Market Forces (3 page)

Notley grunted, a
used-to-run-one-myself
sort of noise.

“Anyway. I stopped and managed to pull her out. The car went over a couple of minutes later. She was semiconscious when I got her to the hospital, I think she hit her head on the steering wheel.”

“The hospital?” Hamilton’s voice was politely disbelieving. “Excuse me. You took her to the
hospital
?”

Chris stared at him.

“Yeah. I took her to the
hospital.
Is there a problem with that?”

“Well.” Hamilton laughed. “Let’s just say people around here might have seen it that way.”

“What if Bennett had decided to have another crack at the post?” Hewitt asked gravely, detached counterpoint to her junior partner’s hilarity. Chris thought it rang rehearsed. He shrugged.

“What, with cracked ribs, a broken right arm, and head injuries? The way I remember it, she was in no condition to do anything but some heavy breathing.”

“But she did recover, right?” Hamilton asked slyly. “She’s still working. Still in London.”

“Back at Hammett McColl,” Hewitt confirmed, still detached. The jab, Chris knew, was going to come from Hamilton’s corner.

“That why you left, Chris?” The junior partner was right on cue, voice still tinged lightly with derision. “No stomach to finish the job?”

“What I think Louise and Philip are trying to say,” Notley interposed, the kindly uncle at a birthday party dispute, “is that you didn’t
resolve
matters. Would that be a fair summary, Louise?”

Hewitt nodded curtly. “It would.”

“I stayed at HM two years after Bennett,” said Chris, keeping his temper. He hadn’t expected this so early. “She honored her defeat as expected. The matter was resolved to my satisfaction, and to the firm’s.”

Notley made soothing gestures. “Yes, yes. Perhaps, then, this is more a question of corporate culture than blame. What we value here at Shorn is, how shall I put it, well, yes. Resolution, I suppose. We don’t like loose ends. They can trip you, and us, up at a later date. As you see with the embarrassment the Bennett incident is causing us all here and now. We are left in a, shall we say, an ambiguous situation. Now, that couldn’t have happened had you resolved the matter in a terminal fashion. It’s the kind of ambiguity we like to avoid at Shorn Associates. It doesn’t fit our image, especially in a field as competitive as Conflict Investment. I’m sure you understand.”

Chris looked around at the three faces, counting the friends and enemies he appeared to have already made. He manufactured a smile.

“Of course,” he said. “Nobody likes ambiguity.”

T
HE GUN SAT
, unambiguously, in the middle of the desk, begging to be picked up. Chris put his hands in his pockets and looked at it with wary dislike.

“This mine?”

“Heckler and Koch Nemesis Ten.” Hewitt strode past him and filled her hand with the black rubber butt. “The Nemex. Semiautomatic, double-action hesitation lock, no safety necessary. Just pull it out and start shooting. Standard Shorn issue. Comes with a shoulder holster, so you can wear it under a suit. You never know when you’ll have to give a coup de grâce.”

He fought down a smirk. Maybe she saw it.

“We’ve got a way of doing things here, Faulkner. If you call someone out, you don’t take them to the hospital afterward. You go in and you finish the job. With this, if necessary.” She pointed the pistol one-handed at the datadown unit built into the desk. There was a dry click as she pulled the trigger. “If you can, you bring back their plastic. Speaking of which.” She reached inside her jacket pocket with her free hand and produced a small gray rectangle. Light flashed on the entwined red
S
and
A
of a Shorn Associates holologo. She tossed the card onto the table and laid the gun down beside it. “There you are. Don’t get separated from either. You never know when you’ll need firepower.”

Chris picked up the card and tapped it thoughtfully on the desktop. He left the gun where it was.

“Clips are in the top drawer of your desk. It’s a jacketed load, should go through the engine block of a bulk transporter. You actually used to drive one of those things, didn’t you? Mobile Arbitrage or something.”

“Yeah.” Chris pulled out his wallet and racked the card. He looked back up at Hewitt expectantly. “So?”

“No, nothing.” Hewitt walked past him to the window and looked out at the world below. “I think it was an inspired idea, selling commodities from a haulage base. But it’s not quite the same thing as driving for an investment bank, is it?”

Chris smiled a little and seated himself on the corner of the desk, back to the window and his new boss.

“You don’t like me very much, do you, Hewitt?”

“This isn’t about like, Faulkner. I don’t think you belong here.”

“Well, someone evidently does.”

He heard her coming back to the desk and turned his head casually toward her as she arrived. Behind her, he suddenly noticed how bleak the undecorated office was.

“Well, look at that,” she said softly. “Got me back here, didn’t you. Is that the kind of powerplay you’re used to? You won’t cut it here, Faulkner. I’ve seen your résumé. Big kill eight years back with Quain, nothing much since. You got lucky, that’s all.”

Chris kept his voice mild. “So did Hammett McColl. They saved about fifteen mil in bonus payments when Quain went down. And I haven’t
needed
to do much killing since. Sometimes it’s just enough to do the work. You don’t have to be proving yourself all the time.”

“Here you do. You’ll find that out.”

“Really.” Chris pulled out the top drawer and looked in at the contents as if they interested him marginally more than the woman in front of him. “You got some toy boy lined up to call me out for this office?”

For just a moment he had her. He caught it in the way her frame stiffened at the upper edges of his peripheral vision. Then she drew a long breath, as if Chris were a new flower she liked the scent of. As he looked up, she smiled.

“Cute,” she said. “Ohh, you’re cute. Notley likes you, you know that? That’s why you’re here. You remind him of him, back when he was young. He came out of nowhere just like you, riding one big kill. He had a tattoo, just like you. Stream of currency signs, like tears down from one eye. Very classy.” Her lip curled. “He even dated his mechanic for about five years. Little zone girl, with a smudge of grease across her nose. They say she even turned up at a quarterly dinner once with that smudge. Yeah, Notley likes you, but you notice something about that tattoo? It’s gone now. Just like that little zone girl. See, Notley gets sentiment attacks sometimes, but he’s a professional and he won’t let it get in the way. Hold that thought, because you’re going to disappoint him, Faulkner. You don’t have the grit.”

“Welcome aboard.”

Hewitt looked at him blankly.

Chris gestured with one open hand. “I thought one of us should say it.”

“Hey.” She shrugged and turned to leave. “Prove me wrong.”

Chris watched her go, face unreadable. As the door closed, his eyes fell on the matte-black Nemex pistol on the desk, and his own lip twisted derisively.

“Fucking cowboys.”

He swept the gun ceremonially away with the clips and slammed the drawer closed.

There was a list of induction suggestions on the datadown: people to call, when to call them, and where they could be found. Procedures to implement, the best time to access the areas of the Shorn datastack necessary for each procedure. A selected overview of his caseload for the next two months, flags to indicate which needed attention first. The p.a. package had phased everything into a suggested convenience sequence that got the work done as efficiently as possible and told him he would find it most convenient to go home at about eight thirty that evening.

He toyed briefly with the idea of loading up the Nemex with its jacketed ammunition and repeating Hewitt’s target practice on the datadown.

Instead, he punched the phone.

“Carla, this is Chris. I’m going to be late tonight, so don’t wait up. There’s still some chili in the fridge, try not to eat it all, it’ll give you the shits and I’d like some myself when I get in. Oh, by the way, I’m in love.”

He put down the receiver and looked at the datadown screen. After a long pause, he prodded the bright orange triangle marked
CONFLICT INVESTMENT
and watched as it maximized like an opening flower.

The backglow lit his face.

I
T WAS PAST
eleven by the time he got home. He killed his lights at the first bend in the drive, though he knew that the crunch of his wheels on the gravel would wake Carla as surely as the play of high beams across the front of the house. Sometimes she seemed to know he was home more by intuition than anything else. He parked beside the battered and patched Land Rover she ran, turned off his engine, and yawned. For a moment he sat in the still and the darkness, listening to the cooling tick of the engine.

Home for six hours’ sleep. Why the fuck did we move this far out?

But he knew the answer to that.

This place is no different from HM. Live at work, sleep at home, forget you ever had a relationship. Same shit, different logo.

Well, that’s where all the money comes from.

He let himself into the house as quietly as he could and found Carla in the living room, watching a TV screen tuned to the soft blue light of an empty channel. Ice clicked in her glass as she lifted it to her lips.

“You’re awake,” he said, and then saw how far down the bottle she was. “You’re drunk.”

“Isn’t that meant to be my line?”

“Not tonight it isn’t. I was wired to the fucking datadown until quarter to ten.” He bent to kiss her. “Rough day?”

“Not really. Same old shit.”

“Yeah, done some of that myself.” He sank into the chair beside her. She handed him the whiskey glass just a fraction of a second before he reached out for it. “What you watching?”

“Dex and Seth, till the jamming got it.”

He grinned. “You’re going to get us arrested.”

“Not in this postcode.”

“Oh, yeah.” He glanced across at the phone deck. “Did we get any this morning?”

“Any what?”

“Any mail?”

“Bills. Mortgage repayment went through.”

“Already? They just took it.”

“No, that was last month. We’re over the line on a couple of cards as well.” Chris drank some of the peat-flavored Islay whiskey, tutting learnedly over the sacrilege of ice in a glass of single malt. Carla gave him a murderous look. He handed her back the glass and frowned at the TV screen. “How’d we manage that?”

“We spent the money, Chris.”

“Well.” He stretched his suited legs out in front of him and yawned again. “That’s what we earn it for, I guess. So what same old shit did you do today?”

“Salvage. Some arms supply company just moved into premises out on the northern verge lost a dozen of their brand-new Mercedes Ramjets to vandals. Whole lot written off.”

Chris sat up. “A
dozen
? What did they do, park them in the open?”

“No. Someone dropped a couple of homemade shrapnel bombs through a vent into their executive garages. Boom! Corrosives and fast-moving metal in all directions. Mel got a contract to assess the damage and haul every write-off away gratis. Paid to clear it, and he gets to keep whatever salvage we can strip out of the wrecks. And here’s the good bit. Some of these Mercs are barely scratched. Mel’s still out celebrating. Says if the corporates are going to insist on this urban regeneration shit, we could have a lot more work like that. He must have put a good meter of NAME powder up his nose tonight.”

“Shrapnel bombs, huh?”

“Yeah, ingenious what kids can wire together out of scrap these days. I don’t know, maybe Mel even set them up to do it. Connections he’s got in the zones. Jackers, drugs. Gangwit stuff.”

“Fuckers,” Chris said vaguely.

“Yeah, well.” An edge crept into Carla’s voice. “Amazing what you’ll get up to when you’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing to do but stand at the razor wire and watch the wealth roll by.”

Chris sighed. “Carla, could we have this argument some other time, please? Because I haven’t rehearsed in a while.”

“You got something else you want to do?”

“Well, we could fuck by the light of the TV screen.”

“We could,” she agreed seriously. “Except that I always end up on top and I’ve still got carpet burns on my knees from the last time you had that bright idea. You want to fuck, you take me to a bed.”

“Deal.”

After, as they lay like spoons in the disordered bed, Carla curled around his back and murmured into his ear.

“By the way, I’m in love.”

“Me, too.” He leaned back and rubbed the back of his head against her breasts. She shuddered at the touch of the close-cropped hair and reached instinctively for his shrunken prick. He grinned and slapped her hand away.

“Hoy, that’s your lot. Go to sleep, nympho.”

“So! You just want to fuck me and leave me. Is that it?”

“I’m,” said Chris, already sliding headlong into sleep, “not going anywhere.”

“Just use me, and then when you’ve used me you go to sleep. Talk to me, you bastard.”

A grunt.

“You haven’t even told me how it went today.”

Breathing. Carla propped herself up on one arm and prodded at the springy muscle in Chris’s stomach. “I’m serious. What’s Conflict Investment like?”

Chris took her arm, folded the offending finger around his own, and tugged Carla back into the spoon configuration.

“Conflict Investment is the way forward at a global level,” he said.

“Is that right?”

“It’s what the Shorn datadown says.”

“Oh, it must be true then.”

He smiled reflexively at the scorn in her voice and began to drift away again. Just before he slept, Carla thought she heard him speak again. She lifted her head.

“What?”

He didn’t respond, and she realized he was muttering in his dreams. Carla leaned over him, straining to catch something. She gave up after a couple of minutes. The only sense she succeeded in straining out of the soup of mumbling was a single, repeated word.

checkout

It took a long time to find sleep for herself.