Cold Fusion - Lance Parkin [2]
‘Excuse me, ladies.’ Silently the Kosnax drifted aside and the Doctor eased onto a barstool. The music was coming from the pseudolive band, a quartet of musicians from Eighty-One, the robot planet. They must have been on a tour of the coreworlds when the war started, and they would have been trapped here ever since. They seemed happy enough, singing that they’d always be together in electric dreams.
Another droid bobbed at the bar serving the drinks. It was a mass-produced SAM drone, much less sophisticated than the musicians. Its casing was a standard chrome sphere in which the Doctor could see his face reflected.
‘wHAt’s YouR POIson?’ the robarman buzzed. Its vocoder hadn’t been serviced for years and its hoverfield was slightly misaligned. It had probably been kidnapped from one of the big hotels on the Strip, decades ago, and had ended up here. The Doctor resisted the temptation to fix the faults himself
‘A Dexheimer Spätlese Rädecke, the ’07 if you have it,’
the Doctor said. Normally, of course, he wouldn’t touch a synthetic wine, but he recalled that the SAMs had no difficulty copying German eisweins. The programmers had no idea why, although there were a number of popular myths claiming to account for it.
‘oN THe ROcks?’
‘Like the planet,’ the Doctor observed. There was an almost inaudible click from within the drones casing.
‘If you WOulD ComE WiTH Me, Sir?’ The robarman drifted over the counter, and the Doctor followed It across the room. No one looked up. On the far wall was a door marked ‘Private’, which slid open as the robarman reached it. The Doctor followed it through, and the door slammed shut behind him.
‘MInd THE Step, SIr.’
The Doctor tripped over the step.
‘SORry, SIr.’
‘Not at all. Might we have some light?’
‘THe glowbe must haVE Gone, sIR.’
‘So I see – if you’ll pardon the pun.’
‘Yes, I PARDon the PUn, Sir.’
‘Is it much further?’
‘HE Is IN HERE, sir.’ A door rattled open to the left, and dull yellow light spilled over the Doctor and one out in the corridor. The Doctor moved towards the light, and stepped through the archway into a small office that smelt of must. The young man sitting at the desk was clearly startled and he dropped his book. The Doctor had caught it before it hit the floor. It was a paperback novel in Mandarin, Ganggiing Zhanzheng. The Doctor recognized the title, but had never got around to reading it. He handed the book back to its owner.
Ziyou was a slight figure, a descendant of settlers from the Southern Chinese Union. There were streaks of blond in his black hair, and like most of the people living away from the Strip he was clean-shaven, as a beard would have broken the seal on his icemask. He wore a tightly buttoned tunic with horizontal navy stripes, there was a bold logo printed on the breast.
The doctor introduced himself.
Ziyou remained on his guard. ‘I’ve heard of you. A couple of teleminers were in here a month ago they said you’d helped them.’
‘Gemboyle and Narvalek,’ the Doctor confirmed smiling. ‘Their skimmer fell down a crevasse, I fetched it out. They do a nice little sideline in servicing robarmen, and yours was one of the ones they reprogrammed for me.’
‘Why me?’ the young man asked suspiciously.
The Doctor smiled. ‘I just want to hear your story. I’ve come a long way.’
The Doctor was shorter than Ziyou had pictured him and older. He had an odd, sad face.. Underneath a shabby fur coat he wore a crumpled linen suit and a waistcoat. He looked as if he had stepped from the pages of a history book.
‘What do you mean “my story”? I’m a freeman, working here as an accountant.’
‘But a year ago you were a prospector, weren’t you? Back when you were a warranted man. I want to