Crashing Heaven by Al Robertson Page A

clogged the biped’s shout was a little less pronounced at lower volume. ‘The male kicked my voice box,’ it explained as it rolled over. Its head was a blank oval of nanogel. Light indentations represented eyes, nose and mouth. Its neck was a round metal collar. Its attackers had torn a black poncho away from a softly-moulded body. One of its legs was bent awkwardly beneath it. Jack went to help it sit up.
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘They jumped me, pulled me in here and started to beat me.’
    ‘They’ve gone now.’
    ‘The funny thing – I’m running full diplomatic weaveware. It should have been impossible for them to attack me.’
    Fist was floating at Jack’s shoulder. ‘Their weaveports are stunted,’ he said. ‘I had to force them to see me.’
    ‘Strange,’ said the biped. ‘It was racially motivated, I am sure.’
    ‘Race?’ said Fist. ‘You’re not a race. You’re machines. Just like me.’
    ‘Hush, Fist,’ said Jack.
    ‘I’ve heard of creatures like you,’ said the biped, ‘but I never thought to see one so close.’
    ‘You should be scared of me.’
    ‘You’re well caged. And your master is kind.’
    ‘I know seven hundred different ways to purge your neural net.’
    ‘I will live on in the Totality as memory. Something like your poor, sad fetches.’
    ‘Those cripples are nothing to do with me.’
    ‘Be quiet, Fist,’ said Jack. And then, to the biped, ‘Do you think you can stand up?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Jack put an arm beneath its shoulders and supported it as it tried to rise. It tottered slightly as its leg unfolded and stiffened, then stood firm. ‘That’s better,’ it said. ‘Can you walk?’ Jack asked. It took a couple of experimental steps.
    ‘Just about.’
    ‘Then let’s get you home.’
    [ This really goes against my programming, Jack,] grumbled Fist as they disappeared from the alleyway, the biped leaning against Jack as they went.
     
     

 
    Chapter 8
     
    The biped was also staying in the Wound. ‘There’s less interference there,’ it said. They stumbled back to its hotel in silence. It insisted on buying Jack a drink. He turned down the offer of a whisky. The shabby bar was empty. Music played from exhausted speakers. Each song was a tinny parody of itself, a sketch waiting to be filled in by weave-delivered content.
    ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask,’ said the biped, once they’d sat down, ‘I thought everyone here was onweave? But those children …’
    Its words were clearer than they had been. Repair systems had done their work. The poncho hid its body, but its head was uncovered and glowed gently in the gloom. It was how an alien moon might look, if softly lit by a dying sun. The nanogel it had been carved from was translucent. Jack could make out the bar beyond it, its outlines blurred and made ambiguous as if seen through a badly scuffed lens.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Jack. ‘I haven’t been on-Station for seven years. They’d never have slipped off the net back then.’
    He tore the top off a sugar sachet and poured it into his coffee, stirring the white powder into the murk with slow, deliberate strokes. The mug warmed his hands when he picked it up. He swigged at the black liquid, letting the heat run into his mouth and down his throat, savouring the hard touch of reality. Because he was offweave, it barely tasted of anything. Fist sang out in his head, [Caffeine this late keeps us both up.] Jack shut him away.
    ‘And you’re not onweave yourself ?’ asked the biped. Jack didn’t answer. ‘I’m sorry, that was tactless of me.’ Silence grew between them again. ‘Thank you for helping me just now. Not everyone would.’ Jack shrugged. ‘And may I ask one more indelicate question?’
    ‘I don’t see why not.’
    ‘You’re a puppeteer? I hope you don’t mind the word.’
    ‘I am, yes.’
    ‘There are hardly any of you left.’
    ‘There’s only one – me. And two puppets – Fist and Mr Stabs.’
    ‘Mr Stabs? He doesn’t