Richard Morgan - Broken Angels

“Hmm.” Matthias Hand squatted and stared out over the water pensively. “I’ve talked to the lawyers.”

“Did you disinfect afterwards?”

“Under incorporation charter law, ownership of any artefact in non-orbital space is only considered valid if a rally operational claim buoy is placed within one kilometre of said artefact. No loopholes, we’ve looked. If there’s a starship on the other side of this gate, we’re going to have to go through and tag it. And from what Mistress Wardani says, that’s going to take some time.”

I shrugged. “A small army, then.”

“A small army is going to attract a lot of attention. It’ll show up on satellite tracking like a holowhore’s chest. And we can’t really afford that, can we?”

“A holowhore’s chest? I don’t know, the surgery can’t be that expensive.”

Hand cocked his head up to stare at me for a moment, then emitted an unwilling chuckle. “Very droll. Thank you. We can’t really afford to be satellite-tagged, can we?”

“Not if you want an exclusive.”

“I think that goes without saying, lieutenant.” Hand reached down and idly traced a pattern on the sand with his fingers. “So then. We have to go in small and tight and not make too much noise. Which in turn means this area has to be cleared of operational personnel for the duration of our visit.”

“If we want to come out alive, yes.”

“Yes.” Unexpectedly, Hand rocked back on his heels and dumped himself into a sitting position in the sand. He rested his forearms on his knees and seemed lost in searching the horizon for something. In the dark executive suit and white winged collar, he looked like a sketch by one of the Millsport absurdist school.

“Tell me, lieutenant,” he said finally. “Assuming we can get the peninsula cleared, in your professional opinion, what’s the lower limit on a support team for this venture? How few can we get away with?”

I thought about it. “If they’re good. Spec ops, not just plankton-standard grunts. Say six. Five, if you use Schneider as flyer.”

“Well, he doesn’t strike me as the sort to be left behind while we look after his investment for him.”

“No.”

“You said spec ops. Do you have any specific skills in mind?”

“Not really. Demolitions, maybe. That rock fall looks pretty solid. And it wouldn’t hurt if a couple of them could fly a shuttle, just in case something happens to Schneider.”

Hand twisted his head round to look up at me. “Is that likely?”

“Who knows?” I shrugged. “Dangerous world out there.”

“Indeed.” Hand went back to watching the place where the sea met the grey of Sauberville’s undecided fate. “I take it you’ll want to do the recruiting yourself.”

“No, you can run it. But I want to sit in, and I want veto on anyone you select. You got any idea where you’re going to get half a dozen spec ops volunteers? Without ringing any alarm bells, I mean.”

For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard me. The horizon seemed to have him body and soul. Then he shifted slightly and a smile touched the corners of his mouth.

“In these troubled times,” he murmured, almost to himself, “it shouldn’t be a problem finding soldiers who won’t be missed.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He glanced up again and there were still traces of the smile clinging to his mouth.

“Does that offend you, Kovacs?”

“You think I’d be a lieutenant in Carrera’s Wedge if I offended that easily?”

“I don’t know.” Hand looked back out to the horizon again. “You’ve been full of surprises so far. And I understand that Envoys are generally pretty good at adaptive camouflage.”

So.

Less than two full days since the meeting in the auction hall, and Hand had already penetrated the Wedge datacore and unpicked whatever shielding Carrera had applied to my Envoy past. He was just letting me know.

I lowered myself to the blued sand beside him and picked my own point on the horizon to stare at.

“I’m not an Envoy any more.”

“No. So I understand.” He didn’t look at me. “No longer an Envoy, no longer in Carrera’s Wedge. This rejection of groupings is verging on pathological, lieutenant.”

“There’s no verging about it.”

“Ah. I see some evidence of your Harlan’s World origins emerging. The essential evil of massed humanity , wasn’t that what Quell called it?”

“I’m not a Quellist, Hand.”

“Of course not.” The Mandrake exec appeared to be enjoying himself. “That would necessitate being part of a group. Tell me, Kovacs, do you hate me?”

“Not yet.”

“Really? You surprise me.”

“Well, I’m full of surprises.”

“You honestly have no feelings of rancour towards me after your little run-in with Deng and his squad.”

I shrugged again. “They’re the ones with the added ventilation.”

“But I sent them.”

“All that shows is a lack of imagination.” I sighed. “Look, Hand. I knew someone in Mandrake would send a squad, because that’s the way organisations like yours work. That proposal we sent you was practically a dare to come and get us. We could have been more careful, tried a less direct approach, but we didn’t have the time. So I flashed my fishcakes under the local bully’s nose, and got into a fight as a result. Hating you for that would be like hating the bully’s wrist bones for a punch that I ducked. It served its purpose, and here we are. I don’t hate you personally, because you haven’t given me any reason to yet.”

“But you hate Mandrake.”

I shook my head. “I don’t have the energy to hate the corporates, Hand. Where would I start? And like Quell says, rip open the diseased heart of a corporation and what spills out ?”

“People.”

“That’s right. People. It’s all people. People and their stupid fucking groups. Show me an individual decision-maker whose decisions have harmed me, and I’ll melt his stack to slag. Show me a group with the united purpose of harming me and I’ll take them all down if I can. But don’t expect me to waste time and effort on abstract hate.”

“How very balanced of you.”

“Your government would call it antisocial derangement, and put me in a camp for it.”

Hand’s lip curled. “Not my government. We’re just wet-nursing these clowns till Kemp calms down.”

“Why bother? Can’t you deal direct with Kemp?”

I wasn’t looking, but I got the sense that his gaze had jerked sideways as I said it. It took him a while to formulate a response he was happy with.

“Kemp is a crusader,” he said finally. “He has surrounded himself with others like him. And crusaders do not generally see sense until they are nailed to it. The Kempists will have to be defeated, bloodily and resoundingly, before they can be brought to the negotiating table.”

I grinned. “So you’ve tried.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. You didn’t.” I found a violet pebble in the sand and tossed it into the placid ripples in front of us. Time to change the subject. “You didn’t say when you were going to get our spec ops escort, either.”

“Can’t you guess?”

“The soul markets?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

I shook my head, but inside me something smoked off the detachment like stubborn embers.

“By the way.” Hand twisted around to look back at the rock fall. “I have an alternative explanation for that collapsed cliff.”

“You didn’t buy the micrometeorite, then?”

“I am inclined to believe in Mistress Wardani’s velocity brake. It makes sense. As does her circuit-breaker theory, to a point.”

“That point being?”