Altered Carbon tk-1 Read online

  “It was that woman, again,” said Mrs. Bancroft. “The lieutenant.”

  Bancroft nodded. “Don’t worry about it, Miriam. They’re just sniffing around. I warned them I was going to do this, and they ignored me. Well, now Mr. Kovacs is here, and they’re finally taking me seriously.”

  He turned to me. “The police have not been very helpful to me over this matter.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m here, apparently.”

  We looked at each other while I tried to decide if I was angry with this man or not. He’d dragged me halfway across the settled universe, dumped me into a new body and offered me a deal that was weighted so I couldn’t refuse. Rich people do this. They have the power and they see no reason not to use it. Men and women are just merchandise, like everything else. Store them, freight them, decant them. Sign at the bottom please.

  On the other hand, no one at Suntouch House had mispronounced my name yet, and I didn’t really have a choice. And then there was the money. A hundred thousand UN was about six or seven times what Sarah and I had expected to make on the Millsport wetware haul. UN dollars, the hardest currency there was, negotiable on any world in the Protectorate.

  That had to be worth keeping your temper for.

  Bancroft gave his wife another casual touch, this time on her waist, pushing her away.

  “Miriam, could you leave us alone for a while? I’m sure Mr. Kovacs has endless questions, and it’s likely to be boring for you.”

  “Actually, I’m likely to have some questions for Mrs. Bancroft as well.”

  She was already on her way back inside, and my comment stopped her in mid-stride. She cocked her head at an angle, and looked from me to Bancroft and back. Beside me, her husband stirred. This wasn’t what he wanted.

  “Maybe I could speak to you later,” I amended. “Separately.”

  “Yes, of course.” Her eyes met mine, then danced aside. “I’ll be in the chart room, Laurens. Send Mr. Kovacs along when you’ve finished.”

  We both watched her leave, and when the door closed behind her Bancroft gestured me to one of the lounge chairs on the balcony. Behind them, an antique astronomical telescope stood levelled at the horizon, gathering dust. Looking down at the boards under my feet, I saw they were worn with use. The impression of age settled over me like a cloak, and I lowered myself into my chair with a tiny frisson of unease.

  “Please don’t think of me as a chauvinist, Mr. Kovacs. After nearly two hundred and fifty years of marriage, my relationship with Miriam is more politeness than anything. It really would be better if you spoke to her alone.”

  “I understand.” That was shaving the truth a bit, but it would do.

  “Would you care for a drink? Something alcoholic?”

  “No thank you. Just some fruit juice, if you have it.” The shakiness associated with downloading was beginning to assert itself, and in addition there was an unwelcome scratchiness in my feet and fingers which I assumed was nicotine dependency. Apart from the odd cigarette bummed from Sarah, I’d been quit for the last two sleeves and I didn’t want to have to break the habit all over again. Alcohol on top of everything would finish me.

  Bancroft folded his hands in his lap. “Of course. I’ll have some brought up. Now, where would you like to begin?”

  “Maybe we should start with your expectations. I don’t know what Reileen Kawahara told you, or what kind of profile the Envoy Corps has here on Earth, but don’t expect miracles from me. I’m not a sorcerer.”

  “I’m aware of that. I have read the Corps literature carefully. And all Reileen Kawahara told me was that you were reliable, if a trifle fastidious.”

  I remembered Kawahara’s methods, and my reactions to them. Fastidious. Right.

  I gave him the standard spiel anyway. It felt funny, pitching for a client who was already in. Felt funny to play down what I could do, as well. The criminal community isn’t long on modesty, and what you do to get serious backing is inflate whatever reputation you may already have. This was more like being back in the Corps. Long polished conference tables and Virginia Vidaura ticking off the capabilities of her team.

  “Envoy training was developed for the UN colonial commando units. That doesn’t mean…”

  Doesn’t mean every Envoy is a commando. No, not exactly, but then what is a soldier anyway? How much of special forces training is engraved on the physical body and how much in the mind? And what happens when the two are separated?

  Space, to use a cliché, is big. The closest of the Settled Worlds is fifty light years out from Earth. The most far-flung four times that distance, and some of the Colony transports are still going. If some maniac starts rattling tactical nukes, or some other biosphere-threatening toys, what are you going to do? You can transmit the information, via hyperspatial needlecast, so close to instantaneously that scientists are still arguing about the terminology but that, to quote Quellcrist Falconer, deploys no bloody divisions. Even if you launched a troop carrier the moment the shit hit the fan, the marines would be arriving just in time to quiz the grandchildren of whoever won.

  That’s no way to run a Protectorate.

  OK, you can digitise and freight the minds of a crack combat team. It’s been a long time since weight of numbers counted for much in a war, and most of the military victories of the last half millennium have been won by small, mobile guerrilla forces. You can even decant your crack d.h.f. soldiers directly into sleeves with combat conditioning, jacked-up nervous systems and steroid built bodies. Then what do you do?

  They’re in bodies they don’t know, on a world they don’t know, fighting for one bunch of total strangers against another bunch of total strangers over causes they’ve probably never even heard of and certainly don’t understand. The climate is different, the language and culture is different, the wildlife and vegetation is different, the atmosphere is different. Shit, even the gravity is different. They know nothing, and even if you download them with implanted local knowledge, it’s a massive amount of information to assimilate at a time when they’re likely to be fighting for their lives within hours of sleeving.

  That’s where you get the Envoy Corps.

  Neurachem conditioning, cyborg interfaces, augmentation—all this stuff is physical. Most of it doesn’t even touch the pure mind, and it’s the pure mind that gets freighted. That’s where the Corps started. They took psychospiritual techniques that oriental cultures on Earth had known about for millennia and distilled them into a training system so complete that on most worlds graduates of it were instantly forbidden by law to hold any political or military office.

  Not soldiers, no. Not exactly.

  “I work by absorption,” I finished. “Whatever I come into contact with, I soak up, and I use that to get by.”

  Bancroft shifted in his seat. He wasn’t used to being lectured. It was time to start.

  “Who found your body?”

  “My daughter, Naomi.”

  He broke off as someone opened the door in the room below. A moment later, the maid that had attended Miriam Bancroft earlier came up the steps to the balcony bearing a tray with a visibly chilled decanter and tall glasses. Bancroft was wired with internal tannoy, like everyone else at Suntouch House it seemed.

  The maid set down her tray, poured in machine-like silence and then withdrew on a short nod from Bancroft. He stared after her blankly for a while.

  Back from the dead. It’s no joke.

  “Naomi,” I prompted him gently.

  He blinked. “Oh. Yes. She barged in here, wanting something. Probably the keys to one of the limos. I’m an indulgent father, I suppose, and Naomi is my youngest.”

  “How young?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Do you have many children?”

  “Yes, I do. Very many.” Bancroft smiled faintly. “When you have leisure and wealth, bringing children into the world is a pure joy. I have twenty-seven sons and thirty-four daughters.”

  “Do they live with you?”
<
br />   “Naomi does, most of the time. The others come and go. Most have families of their own now.”

  “How is Naomi?” I stepped my tone down a little.

  Finding your father without his head isn’t the best way to start the day.

  “She’s in psychosurgery,” said Bancroft shortly. “But she’ll pull through. Do you need to talk to her?”

  “Not at the moment.” I got up from the chair and went to the balcony door. “You say she barged in here. This is where it happened?”

  “Yes.” Bancroft joined me at the door. “Someone got in here and took my head off with a particle blaster. You can see the blast mark on the wall down there. Over by the desk.”

  I went inside and down the stairs. The desk was a heavy mirrorwood item—they must have freighted the gene code from Harlan’s World and cultured the tree here. That struck me as almost as extravagant as the Songspire in the hall, and in slightly more questionable taste. On the World mirrorwood grows in forests on three continents, and practically every canal dive in Millsport has a bar top carved out of the stuff. I moved past it to inspect the stucco wall. The white surface was furrowed and seared black with the unmistakable signature of a beam weapon. The burn started at head height and followed a short arc downwards.

  Bancroft had remained on the balcony. I looked up at his silhouetted face. “This is the only sign of gunfire in the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing else was damaged, broken or disturbed in any way?”

  “No. Nothing.” It was clear that he wanted to say more, but he was keeping quiet until I’d finished.

  “And the police found the weapon beside you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you own a weapon that would do this?”

  “Yes. It was mine. I keep it in a safe under the desk. Handprint coded. They found the safe open, nothing else removed. Do you want to see inside it?”

  “Not at the moment, thank you.” I knew from experience how difficult mirrorwood furniture is to shift. I turned up one corner of the woven rug under the desk. There was an almost invisible seam in the floor beneath. “Whose prints will open this?”

  “Miriam’s and my own.”

  There was a significant pause. Bancroft sighed, loud enough to carry across the room. “Go on, Kovacs. Say it. Everyone else has. Either I committed suicide or my wife murdered me. There’s just no other reasonable explanation. I’ve been hearing it since they pulled me out of the tank at Alcatraz.”

  I looked elaborately round the room before I met his eyes.

  “Well, you’ll admit it makes for easier police work,” I said. “It’s nice and neat.”

  He snorted, but there was a laugh in it. I found myself beginning to like this man despite myself. I went back up, stepped out onto the balcony and leaned on the rail. Outside a black-clad figure prowled back and forth across the lawn below, weapon slung at port. In the distance the power fence shimmered. I stared in that direction for a while.

  “It’s asking a lot to believe that someone got in here, past all the security, broke into a safe only you and your wife had access to and murdered you, without causing any disturbance. You’re an intelligent man, you must have some reason for believing it.”

  “Oh, I do. Several.”

  “Reasons the police chose to ignore.”

  “Yes.”

  I turned to face him. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

  “You’re looking at it, Mr. Kovacs.” He stood there in front of me. “I’m here. I’m back. You can’t kill me just by wiping out my cortical stack.”

  “You’ve got remote storage. Obviously, or you wouldn’t be here. How regular is the update?”

  Bancroft smiled. “Every forty-eight hours.” He tapped the back of his neck. “Direct needlecast from here into a shielded stack over at the PsychaSec installation at Alcatraz. I don’t even have to think about it.”

  “And they keep your clones on ice there as well.”

  “Yes. Multiple units.”

  Guaranteed immortality. I sat there thinking about that for a while, wondering how I’d like it. Wondering if I’d like it.

  “Must be expensive,” I said at last.

  “Not really. I own PsychaSec.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you see, Kovacs, neither I nor my wife could have pulled that trigger. We both knew it wouldn’t be enough to kill me. No matter how unlikely it seems, it had to be a stranger. Someone who didn’t know about the remote.”

  I nodded. “All right, who else did know about It? Let’s narrow the field.”

  “Apart from my family?” Bancroft shrugged. “My lawyer, Oumou Prescott. A couple of her legal aides. The director at PsychaSec. That’s about it.”

  “Of course,” I said, “suicide is rarely a rational act.”

  “Yes, that’s what the police said. They used it to explain all the other minor inconveniences in their theory as well.”

  “Which were?”

  This was what Bancroft had wanted to reveal earlier. It came out in a rush. “Which were that I should choose to walk the last two kilometres home, and let myself into the grounds on foot, then apparently readjust my internal clock before I killed myself.”

  I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “The police found traces of a cruiser landing in a field two kilometres from the perimeter of Suntouch House, which conveniently enough is just outside the pick-up range of the house security surveillance. Equally conveniently, there was apparently no satellite cover overhead at that precise time.”

  “Did they check taxi datastacks?”

  Bancroft nodded. “For what it’s worth, they did, yes. West Coast law does not require taxi companies to keep records of their fleets’ whereabouts at any given time. Some of the more reputable firms do, of course, but there are others that don’t. Some even make a selling point of it. Client confidentiality, that sort of thing.” A momentary hunted look crossed Bancroft’s face. “For some clients, in some cases, that would be a distinct advantage.”

  “Have you used these firms in the past?”

  “On occasion, yes.”

  The logical next question hung in the air between us. I left it unasked, and waited. If Bancroft wasn’t going to share his reasons for wanting confidential transport, I wasn’t going to press him until I had a few other landmarks locked down.

  Bancroft cleared his throat. “There is, in any case, some evidence to suggest that the vehicle in question might not have been a taxi. Field effect distribution, the police say. A pattern more in keeping with a larger vehicle.”

  “That depends on how hard it landed.”

  “I know. In any case, my tracks lead from the landing site, and apparently the condition of my shoes was in keeping with a two-kilometre trek across country. And then, finally, there was a call placed from this room shortly after three a.m. the night I was killed. A time check. There’s no voice on the line, only the sound of someone breathing.”

  “And the police know this too?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “How did they explain it?”

  Bancroft smiled thinly. “They didn’t. They thought the solitary walk through the rain was very much in keeping with the act of suicide, and apparently they couldn’t see any inconsistency in a man wanting to check his internal chronochip before he blows his own head off. As you say, suicide is not a rational act. They have case histories of this sort of thing. Apparently, the world is full of incompetents who kill themselves and wake up in a new sleeve the next day. I’ve had it explained to me. They forget they’re wearing a stack, or it doesn’t seem important at the moment of the act. Our beloved medical welfare system brings them right back, suicide notes and requests notwithstanding. Curious abuse of rights, that. Is it the same system on Harlan’s World?”

  I shrugged. “More or less. If the request is legally witnessed, then they have to let them go. Otherwise, failure to revive is a storage offence.”

  “I suppose that’s a wis
e precaution.”

  “Yes. It stops murderers passing their work off as suicide.”

  Bancroft leaned forward on the rail and locked gazes with me. “Mr. Kovacs, I am three hundred and fifty-seven years old. I have lived through a corporate war, the subsequent collapse of my industrial and trading interests, the real deaths of two of my children, at least three major economic crises, and I am still here. I am not the kind of man to take my own life, and even if I were, I would not have bungled it in this fashion. If it had been my intention to die, you would not be talking to me now. Is that clear?”

  I looked back at him, back at those hard dark eyes. “Yes. Very clear.”

  “That’s good.” He unpinned his stare. “Shall we continue?”

  “Yes. The police. They don’t like you very much, do they?”

  Bancroft smiled without much humour. “The police and I have a perspective problem.”

  “Perspective?”

  “That’s right.” He moved along the balcony. “Come here, I’ll show you what I mean.”

  I followed him along the rail, catching the telescope with my arm as I did and knocking the barrel upright. The download shakes were beginning to demand their dues. The telescope’s positional motor whined crabbily and returned the instrument to its original shallow angle. Elevation and range focus ticked over on the ancient digital memory display. I paused to watch the thing realign itself. The fingermarks on the keypad were smudged in years of dust.

  Bancroft had either not noticed my ineptitude or was being polite about it.

  “Yours?” I asked him, jerking a thumb at the instrument. He glanced at it absently.

  “Once. It was an enthusiasm I had. Back when the stars were still something to stare at. You wouldn’t remember how that felt.” It was said without conscious pretension or arrogance, almost inconsequentially. His voice lost some of its focus, like a transmission fading out. “Last time I looked through that lens was nearly two centuries ago. A lot of the Colony ships were still in flight then. We were still waiting to find out if they’d make it. Waiting for the needlebeams to come back to us. Like lighthouse beacons.”