Code Noir

Table of Contents

 

 

 

Marianne de Pierres
was born in Western Australia and now lives in Queensland with her husband and three sons. She has a BA in Film and Television and is currently completing a Graduate Certificate of Arts (Writing, Editing and Publishing) at the University of Queensland. Her passions are basketball, books and avocados. She has been actively involved in promoting Speculative Fiction in Australia and is the co-founder of the Vision Writers Group in Brisbane, and ROR - Writers on the Rise, a critiquing group for professional writers. She was involved in the early planning stages of Clarion South and is a tutor at Envision. You can find out more about her at
www.orbitbooks.co.uk
and on her website
www.mariannedepierres.com

 
 
 

 
Code Noir

 

 
MARIANNE DE PIERRES

 
 
Hachette Digital

 
Published by Hachette Digital 2010

 
Copyright © 2004 by Marianne de Pierres

 

 
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

 
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

 

eISBN : 978 0 7481 2010 9

 

 
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

 

 
Hachette Digital
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‘
Ms Plessis, I need work done. Privately
.’

A gurgle of hysteria escaped my chest, it triggered a guffaw that made my guts ache and my eyes blind with tears.

A media class bio-mekanical ’Terrogator squatted before me in the dirty alleyway, unimpressed with my reaction. Meks excelled at that look. Even the bios.

Drying my eyes, I readjusted the audio tendril the ’Terro had snaked into my ear. Mirth was suddenly replaced by curiosity. And suspicion.

A crime I did
not
commit!

‘You understand I wasn’t expecting . . . conversation,’ I said.

The journo’s voice crackled down the tendril. The real person was snug in her Prier ’copter, hovering above me somewhere. The ’Terro was just the messenger.

‘
If anyone learns of our meeting, I’ll be killed and you’ll lose your chance
.’

I glanced about for it but the alley only afforded me a narrow view of the sky. The Prier would be there though, hovering like a carrion crow. ‘What chance is that?’

Teece entered from one end, scouting for me. I stopped him with a wave of my hand. He nodded, backed out and disappeared.

‘
We don’t all believe it
.’ The voice was female, tense and faint.

‘Believe in what?’ My patience was a helluva lot thinner than her voice.

‘
The media want you for Razz Retrlbution’s murder
.’

‘So tell me something new—’

‘
But the threat is bigger than you realise. There’s something you need to know. And this is the proof
.’

The ’Terro handed me a small, ornately carved box. I turned it over a few times. No trademarks, no inscriptions, nothing to determine its origin. No apparent booby traps, just a heavy scent of spices.

Holding my breath I flicked open the little gold catch. Inside, two peaks were lined with velvet. On each peak sat a tiny semi-circular flap of skin, tattooed and shrivelled, but recognisably human.

Which part of a human though?

Teece was back in the alley, firestormer strung over his wide shoulders, chest heaving with exertion.

‘Proof of what? What do I need to know?’ I said quickly. I saw Teece flame the ignition.
No!
I shook my head frantically and waved my arms.
Don’t
. . .

The ’Terro unfolded to full height, yanking the comm tendril from my ear. It snapped out a weapon, following my line of sight with its ’scope.

‘TEECE,’ I bellowed. ‘NO—’

I hurled myself sideways and low, hands covering my face, as he razed the ’Terro.

‘Parrish.
Parrish!
Are you all right?’ he ran to me, wrenching me on to my feet, his face bent out of shape with concern through the smoke and fumes.

I batted singe from my hair and squared my already blistering shoulders. Staring at the pile of smoking slag, I allowed myself a tremble. Even in death the ’Terro smelt like meaty bones - almost human.

In the distance I heard the whine of the retreating Prier.

‘Thanks.’ I managed to keep my sarcasm to a minimum. Teece thought he’d done me a favour. Maybe he had.

So why did I feel that I’d been thrown a lifeline, only to see it twisting into a noose?

 

 

 

 

 

Two thin streams of water drilled into me like a needle gun. I told myself it was as good as a massage and jumped around under it like a dancing grrl in a cage. One arm, then the other. One breast, then the other. One buttock, then the . . .

‘What the hell—’ I spun around as the water suddenly cut off.

The man standing in the doorway of the san with his hand on the valve had the pleasure of my best side. He didn’t look impressed.

I stepped straight out and into his face, too annoyed to be embarrassed. ‘—are you doing?’

‘We have immediate need of your service, Parrish Plessis,’ he said.

Those words had become too familiar. First the Prier pilot, now this. I couldn’t remember hanging out the sign that said ‘gun for hire’.

‘Our Clever Men have been taken. You must find them.’

He didn’t even try to make it sound vaguely like a request. But then the Cabal Coomera were like that. All sombreness and threat.

This one seemed to shimmer - a dark-skinned figure with tribal scars on his bare chest and face, and an assassin’s bleak, hooded eyes. His open leather jacket and titanium-capped boots were the only tangible part of him.

The ancient ceiling fan extractor of Teece Davey’s bedroom - my current home - struggled to disperse the steam that curled around him.

You didn’t invite the Cabal into your home. Certainly not into your san.

Behind him a couple of paces stood an identikit. Except older, leaner.

‘How did you get—?’

The pointless question died on my tongue. These guys were Kadais. They made it their business to sneak around and scare the whatsit out of everyone.

Already I had a creeping urge to prostrate before them and beg for mercy.

The younger one slid forward without stepping - or so it seemed.

Spooky.

Legends said they once wore feather feet, and sang tribal lawbreakers to their death. These days the tribes were pretty damn diluted, like all the other nations that lived in The Tert, but a flavour of tradition survived. And the Kadais were the ones who ran the hits.

He handed me a crumpled tee.

‘Remember you owe us
goma
.’

I struggled into the shirt, using the time to think.

Goma
. Blood debt. They’d killed my ex-employer, Jamon Mondo - before he killed me.
Goma
was something you didn’t re-neg on with the Cabal. In repayment they wanted me to stop Loyl-me-Daac, a renegade from the Cabal, from experimenting with genetic manipulation.

I figured there was only one way to do that: execute the guy.

Simple. But there was a downside. Daac happened to be the only person in this world I had deep feelings for. Not to mention serious issues with. Either way I didn’t think I wanted him dead.

‘Your
goma
is . . . difficult for me,’ I said cautiously. Then I ventured, ‘He is your dirty washing, after all.’

I saw a flicker of amusement cross the younger one’s face.

The Cabal wanted rid of Daac. He’d strayed from their code of beliefs. For all their sinister ways, they weren’t hell bent on genetic supremacy. Trouble is they didn’t want to soil their hands with it. Or couldn’t, due to some old custom.

The older one frowned a gully. ‘The matter of the
karadji
is more pressing. You will attend to it before you repay
goma
.’

Karadji.
The Clever Men. The ones with spirit power
.

‘W-will I?’ I stammered. There’s something about the Cabal. An aura of dignity, and a cold, hard belief in what they did. It brokered no quarrel. Even from me: Parrish Plessis, pugilist and self-styled warlord.

‘Four of them have been taken from us. Those remaining are in hiding. And it is not just our
karadji.
We believe others are in danger as well . . . shaman of all beliefs.’

A couple of months ago I would have whimpered aloud at the thought of taking on such a task. Right now all I felt was the heavy resignation of someone who only ever gets deeper in it. ‘I’m - uh - pretty busy.’

It was worth a try.

‘When you find them, we shall return to you the research that holds the answers you seek, Parrish Plessis. This we pledge.’

My heart high-jumped at a chance to survive.

See, I was infected by an alien parasite that was working overtime on perverting my humanity. Sounded weird, but the reality was weirder. I didn’t have long and I wasn’t the only one.

I blamed Loyl Daac for it. My theory was that his genetic fooling had loosed this creature on the world after it had been dormant for aeons. Maybe he could reverse what he’d done, except now he no longer had the splicing codes - they’d been stolen. The Cabal were telling me they knew how to get them back.

They watched me, adopting an implacable take-it-or-leave-it-and-suffer-the-consequences silence.

Find our
karadji,
they said. Find them! Like that was easy? Welcome to The Tert, boys - haven for the rather-be-lost-than-found! Sanctuary of secrets and zipped lips.

‘You have Loyl Daac’s stolen research?’

‘We will.’

I hid a sigh. It was as good an answer as I’d get. It meant I had to trust them. And for some reason I did. Call it misguided respect.