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Authors: Neal Asher

BOOK: Cowl
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The rent was overdue, she'd used the last of her patches, her DSS card had been revoked because she'd been caught soliciting without a U-gov licence, and now the Revenue were after her for back taxes for the ‘public service' she had provided. But she was determined they were not going to get her on any of the social projects, which was the usual way things went in this situation. She had friends who'd done that and who were classified bankrupt, the result of this being revocation of citizenship and full indenture to U-gov. The chains were plastic cards, location torcs, but nobody dared call it slavery.
At seven Polly rolled out of bed and got herself moving. She kept herself busy to hold depression at bay. Without somagum she had no chance of sleep now. Anyway, the temperature was in the upper twenties already and the day
looked likely to be a holezoner. Standing before her grimy mirror, she studied the ear stud Nandru must have inserted in her lobe while she was stoned. It looked a lot nicer than her usual topaz so she left it in place, before turning her attention to the teardrop of metal. With her hardened fingernail, she tried to lever it up from her skin, but it was stuck solid there. He must have used skin bond—the stuff comedians had put on public toilet seats before all the public toilets were closed down. No doubt she would see him again sometime when she wasn't out of her skull and he wasn't out of his, then she could demand an explanation. For now it could ride: there was the morning trade to catch and she had work to do.
She dressed in absorbent knickers, loose vest and padded knee boots, then sat in front of her mirror and did her face. Her flat was squalid and her credit breadline, but she was proud of the fact that she could sling on any old charity-shop rag and, with a bit of eyeliner and lipgloss, look good enough to walk into Raffles or Hothouse. She grinned at herself, exposing her white and even teeth. Best thousand euros she'd ever spent, having those done: no tooth decay, nothing stuck to their frictionless surfaces, and no pain. And the force of the blow required to break them would likely kill her, so she had no worries on that score. Suitably tarted she strapped on her waterproof hip bag and stocked it with the essentials of street survival. Into it went condoms, tissues and spermicidal spray, a neat Toshiba taser the size of a pistol grip, her smart cards, money, cigarettes and lighter, and her last joint. She would save the joint to haze things for the inevitable rich ugly bastard she usually ended up blowing. Thus set she headed out into the streets of Maldon Island.
Granny's Kitchen had only just opened by the time she arrived. She sat near the window and tapped up coffee and toast on the holographic menu that had appeared in the glass top of the table as soon as she sat down. Windows opened from each of these asking how she would like them prepared. She punched her selection then ‘send' before any more windows could open. When her order arrived Polly ate one of the slices of toast and shoved the other aside, before lighting up her first cigarette of the day. Smoking and sipping coffee, she watched the street.
Already the island town was filling up with foot traffic and those zero-carbon hydrocars allowed within the town limits. After her second cup of coffee and second cigarette, Polly decided it was time to go to work. She quickly left Granny's and walked up the High Street with her hips swaying. Within a few minutes she had taken up her usual position outside the Reformed Church
of Hubbard. There she stood with her hand on her hip and smoked yet another cigarette. She had been told that no one smoked a cigarette quite so provocatively as she did. Her first customer approached her ten minutes later.
‘I need a blow job real bad,' he said. Polly recognized him from the week before. By his businesswear, he was an executive of TCC, and carried on a shoulder strap a laptop disguised as an old book.
‘Fifty,' said Polly, upping her price by ten euros.
‘OK.'
Polly led the way round the back of the church. As she went she sprayed spermicide in her mouth and left her hip bag open so she could grab the taser at any moment. The alley behind the church was scented by the blossoms of a jasmine sprouting wild up one synthewood wall. On the cobbles were used H-patches, the slimy remnants of degrading condoms, gum wrappers and a smashed VR helmet. Polly noted a splash of blood on the walls and on the leaves of the nearby vine before turning to her customer and taking a condom from her bag. He was already undoing his trousers. She knelt down in front of him, grateful for the padding in her knee boots. It didn't take long, and after she'd cast the condom in a corner to degrade with the rest of them, he transferred the money straight across to her card.
‘See you next week?' he asked, eyeing her almost possessively. She remained wary and noncommittal, and deliberately sprayed spermicide in her mouth while he was watching to bring home to him the basis of their relationship. She'd had hassle before with a guy who got too hooked into her and started causing problems. When he was on his way, she took up her station again. By midday she'd made seven hundred euros. Not bad, even though the last hundred had left her walking somewhat gingerly. She reminded herself not to forget her gel next time. And as she walked away she promised herself to give this all up before she turned sixteen. That still gave her six months' leeway.
 
WITH CUSTOMARY EAGERNESS POLLY headed back to her flat. She'd made good money this morning and turned half of it into DPs, an eighth of Moroccan, ten fifty-gram packs of rolling tobacco plus papers—her local smuggler had been out of packet cigarettes—and a litre of Metaxa. Niggling at her conscience was the thought that she should have put some of the money aside for the rent and taxes, but she'd worked hard providing for the pleasure of others and now it was time to provide for herself.
Online tactical. Tech-com unavailable. Instruct?
Polly whirled round from the door, groping in her hip bag for her taser, but there was no one standing behind her. She surveyed the street, her attention finally coming to rest on the customers sitting at the tables outside the bar across the road. A few men were looking at her, but that was nothing unusual: dressed as she was, there were few men who wouldn't give her the eye. No one over there was laughing, so it likely wasn't some joker there with a directional speaker. It also seemed unlikely that she'd been targeted by advertising com. Turning back to the door she used her keycard, and was quickly inside.
Going mute until further instructions.
‘Fuck! Who is that?'
There was now no one anywhere in direct line—no one to point a directional speaker at her. That meant there had to be a phone hidden nearby.
Muse 184
, came the toneless reply.
‘What the hell is this?' Polly asked, but something was nibbling at her memory. Hadn't Nandru mentioned the word ‘Muse'? She tried to recall the conversation, but found there were blank and hazy spots, as there always seemed to be nowadays. Suddenly she remembered the gun he had carried: state-of-the-art hardware like in the interactives. And what were those other things they called ‘Little Buddies'? She touched the metal at the base of her throat. Shit, what the hell had he given her?
‘Who is that speaking to me?' she asked.
Muse 184
, came the reply again.
‘What the fuck are you?'
Adaptech AI Muse 184 tactical and reference system. Interdiction enabled. Note: tech-com is unavailable and should be reported to com central. Instruct?
‘Shut up!'
Going mute until further instructions.
Polly ran up the stairs to her flat, fumbling her card to get her through the door. As she dropped her shopping on the sofa and sat down beside it, she was shaking. After a moment she took out a foil-wrapped block of resin, opened a pack of tobacco, and began making a joint—the familiar action calmed her shaking more than the smoke she eventually took in. She tried hard to think straight. According to Marjae, Nandru had been hinting about an important job he'd got in Task Force, so he must have been into something a bit more serious than smearing a few Binpots. But it didn't make sense. Why had he come here, to her, and fixed on her this … thing? Suddenly she had an idea.
‘Muse, er, I want to … take you off me,' she said.
Awaiting detach code.
That was no good then. ‘Go mute,' she said.
Going mute until further instructions
.
Shaking her head, Polly stood and walked over to the the kitchen area, found a glass, then back at the sofa filled it to the brim with Metaxa. After draining half of that she began to think about the patches tucked into the secret compartment at the back of her hip bag. On another level she knew that none of this constant intake was helping her to think about her problem—she was just abandoning thought altogether.
Polly, time to rock and roll.
‘I thought I told you to go mute,' she said with irritation. Then she realized what she had just heard. ‘Nandru?'
Yeah, your ever loving. You didn't think I teched you up with forty grand of hardware just so's you could look pretty? This is utterly untraceable.com. Anything else and they'd have zeroed me in seconds
.
‘What the hell are you talking about, Nandru?'
Within the next hour some serious scumbags are going to be paying you a visit. You see, your Muse was mine and it's bugged, and thinking they're tracing me they'll find you. Shame I can't do that myself with the monster, but at least I'll be wiping up some shit.
‘You've done this because of Marjae,' said Polly. She then downed the last of her brandy, shoved the cigarette makings into her hip bag and headed for the door—if someone nasty was going to find her she'd rather be out in the open and visible to lots of witnesses.
You're wrong there, my little slot machine. You're my mouthpiece and my goat. When they find you, they'll ask you where I am and where I stashed the fucking scale they want so badly. You'll tell them the truth and lead them to our place, and through you I'll talk to them.
He was talking crazy again? Scale? She was halfway down the stairs before she asked, ‘And when you've given them what they want, what happens to me?'
Don't worry, you'll live if you do just exactly what I tell you. Also, you don't really have much choice in the matter: you cannot remove Muse, so they will find you. And if you don't follow instructions, they'll take you away and peel your skull until there's nothing left.
Outside in the blazing afternoon of the street Polly shaded her eyes and, once a gap appeared in the stream of hydrocars, headed across the road to the bar. The place had a reputation for being a bit retro, hence the sinister look of
many of the alfresco patrons in their mirror shades and wrap-arounds. Finding a plastic chair that had been tucked under one of the outside tables, and so was not scalding to sit on, she took up a position with her back near the plate-glass window, where others gave her some cover and from where she had a view of the street. As soon as she sat down the table surface displayed a turning array of beer bottles and spirits. She tapped a bottle of Stella passing under her hand, then hit the edge of the display to turn it off. The table's appearance returned to its customary granite finish.
The waitress who came out with her beer eyed her dubiously. ‘You know we don't allow …' began the girl, embarrassed.
‘It's OK,' said Polly, dropping a five euro on her tray. ‘I'm only here for the beer.'
The first swallow was rapture in that dusty heat. The breeze that suddenly began blowing was really nice as well. Polly tilted her head back to enjoy it and only then heard the low thrumming that accompanied it.
‘Willya lookit that!' exclaimed the man at the table next to hers—the man who had been conspicuously not ogling her, since he was sitting opposite his wife or partner. A shadow drew across them and Polly opened her eyes to observe one of the new Ford Macrojets sliding across the sky above, its four turbines uncannily like eyes staring down into the street. The vehicle hovered for a while, then shot away to spiral down to the infrequently used connection platform up the hill and just off the High Street. It was predicted that in another ten years most traffic would have taken to the sky. This did not concern Polly as she had never accumulated enough money to afford even an electric scooter.
‘There it is again!' said the man ten minutes later. ‘Just like Bluebird.'
Polly didn't know what that meant but, as she observed the huge vehicle turning down from the High Street, even she was impressed. Such transport spoke of wealth she was sure she herself would never own. When it drew up in front of the bar, her instinct was to try and get herself into the car and hopefully get some taste of the riches it represented. But when she saw the four men who climbed out of it, she just wanted to run.
They were U-gov meat. Just like Nandru had said: they were straight out of the Agency in Brussels. They wore their grey suits and blue EU ties like a uniform, and what need had they of mirror shades when their eyes were mirrored? One of them, a blond-haired Adonis with an utterly blank expression, looked at the device in his hand, held it up for a moment, then abruptly pocketed it and walked over to Polly's table. But for hair colour, the one who followed him
was in appearance indistinguishable, as were the two standing by the car. Illegal net-sheets had men like this down as the product of some strange eugenics project involving cloning and augmentation. Of course all the official news organizations decried that as hysterical rubbish, but then they had to if they wanted to stay in business.

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