Broken Angels

“Into the ship?” Against my will, I was fascinated. The Envoy Corps teaches you about lying, lying under polygraph, lying under extreme stress, lying in whatever circumstances demand it and with total conviction. Envoys lie better than any other human being in the Protectorate, natural or augmented, and looking at Schneider now I knew he was not lying. Whatever had happened to him, he believed absolutely in what he was saying.

“No.” He shook his head, “Not into the ship, no. The gate’s focused on a point about two kilometres out from the hull. It rotates every four and a half hours, near enough. You need a spacesuit.”

“Or a shuttle.” I nodded at the tattoo on his arm. “What were you flying?”

He grimaced. “Piece of shit Mowai suborbital. Size of a fucking house. It wouldn’t fit through the portal space.”

“What?” I coughed up an unexpected laugh that hurt my chest. “Wouldn’t fit?”

“Yeah, you go ahead and laugh,” said Schneider morosely. “Wasn’t for that particular little logistic, I wouldn’t be in this fucking war now. I’d be wearing out a custom-built sleeve in Latimer City. Clones on ice, remote storage, fucking immortal, man. The whole programme.”

“No one had a spacesuit?”

“What for?” Schneider spread his hands. “It was a suborbital. No one was expecting to go offworld. Fact, no one was allowed offworld ‘cept via the IP ports at Landfall. Everything you found on site had to be checked through Export Quarantine. And that was something else no one was real keen to do. Remember that expropriation clause?”

“Yeah. Any findings judged to be of vital importance to Protectorate interests. You didn’t fancy the suitable compensation? Or you didn’t figure it’d be suitable?”

“Come on, Kovacs. What’s suitable compensation for finding something like this?”

I shrugged. “Depends. In the private sector it depends very much on who you talk to. A bullet through the stack, maybe.”

Schneider ski

“I think you would have handled it very badly. Whether you lived or not would have depended on who you were dealing with.”

“So who would you have gone to?”

I shook out a fresh cigarette, letting the question hang a little before I said anything. “That’s not under discussion here, Schneider. My rates as a consultant are a little out of your reach. As a partner, on the other hand, well,” I offered him a small smile of my own. “I’m still listening. What happened next?”

Schneider’s laugh was a bitter explosion, loud enough to hook even the holoporn audience momentarily away from the lurid airbrushed bodies that twisted in full-scale 3-D reproduction at the other end of the ward.

“What happened?” He brought his voice down again, and waited until the flesh fans’ gazes were snagged back to the performance. “What happened? This war is what fucking happened.”

CHAPTER THREE

Somewhere, a baby was crying.

For a long moment I hung by my hands from the hatch coaming and let the equatorial climate come aboard. I’d been discharged from the hospital as fit for duty, but my lungs still weren’t functioning as well as I would have liked, and the soggy air made for hard breathing.

“Hot here.”

Schneider had shut down the shuttle’s drive and was crowding my shoulder. I dropped from the hatch to let him out and shaded my eyes against the glare of the sun. From the air, the internment camp had looked as i

A small squad of local militia slouched up behind a sergeant who reminded me vaguely of my father on one of his better days. They saw the Wedge uniforms and pulled up short. The sergeant gave me a grudging salute.

“Lieutenant Takeshi Kovacs, Carrera’s Wedge,” I said briskly. “This is Corporal Schneider. We’re here to appropriate Tanya Wardani, one of your internees, for interrogation.”

The sergeant frowned. “I wasn’t informed of this.”

“I’m informing you now, sergeant.”

In situations like this, the uniform was usually enough. It was widely known on Sanction IV that the Wedge were the Protectorate’s unofficial hard men, and generally they got what they wanted. Even the other mercenary units tended to back down when it came tussles over requisitioning. But something seemed to be sticking in this sergeant’s throat. Some dimly remembered worship of regulations, instilled on parade grounds back when it all meant something, back before the war cut loose. That, or maybe just the sight of his own countrymen and women starving in their bubblefabs.

“I’ll have to see some authorisation.”

I snapped my fingers at Schneider and held out a hand for the hardcopy. It hadn’t been difficult to obtain. In a planet-wide conflict like this, Carrera gave his junior officers latitudes of initiative that a Protectorate divisional commander would kill for. No one had even asked me what I wanted Wardani for. No one cared. So far the toughest thing had been the shuttle; they had a use for that and IP transport was in short supply. In the end I’d had to take it at gunpoint from the regular-forces colonel in charge of a field hospital someone had told us about south-east of Suchinda. There was going to be some trouble about that eventually, but then, as Carrera himself was fond of saying, this was a war, not a popularity contest.

“Will that be sufficient, sergeant?”

He pored over the printout, as if he was hoping the authorisation flashes would prove to be peel-off fakes. I shifted with an impatience which was not entirely feigned. The atmosphere of the camp was oppressive, and the baby’s crying ran on incessantly somewhere out of view. I wanted to be out of here.

The sergeant looked up and handed me the hardcopy. “You’ll have to see the commandant,” he said woodenly. “These people are all under government supervision.”

I shot glances past him left and right, then looked back into his face.

“Right.” I let the sneer hang for a moment, and his eyes dropped away from mine. “Let’s go talk to the commandant then. Corporal Schneider, stay here. This won’t take long.”

The commandant’s office was in a double-storey ‘fab cordoned off from the rest of the camp by more power fencing. Smaller sentry units squatted on top of the capacitor posts like early mille

Most of the light in the office came from a bank of security monitors on the far wall. Adjacent to them was a moulded plastic desk dominated on one side by a cheap datastack holo and a keyboard. The rest of the surface was scattered with curling sheets of hardcopy, marker pens and other administrative debris. Abandoned coffee cups rose out of the mess like cooling towers in an industrial wasteland, and in one place light-duty cabling snaked across the desktop and down to the arm of the sideways slumped figure behind the desk.