Broken Angels, Page 42

  I shrugged. “Seemed likely. A little too convenient otherwise.”

  Wardani’s eyes snapped sideways to mine, disbelieving.

  “You see, Mistress Wardani”—Carrera got up as if his whole body ached—“I’m sure you’d like to believe I’m a monster, but I’m not. I’m just a man doing a job. Men like Matthias Hand create the wars I make my living fighting. Keep that in mind next time you feel the need to insult me.”

  The archaeologue said nothing, but I could feel her gaze burning into the side of my face. Carrera turned to go, then stopped.

  “Oh, and Mistress Wardani, one more thing. Catamite.” He looked at the floor, as if pondering the word. “I have what many would consider a rather limited range of sexual preferences, and anal penetration doesn’t feature among them. But I see from your camp records that the same cannot be said for you.”

  She made a noise. Behind it, I almost heard the creak and shift of the recovery scaffolding Envoy artifice had built inside her. The sound of damage done. I found myself, inexplicably, on my feet.

  “Isaac, you—”

  “You?” He was grinning like a skull as he faced me. “You, you pup. Had better sit down.”

  It was nearly a command, nearly froze me in my tracks. Envoy bile rose sneering and beat it aside.

  “Kovacs—” Wardani’s voice, like a cable snapping.

  I met Carrera halfway, one crooked hand rising for his throat, a muddled kick emerging from the rest of my sickness-tangled stance. The big Wedge body swayed in to meet me, and he blocked both attacks with brutal ease. The kick slipped away left, taking me off balance, and he locked out my striking arm at the elbow, then smashed it.

  It made a crunching noise in the back of my head, an empty whiskey tumbler crushed underfoot in some dimly lit bar. The agony swarmed my brain, wrenched out a single short scream, and then subsided under neurachem pain management. Wedge combat custom—seemed the sleeve was still good for that much. Carrera had not released his hold, and I dangled from the grip he had on my forearm like a powered-down child’s doll. I flexed my undamaged arm experimentally, and he laughed. Then he twisted hard on the shattered elbow joint, so pain rose back up like a black cloud behind my eyes, and dropped me. A casual kick to the stomach left me fetal, and not interested in anything much above ankle height.

  “I’ll send the medics,” I heard him say somewhere above me. “And Mistress Wardani, I suggest you shut your mouth, or I will have some of my less sensitive men come and fill it for you. That and maybe give you a forcible reminder of what the word catamite means. Don’t test me, woman.”

  There was a rustle of clothing, and then he crouched at my side. One hand gripped my jaw and turned my face upward.

  “You’re going to have to get that sentimental shit out of your system if you want to work for me, Kovacs. Oh, and just in case you don’t”—he held up a curled-up inhib spider in his hand—“temporary measure, purely. Just until we’re done with Sutjiadi. We’ll all feel a lot safer this way.”

  He tipped his opened palm sideways, and the inhib unit rolled sideways into space. To my endorphin-dulled senses, it seemed to take a long time. I got to watch with something approaching fascination as the spider unrolled its legs in midair and fell flailing to the floor less than a meter from my head. There it gathered itself, spun about once or twice, and then scuttled toward me. It clambered up over my face, then down around to my spine. A tiny spike of ice reached down into the bone, and I felt the cablelike limbs tighten around the back of my neck.

  Oh well.

  “Be seeing you, Kovacs. Have a think about it.” Carrera got up and apparently left. For a while, I lay there checking the seals on the cozy blanket of numbness my sleeve’s systems had wrapped me in. Then there were hands on my body, helping me into a sitting position I had no real interest in attaining.

  “Kovacs.” It was Deprez, peering into my face. “You okay, man?”

  I coughed weakly. “Yeah, great.”

  He propped me against the edge of the table. Wardani moved into view above and behind him. “Kovacs?”

  “Uhhhhhh, sorry about that, Tanya.” I risked a searching glance at the level of control on her face. “Should have warned you not to push him. He’s not like Hand. He won’t take that shit.”

  “Kovacs.” There were muscles twitching her face that might have been the first crumbling of the jerry-built recovery edifice. Or not. “What are they going to do to Sutjiadi?”

  A little pool of quiet welled up in the wake of the question.

  “Ritual execution,” said Vongsavath. “Right?”

  I nodded.

  “What does that mean?” There was an unnerving calm in Wardani’s voice. I thought I might rewrite my assumptions about her state of recovery. “Ritual execution. What are they going to do?”

  I closed my eyes, summoned images from the last two years. The recollection seemed to bring a dull seeping ache up from my shattered elbow joint. When I’d had enough, I looked at her face again.

  “It’s like an autosurgeon,” I said slowly. “Reprogrammed. It scans the body, maps the nervous system. Measures resilience. Then they run a rendering program.”

  Wardani’s eyes widened a little. “Rendering?”

  “It takes him apart. Flays the skin, flenses the flesh, cracks the bones.” I drew on memory. “Disembowels him, cooks his eyes in their sockets, shatters his teeth, and probes the nerves.”

  She made a half-formed gesture against the words she was hearing.

  “It keeps him alive while it does it. If he looks like he’s going into shock, it stops. Gives him stimulants if necessary. Gives him whatever’s necessary, apart from painkillers, obviously.”

  Now it felt as if there were a fifth presence among us, crouched at my side, grinning and squeezing the shards of broken bone in my arm. I sat in my own biotech-damped pain, remembering what had happened to Sutjiadi’s predecessors while the Wedge gathered to watch like the faithful at some arcane altar to the war.

  “How long does this last?” asked Deprez.

  “It depends. Most of the day.” The words dragged out of me. “It has to be over by nightfall. Part of the ritual. If no one stops it earlier, the machine sections and removes the skull at last light. That usually does it.” I wanted to stop talking, but it seemed no one else wanted to stop me. “Officers and noncoms have the option to call a coup de grâce vote from the ranks, but you won’t get that until late afternoon, even from the ones who want it over. They can’t afford to come across softer than the rank and file. And even late, even then, I’ve seen the vote go against them.”

  “Sutjiadi killed a Wedge platoon commander,” said Vongsavath. “I think there will be no mercy vote.”

  “He’s weak,” Wardani said hopefully. “With the radiation poisoning—”

  “No.” I flexed my right arm and a spike of pain ran up to my shoulder, even under the neurachem. “The Maori sleeves are contam-combat–designed. Very high endurance.”

  “But the neurache—”

  I shook my head. “Forget it. The machine will adjust for that, kill the pain management systems first, rip them out.”

  “Then he’ll die.”

  “No, he won’t,” I shouted. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  No one said much after that.

  A pair of medics arrived, one the man who had treated me earlier, the second a hard-faced woman I didn’t know. They checked my arm with elaborately noncommittal competence. The presence of the inhib unit crouched on my nape and what it said about my status both went carefully unremarked. They used an ultravibe microset to break up the bone fragments around the shattered elbow joint, then set regrowth bios in deep, long monofilament feed lines topped off at skin level with the green marker tags and the chip that told my bone cells what to do and, more to the point, how fucking rapidly to get it done. No slacking here. Never mind what you did back in the natural world, you’re part of a military custom operation now, soldier.

  “C
ouple of days,” said the one I knew, peeling a rapid-dump endorphin dermal off the crook of my arm. “We’ve cleared up the ragged edges, so flexing it shouldn’t do any serious damage to the surrounding tissue. But it will hurt like fuck, and it slows down the healing process, so try to avoid it. I’ll grip-pad you so you remember.”

  A couple of days. In a couple of days, I’d be lucky if this sleeve was still breathing. Recollection of the doctor aboard the orbital hospital flashed through my head. Oh, for fuck’s sake. The absurdity of it bubbled through me and escaped as a sudden, unlooked-for grin.

  “Hey, thanks. Don’t want to slow down the healing process, do we?”

  He smiled back weakly, then hurriedly turned his gaze to what he was doing. The grip pad went on tight from biceps to lower forearm, warm and comforting, and constricting.

  “You part of the anatomizer crew?” I asked him.

  He gave me a haunted look. “No. That’s scan-related, I don’t do it.”

  “We’re done here, Martin,” the woman said abruptly. “Time to go.”

  “Yeah.” But he moved slowly, unwillingly, as he folded up the battlefield kitpack. I watched the contents disappearing, taped-over surgical tools and the strips of brightly colored dermals in their tug-down sleeves.

  “Hey, Martin.” I nodded at the pack. “You going to leave me a few of those pinks. I was planning to sleep late, you know.”

  “Uh—”

  The female medic cleared her throat. “Martin, we aren’t—”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up, will you.” He turned on her with fury boiling up out of nowhere. Envoy instinct kicked me in the head. Behind his back, I reached for the pack. “You don’t rank me, Zeyneb. I’ll dispense what I fucking like and you—”

  “ ’S okay,” I said quietly. “I got them anyway.”

  Both medics fixed on me. I held up the trailing strip of endorphin dermals I’d grabbed free in my left hand. I smiled thinly.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t take them all at once.”

  “Maybe you should,” said the female medic. “Sir.”

  “Zeyneb, I told you to shut up.” Martin gathered up the kitpack in a hurry, tightening it in his arms, cradling it. “You, uh, they’re fast-acting. No more than three at any one time. That will keep you under, whatever you h—” He swallowed. “Whatever is going on around you.”

  “Thanks.”

  They gathered the rest of their equipment and left. Zeyneb looked back at me from the bubblefab flap and her mouth twisted. Her voice was too low for me to catch what she said. Martin raised his arm in a cuffing gesture, and they both ducked out. I watched them go, then looked down at the strip of dermals in my clenched fist.

  “That’s your solution?” asked Wardani in a small, cold voice. “Take drugs and watch it all slide out of view?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  She turned away.

  “Then get down off that fucking prayer tower and keep your self-righteousness to yourself.”

  “We could—”

  “We could what? We’re inhibited, we’re most of us a couple of days off death from catastrophic cell damage, and I don’t know about you, but my arm hurts. Oh, yeah, and this whole place is wired for sight and sound to the political officer’s cabin, which, I imagine, Carrera has ready access to when he wants it.” I felt a slight twinge from the thing on the nape of my neck, and realized my own anger was getting the better of my weariness. I locked it down. “I’ve done all the fighting I’m going to do, Tanya. Tomorrow we get to spend the day listening to Sutjiadi die. You deal with that any way you want. Me, I’m going to sleep through it.”

  There was a searing satisfaction in throwing the words out at her, like twisting shrapnel out of a wound in your own flesh. But somewhere underneath it, I kept seeing the camp commandant, shut down in his chair, current running, the pupil of his remaining human eye bumping idly against the upper lid.

  If I lay down, I’d probably never get up again. I heard the words again, whispering out of him like dying breath. So I stay in this. Chair. The discomfort wakes me. Periodically.

  I wondered what kind of discomfort I’d need at this stage of the game. What kind of chair I’d need to be strapped into.

  Somewhere there’s got to be a way off this fucking beach.

  And I wondered why the hand at the end of my injured arm was not empty.

  CHAPTER THIRTY–NINE

  Sutjiadi started screaming shortly after it got light.

  Outraged fury for the first few seconds, almost reassuring in its humanity, but it didn’t last. In less than a minute, every human element boiled away to the white bone of animal agony. In that form it came searing up the beach from the butcher’s slab, shriek after peeling shriek filling the air like something solid, hunting listeners. We had been waiting for it since before the dawn but it still hit like a shock wave, a visible flinch through each of us where we sat hunched on beds no one had even tried to sleep in. It came for us all, and touched us with a sickening intimacy. It laid clammy hands over my face and clamped a grip on my rib cage, stopping breath, spiked the hairs on my neck, and sent a single twitch through one eye. At my nape, the inhib unit tasted my nervous system and stirred interestedly.

  Lock it down.

  Behind the shrieking ran another sound I knew. The low growl of an aroused audience. The Wedge, seeing justice done.

  Cross-legged on the bed, I opened my fists. The dermal strips fell to the quilt.

  Something flickered.

  I saw the dead visage of the Martian, printed across my vision so clear it might have been a retinal display.

  this chair—

  —wakes me.

  —spinning motes of shadow and light—

  —dirge of alien grief—

  I could feel—

  —a Martian visage, in among the swirl of brilliant pain, not dead—

  —great unhuman eyes that met mine with something that—

  I shuddered away from it.

  The human scream ran on, ripping along nerves, digging into marrow. Wardani buried her face in her hands.

  I shouldn’t be feeling this bad, a detached part of me argued. This isn’t the first time I’ve—

  Unhuman eyes. Unhuman screams.

  Vongsavath began to weep.

  I felt it rising in me, gathering in spirals the way the Martians had done. The inhib unit tensed.

  No, not yet.

  Envoy control, cold and methodical unpicking of human response just when I needed it. I welcomed it like a lover on Wardani’s sunset beach—I think I was grinning as it came on.

  Outside on the slab, Sutjiadi screamed, pleading denial, the words wrenched out of him like something drawn with pliers.

  I reached down to the grip pad on my arm and tugged it slowly toward my wrist. Twinges ran through the bone beneath as the movement snagged the regrowth biotags.

  Sutjiadi screamed, ragged glass over tendon and gristle in my head. The inhibitor—

  Cold. Cold.

  The grip pad reached my wrist and dangled loose. I reached for the first of the biotags.

  Someone might be watching this from Lamont’s cabin, but I doubted it. Too much else on the menu right now. And besides, who watches detainees with inhibitor systems crouched on their spines? What’s the point? Trust the machine and get on with something more rewarding.

  Sutjiadi screamed.

  I gripped the tag and applied evenly mounting pressure.

  You’re not doing this, I reminded myself. You’re just sitting here listening to a man die, and you’ve done enough of that in the past couple of years for it not to bother you. No big deal. The Envoy systems, fooling every adrenal gland in my body and plastering me with a layer of cool detachment. I believed what I told myself at a level deeper than thought. On my neck, the inhibitor twitched and snugged itself down again.

  A tiny tearing and the regrowth bio filament came out.

  Too short.

  Fu—

 
Cold.

  Sutjiadi screamed.

  I selected another tag and tugged it gently side to side. Beneath the surface of the skin, I felt the monofilament slice tissue down to the bone in a direct line and knew it was also too short.

  I looked up and caught Deprez looking at me. His lips framed a question. I gave him a distracted little smile and tried another tag.

  Sutjiadi screamed.

  The fourth tag was the one—I felt it slicing flesh in a long curve through and around my elbow. The single endorphin dermal I’d shot earlier kept the pain to a minor inconvenience, but the tension still ran through me like wires. I took a fresh grip on the Envoy lie that absolutely nothing was happening here, and pulled hard.

  The filament came up like a kelp cable out of damp beach sand, ripping a furrow through the flesh of my forearm. Blood spritzed my face.

  Sutjiadi screamed. Searing, sawing up and down a scale of despair and disbelief at what the machine was doing to him, at what he could feel happening to the sinewed fibers of his body.

  “Kovacs, what the fuck are you—” Wardani shut up as I cut her a look and jabbed a finger at my neck. I wrapped the filament carefully around my left palm, knotted it behind the tag. Then, not giving myself time to think about it, I splayed my hand and drew the noose smoothly and rapidly tight.

  Nothing is happening here.

  The monofilament sliced into my palm, went down through the pad of tissue as if through water, and came up against the interface bioplate. Vague pain. Blood welled from the invisible cut in a thin line, then blotched across the whole palm. I heard Wardani’s breath draw short, and then she yelped as her inhibitor bit.

  Not here, my nerves told the inhib unit on my own neck. Nothing happening here.

  Sutjiadi screamed.

  I unknotted the filament and drew it clear, then flexed my damaged palm. The lips of the wound across the palm split and gaped. I stuffed my thumb into the split and—

  Nothing is happening here. Nothing at all.

  —twisted until the flesh tore.

  It hurt, endorphin or no fucking endorphin, but I had what I wanted. Below the mangled mass of meat and fatty tissue, the interface plate showed a clear white surface, beaded with blood and finely scarred with biotech circuitry. I worked the lips of the wound farther apart until there was a clear patch of plate exposed. Then I reached back with no more conscious intent than you’d get from a back-cracking yawn and jammed the gashed hand onto the inhibitor.