Altered Carbon

I’m stacked, backed up and I’m fifth dan

And I’m not afraid of the Patchwork Man

The small coin of urchin rhyme gleamed up at me from the silted bed of my childhood.

But I was afraid.

The rain still hadn’t set in when we got onto the approach road to the bridge, but the clouds were massing sullenly above and the windscreen was splattered with heavy droplets too few to trigger the truck’s wipers. I watched the rust-coloured structure looming up ahead through the distortion of the exploded raindrops and knew I was going to get soaked.

There was no traffic on the bridge. The suspension towers rose like the bones of some incalculably huge dinosaur above deserted asphalt lanes and side gantries lined with unidentifiable detritus.

“Slow down,” I told my companion as we passed under the first tower, and the heavy vehicle braked with uncalled for force. I glanced sideways. “Take it easy. I told you, this is a no-risk gig. I’m just meeting someone.”

Graft Nicholson gave me a bleary look from the driver’s seat, and a breath of stale alcohol came with it.

“Yeah, sure. You hand out this much plastique on drivers every week, right? Just pick them out of Licktown bars for charity?”

I shrugged. “Believe what you want. Just keep your speed down. You can drive as fast as you like after you let me out.”

Nicholson shook his tangled head. “This is fucked, man—”

“There. Standing on the walkway. Drop me there.” There was a solitary figure leaning on the rail up ahead, apparently contemplating the view of the bay. Nicholson frowned with concentration and hunched the vastly out-sized shoulders for which, presumably, he was named. The battered truck drifted sedately but not quite smoothly across two lanes and came to a bumpy halt beside the right-hand barrier.

I jumped down, glanced around for bystanders, saw none and pulled myself back up on the open door.

“All right now, listen. It’s going to be at least two days till I get to Seattle, maybe three, so you just hole up in the first hotel the city limits datastack has to offer, and you wait for me there. Pay cash, but book in under my name. I’ll contact you between ten and eleven in the morning, so be in the hotel at those times. The rest of the time, you can do what you like. I figure I gave you enough cash not to get bored.”

Graft Nicholson bared his teeth in a knowing leer that made me feel slightly sorry for anyone working in the Seattle leisure industry that week. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, man. Old Graft knows how to grab a good time by the titties.”

“I’m glad. Just don’t get too comfortable. We may need to move it in a hurry.”

“Yeah, yeah. What about the rest of the plastique, man?”

“I told you. You’ll get paid when we’re done.”

“And what about if you don’t show up in three days?”

“In that case,” I said pleasantly, “I’ll be dead. That happens, it’d be better to drop out of sight for a few weeks. They’re not going to waste time looking for you. They find me, they’ll be happy.”

“Man, I don’t think I’m—”

“You’ll be fine. See you in three days.” I dropped back to the ground, slammed the truck door and banged on it twice. The engine rumbled into drive and Nicholson pulled the truck back out into the middle of the carriageway.

Watching him go, I wondered briefly if he’d actually go to Seattle at all. I’d given him a sizable chunk of credit, after all, and even with the promise of a second down payment if he followed instructions, the temptation would still be to double back somewhere up the coast and head straight back to the bar I’d picked him out of. Or he might get jumpy, sitting in the hotel waiting for a knock on the door, and skip before the three days were up. I couldn’t really blame him for these potential betrayals, since I had no intention of turning up myself. Whatever he did was fine by me.

In systems evasion, you must scramble the enemy’s assumptions, said Virginia in my ear. Run as much interference as you can without breaking pace.

“A friend of yours, Mr. Kovacs?” The doctor had come to the barrier and was watching the car recede.

“Met him in a bar,” I said truthfully, climbing over to her side, and making for the rail. It was the same view I’d seen when Curtis brought me back from Suntouch House the day of my arrival. In the gloomy, pre-rain light the aerial traffic glimmered above the buildings across the Bay like a swarm of fireflies. Narrowing my eyes, I could make out detail on the island of Alcatraz, the grey-walled and orange-windowed bunker of PsychaSec SA. Beyond lay Oakland. At my back, the open sea and to north and south a solid kilometre of empty bridge. Reasonably sure that nothing short of tactical artillery could surprise me here, I turned back to look at the doctor.

She seemed to flinch as my gaze fell on her.

“What’s the matter?” I asked softly. “Medical ethics pinching a little?”

“It was not my idea—”

“I know that. You just signed the releases, turned a blind eye, that kind of thing. So who was it?”

“I don’t know,” she said not quite steadily. “Someone came to see Sullivan. An artificial sleeve. Asian, I think.”

I nodded. Trepp.

“What were Sullivan’s instructions?”

“Virtual net locater, fitted between the cortical stack and neural interface.” The clinical details seemed to give her strength. Her voice firmed up. “We did the surgery two days before you were freighted. Microscalpelled into the vertebrae along the line of the original stack incision, and plugged it with graft tissue. No show under any kind of sweep outside virtual. You’d have to run a full neuro-electrical to find it. How did you guess?”

“I didn’t have to guess. Someone used it to locate and lever a contract killer out of the Bay City police holding stack. That’s Aiding and Abetting. You and Sullivan are both going down for a couple of decades minimum.”

She looked pointedly up and down the empty bridge. “In that case, why aren’t the police here, Mr. Kovacs?”

I thought about the rap sheet and military records that must have come to earth with me, and what it must feel like standing here alone with someone who had done all those things. What it must have taken to come out here alone. Slowly, a reluctant smile crept out of one corner of my mouth.

“All right, I’m impressed,” I said. “Now tell me how to neutralise the damn thing.”

She looked at me seriously, and the rain began to fall. Heavy drops, dampening the shoulders of her coat. I felt it in my hair. We both glanced up and I cursed. A moment later she stepped closer to me and touched a heavy brooch on one wing of her coat. The air above us shimmered and the rain stopped falling on me. Looking up again, I saw it exploding off the dome of the repulsion field over our heads. Around our feet, the paving darkened in splotches and then uniformly, but a magic circle around our feet stayed dry.

“To actually remove the locater will require microsurgery similar to its placement. It can be done, but not without a full micro-op theatre. Anything less, and you run the risk of damaging the neural interface, or even the spinal nerve canals.”

I shifted a little, uncomfortable at our proximity. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Well, then you’ve probably also figured,” she said, burlesquing my accent, “that you can enter either a scrambling signal or a mirror code into the stack receiver to neutralise the broadcast signature.”

“If you’ve got the original signature.”

“If, as you say, you have the original signature.” She reached into her pocket and produced a small, plastic-sheathed disc, weighed it in her palm for a moment and then held it out to me. “Well, now you have.”

I took the disc and looked at it speculatively.