Authors: Gary Gibson
“I work for Max Draeger.”
“Draeger? You work for Max Draeger?”
Walk out now
, thought Kendrick. “Then we have nothing to say to each other.” He turned and headed back towards the
elevator.
“Mr Draeger wants to know if you’ve been suffering from any seizures recently,” Smeby called after him.
Kendrick stopped to turn and stare at Smeby. “Fine – you’ve got my attention. But why should
you
care?”
“Another question. You know there are upwards of two thousand still-living Labrats. Are you still in contact with any of them?”
“That’s really none of your business.”
“We know of Caroline, of course. And your friend Buddy.”
“I think you already heard my answer, Smeby.”
“You were kept in Ward Seventeen during your incarceration in the Maze, and you’ve been involved with some interesting people since your time there.”
“What about you, then? Were you one of those running the Maze?”
Smeby smiled. “I think you should be aware that Mr Draeger is offering you his aid.”
“
Draeger
?” Kendrick laughed. “Perhaps you should just tell me what he wants.”
“He wants to help you.”
“Why would I need his help?”
“Your augmentations have turned rogue, Mr Gallmon. There are ways for us to find such things out, even before the effects manifest themselves visibly. Mr Draeger has extended an invitation
for you to visit him at his home and primary research facility. He’s very interested to meet you. He believes he may even be able to cure you.”
14 October 2096
Above the Armoured Saint
Malky was rich, though no one would be able to tell from the external appearance of his home. Squeezed on either side by the new housing complexes that had sprung up all
over the city to house the waves of refugees, the five-floor tenement looked as though it was being beat up by the silver and glass towers that now surrounded it. But appearances could be
deceptive. Malky owned the entire block, including the Armoured Saint, which was situated on the ground floor – and Kendrick knew that it had been far from cheap to acquire.
He also knew that Malky’s full name was Mikhail Konstantin Vasilevich, a third-generation immigrant whose great-grandparents had arrived from the Chernobyl region in the 1980s. Malky had
used his ill-gotten gains from a wide and spectacular variety of illegal pursuits to set himself up in style. His particular speciality, however, was producing fake ID, a booming market since
America had slowly begun to emerge from civil unrest and a considerable number of people had found an urgent need to disappear.
People like Kendrick, say.
“Stop worrying. You’re fine.”
Kendrick glanced nervously out through a tall window and into the street running in front of the Saint. They were in Malky’s cramped office, a room on the floor directly above the bar.
“Does that mean you managed to cope with the security systems?” Kendrick asked.
“Of course.” Malky shrugged. “Otherwise the Saint wouldn’t keep its reputation for being a safe place for all kinds of people. So you’re clean. And, while
you’re here, maybe you can tell me again exactly how you knew there were explosives left in the building.”
“I told you, my augments picked it up.”
Malky gave him a sideways look. “I know your augments can pick up on electronics in your immediate vicinity, but not from the far end of a very long bar.”
“You’re saying you don’t believe me?”
“I’m saying it doesn’t make much sense, is all.”
Kendrick sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what else I can say.”
There was a brief, awkward silence. “I’ve been asking questions,” Malky continued. “Most of the people who frequent the Saint are US refugees, so it looks like whoever
planted that bomb figured Edinburgh could do with a few less Yanks.”
“You know this for a fact?” Kendrick decided not to mention the possibility of Los Muertos. That would lead to a whole range of further questions he didn’t feel up to dealing
with right now.
Malky let out a long sigh. “No, I don’t know for sure. But, like I said, I asked some questions. It’s not the first time something like this has happened, you know. We’ve
got a visual recording of a man coming in, putting the bag down, and leaving after a couple of minutes. But we don’t know who he was, and Todd hasn’t been able to find any matches for
his face in any of the police databases that he has access to. Now,” Malky continued, “you were saying you needed to find something out?”
Kendrick nodded, relieved by the change of subject. “About the Arlington – I want to know who did the programming for their windows. I figured Todd might know, since he’s in
the same line of work.”
Malky shook his head in exasperation. “Kendrick, did you ever think about just asking someone there?”
“I did ask someone, but they said they didn’t know.”
“And, of course, I can safely assume you ran a Gridsearch as well.”
“I’m not an idiot, Malky. I checked out everything I could.”
“And, naturally, you’re not going to tell me
why
you need to know this. I mean, why do you even care?”
Kendrick smiled apologetically. “You’d think I was a lunatic if I told you.”
Malky spread his hands. “Yeah, like I don’t think that already. Well, let’s go speak to Todd, then.”
From somewhere above them came a deep, growling vibration that sounded remarkably as though someone was using a pneumatic drill for unknown purposes. Kendrick had gradually
grown used to the eccentric lifestyles and predilections of the refugees and artists who occupied the majority of the building’s apartments. They were a reminder, Malky had once told him, of
his own parents’ bohemian roots.
A little further up the concrete stairs leading to the single enormous attic space that constituted Todd’s home and working space they came across Lucia. She was standing beyond the open
doorway of her studio, bare-breasted, her shaven head glistening. Kendrick couldn’t help but note the industrial-sized pneumatic drill now discarded on the floor; Lucia was applying a
blowtorch to the nose of an enormous construction of girders and concrete that took a moment to resolve into a two-headed T-Rex with a tractor in place of a ribcage. They continued on past her.
“Why is this so important, Kendrick? What’s the big deal?”
What to say?
“It’s – hard to explain. But it’s important. Very important.”
Malky spread out his arms. “I’m a friend. It’s not like I can’t tell that something’s going on.”
“Bear with me, okay?”
Malky shook his head. “Fine, fine – whatever you say.”
It occurred to Kendrick that not even Malky knew exactly how many people lived here. However, a significant proportion appeared to be American refugees, most of them certainly illegal. He
allowed Malky to lead him up yet another cramped stairway carpeted with moist-looking fabric. Finally Malky knocked loudly on the door at the top. After what felt like an appropriate interval they
stepped through.
What little illumination there was in the room beyond seeped through patterned blinds drawn over tall windows. Kendrick remembered the first time he’d been there: Todd had taken care of
all his ID needs, as well as providing him with a plethora of useful and completely false personal information. In Kendrick’s augmented eyesight, the tattered furniture revealed itself in the
gloom with an unnatural pearly ambience. Todd sat at the far end of the vast space, his eyes fixed on an eepsheet creased from being folded too many times. It was running one of the RaptureNet
channels.
Unsurprisingly, given the apocalyptic tendencies of RaptureNet, a preacher kept thrusting his hands into the air and yelling in a tinny voice while a computer-generated image of the
Archimedes
floated in the background.
Wherever I go I still can’t get away from that damn thing,
Kendrick thought to himself.
Todd was a small, mostly bald, middle-aged American with the frame of a famine victim and a soft, lilting West Coast accent. A workstation not unlike Caroline’s occupied one wall, while a
smaller version of her window-screen leaned against another wall, held in place with gaffer tape.
Todd glanced round at them, blinking and smiling. He nodded in recognition as Kendrick approached. “Long time no see,” he said. “In the flesh, at least. What brings you
here?”
“I need you to find out who programmed something.” Kendrick described the hotel’s door environment, while Malky listened with apparent interest.
“Looks like the
Archimedes
? Interesting.” Todd nodded towards the eepsheet he’d been watching as they’d entered. The preacher was now holding an old-style wand to
his ear, in order, presumably, to better demonstrate the act of speaking to God. Another window opened on the eepsheet, showing an alternative view of the same preacher wearing flowing robes and a
long white wig that crackled with computer-generated lightning. The berobed version looked down on his other self, zapping the wand with cartoon lightning.
Todd noted Kendrick’s interest and nodded towards the images. “You ever watch this stuff?”
“I’m . . . afraid not.”
Todd laughed nervously. “Stop looking so worried. You know I get off on shit like this. It tickles me. And, you know, that’s what helped sink Wilber. Economically speaking, building
something the size and complexity of the
Archimedes
took up a serious chunk of the USA’s annual GNP for a good few years. Can’t maintain a wartime economy with shit like that
going down, and that’s why his own army eventually turned against him. Now, Wilber—”
“Todd,” Kendrick gently interrupted him, “I know all this – remember?”
Todd blinked, then his face coloured. “Sorry, forgot,” he muttered sheepishly.
Though Todd’s nerdish enthusiasms often ran away with him, Kendrick warmed to him nonetheless. “It’s true that a lot of people still believe in Wilber’s message,
though,” he added, by way of a gentle prompt.
Todd nodded eagerly. “Actually, this particular channel is pumped out of a portable studio in the back of a truck in Colombia. Real guerrilla-broadcasting kind of thing. But I’ve got
to tell you, I think they just might have something.”
Kendrick tried to frame his response as diplomatically as possible. “Wilber would use any lies that came to hand in order to gain power – and hold it.”
“Look, I’m serious,” Todd protested. “I’m far from being the religious type, but for all Wilber’s craziness about using the
Archimedes
as a testing
ground for building some kind of techno-rapture gridlink to God, the people he had working on it were real scientists. A lot of the people who tune in to RaptureNet, they’re old guys who
worked in the science industries before the LA Nuke. And regardless of whether or not they actually are religious-minded in the old-fashioned sense, they go for that whole Tipler
consciousness-at-the-end-of-time thing.”
“Look, Todd, I just need your help in finding out who did this thing.”
“And wouldn’t I like to know why,” Todd chuckled. “Okay, okay, just kidding. It’s no problem – right, Mikhail?”
“Absolutely,” Malky replied.
“I mean, it’s not like this is secret information, right?” Todd continued, his grin growing wider. “You’re asking because, say, you admire the skill of the artist
involved?”
“I’m asking because I’d really like to know who did it.” Kendrick tried unsuccessfully to keep an edge out of his voice.
Todd nodded. “How’s Car doing?”
“You mean Caroline?”
Todd smiled. “Listen, Ken, this one’s for free. I can tell you for a fact that Caroline produced that display on commission.”
“Caroline?”
Todd wore a satisfied smirk. “You sound surprised. It’s the kind of thing she does, after all.”
It was indeed. “I should have thought of that, Todd. Thank you. I owe you one.”
“No problem. So what’s so special about some display based on the
Archimedes
, anyway?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure.”
“Now, that’s not really an answer.”
“I know, I know, but it’s the only one I’m giving you right now. Sorry.”
Todd nodded with a gentle smile. “Got another question for you, then, just to make us even.”
“Sure.”
“What do
you
think is up there?” Todd asked. “What’s up there that prevents anyone getting back on board the
Archimedes
?”
Kendrick frowned. Todd was clearly just looking for more fuel to feed his endless obsession with conspiracy theories. “Christ, Todd. There’s nothing complicated about it.
Nobody’s dumb enough to try and get on board that thing while the place is swarming with runaway nanites.”
“Yeah?” Todd’s eyes glinted. “But sometimes, on the Grid, you hear rumours. You hear rumours.”
16 October 2096
Edinburgh
Kendrick still had at least a little money left over from the post-Maze trials, remnants of the compensation he’d received. Unfortunately, the money had been paid in
dollars, an already badly devalued currency by that time. Kendrick’s financial acumen was not great but he knew enough to transfer the funds into other currencies and store it in European
Legislate accounts before it devalued any further.
Which hadn’t stopped a lot of that money slipping away in the meantime, but at least it gave him a means of keeping himself alive when times were lean. Careful investment had helped
stretch the funds out, but Hardenbrooke’s treatments had cut deep.
However, the money could only last so much longer. Occasional freelance journalism – under a variety of assumed names, of course, each with its own bank account – did help to bolster
things, but the sporadic nature of such work meant that it was ultimately little more than a stopgap.
Now he would need to seek out new sources of income, without the European Legislate finding out any more about him than he wanted it to.
A few years before, Kendrick had signed a contract with a Grid news agency to work as a freelance stringer, having the advantage that he could file stories while remaining largely anonymous. But
now there was the chance of something more permanent, which might mean moving south to London, or possibly somewhere in mainland Europe.