Hardwired

by Walter Jon Williams

  A hawker wanders by, selling drugs from a cart. A disconnected female voice, in three languages, announces schedules, tracks, numbers.

  “I’ll see you in a couple weeks,” Sarah says.

  “See you then.”

  The faces circle, black and white, weaving their invisible pattern of defense, of power, moving outside of Sarah’s volition like Orbital constellations involved in some vast and vastly subtle game of positional strategy... Their presence inhibits her. She tries to shrug off their influence, fails.

  “You’ll like the mountains,” Cowboy says.

  “I’ll look forward.”

  Spanish numbers accumulate in the air, flitting like birds around their pointless spoken banalities. Fuck it, Sarah decides, and grabs Cowboy by the sleeves of his jacket. “Hey, Cowboy.” She looks up into his lean, impassive face. “Are we friends, or allies?”

  A cold smile twitches at the corners of Cowboy’s mouth. “I guess we’re friends,” he says.

  “When we can afford to be.”

  A chime of steel amusement vibrates through her. “Yeah.” She nods slowly. “That’s how it looks from here.”

  “Call Reno when you can,” Cowboy says. “He’s lonely where he is.”

  She remembers the white-brained cyborg zombie in his dark, glowing little Pennsylvania womb, then imagines his disembodied spectral voice coming out of some disconnected piece of crystal, pulsing into her ear... The man was ghost enough when he was in his body, no sense in asking to be haunted. She shrugs. “I’ll try. But the guy spooked me enough when he was alive.”

  Cowboy frowns a little. “He can help. He’s got a lot of money stashed away.”

  “Okay. I’ll call him. Promise.”

  They say good-bye. Sarah watches his tall form, orbited by his black and white satellites, fading down the fluorescent-lit platform, moving down the tunnel toward the vanishing point, and wonders if it’s a good idea to see him again. She could arrange it easily enough, simply talk the Hetman into sending someone else out to the Dodger when the time came... There are commitments she has made, to herself, to her brother, and they allow no indulgence in sentiment. Letting people into the places where you live, she knows, gives them a license to injure you, and she’s had injuries enough as it is.

  Her Maximum Law guard is looking impatient. She rates a bodyguard now that she knows the Hetman’s plan– this boy’s probably got orders to kill her if he can’t keep her from capture. After this he’ll take her to a hotel, where she’ll be easier to keep secure: she won’t be visiting her hideaway at the Blue Silk anytime soon. She turns her back on her guard as the drug vendor comes by and buys a whiff of snapcoke. Well-being coils in helixes of pleasure along her veins. She buys some cigarettes for Daud and begins to move toward the exit.

  She’ll feel good when she visits Daud, at least until the drug wears off.

  MODERNBODYMODERNBODYMODERNBODYMODERN

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  Daud has visitors. There’s a woman body designer with vast unblinking owl eyes and cheekbones sharp as broken glass. She is removing the jagged pink scars from Daud’s chest with a humming laser, watched with a benevolent look by a middle-aged black man. “Nick Mslope? I’m Sarah.”

  He glances up with a pleased smile. He’s small and soft, dressed in pressed white cotton jeans and a tropical shirt. There’s a partly eaten candy bar, its white envelope carefully folded, sticking out of the pocket of the shirt. “Pleased to meet you,” he says. His accent is unfamiliar.

  Disintegrating scar tissue rises from Daud’s pale chest in a wisp of gray smoke. Daud opens his eyes and looks at Sarah. “Hi. Look at this, will you? Miss Deboyce says you won’t be able to see the scars without a microscope.”

  “Don’t talk,” says the body designer. She brushes ash from his chest with a gloved finger. “Don’t breathe, if you can help it.” She adjusts a pair of magnifying lenses on her nose and bends over him with a frown of concentration.

  Mslope lights a cigarette, then puts it between Daud’s lips. Anger, dulled by the snapcoke, flickers in Sarah’s mind. Mslope gives her a quick look and then steps around Daud to stand by her. She looks at him cautiously.

  “Thank you for all this,” she says. “Daud and I are grateful.”

  “I am very happy to be able to help.” He watches as the red beam lances a scar, turns it to vapor. “Daud seems a very worthy young man, and...I am glad I can be of some use, you see.” He shakes his head. “My poor sister–– I cannot do anything for her.”

  “There’s the new cure,” Sarah says. Discomfort settles in her, in the interface between what she knows and Mslope doesn’t.

  “Too late. It would halt the progress of the disease, but her mind is already gone. Death will be a mercy, when it comes.”

  The laser licks Daud’s chest with its scarlet tongue. Sarah looks from Mslope to Daud and back again. “What sort of business are you in, Mr. Mslope?” she asks.

  “Please, call me Nick.”

  “Nick.”

  “Shipping. We move goods by hovercraft from the landing port at Cape Town.”

  A cryogenic smile tugs at. Sarah’s mouth. “I know some people in that business.”

  “I think–– ” Mslope looks at Daud. “I think I can find a place for Daud there. If he wishes to join me.”

  Sarah feels the scrape of a razor on her nerves. “As what? Daud isn’t skilled.”

  “My secretary. I’m certain he could learn the job quickly.”

  She grins at him, wondering if it’s an answering cynicism she sees in Mslope’s smile, or whether it’s a reflection of her own. She can feel Daud’s blue, opaque eyes on them, watching helplessly as they battle for his heart, as the tug of war develops over his future.

  “I’d hate to be that far away from him,” Sarah says. “If it doesn’t work out, he’ll be so far away.”

  Mslope reaches for the cigarette in Daud’s mouth, flicks the ash into the tray, returns it. “I take my responsibilities very seriously, Sarah. I would never bring a young man all that way without providing the means to return home if he becomes unhappy.” He looks at Sarah. “Perhaps I could help you, too. I know some people here at the port. And if you came to Africa with us, I could certainly find work for you.”

  “As what?”

  His look is imperturbable. “I’m sure you would know best.”

  Sarah laughs, the snapcoke and her own spring-steel mirth rising in her veins. The laser hums again. Smoke rises, the color of gunmetal, pain transformed to vapor.

  PANZER HIJACKED IN NEBRASKA

  PITCHED BATTLE FOUGHT

  POLICE REPORT NO SUSPECTS

  “This is Sarah. Do you remember me?”

  “Sarah. Yes.” The voice seems to bubble through a hundred miles of water before it reaches Sarah’s ear. The sound prickles her skin. A line of dying palms flickers past the car’s windows, brown against a steel sky. She’s calling from the mobile phone in her Maximum Law car, not yet convinced this isn’t some form of elaborate trap. Staying mobile seems to be the best way to keep from getting ambushed.

  “You were with Cowboy,” Reno says, “just before I was killed.” A chill rides up her nerves at his words, at the calm with which he accepts his own fate.

  “That’s right.” Gutted Venice buildings rotate slowly in the background as the car climbs the St. Petersburg causeway. “I helped him get away to his people out West.”

  “I’m glad you escaped. Do you work for Michael the Hetman?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I think I may have met him once. I don’t remember things very well.” Reno’s voice hesitates for an instant, then rushes on, his words earnest. “Thank you for calling, Sarah. I’m very alone where I am.”

  “Yeah.” Sarah gazes at the water below; dark and sluggish, filmed
with oil. Thinks of Daud’s cool, faithless eyes, the explosion of water and wind against long Missouri concrete walls, Cowboy recessing forever down the length of the bullet platform, moving toward the supersonic horizon. “Lonely,” she says. “I know how that can be.”

  “WE’RE RECLAIMING TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND HECTARES OF FARMLAND EVERY YEAR!”

  Mikoyan-Gurevich Feeds the World

  Sarah sees Mslope every day. When she’s alone she finds herself thinking about him, about his gentle voice, the way his soft hands seem to reach out for her but always stop short, the small kindnesses–– lighting Daud’s cigarettes, fetching her a chair, offering her one of the candy bars he always carries in the pocket of his inevitable tropical shirt... It’s as though there’s some kind of strange courting ritual going on between them, a seductive dance with Daud as the focus, progressing in slow motion toward the inevitable payoff, the contents of which Sarah thinks she knows.

  “I understand your concern, believe me,” Mslope protests, and opens an attaché case to show her a contract ready for Daud’s signature. A ticket to and from Cape Town on the Havana suborbital shuttle; a year’s wages guaranteed regardless of performance; lodging at Mslope’s expense... “And, of course, I’ll see he gets all necessary medical attention,” Mslope says with a smile. For a moment Sarah’s suspicion wavers and she wonders whether he could possibly be genuine, then decides that things like this just don’t happen in real life. Where did They find this man? What pressures are They using? Or has he been one of Them all along? There is a real Mslope, she assumes. They wouldn’t be that careless. And the real Mslope has a sister who is dying, and whose dying comforts will be provided by Tempel Pharmaceuticals I.G. if Mslope agrees to let someone else use his identity for a while.

  It’s flattering, Sarah thinks, that they want her so badly They created a plan this elaborate. “The contract’s good,” she tells Daud. “Sign it if you want.” But she and Mslope are watching each other, their eyes meeting over Daud’s bed. It’s not Daud, after all, that They are after. He’s almost irrelevant by now.

  “Perhaps I can introduce you to someone,” Mslope says in his gentle voice. He reaches into his pocket for his candy bar and peels away the wrapper. “I know a lot of people at the port. You could get good work.”

  “I’d be happy to meet somebody,” she says. “Here, for preference.” How much is Mslope willing to break his cover? No real port boss would interview an employee in a place of her choosing.

  “I don’t know if that’s possible,” Mslope says. Sarah shrugs. Daud scrawls his signature on the contract.

  Mslope bites his candy bar. “I have a meeting here in Tampa tomorrow,” he says. “Perhaps, after the meeting, I could bring one of the people I know...”

  “That would be nice, I’m sure,” Sarah purrs. Daud gazes up at her tone, wondering what’s happening here. His look grows bewildered. Sarah puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Miss Deboyce will be in tomorrow, yes?” Sarah asks.

  Mslope gives her his most reassuring smile. “Of course. My company takes good care of its employees. Better than anyone in this area, I’m sure.”

  Sarah can hear the songs of alloy strings in her mind, love’s old sweet song. She’s useful to them again, and they’re willing to pay for her services. If she can avoid what might happen at the moment when her usefulness ends–– the rocket or bullet or cold steel needle laden with its silent overdose–– she might be able to get what she wants.

  A pair of tickets. Maybe they’ve finally figured it out.

  She glances out the window at the long dark Maximum Law car. She’ll have to carry out the negotiations under their watching eyes.

  “What would be a good time?” she asks.

  Mslope’s eyes meet hers again. “Two o’clock,” he says.

  The minute she sees Mslope’s friend, waiting for her in the patients’ lounge in the front, she knows it’s not going to be easy. Steve Andre is hard, his body all rigid planes thinly disguised by a loose shirt and baggy parachute pants–– clothing ideal for street fighting, she notices that right away–– and for a moment she wonders if he actually plans to drag her off by force. Cunningham was inconspicuous, a civilian, an agent living in the shadowy interface between sky and Earth. Andre is different, nothing ambiguous about him. A soldier. Everything about him proclaims it. She assumes he’s wired, with God knows how many chips, and his eyes’ stainless-steel irises proclaim his enhanced perception. Sarah’s thoroughly grateful for the fact the halfway house has advanced detectors in its doors–– Andre won’t have been able to bring a gun inside in his little document case, and the Weasel might give Sarah an edge. If it comes to that.

  “I’ll visit Daud and leave the two of you alone,” Mslope says with a smile, and as he turns toward Daud’s room he reaches for the candy in his shirt pocket.

  Sarah sits down on one of the plush lounge chairs and gives Andre a grin. Behind her a couple of elderly patients complain in Spanglish about their doctors. “How’s Cunningham?” she asks. “Or Calvert, or whatever he’s calling himself these days?” A jab, she figures, maybe set the boy off balance.

  Andre’s eyes barely flicker. “He’s fine, Sarah. He has nothing to worry about. He’s on the side that’s going to win.”

  “Be sure to give him my regards. I haven’t seen him since before you people started shooting rockets at me.”

  He gazes at her for a moment. It’s Cunningham’s style, she recognizes, that quiet, arrogant assumption of superiority. But Andre’s not Cunningham; he can’t bring off that tempered razor menace, not quite.

  “You were a danger then,” he says. “Any knowledge you have of our operations is now obsolete. Policy’s changed.”

  “How do I know it won’t change again?”

  “I am authorized to offer guarantees.”

  Sarah laughs, throwing her contempt at him. She can tell he’s irritated; he’s not used to having dirtgirls find him amusing. “Guarantees backed by what? Your word of honor as a killer in the employ of a bunch of mass murderers?”

  Andre’s mouth tightens, as if he’s just bit into a lemon. “We are not here to discuss politics.”

  “We’re here to discuss your company’s habit of killing people who are no longer of use to them.”

  Andre fidgets with the case in his lap. “What sort of security would you require?”

  “Tickets out of the well for myself and my brother. To a bloc of my choice. You can take it as given that the bloc will not be your own.”

  “That’s expensive.”

  “Not to you people. Issue me some stock. I’ll trade it for what I want.”

  Andre leans forward. She can see his cold chrome pupils dilate as he looks at her like a sniper through his scope. “We want the Hetman,” he says.

  “You’ll get him. If I get my guarantees.”

  “Understand,” Andre says. “You’re not that valuable to us. The Hetman is losing anyway; he’s only got a few months at most. We only want to end things quickly, just for the sake of convenience.”

  “If I’m not that valuable, why are you talking to me?” She leans toward him, giving an intimacy to her mocking tone. “Or haven’t your owners given you the authority to make a deal?”

  Andre reaches into a pocket for a cigarette. During the time it takes to light it a hovercraft shrieks past, doing 200 on the limited expressway behind the hospital. “I’m not sure if Michael the Hetman is worth what you’re asking.”

  “Better talk with your masters before you draw that particular conclusion.” She leans back, giving him an insolent grin. “Understand,” she adds, “I’ll feed you the Hetman, but I’m not going to make it easy for you by letting myself get caught in the crossfire when it starts–– I’m going to be far across town with my own guards. I’ll let you know where the Hetman is staying, or when he’s moving from place to place. After that, you can fire your own rockets.”

  Andre stares at her dully. “I can’t guarantee any of this now,�
�� he says.

  “Let me know when you can. You know where I can be reached.”

  Sarah stands up and walks toward the hallway that leads to Daud’s room. She struts slowly, making her exit last as long as possible. She can feel Andre’s gunsight eyes on her all the way.

  “I CAN BREAK A BRICK WITH MY IMPLANT CRYSTAL!” SEZ VIDEO BANGER KNUT CARLSON, PLEASED WITH HIS NEW HARDWIRED KARATE REFLEXES

  Just in case, she uses her inhaler in the car before she steps out to visit Daud. Her nerves crackling with hardfire, Sarah walks into the building and sees Andre sitting in the lounge. She knows she has him hooked. She peels her lips from her teeth in a carnivore smile.

  “Was it the shuttle, Andre?” she asks. “Did that push you over the line?”

  That morning a panzer broke through the perimeter at Vandenberg and shot up a Tempel shuttle with thirty-millimeter rounds. Further details were unclear. It appears the panzer got away.

  “I have nothing to do with operations on the West Coast,” Andre says.

  “Lucky for you.” Sarah sits on a chair, cocking a leg up over the arm. “Still think it’s going to be any easier here?”

  Andre looks at her stonily. A turbine whines into life, heard in the distance from the limited expressway behind the hospital. “I’ve been authorized to give you your guarantees.”

  Hardfire moves through her veins like a flaming silk caress. Out of the well, she thinks, she and Daud surrounded by nothing but the clean velvet blackness. “Thank Cunningham for me,” she says.

  Andre’s chrome irises dilate. “We want something besides Michael.”

  She shrugs. “Tell me. And then I’ll tell you if it will cost you extra.”

  “No. This is a two-for-one deal, Sarah. It should be easy for you.”

  “Like I said, tell me.”

  “Michael’s moving his money around. We can’t trace it entirely, but the pattern is very odd. Communications people have come in from the Gold Coast. We want you to tell us what he’s planning.”