Extremophile by Ian Green

Author:Ian Green [Green, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781804545829
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

16

Scrimshank

Augmented criminality

Scrimshank pushes thick shades with pulsing light frames off his face and squints in the darkness. Youfuckingwhat? Mate? Repeat, robobuddy. Repeat.

Avery responds calmly, as ever. The robot has taken lodging. It says it leaves when he asks but whenever he addresses it a question, subvocalised, it responds instantly. He tried with his onyx turned off and it still responded so what the fuck does that mean?

Scrimshank, Avery says, police are on their way to your location. The City AI tripped when you passed into Zone 1: your profile has been raised. Car theft, and a string of others. Murder. I can’t shield you inside Zone 1 anymore – someone has stripped your corporate status and I’m being monitored.

Shit, Scrim says, and kicks an empty can into the canal. He’s just east of Camden and he is meant to be meeting beautiful Cass quicksharp for a quickie before they hit the night.

Shit, robot. I was gonna get laid. I was gonna party. What do I do?

Scrim is turning left and right up the canal. Homeless dude (not cool homeless, like, stink homeless) camped out by the bridge to the left, three ravers in neon skirts to the right. No sign of cops. Stagnant water with a slick of oil and shit, used condom, empty tins and bottles. Dead swan.

You need to get out of Zone 1 fast, Scrimshank. Can you run?

Avery is calm, Avery is always calm. Ever since the pub murders the AI is just there. What was before a little buzz in his onyx, Cousin Ellis’s little helper pointing him in the right direction and making sure he didn’t foul up. Now it’s there, listening and chatting back.

And doing a pretty fucking good job, actually. Three times now it’s dodged him from cop patrols, bouncing Scrim past the bobbies with no drama.

Alright, Scrim says, and he sprints past the ravers. They scatter and he leers at one as he goes through, squints in the way that activates the LEDs in his eyes, and gets a good buzz from the spook on their faces. Even snaps a little photo with the lens with a quick double blink. Cute.

Left, says Avery, and Scrim isn’t complaining or questioning tonight. Robot advises, Scrim can take the advice. He runs up a side alley and then he is out from the canal and Camden is heaving. No sirens. Music pounding from twenty different shops, restaurants, stallholders still holding out. Camden has clung on to its shabby sense of self as much as anywhere else – so not much. Chain shops and corpo fronts, but the Zone 1 teens need somewhere to rebel and the music is still happening if you have the right hook-up.

Scrimshaw dashes two streets until he is among the night crowd at the market – it’s early but it’s winter so it is dark as all hell, and in Camden Scrim stands out maybe 90 per cent less than anywhere else in London, but he is still the tallest, most

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