Schismatrix plus by Bruce Sterling Read Free Book Online Page A

body suits of the dead fanatics conveyed a sense of bloodless, prim efficiency. Nothing marked the dead as human beings except the military insignia on their shoulders. He counted eighteen of them. The lenses on the faces of the dead were fogged over with internal steam.
    He heard the quiet whir of aircraft. A pair of ultralights circled once and skidded in for a landing. Two of the airship pirates had arrived. Lindsay trained his camera on them. They dismounted, unplugging their credit cards, and the aircraft taxied off.
    They walked toward him in the half-crouching shuffle of people unused to gravity. Lindsay saw that their uniforms were full-length silver skeletons etched over a blood-red background.
    The taller pirate prodded a nearby corpse with his foot. "You saw this?" he said in English.
    "The spyplanes killed them," Lindsay said. "They endangered the habitat."
    "The Eighth Orbital Army," the taller pirate mused, examining a shoulder patch. The second pirate muttered through her mask's filters, "Fascists. Antina-tionalist scum."
    "You knew them?" Lindsay said.
    "We dealt with them," said the first pirate. "We didn't know they were here, though." He sighed. "What a burn. Do you suppose there are others inside?"
    "Only dead ones," Lindsay said. "The planes use x-ray lasers."
    "Really?" the first pirate said. "Wish I could get my hands on one of those."
    Lindsay twirled his left hand, a gesture in surveillance argot stating that they were watched. The taller pirate looked upward quickly. Sunlight glinted on the silver skull inlaid over his face.
    He looked at Lindsay, his eyes hidden behind gleaming silver-plated eye sockets. "Where's your mask, citizen?"
    "Here," Lindsay said, touching his face.
    "A negotiator, huh? Looking for work, citizen? Our last diplomat just took the plunge. How are you in free-fall?"
    "Be careful, Mr. President," the second pirate warned. "Remember the confirmation hearings."
    "Let me handle the legal implications," the President said impatiently.
    "I'll introduce us. I'm the President of the Fortuna Miners' Democracy, and this is my wife, the Speaker of the House."
    "Lin Dze, with Kabuki Intrasolar," Lindsay said. "I'm a theatrical impresario."
    "That some kind of diplomat?"
    "Sometimes, your excellency."
    The President nodded. The Speaker of the House warned, "Don't trust him, Mr. President."
    "The executive branch handles foreign relations, so shut the fuck up," the President snarled. "Listen, citizen, it's been a hard day. Right now, we oughta be in the Bank, having a scrub, maybe getting juiced, but instead these fascists cut in on us with their surface-to-air stuff, a preemptive strike, you follow me? So now our airship's burned and we've lost our fuckin' rock."
    "That's a shame," Lindsay said.
    The President scratched his neck. "You just can't make plans in this business. You learn to take it as it comes." He hesitated. "Let's get out of this stink, anyway. Maybe there's loot inside."
    The Speaker of the House took a hand-held power saw out of a holster on her red webbing belt and began to saw through the wall of the sundog dome. The caulk between the plastic panels powdered easily. "You got to go in unexpected if you want to live," the President explained. "Don't ever, never go in an enemy airlock. You never know what's in 'em." Then he spoke into a wrist attachment. He used a covert operational jargon; Lindsay couldn't follow the words.
    Together the two pirates kicked out the wall and stepped inside. Lindsay followed them, holding his camera. They replaced the burst-out panel, and the woman sprayed it with sealant from a tiny propellant can.
    The President pulled off his skull mask and sniffed the air. He had a blunt, pug-nosed, freckled face; his short ginger-colored hair was sparse, and the skin of his scalp gleamed oddly. They had emerged into the communal kitchen of the Eighth Orbital Army: there were cushions and low tables, a microwave, a crate of plastic-wrapped protein, and half