Eight kilometers and twenty-three minutes from the hotel, the taxi pulled up beside the Anau Tower, a cylindrical skyscraper two hundred fifty stories tall. Its broad metallic silver windows were arranged in a slight step pattern, looking as if the tower skin were twisted around the structural frame in a corkscrew spiral.
Adam took the elevator lift up to the hundred fiftieth floor, the airship docking level, then switched to a local elevator to get up to one-seven-eight. The Agent’s office suite was on the east side of the tower, three modest rooms decorated in cold black granite blocks. The receptionist was an essay in visual intimidation. Her simple charcoal-gray suit was stretched tight around her, illustrating the boosting she’d received, with several seams of muscle wrapped around her original frame. Adam suspected a host of wetwired weapons were lurking in among the dubious additional muscle cells and overstretched epidermal layer. Her neck was a smooth cone of flesh that blended directly into her cheeks. There was no chin, only an eerily attractive set of lips that had been glossed in dark cherry-red. They perked into a smile for Adam when he presented her desk array with his Silas Duanro identity.
“You can go straight in, Señor Duanro,” she trilled in a sweet high voice.
“He is expecting you.”
The Agent smiled in greeting from behind his granite desk. A tall man who kept thin by expending a lot of nervous energy, he had a beak of a nose that came down almost to his upper lip. For some reason he hadn’t modified his scalp follicles; a receding hairline was only partially disguised by a very close cut. “Señor Silas Duanro? Humm.” He smiled at his own humor. “You are allowed to use the same name with me, you know. After all these years, what have we got if not trust?”
“I’m sure.” Adam hadn’t visited Tridelta for several years; yet the Agent always managed to recognize him. Last time he’d looked very different, older and chubbier. Right now he’d morphed his face into that of a forty-year-old, with rounded cheeks, green eyes, and thick auburn hair. The skin was thick and slightly pocked as it finally began its protest at so many hurried cheap and unprofessional cellular reprofilings. He had to apply moisturizing cream every morning and evening now; even so it felt as if he were stretching scar tissue every time he spoke. His cheeks were always cold these days, the capillaries were in such a bad way from constant readjustment. There was a limit to how much reprofiling anyone could undergo, and Adam knew he was fast approaching the time when he’d have to quit.
But not yet.
Becoming Silas Duanro had also involved shedding a lot of fat, and receiving some extra muscle boosting. He hadn’t been this fit and strong for a while now, though it was taking some very sophisticated genoproteins to maintain his heart and other organs at a level where they could support the added muscle. He’d also had to correct his body for the onset of type two diabetes, which had developed over the last couple of years. But whenever the call came through to start the blockade-busting run he was assembling for Johansson, he was determined to be ready for it. No way was he going to see that from some backseat, shouting advice across the unisphere. He fully expected it to be his swan song.
“Drink?” the Agent asked. It was part of their ritual.
“What have you got?”
The Agent smiled and went over to the wall. A long block of granite swung out silently to reveal a brightly lit drinks cabinet. “Let’s see. We won’t bother with the Talotee wines, even though they’re all the rage. How about Impiricus-blue, a local copy, but in my humble opinion better than the original.”
“Hit me.”
The Agent made a show of pouring the thick purple liqueur into a chilled cut-crystal shot glass. “And one for me.” He returned to the desk and slid the shot glass over to Adam. “Salut.”
“Salut.” Adam drained it in a single gulp. A sensation like cold flame burned down his gullet. “Woho, boy,” he grunted, there were tears in his eyes. “Good stuff.” His voice was harsh, as if he’d come down with flu.
“I knew you’d like that. You have class, which most of my customers are sadly lacking. I deal with so many gangsters; bigger guns and nastier viruses are all they know. But you: I was most proud to see the names which came up in court after the attack on the Second Chance, knowing I had provided most of them. Now that was a truly stylish operation, conducted with verve. There are so few of those mounted these days.”
“The ship survived, though.”
“Alas, yes. But to have dreamed the dream is to have flown above the mountains so high in all but deed.”
“Keats?”
“Manby. So now, what can I do for you?” the Agent asked.
“I need some assistance for a new project I’m putting together.”
“Of course.”
“Mostly blunt end troops,” Adam told his e-butler to transfer the list file to the Agent’s desktop array.
“No technical specialists? That’s a shame. I’ll certainly see what I can do to find you the requisite people. I should tell you half of my B-list is currently serving with the navy behind enemy lines. Not all of them were taken out of suspension, either; a lot of them volunteered. It’s the kind of job which appeals to their more base instinct. They’ll come back covered in glory and medals determined to be upright citizens, then in a couple of years they’ll be hammering down my door for a job. In the meantime, I’m embarrassed by such a poor inventory. Is there any way you could delay your project?”
“Not indefinitely, no. If it’s question of money…?”
The Agent looked genuinely aghast. “Good Lord, no. I’ll probably wind up waiving my commission for you. I do value the challenges you’ve given me over the years, and you bring a much appreciated amount of business my way. I’m confident I can rise to the occasion once more. Professional pride and all that.”
“I see.” Adam smiled his best false smile, feeling his abused facial skin distend. It was always about money with the Agent; criminals were the worst capitalists of all. “I will be offering the usual re-life insurance bond in the event of premature bodyloss.”
“That’s good to hear. Right now, the Commonwealth clinics are overflowing with re-life procedure requests from the families of bodyloss victims from the Lost23. The swine are charging extortionate fees. Seller’s market, I’m afraid.”
“After the revolution we’ll put them against the wall and shoot them, eh?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be happy to supply the firing squads free of charge. Until then—”
“Until then, put my list together and send me the bill. There’s a onetime address code in the file.”
“Did you have a time frame in mind?”
“You’ve got one week.” Adam didn’t care how big a disadvantage that put him at. “I will pay a handsome bonus for delivery.”
The Agent raised his eyebrows. “I always welcome incentives. However, given the state of the Commonwealth right now, that might be a little difficult.”
“One week.”
“I see you’re not going to be moved. Very well. To aspire nobly is its own reward. I won’t let you down.” He leaned forward abruptly, and held his hand out.
Adam shook, trying not to let the sneer of disgust appear on his face.
“Excellent.” The Agent walked back to the open drinks cabinet and poured another two shots of Impiricus-blue. He waved a hand, and ten tall slabs of granite pivoted through ninety degrees to reveal a picture window behind. “We’re safer than most here, you know,” he said. “One rich city is easy to defend. And City Hall has spent a great deal of money upgrading our force fields on top of the navy shielding. Yet still the doubt gnaws at my soul. I am blessed to live amid such beauty as only God and nature can create.”
“What doubts?” Adam asked. He was looking past the Agent at the extraordinary vista through the window. Tridelta City shimmered in the midafternoon sunlight, a flat reclaimed island that used to be the flood zone where three rivers merged; the Logrosan, the Dongara, and the Upper Monkira, each large in their own right, united to become the impressive torrent of water that was the Lower Monkira, flowing to the ocean five hundred kilometers away.