by Ren Warom
Twist’s mouth twitches. “Nice touch with the thread.”
“I like to improvise.”
The twitch briefly widens to a smile. He reaches out, flicks the sack back over Terence’s remains.
“Okay. Okay, Amiga. You pass this time. But…” He leans toward her, those excavating eyes of his drilling for black gold in her brain. “Look, you’re an asset to me, but I’m not blind. I know there’s shit going down and you’re up to your pretty little neck in it, you and that J-Hack rabble you call friends. All I ask is that you don’t drag me into it. Don’t make me have to Clean a favourite. Understand?”
She nods, her heart slamming into her ribcage, hard enough to crack bone.
“Understood.”
“Good. Now get that in my vault.”
Summarily dismissed, Amiga grabs her bag and leaves the Solarium, heading toward the living areas and the vault. Twist’s money has bought the kind of vault some of the wealthiest oligarchs in Foon Gung would give their eyeteeth for: a set of rooms armoured like tanks and armed to the teeth.
And she’s got to steal from it.
“This had better be worth it,” she mutters, moving into the maze of storage as it allows her egress.
First things first, she places the head in the show case, standing clear as it plops gently into its glass aquarium full of preservative and using the glass rod to nudge it until it rests neck down. It’s a pretty gallery of the dead this, everyone who ever crossed Twist, or thought about trying.
“I’ll be here soon,” she says to Terence. “Probably look even prettier than you. Won’t that be a treat?” He doesn’t reply, not even in her imagination, but then his mouth is sewn shut, and she’s a pragmatist all the way through.
Activating surveillance interference supplied by Deuce, she throws her physical signal so it looks like she’s still at the tanks and races to the data-storage facility. Deuce also gave her means to access it without detection, a piece of Hunt/Collect software cluttering her neural drive she can’t wait to purge. Jacking in, she lets the H/C do its work, rooting out the package Fellows insists is here.
Amiga can hack to a degree. She was on track for Corp and has a fair working knowledge of Slip, Tech and code, but Deuce’s shit is way beyond her knowledge, so she’s doing this on trust. Not her strong point. It makes for uneasy waiting. But just as Fellows said, the package in question is there, and Amiga works quickly to DL a copy of it, hearing the ticking of the clock loud as death knells.
It takes literally seconds, which does precisely nothing to make Amiga feel less likely to puke up the entire wet contents of her ribcage, and two minutes later she’s walking out through the gates, waving her usual flippant middle finger at Geo and resisting taking the shoot. Twist may not immediately grasp his storage has been accessed. He may even take weeks to notice, as Deuce insisted would be the case, but he’ll click in a light second to unusual behaviour. So she’ll walk back down and all the way to the mono, no matter how exhausted and frightened she is right now, because that’s what she always does.
Anything to keep breathing, that’s her motto, and it’s precisely how she’s lasted long enough to be risking her stupid life all over again.
Trouble on the High Seas
Her wheels ploughing up sixty-foot sprays of brine and foam, Resurrection sweeps across open water like a cyclone. She’s sailing what used to be the East China Sea, triangulating in on a distress signal, some unfortunate perhaps worked over by pirates or come a cropper on the spikes hidden beneath the ocean around the East China Ranges. Serrated masses of solid rock that, due to a lack of basic sonar equipment, take two or three ships per year.
Once upon a time there were almost one and a half thousand land ships on the ocean, now there are only a few hundred. Give it another century, maybe less, and this way of life will be nothing but a memory. So much of the old world has been lost; it seems a shame that the new might follow it into history so soon.
This signal is loud and will have been heard by others. Resurrection’s aiming to be first on the scene. If the ship they find is a total loss, they’ll grab whatever they can before it’s claimed by the sea and rescue any survivors. If it’s not, they’ll help it regain sea-worthiness and fend off anyone who might have followed the signal with less honourable intentions.
Perched on his crow at the prow, doused in errant spray and sweeping the horizon through his ’scope for signs of their ship in distress, Petrie spots a glinting in the sky on their port side. Now what in hell is that?
Incoming sou’west, he roars at the port crows. Who’s got eyes out there. C’mon!
He looks back through his ’scope. The glinting is larger now, bright as lens flare, and trailing an unmistakable smoking tail. Monkey-agile, he leaps to the ropes, clipping on to spin down, and as he heads for the port side sentry shouts arouse the attention of Cassius Angel, his captain, perched atop the crow at the centre today instead of his customary position on the crow base beneath.
A tall, rawboned man of Nigerian descent, covered in patterns of tribal scars like the flowering chaos of migrating birds, Cassius jumps from his perch and slides to the nearest walkway on frayed ropes. He reaches port side at a flat run just as Petrie does.
“What gives?” he shouts to Petrie over the churn of the wheels.
“Looks like a sec-drone,” Petrie yells back, struggling to see the thing through the bright halo of sunlight refracting from its shell as it plummets toward the ocean.
Cassius raises a brow. “All this way out?”
“Can’t be anything else. Only birds, cities and drones fly these days.”
Acknowledging that with an incline of the head, Cassius says, “Unusual to be sure.”
“More’n that. Drone from the land being this far out in the drink. You for taking a look or taking it out?”
“It’s not firing,” Cassius replies thoughtfully, his more reasoned approach being why he’s captain and Petrie’s second in command. “Looks like it’s damaged, coming in smoking like that. I want a look at it. A careful look. Just to be sure we aren’t in for some kind of trouble.”
“Aye.”
Spinning his clip clamp to max, Petrie clips on to a thick side rope and leaps over the edge, spinning down to join the men and women on the gantries below. The whole of Resurrection is encased on her upper level in a steel framework, within which rest her wheels, her schooner bays and her loading gear, including rank upon rank of grappling hooks ready to use in all their retrieval and rescue operations.
Unravelling the hooks ready to pull in the drone, they’re soaked by the impact wave. The drone hits with a sucking roar of sound as whatever’s on fire in its tail is deprived of oxygen. Gasping through freezing water as the hooks splash in, snagging purchase, Petrie begins to haul.
He’s only ever seen drones in the distance under lights and sun and when it finally breaks clear of the water, he’s stunned by its beauty and surprising elegance. Shaped like a ray and see-through, the shell and innards something like glass but tougher and reactive to touch; intricately sectioned wings writhing helplessly within their grasp as they pull it up the City’s rearing side onto the flat.
“Unexpected,” Cassius murmurs in his deep drawl, running a curious hand the length of the body section and watching as the segments roll together smoothly, rearing away from his touch. “Looks like it belongs in sea, not sky.”
“I don’t like it being here,” Petrie mutters.
His captain looks at him. “You in favour of blowing it sky high, Bosun?”
“Depends. Drones don’t allow themselves to get taken like this, not even damaged. Their weapons systems are designed to self-heal. It being out here, and helpless to boot, is probably no coincidence.”
“Agreed. But I want it examined to see what’s going on.”
Swaddled in a sling and attached to the winch, the drone’s hauled to the workshops by crews of men and women, all shouting out the count, their muscles gleaming under sunlight an
d water drops. Inch by inch they lower it in through the access hatch where the workshop crews work swiftly to fasten it safe to two heavy machine benches.
Cassius and Petrie arrive in the workshops as the last straps are being secured. Scratch, Chief Tech of the Resurrection, bounds over enthusiastically, his dog, Samson, trotting at his heels, panting clouds of foul breath into the hot confines of the ’shop. Petrie moves downwind, waving a not so discreet hand. In his opinion Scratch smells as bad as the mangy mutt attached to his shadow and has about as little shame.
“Opinions, Scratch,” Cassius demands, before the Tech’s even had a moment to lay hands on the vast machine taking up two of his benches. “Petrie here says this thing can self-heal its weapons systems, so why aren’t we taking fire?”
“Bosun ain’t wrong.”
“So…?” Cassius moves back a pace, his hand falling to the spike-gun at his hip.
Scratch flips down his visor. A soft whirring comes from within as he accesses schematics, checks general safety. He sniffs. Shrugs.
“It’s not broken, just mostly offline. Stripped to bare functions and disconnected from the collective. Helpless.”
Petrie and Cassius exchange deeply interested glances.
“How’s it here? Coincidence?” Cassius asks.
“Not a bit of it. It’s been tasked to find us. I’m seeing specs for a ship that has to be this one, and a package, locked up with quite the crypt payload. Uh… and it’s got Volk’s name on it.”
“Volk?” Cassius frowns.
Petrie’s stomach clenches, a shot of acid firing up into his throat.
“Refugee. I er… took her on at the Gung when we docked for our server check. She’s been working between Tech crews. Very knowledgeable. Very useful. I knew she was on the run from something, but this…” He swallows. Shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Captain. I made a mistake.”
Cassius reaches out a large hand to grasp Petrie’s shoulder.
“Hold hard there, Bosun. We have no idea if this is trouble or not yet. Let’s gather the facts before we leap.” He turns back to Scratch. “Anything you can see right now to suggest why a new crew member’s name might be there?”
“Beats me,” he says. “For what it’s worth, Cap, I like the woman. Knows her stuff, like Petrie said. Bit remote like and weird eyes from all her implant tech, but she fits. Does more’n her fair share. Smart as a freakin’ whip. Can’t say as I look at her and think trouble, knoworramean?”
“I hear you, Scratch. Duly noted. What about the damage?”
“Low-range EMP knocked out some of its propulsion systems. Reckon we got pirates.” Scratch flips up the visor. “I figure since their first shots failed, they’ll not be far behind.”
And, as if he’s conjured them by speaking, the attack sirens out on the lookout crows begin to howl.
“Anything against saying that right off?” Petrie yells, furious, and receives one of Scratch’s eloquent shrugs in response.
Side by side, he and Cassius sprint from the workshops as the ship responds to the threat with a well-oiled, much-practiced routine proven in many a previous battle. Citizens drain downward back onto the living deck via specially designated free routes, hurrying to safety, calling in children too young for school and bolting their doors.
Whilst they disappear, the ship’s crew comes from every level and hits the sides to work the big fifty-cal guns and the harpoons, or take up smaller arms. There are thousands of active crew members but this takes place in mere minutes, the guns clanking and rising to aim before the first round of attack sirens has run through.
Approaching on the port side are three pirate schooners. Sixty-footers, riddled with guns and armour. By the time they’re within range, the Resurrection’s heavy artillery is locked in and loaded and begins a smooth, relentless barrage of ammo made from alloys smelted and moulded in Scratch’s workshop. The sea around the schooners churns wildly with heavy impacts punctuated by cataclysmic explosions of wood and steel.
Given no time to properly respond, the schooners manage only a few rough return shots that barely make it to within fifty metres of Resurrection’s sides and then they’re panicking, trying to turn. They won’t make it. These are advance ships and they’re too small to have any chance whatsoever against the might of a land ship of Resurrection’s size.
Petrie and Cassius stand atop the captain’s crow, watching through the ’scope as they collapse into the sea, flaring distress. Petrie’s heart sinks with them. He knows these schooners, their colours are only too recognizable.
“They’re from the Ark,” he says.
Cassius leans in for a look on another ’scope, spits furiously on the deck.
“Shit.”
“Pentecost likes to keep his crew close. Our window is tiny. They’ll be no more than a day ahead, thirty-six hours at the most,” Petrie says, trying to keep the fear from his voice. Usually they avoid ships like the Ark. It’s the safest way to get on and there’s a whole ocean, plenty of opportunity to steer clear.
They’ve arrived at smoking wrecks the Ark’s just left behind or seen them way out in the distance, but thus far they’ve managed to avoid contact and therefore conflict. There’s no way to avoid it now. The Ark will come for its schooners. It will come for whatever sent them down. And it will keep coming until it catches them. What if Pentecost remembers him? What if this ship, his home, is taken?
“Ark’s fast,” agrees Cassius. Leaning back from the ’scope as the second schooner disappears beneath the waves with a drawn out groan of metals, he says, “No way we’re going to outrun it, not even with two days’ head start, and they’ve got what… fifty, maybe sixty plus schooners?”
“Shoulda let the drone sink.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
The question gives Petrie pause for thought.
“Reckon not. They followed it here because they wanted it. They’d assume we had it and attack anyway. We were screwed from the get-go.”
“That we were. Bad day. We’ll head out, find a hub to hide beneath.” Cassius looks out to the ocean, already working out which is closest. “Figure out what to do with that drone once we’re secure. Bring Volk in on it.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Her damn name’s on it,” Cassius says. “I want to know why.”
“I don’t know about trusting her to tell the truth.” Petrie’s talking more about his own gullibility here. He desperately wants to have been right about her, because if he was wrong…
“I don’t intend to give her license to lie,” his Captain tells him, with a look grim enough to convince. Cassius is rarely angry, even more rarely violent, but when his crew are endangered you wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of him. “Now what say we get this ship to safety? Nearest hub is sou’east and five hours at full knot.”
“Cape Town Hub. Aye, Captain.”
Petrie jumps from the lookout, yelling before he’s even hit the ropes, calling the orders for the course adjust and full speed ahead. They don’t have a lot of time. The schooners successfully sent their distress flares, small robotic units designed to shoot high and transmit location, condition, and a call for back up.
Doubtless Pentecost has the Ark turned in their direction even as the Resurrection turns to run. Petrie tries not to think about what’ll happen if they’re not signal dark and out of scope-view quick smart. He knows Pentecost well, and he’s never stopped being afraid of him.
Mim Bearing Gifts
If he weren’t wearing his Bengs, Shock would be dragging his feet like a six-year-old on the way to the dentist right now. This bit right here, this whole delivery in person, face-to-face, in the physical dimension as it were, is the reason why he sits up later than usual some nights in the redolent fart stench of old men sleeping, the snores like land ships scraping rock from the crust, and contemplates the positive values of starving. The general pros of homelessness. The benefits of possible mutilation and/or horrific death versu
s the warmth and safety of his cage. And often finds the margin of cons temptingly thin.
This time Mim wants to meet at a detox juice bar. Beyond bizarre. On a par with those nutbag conspiracy theorists hollering on street corners about the breaking of the world being aliens, or illuminati, or Japanese schoolgirls or some shit. Mim would never go on a detox in a million years, unless they changed the definition of the word entirely to somehow mean “filling your body with crap”. He used to marvel at Mim’s appetite for bad things. That was before he realized that those appetites were a litmus test for the acidic rot sloshing about on her insides.
The bar she’s chosen is one of those godawful kawaii-themed fishbowl places, so much pop-eyed, cutesy, frilled-and pastel-coloured crap plastered in every direction it’s like a giant amuse plushie walked in and exploded. Mim’s waiting outside, leant up against the glass, her suit reflecting garish bubblegum-coloured lettering in eye-watering kaleidoscope. Shock groans and covers his eyes.
“Fuck’s sake, Mim, turn it off. Going blind.”
“Hell no, wear these.” She hands him her sunnies.
He plonks them on. Normally he wouldn’t, but this is life-and-death shit. Points at the shop, unable to wipe a sneer from his face.
“You wanna actually go in there? For real?”
“Sure. I’m thirsty.”
“I was hoping this was an elaborate joke at my expense.”
She grins. “How you know it’s not, Shocking boy?” And she struts on in, a tiny, shapely mirror ball of kawaii cute.
Being Mim, she goes for the most obnoxious drink on the menu, a pink-and-yellow confection packed with edible glitter and sugar. If there’s any actual fruit in it, he’ll eat her sunglasses. He goes for the safe option: more of his favourite bitter green tea whizzed together with sharp apples and biting lime, tart enough to wake the dead. They take a quiet corner, padded with sheepskin and hidden by drooping silver nets. Soon as his arse hits fluff, Shock’s ready to shoot stats to her IM, but Mim’s IM is on lock. What?
