Chapter Twenty-Five

BarOut

Shiori’s plan was to hijack a Niponshi shuttle, hold the clone’s captured Colt to the captain’s head and command him to approach The Arc on its blind side.

It was Fixx who pointed out that spaceships don’t have a blind side, they have tri-D 360-degree vision. Not to mention electronic sensors that would put the most complex multi-lens fly’s eye to shame.

Fracture was way behind them and they were both back in Planetside, more or less. They were in a crowded tourist bar this time, halfway between Aldrin Square and the Edge, sandwiched in at the counter by a fat New Yorker and her even fatter husband on one side and two French boys on the other, neither of whom could keep their eyes off Shiori’s perfect breasts. Fixx knew how they felt. The Japanese woman might have the kind of legs that combined genetic luck with hard exercise and a gut that was not just flat but actually slightly concave, but it was her breasts...

Small, perfect...

Fixx shook his head.

“So what do you suggest?” Shiori demanded as she misread his gesture.

So far Fixx hadn’t been able to come up with an alternative. All the same, Shiori’s plan had zero subtlety and even less chance of success. And Fixx was shocked to discover he wasn’t ready to commit suicide, which was a revelation in itself.

Fixx tipped back his iced Stripe, buying time.

What did he think? Since meeting the clones, as little as possible, really. The gash on his temple was beginning to mend and Fixx had teased his blond hair out of the tiny dreadlocks so it flopped around his face. He didn’t like wearing his hair like that but it hid as many of the bruises as possible.

On first glance, Fixx looked good, even to himself. It was only when you got in close you could see lines round his eyes like cracks in glass. Fixx knew that was true, because he was watching his reflection in a mirror behind the bar. He used to like profiling, now it just made him feel old.

“Fuck it.” Fixx slammed his Stripe down on the counter harder than he intended, certainly harder than he should have done. The fat woman from Brooklyn squawked noisily with shock, and for the first time that morning both French boys looked hurriedly away. It didn’t help that he stank, Fixx knew that. And it didn’t help that he’d put the loudest possible track on the jukebox. One of his own, as it happened. Well, a remix of a remix of it.

“Is there a problem?”

The barman was pretend English, his accent sliding all over the place, but his face was impassive and his eyes hard.

“Yeah,” said Fixx, “I’m thirsty.” He pushed his empty can at the man and waited...

Hands on counter, the barman lent forward, bracing himself for confrontation. But he never got the chance to throw Fixx out of his bar.

“The problem,” Shiori said smoothly, “is that my husband’s just been mugged. By Sandrats...” It was neatly done, one delicate hand sliding out to move Fixx’s empty tube into neutral space on the bar in front of her. One arm sliding up round Fixx’s shoulders as if to comfort him.

Not drunk after all, but upset...

“Sandrats...?” one of the French boys asked, sounding suddenly very young.

Fixx nodded heavily, wincing at the pain that rolled through his head. His response wasn’t faked, either — real reaction, real pain. Sandrats wasn’t what the barman wanted to hear. And from the ugly twist to his mouth, Fixx realized it wasn’t something he wanted his customers to hear, either. Planetside had no street crime, that was one of its big selling points. It was cheap, tacky, out-of-date and beyond fashion, but you didn’t get mugged. That was what made it suitable for worried families, small children...

“You want to come in the back,” he suggested.

Fixx looked blank.

“Tidy up, maybe? I can get you a real doctor, on the bar...”

Jesus. The man was worried. No one used medics any more, except the very rich. It was well known that forty-three per cent of the educated Western world preferred to rely on MS MediSoft: the fail rate was lower.

Fixx said “No” just as Shiori said “Yes”.

“We don’t need a doctor,” said Shiori. “But somewhere to clean up would be good.” Her voice was soft, her accent liltingly Japanese. If Fixx hadn’t seen her slice open the first clone with one easy stroke, he’d have thought her a student, maybe a junior salariwoman. Only her slate-grey eyes gave her away.

The barman blinked, nodded and lifted the hatch on his bar, letting them through. Instinctively, his gaze flicked down the line of customers, checking their glasses were full, their plates weren’t empty, and then he turned to a steel door, allowing Fixx and Shiori to walk ahead of him into a small office. A bank of flat screens showed every part of the bar, including inside each toilet cubicle.

“We record everything,” the man said without embarrassment. “It helps with insurance claims.” He smiled sourly, “About every six months, some hick gets trashed, falls over and breaks his neck — even in a sixth G. Then his wife blames some imaginary bump in the floor.” He gestured at the old-model Sony screen bank and the basic m/wave vidcorder. “This is cheaper than paying out...”

“Not to mention more entertaining,” Fixx said bluntly, as one screen showed the fat New Yorker struggling to get slacks down over her hips.

The barman shrugged. “You really get mugged?”

Shiori lifted Fixx’s blond hair away from the side of his head, revealing a long gash. The man whistled and stepped in close, fingers touching the line of staples. “Haven’t seen a job that clean since...” The man thought about it. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen one this neat. How far out into the tunnels were you guys?”

“Far enough,” said Shiori.

“And they really were Sandrats?”

She nodded, her face serious.

“Sweet fuck,” the man said. “I thought the real san’rats were all dead.”

“Yeah,” said Shiori, “so did we.”

Fixx knew just why the Japanese woman was lying. Sandrats in Planetside were unlikely, but not as unlikely as a pair of shipped-in clones, so wet behind the ears their vocal cords weren’t even properly grown. Besides, if he really thought they’d been jumped by a sandrat he wasn’t going to start telling anybody anything... His concern was with the tourists and the last thing he needed was for them to start locking themselves in behind LunaWorld’s electrified fence.

“Seems they’re alive,” Fixx said, putting up one hand to touch the gash. His fingers came back dry, fragments of scab crusted beneath ceramic finger nails.

“Where are you staying?” the barman asked. But by then he wasn’t really concentrating anyway, his attention concentrated on the main screen as he watched customers grow restless waiting for his return.

“We’ve got a room at LunaWorld,” said Fixx. “If you just let us use your bathroom, we’ll clean up a bit and then leave.

“Sure thing. If that’s what you want.” The man breathed a sigh of relief. “Bathroom’s through there,” he said adding. “It’s a bit crude. But what isn’t round here...? You can let yourselves out through the fire door.”

And then he was gone, leaving them in his office. Not that he was taking much of a risk. There was nothing in the place worth stealing, even assuming they wanted to. On the central screen, Fixx watched the barman scoop up tubes of what might have been Electric Soup — if it hadn’t been half the strength and four times the price of the cans in Jude’s bar — and begin distributing them, having skimmed the line of restless punters with a single glance to work out who was making the loudest noise so that he could serve them first. All the same, the bar wasn’t a clip joint. The tubes were still half the price they’d be in any of the cafes lining Aldrin Square.

“Okay,” said Shiori, glancing at the barman busy on screen. “Let’s go.”