Part 8 (1/2)

Part Two

But at Least You Can Run

Chapter Seven.

'I want something removed from me'

Beatrix was the eighth planet of the Minerva System, and, you could say, its heart but not a heart full of goodness and love. More like a satanic, mechanical heart, churning its way around the sun, its blasted surface masking what went on beneath. Beatrix boasted no equivalent to the Palace of Yquatine, the sticky jungles of Zolion, the crystal caverns of Ixtrice, the labyrinthine stone cities of the Anthaurk, or the endless ice plains of Oomingmak There was not a single remarkable feature on its airless, barren surface. But without Beatrix the Minerva System might well have fallen to the Anthaurk in the war. Beatrix was the industrial centre of the System, home of the best-equipped s.p.a.ceyards, the largest industrial concerns, the most intensive mining facilities, and innumerable factories churning out everything from weapons of ma.s.s destruction to radiation s.h.i.+elding. The economic argument was sound enough: if you were going to have one you were going to need the other.

Beatrix also boasted the harshest penal inst.i.tutions. a thriving black economy and a booming trade in prost.i.tution all species and tastes catered for, however depraved or bizarre. An ugly brutal world, its population almost entirely made up of factory workers, prisoners, prost.i.tutes, addicts. the lost, the desperate. the abusers and the abused. It was almost as if Yquatine. with its serenity, beauty, tolerance, learning. culture and breathtaking sea views, had somehow sp.a.w.ned a twisted, black-hearted twin.

Beatrix City was sunk into a crater left by some aeons-old meteor strike on the western hemisphere. Here lived the majority of the population, the families of the workers, and the lowlifes previously mentioned. The most expensive apartments were those that protruded above ground, around the rim of the crater. Sick, grubby daylight could be glimpsed through the windows of these dwellings. Below them, the levels descended for two thousand metres, becoming more seedy and dangerous the deeper you went.

Compa.s.sion had picked up all this from the Beatrix medianet. She knew it was a dangerous place. She also knew that there was someone here who could help her. She hoped.

She slunk along the subterranean streets of level D39, footsteps echoing on the dirty concrete, wondering if there was some way of making herself invisible. That would save her a lot of trouble. She came to what must once have been a retail area, but all the outlets were boarded up with sheets of metal, mad and threatening graffiti scrawled all over their surfaces in luminous green paint. In the centre a dented metal cowling ran down from the cobwebbed ceiling and below it was some sort of pit. Compa.s.sion walked over and leaned on the railing surrounding the pit, taking care not to put too much weight upon it, looking down into a deep, seemingly endless shaft. Water fell from some cracked pipe or other, a baleful, metronomic drip-dripdrip. Compa.s.sion smiled. The place reminded her of herself, of her insides.

She had a quick look inside her console chamber. All seemed well, apart from that cursed Randomiser.

Returning her gaze to outside, she stepped back from the railing, considering. The trouble was, she'd gone down ten levels too many. Petersen was on Level D29. But the lift had dropped past D29 and stopped at D39, from where it had refused to budge. She toyed with the idea of using the vortex to get back to D29, but she had no experience of short hops and she wasn't sure what the Randomiser would do. It had allowed her to get to Beatrix, but would it allow her to go anywhere else? It wouldn't matter, anyway, once she'd found Petersen.

She looked up the shaft. Sick, weak light some distance up, at the next level. More life signs. A foul-smelling breeze caressed her face. There was a ladder, rusty and grimy, but it looked st.u.r.dy enough. She leaned out and up, grabbed hold of lowest rung, and began to climb.

Ralf Petersen had been looking forward to this all day. Ever since he'd taken the message in his luxury Level A2 apartment that morning, he'd been suffused in a delicious glow of pleasurable antic.i.p.ation. That was how he'd put it to Lashana, his latest mistress, anyhow. Suffused. Rarely did a client offer such a large amount for what appeared to be a very simple piece of surgery.

He'd dressed, looking out of the picture window at the lights of the apartments on the other side of the crater wondering as always if anyone was looking back at him eaten a light breakfast prepared by the tall, blonde and smooth-skinned Lashana. and then repaired a faulty servo-unit in her ankle, which he'd damaged during the previous night's activities. Ralf Petersen preferred to take artificial lovers. He knew far too much about the human body to be able to like it or trust it, let alone love it. Knew far too well how biological processes determined temperament. He'd never been able to handle women, except in the crudest manner, and so Lashana and her kind had been his bedmates since his teens.

One day, he often promised himself, he'd get himself an artificial body. Not while he was still fit and fully functional, but when his body became old and ruled by a deteriorating mind and distressing bowel movements. Maybe he would start with a cybernetic arm or leg. or something to increase his stamina. Not that Lashana ever complained. She was programmed not to.

Anyhow, he checked his face in the mirror neat, short grey hair, trimmed moustache, a face of dignity and authority programmed Lashana with her daily duties, checked that his blaster and other weapons were fully charged and set off for his office down on level D29.

He'd set up on D29, dangerously close to the line separating what pa.s.sed for civilisation on Beatrix from anarchy, mainly because the rent was cheap, but also because no one ever came around asking awkward questions. His offices were s.p.a.cious, airy and always clean and tidy. He made sure of that. He enjoyed watching the surprise on his clients' faces as they came from the vandalism and oppression of the corridors of D29 into a fragrant, pastel-hued room with attendant pot plants and gentle music tinkling away in the background. It served a practical purpose, as well as amusing him. It helped his clients relax.

The first couple of appointments that day had been particularly uninspiring. A mineworker who'd wanted improvements to his respiratory tract a common one that, as Petersen ruthlessly undercut the official Beatrix Health Service fees. Then a professional brawler who'd wanted bionic implants and a holographic tattoo removed. Then an exotic dancer who wanted her middle breast enlarged. All mundane, the usual traffic of Petersen's trade. He'd booked them all in for surgery and downloaded their deposits briskly, almost impatiently. He'd had a quick lunch and now he sat awaiting his mystery client. The woman who'd given only her first name, Laura. The woman who'd offered him ten thousand credits for his services.

As the minutes ticked away he wondered if it was a trick.

He had enemies and maybe one of them had come for revenge. He wasn't particularly worried there was enough concealed weaponry in his office to instantly vaporise any would-be a.s.sa.s.sin. You had to be careful in Petersen's line of work.

At the appointed time, the intercom bleeped. Petersen kept no secretary, relying instead on automated systems. True, they broke down sometimes. but they'd never deliberately betray you or try to filch credits from your account.

Petersen leaned forward over his patinated softwood desk and pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton. He spoke. his voice a deep, rea.s.suring baritone. 'Ralf Petersen.'

The intercom crackled. 'Laura. I have an appointment.'

Petersen raised his eyebrows. Something about her voice. Not fear or trepidation, no it sounded as if she had something to hide. Petersen was used to this. 'Good afternoon, Laura. The door is open. You may enter.'

He imagined her pus.h.i.+ng open the heavy security door, walking along the narrow corridor to the door of his office. He switched on the monitor. It showed the image of a red-haired woman in a black cloak. A leap of excitement. Something about this woman seemed special, out of the ordinary, quite apart from the enormous sum she was offering.

Scans revealed no concealed weapons, so Petersen pressed the b.u.t.ton that unlocked the door to his office. As it opened Petersen rose from his chair, as he always did. He extended his hand towards the pale-skinned woman who entered his office. 'Please, sit down.'

She sat. Petersen began the usual spiel, watching her. He couldn't help but be intrigued. Her eyes were dark. but he couldn't tell what colour they were. Were they brown? Dark green? Even purple? Interesting.

She held up a slender hand, interrupting his spiel. The nails were short, the fingers long. 'I know what you do.'

Her voice didn't sound Yquatine, it almost sounded Old Earth. An Empire agent? Petersen's pulse quickened.

'You perform surgery on those who pay you enough. Biomechanical enhancements. Cybernetic replacements. You have wide experience with many species. That is why I am here. I believe you can help me.'

Petersen steepled his hands under his chin. 'That depends on what you require of me.'

Laura's lips tensed, and her eyes flickered downwards, as if she was trying to make up her mind. Then she turned her dark gaze on him, and whispered. 'I want something removed from me.'

She was obviously trying to unsettle him. Petersen wasn't having any of it. 'What sort of something?'

'A growth.' She p.r.o.nounced the word as if it was the filthiest thing she could imagine. The word hung in the air between them. He could almost see it, s.h.i.+ning, swelling, wrong wrong, ringed with scarlet, complaining flesh.

Petersen felt a twinge of pity for the woman. She must be ill, or crazy, or for some reason unable to go through the usual medical channels. He'd seen it all before, and never usually let it bother him. But this time... 'All right, I'll book you in for an examination.'

'There is no need for an examination. You will perform the surgery now.'

Petersen stifled a laugh. She was obviously crazy. 'How can I perform any surgery without examining you first?'

And then she had smiled for the first time a bright, breezy smile that contrasted wildly with her manner since she'd stepped into his office. 'I'll show you!'

So she did.

And Petersen screamed.

Less than half an hour later, Petersen had put together a medikit, donned a sterile cloak and gloves and was prepared to go inside Laura to perform the surgery. His hands where shaking and he badly needed a drink, but underneath his fear there was a sense of excitement. After the initial shock of seeing her head turn into a glowing white doorway, he had bombarded her with questions. Who was she? What was she? She'd refused to answer any of them. All he knew that was that she wanted something removed from inside her. Which meant going going inside her. He'd taken a bit of convincing, but when Laura had downloaded her ten thousand credits into his account he had decided to go along with her. He'd cancelled all his afternoon appointments and switched on the answer machine, and now he stood before her. inside her. He'd taken a bit of convincing, but when Laura had downloaded her ten thousand credits into his account he had decided to go along with her. He'd cancelled all his afternoon appointments and switched on the answer machine, and now he stood before her.

She had a slight frown above her eyes, searching his face. He'd seen the expression before, on countless clients. The fear, the need for rea.s.surance. 'You know what to do?' she said.

Petersen nodded. He hadn't felt this nervous, or this excited, for years. 'Yes, I know what to do.'

She smiled her breezy out-ofplace smile, and then her head opened out into a glowing white doorway.

Taking a deep breath. Petersen stepped forward.