Read Online Cosmonaut Keep by Ken MacLeod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ken MacLeod
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction, High Tech, Life on other planets, Human-alien encounters, Space colonies
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came back from the kitchen I had the screen working, with the sound off. Most of the news channels had moved on to talking heads. Jadey sat down at the other end of the sofa, nodded at the screen.
"Countermeasures," she said. "Built in. We can talk."
"So ... are you really CIA?" I asked. Not the most tactful of opening lines, but it had been on my mind.
"No, of course I'm not bloody CIA!" she answered, almost spilling her coffee. "Statist sons of bitches! They're almost as bad as the goddamn commies, when they're not doing deals with them."
"All right. I only asked. So what are you?"
She gave me a serious frown. "You really want to know?"
"Well, yeah. Call it idle curiosity."
"Hah! All right. I'm working for a political organization that does what we think the CIA should be doing: stirring up a bit of subversion in the E.U."
"I'd figured that," I said slowly. "It's the bit that came before it that kind of has me baffled. How does it work? Counterrevolution for fun and profit?"
"Neither," she said. "The money comes from ... well, basically from legacies and trust funds set up by Net entrepreneurs who got rich in the Century Boom, and who thought it might be a good idea to, ah, invest in the future of the free market. As for the fun -- "
She put down the cup. Her hands were shaking. "It was fun for a while, down in old England. Making contacts, setting things up, basic agitprop. But the scene's got a lot heavier lately. You know, like, pseudo-gangs?"
"What?"
"Resistance groups set up by ... whoever -- the Russkis, I guess, maybe even the Brits -- to discredit the real opposition with the odd terrorist outrage; black propaganda that makes us smell like fascists; spreading rumors that the real resistance groups are pseudo-gangs, that the best activists are police agents." She waved a hand. "You know the score."
"The trusting trust problem?" I asked, translating into geek-speak.
"Exactly!"
She frowned again, looked at her nails. One of her thumbnails was bitten right down. "Shit, I thought I'd broken that habit ... " Looked up. "Let me tell you about last night."
There's a scene in Battle of Algiers where the Muslim women of the FLN are preparing to go out and plant bombs in the European quarter, and they're tarting themselves up in immodest European clothes and applying makeup for the first time in their lives, and as they preen solemnly in front of mirrors the soundtrack becomes a relentless martial drumbeat.
Jadey hears that beat as she gets herself ready for the work of the night. She's always liked her complexion; with its natural-blonde creamy smoothness matching her fair brows and pale lips, but now she's covering it all up with blusher and tint, mascara and eyeshadow and bloody-red lipstick. Dye gel turns her hair black and spiky, stains the swirling water as she rinses her hands under the tap.
Her preparations complete, she waits for a few minutes, watching her watch. Time is of the essence. Two minutes until contact. Time to go.
She checks herself in the mirror: lacy white blouse, small black vinyl skirt, fishnet tights, high heels. Subtlety is not the name of her game. She grins at her own unfamiliar features, and jauntily hoists the red leather shoulderbag. She's already checked the gun inside it.
"You go, girl," she tells herself. "Go out there and slay them!"
The air is damp and the light is yellow. It's a dead pre-dawn hour, but not too late for the tarts to ply their trade. Jadey avoids their eyes, outglares the raised brows of lurking pimps and Johns. Up ahead, she sees the back of the man she's after, in Russian military uniform. The hardware is soft and warm through her glove, like a wee lump of that stuff kids play with; or maybe plastique, and just as dangerous: Silly Semtex. She slaps it onto a lamppost and walks briskly up York Way, about thirty meters behind the man. A slow, silently counted ten seconds later, the Russki turns off the main drag and into an alley. Jadey follows him
"Countermeasures," she said. "Built in. We can talk."
"So ... are you really CIA?" I asked. Not the most tactful of opening lines, but it had been on my mind.
"No, of course I'm not bloody CIA!" she answered, almost spilling her coffee. "Statist sons of bitches! They're almost as bad as the goddamn commies, when they're not doing deals with them."
"All right. I only asked. So what are you?"
She gave me a serious frown. "You really want to know?"
"Well, yeah. Call it idle curiosity."
"Hah! All right. I'm working for a political organization that does what we think the CIA should be doing: stirring up a bit of subversion in the E.U."
"I'd figured that," I said slowly. "It's the bit that came before it that kind of has me baffled. How does it work? Counterrevolution for fun and profit?"
"Neither," she said. "The money comes from ... well, basically from legacies and trust funds set up by Net entrepreneurs who got rich in the Century Boom, and who thought it might be a good idea to, ah, invest in the future of the free market. As for the fun -- "
She put down the cup. Her hands were shaking. "It was fun for a while, down in old England. Making contacts, setting things up, basic agitprop. But the scene's got a lot heavier lately. You know, like, pseudo-gangs?"
"What?"
"Resistance groups set up by ... whoever -- the Russkis, I guess, maybe even the Brits -- to discredit the real opposition with the odd terrorist outrage; black propaganda that makes us smell like fascists; spreading rumors that the real resistance groups are pseudo-gangs, that the best activists are police agents." She waved a hand. "You know the score."
"The trusting trust problem?" I asked, translating into geek-speak.
"Exactly!"
She frowned again, looked at her nails. One of her thumbnails was bitten right down. "Shit, I thought I'd broken that habit ... " Looked up. "Let me tell you about last night."
There's a scene in Battle of Algiers where the Muslim women of the FLN are preparing to go out and plant bombs in the European quarter, and they're tarting themselves up in immodest European clothes and applying makeup for the first time in their lives, and as they preen solemnly in front of mirrors the soundtrack becomes a relentless martial drumbeat.
Jadey hears that beat as she gets herself ready for the work of the night. She's always liked her complexion; with its natural-blonde creamy smoothness matching her fair brows and pale lips, but now she's covering it all up with blusher and tint, mascara and eyeshadow and bloody-red lipstick. Dye gel turns her hair black and spiky, stains the swirling water as she rinses her hands under the tap.
Her preparations complete, she waits for a few minutes, watching her watch. Time is of the essence. Two minutes until contact. Time to go.
She checks herself in the mirror: lacy white blouse, small black vinyl skirt, fishnet tights, high heels. Subtlety is not the name of her game. She grins at her own unfamiliar features, and jauntily hoists the red leather shoulderbag. She's already checked the gun inside it.
"You go, girl," she tells herself. "Go out there and slay them!"
The air is damp and the light is yellow. It's a dead pre-dawn hour, but not too late for the tarts to ply their trade. Jadey avoids their eyes, outglares the raised brows of lurking pimps and Johns. Up ahead, she sees the back of the man she's after, in Russian military uniform. The hardware is soft and warm through her glove, like a wee lump of that stuff kids play with; or maybe plastique, and just as dangerous: Silly Semtex. She slaps it onto a lamppost and walks briskly up York Way, about thirty meters behind the man. A slow, silently counted ten seconds later, the Russki turns off the main drag and into an alley. Jadey follows him
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