Nightside CIty (7 page)

I looked up, startled, and saw a spy-eye
staring at me. It was a cheap one, about twenty centimeters across,
black and red finish with chrome and glass fittings, with a central
lens and a few scanners, nothing fancy.

“You’re Carlisle Hsing?” it said.

“What if I am?” I answered. I wasn’t any too
happy about being spotted like this.

“Just wanted to be sure,” it said.

“Why?” I asked.

It didn’t answer. It just hovered there,
watching me.

I pushed back my jacket and hauled out the
HG-2. I stepped back against the side of a building to brace myself
against the recoil, then pointed the gun at the spy-eye. Tourists
up the street stopped dead in their tracks and stared; I saw
personal floaters and built-in hardware locking onto me, ready to
defend their owners if I went berserk. I saw security scanners
pivot toward me on two of the nearby buildings, as well, but nobody
moved in my direction.

No cops were in sight, which was nice.

“What the hell do you want?” I demanded.
“Tell me or I’ll blow you into scrap.” I flicked the gun on, and
felt it shift in my hand as it compensated for the wind and
gravity. I didn’t think I needed to tell it its target.

“Just a minute, Hsing,” it said. “I’ll
consult with my superiors.” It hummed briefly, then informed me, “I
can’t tell you anything, and my boss says that if you shoot, he’ll
sue.”

“And I’ll claim self-defense, and I’ve got a
hell of a good case,” I said. “How do I know you weren’t sent to
kill me?”

“Why would I want to kill you?” it asked.

“How the hell should
I
know?” I said.
“I don’t know who sent you, or what you’re capable of, or what the
fuck you think you’re doing in the first place.”

It hummed again, then said, “All right, all
right, don’t shoot; I’m expensive.”

That was a lie, in a way, because it wasn’t
exactly top of the line, but then, any eye costs serious juice.

“I’m just keeping an eye on you, Hsing,” it
told me. “You’re not welcome in the Trap, and I’m here to make sure
that you don’t do anything you might regret later, that’s all. No
harm meant. Look, I’m not armed.” It popped its inspection panels.
The side compartments, where the armament normally goes, were
empty. So was the belly chamber. The opened panels ruined its
streamlining, and it began to drift off to the right as the wind
whistled across the curved surfaces. I followed it with the
gun.

“Don’t give me that,” I said. “You could be
hiding almost anything in there. Your fucking motherboard could be
explosive, for all I know.”

The thing had me rattled, or I wouldn’t have
said that. It’s a hell of a thing to say to a machine. It’s true,
but it’s a hell of a thing to say.

“Take it easy, Hsing,” it said. “Look, if I
were going to kill you, I’d have done it already, wouldn’t I?”

I knew that; that’s why I hadn’t already
fired. The thing was a machine; its responses had to be faster than
mine. But it had made its point, really. What could I do about it?
The streets were public; it could follow me if it wanted to. And I
sure as hell couldn’t afford the bill if I shot it down and it
turned out to be harmless.

“All right,” I said. I lowered the gun and
turned it off.

And damn it, I couldn’t think of a graceful
exit line. I just shoved the HG-2 back where it belonged, gave the
spy-eye the three-finger curse, and turned away.

I almost ran into a tall tourist in a
vermilion party coat, who had been staring at our little
confrontation. His eyes were blue and milky, with no pretense of
nature at all. I pushed past him and marched on.

The spy-eye cruised along, following me.

I had a pretty good idea who had put it
there. IRC wasn’t petty enough to bother, and most of my other
enemies couldn’t afford it or wouldn’t have thought of it. I
figured it had to be Big Jim Mishima, still pissed at me over the
skimmer at the Starshine Palace. The bastard wanted to make things
difficult for me, same as I had for him.

I debated turning around and yelling a
message for Big Jim at the damn floater, but I resisted the
temptation. Shooting off my mouth wouldn’t do any good, any more
than shooting off the gun, I told myself. Pulling the gun at all
had probably been a mistake.

Then it occurred to me that Mariko Cheng
might not like having Big Jim’s little toy watching us.

Well, there were plenty of floaters around;
she wouldn’t notice that one in particular unless it did something
to draw her attention.

I decided to shoot my mouth off, after all. I
turned and said, “Hey! You!”

“Yeah, Hsing?” it said. The inspection panels
were sealed again, and it cruised up smoothly to look me in the
eye.

“I just want to tell you something,” I said.
“I’m working. It’s a case that nobody in the Trap would touch, and
it’s a waste of time, but I need to eat. Mishima would laugh at
what I’m getting paid for this, but it’ll buy me a dinner. Now, I
guess I can’t get rid of you while I’m on the street, but by god,
if you interfere in my work I’ll slap your master—and yes, I know
who it is—with a harassment suit and I’ll make it stick, too. And I
will
blow you into scrap. So you don’t talk to me or anybody
with me, and you don’t get too close, unless you see me do
something you don’t like—which you won’t, because this case isn’t
for the casinos and it isn’t any polish off your nose. And if I
lose you, and you find me again, you just keep quiet—I probably had
a hell of a good reason. You got that?”

“I hear you,” it said.

I opened my jacket again and put my hand on
the gun.

“Have you
got
that?” I said.

“Yeah, I got it,” it answered.

An advertiser cruised up beside the spy-eye
and said, “Hi there, and welcome to Nightside City! Say, if you
haven’t dined yet...” Its holo was warming up.

I pulled the gun and pointed it at the
advertiser and said, “I’m a native. Beat it.”

Those things have always annoyed me.

The advertiser beat it. The spy-eye didn’t
say anything, and I put the gun away. I hadn’t bothered to turn it
on.

I’d been pointing that thing a lot, I
realized. I was edgy. I couldn’t name a single big reason for it,
but there were plenty of little ones. Dawn was closer every day,
business was bad, my social life wasn’t any better, and this case I
was on sucked—my com bill on it might already be more than my
advance on the fee. So I was edgy, which still didn’t make flashing
the HG-2 all over the place a good idea. I sealed the front of my
jacket; I’d need a second or two more to get the gun out next time,
and that might give me time to calm down and reconsider.

After all, I didn’t think the thing was
legal. Pulling it out and waving it around every few minutes wasn’t
a really brilliant idea. And my reaction to the spy-eye probably
just got Mishima more interested.

With or without the gun, though, I was in a
foul mood. I stamped off down the plastic pavement.

The spy-eye followed, but it kept a discreet
distance and it didn’t say anything.

I turned on Fifth, and there above the
tourists hung the New York’s marquee, old-fashioned neon tubes
rotating three meters above the street. That harsh red glare lit
the black glass walls the same color as the eastern horizon.

That was the main entrance, but I suddenly
decided I didn’t want the main entrance; after all, that was a
casino, and I didn’t want Big Jim misinterpreting anything. Around
the corner on Deng was a side-entrance, into the Manhattan Lounge;
I’d be heading there later anyway, to get Cheng that drink, so it
wouldn’t hurt to take a look at the crowd.

As I turned the corner I wondered who the
hell Manhattan ever was that they should name a bar after him, and
what he had to do with New York. All these weird old names are so
damn confusing.

Traffic on Deng was lighter, and by walking
through the light fog of stardust that drifted along the facade I
had a clear path to the entrance. The door slid open as I walked up
to it, and the music and light and smoke poured out at me,
unhindered by suppression fields—a sort of advertisement, I guess,
for what was inside. The wind whipped the smoke away immediately,
and tore at the music as well.

The music was something slow and rhythmic,
and when I stepped across the threshold I saw why.

The show was in full swing, in a column of
white light at the center of the room, where a man and a woman
hung, weightless and naked, in mid-air. She had her face in his
crotch and was moving her tongue in long, slow caresses. He was
trying not to look bored.

About half the crowd was watching, while the
other half went about their business. I sympathized with the second
group; the entertainment value of watching other people screw has
always escaped me. Even in zero gravity, there just isn’t that much
variety to it, and I’d seen it all before. Hell, I’d
done
it
all before—though not in zero gee. And not recently. Not in too
damn long, in fact, not since I moved out to Juarez. I’d never had
anyone who was serious enough to follow me when I left the Trap,
and I’d never found anyone out in Westside I wanted. I’d always
been too picky for my own good, I suppose—every time I broke up
with a man, I hated it, but I never rushed finding another.

This time, with the reduced opportunities out
in the burbs, I hadn’t rushed at all, and I hadn’t found anything,
either, not even the occasional one-shot.

I didn’t really need the damn floor show
reminding me of that.

There’s one thing, though—at least in zero
gee they don’t do those damn frustrating last-minute withdrawals
that the male fans seem to like so much. It’s too messy when the
stuff can float free. In zero gee shows everything goes where
nature intended—at least, when they do it straight.

It’s still not my idea of great
entertainment.

Well, I didn’t have to watch, and for all I
knew Cheng would love it.

The bar was long and ornate. I assumed that
the old glass bottles along the wall behind it were purely for
decoration, but if not, then it was certainly well-stocked. A man
in a white apron, looking like something from a bad vid, stood
behind it rubbing a glass with a piece of fabric—more
decoration.

The bar wasn’t crowded. Most of the customers
were at the tables on the floor, and the place was only
half-f.

That didn’t accord very well with what the
cab had told me, but hell, it was still early in the day.

The lighting was mostly blue and green,
shifting slowly, and the smoke came not only from the customers,
but also from a small burner on the end of the bar nearest the
door. It was mostly just for scent and effect, but I thought I
could smell a little cannabis in the haze, maybe a few synthetics
as well. I assumed that the psychoactives came from the customers;
it didn’t look like the sort of establishment that would give
anything away for free.

The place wasn’t exactly tasteful, but it
seemed okay. I stepped down to the floor and crossed to the bar,
but didn’t take a stool; after all, I only had a few minutes. I
leaned my elbows on the bar and watched the show for a moment. The
woman was still licking. The man was even more obviously bored than
before.

Behind me, someone snapped, “Hey! You can’t
come in here!”

I turned, and saw the spy-eye hanging in the
doorway, and the man behind the bar holding an ancient jammer.

“You get the hell out!” the man said. “This
is private property, and we won’t have any damn machines harassing
our customers!”

The spy-eye hesitated, looking in my
direction.

“Out, or I fry your circuits!” the man said,
lifting the jammer.

The spy-eye retreated, and I smiled to
myself.

I hadn’t really counted on that, but it was a
nice side-effect. Without wasting a minute I marched on through the
lounge and out into the hotel lobby.

I knew that the spy-eye would try and catch
me coming out, but where would it expect me to come out? Did Big
Jim have other spy-eyes on hand that he could use to cover all the
exits?

Not bloody likely. He had a hell of a lot
more money than I did, but he was still just a freelance detective,
not a goddamn casino owner. He wouldn’t have a whole flock of eyes
in the air—not unless something was up I didn’t know about, and
even then, unless he’d gone completely berserk, he wouldn’t have a
whole flock looking for
me
. I wasn’t worth it.

So I only had to worry about one or two exits
being covered, at most.

The logical exits were the way I came in, the
main entrance, and the casino’s back door on the far side of the
block. If I were trying to be obvious about losing someone, I’d use
a service entrance—except those were all in Trap Under, at least
one level down.

I shrugged. Trying to outguess a machine when
you don’t know a damn thing about its programming is pointless. I’d
just have to pick one at random and hope I got lucky.

I headed for the gate where the shuttles to
the port loaded, squeezed out past a waiting shuttlecar, and then
took a long, rambling route back to the Epimethean Commerce Bank,
cruising through the crowds with one eye on the overhead
traffic.

I hit the corner of Third and Kai on the dot
of 17:00, and there wasn’t a sign of the spy-eye in sight.

A moment later Mariko Cheng stepped out the
side door of the bank, and I looked up at her and smiled and said,
“Mis’ Cheng! Fancy meeting you here!”

Cheng watched the show with a sort of puzzled
amusement. Blue-green light rippled across her face in time to the
music.

She hadn’t bothered to act surprised when I
greeted her at the bank. She had said hello, and after a little
chat about the weather I suggested that, as old friends bumping
into each other by chance, a celebratory drink might be in
order.