Read Online Embedded by Dan Abnett - Free Book Online

hold of her, she sounded upset for some reason.
      "I need you to come and meet some people," she said.
      "Who?"
      "Just come and meet them."
      "Where?" Falk asked.
      She told him.
      "Can you make it this afternoon? Four-ish?"
      "Okay," he said. He didn't want to, and he was growing increasingly less interested in whatever it was Cleesh was into.
      But it was Cleesh, and she sounded upset, and he had some fucked-up notion he owed her.
      He had stuff to do. His hip still hurt. It hurt a lot. He tried to make himself comfortable in his apartment by adding cushions to the chair at the desk, but it was easier to stand up. He decided he could head to the SO Library in Furth, and work there. They had leather-effect banquettes. He could sprawl.
      His celf lit.
      "It's me," she said.
      "Who?"
      "Noma."
      He let it hang for a moment, just so she'd know how little room she took up in his headspace.
      "Oh. Right. What's up?"
      "I've got something."
      "Now that's being generous," he replied. "If you work hard for another five years, and exploit your sources ruthlessly, then maybe–"
      "Hah hah hah, so funny. I've got something. I think you'll want to see it."
      "Why?"
      "Because it's cool, Falk."
      "No," he said. "Why are you calling me? If you've got something and it's actually, properly good, then why are you calling me? Why aren't you just running with it?"
      "Do you want the convincing answer?" she asked.
      "Okay."
      "Because you got me out of harm's way this morning in Letts, and I'm trying to say thank you. One-time gesture, no repeats, take it or leave it."
      "Okay, that is quite convincing. What's the real reason?"
      "Because this thing I've got," she said, "I don't know what the fuck I should do with it."
     
    She lived in a cubicle hotel in South Site, the oldest part of Shaverton. Another twenty years, the area would catch a dose of Early Settlement chic, and incomers would pour money into the narrow streets, the depots and store sheds, the weatherboard and cinderblock businesses. People would buy into that pioneer/prospector vibe, and heritage plaques would appear on the facades of the counting house and the weights-and-measures office.
      Until then, South Site would remain a hole reserved for low-rest accommodation, migrant temporaries, murky enterprises and ballast markets. There was a smell of rancid soap in the air from the big drain outfalls, and a river-stink of decaying tar and stagnant water. There were cooking smells too, smoking hot and over-spiced, from the immigrant food stalls in the market walks and row streets. Vendors shouted their bills of fare, but the cooking smells shouted louder. Disguise recipes. Heavy peppers and flavour enhancers, copious spices, rubs, marinades. Cooking designed to mask the substitutions made for chicken, pork and beef. Not even chicken, pork or beef, in truth. These stands were working without chicken, pork or beef effect.
      The buildings in South Site were caked in rust, or wet with lime seep. Some displayed the vague apparitions of their old, first-generation, hand-done sign boards. Paint withered and flaked, losing its colours before it lost itself into the inshore wind entirely. Blurds tapped around Chinese lanterns and bare bulbs. The streets were so tight and busy, Falk buttoned up his coat and dug his hands into his pockets.
      He'd taken a cab from his place. The city had looked drab and lightless. Smoke cover from the Letts incident had formed a huge anvilhead of darkness in the north-west, and stolen all the colour. There was a gritty haze in the air. Even the majestic glass masts looked like they'd been sandblasted to a matt finish in the afternoon gloom.
      Falk didn't like South Site much. The opportunities for something criminal and unfortunate to happen seemed high. But at least the place had some colour. Coloured lights and lanterns, colourful awnings, stainless-steel trays of