Fractions_ The First Half of the Fall Revolution - Ken MacLeod [37]
‘Any chance of a lift, mate?’ he yelled. The driver, a lad about Jordan’s age, looked at him doubtfully for a moment, noticed the rucksack and leaned over to open the door.
‘Thanks.’ Jordan followed the rucksack inside.
His disconcerting capacity to lie went into overdrive.
‘Oh, man,’ he said, ‘am I glad to see you! My company does a lot of business with this lot, and just before we closed today they asked me to nip up to the port and deliver a stack of manuals and catalogues to one of their reps.’ He hefted his luggage. ‘Weighs a ton, too. You’d think in this day and age…’
‘Yeah,’ said the driver. ‘Don’t I know it? They just don’t trust the networks, that’s why they have to put that stuff on paper. Don’t want their ideas ripped off, you know? Mind you, between you and me I dunno why they bother. Know what I’ve got in the back?’
Jordan settled back into the seat. ‘Medicines?’ he hazarded.
‘Modified diamorphine for hospices! Designer heroin for the dying, if you want to be crude about it. Stops pain, but it doesn’t get you so high you can’t take in the message of salvation. Now, I don’t agree with gambling and all that, but if I did…how much would you bet some poor militiaman wouldn’t spare a sample for some kind officer who comes to shake his hand? And before you know it they’ll be using it to psych people up before combat. No guarantee it’ll only get to Christian militias either. Makes you think, dunnit?’
‘It sure does,’ Jordan said.
The first border post, the Beulah City one, was just before the road forked. To the left it went up to Muswell Hill, to the right into Alexandra Port. Each road had its Norlonto border post, with a couple of guards, and behind them, strung out along the roadside, a welcoming party of drug dealers, prostitutes, cultists, atheists, deprogrammers, newsvendors…Twenty or so Warrior guards devoted most of their attention to the incoming traffic, which their efforts had backed up to somewhere over the hill on both roads.
One of them opened the door on the driver’s side and leaned in. Black uniform, visored helmet, knuckles and buckles. He scrutinized the driver’s pass.
‘Don’t see anything about a passenger,’ he said.
‘Sorry officer, last minute…’
The Warrior pointed at the rucksack.
‘Let’s have a look in there.’
Jordan was reaching towards it when a hand grasped his wrist. It was the driver’s.
‘Don’t you touch it, mate. That’s confidential to the company.’ He turned to the Warrior. ‘If you want to open that bag, you’ll have to account for it to my boss. And his.’ He held out the laptop. ‘Form’s on there somewhere, shouldn’t take more’n oh I dunno ten minutes, fifteen outside.’
The guard hesitated.
‘It’s all right,’ the driver said. ‘We’re not in a hurry.’
Jordan noticed how cold the sweat felt as it dried.
‘Ah, gerron with you,’ the guard muttered. He backed out.
The engine whined into life.
‘Thanks,’ Jordan said.
‘It’s nothing. I’m used to them.’ The driver grinned at Jordan. ‘Lucky I’m a better liar than you, huh? What you got in there, anyway?’
‘Oh.’ Jordan felt hot again. ‘A load of irreligious books, actually.’
‘Good on you.’ Jordan thought: What? ‘Flog them where they can’t do no harm, get some money off the bastards. Can’t expect the Elders and the cops to see it that way, mind.’ He slowed at the junction. ‘You’ll be wanting the other road, the town not the port. See ya.’
Jordan wanted to say something grateful, shake the guy’s hand, give him some money, but the driver barely looked at him, concentrating on the traffic. So he just said ‘Good luck’, and jumped out.
He walked past the cars up to where a bored-looking young woman toting a rifle took a piece of plastic from each driver going in. Mostly she handed the plastic back. She turned to him. Dusty freckled face under