Code Noir Read Free Page A

a while.
    Not that I was really alone here. Since Jamon went down with the Cabal spear in his back, and I’d put a bullet in a shape-shifter named Io Lang, everyone knew me. Sometimes it was good, mostly it wasn’t, and some of the time I had to stop myself from hurting them.
    I was carrying a load of aggression inside that wasn’t entirely mine. It had to do with the needs of the parasite and the way it manipulated my body. The more epinephrine that flowed, the fatter and happier it got. The less human I got.
    Most of the time I controlled it. I’d even taken up meditation. But sometimes it got me so bad anyway that I turned rabid: angry and lusting. I likened it to a werewolf in the change - not that I’d ever seen one - but sometimes the need overwhelmed the rest.
    I guess you could say there was a new confidence in my look now, but it was shadowed by a dark preoccupation. I’d become the sort of person I used to admire - the person no one messed with, the one with nothing to lose. It wasn’t the way I expected it to be. Not one little bit.
    When is it ever?
    People didn’t mess with me but they competed endlessly.
    I slipped my hand into my pocket and fingered the little box of tattooed skin strips the ’Terro had given me. Why was King Tide so important to the Cabal? This wasn’t Fishertown.
    I drained my tube and asked for another. I wanted to get smashed but I didn’t have time.
    Four days!
    Besides, even that pleasure was denied me. The parasite kicked in when I reached a certain point of getting stoned and annulled the effects. You wouldn’t think you could crave waking up with a mother of a hangover and a mouth drier than six-month-old bread.
    But I did.
    One-World blathered on the bar vid. I switched sides of the booth to avoid seeing it. I didn’t watch net news any more on account of a personal grudge. Business conglomerates and politicians used to control the world. Now the steering wheel was in one set of reality-murdering hands. The media. They’d tried to frame me for the death of Razz Retribution, media hound and presenter. A capital offence. One I entirely did not commit.
    I was taking that grudge to the grave.
    I didn’t forgive a lot.
    Or forget.
    For the moment, though, they seemed to be leaving me alone. Too much public controversy, I guessed, over the truth behind Razz Retribution’s murder. Normally they didn’t give a canrat teste about the veracity of their viewing matter, but somehow enough doubt had separated the audience’s collective mind. Opinion had divided into camps.
    Parrish guilty. Parrish not.
    I guess intrigue made a change from the overdose of LTA ultra violence.
    By forcing Jamon Mondo to confess live on the net, I’d bought myself some time. Now the Media couldn’t convict me without a trial and somehow they didn’t seem to be in a hurry to do that. They were milking ratings.
    Though the heat had lessened I wasn’t off the hook, more like in a holding pattern. Too much was going on that I didn’t understand. Like my recent tête-à-tête with the Prier. The journo had tried to warn me about something (and failed on account of Teece’s trigger twitch), which left me with a case of chronic doubt and some ugly little skin flaps.
    I didn’t like unexplained allies.
    I continued to puzzle over it all as I knocked back my second tube, until a young, slick turk came hanging around my table. I picked him straight away - competitor!
    I raised an eyebrow. ‘Problem?’
    He was lean and dark and, from the way he arched his back reflexively, on a testosterone high. Hard to say if it was natural or paid for.
    ‘No problem,’ he said. ’Jus’ enjoying the view. Heard you’re the one that’s pretty dangerous. That true?’
    I sighed heavily. Whatever tiny interest his looks might have aroused in me dampened instantly. ‘You got the wrong person.’
    ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I been wantin’ to meet her. Real bad.’
    ‘Whyso?’ I asked, vaguely curious.
    ‘Heard she