She smiled at me and then gave me a hug. ‘I know,’ she whispered. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I didn’t reciprocate. She felt me tense up and let go.
‘But this Mudgie, he didn’t have to be there?’ she asked, trying to break the awkwardness that had suddenly built up.
‘I guess,’ I said. ‘But he was one of the good guys.’
‘Who?’ Pagan said, coming back to us.
‘Any luck?’ I asked. He shrugged.
‘Depends on what you mean by luck. We can get a sled into Russia.’ Both Morag and I stared at him. Russia was effectively a huge and very dangerous criminal empire that controlled most of the black market in northern Europe. It was no surprise that Russia was a possible destination, as it was Russians, like the sub captain McShit had arranged for us, who controlled the illegal transport economy in everything from people to heavy farm machinery to the drugs made in the Dutch factories.
‘What’s your plan?’ I asked.
‘Money talks in Russia. We buy some privacy and finish work on God. You provide us with security in the real world,’ he said, leaning heavily on his staff. Pagan now had an old surplus BAE laser rifle in a scabbard secured to his back, a sidearm at his hip. He’d presumably grabbed them during the Fortunate Sons’ attack.
‘What about Mudge?’ I said, turning to Morag.
‘The journalist?’ Pagan asked.
‘You’ve heard of him?’ I asked, turning back to look at the aging hacker.
"Course. He was the journo that blew the story on them dumping the special forces vets. You know him?’ I nodded. Morag was watching me again.
‘He served with him,’ she said to Pagan.
‘Yeah? Good guy,’ he said. Mudge’s story had probably prevented a lot of special forces operators from ending up dead. ‘Wait a second.’ I saw what was coming. ‘You were Soldier A,’ he said. ‘The mutineer, weren’t you?’ I sighed.
‘What’s he talking about?’ Morag asked.
‘A while after I got out of the service,’ Pagan began, ‘the government realised that they couldn’t risk having a lot of ex-special forces types on the street, as even with decommissioned cybernetics they were still potentially very dangerous.’
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘those who had their cybernetics removed were being hired and re-outfitted by the corps, the syndicates, various mercenary outfits and even the better-financed street gangs.’
Pagan nodded. ‘It was a major security risk. Now, what some enterprising soul did was discover a loophole in the law that basically meant that the government were in no way culpable for anything that happened to their troops in unclaimed space.’
Morag looked appalled. ‘You mean they were just going to dump these guys in space?’ she asked. I nodded.
‘He was one of them,’ Pagan said, pointing at me.
‘A lot of the troop carriers are converted freighters,’ I began quietly; this was never something I’d enjoyed talking about. ‘Their cargo holds are modular and easy to cut off from the main body of the ship. They just had to blow the airlocks and we were gone.’
‘After you fought for us?’ she said.
‘Yeah.’ I surprised myself; I no longer felt angry at the betrayal, just sad.
‘But they didn’t space you?’ she prompted.
‘Oh, they tried,’ I said.
Pagan was smiling. ‘The problem was that they were trying to kill some pretty resourceful people. Soldier A here and some others resisted and took over the troop transport.’
‘And killed some people,’ I added.
‘Soldier A?’ Morag asked.
‘During a hearing or a court martial, special forces operators are referred to like that to preserve their identity for operational security,’ I told her.
‘They court-martialled the people responsible?’ she asked, sounding a little more reassured.
‘No,’ I said.
‘They court-martialled you?’ she said incredulously. I nodded. ‘Why?’
‘Because legally we were in the wrong. I’d mutinied and committed murder. They found me guilty and I was going to be shot, but Mudge had been with me, part of the mutiny. He used his contacts to make sure the story got everywhere.’
‘Real scandal,’ Pagan said. ‘Actual public outcry.’
I shrugged. ‘Everyone’s a vet now. Could’ve just as easily been them. Mudge saved my life, again. Instead of being shot I was dishonourably discharged.’
‘Really?’ Pagan was laughing. It was difficult to get dishonourably discharged these days because troops were needed so badly. By the time you did something bad enough to warrant it you were more likely to just get shot. Everyone wanted to be dishonourably discharged.
‘Mudge disappeared about eight months ago,’ I said. ‘He was looking for another friend of ours.’
‘I know where Mudge is,’ Morag said.
13
‘We’re going to New York,’ I said with what I hoped was finality.
‘Are you crazy?’ Pagan asked, apparently missing the finality.
‘Isn’t New York supposed to be a bad place?’ Morag asked.
‘Compared to what? The Avenues? Yeah, when it’s not being attacked. The Rigs, probably. Dog 4? I don’t think so,’ I said.
We were riding at just under the sound barrier about ten feet above the North Sea, heading up the coastline. Up past where Morag and I had started off in Dundee. We were in the cramped converted hold of a fast attack sled. I think it had probably started life as a Lockheed but the vehicle had been so extensively customised and presumably rebuilt after taking damage it no longer resembled its original form that much.
It was a long, grey, armoured wedge of a vehicle, somehow managing to be aerodynamic and ugly at the same time. To aid with its stealth capabilities there were no right angles on it, and at the moment its weaponry was retracted behind concealing panels. It looked like the lump of ugly, utilitarian metal it was.
The Russian pilot had introduced himself via a loudspeaker. His name was Mikael Rivid, and he assured us that he had piloted sleds like this for the Spetznaz, but then I got the feeling that every Russian sled driver said that. Pagan had said that Rivid was okay but according to his friends at Fosterton a little mad, but then everyone said that about Russians, and sled drivers. In fact, it seemed quite likely that Rivid was a little mad: he was, after all, flying at about ten feet over the North Sea at just under seven hundred miles an hour, a feat that only someone with very good enhanced reflexes was capable of.
Typical of pilots of low-level, ground-effects vehicles like this, Rivid was a chimera. He was directly wired into the vehicle, a requirement because of its speed and the amount of handling it required. Rivid, like many chimeras, was severely disabled. He existed cradled in a technological womb secured on a complex series of gyroscopic mounts in the front of the sled.
The womb took care of all his needs. His food came in a drip with many tasty flavours; a disturbingly visible catheter removed his waste. His sense link was as close as he was ever going to come to feeling the touch of another person, his external world a hallucination of ghost people piped in from the net. I was momentarily envious before I realised that even for me that was taking self-pity too far.
The sled was Rivid’s body; he was wired in so deep that he had developed an intimacy with the machine that most people never achieved with their lovers. It was far beyond what I felt jacked into my bike. Chimeras were so good at what they did because if their vehicles went down they had no way of escaping. That tended to focus the mind.