by Gavin Smith
We climbed up ringing metal steps. The rain was beginning to worsen now, but I was already wet and cold. We headed towards what was once a semicircular lounge in the Marriott Marquee above the waters in Times Square. The roof of the lounge had long since gone and it was now open to the elements. Seated back in the Marquee, sheltered from the open air, a string quartet played something understated and pleasant.
In the lounge itself I was relieved to see a frightened but uneaten Morag. She was sitting at an expensive-looking, long, dark wood table that had been polished to a fine sheen. With her was Balor, who was helping himself to what looked to be a well-prepared meal. He seemed oblivious to the rain. There were several people with him, including the ex-SEAL woman whose name I just couldn’t remember, and a number of his Fomorians. All the Fomorians had been extensively altered to adopt the sea-demon persona of their boss man but none to the extent of Balor. I was trying to decide on an approach but nothing was really presenting itself to me.
I was less than pleased to see Rannu, the Major’s man, sitting at the table. It was the first time I had had a good chance to study the small Nepalese. He was compact but heavily muscled, though his movements suggested that his surprising bulk did not slow him down. He was doubtless augmented, but I suspect he had been fast before he’d been turned into a cyborg. Sunglasses presumably covered lenses not unlike mine. His features were unreadable though he seemed to radiate a kind of passivity. His expression didn’t change when he saw Pagan and me but I knew he was sizing me up just as I was sizing him up.
‘You eat well,’ I said to Balor.
‘I work for it,’ he said without looking up. At the same time I messaged Morag, asking her if she was okay. One of the other people at the table, a nondescript individual wearing practical faded-grey overalls and with half his head replaced by hardware, looked over at Balor and nodded. Balor looked up at Pagan and me. Pagan was shivering.
‘I’m fine,’ Morag said.
‘You think we’re monsters here?’ Balor asked. There was some chuckling from round the table. The SEAL woman didn’t laugh. Reb, her name came to me. Presumably short for Rebecca or Rebel. Knowing the SEALs, it was probably the latter.
‘I thought that was the point,’ I said. Balor’s toothy grin disappeared; I was quite pleased by that, I didn’t like his predatory mouth. He looked between Morag and me.
‘Let’s keep everything out in the open, yeah?’ he told us.
‘You sure you want that?’ Morag asked, her voice sounding surprisingly even for the situation she was in. Balor turned to her, fixing her with what they described on the vizzes as his baleful eye. Morag looked down immediately. Oh, well done, you cunt, I thought, intimidate a seventeen-year-old girl, my anger taking me by surprise. This sort of shit is much easier when you really don’t care.
Balor stretched out both his arms expansively, gesturing at the fine, but increasingly soggy, meal in front of him.
‘In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, pirate crews would go out of their way to make sure they had a good cook on board. Food was one of the biggest bones of contention on any ship. Pirate captains didn’t have the authority that the regular navies or even merchants had over their crews, so good food was one of the ways they kept their people happy.’
‘Kept them in line,’ Pagan said suddenly. I glanced to my side. He looked old standing there shivering in the warm rain. ‘Making it worth their while was one way pirate captains kept their crews in line, the other was fear,’ Pagan had no problem meeting Balor’s eye.
‘And fear is based around ...’ Balor began.
‘What you have to lose,’ Pagan finished for him. I found the expression on Balor’s monstrous face difficult to read. He was either irritated by Pagan or impressed. ‘You’re trying to provide us with motivation.’ I wasn’t sure I was entirely following the conversation.
‘Not you,’ Balor replied. ‘Him.’ He nodded towards me. I felt that sinking feeling. I really didn’t think I deserved this. I pointed at Rannu without looking at the solidly built Nepalese. Balor smiled, reached out and tapped his wicked-looking claws on the solid-state memory cube that contained Ambassador.
‘This is bollocks. Let’s discuss this, make a deal. You’re a commercial operator. This pantomime demeans us all,’ Pagan said, quite eloquently, I thought. Rannu had already beaten the shit out of me once. I didn’t fancy it happening again, especially not in front of several thousand pirates. I didn’t think I had a particularly large ego, but these things got around and I could live without spending the rest of my life getting the piss taken out of me by every vet I met for such a public beating. Maybe Balor wanted to humble me for some reason. Weird really. I already felt pretty humble.
‘No, what demeans us is reducing everything to commerce,’ Balor said, his one visible eye rolling up in a disconcerting manner. ‘I am not some fucking merchant and you obviously need to remember that you are alive.’
‘A nice dram and a night with a beautiful woman reminds me I’m alive,’ I said with some resignation. Balor turned to look at me. He took his time, just looked at me until he’d decided I was good and uncomfortable.
‘You are a victim,’ he finally said. I gave this some thought. I had to agree there was an element of truth to what he said. ‘You do it to yourself,’ he continued. I was less sure about that. I hadn’t set these events running. We were dealing with powerful people and institutions way beyond my control. ‘You behave like a worm and as a result you will be treated like one.’
Fuck this. I moved towards the table expecting some of Balor’s people to shift in case I proved to be a threat. They didn’t. That was more worrying.
‘I see what you’re saying,’ I told him. ‘I should just fucking kill you and walk out of here.’ It was only later I realised that the pause was Balor deciding whether or not to kill me right then and there. Balor stood up. I took a step back. Balor climbed onto the table, knocking plates of food and wine glasses over. I took another step back.
‘Bluster and temper are no substitute for courage,’ he said. I glanced over at Reb as Balor began walking down the table towards Rannu. The ex-Ghurkha watched him approach impassively.
‘I’m not a coward,’ I told Balor. I was never going to take unnecessary risks but I could function when the fear came, and that was what it was about after all. Balor pointed towards Reb.
‘I know. I know that you are Soldier A, and Reb told me what you did on the Santa Maria.’ He reached Rannu. I noticed Rannu shift slightly, ready in case something went down.
‘Then cut me some fucking slack,’ I told Balor’s back.
‘Why?’ Balor asked, turning to look down on me.
‘The people here are mostly vets, right?’ Pagan asked, gesturing around at the multitudes beginning to line Times Square. ‘Special operators, yes?’ Balor nodded. ‘I refuse to believe that after lifetimes of violence these people will be impressed by this tawdry spectacle.’ And he was right: if you’d gone toe to toe with a Berserk, watching two guys beat the shit out of each other was going to be pretty tame, especially if you have the same skills.
‘This is just a decision-making process,’ Balor told us, the shark grin back. ‘Why did you come here?’
I looked at Rannu and said nothing. Balor followed my glance, then looked back at me.
‘You know, long ago you could be executed for talking politics in private. You had to have the guts to say what you believed in front of the whole tribe or they knew you to be a low person,’ he said.
I was getting tired of this shit. ‘So I’m a low person,’ I said.
‘And you have secrets,’ Morag said. I looked over to her and she was pointing at Balor. She looked scared but she also looked angry. Both Pagan and the other hacker were looking between her and Balor. What had gone down here? Had she just sent him something? This was the second time she’d implied that Balor needed to keep something quiet.
‘You up for this bollocks?’ I asked Rannu. ‘I’ve hear
d of you -you’re not supposed to be a wanker.’
‘I’m here for the box and you three. I don’t care what condition you’re in and I don’t care about anything outside my orders,’ Rannu said. His English was good; he spoke quietly and evenly with just a trace of accent. ‘At the moment this would seem to be the easiest way to complete my mission.’ He shrugged. There was not a trace of doubt in his voice that he could beat me.
‘Working for Rolleston?’ Pagan asked. Rannu said nothing. Pagan looked up at Balor. ‘What about you? You were SBS, you must know what he’s like. You going to do his bidding?’ Balor walked back down the table towards Morag and stood over the box containing Ambassador.
‘Well, that’s why we require a decision-making process.’ He pointed at me. ‘I know that you were once a warrior.’ I shook my head. Warrior creed bullshit. I heard Pagan groan behind me. ‘I know what you did for your brother soldiers. I know that once you weren’t a low man, a worm.’
‘I was trying to fucking survive. I was shit scared,’ I told him, possibly not helping my case.
‘And I worked with Rolleston on Proxima. He is no coward but I know what kind of man he is.’
‘So give us the box and let us go,’ I said.
‘But I also know what’s in the box,’ Balor said. I had a sinking feeling. Without looking I could feel Pagan tense up behind me. Suddenly I was aware of the expressions on the faces of Balor’s men. They were expressions of barely contained anger. ‘You see,’ Balor said, jumping off the table, ‘to some it would seem that you have betrayed your own race.’ He was standing next to me all but whispering in my ear. He smelled of the sea, in a bad way. ‘I will not be a slave but I am no friend to Them.’ There was the smell of meat on his breath. I turned around to face him.
‘You think we are? You think we’re selling us all out? You think our experiences in the war were different to yours? Think They came and made us a brew and gave us some cake?’ I asked.
‘Think about it, Balor. What would make you deal with Them?’ Pagan said. Balor never took his eyes off me. Why me? I wondered.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Balor growled. I was sick of this. What Balor probably thought of as courage was just me deciding I didn’t give a fuck any more.
‘Fuck you!’ I told him. ‘We’re—’ I managed before he grabbed me by my neck. I had seen him begin to move and tried to get out of the way but he was deceptively fast. He picked me up and held me about four feet off the ground. Great in a viz, very intimidating, but my subcutaneous armour went rigid, and I could still breathe, and even if he had crushed my windpipe I still had a small internal air supply.
Instinct overcame intimidation. Suddenly my claws were out and I was punching into him with all eight of my blades. Panic started when I felt my blades sliding off armour and artificial physiology designed to withstand the incredible pressure of oceanic depths. I was flung across the semicircular balcony, sliding through the collected rainwater and coming to a stop when I hit the low wall. I started to get up but a foot stood on my chest and slammed me back into the ground with tremendous force. I looked up. Balor looked angry, really angry.
‘Do not,’ he said, his voice sounding like two mountains grinding together, ‘ever disrespect me in my house.’ I bit back my angry replies. Past Balor I could see Morag on her feet looking over at me, eyes full of fear. Pagan was off to my right, presumably aware of the futility of our current predicament.
‘Listen to me,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘We’re not fucking traitors, and I think you know that. There’s more to this, and I think you’re smart enough to know that as well. But if my only way out of here with the box and my people is through him,’ I said, looking over at Rannu, ‘then I’ll play your stupid fucking game.’ Balor just looked down at me and nodded before taking his foot off my chest. ‘Any chance of a gunfight?’ I asked. ‘I’m not feeling my best today.’
15
New York
It wasn’t going to be a gunfight and I’d taken a battering in the Avenues. There were still a lot of warning icons on my internal visual display. I’d patched myself up with what little I had and my internal repair mechanisms were doing the best they could but I was a broken machine. I needed a doc and some replacement components. My armour had been pierced in several places and the flesh and machinery beneath it damaged, but my biggest concern was my cracked chest plate. One good blow to that could make a real mess of my internal organs and systems.
Rannu on the other hand looked fine and well, fast and dangerous. Everything I didn’t feel like myself at the moment. The platform swayed slightly on its high-tensile cables. Rannu was stripped to the waist and going through some simple exercises. He was obviously heavily augmented but he had no visible prosthetics. He turned his back to me and did some more stretching exercises. Beneath the four plugs in his neck a tattoo covered most of his back. It was a stylised rendering of a black, biomechanical, multi-armed goddess with a weapon in each of her arms. I didn’t know a great deal about religion beyond the conversations I’d had with various signals types, but this was ringing alarm bells in my head.
I recognised the image: it was Kali, a Hindu goddess. I knew there was more to her but the figure was often connected with images of death and destruction. She was the patron goddess of a murder cult called the Thuggees. They had originally existed before the FHC at a time when Britain had apparently ruled India, as difficult as that was to believe today. About twenty or so years ago some vet signalman from Leicester had decided to revive the cult. See, this was the problem with hackers: they were geeks, but you got one with charisma and a bit of imagination and you ended up with a cult. Pagan was a pretty benevolent example of this type. Berham wasn’t. He had perverted Hinduism and recreated the Thuggees using the cult’s tactics of ritualistic murder to take over Leicester’s criminal economy. He was one of the most notorious criminals in Britain. He’d killed police, cor-porates, politicians, and ruled through fear and intimidation. Much of his organisation had been taken down recently in a complex sting operation, but Berham had escaped and several high-ranking policemen, along with members of the Home Office, had been targeted in revenge killings, as had their families.
This kind of made sense. Many Ghurkhas were Hindus; I guessed that Rannu was one who’d gone bad. It explained the weighted monofilament I’d seen him use in Hull. The Thuggees’ signature weapon was a monofilament garrotte that they used to decapitate their victims. I also noticed that his kukri was still at his waist, a curved knife about sixteen inches long, the traditional weapon of the Ghurkha regiments. I’d even heard of Ghurkhas going toe to toe with Berserks with only their knives. I did fleetingly wonder why Rolleston was employing a Thug or why a Thug was working for Rolleston, but I figured that wankers were just naturally drawn together.
The rumbling sound took me by surprise until I realised that it was the cheering of the crowd, and suddenly I was nervous beyond the impending fight.
Rannu moved towards me, closing the distance between us. His purposeful stride became a stepping front kick to my stomach, knocking me back. I did the same to him, neither of us blocking as we exchanged kicks, almost a handshake as we tried to gauge each other. I showed nothing on my face, but I suspect he was kicking me a lot harder than I was kicking him as we forced each other around the old flight deck.
His first sidekick took me by surprise, lifting me off my feet, but I recovered quickly. He was in the air now, spinning to power a kick that looked like it would take my head off. I rolled under him, his foot snapping out and just missing me. I could hear the crowd cheering as I came to my feet. He’d already turned and was in the air again. I stepped hurriedly out of the way, putting myself off balance as he landed crouched low with a powerful elbow strike to where I’d been. I threw a hurried sidekick that caught him on the shoulder. It was like kicking stone. I then moved back out of his way to get my balance and correct my stance.
Rannu stood up across from me. Times Square had gone quiet again. W
e’d finished the initial playful exchange. We both knew what we needed to know: it did not look that good for me. The two things I had going for me were that he would commit to any attack and liked powerful blows, presumably because he was used to fighting other heavily armoured cyborgs. The problem with blows like that was you had to take some punishment to land them as they were slower than lighter blows. That said, he seemed capable of taking the punishment required. The other thing I had going for me was that he liked being in the air. Yeah, this fight would be easy if he wasn’t so fast, strong and skilled.
We were on again. The noise of the crowd slipped from my mind as we traded turning kicks and blocks, sliding round in a near circle as we did so. We weren’t even trying to hurt each other though the kicks would’ve dented steel. We were looking for an opening.
I saw my opening as I skipped inside his kick and straight-armed him in the face. My knuckles just touched his skin as he slid to the side and elbowed me in the head so hard that my internal visual display jumped. Then he did exactly what I didn’t want him to do and kicked me hard in the chest, sending me flying to the ground and sliding across the rain-slick flight deck. There were more warning signals on my flickering internal visual display. Now I knew he would be in the air. I threw myself forward with no grace whatsoever. As I felt, rather than heard, him land I kicked out with all the force I could muster from the ground. The lucky blow caught him in the base of the spine with more than enough force to break the back of a non-augmented person. I saw Rannu lifted off his feet and thrown over the edge of the deck.
