Stormblood, стр. 14
The Rubix would get shut down if it hurt me. But it could summon security, and then I’d have Kindosh on my back. My body told me to squeeze Artyom, see how far I could push this before I was thrown out. I had to physically swallow the urge as I stood. ‘You can’t push me away. Not over this,’ I told Artyom, my voice hard and brittle.
Every eye was trained on me as I left. There was a wet slithering and the Rubix’s voice, and presumably its face, returned to normal as it spoke to the startled patrons. ‘I do apologise for that, everyone. May I offer you a free round of drinks—’
My knees shook as I took the stairs to the thoroughfare, a thin sheen of sweat coating my skin. Had I really turned my brother into this angry, bitter young man? I tried to shrug off the weight of memories before setting foot on the street. Only someone was blocking my path.
It was Katherine Kowalski.
Oh hell.
4
Noodles
‘How did I know?’ Kowalski laughed, lacing her hands across the nape of her neck. ‘It took you all of ten minutes to go behind my back. Ten. Minutes.’
My maelstrom of emotions deflated like a popped bubble. ‘Sorry?’ I offered.
‘No, you’re not,’ she mumbled as she vaped, plumes of smoke disappearing into the air. ‘You’re not sorry in the slightest.’
‘That stuff isn’t good for you,’ I told her.
She fixed me with a glare, then pushed out a sigh. ‘We should talk. But not here. It’s late and I haven’t eaten and you probably haven’t either. Should we find somewhere?’
I’d expected to be arrested then and there and have my arse dragged back to Harmony to be thrown headfirst into a stinking cell for the week, so I wasn’t about to decline dinner.
We took a switchback stairwell out of Limefields to a floor strung with a vertiginous boulevard of multicultural bistros and eateries. Kowalski picked a Japanese restaurant out of the selection. The rich scent of sake and rice vinegar whirled me back to the noodlehouses on New Vladi I’d visit on wet, dreamy afternoons: cupping my hands around a hot bowl of miso soup and inhaling the steamy aroma. Listening to the quiet spatter of rain on the breath-fogged viewport, chainships glowing green and red as they soared over the mountain ranges.
There was a Torven watching the restaurants. I’d seen the aliens over vids, and knew they made up a small percentage of Compass’ population, but I’d not been here long enough to see one before. It was almost as tall as me with skin the colour of dirty sand. Its sharp, pointed face was vaguely avian, with large eyes and small nostrils. Bony arms sprouted from broad shoulders, digitigrade legs bound tight with muscle, dexterous-looking hands equipped with four fingers. The alien had the spicy smell of cloves and pine-needles, and wore a grey one-piece suit that had the appearance of dolphin skin.
‘How long have they been here?’ I asked.
‘Almost since Compass was built. They were the first spacefaring species to become a part of the Common. There’s the fifth, maybe sixth generation of Torven living and trading here.’
The alien watched us as we passed, narrowing its dark eyes in what seemed to be an expression of mild irritation, as if we’d blocked its view of the eateries.
We were about to enter the restaurant when the Rubix at the entrance stood in front of us. ‘All exoskeletons and armoured suits must have shutdown mode activated,’ the AI told us with an air of self-entitlement. Its gaze swung over to Kowalski. ‘Nor can you bring weapons.’
She rolled her eyes, but parted with her service thin-gun and glanced at me. I sighed and thumbed the option on my palmerlog. The exterior lights pulsed a tepid green, the suit’s systems stepping down from combat-readiness. My helmet had already slithered back into my neck joint, the armour along my hands doing likewise. Wasn’t too happy about it, but I wasn’t in the mood to get into a shouting match with another Rubix.
I picked an alcove on the fringes of the restaurant, trying to expose my stormtech to the minimum of people. A wall-spanning viewport peered out at the rest of the sprawling floor. The restaurant was garlanded with hanging lanterns and mini sculpted bonsais, the walls heavy with kanji calligraphy and swirling designs of bloody samurais. Mumbled shreds of conversation from other patrons echoed around us. A low soundtrack, by a group that my shib told me was The 5.6.7.8s, played softly in the background.
Kowalski caught me staring at the kanji. ‘Can you read that?’
‘I’m from New Vladi. Everyone there knows their parents’ ethnic language as well as English,’ I said. ‘Got Russian and Japanese up my sleeve. At least the dialects we speak. You?’
‘I’m Polish, but I’m too lazy to learn it.’ Her fingers twitched for her vaper. ‘Must be nice, communicating in another language with family and friends.’
It might be nice for others. I opted not to mention that Artyom had refused to speak Japanese for years. It was our father’s language and culture and my brother had long pretended that part of him didn’t exist. As if he could just deny it out of existence. I know better than most people how permanent genetic makeup is.
I didn’t get as many glances as I’d expected from the three dozen customers, though a scattered few were not so subtly staring at the stormtech that was busy curling up and down my forearms like jellyfish tentacles. Live with this blue stuff plugged up into you, and getting side-glances and double takes becomes the norm. Not that I was anything special; there were plenty of Reapers around here, and even more skinnies. But the fascination with glowing alien DNA twitching