The upper levels of the Hendrix were in darkness relieved only by the occasional glow of dying illuminum tiles, but the hotel obligingly lit my way with neon tubes that flickered on in my path and died out again behind me. It was a weird effect, making me feel as if I was carrying a candle or torch.
“You have a visitor,” the hotel said chattily as I got into the elevator and the doors whirred closed.
I slammed my hand against the emergency stop button, raw flesh stinging where I’d skinned my palm. “What?”
“You have a visi—”
“Yeah, I heard.” It occurred to me, briefly, to wonder if the AI could take offence at my tone. “Who is it, and where are they?”
“She identifies herself as Miriam Bancroft. Subsequent search of the city archives has confirmed sleeve identity. I have allowed her to wait in your room, since she is unarmed and you left nothing of consequence there this morning. Aside from refreshment, she has touched nothing.”
Feeling my temper rising, I found focus on a small dent in the metal of the elevator door and made an attempt at calm.
“This is interesting. Do you make arbitrary decisions like this for all your guests?”
“Miriam Bancroft is the wife of Laurens Bancroft,” said the hotel reproachfully. “Who in turn is paying for your room. Under the circumstances, I thought it wise not to create unnecessary tensions.”
I looked up at the ceiling of the elevator.
“You been checking up on me?”
“A background check is part of the contract I operate under. Any information retained is wholly confidential, unless subpoenaed under UN directive 231.4.”
“Yeah? So what else you know?”
“Lieutenant Takeshi Lev Kovacs,” said the hotel. “Also known as Mamba Lev, One Hand Rending, the Icepick, born Newpest, Harlan’s World 35th May 187, colonial reckoning. Recruited to UN Protectorate forces 11th September 204, selected for Envoy Corps enhancement 31st June 211 during routine screening—”
“All right.” Inwardly I was a little surprised at how deep the AI had got. Most people’s records dry up as soon as the trace goes offworld. Interstellar needlecasts are expensive. Unless the Hendrix had just broken into Warden Sullivan’s records, which was illegal. Ortega’s comment about the hotel’s previous charge sheet drifted back to me. What kind of crimes did an AI commit anyway?
“It also occurred to me that Mrs. Bancroft is probably here in connection with the matter of her husband’s death, which you are investigating. I thought you would prefer to speak to her if possible, and she was not amenable to waiting in the lobby.”
I sighed, and unpinned my hand from the elevator’s stop button.
“No, I bet she wasn’t.”
She was seated in the window, nursing a tall, ice-filled glass and watching the lights of the traffic below. The room was in darkness broken only by the soft glow of the service hatch and the tricoloured neon-frame drinks cabinet. Enough to see that she wore some kind of shawl over work trousers and a body-moulded leotard. She didn’t turn her head when I let myself in, so I advanced across the room into her field of vision.
“The hotel told me you were here,” I said. “In case you were wondering why I didn’t unsleeve myself in shock.”
She looked up at me and shook hair back from her face
“Very dry, Mr. Kovacs. Should I applaud?”
I shrugged. “You might say thank you for the drink.”
She examined the top of her glass thoughtfully for a moment, then flicked her eyes up again.
“Thank you for the drink.”
“Don’t mention it.” I went to the cabinet and surveyed the bottles racked there. A bottle of fifteen-year-old single malt suggested itself. I uncorked it, sniffed at the neck of the bottle and picked out a tumbler. Keeping my eyes on my hands as they poured, I said,“Have you been waiting long?”
“About an hour. Oumou Prescott told me you’d gone to Licktown, so I guessed you’d be back late. Did you have some trouble?”
I held onto the first of mouthful of whisky, felt it sear the internal cuts where Kadmin had put the boot in and swallowed hastily. I grimaced.
“Now why would you think that, Mrs. Bancroft?”
She made an elegant gesture with one hand. “No reason. Do you not want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” I sank into a huge lounger bag at the foot of the crimson bed and sat staring across the room at her. Silence descended. From where I was sitting she was backlit by the window and her face was deep in shadow. I kept my eyes levelled on the faint gleam that might have been her left eye. After a while she shifted in her seat and the ice in her glass clicked.
“Well.” She cleared her throat. “What would you like to talk about?”
I waved my glass at her. “Let’s start with why you’re here.”
“I want to know what progress you’ve made.”
“You can get a progress report from me tomorrow morning. I’ll file one with Oumou Prescott before I go out. Come on, Mrs. Bancroft. It’s late. You can do better than that.”
For a moment I thought she might leave, the way she twitched. But then she took her glass in both hands, bent her head over it as if in search of inspiration and after a long moment looked up again.
“I want you to stop,” she said.
I let the words sink into the darkened room.
“Why?”
I saw her lips part in the smile, heard the sound her mouth made as it split.
“Why not?” she said.
“Well.” I sipped at my drink, sluicing the alcohol around the cuts in my mouth to shut down my hormones. “To begin with, there’s your husband. He’s made it pretty clear that cutting and running could seriously damage my health, Then there’s the hundred thousand dollars. And after that, well, then we get into the ethereal realm of things like promises and my word. And to be honest, I’m curious.”
“A hundred thousand isn’t so much money,” she said carefully. “And the Protectorate is big. I could give you the money. Find a place for you to go where Laurens would never find you.”
“Yes. That leaves my word, and my curiosity.”
She sat forward over her drink. “Let’s not pretend, Mr. Kovacs. Laurens didn’t contract you, he dragged you here. He locked you into a deal you had no choice but to accept. No one could say you were honour bound.”
“I’m still curious.”
“Maybe I could satisfy that,” she said softly.
I swallowed more whisky. “Yeah? Did you kill your husband, Mrs. Bancroft?”
She made an impatient gesture. “I’m not talking about your game of detectives. You are … curious about other things, are you not?”
“I’m sorry?” I looked at her over the rim of my glass.
Miriam Bancroft pushed herself off the window shelf and set her hips against it. She set down the glass with exaggerated care and leaned back on her hands so that her shoulders lifted. It changed the shape of her breasts, moving them beneath the sheer material of her leotard.
“Do you know what Merge Nine is?” she asked, a little unsteadily.
“Empathin?” I dug the name out from somewhere. Some thoroughly armed robbery crew I knew back on Harlan’s World, friends of Virginia Vidaura’s. The Little Blue Bugs. They did all their work on Merge Nine. Said it welded them into a tighter team. Bunch of fucking psychos.
“Yes, empathin. Empathin derivatives, tailed with Satyron and Ghedin enhancers. This sleeve…” She gestured down at herself, spread fingers brushing the curves. “This is state-of-the-art biochemtech, out of the Nakamura Labs. I secrete Merge Nine, when … aroused. In my sweat, in my saliva, in my cunt, Mr. Kovacs.”