Chapter 2
I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT THIS,” I tell Atti twenty-four hours later as the volo begins its descent toward the landing pad.
“You may already have mentioned that once or twice tonight.” Silence over the q-com and then, when it’s apparent I’m not going to dignify the observation with a response, “How’s the leg?”
I stretch it out in front of me. The therapy sleeve—administering everything from electrical stimulation to temperature modulation to anaesthesia—peeks out from beneath my long dark coat, running from thigh to calf.
When I bend my knee, there’s a gentle mechanical whirring as the supportive exoskeleton moves with it. “Loud.”
“Lucky you don’t have to sneak up on anyone for the next two weeks, then.”
I ignore her snark and peer out the window.
The place below is exactly like the one from last night.
Well. Not exactly. This one has more stone and more curves.
Its accent lighting is all oranges and reds, dramatic flames rippling along the stone gardens that line the path to the entrance.
But it’s huge, and unique, and isolated, and very expensive.
“I take it we still don’t know who’s paying for this?”
“Neurals just ran the property but it’s self-owned and run, no path back to a human that they could find. They’re still trying to backtrace the tokens, but you know how that goes.”
“Yeah.” I stare down at the surrounding landscape.
It’s stylishly lit gardens for kilometres in all directions, split into three concentric circles by artfully decorated walls.
Defensive layers, just like last night: tech, then an EMP ring, then tech again.
Those walls will conceal a whole lot of airspace defence equipment, too.
And a SatScreen. Security consultants aren’t the most creative types. “Guessing it’s another lifer, then.”
“That’s what the neurals think.”
The volo’s slowing its descent, almost on the pad now. Nobody’s waiting to greet me, but the edges of the path leading to the house phase to pulsing orange as my ride touches down. No mistaking where I’m supposed to go.
“I’m here.” The volo’s door raises and I slide out; as soon as I’m clear the angular white vehicle seals and spins up the rotors around its ten-metre-wide halo again, rising with a blast of air that whips at the edges of my coat.
I watch it vanish into the night. “Not many autonomous licenses for those things.”
“Property owns that too.”
“Of course it does.” I start along the path.
Knee-height flames burn silently to my left and right amidst a sea of polished black stone, guarding the lawn beyond.
Just close enough to keep the chill of the evening at bay.
“If they’re this worried about anonymity, they may not even tell me who they really are.
Make sure you run voice as soon as you have a sample. ”
“Sure. And you make sure you keep this person alive. That’s what we’re doing, right? Pointing out obvious things about each other’s jobs?”
“Touché. Now keep quiet for a bit.”
With all the glass set to opaque, I can’t see anything inside the house, but as I reach the front door it swings silently open. I activate my cognitive revs—more from habit than any real concern—and step inside.
“You must be Azure.” The man addressing me stands in the centre of a massive atrium, hands clasped behind his back. Calm but assured. He’s slim, dark-skinned, his black half-hawk spilling artfully down his left side almost to his waist. Looks about twenty-five. No telling his real age.
“Yes.” I study our surroundings. Everything’s polished stone and edge-illuminated glass, the subtle curves and warm colours from outside repeated in here. A huge double staircase spirals, helix-like, upward behind the man. “And you are?”
“Call me Run.”
It’s not his real name—hell, he’s not even making the effort to pretend. Not that I care. I’ll forget it before the end of the conversation anyway. “I’m here for you?”
“That’s right.” Client studies me with cool brown eyes. Less nervous than I expected, though to be fair, most people I deal with are that way around me for a reason. “Where do we start?”
“I’ll need a detailed overview of the defences here.
Tech and bio. All of it. Once I understand how we’re set up, we’ll also need to have a conversation about why you felt the need to hire the Keres.
” Real or imagined, no one’s contacting my bosses for protection unless they’re convinced there’s an imminent threat.
“Of course. Follow me.”
“No voice match,” comes Atti’s vaguely irritated murmur in my ear as we start farther into the house. Lights come on in response to Client’s movements, revealing the way ahead even as they turn off behind us. We pass beneath a tall, smooth black marble archway. “He’s not a lifer. Neurals are—”
A brief, painfully loud burst of static drowns her out. Then it vanishes, replaced by ominous silence.
“What the hell was that?” I stop and bring my hand up to the q-com, tapping it. “Atti?”
“No AIs.” Client is unsurprised as he watches me.
“What? That’s not how this works. You want me to protect you, I need her help.”
“You’ll manage.” Client is unmoved. “These are the terms of the job. If you believe your superiors will dispute the contract because of it, I am able to put you in contact with them directly.”
Oh. Oh. It’s a stupid stipulation, but I can see from the unconcerned way he looks at me that he knows what he’s doing.
Protection is low-risk: as far as the Keres are concerned, this is basically a wildly lucrative babysitting job.
No chance they’re going to give up this guy’s tokens because I’m a little hamstrung.
Speaking of which: my therapy sleeve’s gone dead, too.
I strip it off irritably. Not ideal, but it’s mostly for pain management now, anyway; it’ll take a little longer to fully heal this way, but the nanosutures should hold under duress, and my somatic revs can take up any slack from this point.
“You could’ve just asked.” I extricate the q-com from my ear and pocket it.
The internals will be fried from the EMP field—I assume that’s what the paranoid jerk had hidden in the archway—but the metals are still worth a small fortune. “What if I’d had a subdermal?”
“Then you wouldn’t have been right for the job.” He makes a rotating signal with his finger. “Now, if you would? We need to return to the volopad.”
“The volopad? Why…” I understand before the rest of the words make their way from brain to tongue. “Oh.” I was reluctant about this job ten minutes ago. Now I’m wondering how much trouble I’d be in if I just killed this guy myself, and pretended I failed.
A lot, I decide? Yeah. Probably a lot.
He starts walking back the way we came, and I, having little choice in the matter, follow. A volo has already landed as we approach the pad. Different one than before. Black, matte, more utilitarian. With SatScreen in place for kilometres around, nobody’s going to even know I’ve left.
“You don’t trust the Keres, I take it.”
“Not particularly.”
“Then why hire me?”
The volo is already spinning up. I get in.
“You’ll have to ask when you get there.” Not-Client shrugs and steps clear, dark hair streaming to one side. The doors seal. The volo begins to lift.
Oh.