Read Online Hardwired by Walter Jon Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Walter Jon Williams
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what she loves alive. Because there is no choice, and the girls have no option but to follow the instructions and play as best they can.
Chapter Three
As he stands in the hot summer of eastern Colorado, a steel guitar is playing a lonesome song somewhere in the back of Cowboy’s mind.
“For the laws I have a certain respect,” he says. “For mercenaries I have none.”
Arkady Mikhailovich Dragunov stares at him for a half second. His eyes are slitted against the brightness of the sun. The whites seem yellowed Faberge ivory, and the irises, old steel darkened like a sword. Then he nods. It’s the answer he wants.
Discontent rises in Cowboy like a drifting wave of red sand. He doesn’t like this man or share his strange, suspicious, involuted hatreds. Excitement is tingling in his arms, his mind, the crystal inside his skull. Missouri. At last . But Arkady is oblivious to the grandeur of what is going to take place, wants only to fit Cowboy into place with his own self-image, to remind Cowboy again that Arkady is not just a boss but the big boss, that Cowboy owes him not simply loyalty but servitude. A game that Cowboy will not play.
“Goddamn right,” Arkady says. “We know they’re offering their services to Iowa and Arkansas. We don’t want that.”
“If they find me, I’ll do what I can,” Cowboy says, knowing that in this business, talk is necessarily elliptical. “But first they’ve got to find me. And my op plan should give me a good chance of staying in the clear.”
Arkady wears an open-necked silk shirt of pale violet, with leg-of-mutton sleeves so wide they seem to drag in the dust; an embroidered Georgian sash wound twice around his waist; and tight, polished cossack boots over tighter black trousers that have embroidery on the outer seams. His hair, at intervals, stands abruptly on end and flares with static discharges, a different color each time. The latest thing from the Havana boutiques of the Florida Free Zone. Cryo max, he says proudly. Cowboy knows Arkady couldn’t be cryo max if he spent his life trying; it isn’t in him. In fashion he is a follower, not a leader. Here he’s just impressing the hicks and his toadies.
Arkady is a big, brusque man, fond of hugging and touching the people he’s talking to; but he’s got a heart like superconducting hardware and eyes to match, and it would be foolish to consider him a friend. Thirdmen do not have cargo space for friends.
Arkady crimps the cardboard tube of a Russian cigarette and strikes a match. His hair stands on end, suddenly bright orange. Imitating the match, Cowboy thinks, as the steel guitar bends notes in his mind…
The Dodger, Cowboy’s manager, strolls from where the panzer is being loaded for the run. “Best make sure your craft is trimmed,” the Dodger says.
Cowboy nods. “See you later, Arkady.” Arkady’s hair turns green.
“I could see you were getting impatient,” the Dodger says as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Try not to be so fucking superior, will you?”
“It’s hard not to be when Arkady’s around.”
The Dodger flashes him a disapproving look.
“He must have to butter his ass,” Cowboy says, “to get into those pants.” He can see the lines around the Dodger’s eyes grow crinkly as he tries to suppress his laughter.
The Dodger is an older man, rail-lean, with a tall forehead and straight black hair going gray. He’s got a poetic way of speaking when the mood is on him. Cowboy likes him–– and trusts him, too, at least to a point, the point being giving the Dodger the codes to his portfolio. He might be naive, but he is not stupid.
Cowboy watches as the last pieces of cargo are stowed, making sure the panzer is trimmed, that all’s ready for the run across what the Dodger, in an evocative mood, had once christened Damnation Alley.
“What’s my cargo?” Cowboy asks. He smiles diffidently, wondering if the Dodger can see the thoughts behind his artificial eyes. The
Chapter Three
As he stands in the hot summer of eastern Colorado, a steel guitar is playing a lonesome song somewhere in the back of Cowboy’s mind.
“For the laws I have a certain respect,” he says. “For mercenaries I have none.”
Arkady Mikhailovich Dragunov stares at him for a half second. His eyes are slitted against the brightness of the sun. The whites seem yellowed Faberge ivory, and the irises, old steel darkened like a sword. Then he nods. It’s the answer he wants.
Discontent rises in Cowboy like a drifting wave of red sand. He doesn’t like this man or share his strange, suspicious, involuted hatreds. Excitement is tingling in his arms, his mind, the crystal inside his skull. Missouri. At last . But Arkady is oblivious to the grandeur of what is going to take place, wants only to fit Cowboy into place with his own self-image, to remind Cowboy again that Arkady is not just a boss but the big boss, that Cowboy owes him not simply loyalty but servitude. A game that Cowboy will not play.
“Goddamn right,” Arkady says. “We know they’re offering their services to Iowa and Arkansas. We don’t want that.”
“If they find me, I’ll do what I can,” Cowboy says, knowing that in this business, talk is necessarily elliptical. “But first they’ve got to find me. And my op plan should give me a good chance of staying in the clear.”
Arkady wears an open-necked silk shirt of pale violet, with leg-of-mutton sleeves so wide they seem to drag in the dust; an embroidered Georgian sash wound twice around his waist; and tight, polished cossack boots over tighter black trousers that have embroidery on the outer seams. His hair, at intervals, stands abruptly on end and flares with static discharges, a different color each time. The latest thing from the Havana boutiques of the Florida Free Zone. Cryo max, he says proudly. Cowboy knows Arkady couldn’t be cryo max if he spent his life trying; it isn’t in him. In fashion he is a follower, not a leader. Here he’s just impressing the hicks and his toadies.
Arkady is a big, brusque man, fond of hugging and touching the people he’s talking to; but he’s got a heart like superconducting hardware and eyes to match, and it would be foolish to consider him a friend. Thirdmen do not have cargo space for friends.
Arkady crimps the cardboard tube of a Russian cigarette and strikes a match. His hair stands on end, suddenly bright orange. Imitating the match, Cowboy thinks, as the steel guitar bends notes in his mind…
The Dodger, Cowboy’s manager, strolls from where the panzer is being loaded for the run. “Best make sure your craft is trimmed,” the Dodger says.
Cowboy nods. “See you later, Arkady.” Arkady’s hair turns green.
“I could see you were getting impatient,” the Dodger says as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Try not to be so fucking superior, will you?”
“It’s hard not to be when Arkady’s around.”
The Dodger flashes him a disapproving look.
“He must have to butter his ass,” Cowboy says, “to get into those pants.” He can see the lines around the Dodger’s eyes grow crinkly as he tries to suppress his laughter.
The Dodger is an older man, rail-lean, with a tall forehead and straight black hair going gray. He’s got a poetic way of speaking when the mood is on him. Cowboy likes him–– and trusts him, too, at least to a point, the point being giving the Dodger the codes to his portfolio. He might be naive, but he is not stupid.
Cowboy watches as the last pieces of cargo are stowed, making sure the panzer is trimmed, that all’s ready for the run across what the Dodger, in an evocative mood, had once christened Damnation Alley.
“What’s my cargo?” Cowboy asks. He smiles diffidently, wondering if the Dodger can see the thoughts behind his artificial eyes. The
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