Jack shuddered. He didn’t want to let Fist know he was aware of this jarring moment of triumph. He pretended to grunt and then rolled over, so at least he didn’t have to see any more of it. He reminded himself that there was no escaping Fist, that the only alternative to working so hard to have a tolerable relationship with him was dark and painful, and would break the possibility of finding any sort of peace before the end came. And of course the puppet was a powerful tool. Jack needed his full cooperation if he was to have any chance of finding out who’d killed Andrea and Harry, and forced him into exile.
At last, sleep took him, but Fist’s glossy wooden face haunted his dreams. The puppet’s false, grinning mouth clacked out soft, determined words. ‘Soon be king’ alternated with ‘soon be mine’, the two phrases chasing Jack through the night until his alarm rang and shook him back to wakefulness. Fist was perched on the end of the bed, watching. [Quite the disturbed night,] he said, his thin voice piping against the alarm’s harsh beeping. This time Jack did snatch at him and wall him up in darkness.
He waited until late evening to set out for the Panther Czar. Docklands’ streets were pretty much deserted. Pedestrian workers had long since hustled themselves away from offices and factories. A buggy whined by, its electric motors straining at the weight of a trailer piled high with scrap metal. As he walked, Jack looked up at the Spine. He imagined Grey’s hooded raven, regretting that he wasn’t able to see it. He remembered hearing about Grey’s fall. The strange, vindictive joy that had filled him then pulsed through him once again. Perhaps soon he’d help bring down another god. He smiled to himself.
After about three quarters of an hour they reached the Panther Czar.
[So this hovelbox belongs to Pierre Ilich Akhmatov? The man who plots with the Pantheon? Fuck’s sake, Jack, if you can judge a man by his enemies you really did hit rock bottom.]
The club was just across the road from them. It was a long, low warehouse, constructed from fluorescent yellow plastic sheeting. Words had been roughly hand-painted above a single pair of red double doors: ‘Panther Czar’. Teens and twenty-somethings jostled each other in a long queue, dressed in more or less artfully ragged weavewear. Some was noticeably high quality, flagging up modish Homelanders who were self-consciously slumming it. Several smartly dressed, thick-necked gentlemen kept the peace at the doors.
[ Why didn’t you just raid the place?]
[ We were setting it up when they sent me out-system. They needed me to finish making the case for it. That was a big reason why it never happened.]
[Ooo – get you, Mr Important!]
Jack waited for another buggy to pass, then started across the road to join the queue. Fist hung in the air for a second before bouncing after him, floating along like a children’s balloon.
[Can you feel any of their core systems yet?]
[ No. We need to get closer. Where the action is!]
Fist’s voice was a gleeful, triumphant cackle. Jack wondered how far he could trust him. The little man was becoming more capricious as the change rushed towards them.
[ Joining the crowds! Partying! My kind of night!] Fist chirped. [Champagne and oysters!]
[ Remember it’s business, not pleasure.]
They joined the back of the queue. Jack wasn’t too much older than the other clubbers. Most were wasted on drink or drugs. The club’s weave presence entranced them. ‘Oh, the panthers are beautiful!’ sighed a girl just ahead, her fingers kneading invisible fur.
[ We’ve hit their security perimeter,] said Fist, suddenly more serious. A silence opened in Jack’s mind as Fist concentrated. [Let’s start by pretending we’re one of these bouncers. And ping the system for a headcount …] More silence, filled with thought. Then Fist yawned. [ This is far too easy.]
[Don’t be complacent.]
[Complacent? The only real challenge is staying awake. Anyway, there’s a couple of hundred punters in there and about twenty staff. Almost all on the ground floor and in the basement. Just one person upstairs.]
[Could be Akhmatov.]
[ Without any guards? I’m meant to be the one with the wooden head.]
[Can you get what we need from out here?]
[ No. The core commercial systems are on the first floor. They’ve kept them off the main club network. We need to be closer.]
[Makes sense. Half the kids in there would be hacking them for free drinks otherwise.]
The queue moved on. The club loomed above them, glistening dully in the spinelight glare. It was the colour of a cheap hangover. Every time the red doors opened to let more punters in, bass rhythms thumped out.
[Almost there,] said Fist. [ Not too fussy about who they let in.] Jack reached into his pocket and fingered the InSec card. [Let’s hope you don’t get recognised, Jack. Wouldn’t want you getting bounced. Protect the meat!]
Jack tried to watch the door staff without looking at them too directly. None of them were paying him any sort of attention. The camera cluster above the door glanced at him and looked away. Another minute or so, and they were through the red double doors. The bouncer didn’t want to know why he was offweave. ‘Just don’t start anything,’ he said. The girl in the ticket booth took Jack’s money without comment.
[ I told you it’d be all right,] he said casually, careful not to let Fist know just how relieved he was. [Good thing it’s not one of Akhmatov’s classier joints.]
They were in a black-painted corridor that smelt of cheap alcohol and cheaper drugs. Clubbers bustled past them and pushed through another pair of double doors. The corridor exploded with light. Music roared, higher frequency noise rounding out the simple repetitive beats they’d heard outside.
[ THAT’LL BE THE DANCEFLOOR, THEN,] screamed Fist. [ NO CHARLESTON, DAMMIT!]
[ NO NEED TO SHOUT, JUST NEEDS A BIT of dynamic recalibration. There, that’s it.]
Jack started towards the doors. A soft but definite stickiness pulled at every step.
[Akhmatov certainly doesn’t waste any money on keeping his carpets clean,] said Fist.
[ Who’s around us?] said Jack. [Any more security?]
[ No, the closest is the other side of the main dance floor. There’s some virtual muscle too, but we don’t need to worry about that.]
[And the person on the first floor?]
[ Hasn’t moved.]
[ I think it could be him. Now, let’s get close to those servers.]
The main dance floor was a ferocious transmedia vortex. Jack felt overwhelmed, and he was offweave and undrugged. An anonymity of clubbers leapt and bounced around him, gurning faces and shaking bodies blurring into one ecstatic mass. By the time he’d pushed halfway across the room he was sweating hard. Elbows hit his face and torso. Once they’d been all round the ground floor he was soaked and covered in small bruises.
[Still no joy, Fist?]
[Signal’s too weak.]
[ For fuck’s sake.]
They kept trying for about half an hour. Jack started to wonder how honest Fist was being. He remembered the previous night’s triumphant dance. Fist hadn’t seemed like someone who’d just agreed to something dangerous. Rather, he’d come across as someone celebrating the avoidance of any risk at all.
[ Fuck this,] Jack said. [ We’re not getting close enough down here. We’re going upstairs.]
Fist laughed. [ Well, I’m glad you’ve kept your sense of humour, Jack. We’ve done our best, this hasn’t worked, what a terrible shame. We should leave now.]
Jack set off for a set of stairs he’d spotted earlier. They were roped off and marked ‘Private’.