Chaos Space - Marianne de Pierres [99]
Tekton’s excitement at seeing the curious construction was dampened when he enquired about accommodation. He was told that due to the unusually high visitor traffic the available rooms provided only modest luxury. They were, however, located quite near the restaurant district on Rho One which, the visitor information gushed, was ‘famous for its eclectic eateries which cater for all tastes’. Followed closely by a warning: ‘It is recommended that all visitors to Rho Junction employ maximum HealthWatch and—at the minimum—mobile security.’’ It went on to advertise various security suites, as well as indemnity certificates against death or injury of another party through self-defence.
Never one to skimp on his own safety, a precaution somewhat justified by his enforced stay in inferior digs, Tekton chose top-of-the-line security and insurance. The Heedless Shadow floater weapon counted in its large specification list a Local Positioning System, a Magnetic Anomaly Detector, a miniature javelin missile, ordnance disposal and a kinetic rifle/pistol combo all neatly contained in a hat-sized floater. The floater could be carried in a light knapsack arrangement when not in use.
Satisfied that his personal safety was accounted for, Tekton donned his new bodyguard and took a taxi to the Flin Flon Flo Bath and Breakfast, staying just long enough to check in and ascertain that he would need to purchase a strong antibacterial spray if he were to reside there. He then ordered the taxi to transport him to the industrial area on Rho One which his map optimistically called the Heijunka.
As the taxi glided along the tiers and tiers of spiralling mag-rails, Tekton thought dreamily of a continual production flow and the exquisite moving structures that it would yield.
Heijunka, indeed. . .
But his dreams evaporated somewhere between the slug-shaped catoplasma warehousing and the grimy pop-cap workshop doors.
Tekton’s unease grew when he found Lot FF, tucked behind a small odorous bio-separation plant and next to an unobtrusive but tatty medi-clinic. He wrenched the door ajar on Lot GG to reveal a medium-sized cold-floor space with poly-sheeted walls. The copper-inlaid catoplasma ceiling was coated in a gangrenous green fungus.
In one corner stood a longish benching arrangement boasting a metals lathe. Beside it was a simple pouring system and stacks of empty moulds. Next to that was an antiquated laser kiln.
Tekton drew the mask of his cloak tighter around his face as a figure detached itself from the kiln and shambled over.
The figure appeared to be wearing several layers of clothes, none of them clean. The face, when it was close enough to be seen, was aged beyond current health permissions and the eyes were bloodshot. Humanesque. But barely.
‘Jus’ keeping warm by the kiln,’ the being pronounced in thick Gal. ‘She hain’t fired in weeks but she keeps her heat like a true hoarder.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Tekton.
‘Manruben,’ said the disgraceful-looking creature.
‘You are Manruben?’
‘And you be the one from God’s stadium on Belle-Monde? Figured so.’
‘Studium,’ corrected Tekton. ‘You may address me as Godhead Tekton.’
‘Belle-Monde used to be the pickins’ of all the whore’s palaces. So I bin tellin’ all that’s interested.’
Tekton drew a calming breath. How was it possible that this rotting piece of flesh had such a vaunted reputation? Should he ask for proof of identity?
‘Kin see your thinkin’, Godhead Tekkie. Reckon I don’t look fit for workin’. Jus’. . . jus ...’ Manruben took a rattling, liquidish breath. ‘... Don’ believe in rejuve and all tha’ pretty-pretty. When you ain’t got for ever, you live it better.’ Despite the bleeding eyes, he managed a piercing look.
Tekton wondered just how long Manruben had left; his laboured breath and shivering, the archiTect