Mercury (33 page)

“Don’t miss Sam Gunn’s Inferno Casino,” said the smiling young man. “It’s got the best action.”

“Action?” Bracknell played naive.

“Roulette, blackjack, low-grav craps tables, championship karate competition.” The smile grew even wider. “Beautiful women and free champagne. Dirty minds in clean bodies. What more could you ask for?”

Bracknell looked up at the transportation center’s huge display of departures and arrivals.

The young pitchman gripped his arm. “Don’t worry about that! There’s an Inferno Special leaving in fifteen minutes. Direct to the casino! You’ll be there in less than two hours and they’ll even serve you a meal in transit!”

“The fare must be—”

“It’s free!” the blond proclaimed. “And your first hundred dollars’ worth of chips is on the house!”

“Really?”

“As long as you buy a thousand dollars’ worth. That’s a ten percent discount, right off the bat.”

Bracknell allowed himself to be chivvied into a cable car painted with lurid red flames across its silver body. Fourteen other men and women were already sitting inside, most of them middle-aged and looking impatient.

As he took the empty seat up front, by the forward window, one of the dowdyish women called out, “When are we leaving? We’ve been waiting here almost an hour!”

The blond gave her the full wattage of his smile. “I’m supposed to fill up the bus before I let it go, but since you’ve been so patient, I’ll send you off just as soon as I get one more passenger.”

It took another quarter hour, but at last the car was sealed up. It rode on an overhead cable to the massive airlock built into the side of the Main Plaza’s dome. Within minutes they were climbing across Alphonsus’s worn old ringwall mountains and then down onto the plain of Mare Nubium. The cable car rocked slightly as it whizzed twenty meters above the bleak, pockmarked regolith. It smelled old and used; too many bodies have been riding in this bucket for too long, Bracknell thought. But he smiled to himself as the car raced along and the overhead speakers gave an automated lecture about the scenic wonders they were rushing past.

There was no pilot or crew in the cable car; everything was automated. The free meal consisted of a thin sandwich and a bottle of “genuine lunar water” obtained from the vending machine at the rear of the car. Bracknell chewed contentedly and watched the Straight Wall flash by.

True to the blond pitchman’s word, the cable car went directly inside the Inferno Casino. The other passengers hurried out, eager to spend their money. Bracknell left the car last, looking for the nearest exit from the casino. It wasn’t easy to find; all he could see was an ocean of people lapping up against islands of gaming tables, looking either frenzied or grim as they gambled away their money. Raucous music poured from overhead speakers, drowning out any laughter or conversation. No exits in sight; the casino management wanted their customers to stay at the gaming tables or restaurants. There were plenty of sexy young women sauntering around, too, many in spray-paint costumes, but none of them gave Bracknell more than a cursory glance: in his gray coveralls he looked more like a maintenance man than a high roller.

When he finally found the casino’s main entrance, Bracknell saw that the entire Hell Crater complex of casinos, hotels, restaurants, and shops was built inside one massive dome. Like Selene, the complex’s living quarters and offices were tunneled underground. Bracknell studied a map display, then headed on foot to the rejuvenation clinic of Takeo Koga. It was one of six such clinics in the complex.

Down two levels and then a ten-minute walk along the softly lit, thickly carpeted corridor to Koga’s clinic. It was blessedly quiet down here, and there were only a few other people in sight. No one paid attention to Bracknell, for which he was thankful. It meant that there was no alarm yet from the hospital about his absence.

The sign on the door was tastefully small, yet Bracknell found it almost ludicrously boastful: ideal renewal center. koga takeo, M.D., D.C.S.

Hoping he didn’t look too disreputable, Bracknell opened the door and stepped into the small waiting room. Two brittle-looking women sitting in comfortable armchairs looked up at him briefly, then turned their attention back to the screen on the far wall, which was showing some sort of documentary about wild animals. Silky music purred from hidden speakers. There were two empty armchairs and a low table with another screen built into its surface. The table’s screen glowed softly.

Bracknell went to the table and bent over it slightly.

“Welcome to Ideal Renewal Center,” said a woman’s pleasant voice. “How may I help you?”

“I need to see Dr. Koga.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“This is about his brother, Toshikazu,” Bracknell replied.

A moment’s hesitation, then a different voice said, “Please take a seat. Someone will be with you in a moment.”

A young Asian woman opened the door on the far end of the waiting room and crooked a finger at Bracknell. Wordlessly she led him to a small examination room, gestured to the chair next to the examination table, and softly closed the door behind her as she left.

Bracknell suddenly felt uncomfortable. What if they’re calling security? But no, how would they know who I am? Still, he felt trapped in this tiny, utterly quiet room.

He stood up and reached for the door just as it swung open and a stocky, grim-faced Asian stepped in. He looked young, but his handsome face did not seem to go with his chunky build. His cheekbones were sculptured, his jawline firm, his throat slim and unlined. He wore a trim, dark moustache, and his hair was cut short and combed straight back off his forehead.

“I am Toshikazu’s brother, Takeo,” he said as he firmly closed the door behind him. Takeo looked suspicious, almost angry. He took in Bracknell’s unimpressive coveralls and paper shoes at a glance. He must be a good diagnostician, Bracknell thought.

“Well, what’s he done now?”

Bracknell took in a breath, then said, “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

Takeo’s eyes widened. He tottered to the examination couch and sagged against it. “Dead? How did it happen?”

“He died in an explosion aboard the freighter
Alhambra.
He was a convict, being shipped out to the Belt.”

“They finally got him, then.”

“You know about it,” Bracknell said.

Rubbing at his eyes, Takeo replied, “Only that he was running from something, someone. He was frightened for his life. He wouldn’t tell me what it was about; he said then I’d be marked for murder, too.”

Bracknell sat in the chair in the corner. “Did he ever mention Yamagata to you?”

“No,” Takeo answered, so sharply that Bracknell knew it was a lie. “He never told me anything about why he was being pursued. I only knew that he was in desperate trouble. I changed his appearance, his whole identity, twice.”

“And they still found him.”

“Poor Toshi.” Takeo’s chin sank to his chest.

“He told me about your ability to change people’s identities,” said Bracknell.

Takeo’s head snapped up. He glared at Bracknell.

“I need my identity changed.”

“You said Toshi was a convict? You’re one also, eh?”

Bracknell almost smiled. “The less you know, the safer you are.”

Shaking his head, Takeo said, “I helped my brother because he’s my brother. I’m not going to stick my neck out for you.”

“You’ve helped other people who wanted to start new lives. Toshikazu told me about your work.”

“Those people could afford my fees. Can you?”

With a rueful grin, Bracknell admitted, “I don’t have a penny.”

“Then why should I help you?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell you your brother’s whole story. Who was after him, and why. Then you’ll know, and then I’ll let Yamagata’s people know that you know. The people who killed him will come here to kill you.”

Takeo was silent for several long moments. He stared into Bracknell’s eyes, obviously trying to calculate just how desperate or determined this stranger was.

At last he said, “You want a complete makeover, then?”

“I want to become a certain individual, a man named Dante Alexios.”

“I presume this Alexios is dead. It would be embarrassing if he showed up after you claim his identity.”

“He died in the same explosion your brother did.”

Takeo nodded. “I’ll need his complete medical records.”

“They should be available from the International Astronautical Authority. They keep duplicates of all ship’s crews.”

“And they keep those records private.”

“You’ve done this sort of thing before,” said Bracknell.

“For people who provided me with what I needed.”

“You’re a doctor. Tell the IAA you’ve got to identify a body for United Life and Accident Assurance, Limited. They carried the policy for
Alhambra.”

Takeo said, “I don’t like getting involved in this.”

“You’ve done worse, from what Toshikazu told me. Besides, you don’t have much of a choice.”

“You’re blackmailing me!”

Bracknell sighed theatrically. “I’m afraid I am.”

The makeover took weeks, and it wasn’t anything like what Bracknell had expected. Takeo obtained Alexios’s medical files from the IAA easily enough; a little money was transferred electronically and he received the dead man’s body scans in less than a day. Then began the hard, painful work.

Takeo kept Bracknell in one of the small but luxuriously appointed suites behind his medical offices. For the first ten days he didn’t see Takeo, except through the intercom phone. Bracknell grew increasingly impatient, increasingly fearful. Any moment he expected security guards to burst into the little suite and drag him back to a ship headed outward to the Belt.

He paced the suite: sitting room, bedroom, a closet-sized kitchen in which he prepared bland microwaved meals from the fully stocked pantry. No liquor, no drugs, no visitors. His only entertainment was video, and he constantly scanned the news nets from Selene and Earth for any hint that he was being hunted. Nothing. He wanted to phone the Selene hospital to see what their files showed about him, but found that he could not place outgoing calls. He was a prisoner again. His jail cell was comfortable, even plush, but still he felt penned in.

When he complained to Takeo, the physician’s artificially handsome image on the phone screen smiled at him. “You’re free to leave whenever you want.”

“You haven’t even started my treatment yet!”

“Yes I have.”

Bracknell stared at the face on the screen.

“The most difficult part of this process,” Takeo explained, with illconcealed annoyance, “is programming the nanomachines. They’ve got to alter your face, your skin, your bone structure. Once I’ve got them programmed, the rest is easy.”

It wasn’t easy.

One ordinary morning, as Bracknell flicked from one news channel to another, thinking that even being arrested again would be better than this utter boredom, a young Asian nurse entered his sitting room bearing a silver tray with a single glass of what looked like orange juice.

“This is your first treatment, sir.”

“This?” Bracknell asked dubiously as he picked up the glass.

“You should go to bed for a nap as soon as you drink it,” the nurse said. “It contains a sedative.”

“And nanomachines?”

She nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes, sir. Many nanomachines. Hundreds of millions of them.”

“Good,” said Bracknell. He drained the glass, then put it back on her tray with a clink.

“You should go to bed now, sir.”

Bracknell thought of asking her if she would accompany him, but decided against it. She left the suite and he walked into his bedroom. The bed was still unmade from the previous night’s sleep.

This is ridiculous, he thought. I’m not sleepy and there’s no—

A wave of giddiness made his knees sag. He plopped onto the bed, heart thumping. His face tingled, itched. He felt as if something was crawling under his skin. It’s only psychosomatic, he told himself. But as he stretched out on the rumpled bed he felt as if some alien parasites had invaded his body. He wanted to scratch his face, his ribs, everywhere. He writhed on the bed, filled with blind dread, moaning in his terror. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that sleep would come before he began screaming like a lunatic.

Each morning for six days, the same nurse brought him a glass filled with fruit juice. And nanomachines. For six mornings Bracknell took it with a trembling hand, then went to bed and waited for the sedative to knock him out while his body twitched and writhed. Each day the pain grew sharper, deeper. It was as if his bones were being sawn apart, the flesh of his face and body flayed by a sadistic torturer. He thought of insects infected with the eggs of parasitic wasps that ate out their host’s insides. He lived in writhing agony and horror as the nanomachines did their work inside his body.

But he saw no difference in his face. Every morning he staggered to the lavatory and studied himself in the mirror above the sink. He looked the same, except that his beard did not grow. After three days of the nanotherapy he stopped shaving altogether. There was no need. Besides, his frightened hands shook too much.

He phoned Takeo every day, and received only a computer’s synthesized, “Dr. Koga will return your call at the appropriate time.”

Maybe he’s killing me, Bracknell thought. Using nanomachines to eat out my guts and get rid of me. Still, despite his fears each morning he swallowed down the juice and the invisible devices swarming in it. And suffered the agonies of hell until he passed thankfully into unconsciousness.

One week to the day after Bracknell had started taking the nanotherapy, Koga showed up in his suite.

“How do you feel?” the physician asked, peering at Bracknell intently.