受信箱

[newpest]

武 Лев Ковач

VIDEO | AUDIO | DISCO

Comments

[newpest]

"Millsport, Harlan's world." He takes another bite. "More than one Millsport."

"I showed up here when everyone was... different. Changed. Nearly got torn apart."

[bcpd]

"What?" She sets her fork down. "How long have you been here?"

[newpest]

He shrugs, one-shouldered. "A little less than a month."

Kovacs looks at his food, looks at her. She's the shining fucking beacon she always is, beautifully infuriating, and he's... "Death doesn't stick, here. Watch your ass."

[bcpd]

She's muttering an oh my God under her breath when he starts again - and the warning feels almost inane. Death doesn't stick anywhere, if you have enough money. "Real death?"

[newpest]

"Head smashed in by a bowling ball." Do they have those on Earth? They've got them here, and this place is very Earth-y. Kovacs reaches up, taps the scar over Elias' eye. "This isn't a clone."

[bcpd]

"Jesus Christ." She has to know for herself, reaching across the table so she can run her thumb across the scar herself. It feels exactly how it always does, and she feels like a doubting Thomas as she draws her hand back. "How?"

(Head smashed in. She's not going to think about that. The facts come first.)

[newpest]

"Somebody talked to you about getting turned into animals," he says, and it's not a question. He read all your conversations, Ortega. You're welcome. "It wasn't just animals. Some people turned into... aliens. Monsters. I don't fucking know."

[bcpd]

"And beat your head in," she says dully. This is killing her appetite. Elias' face, a pulp. "But they didn't give you a new sleeve. How did they--?"

A little gesture toward his eye, toward the scar.

[newpest]

More complicated than that, but he doesn't want to talk about it. There's no point in bragging if she'll believe he could be killed so easily. Being underestimated is almost restive, at this point.

"My guess is some kind of subconscious empathetic neural nanotech, but maybe it's magic."

His voice twists toward unsurprisingly sarcastic.

"Or the place is all virtual." A possibility, except for how he hasn't been able to break the simulation yet, or change his shape. The program is clearly more advanced than an Envoy was trained for.

[bcpd]

"You think someone took our stacks from Fightdrome?" It has possibility, but it seems complicated. The serious VR simulations she's been in, the ones they use at work - primarily training, all admittedly years ago now - haven't been group experiences like this. Most commercial stuff doesn't look like this, either; when a sim hosts dozens of people at a time, it doesn't tend to look this realistic.

Or maybe she's just looking for reasons her cortical stack's still in her spine.

Her eyes are drawn to Elias' scar again. "This is insane."

[newpest]

Kovacs shakes his head. His fingers tap idly on the table as he thinks. "I don't think this has to do with physical stacks," he says. "A lot of people here are from pre-stack eras."

If they're really there. If they're not just spun up code-- but they seem too complex for that.

[bcpd]

"This is starting to sound metaphysical." And that's not a compliment. She can nearly hear her mother in her ear, es el purgatorio.

What does she even remember from Fightdrome? Mostly dying of Reaper. Her fingertips brush over the surface of her palm, feeling the healed cut there. After a moment, she shakes her head like she's trying to clear it. "Whatever. We won't figure that out tonight. What else have you learned about this place?"

He's got a month's worth of observation on her, and she's determined to catch up fast.

[newpest]

"Nobody gives a shit about organic damage," he says while picking at his food. With his too-starched shirt, one shrug of a broad shoulder makes him look momentarily like a wrinkled giant. "You die here, you pop right back. It's like they're all meths, but... they're not. Bad teeth, bad hair..."

He shakes his head before he remembers possibly the strangest thing he's come across. "Watch out for a guy calling himself... Warren Kepler."

It takes a moment to remember. The personality left a stronger impression than the name.

"Only motherfucker I ever known not to flinch at being called a jackboot. Took it in fucking stride. Some kind of military recruiter, private sector specialist. I've known motherfuckers like that. Nothing behind their goddamn eyes."

[bcpd]

"Faces that need to be punched," she mutters, adding to his list. So far, she hasn't seen most of the people she's argued with, but she's willing to believe the bad teeth and hair.

As he describes this Kepler of his, Kristin tries to remember if she's talked to anyone calling himself either name. None of the conversations match, but it doesn't matter; she'll take the warning anyway, off description alone.

"Easy to see why he's here." The kinds of people who decide they want to be soldiers of fortune, making their dream one of being some meth's favourite criminal, the ones who do that on purpose? Ninety times out of a hundred, they're worthless scum. (Fucking scum.) She pushes her plate aside, leaning an arm on the tabletop. "Anyone useful?"

Or decent, but right now, she's not holding her breath. It's a prison ship - if they're surrounded by bastards, that's not surprising.

[newpest]

"I think he's on your side," he says, pointing a fork in her direction.

"A lady named Misty helped me out first day. There's a guy named William-- little freak, but harmless. Tess is solid, but she's not here to make friends."

Which would have hurt his feelings, 270 years ago. He considers mentioning Carol, but it feels like a betrayal, so he lets himself lapse into silence as he lights a cigarette.

[bcpd]

"Of course he is." One thing that's becoming clear: wardens seem more an ideal than a reality. The reality seems to be useless bastards, if the inmates are to be believed.

(She doesn't entirely believe what she's heard. But she's seen plenty of crooked cops - the really crooked ones, out for themselves alone - and in this isolated little corner of the universe, it'd be easy for one of them to do worse.)

The other names get filed away. Misty, she hasn't met. William, she talked to on the network. Tess, the same. Not here to make friends seems right.

Kristin gives him a look as he flicks his lighter. "Really?"

[newpest]

He blows a smoke ring into her face.

[bcpd]

"Ugh." Rolling her eyes, she reaches across the table in an attempt to steal the cigarette and put it out on the rim of his plate.

[newpest]

His reflexes are just a little too fast, being an Envoy and all. He's out of her reach quite handily.

He stands. "You staying the night?"

Ah, romance.

[bcpd]

Kristin'd got lucky, that first time back in Bay City, when she'd managed to snatch one from him. But now he knows she hates the cigarettes, and he's going to be a dick about it forever.

She gives her food one last look before she pushes herself to her feet. What appeal her meal had hasn't come back. And the alternative's standing there before her, slump-shouldered, hair falling in his face. It's been a fucking terrible day, and she's still frustrated with the hour she spent stomping around the ship, looking for a way to get at the admiral. "Not if you taste like an ashtray."

Which is the closest she's getting to do you want me to? - let alone to the fact that he could smoke the rest of the pack, and she'd still stick around.

[newpest]

He takes a long drag of smoke. "Too late for that."

Want me anyway.

[bcpd]

Kovacs is irritating on a good day, infuriating on a bad one, and when he's sneering at her like that, there's no chance she's leaving.

"You don't even have an ashtray," she points out, stepping over the low table rather than walking around it. Casual-not-casual disregard for his things, a kind of tit for tat - he's the one that broke out the smokes, after all. "You're going to light the goddamn ship on fire."

[newpest]

He grins, far too pleased with the trajectory of the night. "It has a grav field. I think there's a sprinkler system."

Another puff of smoke.

[bcpd]

He's goading her, and she knows it, and it doesn't matter. "Ay, cállate la boca."

His mouth's not shut for long, but at least he's not talking anymore - and the cigarette gets stubbed out, the memory of the smoke lingering. After, when they're a mess of sweat and heat in Kovacs' bed, Kristin's fingertips run idly over one of Elias' old scars.

[newpest]

He stays close, as always, wrapped around her. He shifts a little, like a recalcitrant cat, when she runs her hands near his face, but he doesn't move away.

"You got any leads on why you gave him that one?" He asks, "somebody asked how I got it."