So Vile a Sin by Ben Aaronovitch, Kate Orman Read Free Book Online Page A

chest cavity. Grey-green blood vessels crawled over the skull, pulsing to the beat of its ferociously complicated cardiovascular system. Roz knew that a Qink could suck its brain case right back into its chest, where articulated ribs would slam across like a portcullis.
    She also knew that the Qink was lying. Qinks always sold guns. Part of their culture, at least according to the refresher courses Roz used to take. Centcomp had called the courses Practical Xenoculture for Adjudicators, but for everyone else it was the Big Bag O’ BEMs.
    She vaguely remembered something about the juxtaposition of guns and frocks, death and commerce, love and war.
    ‘How about I buy a frock first?’ asked Roz.
    The pulsing skull bobbed up and down in agreement. Roz haggled and ended up with a thigh-length slip dress in yellow satin. The Qink threw in a pair of matching PVC mules and a gauss microwire pistol. Buying a lace underwired camisole got her a spare clip and a hydrogen-xenon battery pack.
    She bundled the lot into her carryall and paid the Qink in redeemable bearer bonds – credit notes backed by one of the Doctor’s convenient bank accounts. Technically illegal, such a transaction was OK out here on the rim. But if they headed back towards the core systems she was going to have do something about her ID.
    ‘You good human-looking lady,’ said the Qink sadly as she walked away. ‘You shouldn’t be in the death business.’
    Roz checked the pistol in an alleyway between makeshift walls of laminated glass fibre. It was designed to fire wire-thin flechettes of depleted uranium. Not a lot of stopping 45
    power, but on full auto it could empty the clip of sixty in less than a second.
    She put it on safety and wedged it into her waistband and made sure the hem of her jacket covered the bulge. The spare clip went into the jacket pocket. She considered dumping the frock but changed her mind – it might come in useful later, even if she was buggered if she knew what for.
    She bought a pack of Yemayan Strikes and a cheap lighter from a kiosk on the corner where the boulevard met the Via Grissom. She took a moment to shake a cigarette loose and light up. The smoke felt good as she drew it into her lungs. Strikes had been her brand since she’d been a Squire – the closest she’d come while travelling with the Doctor had been the Gauloise she’d bought when they were working the Quadrant. Roz exhaled slowly. Now she knew she was back.
    Back in the Empire, but the Empire had changed.
    Or maybe it was her.
    The hotel foyer was a cool space after the street. Furnished in the early Empire style that Roz had come to associate with Fury, large expanses of neutral colours counterpointed with small baroque details.
    Two officers, a man and woman, were arguing with the checkin desk. They were dressed in variations of the same baggy fatigues that Roz had seen on the soldiers outside, not Landsknechte or Navy – not a uniform she recognized. Roz approached the desk and slapped the service panel.
    The female officer turned and glared – her pupils the size of pinheads. She and the man wore captain’s insignia on their shoulders above patches that displayed stylized reptile wings.
    Pilots, guessed Roz. The woman was narced on something; her companion hovered protectively at her shoulder – nervous. A web of fine lines, like cracks in glass, had been tattooed around his left eye.
    ‘Hey,’ said the woman. ‘This place is humans only.’
    Roz gave her the stare – put thirty years of the street into it.
    The woman didn’t seem to notice but the man did. He put a restraining hand on his companion’s shoulder.
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    ‘We don’t want any trouble,’ said the man.
    ‘No,’ said Roz, ‘you don’t.’ The pistol was a cold weight against her spine.
    ‘We got this place staked, see,’ said the woman. ‘Four oh three Interface Wing. Our place. Go find yourself somewhere else.’
    She shrugged the man’s hand off and took a step forward.