Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Acknowledgments
Marianne de Pierres was born in Western Australia and now lives in Queensland with her husband and three sons. She has a BA in Film and Television and is currently completing a Graduate Certificate of Arts (Writing, Editing and Publishing) at the University of Queensland. Her passions are basketball, books and avocados. She has been actively involved in promoting Speculative Fiction in Australia and is the co-founder of the Vision Writers Group in Brisbane, and ROR - Writers on the rise, a critiquing group for professional writers. She was involved in the early planning stages of Clarion South and is a tutor at Envision. You can find out more about her at www.orbitbooks.co.uk and on her website www.mariannedepierres.com
The Parrish Plessis Novels
NYLON ANGEL
CODE NOIR
CRASH DELUXE
Crash Deluxe
MARIANNE DE PIERRES
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Published by Hachette Digital 2010
Copyright © 2005 by Marianne de Pierres
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 0 7481 2012 3
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE
Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
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For my son, Ivan.
Prologue
Networld Live Feed: 5 a.m.
‘Networlders, a truly shocking scenario is unfolding in front of us this morning as we get set to enjoy the opening of the Pan-Sat games.
The stolen ’copter to the right of your screen is being used in an attempt by notorious gang lord Parrish Plessis to abduct one of our principal media personalities.
As we leave the Viva environs and head southward, you can see that Plessis is being tracked by a welter of heavily armed Militia.
Implicated in the murder of Razz Retribution, Plessis is thought to be the instigator of the recent war in the Tertiary Sector and is currently the Southern Hem’s most wanted criminal.
‘Her brazen approach seems to be the key to why she has eluded arrest previously, but there is no way out for the intriguing character this time.
‘Rumours and questions about this woman abound. Did she kill infamous gangster Jamon Mondo? Does she have unnatural healing powers? Is she the reincarnation of a Voodoo deity? Is she trying to build a super-race?
‘Sounds absurd viewers, I know, but these are just some of the outrageous myths surrounding Parrish Plessis.
‘More reliable sources say that she was born in the suburbs of the outer gyro and developed sociopathic tendencies in her teens. Unable to fit into society she opted for life in the slum town known to the locals as ‘The Tert’ - which according to the Militia is where she is heading now.
‘Stay tuned as we go to a short break . . .’
‘. . . Viewers, as we return to our coverage of this unprecedented abduction an astounding phenomenon is taking place. Hundreds of ultralights have taken to the sky above the Tertiary Sector.
‘Not only that, but Plessis appears to have made her move. Her ’copter is hovering low above the very heart of the slum city, a place thought to be uninhabited. As I speak, she is forcing her captive to sit out at the very edge of the ’copter’s cabin.
‘What will this woman do next?
‘Word is coming through. Yes . . . yes . . . we have visual confirmation. Oh my goodness. Plessis’s captive appears to be none other than—’
transmission interrupted transmission interrupted transmission interrupted trans—
Chapter One
I went looking and found my best friend, Teece, in Hein’s bar, smashing up an invisible opponent by using a set of vreal gloves. My other best friend, Ibis, was lounging in a tactile nearby, drunk. The two had gotten real friendly since working together on restoring the barracks.
I tore the cheap game-set off Teece’s face without warning.
His pupils dilated at the reality shift. When he saw who it was he slipped the gloves off as well and tucked his hands under his armpits in a stubborn, defensive gesture.
‘What?’
‘I need to crack the Viva prison data banks. Can you get me in there?’
His jaw set hard. ‘There’s a few places even you can’t go, Parrish. That’s one of ’em.’
‘You won’t help me?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope.’
Pretending to be annoyed, I stamped over to Ibis and grabbed him by his collarless shirt. ‘Get up. We’re going to call Gigi. You’ll have to be my rider.’
Gigi, the Tert’s banker, had the best net-vreal in The Tert. I’d have to deal to get use of it. But when didn’t I have to deal?
Ibis jerked like a drunk puppet. ‘Your what?’
‘My rider - my back-up. Some places you don’t net-vreal without a partner,’ I explained.
Ibis rolled his eyes and looked helplessly at Teece, but Teece wasn’t buying in.
‘Just go along with me,’ I urged in Ibis’s ear. ‘Please.’
I didn’t say ‘please’ much.
The amazement factor got him out of Hein’s and back to my place without an argument.
My place was a large bed, brown ceiling marks, a couch, no kitchen, a den and too many bad memories. Luxury for The Tert - but then, this had been Jamon Mondo’s pad. I’d claimed salvage on it when Mondo took a Cabal spear in the back.
The living room was big enough to host a dinner party. Now there’s a joke. The Parrish Plessis dinner party - half a dozen meat shawarmas, beers and sugar dough, sitting on the floor in between the bloodstains and making polite dinner convo:
‘So who tried to nail your arse today, Parrish?’
‘Three ’goboys, one shape-changer and a canrat up a gum tree.’
I sat Ibis on the couch and made him a triple-strength mockoff.
After he drank it, his wits sharpened.
‘What are you up to, Parrish? I retail retro fashion and dabble in interior decorating, darling. I’m no freaking back-room cracker.’ The last he said in a perfect imitation of my drawl.
I was banking on Teece’s protective instinct. Net-vreal for someone as uninitiated as Ibis was likely to be lethal.
‘Ah-hah,’ he said, sipping. ‘To use your turn of phrase, dear, clear as mud.’
‘Remember those kids I bought back from Dis - the ones who look more animal than human? A guy called Ike del Morte did that to them.’
Ibis nodded. ‘I’ve heard his name around.’
My mind skidded back a week or so. The Cabal Coomera - the truly scaries - had lured me into pursuing a dangerous shaman named Leesa Tulu. The chase had taken me to a place called Mo Vay in the inner Tert where I’d discovered del Morte busy manufacturing a whole generation of twisted punters, and then infecting them with the Eskaalim parasite.
I knew all about the Eskaalim: I was infected with it myself and pretty soon it would turn me into a monster as well.
If it hadn’t already. Killing was sure getting easier.
I left Mo Vay with one clue as to who was behind this lab-designed slavery. It had been given to me by a secret ally in the Media in the form of Ike del Morte’s eyelids - shrivelled, dried and stamped with a prison brand.
Someone powerful had sprung him from a Viva quod to do his weird work.
‘He was a lunatic - a smart lunatic. But someone gave him the cred, the back-up to do terrible things. I want that person, Ibis.’
He shivered - maybe from the look on my face.
‘Pity them,’ he whispered.
‘I don’t,’ I said.
I got up, kicked the couch and paced a bit. Where was Teece? Maybe my ploy hadn’t worked. Maybe I would have to do this by myself.
‘Merry, get me Gigi,’ I said at last.
My fashion-conscious p-diary pretended to count money and eat it until Gigi answered - her little joke.
‘Plessis?’ The fat banker’s face filled Merry’s projection.
‘I want to use your net-vreal.’
Gigi gave a slow smile. ‘Just like that? No “please”?’
‘How much?’ I didn’t have time for shit.
The femme rubbed her lips together. ‘Shares.’
My eyes bulged. ‘In what, for chrissakes?’
‘Plessis Ventures.’
‘There is no such thing.’
‘Haven’t you been watching your accounts?’
I shrugged, embarrassed. Teece had been looking after that. ‘Been kinda busy.’
‘Remarkably, Parrish Plessis, you’ve engendered a confidence climate. All your debtors are paying up because they think they should keep faith with you. Some small holders have even been asking to put their cred into your funds. Seems they think it might be safer with you than with me.’ She sniffed. ‘You want to use my vreal, you give me five per cent of your profits.’
Sweet - a jealous banker.
‘FIVE PER CENT?’ Teece’s bellow at my elbow made me jump. He planted his head between my face and the holo. ‘That’s loony even for you, Gee.’
I shoved him back out of the way. ‘One per cent but I get access to it any time I want. And we review the deal in three months.’
‘Done,’ Gigi said.
‘We’ll be straight over.’ I snuffed the link.
Teece grabbed my arm. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘What are you doing here?’
He scowled in a way that made me proud. ‘You want to get yourself killed in there - fine. But I won’t let you do that to Ibis.’
I shrugged, as though the idea had never occurred to me, my mind skating to the next thing. ‘We can quit the agreement with Gigi later.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘The terms of Ike del Morte’s sentence.’
He clenched his jaw but stayed silent.
I was already on my way out the door. If I didn’t get out of The Tert soon I’d end up in a face-off with someone. Everyone wanted a piece of me for one reason or another, and I had more urgent things to do than play Parrish, War Queen of the Urban Dump.
Gigi was waiting for us behind more security than Raul Minoj, my favourite armament dealer, could muster. She also had worse body odour.
‘Teece will sort out the details with you later,’ I said.
‘No details,’ Gigi laughed. ‘Cred comes in, I take my slice.’
The pair glowered at each other. Entrepreneur and banker. A tradition.
‘Save the bone-tugging, you two. I’m kinda in a rush, Gigi.’
She nodded toward a corner of the room that was half curtained off. ‘Don’t sweat up my gloves.’
Two body-sized sheaths hung in there, looking like humans with the flesh sucked out of them. Neither of them had resuscitators or bio-monitors.
‘No safety,’ Teece whispered. ‘If you lose me in there, you’ll be relying on Gigi to unplug you in time. You still want to do it?’
I threw Gigi a look. She was gorging on a carton of warm dough and licking the sugar off her fingers.
‘Gee, you better come get me out of this if I get into trouble. Or I’ll be haunting you.’
‘Sure,’ she burped.
I wasn’t keen on the quality of her reassuring smile.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ I said.
The Gigi-stench of the first glove was so bad that I handed it over to Teece.
‘Too big for me,’ I lied.
He frowned and swallowed hard a couple of times before he stripped off and got into it.
I followed his lead with the other, ignoring his stare on me. It smelled better than the first one but stuck to my skin in patches like a cheap Band-Aid.
‘Should I turn down my olfaugs?’
Teece shook his head. ‘Gigi’s set is visual with only some basic auditory. Two gen vreal.’
He didn’t waste time on an orientation, plunging us straight into full immersion before I had a chance to blink - his revenge for my bossy antics. I hadn’t done proper vreal since netschool and that had been to all the tourist spots, so the plunge sent my brain shrieking at the sensory rush.
I vomited into the mask and heard it drain down the spit-sucker.
So much for giving Teece the stinking glove.
He manoeuvred us to the top of the launch-pad queue.
I stared into the vastness. My netschool’s visual representation had been a rainforest - intertwined organics and nutrient-seeking roots. In between, among the roots, was the debris. A system that simultaneously lived and died. Replicated and ruined.
Gigi’s metaphors fitted more with the cityscape of the original virtuals. Hi-ways and caches of dwellings. Streets and business fronts.
I caught the reflection of the avatar Teece’d rented me - a Viking woman with oversized helmet horns.
Funny.
His was an enduro bike that pinged like a hammer on a nail. I climbed aboard him and held on.
We dropped straight into a traffic stream, my horns tangling with other avatars as I craned to stare at the passing sights. A tenet appeared from nowhere and screamed warnings at me for corrupting other travellers’ boundaries, forcing me to keep my horns still and my eyes on the road.
‘Lose these frigging tusks, will you?’ I muttered.
I got a snort of exhaust noise and a burst of neck-snapping speed for my trouble.
The ride through the hi-ways was slick and blurred but missing the thrill of wind tear.
When we finally took an exit it felt as if the world narrowed and the sky got low. I told myself it was just a ploy to keep wanderers out of certain environs. Even so, I felt claustrophobia in me.
‘Relax,’ Teece thought-instructed.
I glanced behind and noticed that he’d constructed a giant muffler to quiet himself/the Gerda.
We slowed and nosed quietly in and out of side streets, winding our way towards a set of huge buildings near the docks. I saw feral animals on the streets that bore no resemblance to anything familiar. Plain people avatars - some in full-colour jackets, others in just the
cheap outlines of bodies, some deliberately wafting about in spirit form. Gambling. Fighting. Buying, selling, cruising. It was the thing I hated most about net-vreal. Human imagination. There was no accounting for their weirdness and opportunism.
‘Prison’s the grey one. The blue one is Militia data-corps, ’ Teece thought-said.
I stared at the imposing, shininess of the Militia façades, each with their coat of arms. ‘Why are there three of them?’
‘Dunno. I’ve often wondered about tha—’
As if Teece had tripped an alarm, gunfire started up on both sides of the street.
He accelerated, weaving between bursts. I hunched low on the seat - the Gerda’s faring moulding over me for protection. I heard the projectiles glancing off it.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ve got my own virus defence.’
‘How long can you keep it up?’
Teece didn’t answer, swerving straight into the side of a small building. I braced against the crash but it didn’t come. Instead a narrow passage opened up, closing again behind us as we rode. It brought us out into the last street before the docks.
‘Drain hole,’ he told me before I could ask.
No gunfire now.
I sat up.
The sudden quiet stung my mind; the tang of salt stung my nose.
I shouldn’t be able . . . ‘T-Teece?’ My teeth chattered. ‘I can s-smell . . . salt. I got a b-bad feeling.’
He pressed stubbornly on along the street, ignoring me. The prison building grew, blotting out the skyline. A monstrous, shimmering wall that I knew contained the information I wanted.
So close and yet . . . so much freaking security.
A faint thrum was the only warning we got. Then it came for us.
Crash Deluxe Page 1
