the Noise Within (2010) (15 page)

Philip knew about shimmer suits; their outer coating consisted of thousands upon thousands of interconnected microprocessors and receptors, all constantly communicating in order to produce an ongoing illusion. Anybody looking at someone in an activated shimmer suit would only see what lay beyond the wearer, no matter which angle they were viewing from. The result was convincing enough to fool even man's perception of depth of field. Standing still, a wearer became invisible to all intents and purposes. On the move, the result was less perfect, as the system had to constantly adapt its illusions to keep up with the movement, but it was still damned impressive. Generally there was just a slight shimmer reminiscent of a heat haze to give the wearer away - hence the suits' name.

"Why not simply get a shimmer suit and be done with it?" he wondered.

"Because shimmer suits are rarer than computer shit on the sidewalk and, in the unlikely event you should ever find one, it would carry a price tag which reflects the fact. Matts are not exactly cheap, but they are compared to a shimmer suit and they're much more accessible. Besides, they do have their uses, confusing a shape or outline enough to make most people pause, while if somebody wearing one stands in deep shadow you'd never know they were there unless they moved."

"Shit!" Philip's exclamation came as he realised that the two figures were not fleeing the scene as anticipated; far from it. They were coming towards him and one was carrying what looked to be an impressively large gun. As Philip watched, the gun swept up to point his way.

Philip grasped the steering wheel again and thumbed the accelerator, praying that the thing would respond. To his relief, the car leapt forward instantly, though the steering seemed shot. He careened into one of the motionless cars in front of him, to half bounce, half scrape along its side before lurching past.

"Sorry," Philip mumbled, pointlessly.

A shiver ran through his body, quite unexpectedly, and he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. At the same instant, the windscreen in front of him turned opaque; it was only for a second, but that was long enough for Philip to slam on the brakes with a squeeze of his index finger, as he found himself driving blind.

The screen cleared again, the darkness withdrawing rapidly to the edges before disappearing completely. But a large hole, roughly the size of his head, now punctured the screen, just left of centre, as if that section had simply melted away - reinforced or not.

A quick check confirmed that the back of the car now sported a similar hole. A shock of fear coursed through Philip's body as he realised just how near a miss that had been and how close he had come to dying.

He made no effort to see where the two black-clad figures might be, his only concern was to get away from here, to run as quickly as he could. Already the attacker might be adjusting his aim, ready for another shot.

Philip jammed the accelerator down until his thumb hurt. The car shot forward again, jolting him back in his seat, but almost immediately the power died and the vehicle started coasting towards a halt.

Horrified, Philip pressed again and again, while the car continued to slow. "Come on, you bastard," he yelled, "come on!"

But there was no response. The power had simply gone. Phil was trying to tell him something, but the partial's words didn't register. The car came to a complete halt. Philip knew with a horrible certainty that he was about to die, without ever knowing who had killed him or why. Somehow these anonymous attackers had immobilised his car and they were now coming to finish him off.

Even as he thought that, the seam of a door appeared beside him, where none had a right to be without his say so. It widened to become a door and Philip found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He shrank away, waiting for the end.

Yet seconds passed and he was still alive. The man behind the gun was yelling, and gesturing with the barrel for Philip to come out. Perhaps they wanted to take him alive. Renewed hope energised his limbs and he started to comply, undoing straps and moving his feet towards the door, but the man evidently lost patience and reached in to pull him out.

Belatedly, Philip registered the uniform; not the black matts of his attackers at all but rather the dark blues and black of the police. Men were shouting and a cruiser hovered above his head, lights blazing down despite the daylight, while other uniformed figures swarmed around. Sanity began to return. He stood still, pressed against the side of his car while a scanner was traced with steady proficiency across every contour of his body, presumably checking for weapons or other concealed equipment.

Philip didn't care.

"Thank God," he murmured, too relieved to be ashamed of his fear, reckoning he had every right to be afraid.

The police must have thought him either mad or intoxicated, because as he stood there, with their glowers and at least one weapon still trained upon him, all he could do was smile.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he police and the hospital seemed to want to fight over him, but in the end his lawyers ensured that neither got their wish and he was permitted to return home. Not before having pain killers administered and a sub-dermis neck brace inserted - one which he'd hardly know was there until it dissolved in a few days' time. Extricating himself from the police proved to be a little harder, primarily because at least one of the officers involved refused to accept that Philip wasn't somehow responsible for the whole thing, despite all evidence to the contrary. Presumably the prospect of arresting such a high-profile figure had gone to the man's head and he simply couldn't bear to see the opportunity disappear. Plus, of course, Philip was the only person the police were physically holding following the incident. The men in the matts had managed to elude capture, which came as no great surprise.

Fortunately, other wiser heads were on hand to ensure that Philip was exonerated and granted the status of victim rather than suspect. He'd still violated a fistful of local laws, but it was accepted that he'd done so only in reaction to a genuine threat and in order to preserve his own skin. This plus the influence he was able to muster ensured that he was released, pending further investigation, though this all took time. It was late in the evening before he was able to return home, with the sage advice that he should 'be especially careful over the next few days' still ringing in his ears.

The police had promised to increase patrols around his home and be ready to respond if he needed assistance. Knowing something about local funding issues, Philip took this as code for 'we'd love to help but we don't really have the resources'.

Philip vowed not to watch the news for the next day or two, confident that the incident, and presumably his face, would be all over it.

In accordance with standing instructions, Phil had refrained from reporting on messages until he was safely indoors.

"Eight calls from different reporters, all requesting to talk to you personally," the partial informed him.

"Are any of them Julia Cirese of Universal News?"

"No."

"Then they'll have to make do with your eloquent self."

"I have a call coming in right now from your fath -"

"Phil!"

"...from Mal," the partial swiftly amended.

Philip was almost disappointed. He would have expected the old man to have more patience than this. It seemed his father's partial simply couldn't resist the opportunity to gloat. Any burgeoning disappointment, however, was soon sidelined by his sense of satisfaction at having successfully out-waited the old goat.

He composed himself before instructing Phil to patch Mal through, determined not to allow any smugness to creep into his voice.

"Mal, what can I do for you?"

"It's more what I can do for you. Again. In case no one's told you yet, you've been listed."

"What?"

"Your name's been posted at
The Death Wish."

Philip thought this through for a second, turning the words over to see if they might reveal some hidden meaning in the process, but other than a realisation that, to judge by the words 'Death Wish', this probably wasn't good news, he drew a blank. "I'm sorry?"

"You've never even heard of
The Death Wish
, have you." This wasn't a question, more an expression of disbelief.

"I can't say I have, no."

"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Definitely a question this time but a rhetorical one, so Philip kept quiet and waited for the old man to continue. "It's a bar, a sleazy heaving CGR bar, one which is frequented by those with certain... skills."

Philip was not in the mood to suffer another 'slow reveal' from Mal, so there was a distinct edge in his voice as he said, "Namely?"

"Do I have to spell this out for you? Doesn't the name suggest anything? It's where assassins and thugs on the make congregate between jobs - where they go to pick up new commissions. Thrill seekers too; in fact, anyone who wants to sample the taste of life at society's shadier fringes."

Really? Now that did pique Philip's curiosity; he had no idea such a place even existed. "Lowlifes, you mean."

"I couldn't possibly agree with that description, even as a generalisation, since I hang out there a fair bit myself."

"You do?" Philip was genuinely surprised. This didn't sound the sort of place he could imagine either Malcolm or Mal frequenting. "Why?"

"To be prepared, of course, to stay one step ahead of the game. How else am I ever going to know if somebody's posted notice on me?"

Which might go some way to explaining why his father
used
to go there, but was hardly relevant any more. "Okay, I'll buy that for days gone by, but what's your excuse now?"

"Force of habit."

Or maybe the desire to look out for a son who still numbered among the living. Philip quashed the thought; somewhere down that route lay the path to madness, or at least to thinking that this obscene recording really
was
his father. Then the context of their conversation sank in. "So you're trying to tell me that there's a contract out on me?" There went any hope that today's car problem was a one-off incident.

"Ah, reality bites at last! Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you."

"Whatever happened to simply hiring a hit man?"

"That's illegal."

"And this isn't?"

"What could the law possibly object to in someone posting a person's name on a message board? And the fact there happen to be some numbers nearby is a complete coincidence."

"But surely the intent...?"

"... is difficult to prove," Mal assured him.

"Look, the authorities do know all about the place."

"Then why haven't they shut it down?"

"Too few resources too thinly spread. And besides, shutting it down would only drive all the lowlifes underground. Who knows, maybe one day the police will have the budget and the backing and the will to take that sort of step, but for now they simply monitor
The Death Wish
. At least this way they can keep up-to-date with who's being targeted."

"Wonderful." Philip shook his head. Even in this day and age nobody seemed to have enough resources to do everything, not even all those things that
needed
doing. "So how come I've never heard about this Death Wish place?" he asked.

"Don't ask me, I thought everybody had; everybody who's wealthy enough and successful enough to make enemies, at any rate. If pushed, I'd guess that you're so caught up in your own personal definition of reality that you never thought to look for it."

Philip ignored the jibe and instead turned his thoughts to another matter; after all, he couldn't help but wonder: "These numbers you mentioned... add up to a lot, do they?"

"Enough that I'm almost tempted to come after you myself."

"That much, huh?"

"Oh yes. Look, I don't know what you've done to piss off whoever it is and I don't want to know, but my advice is to get in touch with them as soon as you can and do whatever it takes to get them un-pissed. Otherwise you're going to have every killer, glory hunter and wannabe in the system making a beeline for this city and, more specifically, for you."

"I'll bear it in mind."

"Make sure you do. Oh, and I'm sending something through. Fifteen wishits."

"
Wishits
? What the hell is a 'wishit' when it's at home?"

"Currency. What you buy drinks with at
The Death Wish
. There, I've credited you with them." The image of three small piles of gold discs appeared in the air before him, five to a pile. "They're transferable, not identity-specific, and you can also use them to pay for membership. Ten will get you in, which leaves you five to play around with."

Philip snorted. "You don't seriously expect me to actually visit this 'Death Wish' place, do you?"

"No, of course not; silly me. Remember what I said, though."

"I will."

Philip wasn't entirely certain what to make of that conversation. He had never before been the subject of a 'contract' or a 'Death Wish', and had never expected to be, but that was not what caused him to sit there for long minutes after ending the call simply analysing his reaction. The uncomfortable truth was that this was the first time in the two years since Malcolm died that the lingering partial had reminded him so strongly of his father.