Takeshi Kovacs - Broken Angels Part 4

Wardani gestured. "That uniform you're wearing says otherwise."

"This uniform," I fingered the black material with distaste, "is strictly a temporary thing."

"I don't think so, Kovacs."

"Schneider's wearing it too," I pointed out.

"Schneider..." The word gusted out of her doubtfully. She obviously still knew him as Mendel. "Schneider is an a.s.shole."

I glanced down the beach to where Schneider was banging about in the shuttle with what seemed like an inordinate degree of noise. The techniques I'd used to bring Wardani's psyche back to the surface hadn't gone down well with him, and he'd liked it even less when I'd told him to give us some time alone by the fire.

"Really? I thought you and he..."

"Well." She considered the fire for a while. "He's an attractive a.s.shole."

"Did you know him before the dig?"

She shook her head. "n.o.body knew anybody before the dig. You just get a.s.signed, and hope for the best."

"You got a.s.signed to the Dangrek coast?" I asked casually.

"No." She drew in her shoulders as if against cold. "I'm a Guild Master. I could have got work on the Plains digs if I'd wanted to. I chose Dangrek. The rest of the team were a.s.signed Scratchers. They didn't buy my reasons, but they were all young and enthusiastic. I guess even a dig with an eccentric's better than no dig at all."

"And what were your reasons?"

There was a long pause, which I spent cursing myself silently for the slip. The question had been genuine-most of my knowledge of the Archaeologue Guild was gleaned from popular digests of their history and occasional successes. I had never met a Guild Master before, and what Schneider had to say about the dig was obviously a filtered version of Wardani's pillow talk, stepped on by his own lack of deeper knowledge. I wanted the full story. But if there was one thing that Tanya Wardani had seen a surplus of during her internment, it was probably interrogation. The tiny increment of incisiveness in my voice must have hit her like a marauder bomb.

I was marshalling something to fill the silence, when she broke it for me, in a voice that only missed being steady by a micron.

"You're after the ship? Mende-" She started again. "Schneider told you about it?"

"Yeah, but he was kind of vague. Did you know it was going to be there?"

"Not specifically. But it made sense; it had to happen sooner or later. Have you ever read Wycinski?"

"Heard of him. Hub theory, right?"

She allowed herself a thin smile. "Hub theory isn't Wycinski's; it just owes him everything. What Wycinski said, among others at the time, is that everything we've discovered about the Martians so far points to a much more atomistic society than our own. You know-winged and carnivorous, originally from airborne predator stock, almost no cultural traces of pack behaviour." The words started to flow-conversational patterns fading out as the lecturer in her tuned in unconsciously. "That suggests the need for a much broader personal domain than humans require and a general lack of sociability. Think of them as birds of prey if you like. Solitary and aggressive. That they built cities at all is evidence that they managed at least in part to overcome the genetic legacy, maybe in the same way humans have got a halfway lock on the xenophobic tendencies that pack behaviour has given us. Where Wycinski differs from most of the experts is in his belief that this tendency would only be repressed to the extent that it was sufficiently desirable to group together, and that with the rise of technology it would be reversible. You still with me?"

"Just don't speed up."

In fact, I wasn't having a problem, and some of this more basic stuff I'd heard before in one form or another. But Wardani was relaxing visibly as she talked, and the longer that went on the better chance there was of her recovery remaining stable. Even during the brief moments it had taken her to launch into the lecture, she had grown more animated, hands gesturing, face intent rather than distant. A fraction at a time, Tanya Wardani was reclaiming herself.

"You mentioned hub theory, that's a bulls.h.i.t spin-off; f.u.c.king Carter and Bogdanovich whoring off the back of Wycinski's work on Martian cartography. See, one of the things about Martian maps is, there are no common centres. No matter where the archaeologue teams went on Mars, they always found themselves at the centre of the maps they dug up. Every settlement put itself slap in the middle of its own maps, always the biggest blob, regardless of actual size or apparent function. Wycinski argued that this shouldn't surprise anybody, since it tied in with what we'd already surmised about the way Martian minds worked. To any Martian drawing a map, the most important point on that map was bound to be where the map maker was located at the time of drawing. All Carter and Bogdanovich did was to apply that rationale to the astrogation charts. If every Martian city considered itself the centre of a planetary map, then every colonised world would in turn consider itself the centre of the Martian hegemony. Therefore, the fact that Mars was marked big and dead centre on all these charts meant nothing in objective terms. Mars might easily be a recently colonised backwater, and the real hub of Martian culture could be literally any other speck on the chart." She pulled a disdainful face. "That's hub theory."

"You don't sound too convinced."

Wardani plumed smoke into the night. "I'm not. Like Wycinski said at the time, so f.u.c.king what? Carter and Bogdanovich completely missed the point. By accepting the validity of what Wycinski said about Martian spatial perceptions, they should have also seen that the whole concept of hegemony was probably outside Martian terms of reference."

"Uh-oh."

"Yeah." The thin smile again, more forced this time. "That's where it started to get political. Wycinski went on record with that, saying that wherever the Martian race had originated, there was no reason to suppose that the mother world would be accorded any more importance in the scheme of things than quote absolutely essential in matters of basic factual education unquote."

"Mummy, where do we come from? That sort of thing."

"That sort of thing exactly. You might point it out on the map, that's where we all came from once that's where we all came from once, but since where we are now where we are now is far more important in real, day-to-day terms, that's about as far as the mother world homage would ever get." is far more important in real, day-to-day terms, that's about as far as the mother world homage would ever get."

"I don't suppose Wycinski ever thought to disown this view of things as intrinsically and irreconcilably unhuman, did he?"

Wardani gave me a sharp look. "How much do you really know about the Guild, Kovacs?"

I held up finger and thumb a modest span apart. "Sorry, I just like to show off. I'm from Harlan's World. Minoru and Gretzky went to trial about the time I got into my teens. I was in a gang. Standard proof of how antisocial you were was to carve air graffiti about the trial in a public place. We all had the transcripts by heart. Intrinsically and irreconcilably unhuman Intrinsically and irreconcilably unhuman came up a lot in Gretzky's recantation. Seemed like it was the standard Guild statement for keeping your research grants intact." came up a lot in Gretzky's recantation. Seemed like it was the standard Guild statement for keeping your research grants intact."

She lowered her gaze. "It was, for a while. And no, Wycinski wouldn't play that tune. He loved the Martians, he admired them, and he said so in public. That's why you only hear about him in connection with f.u.c.king hub theory. They pulled his funding, suppressed most of his findings and gave it all to Carter and Bogdanovich to run with. And what a b.l.o.w.j.o.b those two wh.o.r.es gave in return. The UN commission voted a seven per cent increase in the Protectorate strategic budget the same year, all based on paranoid fantasies of a Martian overculture somewhere out there waiting to jump us."

"Neat."

"Yeah, and totally impossible to disprove. All the astrogation charts we've recovered on other worlds bear out Wycinski's finding-each world centres itself on the map the way Mars did, and that single fact is used to scare the UN into keeping a high strategic budget and a tight military presence across the whole Protectorate. No one wants to hear about what Wycinski's research really means, and anybody who talks too loud about it, or tries to apply the findings in research of their own is either defunded overnight or ridiculed, which in the end comes to the same thing."

She flicked her cigarette into the fire and watched it flare up.

"That what happened to you?" I asked.

"Not quite."

There was a palpable click to the last syllable, like a lock turning. Behind me, I could hear Schneider coming up the beach, his checklist for the shuttle or maybe just his patience exhausted. I shrugged.

"Talk about it later, you want to."

"Maybe. How about you tell me what all that macho high-G manoeuvre bulls.h.i.t was today?"

I glanced up at Schneider as he joined us beside the fire. "Hear that? Complaint about the in-flight entertainment."

"f.u.c.king pa.s.sengers," Schneider grunted, picking up the clowning cue flawlessly as he lowered himself to the sand. "Nothing ever changes."

"You going to tell her, or shall I?"

"Was your idea. Got a Seven?"

Wardani held up the packet, then tossed them into Schneider's grasp. She turned back to me. "Well?"

"The Dangrek coast," I said slowly, "whatever its archaeological merits may have been, is part of the Northern Rim territories and the Northern Rim has been designated by Carrera's Wedge as one of nine primary objectives in winning the war. And judging from the amount of organic damage going on up there at the moment, the Kempists have come to the same conclusion."

"So?"

"So, mounting an archaeological expedition while Kemp and the Wedge are up there fighting for territorial dominance isn't my idea of smart. We have to get the fighting diverted."

"Diverted?" The disbelief in her voice was gratifying to hear. I played to it, shrugging again.

"Diverted, or postponed. Whatever works. The point is, we need help. And the only place we're going to get help of that order is from the corporates. We're going to Landfall, and since I'm supposed to be on active service, Schneider's a Kempist deserter, you're a prisoner-of-war and this is a stolen shuttle, we need to shed a little heat before we do that. Satellite coverage of our little run-in with the smart mines back there will read like they took us down. A search of the seabed will show up pieces of wreckage compatible with that. Allowing that no one looks at the evidence too closely, we'll be filed as missing presumed vaporised, which suits me fine."

"You think they'll let it go at that?"

"Well, it's a war. People getting killed shouldn't raise too many eyebrows." I picked a stray length of wood out of the fire and started tracing a rough continental map in the sand. "Oh, they may wonder what I was doing down here when I'm supposed to be taking up a command on the Rim, but that's the kind of detail that gets sifted in the aftermath of a conflict. Right now, Carrera's Wedge are spread pretty thin in the north and Kemp's forces are still pushing them towards the mountains. They've got the Presidential Guard coming in on this flank," I prodded at the sand with my makeshift pointer, "And sea-launched air strikes from Kemp's iceberg fleet over here. Carrera's got a few more important things to worry about than the exact manner of my demise."

"And you really think the Cartel are going to put all that on hold just for you?" Tanya Wardani swung her burning gaze from my face to Schneider's. "You didn't really buy into this, did you, Jan?"

Schneider made a small gesture with one hand. "Just listen to the man, Tanya. He's jacked into the machine, he knows what he's talking about."

"Yeah, right right." The intense, hectic eyes snapped back to me. "Don't think I'm not grateful to you for getting me out of the camp, because I am. I don't think you can imagine quite how grateful I am. But now I'm out, I'd quite like to live. This, this plan plan, is all bulls.h.i.t. You're just going to get us all killed, either in Landfall by corporate samurai or caught in the crossfire at Dangrek. They aren't going to-"

"You're right," I said patiently, and she shut up, surprised. "To a point, you're right. The major corporates, the ones in the Cartel, they wouldn't give this scheme a second glance. They can murder us, stick you into virtual interrogation until you tell them what they want to know and then just keep the whole thing under wraps until this war is over and they've won."

"If they win."

"They will," I told her. "They always do, one way or the other. But we aren't going to the majors. We've got to be smarter than that."

I paused and poked at the fire, waiting. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw how Schneider craned forward with tension. Without Tanya Wardani aboard, the whole thing was dead in the water and we all knew it.

The sea whispered itself up on the beach and back. Something popped and crackled in the depths of the fire.

"Alright." She moved slightly, like someone bedridden shifting to a less aching posture. "Go on. I'm listening."

Relief gusted out of Schneider audibly. I nodded.

"This is what we do. We target one corporate operator in particular, one of the smaller, hungrier ones. Might take a while to sound out, but it shouldn't be difficult. And once we've got the target, we make them an offer they can't refuse. A one-time only, limited period, bargain bas.e.m.e.nt, satisfaction guaranteed purchase."

I saw the way she exchanged glances with Schneider. Maybe it was all the monetary imagery that made her look to him.

"Small and hungry as you like, Kovacs, you're still talking about a corporate player." Her eyes locked onto mine. "Planetary wealth. And murder and virtual interrogation are hardly expensive. How do you propose to undercut that option?"

"Simple. We scare them."

"You scare scare them." She looked at me for a moment, and then coughed out a small, unwilling laugh. "Kovacs, they should have you on disc. You're perfect post-trauma entertainment. So, tell me. You're going to them." She looked at me for a moment, and then coughed out a small, unwilling laugh. "Kovacs, they should have you on disc. You're perfect post-trauma entertainment. So, tell me. You're going to scare scare a corporate block. What with, slasher puppets?" a corporate block. What with, slasher puppets?"

I felt a genuine smile twitch at my own lips. "Something like that."

CHAPTER SIX.

It took Schneider the better part of the next morning to wipe the shuttle's datacore, while Tanya Wardani walked aimless scuffing circles in the sand or sat beside the open hatch and talked to him. I left them alone and walked up to the far end of the beach where there was a black rock headland. The rock proved simple to scale and the view from the top was worth the few sc.r.a.pes I picked up on the way. I leaned my back against a convenient outcrop and looked out to the horizon, recalling fragments of a dream from the previous night.

Harlan's World is small for a habitable planet and its seas slop about unpredictably under the influence of three moons. Sanction IV is much larger, larger even than Latimer or Earth, and it has no natural satellites, all of which makes for wide, placid oceans. Set against the memories of my early life on Harlan's World, this calm always seemed slightly suspicious, as if the sea were holding its watery breath, waiting for something cataclysmic to happen. It was a creepy sensation and the Envoy conditioning kept it locked down most of the time by the simple expedient of not allowing the comparison to cross my mind. In dreamsleep, the conditioning is less effective, and evidently something in my head was worrying at the cracks.

In the dream, I was standing on a shingle beach somewhere on Sanction IV, looking out at the tranquil swells, when the surface began to heave and swell. I watched, rooted to the spot, as mounds of water shifted and broke and flowed past each other like sinuous black muscles. What waves there were at the water's edge were gone, sucked back out to where the sea was flexing. A certainty made in equal parts of cold dread and aching sadness rose in me to match the disturbances offsh.o.r.e. I knew beyond doubt. Something monstrous was coming up.

But I woke up before it surfaced.

A muscle twitched in my leg and I sat up irritably. The dregs of the dream rinsed around the base of my mind, seeking connection with something more substantial.

Maybe it was fallout from the duel with the smart mines. I'd watched the sea heave upward as our missiles detonated beneath the surface.

Yeah, right. Very traumatic.

My mind skittered through a few other recent combat memories, looking for a match. I stopped it, rapidly. Pointless exercise. A year and a half of hands-on nastiness for Carrera's Wedge had laid up enough trauma in my head to give work to a whole platoon of psychosurgeons. I was ent.i.tled to a few nightmares. Without the Envoy conditioning, I'd probably have suffered a screaming mental collapse months ago. And combat memories weren't what I wanted to look at right now.

I made myself lie back again and relax into the day. The morning sun was already beginning to build towards semi-tropical midday heat, and the rock was warm to the touch. Between my half-closed eyelids, light moved the way it had in the lochside convalescent virtuality. I let myself drift.

Time pa.s.sed unused.

My phone hummed quietly to itself. I reached down without opening my eyes and squeezed it active. Noted the increased weight of heat on my body, the light drenching of sweat on my legs.

"Ready to roll," said Schneider's voice. "You still up on that rock?"

I sat up unwillingly. "Yeah. You make the call yet?"

"All cleared. That scrambler uplink you stole? Beautiful. Crystal clear. They're waiting on us."

"Be right down."

Inside my head, the same residue. The dream had not gone.

Something coming up.

I stowed the thought with the phone, and started downward.

Archaeology is a messy science.

You'd think, with all the high-tech advances of the past few centuries, that we'd have the practice of robbing graves down to a fine art by now. After all, we can pick up the telltale traces of Martian civilisation across interplanetary distances these days. Satellite surveys and remote sensing let us map their buried cities through metres of solid rock or hundreds of metres of sea, and we've even built machines that can make educated guesses about the more inscrutable remnants of what they left behind. With nearly half a millennium of practice, we really ought to be getting good at this stuff.

But the fact is, no matter how subtle your detection science is, once you've found something, you've still got to dig it up. And with the vast capital investment the corporates have made in the race to understand the Martians, the digging is usually done with about as much subtlety as a crew night out in Madame Mi's Wharfwh.o.r.e Warehouse. There are finds to be made and dividends to be paid, and the fact that there are-apparently-no Martians around to object to the environmental damage doesn't help. The corporates swing in, rip the locks off the vacated worlds, and stand back while the Archaeologue Guild swarm all over the fixtures. And when the primary sites have been exhausted, no one usually bothers to tidy up.

You get places like Dig 27.

Hardly the most imaginative name for a town, but there was a certain amount of accuracy in the choice. Dig 27 had sprung up around the excavation of the same name, served for fifty years as dormitory, refectory and leisure complex for the archaeologue workforce, and was now in steep decline as the seams of xenoculture ore panned out to the dregs. The original dighead was a gaunt centipedal skeleton, straddling the skyline on stilled retrieval belts and awkwardly bent support struts as we flew in from the east. The town started beneath the drooping tail of the structure and spread from it in sporadic and uncertain clumps like an unenthusiastic concrete fungus. Buildings rarely heaved themselves above five storeys, and many of those that had were rather obviously derelict, as if the effort of upward growth had exhausted them beyond the ability to sustain internal life.

Schneider banked around the skull end of the stalled dighead, flattened out and floated down towards a piece of wasteground between three listing pylons which presumably delineated Dig 27's landing field. Dust boiled up from the badly kept ferrocrete as we hovered and I saw jagged cracks blown naked by our landing brakes. Over the comset, a senile navigation beacon husked a request for identification. Schneider ignored it, knocked over the primaries and climbed from his seat with a yawn.

"End of the line, folks. Everybody out."