The Gabble and Other Stories (26 page)

The man reached inside and took out a small shiny pistol, snub-nosed and deadly looking.

‘The Merchant will meet at the prearranged place, if he manages to obtain the information he seeks,’ he said. He did not know where that was, nor what the information was.

The Merchant had not taken him that far into his trust. It surprised him that he had been allowed knowledge of this; hired killers here on Vatch.

The man nodded as he inspected the pistol, smiled sadly, then pointed the pistol at Beck.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

Beck tried to say something just as he became aware of the arm coming round his face from the man who had moved behind him. A grip like iron closed around his head, locked, wrenched and twisted. Beck hit the sand with his head at an angle it had never achieved in life.

He made some choking sounds, shivered a little, died.

* * * *

Snow halted as two proctors came in through the lock. They looked past him to the corpse on the floor. The eldest of the two, grey-bearded and running to fat, but with weapons that looked well used and well looked after, spoke to him.

‘You are Snow,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Snow replied. This man was not Andronache.

‘A challenge?’

‘Yes.’

The man nodded, looked calculatingly at the two Andronache at the bar, then turned back to the moisture-lock. It was not his job to pick up the corpses. There was an organization for that.

The girl would be in a condensation jar within the hour.

‘The Androche would speak with you. Come with me.’ To his companion he said, ‘Deal with it. Her two friends look like they ought to spend a little time in detention.’

Snow followed the man outside.

‘Why does she want to see me?’ he asked as they strode down the scaffolded street.

‘I didn’t ask.’

Any conversation ended there.

The Androche, like all in her position, had apartments up in the station she owned. The proctor led Snow to a caged spiral stair and unlocked the gate.

‘She is above,’ was all he said. As Snow climbed the stair the gate clanged shut behind him.

The stairway ended at a moisture-lock hatch next to which depended a monitor and screen unit. Snow pressed the call button and waited. After a few moments a woman with cropped grey hair and a face that was all hard angles looked out at him.

‘Yes?’

‘You sent for me,’ said Snow.

The woman nodded and the lock on the hatch clunked open. He spun the handle and it rose on its hinge to allow him access. He climbed into a short metal-walled corridor that ended at a single panel door of imported wood. It looked like oak to Snow; very expensive. He pushed the door open and entered.

The room was filled with a fortune in antiques; a huge dining table surrounded by carved chairs. Plush eighteenth-century furniture, oil paintings on the walls, hand woven rugs on the floor.

‘Don’t be too impressed. They’re all copies.’

The Androche approached from a drinks cabinet. She carried two glasses half filled with an amber drink. Snow studied her; she was an attractive woman. He estimated her age as somewhere between thirty-five and a hundred and ninety. Three centuries earlier the second figure would have been forty-five, but rejuvenation treatments had come a long way. She wore a simple toga-type dress over an athletic figure. At her hip she carried an antique - or replica -

revolver.

‘You know my name,’ said Snow meaningfully as he accepted the drink.

‘I am Aleen,’ she replied to his unspoken question.

Snow hardly heard her. He was relishing his first sip.

‘My God, whisky,’ he said, eventually.

‘Yes,’ said Aleen, taking a sip from her drink then gesturing to a nearby sofa. They moved there and sat facing each other.

‘Well, I’m here. What do you want?’

‘Why is there a reward of twenty-five thousand shillings for your testicles?’

‘Best ask the Merchant Baris that question, but I see it was rhetorical. You already know the answer.’

Aleen nodded and Snow leant towards her.

‘I would be glad to know the answer,’ he said.

Aleen smiled, Snow leant back.

‘There is a price,’ he said.

‘Isn’t there always? . . . There is a man. He is the chief proctor here. His name is David Songrel.’

‘You want me to kill him.’

‘Of course. Isn’t that what you are best at?’

Snow kept silent. Aleen lay back against the edge of the sofa then and regarded him over her drink.

‘That is not all I want from you.’

He turned and looked at her and at that moment she lifted her feet up onto the sofa so that he could see that she wore nothing underneath. He wondered if she shaved or if she was naturally bald in that area. Still meeting him eye to eye she dropped one leg back to the floor, reached between her legs, and began to masturbate, gently, with two fingers. Snow wondered what it was that turned her on; his white body and pink eyes? Other women had said it was almost like being made love to by an alien, or was it that he was a killer? Probably a bit of both.

‘Part of the price?’

She nodded and put her glass to one side, then she slid closer to him on the sofa and hooked one leg over the back of it.

‘Now,’ she said, reaching up and pulling apart her toga to expose breasts just like those of the girl he had killed. Snow searched himself for an adverse reaction to that, and when he found there was none he stood up and unclipped his dust robes.

‘You’re white as paper,’ said Aleen in amazement as he peeled off his under suit, and then her eyes strayed to the covered stump terminating his left arm. She said nothing about that.

‘Yes,’ said Snow as he knelt between her legs and bowed down to run his tongue round her nipples. ‘A blank page,’ he went on as he worked his way down. She caught his head.

‘Not that,’ she said. ‘I want you inside me, now.’

Snow obliged her, but was puzzled at something he had heard in her voice. It had almost been as if that part of the act was the most important. Perhaps she wanted white-skinned children.

* * * *

Hirald called out before approaching the fire. It had been her observation that the Andronache got rather twitchy if you walked into one of their camps unannounced. As she walked in she was surprised to see that these were not Andronache. There were two men and two women dressed in monofilament survival suits that looked to be of Mars manufacture. Hirald noted this but pretended not to notice the weapons laid out on a groundsheet that one of the men had hastily covered at her arrival. She walked to the fire and squatted down. One of the women tossed on another crab-bird carapace and watched her through the flames. The man who had covered the weapons, a tall Marsman with caste markings tattooed on his temples, was the first to speak.

‘You’ve come a long way?’ he asked.

‘Not so far as you,’ said Hirald. She looked from him to the woman across the flames, who also had caste marks on her face. The other couple: the man a Negro with incongruous blue eyes and the woman Hirald thought could have come from anywhere until she noted the caps over the neural plugs behind her ears. She was corporate then; from one of the families.

‘Yes, we have come a way,’ said the man, touching his caste mark.

‘We search,’ said the Negro intently. ‘Perhaps you can help us. We search for one who is called Snow. He is an albino.’

They all looked at Hirald then, avidly.

‘I have heard of him,’ said Hirald, ‘and I have heard that many people look for him. I do not know where he is though.’

The woman with the neural plugs looked suspicious. Hirald continued to forestall anything more she might say.

‘You are after the reward then?’

The four looked to each other, then the latter three looked to the Marsman. He smiled to himself and casually reached for the covered weapons next to him. Hirald glanced at the corporate woman, who was staring back at her.

‘Jharit, no.’

Jharit stopped with his hand by the covering.

‘What is it, Canard Meek?’

The woman, now identified as a member of the Jethro Manx Canard corporate family, slowly shook her head then looked to Hirald, who had not yet moved.

‘We have no dispute with you, but we would prefer it if you left our camp, please.’

‘But she knows. She might tell him,’ said Jharit.

Canard Meek looked to him and said, ‘She is product.’

Jharit snatched his hand from the weapons and suddenly looked very frightened. He flinched as Hirald rose to her feet. Hirald smiled.

‘I mean no harm, unless harm is meant.’

She strode out into the darkness without checking behind. No one moved. No one reached for the weapons.

* * * *

Snow removed the pistol from its holster in his dust robes and checked the charge reading. As was usual it was nearly at full charge. The bright sunlight of Vatch acting on the photovoltaic material of his robes kept the weapon constantly charged through the socket in the holster. The weapon was a matt black L, five millimetres thick with only a slight depression where a trigger would normally have been. It was keyed to Snow. No one else could fire it. The beam it fired was of antiphotons; a misnomer really, as what it consisted of was protons field-accelerated to the point where they became photonic matter. Misnomer or not, this beam could burn large holes in anyone Snow cared to point it at.

David Songrel was a family man. Snow had observed him lifting a child high in the air while a woman looked on from the background, just before the door to his apartments closed.

Snow wondered why Aleen wanted him dead. As the owner of the water station she had much power here, but little over the proctors who enforced planetary law, not her law. Perhaps she had been involved in illegalities of which Songrel had become aware. No matter, for the present. He rapped on the door and when Songrel opened it he stuck the pistol in his face and walked him back into the apartment, closing the door behind him with his stump.

‘Daddy!’ the little girl yelled, but the mother caught hold of her before she rushed forward. Songrel had his hands in the air, his eyes not leaving the pistol. Shock there, knowledge.

‘Why,’ said Snow, ‘does the Androche want you dead?’

‘You’re . . . the albino.’

‘Answer the question please.’

Songrel glanced at his wife and daughter before he replied, ‘She is a collector of antiquities.’

‘Why the necessity for your death?’

‘She has killed to get what she wants. I have evidence. We intend to arrest her soon.’

Snow nodded then holstered his pistol.

‘I thought it would be something like that. She had two proctors come for me you know.’

Songrel lowered his hands, but kept them well away from the stun-gun hooked on his belt.

‘As Androche she does have the right to some use of the proctors. It is our duty to guard her and her property. She does not have freedom to commit crime. Why didn’t you kill me? They say you have killed many.’

Snow looked to Songrel’s wife and child.

‘My reputation precedes me,’ he said, and stepped past Songrel to drop onto a comfortable-looking sofa. ‘But the stories are in error. I have killed no one who has not first tried to kill me . . . well, mostly.’

Songrel looked to his wife.

‘It’s Tamtha’s bedtime.’

His wife nodded and took the child from the room. Snow noted the little girl’s fascinated stare. He was quite used to such. Songrel sat himself in an armchair opposite Snow.

‘A nice family you have.’

‘Yes . . . will you testify against the Androche?’

‘You can have my testimony recorded under seal, but I cannot stay for a trial. If I was to stay this place would be crawling with Andronache killers in no time. I might not survive that.’

Songrel nodded.

‘Why did you come here if it was not your intention to kill me?’ he asked, a trifle anxiously.

‘I want you to play dead while I go back and see the Androche.’

Songrel’s expression hardened.

‘You want to collect your reward.’

‘Yes, but my reward is not money, it is information. The Androche knows why the Merchant Baris has a reward out for my death. It is a subject I am understandably curious about.’

Songrel interlaced his fingers in his lap and stared down at them for a moment. When he looked up he said, ‘The reward is for your stasis-preserved testicles. Perhaps like Aleen he is a collector, but that is beside the point. I will play dead for you, but when you go to see Aleen I want you to carry a virtual recorder.’

Snow nodded once. Songrel stood up and walked to a wall cupboard. He returned with a holocorder that he rested on the table and turned on.

‘Now, your statement.’

* * * *

‘He is dead,’ said Aleen, a smile on her face.

‘Yes,’ said Snow, dropping Songrel’s identity tag on the table. ‘Yet I get the impression you knew before I came here.’

Aleen went to the drinks cabinet and poured Snow a whisky. She brought it over to him.

‘I have friends amongst the proctors. As soon as his wife called in the killing - she was hysterical apparently - they informed me.’

‘Why did you want him killed?’

‘That is none of your concern. Drink your whisky and I will get you the promised information.’

Aleen turned away from him and moved to a computer console elegantly concealed in a Louis XIV table. Snow had the whisky to his lips just as his suspicious nature took over. Why was it necessary to get the information from the computer? She could just tell him. Why had she not poured a drink for herself? He placed the drink down on a table, unsampled. Aleen looked up, a dead smile on her face, and as her hand came up over the console Snow dived to one side. On the wall behind him a picture blackened then flared into oily flames. He came up on one knee and fired once. She slammed back out of her chair onto the floor, her face burning like the picture.

Snow searched hurriedly. Any time now the proctors would arrive. In the bathroom he found a device like a chrome penis with two holes in the end. One hole spurted out some kind of fluid and the other hole sucked. Some kind of contraceptive device? He traced tubes back to the unit that contained the bottle of fluid and some very complicated straining and filtering devices.