Escapology Page 10

  EVaC’s a Patient Zero. A freak. A kyõjin. He downloads virads into his neural flash and jacks into the Slip to distribute them amongst unsuspecting and unwilling punters. It’s a dangerous job. Virads are catchy for a reason. Designed to hunt out and infect avis in the Slip to spread the good news about some shit avi users wouldn’t otherwise want, they’re even stickier at the source, the Zero. Outcome is Patient Zero’s suffer permanent infection from all the virads they’re paid to spread.

  Logos leak into their speech patterns, and their buying habits become littered with the often pointless products they’ve promoted, hence the piles of junk in the boys’ house. Zeros like EVaC, who’ve been in the business for a good while, never fucking shut up. It’s like Tourette’s; portions of jingles, catchphrases and sound bites leaping from overstuffed neurones to their lips like coins from a keno machine jackpot. They get seriously twitchy if they hold them in for too long, so they tend not to. In other words, silence in a Zero like EVaC is unheard of.

  “EVaC? Buddy? You okay there?”

  He curls up harder, and she sits on the bed, pushing aside his hair, her worry escalating when he doesn’t fight to stay hidden. He’s the only gaijin in the whole Hornet crew and shy about his complexion, even with her. Every memory she has of chilling with him involves his endless jabbering coming out almost disembodied from within a cave of hair.

  Amiga sucks in a harsh breath as she cops a load of his face. It’s a frickin’ pane of glass, veins standing out in stark relief, bright blue and red. The capillaries branching between are oddly shaped, almost logical in their curves and lines, as if attempting to form letters or numbers.

  He feels too moist, not sweaty exactly, more waterlogged from the inside somehow, and his irises, whilst still that astonishing shade of light blue, reminding her of sky reflected in windows, are almost as see-through as his skin. She swears she can see the meat of his optic nerve behind them—that complicated umbilicus of wetware connecting back to the brain.

  “Shiiiiiiit.” She traces the shapes on his cheek wonderingly. “How long has he been like this?”

  “A few days. Since his last big job,” Knee Jerk says quietly, guilty. He should be. Frankly she is too, because she’s EVaC’s best bud and she’s not seen him in over two weeks. Fail. Major, stinking friend fail.

  “Seriously?” And all her anger at them and herself comes out in it.

  KJ shrugs. “He wanted to keep working. We’re not his caretakers for fuck’s sake.”

  Holy middle of the conversation, Batman. Amiga feels like she’s just missed out on a chunk of explanation.

  “From the beginning, asswad,” she snaps.

  Deuce takes this as his cue.

  “Zero’s have been avoiding work,” he says quietly. “We got wind of the why: something going down in Slip, but no deets, so none of us particularly bothered.”

  “Explanation, because ignoring trouble in Slip is downright dumb and you know that even if these two screwballs don’t. Aren’t you supposed to be their Jiminy Cricket or some shit?”

  He shrugs it off. “Look, Zero business has gotten mad organized in the last two years. You know what BS such structural rejigs create. EVaC’s not Guild, he hates the whole re-org, wants no part of it. Doesn’t want to answer to Mother Zero, despite proper respect for her, and digs not the notion of being affiliated. Being strictly freelance, and therefore in a position to ignore BS, he started taking the jobs other Zeros were refusing. He was making a bundle.”

  “So when did he get sick?”

  “Round about two weeks ago. We didn’t think much of it then. It was just a virus. Y’know, sneezing, runny nose, all that good shit. Then it changed…”

  “To this?”

  “Not straight away,” KJ says. He’s beside the door, arms crossed hard against his chest. “He’s only been this bad since that last job coupla days ago.”

  Amiga rounds on them, too furious to feel bad when they retreat as far as they can, blank and guarded. Knee Jerk in a karate stance he couldn’t possibly hope to defend himself from.

  “And you only just thought to call for help?”

  “He told us he was okay.” Knee Jerk again, in a tone as pathetic as the excuse. Fitting.

  “Riiiight. So you thought you’d what… just wait and see until his shit got serious? Because I think it’s serious guys. I think it’s definitely fucking serious now.”

  “What do we do?” asks Deuce.

  He hasn’t argued with her on the stupidity of leaving it this late, she can see by his face that he knows. Obviously KJ’s been kicking up a stink. He’s not really an asshole, is KJ, but he’s got a pure talent for making a jackass of himself when he gets The Fear, and he gets it a lot. He’s a jumpy son of a gun, for good reason. Before joining the Hornets, KJ ran drugs for the Harmonys.

  Upshot is he wanted out and they were disagreeable. Consequently, he’s sporting the kinds of scars visible even under clothes, and only has the one good ear. Because of that, the Hornets let his habit for panicking and being a jackass slide. But this is a bit beyond the pale. A life’s in jeopardy. A Hornet for fuck’s sake. She’d happily divest KJ of that one remaining ear if EVaC’s current state wasn’t a more pressing concern.

  She strokes EVaC’s forehead again, disliking the cold, greasy feel of it, the way those re-forming capillaries pulse beneath her fingers. It’s out of step with his heartbeat, the pulse at his throat. Has this aura of purpose: some manner of animated, active, coherence behind it, like something’s inside of him, attempting to communicate with whatever it has to hand. Whatever it is, he won’t last long enough for the message to come clear unless they find him some help.

  And who can help him? Only one logical answer. She doesn’t like it, because it’s not going to be easy. In fact it’s likely to be veering into the hellaciously difficult, especially with his decision to freelance, but it’s all they’ve got. Whatever’s up with EVaC, it’s way above their pay grades. They need an expert. They need the expert.

  Mother Zero.

  “We contact Agen-Z,” she says. “She’ll know what to do.”

  “You know she’s gone signal dark, don’t you?” Deuce says, as if she doesn’t know shit, which is true.

  “Of course,” she says, lying through her teeth. “But it’s my job to scare up death truants all the damn time. I’ll find her.”

  She has to find her, because this is her fault too. If she weren’t a walking friend fail something would have been done about this shit sooner.

  “You won’t,” KJ mutters. “Mother Zero’s no lowlife on the run.”

  Amiga’s about one millisecond away from doing something she’ll regret when she catches the expression on Deuce’s face. What now? He agrees with KJ?

  “You doubt my skills? You? Of all people?” she says.

  “No. I just don’t think you understand how deep someone like Mother Zero can go.” He licks his lips. “But I can give you a name. Someone close enough to get you a face-to-face, if you handle it right.”

  Amiga pokes at his words, trying to find something to get pissy over. Anything. Anything at all. Trouble with Deuce is, he’s smart and knows her too damn well, knows how she’ll be feeling right now about failing EVaC, though he’d likely have some pithy argument to counter her “I am basically shit” conclusion. Fuck! Why does he have to be so goddamn reasonable? Why does he have to understand her so fucking well? If he was an arsehole, all of this would be so much easier.

  “Fine,” she snaps. “Shoot.”

  “Maggie Joust.”

  “The Maggie Joust? The ex-GarGoil? For real?” Pops out before Amiga can clap a hand over her stupid, over-sharing gob.

  KJ gawps, and Deuce gets this grin she literally wants to pound off his face.

  “Oh no you don’t, you fucker,” she says quickly. “This is not collateral.”

  “It isn’t? Amiga Tanaka hung fucking DethRok,” Deuce says slowly. “Now there’s an image I can’t unsee. Not. Ever.” And he
grins again.

  Shit but she hates him.

  “Tell me you didn’t go full-on back-combed gore-hound emo-core?” KJ says and busts out laughing, forgetting he’s not in on this moment. Not if he wants to live. “That’s awesome!”

  Amiga snarls at him. “I’m hungry and I was promised food. Fix me a box of gyudon, KJ. And do me a favour?”

  “What?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Volk

  O700 hours. A rising sun frames the jagged prow of the Resurrection like a crown, reflecting diamond-white in coronas of sea-spray. Weather’s cool but dry. Slight sou-easter. Ripples on a calm sea speak of waves to come later judging by the bruise on the horizon. Shoals of giant tuna, silver glints on the port side, flash patterns like complex codes six feet below the surface. Two feet above, flocks of gulls mimic their movements, razor beaks pointed downward in anticipation.

  Top of his crow near the prow, Petrie mans the ’scope, taking in the landscape of the ship, the comings and goings on the ropes, the early morning activities. He scans the ocean too, watching for signs of pursuit, despite their current positioning. The ghost of the moon haunts the sky and the shadow of Cape Town Hub haunts the Resurrection, obscuring light. Seems to hover above them, way up there. Shadowing their every move.

  In truth they crouch beneath, wheels at a slow, majestic churn, barely disturbing the waters; hiding in Cape Town’s signal by mimicking its flight-path. Seagulls and tuna. Land ship and hub. Ghosts and shadows. To think only yesterday they sailed the high seas, careless and unafraid. Petrie’s no stranger to sudden change, but he’s reeling. All he cares about is right here. This ship, the safety of her people, is vital to him. Without her, without them, he would not be able to continue.

  The last call for breakfast flashes on the crow’s nest monitor. It’s usually a klaxon, but they’re running silent. Signal may be quiet in the shade of Cape Town Hub, but any noise travels miles in this relative calm. He swings out of the nest. Volk’s been in custody since last night. Petrie has an appointment with Cassius to talk to her about that drone this morning.

  “Bosun!” Cassius strides over. “Walk with me.” Petrie does as he’s told and as they stride out, Cassius says quietly, “I know you haven’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday, Bosun. Can’t have that. I need you focused and strong.”

  He hands Petrie a breakfast roll in greaseproof paper. Petrie stares at it, stomach reeling.

  “I can’t.”

  “Nevertheless, you will. Every bite.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  Cassius lays his hand on Petrie’s shoulder.

  “No, you’re my second, and I need you fit to serve. A man half-starving himself is not fit for anything.”

  Longing to disagree, because he can’t face food right now, Petrie unwraps the roll. It tastes awful, but he chokes it down. Everything tastes the same at the moment. Bitter. Repugnant. The taste of fear. He thought he’d left that fear behind, but it’s right here, in the pit of his belly, the back of his throat. In his mouth. Too close to escape, just like the Ark, and like the Ark he’s afraid it will catch him. Lay waste to everything he’s managed to build.

  * * *

  The Resurrection has no holding cells so Volk’s being held under guard in Cassius’s office. They find her sitting at the table, clutching a coffee. Petrie thinks she looks wary when they walk in, though it’s hard to tell with those eyes of hers, windows to the soul reduced to the blank reflectiveness of screens. Looking into them is a form of cognitive dissonance.

  “To what do I owe my incarceration, Captain?” she asks, voice neutral.

  Cassius takes a seat. “You may have heard we had a visitor. Somewhat unexpected.”

  There’s that wariness again, unmistakable now in the set of her shoulders, the minute twitching of her fingers.

  “I heard. Drone. I thought it was chased here by pirates. Damaged.”

  “Not chased. Sent.”

  She blinks. “Sent by pirates?”

  “No. By someone on the Gung.”

  Her chair shifts, the screech of legs on the wooden floor like a shout.

  “Who?” she asks, and there’s that fear again. What’s she afraid of?

  “We’re not sure. The drone was given clear instructions to come here. To you.”

  This revelation seems on the surface to have no effect. Petrie’s not fooled. He sees the tension in her musculature, the curtailment of that energy. Her body is on pause, held rigid and waiting. Something about it reminds him of being beaten. Knowing it will hurt more to tense, anticipate, but unable to quit the reaction. She’s waiting for a blow.

  “Can I see it?”

  Cassius shakes his head. “Petrie here gave you passage under a week ago, barring any trouble. Now I have a drone on my ship, sent to you, that’s brought the Saskatoon Ark down on our heads. That’s more than mere trouble, it’s a possible death sentence. Not just for crew; families, children. That’s your doing. I want to know why someone might send you a drone. I want to know who the fuck you are and what you’re bringing down on me and mine.”

  Volk’s hands are shaking, the tiniest tremor.

  “I am who I say I am. I’m Corp. No one special. But I’m also a J-Hack, a Pharm,” she says, and Petrie believes it. She’s too afraid for that to be a lie. “As for the drone. I think I know who sent it. I hope I’m wrong.”

  Leaning forward, Cassius demands, “Who?”

  “Queens,” she says, fiddling with the handle of her coffee cup, nails clicking on the china like a mechanical heartbeat. “The Hive Queens.”

  A vein begins to tick away in Cassius’s cheek. If it could be heard, it would be the sound of his control about to snap. He thinks he’s being lied to, of course—it’s too outrageous a claim to be anything but a lie. Except Petrie thinks not. Even though what she’s said verges on the crazy, she believes it. Her fear is real. Either that or she’s an extraordinary actor.

  “The Queens?” Cassius looks as close to losing it as Petrie’s ever seen him. “You’re definitely fucking with me now, and that’s not wise. Not wise at all. Not with my people, my ship, in this much jeopardy.”

  “No,” she says, her voice shaking. “I am nowhere near fucking with you.”

  “Is that so? Kindly enlighten me then. Far as I’m aware, Fulcrum’s got them under control. Under lock and key. That’s part of what Emblem’s for, isn’t it? To keep them in Hive, where they belong.”

  Volk pushes her cup away and folds her hands together. It doesn’t stop them from shaking.

  “Emblem’s locking capability has always been tweaked. It was partially bio-ware for a long time, and now fully. It has to be able to adapt to stop the Queens from escaping.”

  Cassius sits back, uneasy. “They’re trying to escape?”

  “Not trying, have been on and off for years, but always got locked back in.”

  “We’d know. We’d see.”

  “Fulcrum wipes the memory from WAMOS and you count as WAMOS, just like the users on the hubs do. The only people who remember are Fails and double players like me, and we’ve known for years that escaping on occasion is not enough for them. They want out for good. They want Emblem. After Kamilla died, Josef reached out to my collective, the Movement. Asked for our help to stop them.”

  “You’re working with Fulcrum? With Josef Lakatos? That little shit’s not decent, not even half. He’s screwing us all over for Slip use.”

  “He’s not screwing you over at all, he’s trying to limit access, make some flim on the side. Fulcrum is close to bust. You have no idea how expensive hiding this has become, how much it costs to stay one step ahead of them.”

  Cassius rubs at his mouth. “Okay. So then, if you’ve been working with Fulcrum to stop them, why leave the Gung? Tell me why you ran.”

  “Like I said, the Queens want Emblem, which is in the Core of Hive, hidden right in their midst but of course the Queens can’t get to Core, they can’t even see it. They’ve been work
ing with Twist Calhoun. He’s been sending in Haunts, trying to find a way to circumvent Core’s defences. We thought it was impossible. There’s only a single way into Core and even Haunts can’t use it. Or at least we thought so. The Queens must have discovered something, because they attacked us without warning, all at once. Tried to eliminate us, because we’re the only things standing in their way. We had to scatter. Go signal dark.” She blinks back tears. “I don’t even know who got away and who didn’t.”

  “So they have Emblem?”

  She laughs. “If they had Emblem, everything we know would be gone. You really need to let me see that drone. Did you disconnect it from the collective? Tell me you at least did that.”

  “No need,” Petrie tells her. “It was already disconnected.”

  This genuinely surprises her. “You’re sure?”

  “Scratch is no J-Hack but he knows his Tech. It was disconnected. That mean it’s not Queens?”

  She looks uncertain. “Could be. They’re cunning though. I’d need to be sure. You need to be sure.” She directs this last to Cassius, who looks distinctly unimpressed.

  “Do I now? All I’m sure of is that you came to my ship dragging serious trouble and I am not happy.”

  Volk snorts. “Captain, if the Queens really have found a way to get Emblem, it won’t matter what ship I ran to. None of you can exist for long without the Gung and its connections to the hubs, and they will tear all of that apart.”

  “I’m aware they’re dangerous,” he snaps, “I’m just not convinced by your story here. It’s a little hard to take, you have to admit.”

  “So allow me to prove it,” she snaps back. “Let me look at the damned drone.”

  Cassius leans his head back to stare hard at the ceiling, probably looking for his patience. He won’t find it there.

  “Fine. We’ll take you to the drone,” he says to Volk. “You can look, but Petrie here will piggyback.”