Authors: Marianne de Pierres

Crash Deluxe (7 page)

BOOK: Crash Deluxe

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‘Jales Belliere, Mr Monk. I’m at the Globe and I’ll call again.’

I thought about saying other things but my ident told the story - and, anyway, my call would never make it past his first layer of security screening. It wasn’t James Monk I was after.

I retrieved my spike and wondered why I felt so exhausted.

Because you can’t act for shite, Parrish, and here you are pretending to be a professional of the arts of desire.

It was so ludicrous that it brought a hiccup of laughter to my lips.

Parrish Plessis, warlord
and
lust-bunny.

It just got better and better . . . didn’t it?

I ordered a drink from the bar and made as if I was waiting for someone. Everyone from the lobby’s human sculptures to a courier in a tuxedo tried to hit on me and I wondered how long I could put up with the masquerade. The pseudo-submissive slash pseudo-predatory manner I was practising was giving me pains in my chest - though the hair extensions were kinda cool.

I flipped them around and affected an air of purpose, scanning the comings and goings in the lobby until I noticed a man whose stare had locked fast on me. From where I sat his face looked sharp and immature, his expression sulky.

He studied me from the plush drop couches behind the faux waterfall and his eyes weren’t exactly glowing with appreciation. In fact they burned with raw anger.

After a few moments he got up and stalked over, a young, self-important predator, on the balls of his feet.

‘This ’Tel is spoken for. Staked. Off-limits,’ he said. ‘Savvy?’

I froze him off with an almost-Parrish stare. ‘Whose stake is it?’ I asked bluntly.

He held his ground despite being smaller. I glanced appreciatively over his slim physique: either a gymnast, or he’d had a shitload of fine muscle-sculpting.

‘Mine.’

‘And you are . . . ?’ I slipped into the more snooty tone of my
Amorato
persona and stared down my nose in a way that really got shorter guys jumping.

He blinked in disbelief. Then his lip curled. ‘Lavish Deluxe -
Delly
. And free-lancers
never
tread on local tours.
WHO
are
YOU
?’ he demanded.

I put my hand out, careful to handshake in the traditional way. ‘Jales Belliere. I’m from . . . out of town. I don’t know anything about stakes and I have no desire to work on your patch. I’m meeting someone . . . important,’ I said.

‘Important, eh?’ He curled his lip again, this time in disbelief. ‘Just keep out of my way.’

He spun on his heel and resumed his pose under the waterfall as if I didn’t exist.

Not quite to plan.

I swore a bit.

Then a commotion started up behind me and I watched a red-haired woman of perfectly paid-for proportions enter the lobby, circled by Militia. I tried not to gawk at the radiant perfection of her skin and the dangerous stilettos that lent her a high power-saturation rating.

My observations were interrupted by a discreetly veiled Intimate with the emblem of a runner on his gold lapels tapping me on the shoulder. He passed me a palm p-diary and inflated a privacy fedora to slip over my head.

Seeing my hesitation, he said, ‘Mr Monk does not converse over public comm.’

I opened my mouth in astonishment and closed it again as quickly as I could, lowering my head so that he could put the fedora in place.

Underneath it the mature, heavily jowled face I’d been studying on the Net floated into view before my eyes as though we were underwater.

‘Jales Belliere, I assume you are looking for a secondment.’

‘Er . . . yes. M-my . . . acquaintances tell me your secondments are among the best,’ I stammered.

‘And your acquaintances are?’

I reeled off some of the names I’d just been reading on the media profile lists and mumbled something about being new to town and having a gap in my tour calendar.

Monk’s mouth spread into a smile that lent some charm to the heavy face. ‘Then perhaps we should let you have the opportunity to be able to say that a secondment with James Monk
is
the best. When are you free?’

I gulped in shock.

‘Er . . . soon.’

Lame, but his invitation had caught me by surprise. I didn’t want to shut the door on this unexpected turn of events, but I had other immediate plans.

‘I shall leave Derek to make the arrangements,’ he said.

Monk terminated the exchange and I shrugged out of the bubble.

The Intimate blinked his live vid-feed off. Seemed I was being cammed while I commed.

Between the Hi-Tel’s doormen and Monk’s servant my skin itched from the bombardment of photons.

How the hell had I got an interview with James Monk? What should I do now? My
Amorato
guise would never stand up to real scrutiny.

From the corner of my eye I could see that everyone seemed to be staring at me.

Delly.

The desk staff.

The doormen.

Even the security-clad redhead frowned as though she was trying to place me. She gestured to two of her muscle boys who detached themselves from her entourage and headed over.

‘We should leave now,’ said Derek.

I ran my options. Go with Derek now - and risk losing a chance with Delly. Or stay and play wrestle-mania with the red-haired woman’s muscle who didn’t look like they wanted to just chat - and risk losing Delly.

When would I ever get a freaking even break on a choice?

‘Sure,’ I said. I called up my luggage drone. ‘Where to?’

‘Our transport is on the helipad.’

I headed at an indecent pace for the express lift, dragging Derek with me.

In the whoosh-time it took to get to the hundred and thirtieth floor, I remembered how much I disliked flying and how much I liked my feet on the ground - the absolutely best place for them. The last time I’d been in the air had been a mad-brained escape from M’Grey Island. Someone had chopped the damn thing’s rotors off the ’copter I was flying and dumped me in the moat in a cheesecloth skirt.

Very inconsiderate.

Outside, the Hi-Tel roof was divided into large helipads by the square outlines of the control booth, the lift hutch and some portable, blinking-light barricades.

Monk’s transport sat on one of them. I knew it was his because his initials lit the tail like sequins on a cheap bustier.

Other than two air-traffic staff there was no one else around.

Derek opened the door. ‘Please get in.’

I shook my head. ‘Tell Mr Monk I appreciate his offer. I’ll call him later.’

His hand locked onto my elbow, crushing the joint. ‘I have no wish to use force, Ms Belliere, but I have instructions to do so if necessary. Please get in.’

I jerked away but couldn’t shake him. My elbow went numb.

He pulled me around and opened the palm of his other hand to reveal a derm big enough to knock a nightclub full of speed-freaks on their collective arse.

‘Please get in or I shall be forced to sedate you.’

Stunned by his change of tactics, I let him push me into a seat.

He climbed in next to me and began take-off protocol straight away as if he was expecting trouble.

Indecision gripped me. What to do?

I glanced around the cabin, desperate, and spotted emergency flares stacked alongside my seat. I whacked Derek with my best backhander, hoping to disrupt a sensor or two. The skin casing ruptured on one side of his face but he ignored me and the ’copter began to lift.

Across the tarmac the express lift opened. Delly walked out and around behind the control room to the helipad on the other side.

Two sensations coincided. Relief - that it wasn’t the redhead’s muscle. Panic - my chance to snare Delly was about to slip away.

Adrenalin took over. I grabbed two flares, popped the door and jumped the few metres down onto the tarmac, rolling about as neatly as an overripe melon dropped from a Hi-Tel penthouse.

I dropped the flares as every bone in my body jarred. I tried to get up and crawl after them. At least, my mind told my body to do it but my body refused.

Lie still and recover
, it ordered.
Take a sauna. Get a life.

Then I heard the distinctive whine of gun turrets aligning. Over the ’copter’s shoulder I saw a broad-backed Troop Float rising from a channel alongside the building. This one was unmarked and utterly businesslike, front-mounted .50-cal machine guns cooking and ready to fire.

Whenever I got close to death - which was getting too damn frequent to be thrilling - it was never how I wanted it.

Never the right way to die.

Suddenly my mind and body were in complete agreement again.

Move.

I rolled towards the scattered flares as the ’copter nosed forward, altering the angle of its landing struts to try and scoop me up.

It pummelled into me and somehow snagged the strap of my chic little top. For a second I became airborne - until my weight tore the fabric and I dropped to the tarmac again.

I kept rolling this time despite the pain.

The ’copter corrected its lurch and came for me again.

The Troop Float sent a warning spray of fire along the tarmac. I wasn’t sure if it was aimed at me or at Monk’s ’copter but I wasn’t going to raise my hand to ask.

Instead, I scrambled the last couple of metres to the flares and set them off.

The Troop Float fired another warning burst as Derek made his move. In the smoky confusion it caught his aircraft by chance on the tail.

The ’copter crashed down within metres of me, exploding. The sky rained fractured plastic, hot metal and tiny bits of Derek’s jelly tissue-replica.

A chunk of rotor cartwheeled straight towards me, slicing into my leg as it bounced on over the edge of the building.

While the smoke continued to plume I rolled like crazy towards the gutter covering along the edge of the building and forced myself underneath it.

I heard excited shouts as the Hi-Tel’s own security burst from the lift spraying semi-auto fire. I peered out from underneath the corrugated plas to see the Troop Float peel off.

Much as I appreciated the rescue, I didn’t want to be caught up in the post-mortem, and Delly was about to leave the building, so I squirmed on along under the gutter shield, dragging myself through a cushion of rat dung.

As I crawled past the control room and behind a set of tall barricades I squeezed out from under the cover and scrambled unsteadily to my knees. Not only was the chic top in tatters but my pants looked like shit-crumbed shredded paper.

I was bleeding all over the place, especially from the leg. The fleck of burns on my back throbbed.

‘You
are
popular.’ Lavish Deluxe was leaning against a flimsy UL, waiting for me.

‘What will it cost for you to get me out of here?’ I couldn’t see any point in wasting time.

He didn’t even have to consider. ‘An introduction to James Monk.’

Yes.

‘Sure thing. Wrapped in a bow if you like.’

The smile that spread across Delly’s face was almost indecent. He hopped in and powered up the tiny engine, manoeuvring it for a short, tight take-off across the tarmac.
Right off the edge of the building.

‘You can’t take off there. There’s not enough room.’ My words were lost in more explosions, and my heart leaped across the abyss to the next building then back into my chest.

Gaol and failure had to be better than flying in an ultralight off the edge of this building. Didn’t it?

Delly hopped out again and nudged the lightweight craft backwards until the tail touched the back of the lift housing.

I glanced over my shoulder. The control room was empty - deserted. The only audience we had was the Hi-Tel security, and they were fighting the blaze engulfing Monk’s crashed ’copter.

I ran to the tail and climbed into the wire basket built into it. Not exactly how I’d planned to leave one of Viva’s classiest Hi-Tels. I really had to do something about my lifestyle.

We came off the building and fell - a nauseating, ear-popping drop. I kept my eyes shut and gripped the sides of the basket, wondering how long before we smacked a hole in the ground.

Fierce pain constricted my chest and breathing. It didn’t matter how long it took, I realised, I was going to have a heart attack long before we hit.

I tried to remember what I wanted my last thoughts to be. There was something, I was sure. Something I’d made a pact with myself that I would think - something that would counteract all the bad karma and mistakes. Something that would gain me entrance to a bar where I could sit and get drunk without watching my back.

Nope. Gone.

The world spun. Literally. The UL, Deluxe and I were in a death twirl.

I heard him scream in exultation as I vomited. The spin of the UL slapped the mess back into my own face.

I felt all my muscles slacken towards unconsciousness. Not good. My grip slipped. I pitched out of the basket, tethered by one hand only.

Another Deluxe scream. And words that I couldn’t savvy.

The fingers on my grip hand began to uncurl. I couldn’t do anything to stop them.

His scream went on, long and hard and exultant. I focused on the sound and used it as a reason to stay alive, forcing my fingers to close again around the steel.

Try, you fool.

The Angel shot me up with renewed adrenalin that tightened my muscles and penetrated enough into my consciousness to piss me off.

I’m no fool, I’m—

Woof.

The UL came out of the spin and levelled off without warning. There was a sharp, bone-cracking encounter between me and the steel basket.

Deluxe’s scream turned into laughter as we straightened and slowed.

BOOK: Crash Deluxe

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