Altered Carbon, Page 3

“I think we both have better things to do, yes,” she said, tight-lipped, looking back to where her colleagues were engaged in fending off leaflets of their own.

  “I might have wanted to talk to her.”

  “Yeah? Looked to me like you wanted to throat-chop her.”

  “That’s just the sleeve. I think it had some neurachem conditioning way back when, and she tripped it. You know, most people lie down for a few hours after downloading. I’m a little on edge.”

  I stared at the leaflet in my hands. CAN A MACHINE SAVE YOUR SOUL? it demanded of me rhetorically. The word machine had been printed in script designed to resemble an archaic computer display. Soul was in flowing stereographic letters that danced all over the page. I turned over for the answer. NO!!!!!

  “So cryogenic suspension is okay, but digitized human freight isn’t. Interesting.” I looked back at the glowing placards, musing. “What’s Resolution 653?”

  “It’s a test case going through the U.N. court,” Ortega said shortly. “Bay City public prosecutor’s office wants to subpoena a Catholic who’s in storage. Pivotal witness. The Vatican say she’s already dead and in the hands of God. They’re calling it blasphemy.”

  “I see. So your loyalties are pretty undivided here.”

  She stopped and turned to face me.

  “Kovacs, I hate these goddamn freaks. They’ve been grinding us down for the best part of two and a half thousand years. They’ve been responsible for more misery than any other organization in history. You know they won’t even let their adherents practice birth control, for Christ’s sake, and they’ve stood against every significant medical advance of the last five centuries. Practically the only thing you can say in their favor is that this D.H.F. thing has stopped them from spreading with the rest of humanity.”

  My lift turned out to be a battered but undeniably rakish-looking Lockheed-Mitoma transport decked out in what were presumably police colors. I’d flown Lock-Mits on Sharya, but they’d been a dull radar-reflective black all over. The red and white stripes on this one looked garish by comparison. A pilot in sunglasses to match the rest of Ortega’s little gang sat motionless in the cockpit. The hatch into the belly of the cruiser was already hinged up. Ortega banged on the hatch coaming as we climbed aboard, and the turbines awoke with a whispery sound.

  I helped one of the mohicans manhandle the hatch down, steadied myself against the lift of the cruiser, and found my way to a window seat. As we spiraled up, I craned my neck to keep the crowd below in sight. The transport straightened out about a hundred meters up and dropped its nose slightly. I sank back into the arms of the automold and found Ortega watching me.

  “Still curious, huh?” she said.

  “I feel like a tourist. Answer me a question?”

  “If I can.”

  “Well, if these guys don’t practice birth control, there’s got to be an awful lot of them, right. And Earth isn’t exactly a hive of activity these days, so . . . Why aren’t they running things?”

  Ortega and her men swapped a set of unpleasant smiles. “Storage,” the mohican on my left said.

  I slapped myself on the back of the neck, and then wondered if the gesture was in use here. It’s the standard site for a cortical stack, after all, but then cultural quirks don’t always work like that.

  “Storage. Of course.” I looked around at their faces. “There’s no special exemption for them?”

  “Nope.” For some reason, this little exchange seemed to have made us all buddies. They were relaxing. The same mohican went on to elaborate. “Ten years or three months, it’s all the same to them. A death sentence every time. They never come off stack. It’s cute, huh?”

  I nodded. “Very tidy. What happens to the bodies?”

  The man opposite me made a throwaway gesture. “Sold off, broken down for transplants. Depends on the family.”

  I turned away and stared out of the window.

  “Something the matter, Kovacs?”

  I faced Ortega with a fresh smile gripping my face. It felt as if I was getting quite good at them.

  “No, no. I was just thinking. It’s like a different planet.”

  That cracked them up.

  SUNTOUCH HOUSE

  October 2

  Takeshi-san,

  When you receive this letter, you will doubtless be somewhat off balance. I offer my sincere apologies for this, but I have been assured that the training you underwent with the Envoy Corps should enable you to deal with the situation. Similarly, I assure you that I would not have subjected you to any of this, had my own situation not been desperate.

  My name is Laurens Bancroft. Coming as you do from the colonies, this may not mean anything to you. Suffice it to say that I am a rich and powerful man here on Earth, and have made many enemies as a result. Six weeks ago I was murdered, an act that the police for reasons of their own have chosen to regard as suicide. Since the murderers ultimately failed I can only assume that they will try again, and in view of the police attitude, they may well succeed.

  Clearly you will wonder what all this has to do with you and why you have been dragged 186 light-years out of storage to deal with such a local matter. I have been advised by my lawyers to retain a private investigator, but owing to my prominence in the global community, I am unable to trust anyone I could engage locally. I was given your name by Reileen Kawahara, for whom I understand you did some work on New Beijing eight years ago. The Envoy Corps was able to locate you in Kanagawa within two days of my requesting your whereabouts, though in view of your discharge and subsequent activities they were unable to offer any kind of operational guarantees or pledges. It is my understanding that you are your own man.

  The terms under which you have been released are as follows:

  You are contracted to work for me for a period of six weeks with an option for me to renew at the end of that time should further work be necessary. During this time, I shall be responsible for all reasonable expenses incurred by your investigation. In addition, I shall cover the cost of sleeve rental for this period. In the event that you conclude the investigation successfully, the remainder of your storage sentence at Kanagawa—117 years and 4 months—will be annulled and you will be refreighted to Harlan’s World for immediate release in a sleeve of your own choosing. Alternatively, I undertake to pay off the balance of the mortgage on your current sleeve here on Earth and you may become a naturalized U.N. citizen. In either case the sum of one hundred thousand U.N. dollars, or equivalent, will be credited to you.

  I believe these terms to be generous, but I should add that I am not a man to be trifled with. In the event that your investigation fails and I am killed, or that you attempt to in any way escape or evade the terms of your contract, the sleeve lease will be terminated immediately and you will be returned to storage to complete your sentence here on Earth. Any further legal penalties that you incur may be added to that sentence. Should you choose not to accept my contract from the outset, you will also be returned to storage immediately, though I cannot undertake to refreight you to Harlan’s World in this case.

  I am hopeful that you will see this arrangement as an opportunity and agree to work for me. In anticipation of this, I am sending a driver to collect you from the storage facility. His name is Curtis and he is one of my most trusted employees. He will be waiting for you in the release hall.

  I look forward to meeting you at Suntouch House.

  Yours sincerely,

  Laurens J. Bancroft

  CHAPTEr THrEE

  Suntouch House was aptly named. From Bay City we flew south down the coast for about half an hour before the change in engine pitch warned me that we were approaching our destination. By that time the light through the right-side windows was turning warm gold with the sun’s decline toward the sea. I peered out as we started to descend and saw how the waves below were molten copper and the air above pure amber. It was like landing in a jar of honey.

  The transport sideslipped and banked, giving me a vie
w of the Bancroft estate. It edged in from the sea in neatly manicured tones of green and gravel around a sprawling tile-roofed mansion big enough to house a small army. The walls were white, the roofing coral, and the army, if it existed, was out of sight. Any security systems Bancroft had installed were very low key. As we came lower I made out the discreet haze of a power fence along one border of the grounds. Barely enough to distort the view from the house. Nice.

  Less than a dozen meters up over one of the immaculate lawns, the pilot kicked in the landing brake with what seemed like unnecessary violence. The transport shuddered from end to end, and we came down hard amidst flying clods of turf.

  I shot Ortega a reproachful look, which she ignored. She threw open the hatch and climbed out. After a moment I joined her on the damaged lawn. Prodding at the torn grass with the toe of one shoe, I shouted over the sound of the turbines. “What was that all about? You guys pissed off with Bancroft just because he doesn’t buy his own suicide?”

  “No.” Ortega surveyed the house in front of us as if she was thinking of moving in. “No, that’s not why we’re pissed off with Mr. Bancroft.”

  “Care to tell me why?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  A young woman appeared from the side of the house, tennis racket in hand, and came across the lawn toward us. When she was about twenty meters away, she stopped, tucked the racket under her arm, and cupped her hands to her mouth.

  “Are you Kovacs?”

  She was beautiful in a sun, sea, and sand sort of way, and the sports shorts and leotard she was wearing displayed the fact to maximal effect. Golden hair brushed her shoulders as she moved, and the shout gave away a glimpse of milk-white teeth. She wore sweat bands at forehead and wrists, and from the dew on her brow they were not for show. There was finely toned muscle in her legs, and a substantial biceps stood out when she lifted her arms. Exuberant breasts strained the fabric of the leotard. I wondered if the body was hers.

  “Yes,” I called back. “Takeshi Kovacs. I was discharged this afternoon.”

  “You were supposed to be met at the storage facility.” It was like an accusation. I spread my hands.

  “Well. I was.”

  “Not by the police.” She stalked forward, eyes mostly for Ortega. “You. I know you.”

  “Lieutenant Ortega,” Ortega said, as if she was at a garden party. “Bay City, Organic Damage Division.”

  “Yes. I remember now.” The tone was distinctly hostile. “I assume it was you who arranged for our chauffeur to be pulled down on some trumped-up emissions charge.”

  “No, that would be Traffic Control, ma’am,” the detective said politely. “I have no jurisdiction in that division.”

  The woman in front of us sneered.

  “Oh, I’m sure you haven’t, Lieutenant. And I’m sure none of your friends work there either.” The voice turned patronizing. “We’ll have him released before the sun goes down, you know.”

  I glanced sideways to see Ortega’s reaction, but there was none. The hawk profile remained impassive. Most of me was preoccupied with the other woman’s sneer. It was an ugly expression, and one that belonged on an altogether older face.

  Back up by the house there were two large men with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. They had been standing under the eaves watching since we arrived, but now they ambled out of the shade and began to make their way in our direction. From the slight widening of the young woman’s eyes I guessed that she had summoned them on an internal mike. Slick. On Harlan’s World people are still a bit averse to sticking racks of hardware into themselves, but it looked as if Earth was going to be a different proposition.

  “You are not welcome here, Lieutenant,” the young woman said in a freezing voice.

  “Just leaving, ma’am,” Ortega said heavily. She clapped me unexpectedly on the shoulder and headed back to the transport at an easy pace. Halfway there she suddenly stopped and turned back.

  “Here, Kovacs. Almost forgot. You’ll need these.”

  She dug in her breast pocket and tossed me a small packet. I caught it reflexively and looked down. Cigarettes.

  “Be seeing you.”

  She swung herself aboard the transport and slammed the hatch. Through the glass I saw her looking at me. The transport lifted on full repulse, pulverizing the ground beneath and ripping a furrow across the lawn as it swung west toward the ocean. We watched it out of sight.

  “Charming,” the woman beside me said, largely to herself.

  “Mrs. Bancroft?”

  She swung around. From the look on her face, I wasn’t much more welcome here than Ortega had been. She had seen the lieutenant’s gesture of camaraderie, and her lips twitched with disapproval.

  “My husband sent a car for you, Mr. Kovacs. Why didn’t you wait for it?”

  I took out Bancroft’s letter. “It says here the car would be waiting for me. It wasn’t.”

  She tried to take the letter from me, and I lifted it out of her reach. She stood facing me, flushed, breasts rising and falling distractingly. When they stick a body in the tank, it goes on producing hormones pretty much the way it would if it was asleep. I became abruptly aware that I was swinging a hard-on like a filled fire hose.

  “You should have waited.”

  Harlan’s World, I remembered from somewhere, has gravity at about 0.8 of a G. I suddenly felt unreasonably heavy again. I pushed out a compressed breath.

  “Mrs. Bancroft, if I’d waited, I’d still be there now. Can we go inside?”

  Her eyes widened a little, and I suddenly saw in them how old she really was. Then she lowered her gaze and summoned composure. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kovacs. I’ve forgotten my manners. The police, as you see, have not been sympathetic. It’s been very upsetting, and we all still feel a little on edge. If you can imagine—”

  “There’s no need to explain.”

  “But I am very sorry. I’m not usually like this. None of us are.” She gestured around as if to say that the two armed guards behind her would ordinarily have been bearing garlands of flowers. “Please accept my apologies.”

  “Of course.”

  “My husband’s waiting for you in the seaward lounge. I’ll take you to him immediately.”

  The inside of the house was light and airy. A maid met us at the veranda door and took Mrs. Bancroft’s tennis racket for her without a word. We went down a marbled hallway hung with art that, to my untutored eye, looked old. Sketches of Gagarin and Armstrong, empathist renderings of Konrad Harlan and Angin Chandra. At the end of this gallery, set on a plinth, was something like a narrow tree made out of crumbling red stone. I paused in front of it, and Mrs. Bancroft had to backtrack from the left turn she was making.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  “Very much. This is from Mars, isn’t it?”

  Her face underwent a change that I caught out of the corner of my eye. She was reassessing. I turned for a closer look at her face.

  “I’m impressed,” she said.

  “People often are. Sometimes I do handsprings, too.”

  She looked at me narrowly. “Do you really know what this is?”

  “Frankly, no. I used to be interested in structural art. I recognize the stone from pictures, but . . .”

  “It’s a songspire.” She reached past me and let her fingers trail down one of the upright branches. A faint sighing awoke from the thing and a perfume like cherries and mustard wafted into the air.

  “Is it alive?”

  “No one knows.” There was a sudden enthusiasm in her tone that I liked her better for. “On Mars they grow to be a hundred meters tall, sometimes as wide as this house at the root. You can hear them singing for kilometers. The perfume carries, as well. From the erosion patterns, we think that most of them are at least ten thousand years old. This one might only have been around since the founding of the Roman Empire.”

  “Must have been expensive
. To bring it back to Earth, I mean.”

  “Money wasn’t an object, Mr. Kovacs.” The mask was back in place. Time to move on.

  We made double time down the left-hand corridor, perhaps to make up for our unscheduled stop. Mrs. Bancroft’s breasts jiggled with her steps under the thin material of the leotard, and I took a morose interest in the art on the other side of the corridor. More empathist work, Angin Chandra with her slender hand resting on a thrusting phallus of a rocket. Not much help.

  The seaward lounge was built, as its name suggested, on the end of the house’s west wing. Mrs. Bancroft took me into it through an unobtrusive wooden door, and the sun hit us in the eyes as soon as we entered.

  “Laurens. This is Mr. Kovacs.”

  I lifted a hand to shade my eyes and saw that the seaward lounge had an upper level with sliding glass doors that accessed a balcony. Leaning on the balcony was a man. He must have heard us come in, come to that he must have heard the police cruiser arrive and known what it signified, but still he stayed where he was, staring out to sea. Coming back from the dead sometimes makes you feel that way. Or maybe it was just arrogance. Mrs. Bancroft nodded me forward, and we went up a set of stairs made from the same wood as the door. For the first time I noticed that the walls of the room were shelved from top to bottom with books. The sun was laying an even coat of orange light along their spines.

  As we came out onto the balcony, Bancroft turned to face us. There was a book in his hand, folded closed over his fingers.

  “Mr. Kovacs.” He transferred the book so that he could shake my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. How do you find the new sleeve?”

  “It’s fine. Comfortable.”

  “Yes, I didn’t involve myself too much in the details, but I instructed my lawyers to find something . . . suitable.” He glanced back, as if looking for Ortega’s cruiser on the horizon. “I hope the police weren’t too officious.”

  “Not so far.”

  Bancroft looked like a Man Who Read. There’s a favorite experia star on Harlan’s World called Alain Marriott, best known for his portrayal of a virile young Quellist philosopher who cuts a swath through the brutal tyranny of the early Settlement years. It’s questionable how accurate this portrayal of the Quellists is, but it’s a good flick. I’ve seen it twice. Bancroft looked a lot like an older version of Marriott in that role. He was slim and elegant with a full head of iron-gray hair, which he wore back in a ponytail, and hard black eyes. The book in his hand and the shelves around him were like an utterly natural extension of the powerhouse of a mind that looked out from those eyes.