Altered Carbon(166)

I nodded, unsurprised. “Ways in?”

She shrugged. “Hundreds. Ventilation ducts, maintenance crawlways. Take your pick.”

“I’ll need to have another look at what Miller told my construct. But assume I’m going in from the top. Body heat’s the only real problem?”

“Yeah, but those sensors are looking for anything over a square millimetre of temperature differential. A stealth suit won’t cover you. Christ, even the breath coming out of your lungs will probably trip them. And it doesn’t stop there.” Elliott nodded sombrely at the screen. “They must have liked the system a lot, because when they refitted they ran it through the whole ship. Room temperature monitors on every corridor and walkway.”

“Yeah, Miller said something about a heat signature tag.”

“That’s it. Incoming guests get it on boarding and their codes are incorporated into the system. Anyone else walks down a corridor uninvited, or goes somewhere their tag says they can’t, they set off every alarm in the hull. Simple, and very effective. And I don’t think I can cut in there and write you a welcome code. Too much security.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”



“You what?” Ortega looked at me with fury and disbelief spreading across her face like a storm front. She stood away from me as if I might be contagious

“It was just a suggestion. If you don’t—”

“No.” She said the word as if it was new to her and she liked the taste. “No. No fucking way. I’ve connived at viral crime for you, I’ve hidden evidence for you, I’ve assisted you in multiple sleeving—”

“Hardly multiple.”

“It’s a fucking crime,” she said through her teeth. “I am not going to steal confiscated drugs out of police holding for you.”

“OK, forget it.” I hesitated, put my tongue in my cheek for a moment. “Want to help me confiscate some more, then?”

Something inside me cheered as the unwilling smile broke cover on her face.



The dealer was in the same place he had been when I walked into his ‘cast radius two weeks ago. This time I saw him twenty metres away, skulking in an alcove with the bat-eyed broadcast unit on his shoulder like a familiar. There were very few people on the street in any direction. I nodded to Ortega who was stationed across the street and walked on. The sales ‘cast had not changed, the street of ridiculously ferocious women and the sudden cool of the betathanatine hit, but this time I was expecting it and in any case the Khumalo neurachem had a definite damping effect on the intrusion. I stepped up to the dealer with an eager smile.

“Got Stiff, man.”

“Good, that’s what I’m looking for. How much have you got?”

He started a little, expression coiling between greed and suspicion. His hand slipped down towards the horrorbox at his belt just in case.

“How much you want, man?”

“All of it,” I said cheerfully. “Everything you’ve got.”

He read me, but by then it was too late. I had the lock on two of his fingers as they stabbed at the horrorbox controls.

“Ah-ah.”

He took a swipe at me with the other arm. I broke the fingers. He howled and collapsed around the pain. I lacked him in the stomach and took the horrorbox away from him. Behind me, Ortega arrived and flashed her badge in his sweat-beaded face.

“Bay City police,” she said laconically. “You’re busted. Let’s see what you’ve got, shall we.”

The betathanatine was in a series of dermal pads with tiny glass decanters folded in cotton. I held one of the vials up to the light and shook it. The liquid within was a pale red.

“What do you reckon?” I asked Ortega. “About eight per cent?”

“Looks like. Maybe less.” Ortega put a knee into the dealer’s neck, grinding his face into the pavement. “Where do you cut this stuff, pal?”

“This is good merchandise,” the dealer squealed. “I buy direct. This is—”

Ortega rapped hard on his skull with her knuckles and he shut up.

“This is shit,” she said patiently. “This has been stepped on so hard it wouldn’t give you a cold. We don’t want it. So you can have your whole stash back and walk, if you like. All we want to know is where you cut it. An address.”

“I don’t know any—”

“Do you want to be shot while escaping?” Ortega asked him pleasantly, and he grew suddenly very quiet.

“Place in Oakland,” he said sullenly.

Ortega gave him a pencil and paper. “Write it down. No names, just the address. And so help me, if you’re tinselling me I’ll come back here with fifty ccs of real Stiff and feed you the lot, unstepped.”