Crashing Heaven

Book 0: The Station Series

by Al Robertson

Genres: Science Fiction; Cyberpunk; Space Exploration

Synopsis

A diamond-hard, visionary new SF thriller. Nailed-down cyberpunk ala William Gibson for the 21st century meets the vivid dark futures of Al Reynolds in this extraordinary debut novel. With Earth abandoned, humanity resides on Station, an industrialised asteroid run by the sentient corporations of the Pantheon. Under their leadership a war has been raging against the Totality - ex-Pantheon AIs gone rogue. With the war over, Jack Forster and his sidekick Hugo Fist, a virtual ventriloquist's dummy tied to Jack's mind and created to destroy the Totality, have returned home. Labelled a traitor for surrendering to the Totality, all Jack wants is to clear his name but when he discovers two old friends have died under suspicious circumstances he also wants answers. Soon he and Fist are embroiled in a conspiracy that threatens not only their future but all of humanity's. But with Fist's software licence about to expire, taking Jack's life with it, can they bring down the real traitors before their time runs out?

Release date: July 4, 2017

Publisher: Gollancz

Print pages: 368

Sample

 

Chapter 1

[Look out of the window, Fist,] said Jack, speaking inside his mind so only the little puppet could hear him. [Snowflakes.]

As their shuttle wheeled around, the sun snatched at the snowflakes’ great ice bodies and made them blaze, leaving even Hugo Fist with nothing to say. There were a dozen of them hanging in the cold, empty space before Station. The smaller ones sparkled with reflected light. Maybe five hundred metres across, they revolved in the void, bodies shimmering gently. The larger ones were majestic crystal shapes, dense with fractal complexity. They glowed partly with the sun’s fire, partly with their own inborn light. The abandoned Earth roiled behind them, its toxic cloudscapes an insult to their cold perfection.

[A Totality battle formation – here?] whispered Fist. [ We really did lose the war, Jackie boy!]

[According to East they arrived a month ago. Supporting their peace negotiators.]

[ You been onweave? Checking the newsfeeds? I thought you’d given up on that.]

[ I wanted to see what we were coming back to.]

[ I’m sure. You’ve been mailing Andrea again, haven’t you? Harry’s dead, she’s single, you’ve come all the way back from a Totality prison, and she still won’t reply?]

Jack said nothing. Andrea’s mails had sustained him through the last two years of prisoner-of-war life and helped him come to terms with his imminent death. He thought she’d be overjoyed to hear that he was returning home to Station. But she didn’t reply to the message he sent announcing his return, or any that followed it. He turned back to look out of the window.

The shuttle was nearing the snowflakes. They drifted in the darkness like so many frozen stars, policed by clusters of monitor drones. Station – Kingdom’s greatest achievement – hung behind them. Jack had spent seven years remembering his home. It was nine ­kilometres long and, at its widest, two and a half kilometres across. Every single centimetre suddenly seemed so ugly. The twin cylinders of Homelands and Docklands were corroded metal dustbins sprouting from opposite sides of the Wart, the hollowed-out asteroid wedged between them like a dirty secret.

Only the cargo jetties of Docklands held anything like beauty. They shimmered above the near tube’s round, open mouth in sparkling lines, reaching out from the Spine to score order on the void. The Spine was speckled with spinelights, their blazing light creating one more day on Station. It disappeared into Docklands, running all the way down Station’s central axis to the distant tip of Homelands. And of course, there was Heaven – a blue-green ring wrapped around the end of Homelands. Its perfect light was too cold to move Jack. He’d left any allegiance to the Pantheon gods far behind five years ago, when he refused to fight any more battles for them.

The shuttle altered course slightly and Docklands came into view, a curved clutter of factories, offices, housing estates and entertainment zones. It was as if some giant, half-broken machine had bled buildings on to the arched inner wall of a hollow cylinder, until something broadly like a city had clotted into being. It was too far away to make out much detail. Memory filled the gaps. Jack remembered the Docklands streets he’d grown up in, and then left so comprehensively behind. ‘The inside of the dustbin,’ he thought, then smiled sadly as he imagined Andrea scolding his cynicism. She’d helped him find their beauty again, in those few hidden months they’d had together. Then the rock hit the moon and everything changed. She’d brought so much into his life more recently, too. He winced at the thought of her absence. He’d missed her so much over the last few weeks.

Fist caught the movement but, with no access to Jack’s deep ­emotions, misunderstood it. [ We don’t need to worry about snowflakes any more. The Totality like us now.]

Jack sighed. [ They shouldn’t,] he replied. [ You and I destroyed enough of them.]

[ Before your little change of heart.]

The shuttle moved past one of the larger snowflakes. A cold shining arm loomed towards the window. Silver lights flickered within hard crystal ice, each shimmer a thought pulsing in one of a thousand virtual minds.

[ Just think, Jack. I could have killed one of those. If you’d let me.]

‘No,’ said Jack, out loud. One of his guards heard and briefly stared at him, then at the empty seat next to him. Jack didn’t notice. He was looking out at Docklands again, tracing yesterday across its streets.

The shuttle docked at one of Station’s jetties. The guards escorted Jack down to a cell in Customs House. He hung his coat on the back of the door and nestled his little Totality-issued suitcase down beside the cell’s single chair. His new suit itched. Hours passed. There was water, but no food. Fist, bored, was sleeping. Little snores echoed in Jack’s mind. Memories of Andrea darted between them, trailing grief and loss. Familiar thoughts followed. Her silence was impossible to understand. Perhaps something had happened to her. Maybe she needed his help. He had to find her. After a while, more immediate needs distracted him. He banged on the door and shouted for something to eat. There was no response. He tried to sleep, and in a confused half-dream found himself falling through darkness towards nothing.

At last a new guard startled him awake. He walked Jack down a windowless corridor to a small, brightly lit room. There was a desk with two plastic chairs in one corner of the room. A balding, portly customs official sat behind it. He asked Jack to sit down.

[Don’t show off,] Jack told Fist as he stretched and yawned. [ I don’t want him realising you’ve hacked your cage.]

The official had a strong Docklands accent. He was brisk and osten­sibly courteous. He confirmed Jack’s identity, then asked which Pantheon god had been his patron. ‘No wonder you’re so fucked,’ he said when Jack replied ‘Grey’. Then, a return to formality and a barrage of questions.

‘When did Grey certify you as an accountant?’

‘On the day of my twenty-first birthday.’

‘When were you seconded to InSec?’

‘Three years later.’

‘What was your role?’

‘I was assigned to work under Inspector Harry Devlin as a forensic auditor. Investigating links between the Panther Czar nightclub and Bjorn Penderville’s murder.’

The official snorted.

‘Why didn’t they use an InSec specialist?’

‘It was Grey’s will. I didn’t question it.’

[ That’s not what you told me,] said Fist.

[Quiet.]

‘When were you reassigned to outer-system duties?’

‘After the attack on the moon. It was decided that the Penderville case was low priority. I understand it was never resolved.’

[ Not going to share your conspiracy theories, Jackie boy?]

[ No. Now shut up.]

‘What was your specific Soft War posting?’

‘Aggressive ongoing counter-mind actions.’

The official stared at a screen that was invisible to Jack. With every answer, his fingers moved through the air, taking notes on a virtual keyboard. Then there was a pause. He looked straight at Jack, challenging him.

‘When did you defect?’

‘I didn’t defect. I surrendered.’

‘I have the date of your defection here. Please confirm it.’

‘No.’

[Aren’t you taking this rather seriously, Jack?]

[ The Pantheon betrayed me. I didn’t betray them. I just stopped doing their dirty work.]

‘I can’t proceed without your co-operation. And if I can’t complete this interview I can’t admit you to Station.’

‘Sandal’s watching, isn’t he? You’re not normally such sticklers.’

[Oh, come on Jack. We don’t want to go back to Callisto. Totality prisoner-of-war life is so boring.]

‘You’re a dangerous man, Forster, and you have an improper attitude to the Pantheon. I don’t need to be in their sight to do my duty. When did you defect?’

‘I did not defect.’

[Oh fucking hell, Jack, when I take your body I don’t want to be stuck in some out-system backwater. And what about Andrea? You’re going to let pride stop you from finding her?]

Fist’s words cut through Jack’s anger. But before he could reply, the room’s door slid open. The official turned towards it, surprised. ‘Forster’s right,’ announced the woman who came into the room.

She was short and broad and middle-aged, and she moved with the unfussy precision of machinery. Dark grey combat pants and a baggy black T-shirt hung off her stocky frame. Her face had the lived-in look of an old sleeping bag. There was a blue tinge to her skin. She’d dyed her hair to match it.

‘You people don’t normally care about this sort of thing. Anyone would think you were looking for an excuse not to admit him. Which would be illegal.’

The official turned pale. ‘Who are you?’ he snapped, not quite regaining his authority. ‘Where’s the guard?’

‘I dismissed him. And I’m an observer. Look.’

The official’s eyes refocused. Jack assumed that identity information was flickering a couple of feet in front of his face. ‘I see,’ he stammered. ‘An honour.’

‘Good,’ the woman said, enjoying the official’s discomfort. ‘Now, finish the questions. And – Forster’s reply is accurate. He did surrender.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Not that cowardice is really any better than treason, but still. Attention to detail.’

‘I’m not a coward,’ Jack snapped back without thinking.

[ Fuck’s sake,] groaned Fist.

‘No, you just gave yourself up to the enemy,’ said the woman. ‘Without firing a shot. But we’ll skip over that.’

Her accusation stung. Jack thought of Andrea and forced himself to swallow his anger. The questions continued. To his relief, none were contentious. Most were designed to assess how well he’d adjusted to life offweave. Even though his answers were blandly reassuring, the official was still nervous. He kept glancing over at the woman. She’d reclined on one of the plastic seats, with her feet up on another.

[ Who can she be?] Fist wondered. [ InSec? You should let me take a proper look.]

[ Too risky.]

The pauses between questions grew longer and longer, then at last became a silence. The official stared determinedly down, his fingers skittering across his invisible keyboard. His hands shook. ‘Oh, for gods’ sake,’ the woman snapped. ‘Stop putting it off. This is the interesting bit.’

‘I’m just getting the details right.’

‘Sandal gave you weaveware to protect you. Don’t you trust your patron?’

The official swallowed and stood up. He was quite short. ‘I need to see the puppet.’

When Fist shimmered into being the official took a step back and swore. The puppet was surrounded by cageware that manifested as a virtual set of spinning silver rings, revealing then hiding fragments of his body. There were little black polished shoes, a scarlet cummerbund, bright red painted lips, a black bow-tie, dangling, unarticulated hands and varnished shining eyes.

‘I don’t know why you’re so scared of me.’ Fist’s thin high voice had a singsong quality to it. Wooden teeth clacked as he spoke, punctuating his words with sharp percussive bangs. ‘You can hardly even see me. And I’m all locked up. Poor little Hugo Fist, all locked up.’ He glared at Jack. ‘It’s the story of my life.’

The official didn’t reply. He wouldn’t even let himself look ­directly at Fist. He moved round the cageware, ticking off each ring as he found it fully operational.

[ Imagine if I reached out and touched him, Jack. Just tapped him on the shoulder. I think I could. How he’d jump!]

[ Hush, Fist.]

The official picked up an MRI wand and moved over to Jack. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered. ‘Keep your back straight.’ He held the wand close in to Jack’s back and waved it up and down, scanning his spine and skull for the embedded hardware that was Fist’s physical self. Jack felt a light tingling. ‘Oo! Tickles!’ giggled the puppet.

The woman moved closer to Fist’s cage, bending over to peer at him. ‘Well, here you are,’ she said, fascinated. ‘The last of the puppets, still embedded in your puppeteer.’

‘Just you wait,’ Fist tittered. ‘He may be the boss now, but I’ll be pulling all the strings soon.’

‘So you really are going to take full ownership of his mind and body?’ she said. ‘Fuck yes,’ replied Fist. She turned to Jack. ‘And how do you feel about that?’ she asked, needling him. ‘This little creature, wiping your mind? Killing you?’

‘I’ve had a year to get used to the idea,’ said Jack wearily. ‘It’s old news.’ He felt a sharp combination of rage and grief start up in him, before the acceptance he’d worked so hard to feel choked them off.

‘He doesn’t have any choice!’ chirped Fist. ‘And I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. He’s just got to say a couple of goodbyes, then it’s party time for new flesh me!’

The woman turned back to him. ‘You really are a poisonous little fellow, aren’t you?’ Her tone was almost admiring.

‘As the gods made me.’

‘Half a metre of wooden viciousness, all dressed up for an elegant night out! Our masters have quite the imagination.’

She rapped the cageware with her knuckles. The official winced. There was a soft crackling sound. A couple of the rings shimmered, then reasserted themselves.

‘I don’t think you’ll make it to any balls, though.’

‘We’ll see, missy.’

She laughed, delighted.

‘I look forward to it.’

The official finished his checks and put the wand down. ‘All done,’ he told Jack. Then he stood silently, staring at the woman and waiting for his cue.

‘The puppet’s contained?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Fully.’

Fist snickered in Jack’s mind.

[Quiet!] hissed Jack.

‘Then I suppose we have to let him out, don’t we?’

‘That’s what the peace treaty says.’

A barely perceptible movement and the woman was standing in front of Jack.

[Oo, snappy!] Fist’s voice was full of admiration. [ Not such a used-up old hag after all.]

She placed her hand on Jack’s cheek. It was colder than a hand should be. ‘I’ve done my bit. Seen all I need. So I’m going.’ Her touch frosted Jack’s skin. Her face came close to his. There was a soft purple light in her eyes. ‘I know people who are terrified of you two,’ she whispered, her voice rich with threat. ‘Give me one tiny chance and I’ll show them you’re nothing to be scared of.’

The door slammed shut behind her. The official gaped, astonished at her inhuman speed. [ Now she’s just showing off,] commented Fist as he disappeared too.

‘I’m free to go?’ asked Jack.

The official started, as if he’d forgotten his prisoner was there. ‘Yes.’ He went to his desk and reached into a drawer. ‘Here’s your cash card. InSec have charged it up with all the money you’ll need.’

‘Can I go onweave?’

‘No overlay, no commerce, no search, no social. Just mail and fetch access, to talk with your loved ones.’

[ That’ll make finding Andrea a bit tricky!] giggled Fist. [ No distractions, then. Just a lovely, lovely family reunion. Your living dad and your dear dead mum.]

‘InSec’s made a formal request for an interview. Assistant Com­mis­sioner Lestak’s sending someone to pick you up from our landing pad tomorrow morning. The meeting is a condition of your parole. If you don’t attend, you’ll be found and imprisoned.’

He led Jack down empty corridors into a lift. It shuddered and began to fall. The official gave Jack a look of deep contempt. ‘If it was down to me I’d put you out of an airlock, and let you freeze with your fucking terrorist friends,’ he hissed.

‘The Totality have always denied attacking the moon,’ replied Jack. ‘They blamed a rogue mind, acting alone. I believe them. And the Pantheon were looking for revenge, not justice.’

The lift doors opened. The official shoved Jack out. ‘Now fuck off.’ There was an empty atrium and a midnight street. Tiredness hit Jack harder than any interrogation ever could. Suddenly all he wanted to do was find a room and sleep, and never wake to see the dawn. He thought of Andrea, sighed, and then stepped out into the darkness of Station.

 

Chapter 2

It was night and the spinelights were dim. Jack left Customs House and set off into Docklands down a road the colour of rust, turning the collar of his coat up against the rain. He’d walked these streets before, but never offweave. Calle Agua was almost as he remembered it, a canyon of four- or five-storey office blocks owned by either Sandal or Kingdom. Each was carved out of age-scarred iron.

Kingdom’s visuals were always minimal. As the architect of ­humanity’s presence in the Solar System he liked physical structure, the heart of his power, to be exposed. So, the iron would have been left to show through the weave. Sandal’s offices would have been glossed with an overlay of smiling faces and positive thoughts. He was responsible for cargo, docks and related transport logistics. He liked to show how important he was to the smooth movement of goods and services, and so to general human happiness.

And of course six Pantheon icons would be watching over Docklands from far above, clustered around the Spine and backlit by spinelight. Five of them would be fully aware, tending visibly to their enclosed world.

Only Grey’s raven would be blinded and hobbled. Station’s master corporate strategist had been silenced for years.

Being offweave, Jack could see none of this.

[ I’m sure you’re not missing anything,] said Fist, his thin, high voice singing in Jack’s mind. The little puppet had run a dozen paces ahead. The rain was falling through him. He looked back at Jack, varnished eyes gleaming excitedly out of a glossy painted face. [Come on!] he shouted. Then he clapped his wooden hands to­gether twice and disappeared beneath the elevated rails that crossed the end of Calle Agua. There was something almost innocent about his excitement. As Jack followed him beneath the single high arch that supported the bridge, carefully avoiding puddles, a train bumped and swayed over it. Light flashed down, showing buildings that were already a little lower and less imposing. He turned towards Hong Se De Market. Fist was standing on the pavement just ahead of him, staring at a figure that was looking up at a warehouse.

[Look at that, Jack! A Totality biped. He’s far from home.]

[ If he’s identifying as male, he is. Otherwise, she is.]

[Pedant. What’s it up to?]

The rain shimmered off the biped’s dark poncho. It was about the height of an average human. After a few seconds it turned away from the warehouse and moved down the street, stopping when it was in front of the next building. As its head moved to stare upwards again, its hood slipped. It had no face. Light glowed out of a soft blank oval, tinting the wet night purple.

Fist was all hungry fascination. [ If I wasn’t caged,] he muttered. Jack crossed the road to pass the biped. Fist ran after him. [Snowflakes out there, squishies in here,] he panted. [ I don’t know what things have come to. No wonder your customs friend was so unhappy!]

[Don’t call them squishies, Fist.]

[ I don’t see why not. I don’t mind being called a puppet.]

As they approached the market, gloomy metal facades gave way to ramshackle assemblages of plastic, tin and canvas, barely holding together as the rain lashed them.

[Docklands’ biggest market? It’s a dump.]

[ It’s better when you’re onweave.]

Jack remembered dancing words hanging in midair, enticing passers­by into market booths. Ghostly data sprites touched at potential customers with viewer-appropriate fingers, whispered viewer-appropriate promises, displayed viewer-appropriate genitalia and hinted at viewer-appropriate wonders – on sale NOW! By contrast, reality was sodden and heavy, a failure to be anything but its tarnished, non-negotiable self.

The booths were all closed, but some of their weave systems had been left running, beaming content into the darkness. There were men and women – sometimes in groups, sometimes alone. They all stood rapt, dreams dancing like whispers around them.

[Don’t let any of them see you.]

[ I’d give them such a scare,] cackled Fist. [ I wonder if they’re watching the same thing as the squishy?]

[ I doubt it. The Totality aren’t weave fans.]

[Look at that fellow!]

An old man was standing in front of a particularly rundown group of stalls, smiling beatifically at the rain. One hand hung at his side. The other was inside his trousers, tugging at himself. There was a dark hole in the centre of his face where his nose had fallen in. Jack started. He’d forgotten how brutally sweat could degrade its users. Nobody else was reacting to the sweathead. Their weaveware would be actively masking his presence.

Jack began to walk more quickly. Hunger bit, intensifying the cold and the wet. Memories of Andrea haunted him, more persistent than any sprite. She’d loved hunting through the market for bargains. He so wanted to make new moments with her, sharded with fresh joy. He’d worked so hard to make sure that rage and bitterness wouldn’t corrode them. He pulled his coat closer around himself and shivered. There was so little time left. Another train hummed by, slowing for Hong Se De station.

The streets emptied as they left the market behind and neared the Wound. Jack let its deeper, more impersonal history distract him from Andrea’s absence. Centuries ago, a stray asteroid had gouged into Homeland’s outer skin. The district whose streets and buildings sat just over the damaged area, hugging Homeland’s curved interior, had been renamed to commemorate the event. Kingdom’s architects had built down into the gash, creating buildings whose lower floors saw out through it into space. The Wound attracted people who wanted that kind of view. It became popular with the dockers who worked on the edge of the void, and the spacers who spent their lives travelling through it. Few of them would be out at this time of night. Most were sleeping, shattered by the brute physicality of their working lives. There was little need for nightlife in the neighbourhood.

Fist announced that he was bored. He started pulling himself back into Jack’s mind. [ Find us a hotel,] Jack told him. [ Then we’ll start looking for Andrea.]

[ How?]

[ We’ll search.]

[ I can’t go onweave yet. I haven’t broken all the security glyphs.]

[Shit. How long till you’ve got full access?]

[Perhaps a week, probably two. This fucking cage.]

They kept walking. After a few minutes a Twins weave sigil announced a café. Soft light spilled out of its window, turning falling raindrops into streaks of fire. A ventilator whirred, filling the cold night with the hot, beckoning reek of frying oil. Jack pushed through the door, hoping for food and help with a weave-search.

A woman and two teenage boys were hunched over a zinc bar. The woman was finishing some soup, spooning green liquid carefully into her mouth. A hood hid her face. She was clearly a deep spacer. Her right arm had been held at Customs House, leaving only a bright metal socket attached to her shoulder. A long cloak covered the rest of her. Her crutch was leaning against the bar. Jack wondered if they’d also confiscated one of her legs. Sandal’s officials must have reasserted a Pantheon limited tech use licence. Such licences no longer applied in the Totality-controlled regions of the Solar System. Jack wondered if she’d be able to replace her limbs when she returned home.

[ They strip the limbs from good honest working folk. Shocking!]

[ That’s the Pantheon for you. You never own anything. You just license it from them.]

The two teens displayed Grey logos, carefully stitched into bandanas. One went to cover his up. The other glanced at Jack. ‘It’s OK, he’s not InSec.’

[ Your old boss still has some supporters. Impressive pair!]

‘I want food. Something hot and quick,’ said Jack, taking a seat at the bar. ‘And I’m looking for a hotel. And a friend.’

‘You can see the menu. And do I look like a search engine?’ the barman snapped back.

‘I’m not onweave.’ Now Jack had his attention. ‘I’ve only just arrived on Station. Sandal certified me safe.’

‘There’s a hotel a couple of streets away, left then right. But if you’re not onweave you can’t pay for a room. Or food. Not that you’d taste it anyway.’

‘I’ve got money.’ Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the cash card.

‘That’s InSec. The kids were right. You are police.’

There was a muttered ‘shit’ from the teenage boys.

‘No,’ replied Jack. ‘Not any more.’

‘You’re on parole, aren’t you?’ asked one of the teens.

‘Worse than you fucks, chasing your traitor god,’ the barman told him.

‘Oi, watch it – they never proved anything.’ The teen’s friend hushed him.

‘Kingdom believed Grey was knowingly helping terrorists, East reported it all, that’s enough for me,’ replied the barman. ‘And you’ – turning back to Jack – ‘you can get out. I don’t know what you’ve done, but if it’s enough to get you offweaved I don’t want you in here.’

One of the teens whispered, ‘Probably a skinner. Coming down hard on them just now.’

As Jack left he heard the barman say ‘scum’.

[ I’ll have him for every shilling he’s ever earned. I’ll mail pictures of him screwing a six-year-old to everyone he’s ever met. By this time tomorrow they’ll have thrown him out of his life and he’ll be begging on the fucking streets,] whispered Fist, his thin, high voice a malevolent whip cracking inside Jack’s head.

[ No you won’t,] Jack thought back. [ You’ll remember what would happen if you got caught and you’ll do what I tell you.]

[ Yes, that’s always worked out so well for us, hasn’t it?]

[ Fuck you, Fist.]

 

 

 

Chapter 3

The hotel was easy to find. A half-broken sign spat sparks at the night every time a raindrop hit it.

[ Very vintage. Andrea loves this sort of thing, doesn’t she? Shame you’ll probably never get her here. Could be quite the love den.]

[Don’t be so sure, Fist.]

[ Remember all that counselling you did when we found out I’d be taking over? What was that thing they said was so bad? Ah yes. Denial.]

The door refused to open. Jack barged it with his shoulder and it flew back. A bell jangled too loudly. The reception area was dimly lit. A plastic counter pretended to be wood. At first Jack thought that the desk clerk was a young man, but when he got closer he saw that age had carved lines in his face. There was something very boyish about his greeting, though.

‘Oo, hello! Dear me, you’re soaked. We’ll get you a room nice and quickly.’

He stood up, swaying slightly. There was a sharp herbal scent in the air. Jack recognised Docklands gin. He’d not tasted alcohol for seven years. He’d forgotten how it could slur words, make a hand shake as it sketched patterns in the empty air.

[ You should get some and celebrate being home.]

[ No distractions, Fist. Especially not cheap shit like that. We’re here to find Andrea.]

‘Single room?’ asked the clerk, unaware of their conversation. ‘Staying how long?’

‘A few weeks.’

Fist laughed. Jack thought of glass breaking in darkness. The clerk waved a hand, confirming the booking.

‘I need a deposit. Just mesh with our server.’

‘I’ll pay with this,’ said Jack. He slapped the InSec card on the plastic countertop. ‘Is that a problem?’

The clerk looked at Jack, then back at the card, then at Jack again. ‘Well, I should be worried. But it’s a simply horrid night. And I’m sure you can’t have done anything too bad. I can trust you, can’t I? You won’t let me down, will you?’ He fumbled uncertainly in the air for a few seconds. Somewhere in the distance a buzzer rang. He sat down heavily, then reached for a glass and swigged transparent liquid. ‘The Twins would want me to,’ he muttered, to himself as much as to Jack.

[Old soak,] said Fist.

[ If he wasn’t so smashed, he probably wouldn’t be giving us the room.]

‘You know,’ slurred the clerk, ‘for a bit extra you can even have a view of the stars. And it’s not as if it’s your money you’re spending, is it?’ He giggled hysterically. Jack nodded. The clerk made a swooping gesture, nearly losing his balance. ‘That’s all done for you then. I’ll call the porter to show you to your room. I’m Charles, by the way.’

‘One more thing. Can you find a friend for me? She’s a singer, there should be gig listings.’

‘Can’t you just message her?’

‘I want to surprise her.’

‘Aha!’ Charles put a finger to his nose and winked heavily. ‘I see.’ But he couldn’t find any trace of Andrea. ‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. Fist giggled. ‘And here’s our porter.’

An old man prowled into reception. His face was as battered as a mined-out asteroid. He had a hunchbacked stance to match. He didn’t offer to take Jack’s suitcase. Jack followed him out of the recep­tion area through a door that was little more than a hole hacked in an iron wall. ‘Sweet dreams,’ Charles called after them. Then: ‘Mr Forster’s not onweave.’ The porter grunted in surprise.

[Pisshead,] grumbled Jack. [ He probably spelt her name wrong. Or just didn’t see it when it came up.]

They moved down a long c