Richard Morgan - Woken Furies

I shot the giant a strange look.

“Don’t listen to him.” Sylvie told me, scratching idly under her hair.

“You go back to early Taku and Ide stuff, they’ve got that gypsy twang scribbled all over the place. They only phased it out for the Millsport sessions.”

“That isn’t—”

“Hey, Sylvie!” A youngish-looking command head with hair static stacked straight up paused at the table. There was a tray of coffees balanced on his left hand and a thick coil of livecable slung over his right shoulder, twitching restlessly. “You guys back already?”

Sylvie grinned. “Hey Oishii. Miss me?”

Oishii made a mock-bow. The tray on his splayed fingers never shifted.

“As ever. More than can be said for Kurumaya-san. You plan on seeing him today?”

“You don’t?”

“Nah, we’re not going out. Kasha caught some counterint splash last night, it’ll be a couple of days before she’s up and about. We’re kicking back.” Oishii shrugged. “It’s paid for. Contingency funding.”

“Fucking contingency fund?” Orr sat up. “What happened here yesterday?”

“You guys don’t know?” Oishii looked around the table, eyes wide. “About last night. You didn’t hear?”

“No,” said Sylvie patiently. “Which is why we’re asking you.”

“Oh, okay. I thought everyone would know by now. We’ve got a coop cluster on the prowl. Inside the Cleared Zone. Last night it started putting together artillery. Self-propelled gun, a big one. Scorpion chassis. Kurumaya had to scramble everybody before we got shelled.”

“Is there anything left?” asked Orr.

“They don’t know. We took down the primary assemblers along with the gun, but a lot of the smaller stuff scattered. Drones, secondaries, shit like that. Someone said they saw karakuri.”

“Oh crabshit,” Kiyoka snorted.

Oishii shrugged again. “Just what I heard.”

“Mech puppets? No fucking way.” Kiyoka was warming to her theme.

“There haven’t been any karakuri in the CZ for better than a year.”

“Haven’t been any co-op machines either,” pointed out Sylvie. “Shit happens. Oishii, you think there’s any chance we’ll get assigned today?”

“You guys?” Oishii’s grin reappeared. “No way, Sylvie. Not after last time.”

Sylvie nodded glumly. “That’s what I thought.”

The jazz track faded out on a lifting note. A voice surged into place behind it, throaty, female, insistent. There was an archaic lilt to the words it used.

“And there Dizzy Csango’s push on the classic Down the Ecliptic, new light shed on an old theme, just in the manner Quellism illuminates those ancient iniquities of the economic order we have carried with us all the darkened way from the shores of Earth. Naturally, Dizzy was a confirmed Quellist all of his life, and as he many times said—”

Groans went up from the gathered deComs.

“Yeah, fucking methhead junkie all his life too,” yelled someone.

The propaganda DJ warbled on amidst the jeers. She’d been singing the same hardwired song for centuries. But the deCom complaints sounded comfortable, habit as well-worn as our protests had been at Watanabe’s place. Orr’s detailed knowledge of Settlement-Years jazz began to make some sense.

“Got to hop,” said Oishii. “Maybe catch up with you in the Uncleared, yeah?”

“Maybe, yeah.” Sylvie watched him leave, then leaned in Lazlo’s direction.

“How we doing for time?”

The wincefish dug in his pocket and displayed the queue chip. The numbers had shifted to fifty-two. Sylvie blew a disgusted breath.

“So what are karakuri?” I asked.

“Mech puppets.” Kiyoka was dismissive. “Don’t worry, you aren’t going to see any around here. We cleaned them out last year.”

Lazlo stuck the chip back in his pocket. “They’re facilitator units. Come in all shapes and sizes, little ones start about the size of a ripwing, only they don’t fly. Arms and legs. Armed, sometimes, and they’re fast.” He grinned.

“Not a lot of fun.”

A sudden, impatient tightening from Sylvie. She got up.

“I’m going to talk to Kurumaya,” she announced. “I think it’s time to volunteer our services for cleanup.”

General protest, louder than the propaganda DJ had elicited.

“—cannot be serious.”

“Clean-up pays shit, skipper.”

“Fucking grubbing about door-to-door—”

“Guys,” she held up her hands. “I don’t care, alright. If we don’t jump the queue, we’re not getting out of here ‘til tomorrow. And that’s no fucking good. In case any of you’ve forgotten, pretty soon Jad is going to start smelling antisocial.”

Kiyoka looked away. Lazlo and Orr muttered into the dregs of their miso soup.

“Anyone coming with me?”

Silence and averted gazes. I glanced around, then propped myself upright, luxuriating in the new absence of pain.

“Sure. I’ll come. This Kurumaya doesn’t bite, does he?”

In fact, he looked as if he might.

On Sharya there was a nomad leader I once had dealings with, a sheikh with wealth stacked away in databases all over the planet who chose to spend his days herding semi-domesticated genetically-adapted bison back and forth across the Jahan steppe and living out of a solar-powered tent.

Directly and indirectly, nearly a hundred thousand hardened steppe nomads owed him allegiance under arms, and when you sat in council with him in that tent, you felt the command coiled inside him.

Shigeo Kurumaya was a paler edition of the same figure. He dominated the command ‘fab with the same close-mouthed, hard-eyed intensity, for all that he was seated behind a desk laden with monitoring equipment and surrounded by a standing phalanx of deComs awaiting assignment. He was a command head like Sylvie, grey-and black-streaked hair braided back to reveal the central cord bound up in samurai style a thousand years out of date.

“Special dep, coming through.” Sylvie shouldered a path for us through the other deComs. “Coming through. Special dep. Goddamn it, give me some space here. Special dep.”

They gave ground grudgingly and we got to the front. Kurumaya barely looked up from his conversation with a team of three deComs sleeved in the slim-young-thing look I was starting to identify as wincefish standard.

His face was impassive.

“You’re on no special deployment that I know of, Oshima-san,” he said quietly, and around us the deComs exploded in angry reaction. Kurumaya stared back and forth at them and the noise quieted.

“As I said—”

Sylvie made a placatory gesture. “I know. Shigeo, I know I don’t have it. I want it. I’m volunteering the Slipins for karakuri cleanup.”

That got some surf, but subdued this time. Kurumaya frowned.

“You’re asking for cleanup?”

“I’m asking for a pass. The guys have run up some heavy debt back home, and they want to get earning six hours ago. If that means door-to door, we’ll do it.”

“Get in the motherfucking queue, bitch,” said someone behind us.

Sylvie stiffened slightly, but she didn’t turn round. “I might have guessed you’d see it like that, Anton. Going to volunteer too, are you? Take the gang on house-to-house. Don’t see them thanking you for that, somehow.”

I looked back at the gathered deComs and found Anton, big and blocky looking beneath a command mane dyed a half dozen violently clashing colours. He’d had his eyes lensed so the pupils looked like steel bearings and there were traceries of circuitwork under the skin of his Slavic cheekbones.

He twitched a little, but he made no move towards Sylvie. His metallic dull eyes went to Kurumaya.

“Come on, Shigeo,” Sylvie grinned. “Don’t tell me these people are all queuing up for cleaning duty. How many old hands are going to volunteer for this shit. You’re sending the sprogs out on this one, because nobody else will do it for the money. I’m offering you a gift here, and you know it.”