No Grave for a Fox: a Beautiful Intelligence short novel

Some Reviews of Stephen Palmer’s Books

...a thrilling chase across a ravaged Europe, a burgeoning North Africa and balkanised US, interleaving excellent action set-pieces with fascinating philosophising on the nature of consciousness. A gripping read to the poignant last line. The Guardian, on Beautiful Intelligence

A bracingly imaginative novel... a rich, complex vision of a relatively near future which in some ways is familiar, in others, startlingly alien... a work which looks to a diverse global future with excitement and verve. Gary Dalkin, Amazing Stories, on Beautiful Intelligence

Palmer is a writer of unique and remarkable imagination. Teresa Edgerton, SFF Chronicles

Stephen Palmer is a find. Time Out

Stephen Palmer’s imagination is fecund... Interzone

Stephen Palmer takes biotech to its farthest extreme, and beyond into entropy, yet he offers a flicker of hope. Locus

This latest novel confirms that in Stephen Palmer, science fiction has gained a distinctive new voice. Ottakar’s

Give him a try; his originality is refreshing. David V Barrett

"The author of Memory Seed and Glass offers a challenging and thoughtful future world that should satisfy readers with a love for far-future sf and New Wave fiction." Library Journal

...(a) supremely odd yet deeply rewarding experience. CCLaP

Contents

No Grave for a Fox

Afterword

About the author

More from infinity plus

Beyond Beautiful Intelligence

NO GRAVE FOR A FOX

a short novel

Stephen Palmer

Published by

infinity plus

www.infinityplus.co.uk

Follow @ipebooks on Twitter

© Stephen Palmer 2015

Cover image © Steve Jones

Cover design © Stephen Palmer

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Books by Stephen Palmer

Memory Seed

Glass

Flowercrash

Muezzinland

Hallucinating

Urbis Morpheos

The Rat and The Serpent

Hairy London

Beautiful Intelligence

No Grave for a Fox

CHAPTER 1

Ibrahim Kettanih’s blonde-streaked dreadlocks flopped over the oud he played, swaying from side to side as the beat fuelled his body. He plucked the strings with a feather: old school. At his side Elodie Twem played her bamboo ney flute, eyes closed, also swaying as she hovered over the microphone. The beatmaster was only an old Roland Projects 202 but they boosted the distortion by routing it through an amp reclaimed from a nearby mech dump. At their side Kotone – most aloof of dogs – sat motionless, as if bored.

The crowd were Fez local, ninety percent Riffi Berbers, most of them from the tanneries of Swekt Ben Safi, all holding solfans before their faces to reduce their need for water – this was a cheap music venue and water was no longer cheap. They sat on the cool concrete floor and swayed as Ibrahim embellished his E minor scales.

As the music faded Elodie straightened, pulled long black hair off her face, shook the sweat from her arms then bowed to receive the applause. Goodnight! We shall see you next time.

Ibrahim also bowed, struggling to his feet as if half drunk, handing his feather plectrum to the nearest punter, as was his custom. Thank you, thank you.

The pair walked offstage into the cobweb-strewn chamber behind, Ibrahim tottering amongst the rusting mike stands and plastic deraboukahs, then halting when Elodie grabbed him by the arm. Are you okay? she asked.

Yeah. Just... coming back to earth, y’know?

Kotone stood before them, staring up at their faces. In the light of a single lantern his face looked like that of a russet teddy bear, albeit with pointy ears.

I need a drink, said Ibrahim.

I don’t think that was part of the deal, Elodie replied.

Then let’s split.

~

Dark, cool, symbol-haunted street outside the venue. The bank sigils displayed by Ibrahim’s spex gave him all the details he needed. He felt happy. Fifty five nexbits – nice. We should cram that dive again. What was the guy’s name?

Sultan.

Nah, I mean his real name.

Elodie scowled at him. If you’re going to leave me to do all the organising, you’re going to have to listen to me.

I do, sweets. Ibrahim ruffled Kotone’s fur. Hey, we got paid. Number one priority. He flicked through a few symbols on his spex, fingernails tapping his wristband. Water merch round the corner. Shall we?

Elodie nodded. Ibrahim led the way through orange-flecked midnight, before turning the corner and halting. A kid and a nexbot.

He had expected the kid – bottles of water in the snotty lad’s multi-pocket jacket – but not the nexbot. They were rare this far into slumland. It stood still and silent, a ghost reified in pure white bioplas, skeletal and gawky. Its owl eyes seemed like crystals in the lantern light.

He approached the kid. What, you need protection? he asked.

Die young, muso. You drink or not? The fuckin’ nexbot surprised me.

Ibrahim didn’t have the energy to badmouth the kid, so he transferred a nexbit.

The kid threw him a bottle, then turned to face the nexbot. They come east from Qasbah Filala and Qasbah Boujloud. Talk of Tamssumant leaders doin’ deals with Solostreets. You better believe it.

At once Ibrahim turned and hurried away. Elodie followed, Kotone trotting behind her. Taking Elodie by the hand he dragged her into an unlit alley. He glanced up. Pale yellow lamps behind torn curtains; stars in the sky; dull thud of a failing sol powered aircon. A flock of symbols in his spex with much additional info.

That was close, he said.

Elodie nodded, taking the bottle and removing the plastic stopper. Indeed. Do you think it scanned us? She took a swig. Ugh! This has got to be half sea water.

Ibrahim shook his head. Nah, the nexbot was checking out the kid grifter. You know what grifters are like. Get to eight or nine and think they own the place. Besides, you paid to make sure, eh?

About Tamssumant membership? Yes, I paid, of course I did.

Good. ’Cos we don’t want no nexus goon knowing we don’t–

"Okay, Ibrahim! You have made your point. She finished her half of the drink, then passed it back. Wiping sweat off her forehead, she took a few deep breaths. Fifty four nexbits... that will last us for a day or two."

Ibrahim shrugged. He liked the sound of that assessment. Where shall we doss?

We’d better return to the mech skipyard. That’s a big dump. I mean, there’s hundreds of people there, but we will lose ourselves.

Sure we will. He knelt, pulling Kotone towards him. And doggy here might even guard us. He grasped the medallion hanging from Kotone’s collar, and, as he had dozens of times before, tried to see what else might be engraved on it apart from the name. Jap dog in Fez, he murmured. Weird.

Elodie hooked a couple of fingers around Kotone’s collar and pulled him away. "You leave him alone. He’s mine. He came to me–"

For jeez sake! I didn’t do anything.

You don’t like him. Ever since last Saturday–

It was Sunday–

It was Saturday, Elodie interrupted. We’ve had him a week and you still don’t trust him. Just because he’s not real.

"It was a Sunday. I remember."

Elodie frowned, forcing back her reply. In silence she tapped her wristbands. Ibrahim said nothing, recognising the expression on her face. They had only been a couple for six months, but he knew the consequences of chatback.

Transfer Ibrahim, she said.

A neon blue info flickered into view to the right of his spex: Saturday 3 May 2110. But... he said. But Elodie, it was a Sunday. It was six days ago, at the Sidi Laaouad gig.

The nexus says your brain is mush. You need to drink more.

He frowned. He knew he was right. Not that it mattered – just a tiff. But the gig where Kotone turned up was a Sunday play. There were Christians and everything, arriving and departing the church next door.

He tapped his wristbands. Some punter would have taken pix. A man, most likely – men ogled Elodie when it was so hot they both had to strip down to swimwear. He chortled. Playing an oud in sweaty swimming trunks was not easy.

And there were a few pix – street mobiles, ’corders, spexcams. But all were tagged 3 May 10. Yet it had been a Sunday...

Are you going to sit there and wait for some crim to pick us up? Elodie asked. I need sleep. Safe sleep. Get up, please.

He stood up, but continued the virtual search as they walked. The gig the night before, he said. That was a Saturday.

You think so?

Nexus says different. He stopped. Hell. That church... look at its sweep.

Elodie took him by the hand and dragged him on, so that he was forced to keep up with her fast pace. What do you mean by sweep? she asked.

Its conceptual radius of influence. Wow, that’s weird. I’ve never seen actual tags changed by a sweep before.

"No tags have changed, Ibrahim. Your memory is playing tricks. Why would the nexus deliberately fool you?"

Ibrahim shook himself free, then halted. It thinks the venue is part of the church.

It?

The nexus.

She sounded annoyed now. "What venue?"

Ibrahim ignored her. He could see now what might have happened. Most likely the nexus was a little behind on its diurnal update – if major events were occurring somewhere in the world updates could be delayed, which introduced temporary inconsistencies between nexus and reality. The church must have acquired the gig venue as property just before they played. But why had that altered tag data? And why had that data remained incorrect?

Again Elodie grabbed his hand and pulled him on. He did not resist. He was going to get to the bottom of this, not to prove himself right but to prove his memory was sound. Because it was sound.

He wouldn’t tell her. As long as his memory was good, that was enough.

Two starving dogs sat in their mech dump hole, but Ibrahim was too slow to catch them for their meat. Yelping, they scrammed. Kotone ignored them, as he did with all dogs.

They had left no personal possessions in the hole – too risky, what with the number of European refugees floating about – so all they had were their clothes and their instruments. Ibrahim hitched a spex ride on a lo-sat to scan the dump. IR traces suggested groups of people a hundred yards away, and there were more than a few vultures nearby, but all seemed safe-ish. Anyway, he was too tired to be thorough; and Kotone had once rushed a kid scavenger, exposing his teeth in silent faux-fury at the astonished brat. Doggy could, and would guard.

He patted Kotone’s head. The fur was amazing. No static at all. He shrugged, grabbed the remains of a polythene package, made a pillow of it, then lay back.

Goodnight, Ibrahim.

Night, sweets.

There was a pause, then: You do know that church wouldn’t have allowed us to play on a Sunday... not likely, anyway.

No comment.

And I’m not going to let you investigate on your own.

Definitely no comment.

~

Next evening they sought Samey, the guy from the plastic sheds at the rear of the mech dump. He was de facto boss of the zone – tall, musclebound and callous – though he paid the land owner a fee to lord it over the street scum and refugees who dossed there. They found him arguing with skanky urchins from Casablanca, come over on a solar glider with their gang leader.

Ibrahim waited for the argument to dissolve, then walked up to Samey. The man glanced at him, scowled, then tapped a wristband. Okay paleface, he said. Rent up to date – until tomorrow sunset. You stayin’ any longer?

Ibrahim shrugged. Can you scam us any gulls or things to eat?

Samey laughed. Aw, had no supper?

Ibrahim glanced at Elodie, but she was checking out the urchins. Uh, listen, Samey my friend, you know any good nexus witch doctors?

What? You can’t afford no witch doctor.

Yeah... well, a witch nurse then.

Samey grimaced, as if dealing with pond life. I’m only helpin’ you ’cos you pay your rent on time. But if you miss a payment, you’re dead.

Ibrahim nodded. So, who’s the lead?

Guy called Zouhair Fox. Walk on – I’ll ping you his addy in a moment.

Ibrahim took Elodie by the hand then returned to the dump hole in which they slept. We can sleep here tonight, he explained, but then Samey will want more rent. Shall we stay in Fez?

I think we should, Elodie replied, tying back her hair. She wiped sweat off her face with a hand cloth. "It’s still so hot. We’ve got to buy some water tonight."

Yeah. We will, don’t worry. Listen – let’s check out the back of the Filo Mart. They dump rotten veg about now.

Come on, then.

At the rear of the Filo Mart they found a dozen other street folk. It was going to be a free-for-all, but Ibrahim was strong, young and confident, and he knew how to put the boot in. Half the people here were old. He’d push them to the ground if he needed to, then Elodie could set Kotone on them as they cowered.

The Filo Mart bins were full of squishy tomatoes, okra, beans and such. He elbowed aside a couple of kids, then grabbed a plastic bowl and dove in, but shrank back when he saw chicken bones. Meat – danger.

Hey, kids! he shouted. This is for you!

At the next bin he shoved the old man away then grabbed his plate. The mush was the same, but without the bones. It was mouldy, yet only just – on the turn. He took a plastic bag from his pocket and filled it, then scooted off.

Elodie! Out now, eh?

One street away from the Filo Mart they sat in a doorway, Ibrahim placing his oud by his feet. The setting sun illuminated them orange and red. What was wrong with the first bin? Elodie asked.

Salmonella. Listeria. Death.

Elodie began sorting their catch. Ibrahim watched. Meat was rare enough these days because of the lack of land and water, but to find it in bins was often fatal.

If you see a hint of a bone or a feather, chuck everything, he said.

She nodded.

But the food was okay. They ate in silence. Kotone watched Elodie: Ibrahim watched Kotone. Though the dog wasn’t real, it somehow picked up that Elodie liked it and that he was suspicious. How the hell had the Japs built that kind of intuition into a machine?

A green info flashed into view in Ibrahim’s spex. Ah, he said. The addy. You ready?

Elodie stood up, settling the patchwork bag that held her flutes upon her shoulder. Yes, lead on. Come on, Kotone. Good boy!

Ibrahim set the nav, then followed intructions all the way through lowlife Fez to the Swekt Ben Safi district, where, in an alley so narrow he could reach out either side to touch walls, he located Zouhair Fox’s front door. He sent the resident doorwatch a query, then waited. Seconds later the computer replied: Enter.

Seems we’re expected, he said.

The building interior was unlit, dusty, and it smelled of cooking spices. Nexus radios blared out rai music and the latest news on the Egyptian voting