A woman and two teenage boys were hunched over a zinc bar. The woman was finishing some soup, spooning green liquid carefully into her mouth. A hood hid her face. She was clearly a deep spacer. Her right arm had been held at Customs House, leaving only a bright metal socket attached to her shoulder. A long cloak covered the rest of her. Her crutch was leaning against the bar. Jack wondered if they’d also confiscated one of her legs. Sandal’s officials must have reasserted a Pantheon limited tech use licence. Such licences no longer applied in the Totality-controlled regions of the Solar System. Jack wondered if she’d be able to replace her limbs when she returned home.
[ They strip the limbs from good honest working folk. Shocking!]
[ That’s the Pantheon for you. You never own anything. You just license it from them.]
The two teens displayed Grey logos, carefully stitched into bandanas. One went to cover his up. The other glanced at Jack. ‘It’s OK, he’s not InSec.’
[ Your old boss still has some supporters. Impressive pair!]
‘I want food. Something hot and quick,’ said Jack, taking a seat at the bar. ‘And I’m looking for a hotel. And a friend.’
‘You can see the menu. And do I look like a search engine?’ the barman snapped back.
‘I’m not onweave.’ Now Jack had his attention. ‘I’ve only just arrived on Station. Sandal certified me safe.’
‘There’s a hotel a couple of streets away, left then right. But if you’re not onweave you can’t pay for a room. Or food. Not that you’d taste it anyway.’
‘I’ve got money.’ Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash card.
‘That’s InSec. The kids were right. You are police.’
There was a muttered ‘shit’ from the teenage boys.
‘No,’ replied Jack. ‘Not any more.’
‘You’re on parole, aren’t you?’ asked one of the teens.
‘Worse than you fucks, chasing your traitor god,’ the barman told him.
‘Oi, watch it – they never proved anything.’ The teen’s friend hushed him.
‘Kingdom believed Grey was knowingly helping terrorists, East reported it all, that’s enough for me,’ replied the barman. ‘And you’ – turning back to Jack – ‘you can get out. I don’t know what you’ve done, but if it’s enough to get you offweaved I don’t want you in here.’
One of the teens whispered, ‘Probably a skinner. Coming down hard on them just now.’
As Jack left he heard the barman say ‘scum’.
[ I’ll have him for every shilling he’s ever earned. I’ll mail pictures of him screwing a six-year-old to everyone he’s ever met. By this time tomorrow they’ll have thrown him out of his life and he’ll be begging on the fucking streets,] whispered Fist, his thin, high voice a malevolent whip cracking inside Jack’s head.
[ No you won’t,] Jack thought back. [ You’ll remember what would happen if you got caught and you’ll do what I tell you.]
[ Yes, that’s always worked out so well for us, hasn’t it?]
[ Fuck you, Fist.]
Chapter 3
The hotel was easy to find. A half-broken sign spat sparks at the night every time a raindrop hit it.
[ Very vintage. Andrea loves this sort of thing, doesn’t she? Shame you’ll probably never get her here. Could be quite the love den.]
[Don’t be so sure, Fist.]
[ Remember all that counselling you did when we found out I’d be taking over? What was that thing they said was so bad? Ah yes. Denial.]
The door refused to open. Jack barged it with his shoulder and it flew back. A bell jangled too loudly. The reception area was dimly lit. A plastic counter pretended to be wood. At first Jack thought that the desk clerk was a young man, but when he got closer he saw that age had carved lines in his face. There was something very boyish about his greeting, though.
‘Oo, hello! Dear me, you’re soaked. We’ll get you a room nice and quickly.’
He stood up, swaying slightly. There was a sharp herbal scent in the air. Jack recognised Docklands gin. He’d not tasted alcohol for seven years. He’d forgotten how it could slur words, make a hand shake as it sketched patterns in the empty air.
[ You should get some and celebrate being home.]
[ No distractions, Fist. Especially not cheap shit like that. We’re here to find Andrea.]
‘Single room?’ asked the clerk, unaware of their conversation. ‘Staying how long?’
‘A few weeks.’
Fist laughed. Jack thought of glass breaking in darkness. The clerk waved a hand, confirming the booking.
‘I need a deposit. Just mesh with our server.’
‘I’ll pay with this,’ said Jack. He slapped the InSec card on the plastic countertop. ‘Is that a problem?’
The clerk looked at Jack, then back at the card, then at Jack again. ‘Well, I should be worried. But it’s a simply horrid night. And I’m sure you can’t have done anything too bad. I can trust you, can’t I? You won’t let me down, will you?’ He fumbled uncertainly in the air for a few seconds. Somewhere in the distance a buzzer rang. He sat down heavily, then reached for a glass and swigged transparent liquid. ‘The Twins would want me to,’ he muttered, to himself as much as to Jack.
[Old soak,] said Fist.
[ If he wasn’t so smashed, he probably wouldn’t be giving us the room.]
‘You know,’ slurred the clerk, ‘for a bit extra you can even have a view of the stars. And it’s not as if it’s your money you’re spending, is it?’ He giggled hysterically. Jack nodded. The clerk made a swooping gesture, nearly losing his balance. ‘That’s all done for you then. I’ll call the porter to show you to your room. I’m Charles, by the way.’
‘One more thing. Can you find a friend for me? She’s a singer, there should be gig listings.’
‘Can’t you just message her?’
‘I want to surprise her.’
‘Aha!’ Charles put a finger to his nose and winked heavily. ‘I see.’ But he couldn’t find any trace of Andrea. ‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. Fist giggled. ‘And here’s our porter.’
An old man prowled into reception. His face was as battered as a mined-out asteroid. He had a hunchbacked stance to match. He didn’t offer to take Jack’s suitcase. Jack followed him out of the reception area through a door that was little more than a hole hacked in an iron wall. ‘Sweet dreams,’ Charles called after them. Then: ‘Mr Forster’s not onweave.’ The porter grunted in surprise.
[Pisshead,] grumbled Jack. [ He probably spelt her name wrong. Or just didn’t see it when it came up.]
They moved down a long corridor. Broken candelabras hung from the ceiling over a once-red carpet that reeked of mildew. There was an ornate elevator that looked like a cage, its bars encrusted with broken circuit boards. Jack made out a tattered Twins logo. Between them, they were responsible for everything from medical services and pharmaceuticals to food production and every kind of accommodation. They probably hadn’t given any thought to this place for a very long time.
‘Not working. Through here,’ spat the porter, indicating a door marked S RVI E.
Jack followed him down several flights of stairs. Even in the Wound, having a room with a view meant descending far into Station’s crust. Metal steps clanked beneath the two men. A stream of water hissed down the middle of the stairwell, splashing them.
‘So what did they take you offweave for?’ asked the porter. ‘You can tell me, I won’t let on.’ Jack didn’t reply. ‘Go on, I won’t peach. I’m one of Kingdom’s, we always keep mum. What’s it like?’
They were soon at the door to Jack’s room. There was another Twins logo on it, cheap blue plastic showing through scuffed gold leaf. The porter pushed against it. After a moment’s wait it recognised his touch and opened.
The room’s windowless walls were grey. A few niches contained soft lights. Most were dark, bulbs gone and not replaced. A double bed squatted in one corner, a desk in another. There was a cupboard without any doors. A generic altar hung on one wall, ready to hardlink each new guest to their particular deity. The room was at least spacious. Jack put down his suitcase.