out with something within her that was linked to the thing on her forearm. Twisting that something, she fled in the only direction available to her and fell into waves of darkness below featureless grey. Screaming only blew what air remained from her lungs, and in her next breath she took in nothing. Then came a slow wrench as if she had just penetrated some meniscus. Suddenly she was face-down in cold and dark; salt water filled her mouth. Pushing down, her hands sank into slime. She jerked herself up, breathed and shook her head to clear her eyes, and found herself lying in a foot of sea water under the same trees as before. Only now the trees were without leaves and the air was cold. Heaving herself to her knees, she observed crabs scuttling away through the water nearby.

  ‘What is this?’ The killer was still with her, standing up to his calves in the water and looking around disbelievingly.