Use of Weapons (32 page)

When
the driver saw what was over the concrete summit, he shouted in fear and tried
to turn and brake. The big car tipped forward, onto the ice, and started to
slide.

He
had been jolted by the turn and then annoyed that the view had been taken away.
He looked round at the driver and wondered what was going on.

Somebody
had diverted them off the turnpike and onto a storm drain. The turnpike was
heated and didn't ice up; the storm drain was a sheet of ice. They had entered
near the top, through one small sluice out of several dozen spread in a
semicircle; the broad drain led down into the depths of the city, crossed by
bridges, for over a kilometre.

The
car had partially turned as the driver came over the top of the sluice baffle;
the vehicle was sliding down sideways, its wheels spinning and engine roaring,
lumbering on and on down the steepening expanse of the drain and rapidly
picking up speed.

The
driver tried to brake again, then attempted to go into reverse, and finally
tried to steer towards the slab-high sides of the drain, but the car was
slithering down faster all the time, and the ice provided no purchase. The
car's wheels shook and the whole body shuddered as it hit ridges in the ice.
The air whistled and the side-on tyres whined.

He
was staring at the sides of the drain, whirling by at a ridiculous speed. The
vehicle was still slowly turning as it skidded; the driver screamed as they
headed for a massive bridge support; the rear of the car banged and the whole
vehicle leapt as it battered into the concrete. Bits of metal flew into the air
and crashed into the ice behind, then started skidding down after them. The car
was spinning faster now, in the other direction.

Bridges,
tributary drains, viaducts, overhanging buildings, aqueducts and huge pipes
spanning the drain; all flashed by the revolving car, hurtling past in the
bright light, some shocked white faces gasping from parapets or open windows.

He
looked forward and saw the driver opening his door.

'Hey!'
he shouted, reaching forward to grab the man.

The
car thundered over the uneven ice. The driver jumped.

He
flung himself into the front, just missing the driver's ankles. He landed down
at the pedals, grasped at the levers and controls and tugged himself into the
driver's seat. The vehicle was turning faster, jolting and screaming as it hit
ridges and raised metal grilles set in the slope; he glimpsed one wheel and
various bits of bodywork bouncing away behind him. Another teeth-chattering
contact with a bridge support ripped an entire axle free; it flew into the air
and exploded against an iron leg supporting a building, dislodging bricks and
glass and scattering metal like shrapnel.

He
grabbed the steering wheel; it flopped about uselessly. He had the idea of
keeping the car pointing forward if he could, until the gradually increasing
temperature further down the canyon provided a wet rather than icy slope, but
if there was no steering he might as well jump off too.

The
wheel thumped and burned his hands as it turned; the tyres squealed wildly; he
was thrown forward and his nose hit the wheel. That felt like a dry patch, he
thought. He looked ahead, down the slope, where the ice was becoming patchy,
hugging the shadows of buildings where the shade fell across the spillway.

The
car was almost straight. He grabbed at the wheel again and tramped the brake.
It didn't seem to do anything. He pedalled reverse instead. Now the gearbox
screamed too; his face wrinkled at the appalling noise, his feet juddered on
the quivering pedal. The wheel came alive again, for longer, and he was thrown
forward once more; this time he kept a hold of the wheel, and ignored the blood
streaming from his nose.

Everything
was roaring now. The wind and the tyres and the body of the car; his ears
popped and throbbed with the rapidly increasing air pressure. He looked ahead
and saw the concrete was green with weeds.

'Shit!'
he yelled to himself. There was another lip ahead; he wasn't near the bottom
yet; there was another length of slope to come.

He
recalled the driver mentioning tools inside the front passenger bench; he
hauled the seat up and grabbed the biggest piece of metal he could see, then
kicked the door open and jumped.

He
slammed into the concrete, almost losing his grip on the metal tool. The car
started to slew in front of him, leaving a last patch of ice and hitting the
section of the slope covered by weed; curved fountains of spray leapt from its
remaining wheels. He rolled over, onto his back, spray hissing up into his face
as he slithered down the steep, weeded slope; he held the metal tool in both
hands, clamped it between his chest and upper arm; forced it down into the
concrete under the water and weeds.

The
metal thrummed in his hands.

The
spillway lip swept up towards him. He pressed harder; the tool bit into the
rough concrete, shaking his whole body, jarring his teeth and his vision; a
tight wad of ripped-up weed grew under his arm like some mutant hair.

The
car hit the lip first; it somersaulted into the air and started tumbling,
disappearing. He hit the lip and almost lost his hold on the tool again. He
rose and slowed, but not enough. Then he was over. The dark glasses sailed off
his face; he resisted the urge to grab at them.

The
spillway continued for another half kilometre; the car smashed upside-down into
the concrete slope, scattering debris which continued skidding down towards the
river at the bottom of the canyon's great V; the gearbox and remaining axle
parted company with the chassis and bounced into some pipes straddling the
drain, fracturing them. Water poured out.

He
went back to treating the metal tool as though it was an ice-axe, and slowly
reduced his speed.

He
passed under the fractured pipes, which were gushing warm water.

What,
not sewage? he thought brightly. Today was looking up.

He
looked, perplexed, at the metal tool still vibrating in his grip, and wondered
exactly what it was; probably something to do with the tyres or starting the
engine, he decided, looking around.

He
negotiated one final spillway lip and slid gently into the shallows of the
broad river Lotol itself. Bits of the car had already arrived.

He
stood up and squelched ashore. He checked there was nothing else coming down
the spillway that might strike him, and sat. He was shaking; he dabbed at his
bloody nose. He felt bruised from the battering in the car. There were some
people staring at him over the top of a nearby promenade. He waved at them.

He
stood up, wondering how you got out of this concrete canyon. He looked up the
spillway, but could see only a short way; a final lip of concrete blocked the
rest of the view.

He
wondered what had happened to the driver.

The
concrete lip he was looking at formed a dark bump against the skyline. The bump
hung for a few seconds, then came down on the thin coating of water that
floated down the slope, staining it red. What was left of the driver skidded
past him and bumped into the river, edging past the chassis of the shattered
car and setting off downstream, swirling pinkly in the water, revolving.

He
shook his head. He brought his hand up to his nose, waggled the tip
experimentally, and gasped with pain. This made the fifteenth time he'd broken
his nose.

He
grimaced into the mirror, snorting back a mixture of blood and warm water. The
black porcelain basin swirled with gently steaming suds, pink-flecked. He
touched his nose with great delicacy and frowned into the mirror.

'I
miss breakfast, lose a perfectly proficient driver and my best car, I break my
nose yet again
and
get an old
raincoat of immense sentimental value dirtier than it's ever been in its life
before, and all you can say is "That's funny"?'

'Sorry,
Cheradenine. I just mean, that's weird. I don't know why they'd do something
like that. You are certain it was deliberate? Oof.'

'What
was that?'

'Nothing.
You are certain it wasn't just an accident?'

'Positive.
I called for a spare car, and the police, then went back to where it happened.
No diversion; all gone. But there were traces of industrial solvent where
they'd removed the false red road markings from the top of the storm drain.'

'Ah.
Ah; yeah...' Sma's voice sounded odd.

He
took the transceiver bead off his ear lobe and looked hard at it. 'Sma...'

'Whoo.
Yeah, well, as I said; if it was those two Governance bods, the police won't do
anything. But I can't understand them behaving like that.'

He
let the wash-bowl drain and dabbed tenderly at his nose with a fluffy hotel
towel. He put the terminal earring back on his ear. 'Maybe they just object to
the fact I'm using Vanguard money. Maybe they think I'm Mr Vanguard or
something.' He waited for a reply. 'Sma? I said maybe they...'

'Ow.
Yes. Sorry. Yes; I heard you. You might be right.'

'Anyway,
there's more.'

'God.
What?'

He
picked up an ornately decorated plastic screen-card, which - against a
background of what looked like a fairly wild party - slowly flashed a message
on and off. 'An invitation. To me. I'll read it out: "Mr Staberinde;
congratulations on your narrow escape. Do please come to a fancy-dress party
this evening; a car will pick you up at rim-set. Costume provided." No
address.' He put the card back behind the wash-bowl taps. 'According to the
concierge that arrived at about the same time I called the police after my car
went tobogganing.'

'Fancy
dress party, eh?' Sma giggled. 'Better watch your ass, Zakalwe.' There was more
giggling, not all of it Sma's.

'Sma,'
he said frostily. 'If I've called at an awkward time...'

Sma
cleared her throat, sounded suddenly business-like. 'Not at all. Sounds like it
was the same lot. You going?'

'I
think so, but not in their costume, whatever that turns out to be.'

'All
right. We'll track you. Are you absolutely positive you don't want a knife
missile or...'

'I
don't want to get into that argument again, Diziet,' he said, dabbing his face
dry and sniffing hard again, inspecting himself in the mirror. 'What I was
thinking about was this; if these people did react like this just because of
Vanguard, maybe we can persuade them there's an opportunity for them here.'

'What
sort of opportunity?'

He
went through to the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, staring up at the painted
ceiling. 'Beychae was connected with Vanguard at first, yes?'

'Honorary
President-Director. Gave it credibility while we were starting up. He was only
involved for a year or two.'

'But
there is that link.' He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, staring out of
the window at the snow-bright city. 'And one of the theories we believe these
guys have is that Vanguard is run by some sort of namby-pamby machine that's
developed consciousness and conscience...'

'Or
just by some old recluse with philanthropic intentions,' Sma agreed.

'So;
say this mythical machine or person had existed, but then somebody else got
hold of the reins; disabled the machine, killed the philanthropist. And then
started spending their ill-gotten gains.'

'Hmm,'
Sma said. 'Mmm. Mmm.' She coughed again. 'Yes... ah. Well, they'd be acting a
lot like you've been, I suppose.'

'So
do I,' he said, going to the window; he picked up a pair of dark glasses from a
small table, put them on.

Something
beeped near the bed. 'Hold on.' He turned, crossed to the bedside and picked up
the same small device he'd scanned the two top floors with when he'd first
arrived. He looked at the display, smiled, and left the room. Walking down the
corridor, still holding the machine, he said, 'Sorry; somebody bouncing a
laser off the window in the room I was in, trying to eavesdrop.'

He
entered a suite facing uphill and sat on the bed. 'Anyway; could you make it
look like there'd been some sort of... event in the Vanguard Foundation, a few
days before I arrived here? Some sort of cataclysmic change but the signs are
only appearing now? I don't know what, especially as it all has to be back-dated,
but something that the markets, say, only just get hold of now; something
buried in the trading figures... would that be possible?'

'I...'
Sma said, hesitantly. 'I don't know. Ship?'

'Hello?'
the
Xenophobe
said.

'Can
we do what Zakalwe just asked?'

'I'll
listen to what it was,' the ship said. Then, 'Yes; best get one of the GCUs to
handle it, but it can be done.'

'Great,'
he said, lying back on the bed. 'Also, as of now - and again, back-dating where
we can interfere with computer records - Vanguard becomes an unethical
corporation. Sell the R&D department investigating ultra-strong materials
for space habitats and that sort of stuff; have it pick up stock in companies
promoting terraforming. Close a few factories; start a few lock-outs; halt all
charitable works; skim the pension fund.'