LoneFire

by Stephen Deas

  So why the fuck do I feel like such a shit?

  Syrah, S. G. C. ‘What future for galactic economic union?’ The Stars Economist, Economist, 29 (2286).

  OK, another pointless LoneFire reference. This is a dumbass accountant writing in ultradull mode, like the only people who are supposed to read it are other accountants and jellyfish going through a real slow patch. But get this.“Past experiences with artificial intelligence banking systems have met with only limited success; a notable exception to this is the Cestus‘LoneFire’ system, now in its second year of operation. Despite a number of setbacks, the system is expected to maintain a watch over the entire planetary finance network by the end of 2288, and is projected to be a key market regulator for the entire sector before the turn of the century.” And this was forty years ago.

  Thirty-Four – Monsters In The Dark

  I run. Behind me the hotel turns into a warzone. Soldiers are running all over it, kicking in doors, swarming through the grounds outside. Somewhere, someone is really pissed. Thoughts of buggering off in a stolen helicopter are replaced by thoughts of uncaring soldiers with more guns than brain cells shooting down anything that tries to leave. Don’t know if they’re looking for me or not. Don’t know if they know I exist. Presumably they can track Doyle from the screams of the dying.

  I memorise the number in the phone Jez gave me, put a bullet into the rest and dump it in a waste recycler. I guess, if she did get away, I owe her that much.

  Shit. I’m dripping other people’s blood all over the place. If I had any sense, I’d turn myself in. Doyle’s out of control and why the fuck should I feel any loyalty to Jez anymore? I know the way the Company works and I know how they get information out of people. I can beat their system. Yeah, I should turn myself in. Better to do that than have them find me cowering in a storage cupboard.

  I’m still thinking this while I break into someone’s room. Being a top hotel, naturally the door lock is first class and I haven’t a hope of breaking it in a hurry. But that doesn’t matter because I’ve got a Tesla and the walls are only layers of plastic insulation foam, and I could simply shoot my way through, right?

  Or I could be clever. I could call Ortov. If I could be sure who’s side he’s on right now, which I can’t.

  I sigh. If it’s that or be gunned down, I supposed I have to take a chance. I think the right numbers into my head.

  ‘Constantine! I see you were your usual restrained selves. In and out like a gentle breeze, hardly anyone the wiser for your presence.’ Chirpy Ortov? I so don’t need this.

  ‘Shut up! I need your help!’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know. Not that you’re ever likely to achieve that. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m still inside and everything’s locked down. I need an exit.’

  ‘Sure. Where are you?’

  I look up and down the corridor. They all look the same. False wood panel walls, deep red carpets. Fuck, I haven’t a clue…

  ‘A room number. Just give me the nearest room number. I’ve only got the layout of the entire building down to the last fibre-optic cable…’

  Nearest room, nearest room… I run to the door. No room numbers.

  ‘Oh yeah– smartcard keys guide you themselves these days– I forget these things. Didn’t have them in my time.’

  I scream at him.‘Now what?’

  ‘I don’t know– I’ve never done this before– you tell me. Try breaking something.’

  ‘Breaking what?’

  ‘I don’t know! Anything that breaks!’

  I look at the door. A simple slot for a smartcard and that’s it. Oh well. I put a bullet in it. See if that helps.

  OrtovMelissa sniggers.‘Found you! There’s soldiers almost right where you are. Stay put.’

  ‘What?’ I kinda have it that soldiers being right where I am equals flee, run away, preferably downhill for extra speed.

  A door across the hall opens. I spin, stare at it, expecting to see someone, some confused old tycoon, another of Jervais’ goon squad, at the very least the wrong end of a gun barrel. But there’s no one there, only a short dark hallway, the hint of a space beyond.

  ‘What are you waiting for?! Go in, you idiot!’ yells Ortov.

  I run inside. The door closes behind me.

  ‘If anyone knocks, don’t answer. This room is empty. Feel your way to the darkest corner you can find and stay there until I say you can move. Don’t press any buttons and for fuck’s sake don’t dial for room service. They’ve got audio and video surveillance and they’ll know if anything changes. Draw a glass of water, they’ll know; plug into their juice they’ll know. You get the picture?’

  ‘What about opening the door,’ I hiss.‘They know you did that too?’

  ‘I can hide things if I have to. But only if I know they need hiding. Anyway, they don’t know I’m here at the moment and I’d rather not draw attention to myself. They’re already outside your room, looking at the damage you did next door. I’ll give them a couple of diversions.’

  Ortov disconnects. I creep through the darkness of the room. Outside is daylight, Cestus’s orange-yellow sun in full splendour. But not a single ray passes through the windows. I guess they keep them dark to stop the paint from fading. Four centuries of research and we still can’t fix that. Or maybe they have photo-sensitive detectors hidden in vacant rooms to pick up party-crashers. I hide under the bed. Adrenaline has been fighting with the Relaxx for a while, but now I feel it again. Maybe I’ll go to sleep…

  Four hours later I’m still hiding under the bed, wide awake. The blood on my clothes has dried, sticking them to me. I itch everywhere. The world outside is still and silent, and then I hear a noise and twitch and find my eyes wide open, my muscles trembling.

  My headphone buzzes at me. An irritating silent noise that sets my teeth on edge. Ortov. At last.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Agent 25359837. Your probability matrix indicates that you are currently in the Poseidon hotel on Cestus. Am I correct?’

  Bloody hell. Jez told me I had an agent number once. Can I remember what it was? Can I fuck. You’d have thought three hundred years of having to remember more numbers than God would have made some kind of genetic mark– PINs for this, ID numbers for that, citizen numbers, telephone numbers, all that shit. Guess I picked up the buy-an-electronicnotepad-and-keep-them-all-in-that gene instead.

  ‘Gemini.’ No one else talks about probability matrices.‘About fucking time.’

  ‘You have new orders.’

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it? You’re behind all this. And you know my name, shithead, so use it.’

  ‘Please confirm your location.’

  ‘Fuck you. Listen, you want my cooperation, you tell me what the fuck’s going on. I know which side my bread’s buttered, and if Jez wants to go against an AI with no backup, she’s on her own. But don’t think that makes me your ally. Not without a damn good reason.’

  ‘Agent 25359837—’ it says the number like it’s got acid in its logic gates.‘—your assumption as to my identity is incorrect. I am an autonomous resource of the Cestus Government. I am authorised to inform you that your current contract has been terminated, and to issue you new orders. You will eliminate Jezebel Breen, Jervais Robers and Samantha Doyle. As payment for this service, I will see to it that you are no longer known to the Cestus government. I will arrange for your removal from every electronic archive on the planet. In addition the Cestus government will transfer a payment to you to the sum of five million credits in United Stars bonds. On completion, you will leave Cestus and not return. All services debts and contracts will be terminated. Those are the terms and conditions. You will find an unmanned police vehicle outside the hotel. It is keyed to accept your genetic fingerprint.’

  ‘Fuck you.’ I hang up. Shit, if that wasn’t Gemini then who the fuck was it? But I don’t have time to think about that. Whoever it was, they had the line for long enough to get a fix on where I am. And it h
ad to be Gemini, right? No reason to think the little bastard would tell the truth…

  Time to leave. I crawl out, can’t see for shit, trip over a table and crash onto the floor. My headphone buzzes again. Fuck!

  ‘Yeah, Constantine switchboard, how may I direct your call?’

  ‘Don’t get shirty at me, I just saved your life, remember?’ Ortov. Light blossoms into the room from the doorway as it opens. I can see again.

  ‘I’m off. I just got a call from Gemini. Or someone pretending to be Gemini pretending not to be Gemini only doing it rather badly.’

  Ortov sounds different. Focussed. Maybe even nervous.‘Constantine, I’d like you to get out and pick me up. There’s something weird going on in the net. Traffic’s way up. It’s almost like real physical pressure building up here. All the off-world links are jammed solid. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  Yeah well, you’ve only been around a couple of months. I think my headphone into secretary mode. Anyone wants me they can leave a message. I stagger out. A room service trolley is waiting in the corridor with clean clothes. A gift from Ortov, I suppose. I help myself. No one stops me. Outside, the sunlight makes me cringe.

  … Samantha Doyle?

  And there it is, an empty armoured car with Cestus police written all over it. ‘Brothers Bomb Bethlehem’.

  Unspecified net source

  Uh, remember that flat Mr Cray used to have? Seems it kinda had an accident the day after we left. Along with the rest of the street. I’m trying to figure out who they were trying to get rid of– you or me.

  Thirty-Five – Excuse Me, May I Borrow Your Phone

  I should probably ignore the van. Even as I’m getting into it the hairs on the back of my neck are picking up impending asteroid strikes or something equally bad. On the other hand … I put on the driving goggles, jack in, say hi, tell it where I want to go and switch on the news. Doesn’t take long to find a channel still showing where I am now as it was four hours ago, all ambulances and body bags and burning helicopters. Got to hand it to Doyle, she knows how to make a mess. Two hours later and the soldiers were gone. Another hour and so was the mess. As I drive away, I train one of the van’s cameras over the front of the hotel. Maybe a few plants and bushes looking a bit flat. Other than that it might never have happened.

  Wish I could make myself believe it.

  Something like a hundred soldiers deployed and not a single arrest. Does that mean Jez and Doyle got out somehow?

  Other news – communications between the surface and orbit and to other worlds have slowed to a crawl– some sort of virus released into the up-link nodes. Not to worry, or so the rent-an-expert says: these things happen every few years, the government is fully prepared, everything should return to normal within a few hours, blah, blah, blah. The Conspiracy Channel has the government itself doing this, part of the final installation of some immense planetary defence network, something so secret the government won’t even admit they’ve got it despite every news channel between here and the Rim releasing regular Sunscreen progress reports and sneaked footage of the installation.

  I go looking for people. Any people, I don’t care. I need a phone, and not the one in my head either. I spot someone in a quiet place, alone. I pull up beside him, jump out of the van, a Tesla in each hand and point them at him. I have three guns now– seems whoever had this van before I did left in something of a hurry.

  ‘Gimme your phone!’

  He’s older than I thought, heavily wrapped in a long grey coat despite the sun. When I meet his eyes he looks so scared it’s funny. But I’m in a hurry and the last thing I want is some fear crazed loser panicking on me. I lower the guns and hit him with the Voice instead. And hey, I just hurled myself out of a police van, right? Got to count for something.

  ‘I’m a government agent. I need to use your phone. Now!’

  He doesn’t believe me– maybe he doesn’t believe in government agents or something, or maybe it’s the flakes of dried blood still sticking to my face and skin, but he understands the game now. I pretend I’m allowed to do this, he pretends he believes me, I get to use his phone, he gets to walk away with all his limbs attached. As soon as I’m gone he contacts the police, but we can both live with that. Or at least, that’s the game he thinks we’re playing. His fingers go behind his ear. He gives me a brainweb plug-in phone.

  ‘ Thanks.’ I turn away. If I was in his shoes I’d bugger off right now and hope to God I wasn’t a crazed psychopath who also happened to be a good shot. But he doesn’t go; he stays, standing in the middle of the street, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he really needs a pee. Man wants his phone back.

  I call the number Jez gave me.

  ‘You have reached the South Islands rehabilitation centre. Please…’

  ‘Jez, it’s me. Pick up the fucking phone.’

  ‘Constantine?’

  ‘Yeah, Constantine.’

  ‘You got out?’

  Shit, I can hardly recognise her. She sounds scared witless.‘Sort of.’ I glance back at the man. He’s starting to have second thoughts, like maybe his phone isn’t actually worth so much as he thought.‘Look, I need to talk to you and I need to talk to Ortov. I’m loose but I’m sure I’m being watched.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Oh, the usual crowd– the question is more a case of how many. You pick the time and the place, I’ll get there.’

  ‘I’m where I said. It’s an institution for retired and disabled security clones on the Kefanhno highway going North out of Bethlehem. Wait at the reception desk. And bring Ortov with you– I think we’re going to need him.’

  Something in Jez’s voice.‘What…’

  ‘I’ve found Gregori Marshall.’ The phone goes dead.

  ‘Right,’ I say, to no one in particular. Great. North out of Bethlehem– I know that code.

  Gateway. And how the fuck am I going to get up there? Wonder if I should have told her that I’m supposed to kill her. I can feel Charlemagne stirring. Five million. Could do a lot with that. Could be worth a lot to be in Gemini’s favour too. Or whoever. Don’t fancy my chances going up against Doyle without most of the Old Worlds battle fleet behind me though.

  Samantha? I’ll be dead before I can think of Doyle as a Samantha.

  The man wants to know if I’ve finished with his phone. Pushy bastard for someone staring down the barrel of a Tesla. Have to think. Whatever I do, Jez’s phone is going to be a beacon around her neck, telling them where she is. The best I can do is not draw any attention to it…

  Am I afraid for her life? Or am I afraid for that five million?

  Shit.

  A new life. Free and clear…

  The man’s getting impatient, like don’t I realise he’s got things to do, and he’s all for helping the government and that but could he please have his phone back and be about his business. I figure being rude and slow to help might convince him I really am what I say, so I delay some more, make a few other random calls to give Jez’s number some cover, then finally give it back. He’s all out of politeness by now, but he does his best and then hurries off.

  Bethlehem orbital ferry. Dammit, Jez, why’d you pick Gateway? Would it be because you know damn well it’s going to be impossible to smuggle any firepower up there and you’ll have Doyle who can probably dismantle the whole station with her bare hands given the chance?

  I plug myself into the van proper, take over the driving for a while. It’s a nice day, warm and sunny outside even with the sun going down. I pass a woodland park, couples walking, laughing, hand in hand. Wide open spaces of green with children flying kites. Even Bethlehem is quiet, the damage from the riot cleaned away, old men sitting outside together, enjoying the evening sun, playing chess, drinking and occasionally shouting at groups of youths with their gang leathers and tattoos. I’m in a police van and I don’t get a single stone thrown at me. In the Bethlehem I remember from ten years ago I’d at least draw a petrol bomb or two. I do
n’t know– youth of today, no spine; the knives have turned into guns and rockets.

  I pass the road where Mr Cray’s flat used to be before someone blew the street up. Machines are swarming over the wreckage, big ones the size of the van, small ones no larger than my head. At the far end, shells of new houses are already built. Nice ones with real brick façades, not the tacky dura-plastic that used to be here. Dammit, I liked tacky dura-plastic.

  I don’t belong here anymore. Hardly a week since everything blew up. How’d they fix these scars so quickly? But even before that, everything I knew had largely gone. The Gothics, the Ronin, the Rappers, the riots, they’ll all be history soon. Prosperity all of a sudden. Deregulation of the markets, put the whole sector under one system, make it work, make everyone rich. Maybe for once they got it right.

  What happens to all this if LoneFire finishes writing its indelible message?

  I pick up Ortov from the flat in Bethlehem, turn my back and leave.

  Roge, T. L. ‘A Mathematical Proof of non-Simultaneity of Existence’. US Journal of Biological Advance, 719, 204-217 (2312).

  Urgh! This is way over my head. I think it boils down to saying you can’t be in two places at once, but I’ll need a better dictionary for the so-called explanatory text before I’m sure. Yuk.

  Thirty-Six – Weird Scenes Inside The Spaceport

  It’s dark by the time I get to Skystart Orbital Transfer. The sky’s clear, the stars are bright and it’s pretty obvious I’m not getting any further. Some terrorist attack in the heart of the capital, something about nerve gas, all flights grounded indefinitely, that sort of thing. With all the communications nodes jammed up, even talking to Gateway is difficult at the moment.

  I’m stuck. Couldn’t get to Jez even if I wanted to. Can’t get off planet at all. The wide open spaces of Skystart seem suddenly claustrophobic. Flat expanses of plascrete, flat planes of glass at funny angles– some student architect’s pet project for a bet, shadows everywhere, no one in sight. I stare up through the glass, out into the galaxy. Somewhere up there is five million credits, my ticket to freedom at last.