Black Man (9 page)

Sevgi gestured around the virtuality. Aspects of the crime leapt out at them as the systems read
Focus
in the wake of her sweeping arm. Outraged data, cut-and-splice code wounding marked in siren colors, frozen footage snaps of cryocap fluids spilled across pristine floors, blood spotted on walls, and stripped-skull grins.

She drew a deep breath.

“Now does anyone want to tell me what those pixels paint?”

She wasn’t that far ahead of them. Coyle’s eyes changed with the understanding, anger finally doused, damped down to something else. Rovayo went very still. Norton—Sevgi twisted to meet his eyes—just looked thoughtful. But no one said anything. Oddly, it was the path ’face that took up the challenge. It thought it had been asked a question.

“The salients you describe,” the confected woman said precisely, “are consistent with the perpetrator being a variant thirteen reengineered male.”

Sevgi nodded her thanks at the ’face.

“Yes. Aren’t they just.”

They all stood there while it sank in.

“Great,” said Coyle finally. “Just what we need, a fucking twist for a perp.”

The humidity loop on string seventeen went down sometime on Friday night, they figured, and once again the backup protectives failed to come online. Saturday came in foggy, so at first no one noticed when the dish covers stayed dialed up to full transparency. But when the California summer sun finally burned through the fog that afternoon and hit the glass, the incubating cultures got it full force. Sirens cut loose back at the wharf. Scott and Ren roared out there at panic speed in the Zodiac, but by the time they got into their wet suits and into the water, they’d lost pretty much everything on the string. They paddled about a bit making sure, disconnected the system, and phoned the detail in to Nocera. Then they powered back to the wharf in glum and dripping silence. Scott didn’t need to voice what they both knew.

Seventeen was loaded to the roots—it had about a quarter of the month’s crop on it. When Ulysses Ward got back from checking the deep trellis range and heard about this, he was going to go ballistic. It was the third time that summer.

“What happens when you buy your software out of fucking Texas,” grinned Nocera, feet up on the console while he and Scott sat waiting for some hired-down-the-wires San Diego machine consultancy to trace and fix the fault. “Ward’s never going to learn. You want Rim quality, you got to pay Rim prices.”

“It’s not the software,” Scott said, mainly because he knew it wasn’t, but also because he was getting tired of Nocera’s constant cracks. “It’s the seals.”

“It fucking is the software. Ward got cheap and cheerful from a bunch of Jesusland hicks probably think altered carbon’s what you buy for indoor barbecues. Those guys are running five years behind the stuff coming out of the valley now, minimum.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the software,” Scott snapped. “We had this same shit back in May and that was before the fucking upgrade.”
Before you hired on,
he didn’t add. And then his own language caught up with him and he colored with the shame. He’d never sworn like that before he started working out here.

“Yeah. Same shit, same shit software.” Nocera wasn’t going to shut up, he was on a roll. He gestured around the con room. “Ward buys his upgrades the same place he got the original system. Cow Tech, Kansas. Shat fresh out of a longhorn’s ass.”

“You said Texas a minute ago.”

“Texas, Kansas?” Nocera made a dismissive gesture. “In the end, what’s the fucking difference? It’s all—”

“Leave him alone, Emil. We all got to be born somewhere.”

Carmen Ren stood in the doorway of the control room, unlit spliff tucked into the corner of her mouth and hands in her coverall pockets. She’d stomped off as soon as she’d peeled off her wet suit, without a backward word. Scott knew by now not to go after her when she hit that mood. Not till she’d smoked it down a little, leastways.

Nocera sighed weightily. “Look, Carm, it’s not like that. I don’t get on Osborne here just ’cause he’s a fence-hopper. Lot of people would around here, but not me. I figure a man’s got to make a living, even if he has to tunnel under a fenceline to do it. But he’s not going to sit here and tell me that cheap crap they spin up in Jesusland works as well as Rimtech. Because it just ain’t fucking so.”

Ren gave Scott a weary smile.

“Ignore him,” she said. “With Ward out of sight, there’s no telling how much custom-nasty shit Emil here’s put up his nose today.”

Nocera wagged a cautionary finger at her. “You pick your chemicals, Carm. I’ll pick mine.”

“This?” Ren removed the spliff from her mouth and held it aloft for general scrutiny. “This is a
cheap
drug, Emil. I won’t be the one coming around begging for a sub the week before payday.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

She put the spliff back in her mouth, crushed the end to life between a callused thumb and forefinger, and drew hard. The ember flared up with a clearly audible splintering crack. She sighed out a cloud of smoke, looked at Nocera through it for a moment.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ve had better offers this week.”

“What, like from altar boy here?”

Scott felt himself flush again, hot on hot. Carmen Ren was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen in the flesh, and since they’d been on field maintenance together he’d been seeing a lot of that flesh. She stripped off in the tackle room with an utter lack of self-consciousness that he knew Pastor William would have called prideful and unwomanly. Scott politely turned his back whenever she got naked that way, but he still caught glimpses as she zipped herself into the wet suit or peeled unexpectedly to the waist in the Zodiac when it was hot. Her skin was like pale honey, and the curves of her body were subtle yet unmistakable even in the shapeless Ward BioSupply coveralls they all wore around the wharf.

But more than all that, Carmen Ren had long, straight hair that spilled like black water onto her shoulders whenever she unpinned it from the spiderform static clip that kept it up, and a curious, negligent way of tipping her head to one side as she did it. She had liquid dark, ironic eyes that lifted delicately at the corners and cheekbones like ledges on some Himalayan peak, and when she concentrated on something, her whole face took on a porcelain immobility that splintered his heart like the sound of that ember in the spliff.

The last few weeks, Scott had found himself thinking about Ren a lot when he went home at night, and in a way that he knew was sinful. He’d done his best to resist the urges, but it was no good. She floated into his dreams unbidden, in postures and scenarios that made him flush when he recalled them during the waking day. More than once recently he’d woken tight and hard from the dreams, his hands already on himself and the taste of Ren’s name in his mouth. Worse still, he had the feeling that when Ren looked at him, she could see right through him to that sweaty core of desire, and despised him for it.

Now she was smoking, looking down on Nocera as if he were something that had just leaked out of the mulch vats.

“You really are being a disagreeable little prick today, aren’t you.” She turned to Scott. “You want to go get a coffee up on the wharf?”

“Uh, with you, together, you mean?” Scott bounced to his feet as she nodded. “Sure. Yeah. Great.”

“Uhm, uh, with, uhm, you?” Nocera sneered, made dying-insect-leg motions with his arms. Cranked up a joke—Jesusland accent from network comedy stock. “Duh, darlin’, how kin ah refuse such a
laidy
. Uhm, praise, uhm, th’ everlovin’
Lord
.”

Scott felt his fists clench. He’d been in enough scuffles back home to know he wasn’t much of a fighter, and to know from looking at Nocera that he
was
. He’d seen the scars when the older man was getting into and out of a wet suit, read it also in his stance and the blank challenge of the unkind eyes. It was like looking at a later edition of Jack Mackenzie’s older brother, the one who’d enlisted on his sixteenth birthday and come home a year later, sunburned and full of scalp tales from places none of them had ever heard of.

Still, he’d taken about as much of Nocera’s Rim superiority as he—

Ren glided into the gap almost before Scott realized he was turning to face the other man.

“I said a coffee, Scott. Not a broken nose.” She nodded at the door. “Come on. Leave this dickhead to play with himself.”

“Be a lot more fun than playing with you, Ren.” Nocera leaned past Ren’s hip, still in his chair, still grinning. “I’m telling you, kid, I know her sort inside out. Been there, eaten the pussy. You
will
have more fun jerking off.”

Scott surged forward, fists raised. The new flush slammed through him, itching at the roots of his hair and burning across his cheeks. He saw the grin slide off Nocera’s face, replaced with a sudden, speculative interest. The other man’s boots swung unhurriedly off the console to the floor. Scott knew then he was going to get a kicking, but
fuck
it—And suddenly he was pressed up against Ren. Flash scent of her hair, still damp, warmth of skin and soft curves right underneath his eyes, and then she pushed him firmly back toward the door. The look on her face wasn’t friendly.

“Get out,” she said, firm as the hand on his chest. “Wait for me upstairs.”

He went, stumbling a little, shame and relief pulsing through him in about equal quantities. The door closed behind him, shutting down whatever Nocera was sneering to a barely audible murmur. Ren’s angry tones trod it down. He wanted to stay and listen but… .

He went quietly along the bulb-lit metal corridor, up the clanking metal steps to the topside offices, and out into the late-afternoon sunlight, still breathing tightly. He crossed to the rail on one of the wharf’s access gantries and gripped the carbon-fiber weave in both fists as if he could crush it. He stared down at his whitened knuckles.

…
fucking Nocera, fucking Rim assholes, fucking
place…

But he’d
known,
a small, calm part of himself came and reminded him. He’d
always
known what it was going to be like. He’d known because Uncle Leland, who’d been Rimside before he was born, had told him all about it. Pastor William had told him, too, in bitten-off hellfire-tinged terms. His mother had wept and told him, again and again. His friends had jeered and told him.

Everyone had told him, because everyone knew what they thought of Republicans out on the godless Rim. Hard grind and hatred, it was all they’d offer him. They’d use him up, spit on him while they were doing it, and if the immigration bogeys didn’t get him, then debt and the gangmasters would. He’d have no rights there, no one to turn to. He’d be nothing, worse than nothing, one of the silent service underclass that were cheaper than machines and had to be as quiet, as uncomplaining and efficient or else
bang,
your average high-tech high-demand Rim citizen there just went right ahead and junked them for something that’d do the job faster, cheaper, better.

Still, I won’t tell you not to go
. Leland, the last week before Scott skipped, parked by Scott’s side on the split-rail fence, watching sunset smear the sky up over the mountains. He didn’t know it, but Scott had already paid the handler in Bozeman the upfront half. He was due on the truck next Tuesday.
I won’t tell you not to go, because there’s nothing here for you that’s better. People hate the Rim, and there’s a pot of good reasons for that, but there’ll be chances out there you won’t get here if you stay your whole God-given life. The money hasn’t settled like it has here. It’s still moving, it’s not all classed up and fossilized. You can track it out there, go where it is. Get lucky, you can maybe carve some off for yourself. And if you stay, get legal, get a family, then your kids can maybe have even more. You know, schooling’s free in the Rim. I mean, really free, and real schooling, not the bullcrap we get here
.

They sat for a while, and evening deepened the colors of the sunset. The air started to chill.

Why’d you come back then, Wallace?
he’d asked finally.

Wallace grinned and looked down at his work-worn hands.
You always ask the good ones, Scotty
.

Why’d I come back? I don’t know, maybe I just wasn’t strong enough to stay away. I missed this place something grim, you know. We both did, me and your pop. We always talked about coming back, and I think that’s what helped us stay away. Then when Daniel had his accident, there was no more talk, no one to talk
to,
and that missing started to really gnaw at me
.

Scott knew the gnawing well. Sometimes he beat it, for days at a time, especially in the early days, the early shit jobs, when work wore him down and left him no strength or time for anything but itself and sleep. But the longing always came back, and now, now he had time, and money put away, he could feel the same crumbling that must have taken Wallace. He said his prayers every night, the way he’d promised Mom he would, went to a Christian church when he could find one, but lately he was confused in the things he thought about praying for.

“You okay now?”

He started. He hadn’t heard Ren come up behind him.

“Where I come from,” he said tightly, straight off, “you don’t talk that way in front of women.”

She inclined her head, gave him a gentle smile. “Well, where I come from we don’t segregate our speech.

But thanks, anyway. It was a nice thought. Especially since Nocera would have walked all over you.

He’s an asshole, Scott, but that doesn’t mean he can’t handle himself.”

“I know that. I seen his type before.”

“Have you?” She examined him closely for a moment. Raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you have, haven’t you.

Well then, that was a very brave thing you tried to do.”

He felt the bloom of something inside. Felt it wither again as Ren shook her head at him.

“Pretty fucking dumb, but very brave. Shall we go and get that coffee?”