Nicola Griffith Read Online Free

smiled at that. Such a simple thing, to not hurt.
    Spanner was working at her bench, sharp halogen light pooling in front of her. She reached out, took a data slate from the pile in the shadow, hooked it up to a small gray box, read something from the screen, laid it aside, took another slate.
    Lore watched her for a while. This woman knew all about her: her name, age, family. If she cared to check, she could get information on education, hobbies, friends. Yet Lore knew nothing about her, did not even know if she had had any school, if she had ever been hurt, ever seen a medic under her real name. If she even had a real name. Some people, she knew, were illegitimate from birth—the fact of their existence not recorded anywhere. But that line of thought was too frightening. She yawned loudly.
    Spanner swung round in her chair. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d given you too many pills. How do you feel?”
    “Thirsty. And I need some clothes.”
    “Both easily fixed.” She stood up and disappeared into the shadow. Red power points glowed from the dark. She brought back an old, soft shirt, some underwear, trousers. No shoes, Lore noticed, but then she doubted she would be going anywhere for a while.
    “We’re about the same size, I think.” Spanner went into the kitchen.
    Lore sat up, sucked her cheeks in at the pain but made no noise. She pulled on the clothes.
    Spanner brought back water and coffee. She set Lore’s by the judo mat, took her own back to the bench.
    Lore watched her awhile.
    Spanner turned partway back toward her, impatient now. “What?” Her face glowed oddly in the white halogen and red power indicators. Like one of those late-sixties paintings that looked like a vase and then turned out to be two faces, Lore thought. She shook her head. Probably the drugs.
    “If stealing from slates is so easy, then don’t you worry someone will do the same to yours?”
    Spanner made a huffing sound, halfway between amusement and cynicism. “I don’t often carry one. Or a phone.”
    The only time Lore had not carried a slate was on the grounds at Ratnapida. Even then, it had made her feel naked: unable to reach or be reached. Also untraceable. Probably what Spanner liked. “But when you do,” she persisted.
    “Then I use this.” She slid open a drawer and pulled out an ordinary-looking slate. “It’s almost empty. I clean it every time I get back here. Take a look.” She extended her hand. Lore had to drag herself up from her mat.
    She looked it over, spotted the metal and ceramic protuberance immediately. “What’s this?”
    “A lock.”
    “But you said any code could—”
    “It’s not a code. It’s an old-fashioned insert-key-and-turn lock. No one knows how they work anymore. Safe as the most modern encryption. For most people.”
    “Most?”
    “Hyn and Zimmer are so old that they remember some things. And they’ve taught them to me. But that’s all beside the point. This lock is like my tracking device. If someone is sharp enough, but dumb enough, to steal a slate that belongs to me, I’ll want to know who they are. After they’ve tried to puzzle out this monster, they’ll assume—wrongly, of course—that there must be some fabulous secrets on here, so sooner or later they’ll start asking around for anyone who knows anything about locks. And I’ll track them down. And then we’ll have a little chat.”
    Lore looked at the bump of metal and ceramic on the plastic slate.
A little chat.
She thought of the medic who patched up ragged wounds without comment.
             
    When it got too cold by the river I walked to the city mortuary and leaned against the wall, just outside the circle of heavy, yellowish-orange street light, and waited for Ruth. Dawn was well enough along to turn the lights into unpleasant turmeric stains on the pavement by the time Ruth stepped through the gates. I was shocked at how tired she looked.
    “You look as though you could do with some