Jack arrived at Access station early the next day. Clustered hordes of rush-hour travellers pushed and shoved around him, flowing relentlessly into train after train. The commuter noise broke over Jack in waves: the rumble of a thousand footsteps, the swish and rustle of a crowd’s worth of clothing, the harried whispers of people throwing words into the weave, the muttering of on-platform conversations. Every couple of minutes another train would pull in, ready to take passengers along the mainline, through the Wart and into Docklands. The surge towards each one pulled Jack across the platform. Worried that he might be pulled on to a train, he found a quieter spot at the end of the platform. Even there the crowds were packed tight.
Fist manifested above their heads, alternately drifting away to laugh at ‘the lumpen proletariat’ or floating back to Jack to complain. [ This is a dangerous waste of time.] There was a light breeze blowing across the platform. Fist pretended that it had caught him, and drifted with it. It pulled him away from Jack. [ Waste of time, waste of time, waste of time,] he chanted as he went. Jack ignored him, scanning the crowd for Nihal. The skinner’s doughy, nondescript face was topped with thin strands of combed-over hair, and sat on a pudgy little body. In all the pictures, he wore a slightly battered, light grey suit, without any sigils.
‘That should make him easier to spot,’ said Harry.
‘It’s a bit of an affectation, isn’t it?’
‘He games the weave professionally. He knows how worthless it all is.’
As eight thirty approached, the crowds started to thin out. The platform was still crowded, but the commuters didn’t have to struggle so hard to board each train. Two station workers appeared with a ladder. One of them climbed up to a camera nest, pulled out a spanner, and started tinkering with the cameras, while the other held her steady. ‘Tell them five minutes,’ she shouted down, ‘Rose willing.’ Her colleague shrugged. Jack looked for Fist. The puppet had been running through the crowd, occasionally shouting with frustration as his cageware stopped him from touching people. Now, he’d vanished.
Then, Jack caught sight of Nihal. He spotted the battered grey suit first, then the round face. The skinner was a little sweaty, a little out of breath – an apparently insignificant man, running to make up time, heading for an office where someone would grumble about him being late again.
Watching him take up his position on the platform, Jack marvelled at the acuity of his disguise. One of the most powerful technical adepts in Docklands, someone capable of weave manipulation feats that maybe only a dozen others across the whole system could duplicate, was carefully defining himself as a nobody. His skills, Jack realised, weren’t just technical. They were rooted in a deep understanding of how people choose to present themselves, of what’s read into that presentation.
Then Fist’s voice hissed in Jack’s ear: [ The cameras are out. I don’t like it.]
[ You’re being paranoid. I’m going to talk to him.] Jack pushed through the crowd towards his target. He and Harry had carefully considered how best to greet the Skinner. ‘Shake him up a bit, but not too much,’ Harry had said. ‘Let him know that we’re on to him, that we’re looking for information, but that if he gives it to us he’ll be OK.’ Jack closed in on his target. ‘If he acts nervous, mention my name. He used to work for me, back in the day.’ Jack was almost on Nihal, thrilled with the thought that his investigation might at last be about to take a firm, unambiguous step forwards.
And then two small hands covered his eyes and a thin voice shouted in his ear.
[ I’m not letting you do this!]
[ What are you playing at, Fist?]
[ This stops now.]
[Let go!]
Distracted, Jack stumbled and nearly fell, knocking into someone as he did so. There was a yelp of surprise. Someone swore, someone else half-whispered ‘Fucking sweathead,’ and Jack felt another commuter pushing hard against his back. He collapsed to his knees, reaching up and over his head to pull at Fist, too disorientated by the unexpectedness of his attack to banish him. ‘You’re not going to screw this up,’ he yelled, forgetting to talk in his mind only, and then he’d pulled Fist away from his eyes.
Unreal fingers left imagined scratches in his face. The subdermal processors that allowed him to interact with Fist’s virtual presence mimicked sharp pain. ‘You little shit!’ he shouted, throwing Fist down on to the platform and muffling his screaming mouth with a hand. The puppet went limp and Jack looked up. A small circle of space had opened up around him. Commuters looked away, weaveselves already programmed to block him out completely. Only Nihal was staring him, an expression of shocked recognition on his face. He took one step back, then another, as Jack pulled Fist back into his mind and stood up. The puppet screamed abuse from the depths of his head.
‘You’re not a sweathead,’ stuttered Nihal. ‘You’re a puppeteer.’
‘That’s right. And I’ve come to talk to you.’
A small circle of space opened up around Nihal, as other people’s personal weavesystems recognised that he was interacting with an invisible and shut his presence out too. He took another step back.
‘They warned me you might come.’
Jack had imagined that he would carefully manage the meeting, but that was impossible now. ‘We just need some information.’
‘You’re not onweave and your puppet’s caged. There’s no way you could have found me on your own. Someone sent you. Who?’ Panic fluttered through Nihal’s voice. Jack was impressed that he’d deduced Fist’s presence so quickly. He needed to calm him. ‘I’m a friend of Harry Devlin’s.’
He’d expected puzzlement, perhaps surprise, but not naked fear. Nihal stifled something that could have been a scream. His face refreshed to white. He turned and fled through the crowd, bouncing commuters out of his way as he cannoned through them. ‘No, wait,’ shouted Jack, but it was too late. Nihal was halfway down the platform, heading for the exit. Jack took off after him. Nihal’s flight had opened a path between the commuters. Weaveware anticipated Jack’s rush through it and kept it open, ensuring that nobody would be run into a second time. There was the distant whine of an InSec flyer. Automatically summoned, it would be here in moments.
‘Fuck,’ said Jack again.
[DON’T GO AFTER HIM, YOU STUPID BASTARD!]
Jack skidded to the top of the exit stairway as Nihal reached the bottom, the tails of his jacket flying up around him as he leapt down the last of the stairs. He looked back, panting with exertion, sweat glossing his forehead, and swore. He swore again as he saw that the exit gates had switched to emergency lock mode, then disappeared through an arch opposite them. Jack took the stairs two, three at a time before skidding through the archway himself. He was on another platform. This one was almost empty.
[ YOU’LL JUST GET US LOCKED UP! GET OUT OF HERE!] yelled Fist. Then, a little quieter: [ InSec’ll be in here, Nihal’ll be out of here, and you’ll look like a fucking idiot.]
[Shut the fuck up.]
Dim yellow light illuminated Nihal running towards the far end of the platform. There were only a few people on it. All seemed oblivious to the two men. ‘I just need to talk!’ Jack shouted. Nihal reached a door in the wall. He tugged on it, but it didn’t open. Beyond him was the end of the platform. Past a low barrier, steps ran down into the darkness. The void began to fill with the rumble of an approaching train. Nihal stepped back from the door, looking uncertainly at Jack then round at the steps. The lights of the oncoming train rattled closer beyond them.
‘I only want some information,’ Jack called out, now walking towards Nihal. He had his arms out and his palms open, to show that he was unarmed. Fist grabbed the soft parts of his mind and pain raged through them. Jack doubled over, clutching his head and swearing.
‘You can’t even control your puppet. You don’t know what it’s capable of.’