Altered Carbon Read Free Page A

cropped hair was black shot through with grey. The eyes
were a speculative shade of blue, and there was a faint jagged scar under the
left one. I raised my left forearm and looked at the story written there,
wondering if the two were connected.
    The envelope
beneath the watch contained a single sheet of printed paper. Hardcopy.
Handwritten signature. Very quaint.
    Well,
you’re on Earth now. Most ancient of civilised worlds
. I shrugged and scanned the letter, then got dressed
and folded it away in the jacket of my new suit. With a final glance in the
mirror, I strapped on the new watch and went out to meet the police.
    It was
four-fifteen, local time.
     
    The doctor
was waiting for me, seated behind a long curve of reception counter and filling
out forms on a monitor. A thin, severe-looking man suited in black stood at her
shoulder. There was no one else in the room.
    I glanced
around, then back at the suit.
    “You
the police?”
    “Outside.”
He gestured at the door. “This isn’t their jurisdiction. They need
a special brief to get in here. We have our own security. ”
    “And
you are?”
    He looked
at me with the same mixture of emotions the doctor had hit me with downstairs.
“Warden Sullivan, chief executive for Bay City Central, the facility you
are now leaving.”
    “You
don’t sound delighted to be losing me.”
    Sullivan
pinned me with a stare. “You’re a recidivist, Kovacs. I never saw
the case for wasting good flesh and blood on people like you.”
    I touched
the letter in my breast pocket. “Lucky for me Mr.Bancroft disagrees with
you. He’s supposed to be sending a limousine for me. Is that outside as
well?”
    “I
haven’t looked.”
    Somewhere
on the counter, a protocol chime sounded. The doctor had finished her
inputting. She tore the curling edge of the hardcopy free, initialled it in a
couple of places and passed it to Sullivan. The warden bent over the paper,
scanning it with narrowed eyes before he scribbled his own signature and handed
the copy to me.
    “Takeshi
Lev Kovacs,” he said, mispronouncing my name with the same skill as his minion
in the tank room. “By the powers vested in me by the UN Justice Accord, I
discharge you on lease to Laurens J. Bancroft, for a period not to exceed six
weeks, at the end of which time your parole status will be reconsidered. Please
sign here.”
    I took the
pen and wrote my name in someone else’s handwriting next to the
warden’s finger. Sullivan separated the top and bottom copies, and handed
me the pink one. The doctor held up a second sheet and Sullivan took it.
    “This
is a doctor’s statement certifying that Takeshi Kovacs (d.h.) was
received intact from the Harlan’s World Justice Administration, and
subsequently sleeved in this body. Witnessed by myself, and closed circuit
monitor. A disc copy of the transmission details and tank data are enclosed.
Please sign the declaration.”
    I glanced
up and searched in vain for any sign of the cameras. Not worth fighting about.
I scribbled my new signature a second time.
    “This
is a copy of the leasing agreement by which you are bound. Please read it
carefully. Failure to comply with any of its articles may result in you being
returned to storage immediately to complete the full term of your sentence
either here, or at another facility of the Administration’s choice. Do
you understand these terms and agree to be bound by them?”
    I took the
paperwork and scanned rapidly through it. It was standard stuff. A modified
version of the parole agreement I’d signed half a dozen times before on
Harlan’s World. The language was a bit stiffer, but the content was the
same. Bullshit by any other name. I signed it without a blink.
    “Well
then.” Sullivan seemed to have lost a bit of his iron.
“You’re a lucky man, Kovacs. Don’t waste the
opportunity.”
    Don’t
they ever get tired of saying it?
    I folded up
my bits of paper without speaking and stuffed them into my pocket next to