Corvus Page 13

  'Quarsh?' At Zach's nod, Lev says, 'It's native to a high-mass, slightly warmer world than yours.'

  'Don't you reckon it's time you finally explain who you are? Or is there some magic number of times I've got to ask?'

  Perhaps their isolation—their forced intimacy—induces Lev to answer. Or perhaps he too is simply lonely and needs to speak.

  'A facilitator of sorts, I suppose you'd call me.'

  Zach laughs. 'I wouldn't, I hate their psychospeak.'

  'Nothing to do with Fulgur, and it does fit, but if you prefer, think of me as a gatekeeper.'

  'To where?'

  'You wouldn't believe me—not yet.'

  'I'm starting to think I'd believe anything of you.'

  'Is that a vote of confidence or condemnation?'

  Zach shifts inside his sleeping bag, then unzips it partway. The tent is so warm that he's beginning to sweat.

  'Why don't you just tell me?' Zach asks, though not belligerently. At this rate he'd soon qualify for the diplomatic corps, he thinks wryly. Not that they accept any of his kind.

  'Your kind isn't all that different from those you despise.'

  Zach shoots him a startled look. 'You can read my thoughts.'

  'Only a few of the stray surface ones. And only because you're a cognoscens. The sapiens neural network is too rudimentary.'

  'Then don't lump us together with the fucking croakers.'

  Lev leans forward and throws a handful of herbs into the boiling kettle, then lowers the power source on the stove. In the dim light his face is shadowed, and weary. Silently he completes a few housekeeping tasks, then without embarrassment hands Zach a squat wide-mouthed plastic jar with a screw-top, not much smaller than the canteen size used for pickles or ketchup. 'To relieve yourself.' Only one of the dogs pricks its ears as he pours two mugs of herbal tea. 'Drink it hot, it'll help you to sleep. I want to get an early start.' He avails himself of a second jar, climbs into his own sleeping bag, and douses the light. 'Goodnight,' he says without much warmth.

  'Look, can you blame me?' Zach asks. 'They treat us like crap. And remember what Chloe did to me.'

  For a while Zach waits for a response, then gives up and drinks his tea, settles into a comfortable position, and is just drifting off to sleep when Lev's voice jerks him back. 'You don't understand about Chloe and Ethan.'

  'What's to understand? Two twisted minds who deserve a life sentence, not rehabilitation.'

  'Yeah, well, you've got your wish.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  Several dogs stir at his sharp tone. From the way Lev turns his head to regard them in the residual glimmer from the stove, murmuring reassurance, his eyesight must be at least as acute as Zach's own.

  'Chloe and Ethan are prisoners here. They can't return, because there's nothing to return to.'

  'Nonsense. It's only a temporary upload.'

  'That's where you're wrong. Fulgur has been systematically destroying experimental subjects to test the viability of memory and personality in a virtual environment.'

  Bella, who seems to have taken a liking to Zach, presses closer, lays a paw on his chest, and licks the side of his jaw. His skin prickles at the rough sensation.

  Can it be true? Maybe all business moguls are megalomaniacs, but Randall's in a class of his own. Damn the lying, murdering bastard! With little reason to care about the fate of the offenders—of sapiens altogether—Zach doesn't fancy himself an assassin, even at a twofold remove. Though one tidy bullet to Randall's temple . . . No wonder Fabio hates to be associated with Fulgur. Once again he's seen it coming: 'Whoever owns the Fulgrid, owns the future.' But he, Zach, is through with all that. Let someone else fight the good fight, let someone else take back what rightly belongs to the simus, let someone else break himself (and those he cares about) trying to break the Fulgur monopoly on the interface. Let someone else be the fucking hero.

  'Immortality?' he finally asks.

  'Consciousness is far too complex to be replicated like a gene. Chloe has already begun to deteriorate. Hence her actions.'

  'But Chloe's only—actually, no matter what it feels like, every person, every sneeze or breath of wind, every last snowflake here is only a sequence of encoded binary bits. Why should they degenerate? Is it the programming? Or is there something wrong with the grid itself?'

  'No, in fact the hardware is surprisingly sophisticated for your stage of development, but there are certain fundamental principles your physicists have yet to discover.' Lev hesitates, as though debating whether to continue. 'The relevant equations are at least a century in the future, though of course sudden breakthroughs are always possible. Nobody expected Fulgur to develop the neuro-interface quite so fast.'

  'OK, suppose I accept, at least as a working hypothesis, that you're from some other world. It doesn't take a genius to figure out our science would seem primitive to you. What fundamental principles? You still haven't explained the problem with the simulations.'

  'That is the problem. They're not simulations, not in the sense you mean, anyway.'

  'You keep hinting that this place is real, but that's absurd!'

  'Is it? You know, it's your arrogance most of all which betrays your close kinship with those you dismiss as monkeys.'

  The wind buffets the shell of the tent, so that it seems to lift and float for a moment, while its mooring lines groan against the snowflukes anchoring it in place. Then it sinks again.

  'Ethan seems OK,' Zach says.

  'For now. But degeneration is inevitable.'

  Zach's heart is beating so loudly that Lev must hear. 'And Laura?'

  In the dark Lev reaches out, fumbles for Zach's shoulder, and squeezes gently. 'Yeah. Laura too, I'm afraid.'

  The smell of wet dog is very pungent. It brings tears to Zach's eyes.

  Chapter 19

  Andy comes off the court with sweat soaking his torn vest. The corporate gyms have become a favourite venue, particularly with younger employees. None of the techs wears top-of-the-line gear, though they could easily afford it, and Andy's ancient sneakers stink.

  'Way to go,' Fabio says, slapping Andy on the back. 'Last hoop was pure gold, we'll make a baller out of you yet.'

  With intense green eyes, earring, and shoulder-length hair, Fabio doesn't look to fit the Fulgur culture. He grew up in Rio, his stubborn streak showing itself early on—no football for him. Claims his mum gave birth to him on a court between games. After a couple of lagers, he's been known to admit he could have played pro ball. But he's one of Fulgur's star execs-in-training, who bashes out directives even faster than a rim-buster.

  Andy glances round to make sure they won't be overheard, then draws Fabio towards a bench at the far wall.

  'Something's worrying me,' Andy says.

  'If it's about that crazy bitch, tell her to—'

  'She's no problem.' Again Andy checks the gym. The others have already headed for the showers. 'But if anyone asks, that's what we were talking about.'

  Fabio's eyebrows shoot upwards like a sweet singin' jump shot. Though Andy is smiling, the expression in his eyes comes straight from the favelas. Fabio wipes his forehead with the flat of his hand, then settles himself on the bench. Andy sits down next to him, and they both slump forwards, propping their forearms on their knees and staring at the floor between wide-planted feet as if they're too wrecked to move.

  'So talk about her,' Fabio says.

  'They don't wire the gym, do they?'

  'Man, you're one jumpy dude.' But with a half-smile he lifts his left hand and directs a few words in Portuguese at his wrister, which beeps two tones in sequence, an octave apart. 'That'll run any interference we need.'

  'You've got a matilda?'

  'Yeah. Anyone listening in is going to get an earful of some great Brazilian choro. Ragtime meets samba.' Fabio sees incredulity lingering on Andy's face. 'Where I grew up, you learn to watch your back and be prepared.'

  A story no one would believe, Fabio least of all.
Possession of such a device is so rare—and so suggestive—that to reveal its existence is a sign of real trust: Andy makes a fist and punches his friend lightly on a sculpted bicep.

  'The next bottle is on me,' Andy says.

  'Damn right. Now talk.'

  Like any good professional, Andy keeps his comments brief and succinct: the problem with Zach's run yesterday, Litchfield's reaction, Andy's own fears. He ends by adding, 'I've tried to abort the run on my own, but it hasn't worked.'

  'I hope you've got a lot of gigs lined up. You're looking to get fired. And blackballed.'

  'Fabio, I can't just ignore it. By rights we ought to be bringing in some other top brains, Jakobi in Sweden, Gao, Hill maybe.'

  'That serious?'

  'I think so.'

  No one who has ever worked with Andy doubts his instincts, which border on the uncanny—some say clairvoyant. Fabio's current assignment is Human Resources, it's his job to know. Andy will be believed if this gets round. He's no Mateus, of course, but they share something of the same hot-headedness. Slade's a fool not to manage his division better. And as for Litchfield . . . just how much has he told his best tech?

  'It might not be a malfunction,' Fabio says.

  'Look, I'd like to be wrong but—'

  'Not wrong like that.' Fabio removes his sweatband, tugs off his trademark black velvet scrunchie, and runs a hand through his hair several times—an uncharacteristic gesture—before securing it again. 'Wrong about the grounds for a so-called malfunction. If you hung around more with your workmates instead of playing that infernal bass,'—he ducks—'then you'd have heard some of the rumours.'

  'Such as?'

  'Such as Litchfield would happily dispose of Zach.'

  'Nonsense.'

  'Word has it there was something between him and Litchfield's daughter.'

  Andy glances sidelong at his friend. That note of diffidence—it's too studied. Too much like a feint; or bait. Good ballers are terrific at bluffing. And he's heard rumours that Fabio was present at the old Rex that night; that he and Zach were more than just political allies.

  'What else is new?' Andy says in his best mates-only voice. 'You know how it is, the simus are exotic. You've only got to watch Zach walk into the canteen. Every girl, hell every woman, in the place secretly—or openly—eyes him. Some of the blokes too.'

  Fabio is quiet for a moment. He twists the heavy gold armband which once belonged to Mateus back and forth on his left wrist before slipping a finger underneath to rub his skin.

  'Zach's a friend, that's all,' he says. 'The thing between Laura and him, it was complicated. And I reckon you and I both know it.'

  Andy gestures towards Fabio's matilda. 'You're positive that gadget is working?'

  'It's working.'

  'OK,' Andy says, making up his mind without recourse to his usual knuckle cracking. 'There's something I haven't told you. Litchfield's running an unauthorised upload with Zach's help.'

  Fabio whistles softly. Andy would expect him to be astonished. 'Man, you lot are some crazy dudes.'

  Andy reaches over and taps the matilda with a forefinger. 'You're Insec, aren't you?'

  'Don't worry about me. Worry about yourselves.'

  'Litchfield's worried, all right, but even if he could, he wouldn't abort the run.'

  'You know as well as I do that if he's endangering Zach, I'm not about to climb into my rainbow-striped hammock for a hundred-year wank. Isn't that why you've come to me? The situation is dead precarious. Not only is Zach one of the best, he's the most visible. No one can afford a martyr—not now, not with so much unrest and instability. Fulgur least of all.'

  'Litchfield's dropped his nuts right into a steel nutcracker. He doesn't want to jeopardise the run—or lose Zach—but he can't get help without the whole thing blowing up in his face.'

  'Litchfield's an idiot. A smart idiot, maybe even a brilliant idiot, but an idiot all the same. I'll do what I can to cover for you, but if it's a choice between—'

  'Mateus died horribly, didn't he? Your brother?'

  'What the fuck has that got to do with anything?'

  'Then you'll understand how Litchfield feels about his daughter. And Zach about Laura.' Andy doesn't bother to spell it out, there's nothing sluggish about Fabio's grey matter. 'And why I agreed to go along with the whole scheme.'

  'Jesus F. Christ. You're saying—' A reputation has its uses. Fabio breaks off and gets to his feet, snatches up the rock and dribbles a couple of hard ones, stops at the sound of voices from the shower room, hooks the ball with a loud thud against the nearby wall. 'Look, I've got to get back to my desk.'

  Fabio's cool legendary, Andy rises and watches the ball run out of steam before asking, 'But you'll help me?'

  A flourish. 'Just call me Esu.'

  'Who?'

  'The Brazilian trickster god.'

  Andy snorts. 'Talk to Litchfield. He won't heed me, but you might be able to get him to come clean. And if you've got the clout I think you do'—Fabio holds up a hand, fingers outstretched as if to field a foul—'that I'm certain you do, get Randall to give Litchfield some sort of assurance. Nobody here understands the Fulgrid like Litchfield, and crucifying him will only make it much more difficult to rescue Zach.' His smile is wry. 'Besides, Litchfield's family has still got to eat.'

  But Fabio has no intention of rescuing Zach, who is exactly where he needs to be.

  *****

  Andy's band was in the middle of its second set when Olivia nudged Laura, sloshing her coke. 'Don't look now, but look who's just come in.' A little slurred, Olivia's voice betrayed that she and Damien had been adding liberally to their glasses from a concealed bottle. Thea's Jazz Club served no alcohol, one of the reasons it had been granted a rare lowered age-restrictions licence. The other, widely known, was Thea's family connections to the City Council. The small basement club was always crowded, even in the worst weather.

  'About time he's shagging one of his own kind,' Damien said.

  Melting snow glistened in Zach's hair. Laura watched him shake his head so that a shower of fine droplets spangled his date's face. The girl laughed, and Laura watched him wipe her cheeks and forehead with a gloved hand before helping her to remove her jacket. As he unbuttoned his own honey-coloured sheepskin, he turned towards the small stage and caught sight of Laura: she was sure of it, though he gave no sign.

  'They make a gorgeous couple,' Olivia said rather slyly. 'Anyone know who she is?'

  The girl was tall, with a creamy complexion and features that were modelled for a name like Jade or Candace or Giselle. A draught of icy air must have entered with them; Laura crossed her arms over her chest. Hair that colour ought to be outlawed.

  'No idea, but I wouldn't mind a couple of hours alone with her,' Derek said with a crude gesture. He was between girls. Again. 'Man, you can see her nipples.'

  Olivia giggled, then gave him a friendly shove. 'It's the cold, you dope.'

  Tim looked belligerent. 'I don't care how big her tits are. Augers shouldn't be allowed in here.' He drained his glass, belched, and pushed back his chair. 'I'm going to complain.'

  'Won't get you far at Thea's,' Owen observed, his eyes on Laura. 'The only free table's off behind a pillar, anyway. You won't even have to see them.'

  But Owen hadn't reckoned on Andy, who took the lead in more than just bass. Playing two-handed like a pianist by tapping the strings to the fret, he finished a daring contrapuntal attack, then eased off to let his drummer ride the sax into an edgy, almost discordant riff. Even before the final notes were crushed beneath enthusiastic applause, beneath stamping feet and calls for 'more, more', Andy had unslung his bass and bounded off the stage to greet Zach. In no time coats had been carried off by a waiter and a table near the front organised, uncomfortably close to where Laura and her mates were seated. After wiping a trace of lipstick from Zach's mouth with a tissue from her bag, his girl settled into place, seemingly oblivious to the stares and whispers. A good act, Laura thought sou
rly. Deep in conversation with Andy, Zach passed within touching distance en route to the musicians. It was only when the saxophonist handed him a clarinet that she realised what was happening. Was he doing this deliberately to taunt her?

  Laura erected a small tower of pretzels, then flicked them over and rebuilt them as Andy introduced Zach. For a moment she was apprehensive he'd brandish the klezmer song from the cave, but Zach was far too subtle for such displays. Instead he chose a classic Sam Cooke ballad, A Change Is Gonna Come.

  From the first note Zach shed his usual cool diffidence, though he began softly, almost inaudibly, so that the audience was forced to strain for the melodic line. After a few bars he had them: when Olivia muttered 'wow, he's good', heads turned to glare at her. The keyboard, the bass, the drums—something was happening here that, just like a river, ran swift and hard and true, a floodwater of sound which swept the clubbers from their moorings, from their skins with raw and implacable power. The clarinet sang as though Aretha herself had dropped by to remind them what had changed, what had never changed. A long time coming.

  There was no clapping. In the silence a blue spot anchored on Zach, whose head was bowed. He was breathing hard, as hard as a diver coming up for air. Laura stared down at her glass. That he didn't try to hide the guttural sound—this was as shocking, and nearly as riveting, as his music. Despite her struggle to resist, to break free, the line between them held: both lifted their heads as one, and their eyes locked.

  After a short pause Zach played once more, but by this time Laura had made her way to the ladies'. She bathed her face with cool water, then shut herself in a cubicle and rested her head on arms folded across her knees. Dry-eyed, she tried to work out how long she could remain here before Owen sent Olivia on a search-and-rescue mission. Ten minutes, maybe. Fifteen at most. She read the graffiti.

  The door swung open, and Laura waited for her name to be called. Footsteps approached the basins, though no sound of running water followed. Not much sound at all. A brush and lipstick job, then. Laura put an eye to the gap, but the angle was wrong. Only one way to see, but if she got down on her knees, she could imagine the woman's reaction. Again Laura read the graffiti, now wishing she had a black marker to add a few caustic lines of her own.