Starport

The rain in the London Sprawl never let up, not even in 2050. It just turned acid-yellow and stung the eyes worse. John Mason stood in the doorway of a kebab shop off Brick Lane, six foot eight of ex-Army meat and mil-spec chrome, shoulders brushing both sides of the frame like he was wearing the building. His left arm still pinged from the last job – the one where he’d put his fist through a breeze-block wall in Bethnal Green and come out the other side holding a young lass called Mouse. Lilli still called him The Wall for it. She thought it was hilarious.

His earpiece crackled. Finnish accent, sharp as a data-spike.

—Wall? You alive?

—Wide awake, Lil. What’s the score?

—You will have fun with this one. You’re going off-earth to Starport. 

—Starport? I thought was only for rich cunts?

—Yes, John. But you’ll get some time in the sun. It is always summer. AI-controlled climate. 

—Right, and the gig? 

—There is a man called Karl Rivera-Jensen. He is trying to lift the source code for this AI they call The Oracle.

—What does it do?

—News-feeds, John. The thing can make the whole world believe whatever they want. ‘They’ being whoever had control of it. 

—Right. 

—The Client wants him stopped. Cash in advance, half in untraceable yen, other half when you’re back with his head on a stick or whatever you do.

John scratched the stubble on his jaw. It sounded like a proper scrap. 

—How do I get up there? I ain’t exactly built for tourist class.

Lilli laughed, that dry little snort she did when she knew she was about to make him uncomfortable. 

—Low-cost orbital tug, Wall. Cargo run. They don’t ask questions if the credits clear. You’ll fit. Sort of.

—Sort of.

—Pack light. Your fists count as carry-on.

Two hours later he was in the tug, wedged into a jump-seat meant for normal-sized humans. The thing stank of hydraulic fluid and yesterday’s curry. His knees were up by his ears, chrome-reinforced spine scraping the ceiling every time the pilot hit a pocket of micro-grav. 

The other passengers, three skinny techs and a courier with a face like a melted hard drive, kept sneaking looks at him like he was a loaded gun someone had left on the bus.

—Jesus wept, muttered one of the techs. 

—You the new cargo?

John grinned, teeth bright against the dim red emergency lights. 

—Nah, mate. I’m the entertainment.

The tug shuddered, engines coughing like an old man with emphysema, and then they were up, punching through the grey soup of the Sprawl into the black. John closed his eyes and tried not to think about the pressure on his ribs. Mil-spec lungs could take it. Probably.

Starport hit him like a slap. One minute he was folded into a metal coffin; next minute the airlock hissed open and he stepped out into bloody paradise. 

Real sunlight, warm on his face, no acid tang. Palm trees that weren’t plastic. A sky the colour of money. Rich bastards strolled past in linen suits that cost more than his last three gigs put together, sipping cocktails that glowed soft blue. 

Somewhere a jazz band played live, actual fingers on actual strings. The air smelled of coconut and expensive perfume. John hated jazz. 

John felt like a skip lorry parked in a jewellery shop.

His earpiece pinged again. Lilli, voice low. He spoke first. 

—Lilli? They’re playing fucking jazz. 

—Er, so? 

—I fucking hate jazz. 

She said nothing for a moment. Then ignored him. 

—Rivera-Jensen’s in the Azure Lounge, level four. Black suit, silver hair, looks like he’s never done a day’s work in his life. 

She paused.

—He’s got the code on a ghost drive, old-school, no net access. He’s meeting a buyer in twenty minutes. You stop him before the handshake.

—On it.

He moved through the crowds like a tank through traffic. People parted without being told. A security drone the size of a football hovered up, scanned him, then backed off quick when it read the military serials under his skin. Even the posh bastards knew better than to poke a man built like a demolition rig.

The Azure Lounge was all glass and soft lighting. Rivera-Jensen sat at a corner table, ghost drive on the marble in front of him, neat little silver rectangle. He was tapping it with one finger, smiling at the man opposite like they were swapping holiday snaps.

John walked straight over. No stealth. Stealth was for smaller men.

—Karl, mate.

Rivera-Jensen looked up. His smile froze. 

—I’m sorry, I don’t—

—Yeah you do. 

John placed one massive hand on the table. The marble cracked. 

—Hand it over. Nice and easy. I’ve had a shit journey.

The buyer started to stand. John didn’t even look at him. Just said, 

—Sit down, son, or I’ll sit you down meself.

Rivera-Jensen’s eyes flicked to the drive. 

—You have no idea what this is worth.

—You say that like a give a shit. I know what it does. Screws the news so the corps can sell you tomorrow’s lies today. Not today, pal.

Rivera-Jensen lunged. Fast, but not fast enough. John’s augments woke up with a warm buzz. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted once. Something popped. The ghost drive skittered across the table. John snatched it, palm swallowing the little rectangle whole.

Security alarms started their polite chime. Rivera-Jensen was on his knees now, gasping.

—You’re a fucking animal, he wheezed.

—Trained one, John said. 

—Ex-military. They don’t make us pretty.

He turned to leave. Two corp sec in tailored armour were blocking the door, tasers out. John sighed.

—Gentlemen. I’m just returning lost property. Fuck off out of my way. 

They didn’t buy it. One raised the taser. John stepped in, grabbed the barrel, bent it like it was made of toffee. The other one got a backhand that lifted him clean off his feet and into a potted palm. Glass shattered. People screamed, but in that polite, moneyed way, like they were disappointed the help had spilled the wine.

John kept walking. Behind him Rivera-Jensen was shouting something about contracts and lawsuits. Didn’t matter. Lilli would scrub the footage before he even hit the tug again.

In the airlock he thumbed the drive, spoke quiet into the comm.

—Got it, Lil.

Her voice came back, pleased as punch. 

—Nice one, Wall. Knew you’d fit right in up there.

John looked out the viewport at the perfect blue curve of Earth below, the Sprawl a dirty smear on the night side.

—Fitting’s the problem, love. Next time get me a proper shuttle. I’m too big for this tourist bollocks.

Lilli laughed. 

—You’re always too big, John. That’s why I like you.

The tug engines fired up again. John wedged himself back into the jump-seat, knees by his ears, ghost drive safe in his fist. The rain would be waiting when he got home. Acid-yellow, never-ending. But at least the job was done, the Oracle stayed buried, and somewhere in Helsinki a skinny Finnish hacker was already spending her cut on better coffee and faster rigs.

He closed his eyes. Smiled.

—Next time, I’m smashing through a wall on a space station. See how they like that, he muttered to the empty cabin.