Crashing Heaven (12 page)

Chapter 16

Jack walked without purpose, lost in his own mind. Raggedly dressed people bustled past him, secure in their small worlds. The buildings around him had an unfinished feel to them too. Machines worked on many of them, reordering the world. It was like exploring a robot’s dream of birth. The spinelights above him dimmed, signalling early evening. After a while, there was a small square. It was edged with buildings that spiked up like broken circuit boards, and bisected by an iron viaduct with a station hanging from it. A train rattled to a stop, sounding like a child shaking a stone in a tin. Its carriages were painted green. This was the Loop line. It ran in a circle all the way round the great cylinder of Docklands.

As a child, Jack had loved to buy a ticket and sit on a Loop train all day long, counting up the miles as it rolled again and again round Docklands; the longest wheeled journey that any human, anywhere in the system, could ever make. The wind tugged at his coat, pulling him back into the present. Exhaustion hit him. He turned towards the station. A train would be warm and dry, and he might even be able sleep for a while.

There was a cracking in his mind.

[Oo, it’s nice to be out of there,] said Fist. [Meeting with your folks went well? No? Not much of a surprise.] Jack was too tired to respond. [ Hey, there’s a message from that squishy! At least someone still wants you around. Want some Totality love?]

Jack shook his head. Once he was on the train, he sat down with his back to the Wart. Looking forwards, he could see out of the carriage and over the low rooftops of Docklands. Beyond them, there were Sandal’s great wharves. They bustled with tiny dots – dockworkers filleted chainships, detaching cargo containers and letting them hang in space. Further out there were three snowflakes, their stillness an exquisite contrast to the Spine’s hubbub. Two hung in the shadow of Station. The third had been caught by the sun. It blazed with golden intricacy, the complex patterns of its dense architecture made a thousand dazzling mirrors. Jack remembered combat. He imagined moving in awe towards its physical self, then losing himself in the great engines of its mind.

A passenger knocked him and shook him out of his reverie. The spinelights were now almost fully dimmed. Docklands was falling back into night, its most honest state. A void site rattled past, a dead stain on the city. Up and down the carriage, soft yellow lights snapped on. The window opposite Jack became a mirror, showing him a man at once exhausted and far from the peace that exhaustion normally brings.

[ You need a shave, Jackie boy. When I’m in charge, I’ll make sure you’re always presentable.]

Jack thought of Fist’s glossy wooden chin and grimaced. The carriage filled with commuters. More and more shuffled on at every stop. Clothes splashed across with sigils barged against Jack. They were so poorly made. Roughly cut edges were fraying, coarse stitching was coming loose and buttons were missing. Nothing fit anyone well. All of this would be invisible if Jack were onweave. The sigils would call brilliant deceptions from distant servers. He imagined a riot of fashionable colours and thought of the third snowflake, vivid in the sun. He wondered how many of the people on the train were letting themselves perceive those great, cold visitors, and of those how many understood them to be beautiful. Probably none.

The mass of commuters warmed the carriage. Jack could see no real reason to dismount. He dozed lightly.

[ You’ll have to get off to pee, at least,] said Fist, [unless you’ve really lost it.]

The commuters left. The train danced in an endless circle. Jack dreamed of Kingdom. The god was congratulating him on being chosen as a puppeteer. He was full of his usual passion for humanity. ‘I built you all homes in space,’ he said urgently, his workman’s hands emphasising his words. ‘Now you must defend them.’ A transport security team woke Jack suddenly. They flashed his retina to prove his identity. The light was like a punch in the eye. Jack was asked about his destination. When he couldn’t answer, he was hustled off the train. He pushed back and one of the guards hit him. A studded glove reopened the cut in the side of his face. Body armour could never be virtual.

[Don’t mess up your pretty cheek, Jack. The new management doesn’t like that at all.]

Blank metal buildings rose up around him. Crowds bustled by. Sweatheads tugged at the crowd like repressed memories. Jack tried not to think of his parents, but the past had hooked him in its barbs. He craved oblivion. He didn’t want to go back to Ushi’s, and couldn’t face finding another bar cheap enough to serve him. Licensing restrictions stopped bottle shops from serving the unweaved. He had to be turned away from several before he gave up.

[ There’s always the hotel,] whispered Fist. [ They’ll sell you something. Keep you inside for a bit too.]

‘Oo, hello!’ Charles said as Jack entered reception. ‘Lovely to see you again.’ He stuck his hand over the counter to shake.

[ He’s very effusive,] said Fist. [ I’m sure he’s been tippling. He’ll help you.]

‘Oh, I’ve been on the gin tonight,’ said Charles when Jack asked about a drink. ‘Only a couple.’ He swayed. ‘Making my mood a little more positive, you understand don’t you? But you want a little whisky? I’m sure that will cheer you up too.’

‘Shall I wait here?’

‘No. You go and put your feet up. Your bottle will be delivered to your room. Personally!’

Charles was true to his word. Ten minutes later, and he was announcing himself with a cheerful knock at Jack’s door. ‘Cooee!’ he chirped. ‘Only me!’ The bottle was thrust into Jack’s hands. ‘If you want anything harder,’ whispered Charles, winking theatrically, ‘I have a friend who can help you out.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jack ‘but no.’

‘Forgive me, I had to ask. I’m on commission!’

Charles bounced away down the corridor, his brilliantined hair shining under the strip lights. He turned back and waved goodbye before disappearing round the corner.

[ What a strange man,] said Jack.

[ You should be grateful – he’s sorted out your bloody booze.]

Very soon, Jack was very drunk. The whisky tasted as cheap as it was. After a few hard, sour glasses, Jack stopped wincing with every sip. It soused his mind and blurred the world. As he became drunk, so did Fist. The little puppet wheeled and staggered round the room. He’d conjured up a small crystal glass and was matching Jack shot for virtual shot. Full white tie shimmered into being around him. The clothing changed him, making him look taller and slimmer.

[ You should get that cut seen to,] he shrilled. Jack had forgotten about it. As Fist mentioned it, the throbbing itch returned. [ I really don’t want to be wearing it myself.]

The puppet was pointing an unsteady finger at Jack. He staggered, bumped into an armchair and then fell to the ground, limbs clattering against each other. His glass rolled across the floor, leaving a sodden pool in the carpet. [Shit,] he slurred. The glass and the pool disappeared. Jack tossed off the last of one drink and poured himself another. Fist was lying on his front. He pushed himself up on his elbows. His high voice buzzed in Jack’s head.

[ It should have been a nice, quiet couple of months, shouldn’t it? Nobody to see, nothing to do, just wait for little Hugo to turn into a real boy. But you had to turn detective. You selfish wanker!]

Jack threw his glass at Fist. It flew straight through him and bounced off the wall behind him. He pushed his chair back, and rose unsteadily to his feet. [Careful now!] shouted Fist. [Careful!] Jack staggered towards him. Fist started pushing himself backwards across the floor. Jack collapsed to his knees. He triggered the protocols that forced Fist to respond directly to the physical world, then grabbed him. Fist screamed and beat at Jack’s hands with his little fists. A hand on Fist’s chest and Jack could reach his throat, throttling him while beating the back of his head against the floor.

[Let me go!] squealed Fist. He sank his teeth into the ball of Jack’s thumb. There was simulated pain. Jack ignored it. [ You’ll pay for this!] Fist’s voice was thin, cracked with rage and the pressure that Jack was putting on him. [ You bastard!]

Jack realised just how much pain he was causing Fist when the room’s overlay systems activated. Suddenly, he was in a dark garden. A half-moon glimmered down, a dream made from data. Surprise made his hands release. There was a clacking sound as the puppet ran, his choked little voice swearing back at Jack. The noise died away and Jack was alone, surrounded by moon-silvered memories of a dead life. He lay back on the pathway and felt the ancient coolness of stone rise into him. The moon above held a dark wreath of shredded clouds around itself. The garden was silent but for the sighing of the wind, the soft whispering of its central fountain and Jack’s own breathing. The freshness of the night went some way to counterbalancing the whisky’s fog. Jack reached out, trying to pull Fist back into his mind, but there was nothing there to hold on to. This disturbed him. In advance of the end of licence, Fist was achieving unprecedented levels of independence. Jack wondered what new protocols the promise of freedom was calling into life.

The pathway stones pulled the last of the whisky heat from him. What was soothing became uncomfortable. He stood up, swaying slightly, and realised that he was still very drunk. There was a distant shout – ‘You bastard, Jack, I’ll get you for this,’ – then silence reasserted itself. Fist’s absence was a blessing. The path led to an archway set in a hedge. Jack went through it and found himself in a new part of the garden. The light seemed brighter. Looking up, he saw that the moon was now full. It illuminated flowerbeds noticeably more verdant than any he’d previously seen. The beds circled a plinth of shining marble that held a figure carved out of soft purple light – Ifor’s newly installed avatar. There was, Jack remembered, a message waiting for him from the biped. He stepped forward and summoned it.

The glowing statue shook gently as he put his hand to it. Two sparks flashed from its eyes to his. The night became much darker as his retinas contracted, as mechanically reactive as any nanogel structure. The avatar started speaking. The warm care in the mind’s voice was as soothing as the cold flagstones had been, but it healed through addition rather than subtraction. Jack found himself deeply touched as he spoke.

‘Jack, I hope this reaches you well. I just wanted to let you know that our offer remains open. It is very important to us that you live out these last months in comfort.’

Ifor’s image shimmered and froze. Jack rubbed at each eye with the back of his hand, feeling slightly less alone. Then he felt sharp repeated stings on the back of his neck. There was a cackle behind and above him. Turning round, he saw Fist on top of a wall, throwing pebbles. One bounced off Jack’s cheek. Two or three hit his throat. Fist’s throwing arm was a tiny blur of movement.

Jack raised his arm to cover his eyes and staggered towards him, swearing. As he approached the wall, Fist leapt down behind it and disappeared. Rushing through another archway, Jack found himself at the base of a shallow hill. Fist was a little further up it, seeking the safety of high ground. ‘Can’t catch me,’ he shouted, flicking obscene gestures down at Jack. His hand moved almost as quickly as when it had been firing stones.

‘I’ll fucking have you, you little shit!’ roared Jack.

Fist turned and ran uphill. The sharp little tails of his dress coat bounced up and down behind him. Every few paces he turned his head and shouted abuse back at Jack, his monocle and white bow-tie flashing in the moonlight.

Jack should have been much faster than Fist, but whisky still blunted him. He kept catching his feet in the thick grass and nearly tumbling over. As the gradient of the hill flattened out he began to gain on the little puppet. Fist altered his face to show panic. His shouting was now a single high-pitched wail. Jack had his arms out, ready to snatch at him. He was entirely focused on the little man, so when the rabbit hole snatched at his foot he tumbled straight over, falling awkwardly and rolling two or three times. Fist alternated an exhausted – and highly theatrical – panting with jagged, uncontrolled laughter.

Jack found himself half-sitting, half-lying, cold stone once again at his back. The view back down the hill was beautiful. His pleasure gardens stretched away into the distance, a complex arrangement of hedges and flowerbeds, streams and paths, bridges and archways, hedges and walls. He’d once found so much satisfaction in its mathematical precision. From this far up it was impossible to see just how decayed the whole structure was, easy to imagine that all could still be thriving. Jack sighed.

Fist’s laughter looped on and on. He sounded like a broken fairground toy. The fall had broken Jack’s rage at the little puppet, a creature that found it so hard to feel anything more sophisticated than the spite and aggression that its makers had built into it. He thought of Ifor’s message, and wondered at the emotional and intellectual transcendence that Totality culture had – in stepping beyond the parameters of its original operating systems – achieved. As he did so, he realised that Fist had deactivated whatever new protocols had allowed him to so fully resist Jack’s attempts at control. Jack reached out, quietened him and began to reel him in.

Then he cursed. He’d only built one hill in his personal weavespace, at the request of his patron. Now he’d run up it and fallen over, and was leaning against the side wall of a small classical temple. Touching it had reactivated it. The main door was a little way round the building. Light flickered across it. Then, with the faintest of creaks, it opened. A grey-haired man emerged, of medium height, apparently just entering late middle age. There was a gentle shimmer to his colourless skin. He was dressed in a very elegant dark suit and a white shirt, open at the neck. His eyes were entirely silver.

‘Hello, Jack,’ said Grey, his voice the whispering of a million spreadsheets. ‘So your little man has brought you back to me at last.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ groaned Jack. ‘As if it wasn’t a shit day already.’