Altered Carbon

“No.” He flicked a finger at me the way I had pointed at Bancroft when he didn’t want to face my facts on the balcony of Suntouch House. “You’re lying to yourself. Remember that pimp we met in Lazlo’s pipe house the year we joined Shonagon’s Eleven. The one we nearly killed before they pulled us off him.”

“That was just chemicals. We were off our head on tetrameth, showing off because of the Eleven stuff. Fuck, we were only sixteen.”

“Bullshit. We did it because he looked like Dad.”

“Maybe.”

“Fact. And we spent the next decade and a half killing authority figures for the same reason.”

“Oh, give me a fucking break! We spent that decade and a half killing anyone who got in the way. It was the military, that’s what we did for a living. And, anyway, since when is a pimp an authority figure?”

“OK, maybe it was pimps we spent fifteen years killing. Users. Maybe that’s what we were paying back.”

“He never pimped Mum out.”

“Are you sure? Why were we so hot to hit the Elizabeth Elliott angle like a fucking tactical nuke? Why the accent on whorehouses in this investigation?”

“Because,” I said, sinking a finger of whisky, “that is what this investigation has been about from the begi

“Oh, Miriam Bancroft. Now there’s another whole disc we could spin.”

“Shut up. Elliott was a pretty fucking good sounding shot. We wouldn’t have got to Head in the Clouds without that trip to Jerry’s biocabins.”

“Ahhh.” He made a disgusted gesture and tipped his own glass back. “You believe what you want. I say the Patchwork Man’s been a metaphor for Dad because we couldn’t bear to look too closely at the truth and that’s why we freaked the first time we saw a composite construct in virtual. Remember that, do you? That rec house on Adoracion. We had rage dreams for a week after that little show. Waking up with shreds of pillow on your hands. They sent us to the psychs for that.”

I gestured irritably. “Yeah, I remember. I remember being shit scared of the Patchwork Man, not Dad. I remember feeling the same when we met Kadmin in virtual too.”

“And now he’s dead? How do we feel now?”

“I don’t feel anything.”

He pointed at me again. “That’s a cover.”

“It is not a cover. The motherfucker got in my way, he threatened me and now he’s dead. Transmission ends.”

“Remember anyone else threatening you, do you? When you were small, maybe?”

“I am not going to talk about this any more.” I reached for the bottle and filled my glass again. “Pick another subject. What about Ortega? What are our feelings on that score?”

“Are you pla

“You want some?”

“No.”

I spread my hands. “So what’s it to you?”

“Are you trying to get drunk?”

“Of course I am. If I’ve got to talk to myself, I don’t see why I should do it sober. So tell me about Ortega.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why not?” I asked reasonably. “Got to talk about something, remember. What’s wrong with Ortega?”

“What’s wrong is that we don’t feel the same about her. You aren’t wearing Ryker’s sleeve any more.”

“That doesn’t—”

“Yes, it does. What’s between us and Ortega is completely physical. There hasn’t been time for anything else. That’s why you’re so happy to talk about her now. In that sleeve, all you’ve got is some vague nostalgia about that yacht and a bundle of snapshot memories to back it up. There’s nothing chemical happening to you any more.”

I reached for something to say, and abruptly found nothing. The suddenly discovered difference sat between us like a third, unwanted occupant of the room.

The Ryker copy dug into his pockets and came up with Ortega’s cigarettes. The packet was crushed almost flat. He extracted a cigarette, looked ruefully at it and fitted it into his mouth. I tried not to look disapproving.

“Last one,” he said, touching the ignition patch to it.

“The hotel probably has more.”

“Yeah.” He plumed out smoke, and I found myself almost envying him the addiction. “You know, there is one thing we should be discussing right now.”

“What’s that?”

But I knew already. We both knew.

“You want me to spell it out? All right.” He drew on the cigarette again and shrugged, not easily. “We have to decide which of us gets obliterated when this is all over. And since our individual instinct for survival is getting stronger by the minute, we need to decide soon.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Which would you prefer to remember? Taking down Kawahara? Or going down on Miriam Bancroft?” He smiled sourly. “No competition, I suppose.”

“Hey, this isn’t just a roll on the beach you’re talking about. This is multiple copy sex. It’s about the only genuinely illicit pleasure left. Anyway, Irene Elliott said we could do a memory graft and keep both sets of experience.”

“Probably. She said we could probably do a memory graft. And that still leaves one of us to be cancelled out. It’s not a meld, it’s a graft, from one of us to the other. Editing. You want to do that to yourself? To the one that survives. We couldn’t even face editing that construct the Hendrix built. How are we going to live with this? No way, it’s got to be a clean cut. One or the other. And we’ve got to decide which.”

“Yeah.” I picked up the whisky bottle and stared gloomily at the label. “So what do we do? Gamble for it? Paper, scissors, stone, say the best of five?”

“I was thinking along slightly more rational lines. We tell each other our memories from this point on and then decide which we want to keep. Which ones are worth more.”

“How the hell are we going to measure something like that?”

“We’ll know. You know we will.”

“What if one of us lies. Embroiders the truth to make it sound like a more appealing memory. Or lies about which one they like better.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?”

“A lot can happen in a few days. Like you said, we’re both going to want to survive.”

“Ortega can polygraph us if it comes to that.”

“I think I’d rather gamble.”

“Give me that fucking bottle. If you’re not going to take this seriously, nor am I. Fuck it, you might even get torched out there and solve the problem for us.”

“Thanks.”

I passed him the bottle and watched as he decanted two careful fingers. Jimmy de Soto had always said it was sacrilege to sink more than five fingers of single malt on any one occasion. After that, he maintained, you might as well be drinking blended. I had a feeling that we were going to profane that particular article of faith tonight.

I raised my glass.

“To unity of purpose.”

“Yeah, and an end to drinking alone.”

The hangover was still with me nearly a full day later as I watched him leave on one of the hotel monitors. He stepped out onto the pavement and waited while the long, polished limousine settled to the kerb. As the kerbside door hinged up, I caught a brief glimpse of Miriam Bancroft’s profile within. Then he was climbing in and the door swung smoothly back down to cover them both. The limousine trembled along its length and lifted away.

I dry-swallowed more painkillers, gave it ten minutes and then went up to the roof to wait for Ortega.

It was cold.