The Credulity Nexus

by Graham Storrs

  But why not send a small army of Titan Engineering security instead? They could have used a good old-fashioned rocket, or a rocket-assisted scramjet, to get into orbit. It would have been expensive, and not even tough-guy mercenaries like to sit on top of a ballistic missile having their bones rattled and their internal organs crushed just to get into space, but it would have worked. Was Cordell really so paranoid about security leaks, as Peth had said?

  It didn't add up and that made Rik nervous.

  He poked at the heating controls. The little car was like a fridge. The cold, wet greyness outside seemed to be seeping right through the bodywork.

  The fact that an upload – of all things! – had appeared at the labs and tried to steal the package suggested that Cordell was right to be paranoid. Somehow his organisation had sprung a leak – one that had almost cost his wife her life.

  Yet the upload was maybe the most worrying aspect of this whole affair. He'd seen quite a few of them on the Moon and elsewhere in space – Hell, probably the best friend he had these days was an upload – but they were rare down on Earth. Here in the Deep Well, plenty of people saw uploading your mind into a computer as a symbol of all the things they would never have – wealth, privilege, and immortality being high on the list. They called them zombies. The undead. And although having your mind put in a big computer instead was less ostentatious, even that upload colony – Rik struggled to remember its name; Something Point? – had been forced to abandon the Earth-based computer farm that hosted all its minds and build itself a satellite. There was a real risk that religious groups would have bombed it. Having hugely expensive, nanite-based robots walking around the streets with uploaded human minds, flaunting their transhumanity, was just asking for trouble. Yet now Rik had one stalking him across Europe.

  The big Dortmund-Essen-Duisberg conurbation was coming up, and the traffic was already thickening and slowing. He sighed in frustration as the signs for a Mandatory Override Zone appeared out of the gloom. The car gave him a warning and he pulled his hands off the steering wheel. The local traffic control systems would take him through the next eighty kilometres of urban sprawl at whatever speeds local ordnances demanded. He kicked back from the driving position and reclined his seat, figuring that he might as well get some sleep while he could.

  At least he'd got rid of the package before he left Berlin. As he closed his eyes, he smiled to think of his friend receiving the bulky courier pouch. The scribbled note inside said, “Don't panic. Just hide it somewhere and don't mention it to anyone. I'll be there to pick it up in a couple of days.” It felt good not to have the thing with him. At the very least, it meant that anyone who might be tracking him couldn't kill him till he told them where it was. It wasn't much insurance, but it was better than nothing.

  -oOo-

  The London borough of East Ham stank. It wasn’t far from the flood plains of Beckton and Canning Town, and the reek of the marshland that had swallowed East London pervaded the suburb. From the Blackwall Tunnel to the sea, low, foetid waters stagnated in the streets of what used to be thriving communities. It wasn't the catastrophe that had hit New York, but rising sea levels had dramatically reshaped Britain's capital, too.

  Rik walked among the narrow houses and wondered how the hell Barry Ockenden could have ended up in such a blighted place. Ockenden's house was no worse than the rest. Set right onto the street, its crumbling brickwork was inset with grimy windows and a door that flaked paint when he knocked at it.

  He waited politely, and then hammered hard when it was obvious that no-one was going to answer. He had to do it again before he heard a voice from inside.

  “Fuck off. We don't want none.”

  It was a young man's voice; not the one Rik was expecting. He hammered again.

  “I said fuck off, willya. You've got a fuckin' nerve!”

  Rik took a quick look up and down the empty street, then he stepped back a pace and kicked in the door. The door frame splintered and the door slammed inwards. Rik hurried after it into a dingy hallway.

  There was a staircase on the left to the floor above and three doors on the right, all standing open. A skinny teenage boy with a mop of pink hair, black jeans and a loose, hole-filled jumper made a dash from the second door along, heading for the back of the house. Rick had him by the neck before the boy made it out of the hallway.

  They struggled in silence for a few moments before the boy seemed to realise that he didn't stand a chance against this huge and heavily-muscled stranger. Perhaps it had also dawned on the boy that the stranger hadn't broken his neck, which probably meant he was safe for the moment.

  “Whatcha want?” The boy's accent was clearly local and completely untouched by any education the state may have tried to force into him.

  “I'm looking for Barry. Just tell me where he is and stop screwing around.”

  The boy eyed him speculatively. “You're a Yank, ain't ya? Whatcha want Barry for?”

  Rik took the boy by the scruff and dragged him into one of the rooms. Among the clutter that covered every surface, he found a battered old sofa and shoved the boy onto it. “Just tell me where to find Barry. This is his house, right?”

  “What if it is?”

  The boy made a move to get back up on his feet, but quickly subsided when Rik shoved him down again.

  Rik felt anger rising in him. The last thing he wanted right now was to be messed about by this scrawny kid. A snarl curled his lip and he took a step towards the boy.

  “All right, all right. Yeah, it's Ocky's house. So what?”

  “So just tell me where he is, you little shit!”

  A look of low cunning crossed the boy's face. “What's it worth?”

  It was necessary to explain to the young man that this was not the time to get cute. With a roar, Rik grabbed him by the front of his tatty jumper and hauled him into the air. He swung him around effortlessly and slammed him against a wall, pushing him so high that his head hit the low ceiling. “Don't piss me off, you little rat.”

  “He's dead.”

  “What?” This was not the answer Rik wanted. He pushed the boy harder against the wall.

  “He's dead!”

  “How? When?” Already Rik's mind was running along several tracks at once. Was Ockenden's death anything to do with the package? Where would Rik go now? Who was there he could trust? Did this little maggot have something to do with his friend's death? If he did...

  “He was shot,” the boy whined, finding it hard to speak with his neck bent sideways. “He got mixed up in some fight outside the pub a couple of weeks ago. Some fucker shot him.”

  “Who?”

  “How would I know? Could've been anybody. People are always getting shot round here.”

  Ockenden was dead. The fact began to sink into Rik's awareness like a rock falling through dark, deep water. They'd served together in the LAPD for five years. Partners. Ockenden was as tough as old leather. Indestructible. And now he was dead, killed in a stupid brawl like some street punk.

  Absent-mindedly, he lowered the boy and tossed him back onto the sofa. The lad watched him carefully but said nothing. Long seconds ticked by.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Rik asked, remembering the boy again.

  “Skiver,” the boy said, his expression sullen. “I was Ocky's mate. He let me crash here. Who the fuck are you?”

  Rik looked back at the scrawny specimen on the sofa. It would be just like Ockenden to take in some deadbeat kid and put him up. Maybe Skiver was telling the truth. He let his anger subside a little.

  “Call me Rik. Ockenden and me used to be partners, a long time ago.”

  The kid eyed him curiously. Then he got off the sofa and went over to a chest of drawers. From the top drawer, he pulled out a reader. He fiddled with the thin, plastic sheet for a moment and then showed it to Rik. The scratched and scuffed display showed a picture of two men leaning against a police cruiser in the bright California sunshine. Both of them were s
miling.

  “That's you, innit, with Ocky?”

  “You got any booze, kid?” Rik's eyes stayed on the picture.

  Skiver shook his head. After a while he walked to the door. “Come on,” he said, and Rik followed him out of the house.

  Chapter 5

  The Pigeons sagged with age and neglect. Surrounded by crumbling, low-rise apartment buildings on Romford Road, the pub presided over a paved courtyard dotted with tree stumps and empty tables. Inside, Skiver led Rik to the bar and ordered two large whiskeys. The room was dark and oppressive and stank of stale beer.

  “Is this where it happened?” Rik asked.

  “Yeah. Out there.”

  “Any of these guys the shooter?” A dozen, scruffy men lurked in the dismal room, drinking alone or in murmuring pairs.

  “Fuck knows.”

  The drinks arrived. Skiver and the barman looked at Rik until he paid. They took the drinks outside, despite the cold and the overcast sky, and sat at one of the wooden tables. Rik placed the picture on the table and raised his glass to it, downing his drink in one swallow. The boy did the same.

  “Barry had something of mine,” Rik said, getting back to business.

  Skiver was immediately defensive again. “He said I could have his stuff – if there was ever an accident or something.”

  Rik's jaw clenched in irritation. The boy was lying. Ockenden was just not the kind of man who thought that way. Rik couldn't imagine him once mentioning the possibility of his death, let alone who should get his things. He was about to snap back something to this effect, but when he looked at the anxious boy in his ragged clothes, a wave of sadness washed through him that Ockenden's few sticks of crappy furniture and his dump of a house could be worth clinging on to for this creature.

  “Don't worry. I don't want his stuff. It's all yours. All except for one thing, and that's mine.”

  Skiver blinked at him. Rik could see he was trying to make sense of this turn of events, trying to find an angle so he could get something out of it.

  “Ocky and me was close,” the boy said. “You know what I'm saying? Very close.”

  Rik's face darkened. He frowned at the boy in a way that made the youngster swallow hard.

  But Skiver pushed on defiantly. “We was lovers. He looked after me. He'd have wanted you to do the right thing and help me out. You know what I'm saying?”

  Rik glared at him for several uncomfortable seconds. “You must be the most stupid, ungrateful little sewer rat it's ever been my misfortune to meet.” He got to his feet. “Stand up.”

  Skiver's eyes widened in alarm. “You can't do nothing to me out here. They'll call the cops. I'll have you locked up.”

  “Stand up, moron. We're going back to the house.”

  Still Skiver didn't move. “It's true. I was working the streets and Ocky was one of my regulars. He took me in 'cause he said he loved me.”

  Rik leaned across the table, his eyes burning into Skiver's. His finger stabbed at the picture that was still lying there. “Do you think I didn't know my own partner? Listen, you piece of shit, I have no doubt you were working the streets, or selling dope, or stealing pension money from old ladies, or all three. But when Barry Ockenden took you in and showed you kindness, it was because he was a big-hearted, generous man, one of the most open-handed and damn-fool giving men I'll ever know.”

  That big rock was still falling inside Rik, falling through the cold, dark depths. He slapped his hand on the table and pumped up his anger to stave off the grief that was building.

  “Don't you dare abuse that man's memory for the sake of one of your sordid little money-making hustles. Do you understand me?”

  Confusion was written all over the boy's face. Strange emotions struggled behind his eyes. In the end, a grudging remorse won out. “Yeah,” he said, looking away. “He was a good bloke. I didn't mean nothing.”

  Rik grunted in contempt. He turned and walked back to the house, and Skiver hurried along behind.

  Between them, it took two hours of painstaking searching to find what Rik was looking for – a small metal cash-box containing documents, credit strips and a chip wrangler. Rik pocketed the paper and plastic, and held the wrangler where he could see its little display. He flicked through a couple of menus until he found the program he wanted, then held the device to his temple and hit the go button. It beeped, then beeped again. He queried his cogplus and nodded to himself. It confirmed his new identity.

  He tossed the wrangler on the floor and stamped on it, grinding the pieces into the floorboards. He headed for the door.

  “Hey!” Skiver almost fell over himself in his haste to catch up. “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “Take me with you.”

  Rik couldn't help laughing.

  “No, seriously, mate,” the boy insisted. “I can help. I can...” He hesitated, seeking inspiration. “I can, like, run errands, and get stuff. I can – I don't know – do stuff. Just take me with you, all right?”

  Rik stepped out into the street and Skiver hurried after him.

  “I don't want to hang around here no more,” the boy whined. “Just look at it. It's a fucking dump. I'd rather go with you, Rik. You look like a handy kind of bloke. I'll make myself useful, you see if I don't.”

  Rik walked straight past his hire car. It was useless now. Since he'd reprogrammed his identity the car would no longer recognise him as its driver. Once its hire period was up, it would drive itself back to the nearest company depot, if it lasted that long, parked on a street like this.

  “Come on, mate. Just give it a go. Look, I'll get you a cab. Where do you want to go?”

  Rik stopped and rounded on the boy. “Get lost. If you're still around in thirty seconds, I'm going to throw you through the nearest window. Got it?” He turned back and carried on walking. This time Skiver stayed where he was.

  “It was all right with Ocky,” the boy called after him. “He got me off the shit. Kept me off the streets. I don't want to go back to that. Please, just–“

  But Rik had turned the corner and was gone.

  Chapter 6

  Blake Bonomi was brewing coffee when the door bell rang. He took a quick look at the toast to see how long he had and hurried to the door.

  There was a young woman in shorts standing on his doorstep, carrying a small package in a bright plastic envelope. "Blake Bonomi?" she asked.

  Blake looked past her to where her courier truck was parked at the bottom of his drive. Beyond that, the cool morning light and clear skies promised another sunny day in suburban Los Angeles.

  He took the package from her and she held out a contact strip. "Sign here," she said. He held the strip between his thumb and index finger while she held the other end, and his cogplus negotiated his proof of identity with the courier's systems.

  The strip glowed green. “Thank you, sir. Have a nice day.”

  “Who's that?” His wife, Brie, came into the hallway in her dressing gown as he closed the door.

  “It's a package,” Blake said, turning it to see the sender's address. “From Rik.”

  “Rik? Why's he sending us packages?”

  “Dunno. He sent it from Berlin.”

  “What, Berlin, Germany?”

  Blake pulled the silver box out of the envelope and turned it over in his hands. He walked back through to the kitchen and set it on the worktop. He tossed the envelope into the recycler and it – and the scribbled note inside – was whisked away to be converted into reusable gasses in the household plasma incinerator.

  “Is there a note?” Brie asked.

  “Shit! I probably just recycled it.”

  His wife shook her head and went over to rescue the breakfast. “So what is it?”

  “Holy mother of God!”

  Blake had the box open and was staring at the six small phials of liquid inside. Six phials with biohazard warning labels clearly displayed. He shut it at once and pushed it away from him.

&n
bsp; “What the hell is he playing at? That sonofabitch, sending something like that to my house!”

  They argued about it while their coffees went cold. Brie wanted Blake to take it in to the police. Blake was a police officer, after all. That was the right thing to do. Whatever was in that package could be really dangerous. Blake couldn't help agreeing with her, but he owed Rik, and he didn't want to do anything that would get his old friend into trouble.

  “Look, just leave it to me,” Blake said in the end. “I'll get it sorted. OK?”

  They were both already late for work, so it was OK.

  Blake switched his cogplus to phone mode and called Rik as soon as he got out the house and into his car. The network said there was no such netID. He argued with it for a while, discovering that Rik's netID had been disconnected just a few hours ago, in London, England. Glancing at the package on the seat beside him, Blake called Rik's wives in Heinlein, hoping Brie wouldn't notice the long-distance call to the Moon on the service bill.

  “Carlotta Sylver 3 Drew, how can I help you?”

  The image in the dashboard display was of a young woman with wild, multicoloured hair and animated face paint that was sliding through various autumn hues. The effect, all the rage off-world, was faintly ridiculous to Blake's eyes – like the dumb-ass family names these spacers adopted – but there was no denying that the woman was a beauty.

  “Hi, I'm a friend of Rik's and I'm trying to–”

  “Rik! That worthless, knuckle-dragging piece of space junk! If he ever shows his vacced-out face around here again, I'm gonna–”

  “Rik? Did you say Rik? Is that you, honey?” Another face appeared in the display, similarly made up and similarly beautiful. The other Drew sister, Blake assumed, and Rik's other wife. “Neffy's pining for you, sweetie. Hey! That's not Rik! Who's this guy?”