Spares

  Critical Acclaim for Michael Marshall Smith and

  SPARES

  “No wonder Hollywood’s DreamWorks SKG has snapped up the film rights. This darkly atmospheric sci-fi thriller, long on technological wizardry and futuristic grotesqueries, makes excellent fodder for the big screen…. In his American debut novel, Smith masterfully moves the whodunnit toward the future, opening up refreshing vistas for a genre rooted in the present.”

  —People

  “Coma meets Blade Runner in this future noir thriller, a compulsively readable melding of hardboiled narrative and hardware invention…. Both a disconcerting portrait of a future that might be, and a poignant study of one man’s fight to resist it, this novel augurs a promising future of another sort for its author.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Inventive and horrifying.”

  —The Rue Morgue

  “Highly recommended.”

  —Mysterious Galaxy

  “A dark but witty futuristic thriller that combines Raymond Chandler and Robert A. Heinlein… Race down to the bookstore to grab this stunning debut.”

  —Flint Journal

  For Paula,

  who lights up the forest.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Steve Jones, for whom I wrote the story which contained the seed of what follows; to the Chiselers and Chiselettes, for valued misery and chiseling; to arch-Miserablists Kim “Crispy” Newman and Paul “The Duck” McAuley for good advice (which I’m going to start taking); to Rob and Steve for helping me not to finish too early; to Clive Barker for kind words, and to Neil Caiman for helping me to not get sued; to Kingsley Amis and Tori Amos for very different inspirations; to Rachel Baker, Dick Jude, Chris Smith, Paul Landymore, and others for putting their weight behind the first one, and to the reps of HarperCollins for being a bunch of absolute stars; to Howard and Adam and Jenny and Les and Val and Mandy and Jo and Richard and Suzanne and Zaz for damaging my health; to Jane Johnson for putting up with me, and to Jim Rickards for being a hard bastard; to Ralph Vicinanza, Lisa Eveleigh, Linda Shaughnessy, Nick Marston and Bob Bookman; to Margaret and David and Tracey and Spangle and Lintilla for being who they are; and finally to Nana Harrup (Get through that defense) and Grandma Smith (oh, bother it) for being who they were.

  Our kind. Us people. All of us that started the game with a crooked cue, that wanted so much and got so little, that meant so good and did so bad.

  Jim Thompson

  The Killer Inside Me

  Wide shot.

  New Richmond, Virginia. Not the old Richmond, the historic capital of historical old Virginia, that sprawl of creaking tedium, but the New. The old Richmond was destroyed over a century ago, razed to the ground during riots which lasted two months. After decades of putting up with dreadful shopping facilities, a bewilderingly dull Old Town and no good restaurants to speak of, the residents suddenly went nonlinear and strode across the city like avenging angels, destroying everything in their wake. It was great.

  Spin doctors blamed downtown decay, crack wars, the cast of the moon. Personally, I think everyone just got really bored, and either way good riddance to it. The old Richmond was a content-free mess, a waste of a good, level patch within sight of the pleasingly pointy Blue Ridge Mountains. Everyone agreed it was much better off as a landing strip, a refueling point for the MegaMalls.

  The MegaMalls are aircraft—five miles square, two hundred stories high—which majestically transport passengers from one side of the continent to the other, from the bottom to the top; from wherever they’ve been to wherever they seem to think will be better. The biggest oblongs of all time, a fetching shade of consumer-goods black, studded with millions of points of light and so big they transcend function and become simply a shape again.

  When oblongs grow up, they all want to be Mega-Malls.

  Inside are thousands of stores, twenty-story atriums, food courts the size of small towns, dozens of multiplex cinemas, and a range of hotels to suit every wallet which has a Gold Card in it. All this and more arranged round wide, sweeping avenues, a thousand comfortable nooks and crannies, and so many potted plants they count as an ecosystem in their own right. Safe from the rest of the world, cocooned 20,000 feet up in the air.

  Heaven on earth, or cruising just above it: all of the good, clean, buyable things in life crammed into a multi-story funhouse.

  Eighty-three years ago, MegaMall Flight MA 156 stopped for routine refueling on the site of old Richmond, and never took off again. At first, it was merely a bureaucratic problem—the kind that the massed brains of all time could never have gotten to the bottom of, but which some poorly paid clerk could have solved instantly. If he’d had a mind to. If he hadn’t been on his break.

  After a few hours, the richer patrons started leaving by the roads. They didn’t have time for this shit. They had to be somewhere else. Everybody else just complained a little, ordered another meal or bought some more shoes, and settled down to wait

  Then, after a few more hours, it transpired there was a minor problem with the engines. This was a little more serious. When you’ve got a problem with a car, you open the hood and there it is. You can point at the errant part. When the engine’s the size of the Empire State Building on steroids, you know you’ve got a long night ahead. It takes fourteen people just to hold the manual. The engineers sent repair droids scurrying off into the deep recesses, but eventually the droids came back, electronically shaking their heads and whistling through their mechanical teeth. It was only a minor problem, the engineers were sure, but they couldn’t work out what it was.

  More passengers started to leave at that point, but on the other hand, some people decided to stay. There were plenty of phones and meeting rooms, and the Mall had its own node on the Matrix. People could work. There were enormous quantities of food, consumer goods and clean sheets. People could live. There were, frankly, worse places to hang around.

  They never got the engines going again. Maybe they were fixable, but they left it a little too late. After a couple of days, people started to make their way in from the outside; people who’d been homeless since old Richmond went up in flames; people who lived in the backwoods; people who’d heard about the food courts and just wanted a spot of lunch. They came off the plain and out of the mountains and hammered on the doors. Initially, security turned them back like they were supposed to, but there were an awful lot of them and some were pretty pissed. For them the only thing worse than having to live in Richmond had been not having it to live in anymore.

  The security guards got together and came up with a plan. They would let people in, and they would charge them for it.

  There was a period, maybe as long as six months, when Flight MA 156 was in flux, when no one was really sure if it was going to take off again. Then the tide turned, and people knew it was not. By then they didn’t want it to. It was home. Areas inside the ship were knocked through, torn down, redeveloped. The original passengers staked out the upper floors and began to build on top of the Mall, competing to see who could get farthest from the mounting poor on the lower levels. A secondary town grew up around the Mall at ground level—the Portal into the city.

  Eventually, the local utility companies just plumbed the whole lot in, and New Richmond was born. Apart from its unusual provenance and extreme oblongness, New Richmond is now just a city like anywhere else. If you didn’t know, you might think it was just a rather bizarre town-planning mistake.

  But it’s said that in a lost room, somewhere deep in the bowels of the city, there remains a forgotten suitcase, left there accidentally by one of the first families to leave old Richmond, a mute testament to the city’s birth. Nobody knows where this room is, and most people believe it’s just an urban myth. Because that’s what Fli
ght MA 156 is, these days. Urban.

  But I’ve always believed in that lost room, just like I wonder if sometimes, on some nights, the city itself must raise its eyes when it hears the other MegaMalls trundling slowly overhead. I wonder if it watches the skies, and sees them pass, and knows in some way that’s where it should be. Up there in the heavens, not battened onto the Earth. But then which of us doesn’t believe something like that, and how few of us are right.

  “Two hundred dollars,” the man said, his eyes trying to look cool and watchful at the same time, and making a fearful mess of both. He wasn’t talking about what I was trying to sell. I wasn’t even in New Richmond yet. It was after eight o’clock at night and I was losing patience and running out of time.

  “Bullshit,” I said. “Fifty is the rate.”

  The man laughed with genuine amusement.

  “You been away or something, man? Shit, I can’t barely remember when fifty dollars was the rate.”

  “Fifty dollars,” I said again. I guess I was hoping if I said it often enough I’d end up neurolinguistically programming him. I was standing in front of a door, a door that was hidden in the basement of a building in the Portal settlement, the high-rise nightmare of ragged buildings and shanty dwellings which surrounds New Richmond proper. I was there because this particular building had been constructed right up against the exterior wall of the city, inside which I needed to be. I’d put up with being frisked on entry by the street gang that was currently controlling the building, and had already paid twenty dollars “tax” on my gun. I didn’t have two hundred dollars, I barely had a hundred, and I was in a hurry.

  The man shrugged. “So go in the main entrance.”

  I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets, fighting back anger and panic in equal measure. “And don’t be thinking about bringing out your gun,” he continued, mildly. “‘Cos there’s three brothers you can’t even see with rifles trained on yo’ ass.”

  I couldn’t go in the main gates, as he well knew. No one came to this part of the Portal town if they could enter New Richmond through one of the legitimate entrances. Going in that way meant running your ownCard through the machines, thus broadcasting your name to the cops, the city administration, and anyone else who had a tap on the line.

  “Look,” I said. “I’ve been this way before. I don’t need a guide, I just need to get past you. Fifty dollars is what I have.”

  The man turned away and signaled into the darkness with an upward nod of his head. I heard the sound of several sets of feet padding out of the darkness toward me.

  “You still piecing your action from Howie ‘The Plan’?” I asked, casually. The footsteps behind stopped, and the man turned to look at me again, eyes watchful.

  “What you know about Mr. Amos?” he asked.

  “Not much,” I said, though I did. Howie was a medium-time crook operating out of the eighth floor. He ran some girls, owned a bar, and had pieces of the drugs action so far down the chain that he was tolerated by the real heavy-hitters above. He was a fat, affable man with a surprising shock of blond hair, but he was fitter than he looked and knew how to keep a secret. Late at night, when most of the customers were gone, he’d been known to sit in with his house blues band and play a hell of a lot better than you’d expect. He didn’t have the Bright Eyes, but he could have. He was a stand-up guy.

  “Just enough,” I continued, “to tell the wrong people about some of the deals they don’t know he’s into. And if he thinks that information came from you guys, well…”

  “Why would he get to thinking that?” the man asked, though he was losing heart. These guys were below bottom-rung lowlife: hardly on the ladder. They most likely didn’t even know where the ladder was, and had to use steps the whole time. Running this door was as close as they got to operating in New Richmond. Guys like this don’t want to tangle with the jungle inside. It bites.

  “I can’t imagine,” I said. “Look. Fifty dollars. Then on my way out I give you the other hundred fifty.”

  For all he knew I was never coming out, but fifty was better than no cash and a lot of potential grief. He stepped aside. I peeled the notes off, and he opened the door.

  “And I’ll give you an extra twenty,” I added, “if you keep any mention of me off the list you sell to the cops.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said stonily, but there was a change in his attitude. “But I’ll take your twenty.”

  I nodded and walked through the door. It shut behind me, and for the first time in five years I was inside New Richmond.

  The door led into an old service corridor, which meandered toward the lower engine block through miles of dank and creepy corridors. There’s nothing of value to be had there, and that’s why nobody had cared when external construction had covered up the entrance. The one thing no one was going to be trying to do was get the engines going again. There’s an old story that says one of the original repair drones still toils away down there somewhere, grown old and insane, but even I don’t believe that.

  For a long time the door was forgotten, and then somebody rediscovered it and realized its potential value as a covert entrance to the city. An adjunct to the service corridor leads via the exhaust ducts to a hidden and little-known staircase, which leads up to the second floor of the old Mall.

  But I wasn’t going to be going that way. I quickly followed the corridor for two hundred yards, past panels etched and stained with rust. It’s eerily silent down there, perhaps the only truly quiet part of the city. The corridor took a sharpish right turn, and you could see the dim and intermittent lights in the ceiling disappearing toward the next turn, about half a mile ahead. Instead of following the lights I gathered myself and leapt upward, arms straight above me, hands balled into fists. They hit a panel of the roof and it popped up and over, revealing a dark space beyond. I took a quick glance back to ensure no one was watching, jumped up again, and pulled myself up through the hole.

  When I replaced the ceiling panel I was left in a darkness broken only by yellow slivers of light that escaped through cracks in the floor. I straightened into the slight hunch required for New Richmond’s lost ventilation system, and hurried forward into the gloom. Every now and then I heard some fragment of life floating down from the city. An aged gurgle, soft clanks grown old, the occasional ghost of speech caught accidentally in some twist of corridor above and echoed down to the graveyard below. I had always felt that walking this corridor was like creeping through New Richmond’s ancient and barren womb, but then I’ve always been a bit of a moron.

  After about half a mile I passed under one of the main entrances. You can tell because of the sound of hundreds of feet coming in, going out. I stood underneath the entrance for a moment, remembering. I used to come the covert way sometimes for kicks, but the main gates are the way you enter if you want to appreciate what you’re getting into. You walk into a foyer which is twenty stories high, a taste of the opulence you can expect if you’ve got clearance to go above the 100th floor. There used to be glass windows on all of the levels that tower above you, but they were walled in once they’d become low-life areas. It was like standing in the biggest and gaudiest shower cubicle of all time. You walked up to the desk, ran your ownCard through the machine, and established your clearance. I used to live in the 70s, and so I’d walk over to one of the express elevators, get in, and be shot up into the sky.

  Not tonight. Tonight I was threading my way like a snake through endless tunnels, and I wasn’t going to the 72nd floor because there was nothing left for me there. I was in New Richmond because I needed money, and had only one way of getting some. I was going to go in, get the money, get out—and then turn my back on Virginia for good.

  We’d reached the Portal settlement in the early evening. It had been raining all day, and was getting colder and darker by the minute. Virginia doesn’t fuck around in winter, especially not these days. Virginia says, “Here, have some winter,” and then delivers. The spares
had been on their last legs by then, a joke I’d made to myself knowing it to be in bad taste and not altogether caring. They’d never felt the cold before, and the scraps of my clothing I’d distributed amongst them weren’t anywhere near enough.

  There hadn’t been many people on the streets, thankfully. You don’t go to the Portal to promenade, particularly not at night—it would be less trouble to stay in your apartment and mug yourself in the comfort of your own home. Howie Amos once ran a service which did just that; you called him up, said you were thinking of going out into the Portal, and he’d send someone to rough you up within half an hour or you got a dollar off. It was surprisingly popular.

  I corralled the spares into a tight group and herded them down the streets in front of me, sticking close to the walls and out of the light, trusting Suej and David to help me keep the others in line. I’d explained why we had to come here, and why it could be a problem for me. They all did what they were told, and I hurried us along for about a mile until we were outside Mal’s building.

  I paused outside and looked back the way we’d come. The roads in the Portal are very straight, running out from New Richmond in the center like a giant spider’s web. You can stand in the middle of one and see as far as the rain will let you. Yellow streetlights lined the way, throwing pools of light that were rich and sickly, like cream ten minutes before it goes sour. Beyond the limits of my vision was the edge of the Portal, and beyond that, the road which led out into the dark Virginia countryside. A long way down that road were the Blue Ridge Mountains we’d come from, matter-of-fact geology covered with a hell of a lot of trees. For the first time it struck me how much the roads in the Portal looked like tunnels, and that was when I began to accept that the last five years really had happened to me.

  I shouldered the outer door open and led the spares into the hallway, which was an inch deep in chill water. Loud music was thumping from somewhere up above. I told the spares to stay still and to hide if anyone came, then I vaulted up the wooden staircase that spiraled up into the darkness. When I got to the 3rd floor I took a deep breath, shook some of the water out of my hair, then knocked on Mal’s door.