CLAIRVOYANCE: Part 38
All sorts of thoughts were leaking out of Gina’s head as she walked across rubble, ash and molten tarmac. Visions of Rat and Bomber swam in and out of focus, interspersed with other significant memories.
Her father featured prominently. She saw Onounu, and Alfie, and even Mahmoud. Still she kept coming back to the image of Gabriel’s eyes glowing in the dark of a City nightclub. The psychedelic flashing of the disco lights reflected in them while they stared and studied her, as though this man could tell everything about her without ever opening his mouth. She reached out to touch him, but found only chaos inside his mind, chaos that rolled over her like a tidal wave.
Beside her, Jupiter stumbled, holding his head, but he quickly recovered and shook it off. He gave Gina a little grimace that was probably meant to be a smile. The landscape affected him more than he let on but, tough old bird that he was, he took it in his stride.
“How are you holding up?” he asked her.
“Could be better,” she said without thinking twice, then raised her hand to her mouth in surprise. That had sounded a little too much like Bomber. She added hastily, “Sorry, I don’t really feel myself. How about you?”
“I’m impressed,” he breathed, “that you walked around with this for as long as you have. Without cracking, that is. I think you’ve been given an amazing gift.” He took another look around and chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. His tone of voice was conversational, almost absent-minded, when he continued. “That man you keep thinking of, he’s tied in to this somehow, isn’t he?”
She hesitated, but it was futile. She couldn’t have told a convincing lie if she’d wanted to. “Yes. You could say that.”
He said quietly, “I don’t give a damn who he is and what he means to you, Gina. I’m not exactly a doctor, but you can count on my confidentiality.”
Broken tarmac crunched under Gina’s boots as she looked at him, her blue eyes foggy from the pain pounding distantly behind her eyes. “Thanks,” was all she could bring herself to say.
Jupiter waited for her to continue, but she walked on in silence, trying to figure this place out. Even now it was messing with her mind. The bowed, sagging buildings gave a constant impression of movement, like those old schoolbook brain-teasers with the patterns of differently-coloured squares that always made Gina sick. Light came into the city from somewhere, but it was dim and diffuse, lacking any visible source. Still it cast huge long shadows across the ground, and whenever Gina walked under one the temperature seemed to plummet beyond freezing.
“You’re shivering,” Jupiter pointed out. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
She instinctively reached up to the collar, drawing it tight around her. Her teeth chattered as she said, “I’m not actually cold. This place is just . . .” Words failed her, and she hunched down. “It’s starting to hit me that I still don’t know anything about this place. Not for sure. Where is it? What’s it called? Why was it destroyed? Is it real or just some fucked-up twisted imagination?”
Jupiter caught her shoulders in his hands and gently pulled her to a stop. “So look around, Gina. Pay close attention. What can you learn from the things you see around you?”
Taking his advice, Gina looked around. They were near one of the ash people that stood in the road, its head and arms thrown back in a scream of perpetual agony. The pungent smell of charred meat surrounded it. Black flakes peeled off in the toxic breeze, slowly carried away to only God knew where.
She walked around the statue, taking it in. She could almost feel the thoughts and emotions of the person in its last moments. A flash of light so bright it brought only darkness, blind eyes staring down endlessly as the flesh was cooked alive in nuclear fire.
Hands reached out gingerly. At the lightest touch, the statue fell apart into a pile of burnt matter. There was nothing holding it up, nothing to be done for any of them.
Moisture began to build behind her eyes, and she fought bitterly to blink it all away. It was stupid to waste tears on someone she would never know.
She hissed, “Lots of people have apocalyptic dreams, right?”
Jupiter touched her arm gently, though he struggled to keep the lid on his own emotions. “Artifacts are built on direct psychological trauma. The trouble is, Spice lowers your natural defences against this sort of thing, forcing you to feel that trauma as if it was your own. That’s why they call it ‘post-empathic stress disorder’.”
“A friend of mine told me about them once,” she said, shutting her eyes against the dull throb of grief that accompanied thoughts of Onounu. She’d thought she was coming to accept it, but this place brought back all the negative emotions amplified ten times over. “She used to say artifacts are the darkest places in our hearts. That we can usually deal with our own demons, but while we’re reading a mark, we’re vulnerable to their nightmares.”
“Poetic, but accurate. ‘And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.'”
“What?”
“Nietzsche. Beyond Good and Evil.” He smiled and shrugged. “I like to read.”
She dismissed that pointless exchange from her mind and forced a deep breath, thinking about what Jupiter had told her. Pay close attention. She took another look at the statues down the street and realised she’d seen something like them before, in news items and school videos about the East Coast nuke event. They all used a particular artist’s representation of people caught in the thermal pulse of the bombs, their flesh stripped off their bones, leaving only blackened skeletons in the street — until, half a second later, the shockwave scattered them into particles.
“It’s gotta be a nuke,” she said softly. “These people had no warning. They died in the street.”
Something still nagged at her, though . . . The statues here were full human bodies, but from what she’d been taught, that could never occur in reality, not for longer than a heartbeat. Which meant the city was either fantasy or a memory that had been distorted in ways she didn’t understand.
She stopped a moment to sniff the air. Something else was hidden underneath the tang of carbon and death, something faint and salty attenuating the graveyard wind. She followed her nose to the corner of the block, where the ground dipped down to a vast flowing plain of blood. Memories stirred up from the harbour in Odessa, and the little blue beach house where her friends lived and died. It was seawater.
Like on the East Coast, maybe. Gina bit her lip and thought. Gabriel must’ve survived the bombs. He survived, and maybe this is the place . . .
Jupiter squeezed her shoulder. “That’s a start.”
“A start to what?” she asked, a little bit sharply. Baseless optimism got on her nerves. Everything got on her nerves her right now. “What the hell do you do to fix something like this?”
“The only way I’ve found to deal with an artifact is to come to terms with it. Understand it, accept it for what it is. Let it become part of you, and as part of you, harmless.”
“Does this look harmless to you?” she spat and waved at the devastation around her, a rush of anger burning through her veins. “Look at it! Do you honestly think I’m going to be able to live the rest of my life with that stuck in my brain?!”
“I don’t think you have much of a choice,” Jupiter pointed out in a suddenly businesslike tone. “It’s that or let it drive you insane.”
Gina shook her head violently. “No. I want it out, Jupiter. By force if necessary. I was never meant to carry this weight around.”
He stepped in front of her, blocking out her view of the city for a moment. “Do you know how to do that?”
“I’m the second most powerful fucking telepath in the world,” she replied, turning her back on him. “I’ll find a way.” With one furious clap of her hands she dismissed the whole city back into the fog.
There was no protest. Nobody with a good look at her expression would have argued the point.
Darius kept following her around. He was waiting for her outside the pod room when she came out, and stayed on her heels all the way back to her room. He didn’t fucking move, either. She kept checking the peephole for hours and he was always there.
Despite her general frustration, she felt indebted enough to to him that she couldn’t bring herself to scream at him until he went away. Instead she snuck out the window, clambered down to the gardens, and doubled back into the main room. She wanted to relax away from her little crop of stalkers, and fortunately the tea house still served tea.
Soon she had a cup of translucent green water on the table, steaming fragrantly into her face. She knelt on velvet cushions and stared at the paper-thin display on the wall. It was flashing sports results into the room, but it didn’t seem to be drawing a crowd. The seats were all but deserted.
She needed some time to clear her head, really. It took a while to factor in the changes to her plans. She was liking Jupiter’s methods less and less. Their working relationship seemed to be gradually circling the drain anyway. He didn’t appreciate her attitude, and she didn’t like being held out on. Something definitely didn’t add up there.
“It doesn’t work, you know,” Darius said behind her. “I’m a telepath too.”
“Can you tell what I’m thinking right now?” she shot back nastily.
“Don’t be so rude. I want to help you.”
He circled round the table, sank onto his backside opposite Gina, and folded his legs into the lotus position. Gina’s eyes found the ever-smiling mouth and the faint mocking gleam in his eyes.
“You’re not doing too good so far.”
He made an amused noise and grinned, resting his elbows on the table. “Any suggestions to improve my performance, then?”
This time, she opted not to rise to the bait. She just changed the subject. “Do you trust Jupiter?” she asked, without bothering to look at him.
“About as far as I could throw him.”
Glancing at him to read his face, she added, “Know any good wetware shops around here?”
He went still, caught by surprise. “I . . . could find one. What do you need surgery for?”
“An idea I had.” She suddenly smiled at him. Her plan was beginning to take shape. “You’ll see.”
“That’s not exactly filling me with confidence,” he said. “What are you planning to do?”
“Renegotiating my contract,” she shot back, rubbing her faded surgical scar. The sweet pull of the Network was now fully clamped down under her iron control. The ache in her soul, the part from where Gabriel sat and watched her, now helped to keep her head clear.
Nobody was paying attention when the two of them slipped out into the night a second time. The little black car had returned itself to Jupiter’s driveway, just in time to make itself useful. She went for it. And, despite his odious presence, she let Darius ride with her. She had a plan for him.
They got out in front of a row of shops half-hidden under a thick concrete awning, ablaze with various signs and logos. Garish bright light flashed across Gina’s face from every direction, turning her pink and green in the reflection of the dark-tinted windows. There was noise, too, thick bass-heavy music vibrating up through the pavement under their feet. Darius convinced the cab driver to wait outside for them, mesmerising him with a small bundle of cash.
“Japanese bunch?” Gina ascertained, both from the cherry-blossom painting in the window and the Yakuza turf marks on the walls.
“The best,” said Darius. “Gina, you’re seriously starting to worry me . . .”
Smiling faintly, she spun into his reach, draped her arms over his shoulders and tickled the back of his neck with her fingertips. She purred there, her voice like dripping honey, and she let her mind fill him with a warm glow. “Don’t you trust me, Darius?” she teased as he froze in place. “I promise it won’t hurt. Much.”
Darius swallowed and nodded. He followed her into the shop without hesitation, knowing he would do just about anything for Gina Hart. It never even occurred to him to resist.
Numbness radiated from the back of her neck. The anaesthetic still coursed sluggishly through her bloodstream, but — bit by bit — it began to wear off. She managed to raise herself to a sitting position on the operating table, fighting the temptation to touch her scar. It itched. She bit her lip and imagined raking her nails all over it, and that just made it worse. Her head felt indescribably lighter without the Network implant inside.
The soft light brightened a little as the robotic surgeon extended one of its arms down from the ceiling. It scanned her thoroughly with sweeps of x-rays and invisible laser light. Finally it withdrew, satisfied. A holographic man-shape flickered to life in front of her and straightened its white doctor’s coat.
“Your surgery seems to have been a success. Your implant has been safely removed and reinstalled in your companion’s skull. You are now free to leave,” it said in accentless Conglom. Then it seemed to switch voices, acquiring a slight Japanese lilt. “If you experience any excessive discomfort or worsening of your condition, please contact us immediately. Do not seek assistance from Federal emergency services. Do not allow yourself to be transported to hospital. We will respond to your call with due haste and expertise. Please state your agreement to these terms and conditions.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she croaked. The robot arm placed a cup down for her and squirted some fresh water into it. She drank it greedily, and held it out again for more.
“Your companion should be regaining muscle control any moment now. Please explain to him our terms and conditions as I have explained them to you. You may exit the surgery at any time by following the hallway outside this room and using the last door on your right. If you exceed your allotted time in our facilities, your account may be charged an additional fee. Thank you, and goodbye.”
Groaning, Darius shifted his weight on the table across from Gina’s. His first movement was to get his arm around to the back of his neck. The smart-bandage felt his probing fingers and discouraged them with a tiny electrical shock. It got an unmanly yelp out of Darius, which amused Gina to no end.
“You’re not supposed to touch it right after the op,” she admonished him.
“Like I give a fuck!” He wobbled off the table and sucked his fingertips. “Ow. That hurt.”
She shook her head slowly. “Quit moaning and put your clothes back on. I’m not bringing you out to Jupiter in a hospital gown.”
He looked at her for a moment, still dazed, then started to search for his clothes. He was halfway to putting his trousers on when it hit him. “Bringing me to Jupiter? I’m a bargaining chip?”
“I can’t exactly go up there holding the implant in my hand,” she said. “I have to know what he’s been hiding from me, and he’s less likely to try force if it involves having to cut it out of your brainstem.”
“And you don’t think this is going just a little bit far?” he shot back.
“Not particularly. I thought you two already fell out of love, anyway.”
“Have you even tried asking him?”
“Since when does asking ever do me any good? In fact, when was the last time you saw anyone listen to what I had to say?” She snorted bitterly. “I gotta make myself heard somehow.”
He stared at her for a moment, speechless, but then found a lazy, horrible grin somewhere inside himself. “Does that mean you trust me more than Jupiter?”
The question was like a bucket of ice water dumped down her back. The thought of confiding in him made her want to retch, and any kind of warmth fled her voice when she spoke. “Get your stuff,” she said. “We’re going.”
For a second Darius looked like he was about to argue, but he backed down with an amused shrug of his shoulders. “Who needs trust, anyway? You and your friends have got more than enough dirt on me to put me into a Federal dungeon for the rest of my life! My cooperation is guaranteed!”
He got dressed, pocketed his things, and finally goose-stepped before her with his hand raised in mock salute. “As ordered, Ma’am. Anything else I can do for you, you just let me know. I live to serve.”
Gina sneered at his theatrics and silently made for the door. If there was a twinge of guilt in her heart, she refused to show any sign of it.
The little black car pulled up outside the tea house with a soft squeak and a crunch of gravel. Again, Gina could feel the faint buzz of active minds all around her, tending the gardens and maintaining the machinery. Coming off the Street, with its mental violence still fresh in her memory, the overwhelming sense of order here set Gina’s teeth on edge. It was like an ant colony.
She sat back a moment and sighed. You’ve been quiet, she thought at Gabriel, trying vainly not to feel the aching void in her mind.
I’m sorry, he whispered faintly, I didn’t think you wanted me around anymore.
I . . . She bit her lip, not wanting to show the sudden hot flush of frustration and horniness at her core. With every passing day she seemed less in control of her violent moods. Just don’t overstay your welcome, that’s all.
He chuckled, and suddenly it was as if he were right in front of her, pressing his mouth against hers, hot and sweet. She returned his kiss almost desperately, losing interest in words. Any moment that drove out the pain for a while was something to be treasured.
Slowly, the maddening ache seeped back into her, and moisture welled up in the corners of her eyes. Breaking away from him, she steadied her head in her hands. Gabriel, I can’t keep this up for long . . .
It’s okay. I’ve got some things I need to take care of, anyway. He hesitated a moment. Will you come see me tonight? Please?
In your dreams, she said, working up a smile, and he groaned at her. Sorry.
Hang in there, Gina, he echoed, his voice rapidly fading away. Don’t do anything silly . . .
The link crumbled like sand running through her fingers. Gina wrapped her arms about herself, cold and alone, trying to make the vulnerable feelings go away. Not for the first time, she wondered where Bomber was and whether he’d forgive her if she saw him again. She didn’t have the faintest idea what she’d say to him. What was there to say? How did she really feel about him?
Climbing out of the car brought her back to the here and now. She fell in step beside Darius and tried to concentrate on the meeting ahead of her. She pushed through the bead curtain into the empty tea hall, and found a place on the cushions across from where Jupiter sat like a gargoyle carved out of solid granite. Mai-Lin perched next to him, mute and unhappy.
Jupiter almost creaked when he moved, placing his hands together on the table in front of him. “I don’t get you, Gina,” he said. “I thought we had an understanding.”
“We did, Jupiter,” she replied with a forced smile, “until you shoved that implant into my head without asking me. You took advantage, and now you’re not even giving me the full picture. I don’t like being held out on.” She sighed and softened her tone a little. “I know the lead turned out to be a dead end, but if I’m gonna go back into the Network . . . I need to know I can trust you.”
“The Network wasn’t meant for,” he jerked his chin at Darius, “people like him. I had intended keep it hidden. Now you’ve taken my implant hostage and blown any sense of secrecy out of the water.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “It doesn’t imply a significant amount of trust on your part.”
Darius shifted, grumbling, but Gina quieted him down with an upraised hand. She said, “We’ll give it back, but in return I want you to come clean with me. Now.”
His face seemed to go more grey than it already was, and he shook his head. “I haven’t hidden anything from you that you’d want to know.”
“What is it? Are you working with my father, or Gabriel? Just fucking tell me.”
Silence stretched out between them. At length Jupiter rested his hands on his knees, straightened his spine, and looked her square in the eye. She realised he was concentrating on her telepathically. She reached out and opened her mind to receive his message.
Look inside you, he thought. He dropped his gaze, and for a moment Gina saw her own belly through his eyes. The infinitesimal glow of a human mind was beginning to manifest there, the first stirrings of a new life. It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old.
Her breath caught in her throat. A surge of panic swept across her like a bucket of ice water. She thought back almost desperately, trying to figure out how, where, who–
The airship. Gabriel.
Oh, God.
She pushed herself back from the table, staggering to her feet in a nauseous daze, and rushed out the door. Nobody followed her.
Shivering, Gina kept walking in the crisp morning air. She couldn’t think of anything else to do. Artificial grass rustled pleasantly under her feet, and the slow spiralling paths gave her something to focus on. She sighed. The walk didn’t clear her head as much as she hoped, but it did save her from having to face some horribly awkward conversations.
The paths led her to a large pond behind the tea house. She stopped there, finding a stone bench on which to park herself, and sat down with her hands between her thighs, wringing them furiously.
“Well, shit,” she said. It struck her that she didn’t have a fucking clue what to do now. She wasn’t ready to have a kid, not here, not yet.
Time slipped away by the pond’s edge, minute after miserable minute, trying to decide which was the lesser of two evils. It tore her apart inside. But, just as she thought she was all alone in the world, a large rock-like shape on the shore unfolded itself and approached Gina’s bench. Mahmoud sat down stiffly next to her, without making eye contact.
Gina broke the silence first. “I thought you’d gone home.”
“Almost. I got as far as the motorway before I turned around and came back.”
“I . . .” She swallowed. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” he said, and they broke for another awkward pause. Suddenly they both began to talk in a rush. “Gina, I know I’m not your father–“
“I’m so sorry about–“
Mahmoud won the clash, hurrying out, “You are not a replacement for Safiya, I never wanted that. I only wish to help. Maryam and I have come to care about you a great deal.”
Fresh tears stung Gina’s eyes, but she angrily blinked them away. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want to see you get hurt, I couldn’t bear it.”
“You are a proud woman. It can be difficult to admit when you can’t do everything alone.” He squeezed her shoulder in one shovel-like hand and added, “Sometimes you have to let other people help you.”
“I told you . . . Nothing good ever happens to the people I care about.”
He heaved a massive shrug. “Like it or not, you are family, and I’m here for you.”
She couldn’t argue anymore. She just let him hold her, and quietly hated life for being so damn complicated.
CLAIRVOYANCE: Part 37
Her twelfth call to Jock — this hour — rang out. Rat winced as she flicked the phone shut. No way of telling if Jock was dead, incapacitated, or not bothering to pick up. Even Hideo wasn’t returning her calls. She didn’t want to give up hope until she knew for sure, but it was getting harder by the minute.
About fifty other people in the cafe had their phones out too, calling friends or family or trying to hammer information out of GlobeNet. Nobody knew for sure what had happened. The meeting of the Fifteen had all been in total secret, so the only available fact was that three floors of that hotel had gone up in smoke. Rat couldn’t even remember the name of the place.
Abandoned by everyone she knew, she sat and wallowed in her own self-pity. A holographic newscast flashed along the wall, providing live coverage of the hotel attack to the Laputan public without any actual facts. Some too-skinny reporter blathered away on the street and occasionally stopped people to ‘interview’ them for some hollow, meaningless soundbites. Rat hated it, but couldn’t work up the energy to look away.
Until she noticed the big skinhead limping past the camera in the background, his long trenchcoat ripped and full of holes, a strange manic grin plastered across his face. Tattoos curled all around his throat where it poked up above his collar. It was Snake, and by the way he walked, he was hiding some serious hurt under his clothes.
“Fuck!” she shouted, jumping out of her chair. Several heads turned at her outburst, but she didn’t even notice as she ran into the street. She knew where that report was being ‘casted. If she hurried, she might be able to catch him up.
A long run and four sets of steps later, she burst into the lower street and searched the direction where Snake had been going. Little clues showed her the way through the twisty alleys of Laputa; torn pieces of leather, gobs of red-flecked spit, and fainter traces. Then she found a trail, smudged bootprints left in dried blood. She followed after.
She finally stumbled on him in the porch of some backstreet flat block, sitting propped up against a door. His eyelids were closed but fluttered open at the sound of her approach. A glassy stare swivelled around to fix on her, and his grip tightened on some weapon hidden under his coat. “What do you want?” he challenged. Then he actually recognised her and softened a little. “Oh, hey, kid. What’re you doing here?”
“I don’t know anymore, man,” she said, her voice shaking a little more than intended. “I was there when it all went down. You’re the only other person I’ve seen since. Don’t know who else made it out alive.” She felt her mouth shaping a desperate smile. “Right now you look like you need a friend about as much as I do.”
She knelt down to examine him. He let her peel away the layers of clothing one by one, down to the jagged chunk of steel protruding from the pulpy flesh of his side. Rat didn’t know much about anatomy but, as she understood things, it didn’t seem to have hit anything vital. It just bled a hell of a lot. A red puddle had gathered at the bottom of his left hip, growing larger and larger.
“I’ll be okay,” he grunted. “Help me get back up.”
“We gotta get you to a doctor, Snake. Somebody’s gotta patch this hole!”
He gripped her shoulder with a bloody hand. “Banshee will know someone we can trust. That’s where we need to go. You get me to him, kid, and I’ll sponsor you myself.”
“You’re not gonna sponsor anyone if you’re dead,” she pointed out.
“Then you better make sure I come home alive.” Grinning, he struggled to get up with only one hand, the other clutching his side as tight as he could. Rat helped him to his feet and gave him a shoulder to lean on. He was every bit as heavy as he looked.
A few simple directions got them moving again, always through dark and secluded alleys, crossing the main streets only where they had to. Not that they saw any of Hideo’s troops around. There was nothing resembling law and order on these streets, and once the truth got out about the Fifteen, there were going to be riots. Proper fucking riots, like you used to get in the City before the Feds quelled all resistance.
She thought about Federation uniforms strolling down the streets of Laputa, weapons drawn, and felt a shiver creep up her spine.
Then Snake passed out on top of her. It was like having a big sack of potatoes dumped on her head, and her knees buckled. She couldn’t lift the guy. Hitting the floor, she just managed to push him off to the side. He hit with a meaty thud and lay motionless in the middle of the dreary alley. She swore out loud and slapped him hard in the face, several times, until he came round again.
“Don’t do that to me!” she shouted at him, kicking him back up. He mumbled something unintelligible, then collapsed again. Sweat streamed down her forehead and her arms shook from the effort. She just couldn’t do any more for him.
She finally asked, “What the hell happened back at the hotel, Snake? Who owned those copters? Was Banshee involved?”
“Don’t know,” he whispered back. “Should ask him yourself.”
“I will, if I ever get the chance!” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I can’t fucking carry you, you big bastard! What am I supposed to do now?!”
He smiled. “Don’t worry, kid. You’re with Snake. You got friends.”
“Friends like who?”
The answer came in the form of a syringe jabbing into the side of her neck. Cold liquid pumped into her carotid artery, numbness radiating out from the needle like a candle flame. She couldn’t even begin to struggle. Her voice caught in her throat. On the inside she screamed over and over for her limbs to move, but they refused. She could only sit and watch paralysed as two hooded shapes pulled Snake into the shadows.
Then the drugs kicked in, washing over her in a tidal wave of pure euphoria, and for a while the Chrome Rat no longer cared about anything or anyone.
Hanging on to consciousness by her fingernails, she was aware of hands carrying her somewhere, but that was all. She couldn’t think or process sights, sounds, smells. The artificial joy subsided too slowly. Anything could have happened in those seconds, minutes, hours, all sense of time blown away on the wind.
A second injection stabbed into her. It brought her around quickly, riding on a rush of adrenaline. Her heart pounded and her eyes fluttered open nervously to the sight of a human face, unfamiliar, blurry and distorted. She lay on the floor. The room was dark and bare, save for the few shafts of yellow light spilling in from a distant doorway.
“Don’t make any sudden moves,” said a voice, and the lips moved to match. A straw found its way into her mouth and she sucked up a hit of sugary soda. “That’s not a threat, just some advice to save you a bad headache. Slow and easy does it.”
Rat groaned, pushing herself up into a sitting position. Everything was still attached. She blinked a few times to clear her vision and, wetting her lips with her tongue, focussed on the woman’s face. She struggled to place her, but not for long. Memory came crashing back along with her ability to think about what was happening to her.
“Hey! You’re–“
“Nobody whatsoever,” the woman interrupted sharply. “You don’t know me, I don’t know you, and unless you’d like Banshee to cut your tits off, neither of us knows Harmony Kohler. He’s on his way down. Don’t fuck up.”
The light in the doorway flickered, and a pair of heavy boots thudded down the metal steps. The huge, hunched shape of Ryan ‘Banshee’ O’Doherty pulled up a chair out of the darkness, straddling it as he stared down at Rat. His suit jacket was gone, replaced by a tight tank top that exposed the heavy golden crucifix chained around his neck. Those uncompromising eyes studied her for an eternity, and a little voice inside her went, Oh, shit.
Hesitantly, the woman asked, “How is he?”
“With the Doctor. In a coma.” Banshee coolly wiped his hands on a towel, then chucked it into a corner. “He might wake up, or he might not.”
The words sank in coldly. A horrible hollow feeling rose in the pit of Rat’s stomach. Her fingers went numb, her teeth started to chatter, and she sucked at the straw to keep her brain from wandering. She didn’t want to think it had all been in vain.
“Shit,” she said at last.
“You did a good thing,” Banshee told her, while the woman packed up her medical kit and hid herself in the shadows. His deep voice tickled Rat’s ears with a pronounced Irish lilt. “If you hadn’t dragged him all this way, he’d be dead already. At least now he’s got a chance.”
Rat husked, “I guess I should be thankful for that.”
“Yeah. He and I were in prison together. We go back a long time.” He grunted and lit up a cigarette, adding, “So now I get to figure out what in God’s name to do with you. Snake made me promise not to blow your brains out. That complicates things, you understand.”
A bit of the old fire flared up inside Rat. “I’m touched,” she deadpanned. “No, really. Thanks for possibly not murdering me.”
“You got a mouth on you. I don’t suppose you know anything about that business at the meeting?” Staring coolly over the lit end of his cigarette, he seemed to read the answer on her face, and his stormy eyebrows dipped even lower. Red rage boiled behind those eyes. Rat began to understand.
“Everybody’s gonna think it was you.”
“Of course they’re gonna think it was us!” he hissed through his teeth, clenching his jaw like a vice. “Kensei’s set us up good and proper. When the fingers start pointing, they always land on the man with the terrorism sheet. That’s people being people. That’s why we’re not running for the nearest airpad. Because anyone associated with me is going to get caught and dragged at gunpoint in front of some kangaroo court, or put down like dogs ‘resisting arrest’. I know, because that’s what I’d do if I were in his position.”
“So you’re sure Kensei made it out alive?” she asked.
“No. I’m sure he was never there in the first place.” He calmed down a bit, and made a think-about-it gesture. “Kensei chose the venue. Nobody saw him until the moment he entered the meeting room. The room with the big holoprojector in the middle. He’s played us all for fools.”
Banshee’s reasoning ground onwards with impeccable logic, but Rat wasn’t ready to believe it. She knew Hideo, sort-of. He was ruthless in his own way, but this? This was on another level.
Shaking her head, she argued, “Maybe you’re right, but Kensei doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d hose down a room full of people with a machine gun.”
“Oh, he’s got the stones to deal with things that get in his way. Take Razorblade. He did a real number on her.”
In hindsight she shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. It was tough to hide it. She just about managed to pick up her jaw and stumbled into a riposte of, “So? I hear you deal pretty hard with things that get in your way, Banshee.”
“Mm.” Banshee stood up and shrugged into a thick armoured vest, worn smooth by long years of use, the pock-marks of fresh bullets clearly visible on its surface. “You’re free to go, kid. Don’t bother trying to find us again. We won’t be here.”
And he left, just like that. The woman followed after him without a word. Only once did she throw a glance back at Rat, and in the dim light of the doorway she did not look happy. Not happy at all.
The room emptied out. The Chrome Rat sat alone on a rough blanket, thinking. She had a lot of unique new information to process. Whether she believed it was something to decide later, but information — any information — was power. She believed that more than anything. So she checked her pocket for her mobile phone and smiled at the little blinking LED at the top. A single tap turned the light off. The voice recorder stopped along with it, saving its data to storage.
The only thing left to decide now was how much she was going to lie to Harmony.
She knew Jock would never believe it. Not from his old college buddy. That’s why he never suspected anything, why he let himself get suckered into going silent while something like this played out. Rat recognised the elegant simplicity of the ploy. It would take some shred of backbone to defy Hideo’s orders and contact her, which would be more than Jock could muster.
It was an utterly ruthless and effective plan. Divide and conquer, remove all the potential obstacles, and take control in the confusion. She just couldn’t work out why. All the fingers pointed to Hideo, but what was his motive?
The needle marks on her neck ached. She couldn’t resist rubbing them as she skulked towards the alley with the trap-door, nor to glance at every info screen she passed. Apparently Hideo was getting ready to host a press conference within the hour. His people were tight-lipped about what took him so long, and he’d still made no attempt to get in touch. That suggested she’d been cut loose, but she didn’t know what to think anymore, or how much she believed of Banshee’s story. Only one thing was obvious. More than half the Fifteen were dead, which left a power vacuum so big that anyone would struggle to fill it, but there were three people in an ideal position to take advantage.
Banshee, Kensei, or Harmony. One of them was in Gabriel’s pocket, but which one?
A lot of Laputan uniforms were coming out of the woodwork after their conspicuous absence. It didn’t do much for the atmosphere. Hackers tended not to trust authority at the best of times, and as details of the hotel attack began to filter out into the wider world, things were turning ugly. Rat could taste it in the air.
She unlocked the trap door with a wave of Harmony’s card, went down the ladder, and made her way to the lair.
The changes were hard to miss. Every room and passage buzzed with activity, people — women, Rat corrected herself — going to and fro, probably moving in and out of different hidden exits. They were all ferrying information to the VR team, who input everything with a few gestures and lip movements and then tried to predict what would happen in Laputa’s very near future. An old holoprojector threw several flickering newsfeeds onto the walls. They all ran the same story in slightly different ways, slightly different biases. Some even showed blurry video of the attack, which looked nothing like what had really happened. Just a shoddy holosim thrown together on the fly and sold off by some quick-thinking hacker. Rat admired a man who could think on his feet.
“Hey, where’s Harmony?” she asked to the nearest face she recognised. The woman shook her head and passed her by.
Rat smirked. If Mohammed would not come to the mountain, then the mountain must go to Mohammed.
She went to the VR rig and tapped the shoulder of the girl in the straps. When the girl’s goggles turned clear to look at her, Rat said, “I’m here to relieve you. You deserve a break by now.”
“Don’t I know it,” the girl sighed. “Help me out, would you?”
Together they got the straps undone in a few seconds, and Rat helped to rub some life back into her joints before suiting herself up. It wasn’t the most comfortable ride without all the extra gear, but sometimes you just had to make do.
She burst onto Main Street with a mission in mind. There was always a comms aggregator next to the entrance, and she pulled it up to fill her field of vision. In one sweep of her arm she selected every network, every message board, every casting list a normal person could reach, and even a few she shouldn’t have been able to use at all. Then she threw the message to the winds of the ‘Net, which would take it across the world in less than a second. Nothing alive could miss a cast of that magnitude.
She made herself comfortable in one of the old places she liked to hang out, a hacker bar as far off Main Street as you could get, and sat listening to the gossip until someone got back to her. She kept her fingers crossed the whole time that it would be Jock.
It didn’t take five minutes for Harmony to pop into existence next to her. She wore a cartoon avatar, a skinny woman made of flat solid colours and pencil marks rendered in three dimensions. It made her more than a little unreal as she rounded on Rat with narrowed, cross-hatched eyes.
“That was really stupid,” she said. One tiny twiddle of her thumbs wiped all trace of Rat’s message from the face of the ‘Net. “What do you want?”
“Thought you might wanna know, I just had a really interesting meeting with a guy called Banshee. He wanted to talk to me. I met someone else, too, who looked really familiar for some reason.” Rat smiled and watched Harmony’s expression change through several stages, all of them unhappy. “That why you warned me off?”
“I warned you off ’cause he’s a dangerous lunatic. You get caught up with him, you’re gonna land yourself in a meat grinder.” Harmony sighed. “Look, Alex, you’re a smart kid. I’m not even gonna ask how you got into my machine or how you learned to use VR this well. You got the makings of a pretty good hacker — or you would if you had a cock, right? Well, I’m pretty fucking tired of that. Things are gonna change, I promise you, and this is our opportunity to take the Nations back and make them into what they were always supposed to be. I’d like you on my side.” She took a long look across Main Street. Everywhere, people hustled and bustled and carried on, oblivious to their world rapidly changing around them. She scoffed a little. “This place is way overdue for some revolution.”
Rat hesitated. She didn’t stop to think very often, but this time she really had to examine her knee-jerk impulse to say no. She didn’t trust Harmony, not completely. But then, had she ever had a reason to trust Hideo? Or Jock? Had they really delivered on any of their promises or just used her when she was convenient?
Swallowing, she whispered, “I . . . I like the sound of that.”
“Great,” Harmony said gently. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. We’re about to start things off.”
“Something big?”
“You bet. Keep your eye on the news.”
Harmony disappeared in a puff of smoke. Hurriedly, Rat dragged up a load of Laputan newscasts and pinned them in front of her. They were all getting ready for Hideo’s press conference. A few cameras still stuck to the rubble of the hotel and the confused stories emerging from it, but they were shutting off one by one.
“The press conference?” she said, and her breath caught in her throat as watched the flashing screens.
“Stand by for the King of Laputa,” said the petite woman behind the podium. It was almost impossible to tell that she was a hologram, her prim grey business suit creasing and folding in all the right places. She retreated a few paces backwards and stood rigid at the back of the room while Kensei walked in.
Rat frowned as she watched him, her viewpoint from the VR captor as good as being there in person. The King of Laputa took to the podium without fanfare, all business in a blue designer suit and tie, and tapped a sheet of digital paper against the wood-effect plastic. The entire assembly of journalists waited breathlessly for him to speak. Even in VR, Rat could feel the thick, oppressive atmosphere in the room.
“There has been an attempt on my life,” Kensei said in a near-mechanical tone of voice, “and though unsuccessful, it has claimed the lives of several other National leaders and important figures who were present in Laputa today. I have just been given a list of casualties. The news may horrify you, as it has horrified me.”
He took a deep breath, then read off the names one by one. The presidents of Luxembourg and Puerto Rico. The chief of Trinidad. The two consuls of Elysium. In a flash, more than half the Hacker Nations were made leaderless.
“This was an unprovoked act of terrorism, of political assassination, with the possible intent of staging a violent coup. We do not currently know the identity of the perpetrators, but a full investigation is under way, and we are tracking several suspects. We will not rest until those responsible are made to answer for what they’ve done.
“To that end, I am declaring a global state of emergency under my Charter rights, compelling me to assume direct control of Nations left without leadership in this time of crisis. This action has already been ratified by a majority of the surviving council. We’re working very closely with the appropriate governments to make sure everything goes as smooth as possible. We all have to work together until this threat is behind us.”
His eyes swept sternly across the room, and Rat couldn’t help but notice his dilated pupils and the tightness of the skin around his face. Most people wouldn’t recognise those symptoms, at least people who hadn’t spent much of their lives out on the street. Rat did, though. He was stimmed to the gills and desperate for the conference to be over with. He asked, “Are there any questions?”
“Cedric Morgan, The National Interest,” announced a large, ebony-skinned man. “Do you expect this is the first in a spate of attacks? Are the people in the streets at risk of further violence?”
“I would like to stress that our people have nothing to fear. Governmental guards will be posted in public places to help maintain order and coordinate law enforcement for the duration of this emergency, equipped with both lethal and non-lethal methods and trained to respond appropriately to any situation. Thank you.”
Someone else rose up in a waterfall of long black hair, shrugging elegant shoulders inside a tight, tailored red blazer. “Lucy Hong, Prime Time News. Sir, it’s clear this attack took place during some kind of meeting of National leaders, one that you yourself attended, but nothing of the sort was announced to public channels or even to the hotel staff. What was the aim of the meeting?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hong, but I can’t divulge classified information. Who’s next?”
“Alex Kanoussa, The Little Laputan. Since word of this attack reached GlobeNet, there have been positively thousands of discussions about reported survivor Ryan ‘Banshee’ O’Doherty, the current High King of Ireland. We all know that, before Ireland joined the Nations, Mr. O’Doherty was an infamous cyberterrorist responsible for acts of sabotage that claimed dozens of lives. Do you suspect Irish involvement in today’s violence?”
“As I said, we are tracking several suspects, but we have so far been unable to confirm anything. I have time for two more questions.”
“Sir, Lucy Hong again.” The room seemed to quiet down a little, as if lots of people around the room were paying attention to that voice. Much as she tried, Rat couldn’t get a good look at the speaker. “We’ve had reports that the attack was carried out by a helicopter gunship firing into the hotel. Of course, I checked with air traffic control to see if they found anything out of the ordinary, but according to traffic logs the only armed craft in the vicinity belonged to the Laputan Royal Guard. Would you like to comment?”
An audible hush fell as everyone waited for Kensei to respond. He worked hard to conceal his anger, speaking through gritted teeth. “Thank you, Ms. Hong. We have reason to believe that the craft involved was using advanced stealth technology to avoid detection. Anyone else?”
“Sir!” The same voice, too sweet, too chipper. “Would you also not care to address rumours that you had heavy-duty holoprojection units installed in the function room? That none of the staff, including the guard at the door, remembers you entering or leaving the hotel this morning? That you may have engineered this scenario for your own benefit?”
Silence fell like a lead weight. Kensei clenched his jaw so hard his cheeks went pale. It was now an obvious struggle to control himself before the eyes of millions of worried Laputans. He finally rasped, “That’ll be all for now, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. We’ll keep you updated as best we can.”
He exited the stage while the room behind him erupted into a storm of shouted questions, of demands for an explanation. Rat dismissed her array of newscasts and sucked in air. She’d been holding her breath without even knowing it. A blip of lag rippled across her vision, the tiniest hesitation in the smooth running of Main Street, as millions of people burst into conversation all over the world.
“Not bad, huh?” Harmony’s voice chuckled triumphantly behind Rat. The older woman materialised with a sadistic smile across her lips. “We fired the first shot. This’ll come back to haunt him.”
“That newscaster was one of your people?”
“We have supporters everywhere, Alex. This isn’t an organisation. It’s a movement.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Rat said, trying to make sense of things in her head, “do you actually think Kensei ordered that attack himself?”
Harmony shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. When you’re taking on a giant, you gotta use every weapon you can get your hands on. We’re going to weaken him and wear him down bit by bit until he’s ready to go over.”
“Right. Yeah. You’re right.” Swallowing, Rat tried not to think about the consequences. Nor did she want to analyse the curious similarities between Harmony’s accusations and the ones Banshee had made a few hours ago.
“Hey, Alex, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, you can help us make our next move.” She gave Rat a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Seeya. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything else we could use.”
A mumbled something escaped the corners of Rat’s mouth, but Harmony was already gone.
The uncomfortable reality began to dawn on her. Either she was going to help ruin Hideo and everyone close to him, or stab Harmony in the back and say goodbye to her ambitions.
In for a penny, in for a pound, right? she thought uncertainly, and disconnected.
There was a hired car waiting for them outside Hunan train station. Bomber took the pilot’s seat without preamble, turned off the autodrive, and took off with as much engine noise and tire squeal as the little electric thing could manage.
“Listen, Jake–” Hawthorn began, but to no avail.
“Keep your mind on the job, Major. That’s all you should be doin’ right now.”
That seemed to get the point across. With a long sigh of frustration, Hawthorn set to work checking their little arsenal, making sure each barrel was clean and every magazine fully loaded. It kept him busy, and the fewer words exchanged between them at this point, the better.
The drive led them into the posh neighbourhoods at the heart of Hunan. It was easy to tell the difference by the open patches of healthy grass, the ordered rows of upmarket shops, the tasteful public sculptures and cherry trees blossoming artificially. Tower blocks didn’t exist here. Everyone lived in walled, gated villas armed with state-of-the-art security, little fortresses against the ugly reality of the world outside.
Jock’s address turned out to be one of the smaller, more defensive places in the area. Its yellow plastered walls were topped with concertina razorwire, patrolled by full-fledged guard robots armed with shock guns, tear gas and rubber bullets. The house itself was a nightmare of art deco architecture, a vomit-yellow shape made entirely of pointless sweeps, curves and arches, an amorphous mass of concrete that someone had decided to paint over and put windows in. Wavy patterns decorated the edges of every window, pillar and doorframe in sight.
A cartoonishly attractive holographic head flashed into existence as they pulled up outside the gate, a cheap automated greeter built around pleasant baritone voice. “May I ask who’s calling, please?” it asked in polite tones. Then it repeated the request in Mandarin and Conglom, and tried three more languages before Bomber lost his patience and barked at it.
“Who lives here?” he snapped.
“The occupier of this property has requested any details to remain private, as per Federal Statute Seventy-Six–“
“I get it! Is there anyone else at the premises right now?”
“A small party of visitors arrived by motor vehicle approximately twenty minutes ago. They have not yet left.”
“Thanks. We’ll be back.”
Bomber reversed around a corner and parked the car at speed, wrenching a high-pitched scream from the tires. He threw open his door, dashed out with his gun drawn, and scaled the wall in a few light-footed hops. The laser cut a neat segment out of the razorwire before he reached it, and he kicked it aside before landing fluidly in the garden. Hawthorn had already figured out the plan and dropped down next to him, barely a heartbeat behind.
Some of the guard bots targeted them, mechanical voices commanding to stand down, but Bomber’s laser just turned them into clouds of smoke and burning electronics. He quickly took stock of the situation. The path to the front door was mined with shockdiscs, and they’d littered caltrops through the grass. An alarm screeched its warning in every direction, and some kind of unwanted attention was sure to follow. He grunted and nudged Hawthorn in the ribs.
“In my footsteps, quick time. Try and cover me.”
The villa’s defences tracked them mercilessly, launching gas canisters, rubber bullets, microwaves, gobs of adhesive and every other kind of less-than-lethal ordnance known to man. Bomber barely even noticed. He stepped around the caltrops like a dancer, or a ghost. At the same time he fired his laser again and again, wiping away threats in short sweeps of weapons-grade light. The rubber shells bruising his ribs didn’t slow him down, nor did the microwaves scorching his skin. Finally, arms over his head for cover, coughing and spitting up tear gas, he reached the front door and — together with Hawthorn — put his boot in it.
They followed right behind the door as it flew backwards off its hinges. It knocked down several armed men in the entry hall. Running on instinct, Bomber grabbed one and lifted him up as a human shield. Hawthorn quickly dove into the nearest bit of cover and shoved his gun into another man’s neck.
“Hold fire! We’re here to talk!” Bomber called out.
“No, we’re not,” said a familiar voice from the other room. “Turn around and get out, Jacob. There’s nothing for you here.”
There was a thud as Bomber’s human shield hit the floor. He stood up slowly, starting to shiver. The laser dropped from his slack fingers. Hawthorn released his hostage, holstered his pistol and went straight into the other room. There he stopped and saluted.
“Colonel Obrin, Sir,” Hawthorn said, “with all due respect, I think you owe us an explanation. And . . . I’m not leaving until we get one.”
Bomber staggered through the open doorway, took one look at the face of a dead man, and sat down hard on the cool wooden floor.
The voices around Bomber seemed distant and unreal. Visions danced in front of his eyes of the old country house being bombed to gravel by Fed gunships, memories unravelling in front of him. He watched and listened to the Colonel, alive and well, and he almost didn’t want to believe it.
“I really wish you boys hadn’t showed up,” Obrin said. He tipped some sheets of hardcopy from a folder into a metal dustbin and threw a lit match after them. The paper caught in seconds. Flames roared out of the basket, and the disabled sprinkler system let out a mechanical clunk as it begged to throw some water down.
Hawthorn stood his ground like a soldier. “Sir, we haven’t compromised your operations, nor given the enemy anything he didn’t already know. We only found the place by going through Gabriel’s data. You’re lucky we made it here before he did.”
That made the Colonel pause, swearing under his breath. Then he tossed more papers onto the fire. “There’s a reason why we set up the whole ruse of my death. It was meant to fool Gabriel and focus his attention somewhere else, or at least divide it, and give us some time to act.”
“Why?” Bomber asked, his throat dry as a bone.
“Why do you think? When the enemy’s got you over a barrel, you scatter. You use misdirection. Then you regroup and start to think about how you’re going to take him down.”
There was an enormous crash from one of the other rooms, Obrin’s people destroying more evidence. The smell of burning plastic slowly permeated the room.
“So you just cut us loose, Colonel?” Hawthorn snapped. He was getting frustrated. “You’re supposed to be CO, and you left us to hold things together without any support!”
Bomber shook his head drunkenly, pressing his hands into his temples. Even with his whole world falling down around him, one thing lit up inside his mind. “You marched Gina and me straight into the lion’s mouth,” he mumbled. “We . . . We were just a diversion.”
With the fire crackling merrily in front of him, the Colonel stopped to light a cigar on the orange flames. He took a long puff before turning to Bomber, and shot him down in the calmest tones.
He said, “Don’t be naive, Jacob. You’re a soldier, and this is war.”
“Sir, the cat’s out of the bag now. The least you can give us right now is some answers. What’s going on here? What are you doing?”
“That,” the Colonel hesitated, “is part of the reason why I kept this a secret. You should go, now, before you see things you will not want to see.”
Hawthorn ignored the warning. His eyes blazed as he stalked around the room, going through every door and closet, and Bomber followed him until he opened the little utility room where Pia Gonzalez dangled from the ceiling.
She wore a white nightgown which barely hid the empty pistol holster strapped underneath her armpit. There was a noose around her neck, roughly tied together from the remains of a bedsheet, and handcuffs bound her wrists in front of her. From the red and blue bruises marring her skin, she’d been struggling with the handcuffs for hours, even days, before she died.
From here, Bomber could see out into the paved-over garden, to the big canvas sheet covering something huge. He knew instantly what it was. Pia’s helicopter. That was what Obrin had wanted from her.
Hawthorn knelt down and picked up a small, black box from the floor. An old holorecorder. It came to life at his touch, flashing with bright neon colours and pictograms, and moved to play it. Bomber took his hand and stopped him.
“Not here,” he said, “not now.” Hawthorn nodded quietly and slipped the recorder into his pocket.
“We didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Obrin interjected from across the room. “I tried my damnedest to convince her. She was an A-grade pilot, she could’ve really helped us, but there wasn’t any talking to her. Finally we had to lock her in while we worked on the copter. Then . . .” He gestured at the body. “This is how we found her.”
Shaking, Bomber turned to look at the Colonel again. A creeping sensation itched at the back of his neck but he couldn’t seem to scratch it. He struggled, “You cut her down. You get her a good funeral, with her family. Then we talk.”
“Jacob, I have no–“
“Do it!” he roared at the top of his lungs.
After a moment Obrin inclined his head and motioned for some of his men to take care of Pia.
Bomber went out into the garden and sat down on a bench looking out over Pia’s copter. He sat for a long time, drinking in the details as if looking into the casket of a forgotten lover. She’d kept it pristine. It wasn’t the stripped-apart, half-forgotten wreck he’d found in the care of the Hong Kong Federal Police. This was an armed and fully operational war machine. Some of the Federation’s best labs were still at work trying to duplicate bits of technology from F Squadron’s experiments. How Pia had managed to hide one for so long was anybody’s guess.
Too many unwanted memories were spinning around in his skull. Squadron test flights. Hours and hours of simulations, maintenance, tweaking. Nights full of drinks and laughter, clashes and reconciliations, smiles on familiar faces. A whole life to have lost. Bomber tended to dwell on things, when he thought about them at all, and he couldn’t seem to repress the old days like he used to.
And now Pia was dead. One more empty void in his heart. It felt like his past was unravelling somehow, like magnetic tape slowly winding off its spool.
“Toledo’s on his way,” Hawthorn announced from the patio door. “He thinks he can help us get the copter ready to go. Break through whatever lockouts Pia put on it.”
“By this point I’m willin’ to believe anything Toledo tells me.”
A few hesitant steps took Hawthorn to the bench, where he leaned back and stared emptily at the sky. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
“No, but this is what we got. Whatever happens between now and tomorrow night, I’m still gonna climb into that cockpit and take Gabriel out of this sky. We don’t get to direct our own finale.”
“Whatever happens, huh?”
“That’s right.” Shutting his eyes against the dull ache at his core, Bomber added, “You got my wing, Hawk?”
“I got your wing, Jake.” He sent a furtive sideways glance at Bomber. “Do you think we can trust the Colonel?”
Bomber smiled mechanically and placed a finger against his lips. There was no room for that kind of talk here. No way to know who might be listening.
A dark shadow fell over them as a small blimp came between them and the patch of clouds that hid the sun. It descended in a businesslike manner towards Pia Gonzalez’s villa. Bomber recognised the logo on the side as a haulage company, and several spindly robots abseiled down to check out the helicopter for lifting. It wouldn’t be flying under its own steam just yet.
Two dozen spidery plastic tendrils took their laser measurements while Bomber and Hawthorn watched. Then they clamped themselves to the tarpaulin-covered bulk at just the right spots, hoisted their hooks upwards, and snagged the lines dangling from the blimp. Slowly, carefully, Pia’s copter took to the sky for the first time in years.
“I wonder where that’s going,” said Hawthorn.
“We’ll find out. In a minute or two he’ll ask me to pilot it, and I’ll say yes. Then you, me and Toledo are gonna make things happen.”
“God, you’re depressing to hang around, Jake.”
Bomber shrugged and stood up to stretch the kinks from his aching legs. Popping, cracking noises emanated from his bones as he worked them. They were probably never going to be quite the same, but they’d do. It was really his own fault for jumping out of an airship. Why on Earth did he do that? The more he thought about it, the stupider it seemed. Even a parachute would’ve helped.
He gave a slight smile when Colonel Obrin appeared in the doorway, brusquely shoving a sheet of digital paper into Bomber’s hand. “Got a nano warning, boys. Somebody’s dusted the area. We need to move.”
“Where to, Sir?” Hawthorn asked, fulfilling his part in the routine.
“You’ll understand when you get there.” His moustache bristled as he looked Bomber in the eye. “That is, if Jacob is willing to rise to the call one more time to top off a distinguished flying career.”
I’m a soldier, thought Bomber as he agreed to fly his last mission. And I’ll win the war.
CLAIRVOYANCE: Part 36
A strange calm settled over Gina as she stared out the window with two of her eyes closed. She sensed the Street in a way that wasn’t exactly visual. The writhing, pulsing mass of thoughts and emotions — dotted with sharp spikes of telepathic activity — seemed to fill the world in front of her, like a living wall of humanity’s innermost secrets. It didn’t quite stick to the normal three dimensions, either. It flowed in and out of directions that Gina strained to comprehend.
The car pulled up in an alley and put itself into park. Gina could see the lights of the Street only a few steps away, and she swallowed, the immensity of that congregation weighing down on her, twisting her thoughts into unpleasant new shapes. Where the Network had been beautiful and harmonious in its controlled environment, the Street was a kind of collective unconscious, wild and dark, a breeding ground for humanity’s ugliest impulses.
She stepped out onto the pavement and basked in it.
Sound of people wheeling and dealing in their thousands. Sky blotted out by opaqued-glass towers and holographic constructs. Multicoloured neon glow from a thousand different signs and logos, bright enough to drive back any hint of a shadow. Even the tarmac under her feet felt familiar. It was like slipping back into the same warm bath where you’d slit your wrists for the first time.
Nothing could be more right than to give herself up to the crowd, pressed against by a million bodies in some eternal hedonistic dance. She moved through it all in a trance, graceful as a fish in water, slipping unctuously into gaps where she saw them and creating new ones where she needed just by thinking of an open path.
She crossed over the bodies of beggars and junkies, some breathing, some not. One young boy went through the pockets of a wide-eyed pixie dust addict too far gone to ever wake up again. On the kerb, barely yards away, sat a row of old telepaths with begging bowls in hand. Their bloodshot, burnt-out eyes followed Gina everywhere she went, and one of them let out a toothless groan. Somehow they could always recognise their own.
How she wanted to become part of it again! To fade away into the many where no one could find her, and no one would bother to look. Alone, anonymous, and neither of those things at the same time.
The taste of blood brought her back to her senses. Without even realising it, her teeth had cut hard into her tongue. Her head cleared a little from the poisonous lure of the Street, and when she looked up she found what she hadn’t even realised she was searching for; a hole-in-the-wall shop so tiny it didn’t even have neon above the door, but one that everybody on the Street could find in their sleep. It was Wu’s. Gina’s very own dealer.
When in doubt, go with the devils you know, she recited mentally before going in.
Wu’s consisted of an awning and a wall-to-wall concrete counter finished with bulletproof glass. Behind the counter stood an old Chinese woman, smiling benevolently like a doting grandmother, flanked by two large men armed with shotguns and bad haircuts. The words ‘NO MONEY, NO DRUGS’ were written in luminescent paint on the floor.
“Oh, it’s you,” Wu crabbed, squinting suspiciously at Gina, her voice thick with Street slang. “Not seen that pretty dumb face in weeks. What been keeping you?”
“Unexpected windfall,” Gina shot back with a smirk. “Cut the shit, you greedy old bitch. I need some eyes. What you got?”
“Got eyes, but not for you. Out your price range.”
Producing a small credit slip from her pocket, LEDs blinking the number 50,000 across the tiny display, Gina slapped her money on the counter. The holographic AmeriBank logo cast its tiny grey glow across the battered plywood. “You got no brain about how deep my pockets go, Wu. I wanna buy fuckin’ bulk, you get me?”
When Wu made no move to pick up the credit, Gina snorted contemptuously and leaned in a little closer. She murmured in her honeyed contralto, “You selling it, means you getting supply from someone. Maybe I go straight to your boss, eh? He gonna be one happy pusher to see my dollar.”
Wu’s eyes widened a fraction. Beady, suspicious eyes stared at Gina, and a claw-like hand snatched up the slip with rattlesnake speed. “Fifty, two tabs. Take it or leave it.”
Got you, you little bitch, Gina said in the privacy of her own mind. She had her foot in the door. A second credit slip found its way from her pocket to between her fingers, and nasty satisfaction glowed in her chest when Wu took notice of the figure. 500,000 ought to be enough to whet their appetite without getting herself murdered in a back alley.
The slip flew back into her pocket, replaced by a coy smile on her lips. “One strip ain’t enough to wipe my ass with. You know damn well there’s a shortage, and I want to stock up, two hundred strips for starters. Cash no issue.”
“Nobody got two hundred strips on the Street,” Wu spat, but there were dollar signs ticking up behind her eyes. “Where a waster like you get that kind of dollar? You working for the Feds?”
Gina laughed at the absurd question. “Feds don’t give a fuck about the Street, not that it’s any of your fucking business. You find someone to sell me what I want or I take your cut somewhere else, dong-ma?”
Frustrated, Wu tapped her long yellowed fingernails on the counter top. Her eyes darted away from Gina and back again. Then she hawked a gob of phlegm onto the counter, sniffing haughtily.
“You come in the back,” she said, and disappeared into the wall behind her. The hologram barely flickered.
Both of Wu’s guards stood aside to let Gina clamber over the counter. She stuck her head through the wall, finding only pitch blackness on the other side, and groped her way forward when Wu called to hurry up. There was a ladder in the midst of a field of packing crates, filled with a variety of drugs only a very dedicated junkie would recognise. She stumbled up the rungs as best she could in the dark.
For a moment she thought she caught the fleeting impression of a familiar mind somewhere behind her, but then it was gone. She shook it off and made her way to the top of the ladder, where a single bare light-bulb revealed a goon with rubber gloves, ready to frisk her for weapons. Reluctantly she allowed herself to be searched. She could sense his lust as he let his hands linger around her backside and on her tits, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Finally the crawlspace led into some more civilised real estate, a corporate planning room of some kind, hidden deep in the bowels of the office blocks that flanked the Street. An expensive suit sat at the table across from her, his hands splayed out flat on the big plastic table. His hair was tightly slicked back, and a faint tightness in his face spoke of a few extra years he’d spent a lot of time and money trying to hide. Wu was already gone, headed back to her little shop.
“Good evening,” he said in a smooth, refined voice. “I understand you’re looking to do some business on a large scale.”
Gina smiled and leaned over the table slightly, resting her weight on her palms, which also had the effect of pushing her ample cleavage out in front to draw his attention. “That’s right, if you’re in a position to . . . help me out.”
The code phrase activated a tiny transmitter hidden under her tongue. It pushed an almost imperceptible signal through the ether to the receiver back at the tea house. Before she could get an answer, the implant at the base of her skull flared to life and logged her in. The Network exploded across her mind like a shot of heroin, and she shivered, smiling.
“Let’s talk,” she said dreamily.
There was a hired telepath in the corner, a young Japanese girl in a slinky dress, pretty with just a hint of hopelessness. She could have been a mirror image of Gina about ten years ago. Runaway, said the frightened eyes, and junkie was obvious from the slump of her shoulders and the hollow, almost emaciated ribcage. There was a lot more than Spice fuzzing up that haunted little mind; she stared off into the middle distance without any sign that she knew what was going on in the outside world.
She noticed, though, when Gina activated her implant. It was the telepathic equivalent of a bomb going off in the room. She stiffened visibly, bit her bottom lip so hard it went white, but said nothing. She was too frightened to open her mouth.
Standing there, the Network glowing at the back of her head and her own power bubbling within her, Gina could only delight in it. Every thought from the room, from the building, outlined itself in her mind in exquisite detail and clarity, and they were hers to mould and change as she saw fit. Anything seemed possible. She felt like a goddess.
The girl made a strangled noise from her corner. She hastily glanced around for an exit in the vain hope that she could slip away before anything happened.
“Two hundred strips is a lot of stuff,” the suit said, steepling his fingers under his chin. There was an air of casual command to him . “You know Spice doesn’t grow on trees, miss . . .” He trailed off to let her fill in her name.
“Beauty,” Gina murmured. “And that’s exactly why I want to buy it from you, mister . . .”
He shrugged, counting up figures and playing a long slideshow of faces through his mind. He seemed to be making a shortlist of suppliers. She could almost feel the information sliding back through her implant. “Call me Michael. What you ask isn’t impossible, miss Beauty, but you’re talking about quantities that are difficult to produce, possess and transport. The market being what it is, that could incur significant expenses. Many manufacturers are pulling out of Spice altogether.”
She altered her tone to cool, dismissive. “The market? Street worth is orders of magnitude what it used to be. You’re haggling before you’ve set a price, Michael.”
There was a long pause. Michael leaned back in his chair, kicked his feet up and studied her intensely. A smile grew on his face when she returned his calculating stare with one of her own. “Very good, I think we can respect each other. However, my suppliers no longer stock such large quantities. It might take several weeks to assemble the full amount.”
She nodded calmly, then said, “Unacceptable. My backers don’t have that kind of time.”
“Your backers don’t have any other option,” Michael pointed out. “My competition in trading this commodity has been . . . significantly reduced by market forces.”
Gina pretended to mull it over. She switched her weight to her other foot to make her tight clothing creak. She finally said, “One condition.”
“Name it.”
“I want to see your source. My backers won’t go for any deal unless I can satisfy them that you’re adequately set up to handle this volume.”
“That,” said Michael, a greedy gleam in his eye, “can be arranged. In exchange for a small advance fee, of course.”
A credit slip slapped onto the table in front of Michael. In the dimly-lit space, the number 500,000 blinked faintly onto the ceiling. Gina’s elegant fingers turned it towards him and pushed it closer until his reaching hand touched hers.
“I trust that’ll cover your expenses,” she murmured in a sultry tone, adding a smile and a wiggle of her chest for effect. “And Michael . . . If there’s anything else you need, you just let me know.”
It didn’t take a telepath to know she had him.
It was a short walk across the Street to Michael’s car, enough to take Gina past all the places she used to know. The little noodle stall where she bought most of her food. The pitch-black alley that, if you followed it far enough, would take you back to Easy Hotel. Even her old spot under the street light . . . It had been taken over by a girl in a short skirt, younger but not as pretty, and the deep bags under her eyes showed the strain of a life on Spice. A rangy, jumpy-looking guy hovered around her, sweat pouring off his forehead, his hand locked in a death grip around the gun in his pocket. Her pimp, in all probability, wired to the gills on pixie dust.
She couldn’t quite decide how she felt about it. There was a definite tug on her heart, but whether it was homesickness or Stockholm syndrome was anybody’s guess.
Michael guided her down a side street, and she caught sight of a sleek black-and-chrome blob of aerodynamic plastic sitting next to the kerb. The old-style petrol engine purred to life when it sensed his approaching biosignals. A fingerprint lock protected the doors, and the heavy bolts thudded open at a press of his thumb. He smiled and climbed into the back, motioning for Gina to join him. Two of his bodyguards took up the front seats.
Memory foam and vat-grown leather moulded to the contours of her body. With a low, understated rumble, the car pulled away into the tight corners and narrows of the city centre, leaving the Street of Eyes as a fading neon glow in the rear window.
“I’ve set up a meeting with my main supplier,” said Michael. “The only remaining bulk dealer I know. He can magic up as many as a hundred strips on short notice.”
“Sounds promising.”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
The journey was pleasant enough, rumbling softly through the City streets. Michael offered her a glass of cheap champagne to pass the time. She stared into his mind a moment and, finding no intent to drug or poison her, she took the glass and sipped it. It helped her relax a little. Keeping all her violent emotions pushed down in favour of this act had taken its toll. She felt exhausted. Still, she’d have to keep up appearances a little longer.
Finally the car pulled up outside a set of blank warehouses at the eastern edge of Sichuan district. Michael took her hand and helped her out of the car, his elegant manner just a touch too mechanical, probably learned from a VR module. He rapped his knuckles on a thick metal shutter, and a moment later it raised to let them in.
Gina looked around, taken aback. The warehouse was empty. Nothing met her eye but blank space.
“Is this her?” asked the man with the shutter controls in hand. He regarded her from under heavy eyelids, skinny but poised, his features betraying him as some mix of Chinese and Caucasian. His mind was sharp and ordered like a soldier, or a Fed.
Gina took a step back and glowered at Michael. “If this is some kind of trick–“
“Alejandro,” Michael said in Conglom, “hit the generators.”
An earth-shattering hum plummeted through the frequencies of sound, a descending pitch that shook Gina to her bowels. The world shimmered from floor to ceiling. Shelves flickered into view, beakers and jars of a million different compounds arranged around a dormant chem lab. Its computers were black and silent. A large black box sat next to the counter, veined through with clear plastic tubes, but disconnected from all the feeding hoses that lay scattered around it. The only thing moving was the shutter control box, dangling on its wire.
Slick smile plastered across his face, Michael made a sweeping gesture to welcome her inside. By some unspoken agreement they all gravitated to the the counters, getting away from the vulnerable open space by the shutter. “This is our number one site for product with nanoscale components. Alejandro is the man in charge.” He stepped forward and shook the man’s hand. “We have a big order for you, and we need an ETA on the full quantity.”
Alejandro made an effort to look vaguely interested. “What and how much?”
“Spice. Two hundred strips, maybe more, as soon as you can make them.”
“Never,” Alejandro replied instantly. “I’m out of the third eye business, man. Too chancy for me.”
Michael recoiled as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. He blurted, “Beg pardon?”
“‘Zactly what I said. The Spice trade nowadays is a good way for a guy to shorten his lifespan. I ain’t doing it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Alejandro shrugged, having lost all interest in the conversation. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there are people who fabricate Spice, and there are people who are alive. Everybody who touches that fucking stuff seems to wind up dead. I’m nearly out of source parts anyway.”
Both Gina and Michael said the same thing at the same time. “Source parts?”
“Yeah, you can’t make Spice without the nanos, and you gotta buy nanos from the source. They’re way advanced, nobody I know got that kind of tech. My box just organises the dosage.” He shrugged again. “I might’ve been able to help you, but my parts guy was found face-down in the Yangtse river three weeks ago. Not that I would’ve bought from him again. Could be how they track you.”
A touch to the man’s mind told Gina that he was telling the truth. She cursed inwardly, and let her disappointment show. “How much have you got stored?”
“Some. Sixty, maybe seventy strips. But,” he pointed out with bland relentlessness, “I ain’t in the third eye business no more.”
Gina didn’t know what to do. Improvising, she turned to Michael and said, “Seventy strips would be better than nothing. Is there anything you can do?”
He shook his head. “Seems this has been a big waste of my time. Get the hell out of my sight now, and we’ll forget this ever happened, huh?”
“Look, I need–” Gina began, starting to get very angry, but Michael cut her off.
“Kim, Durz, please escort the lady out. Do whatever the hell you want with her, just get rid.”
In a split second the grinning, black-suited bodyguards had her by the arms. She struggled, and the lock soon got painful. The intention to take her out back and rape her couldn’t have been clearer in their minds, and Gina’s blood began to boil at the touch of those contemptuous hands, the casual imaginings of her on her knees, the way that self-important little fucker Michael had dismissed her. Her mind prepared to lash out with a raw desire to hurt.
Suddenly something slammed into the shutter doors, rattling them like thunder. Michael craned his head at the commotion. A shouting voice was followed by another slam, then silence. Michael’s bodyguards let go of Gina and rushed to the door, taking up positions on either side with guns in hand.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who’s out there?”
Gina recognised an opportunity. She grabbed Michael by his tie and yanked him forward onto her rising knee. It hit with a satisfying crack. Michael dropped bleeding to the floor in front of her, and she pinned him down with a boot on his chest. The force of her mind helped to keep him there. “I want somebody else who can take me to this ‘source’. Name and address.”
“You can’t make me–“
“I can make you do anything I want,” she said. “I suggest you talk before I lose patience and rip the answers out of your head.”
She gave him a big smile as he stared up at her. Slowly, horribly, he was beginning to understand. His fear tasted sweet; she savoured it like an avenging angel, each drop of blood from his broken nose a tiny victory.
“I don’t know anybody else!” he moaned and tried to wipe the red from his lips. “Please, Alejandro was my only supplier!”
Glancing up, she noticed the little man was gone, and swore under her breath. The two bodyguards had disappeared out a side door. More noises came in from outside, and she jerked when she heard gunshots.
Michael was trying to crawl out from under her. He scrabbled uselessly against the floor, staring up wide-eyed, trembling in sheer terror while her mind coiled around his like a length of barbed wire. Maybe she couldn’t get the information she wanted out of him, but at least she could settle the score.
He cried out as she began to squeeze. Ghostlike pain lanced up and down his nervous system, torturing every part of his body at once.
“People like you are starting to get on my nerves, you know,” she mused. “People who keep thinking they can do what they want with me, and I don’t get a vote. I’m getting really fucking sick of that. Let’s make a start by educating you.”
Stretching his mind out like a rubber band, she waited for him to scream.
Then the side door exploded inward. One of Michael’s henchmen stumbled backwards and landed flat on his back, unconscious, and someone else staggered through the unhinged door. Gina almost couldn’t feel the mind there, slick with telepathy avoidance exercises, but she recognised the sharp, abrasive taste. She turned away from her prisoner in unhappy surprise.
“Darius, what the fuck are you doing here?” she demanded. Behind her, Michael collected enough of his senses to wriggle free and bolt.
Darius entered gingerly, moving with a limp, several fresh rips in his shirt. His pupils were the size of marbles and blood trickled freely from his split, red-stained lips. He smiled at her.
“Just saving your ass again,” he coughed. “Come on, the way out’s clear.”
His presence alone was enough to make her want to rip his heart out, but that comment was the last straw. Pure, towering rage surged in her chest. She came forward through a red haze and slapped him hard across the cheek. In his state, it was more than enough to knock him to the ground.
“I don’t need your fucking help!” she hissed furiously. “I had everything under control here before you showed up!”
He looked up at her with a mocking sneer. She lunged at him again, but this time he grabbed her hands and held her at arm’s length. “A simple thank-you would’ve sufficed,” he laughed raspily.
She bared her teeth and spat on him. The gob of saliva landed on his cheek, but it only made him grin wider. Reaching out with her mind, she tried to crush him telepathically, but she was too angry to concentrate. She couldn’t keep hold of him.
“You’ve gotten pretty savage, haven’t you?” he taunted, sitting up. “I didn’t think you had it in you the first time we met. You broke down crying when you killed somebody in self-defence, and now look at you. I think I like you better this way.”
The words were like knives of ice driven one by one into Gina’s chest. Eyes wide, her breaths short and ragged, wanting nothing more than to bash Darius’s head in, she stopped. She found herself face to face with all the things she’d been trying to rationalise or explain away. The wounded, burning need to inflict pain on others. To render her own suffering onto the outside world. Tears bubbling up from deep inside, she sagged against his shoulder, trying and failing to stop the sobs that rocked through her.
“Damn you,” she whispered, but he only held her.
“You shouldn’t have gotten involved, Darius,” she quavered as the two of them slumped against the wall of a dark City alley. It was dark and unpleasant, but private. An unidentifiable puddle of something decorated the pavement a little way from where Gina sat, and her eyes followed a trail of drippings to a pale body in the gutter.
That was the last straw. She bent over and retched, everything in her stomach coming up at once. Acid bile burned her throat and her mouth. She held herself up on shaking arms as she spat out the last remnants, then dry-heaved a few times before her body finally calmed down.
She bit her lip and focussed her hazy eyes on Darius again, struggling to control the emotions boiling in the pit of her stomach. “I’m dangerous. I would’ve killed you if I could, understand? If you want to live through this, you should get as far away from me as fucking possible.”
“I assure you it wasn’t my idea.” He shrugged his shoulders, picking an old-fashioned cigarette from his pocket. He offered her one, and she took it while he patted himself down in search of a lighter.
“I got nowhere else to go,” he continued. “Nothing to go back to. I just know you’re important, though I couldn’t tell you how or why.” Abandoning his fruitless patdown, he moved on to search of every pocket on his body. That came up dry too. He stared down at the alley pavement in front of him, mouthing a simple, “Shit.”
Gina grimaced and took the unlit cigarette from her lips. “I’m not some goddamned damsel in distress,” she said. “I don’t need saving.”
“Good, ’cause this was your last freebie. Any more ass-saving will be done at market rates.”
Darius pulled himself to his feet and staggered towards the mouth of the alley to check on the street. The City noise was the same as ever. Michael seemed to have cut his losses.
He said, “Coast’s clear, I think.”
With a deep breath, Gina made up her mind. She climbed back to her feet and shouldered past him, striding off into the distance. He had to run to keep up.
There was a taxi rank outside the local rail station. Gina picked a battered old banger with a human at the wheel — they asked fewer questions — and hopped into it, telling the driver to go anywhere away from here. Darius just managed to dive inside before the doors locked.
The drive back to Jupiter’s didn’t last long, with Darius feeding occasional course corrections to the morose driver. Gina lost her sense of direction inside of five minutes; she got turned around at some point with the City’s towers crowded close together here, turning every street into a dark alley despite the ageing holographics and flickering neon signs that hovered over every door. No matter what the shops promised, though, they all oozed disreputability in some form or another. Gina tried to clutch her purse by instinct before remembering she’d lost it.
Nobody tried to stop her as she barged through the main room. She knew exactly where to find Jupiter, and she started tearing her clothes off before she even reached the door to the pod room. There was an open one waiting for her.
“That could’ve gone better,” Jupiter said when she materialised in front of him. “It could’ve gone worse, but I wish you hadn’t gotten carried away.”
“I got as far as I could.”
“It would’ve been handy to know the name of Alejandro’s source.”
Through gritted teeth she said, “Jupiter, do you know what’s gonna happen if you continue to stress me?”
Pausing, Jupiter inclined his head respectfully. “Point. We did get the warehouse. I sent some people there to strip it as we speak.”
“Good,” hissed Gina. “Now honour your end of the bargain.”
Towers of molten steel swam out of the fog like grave markers, nothing more than sagging skeletons of office buildings and other reinforced structures. A few chunks of crater-pocked concrete still clung on here and there, like shreds of meat hanging from overcooked bones. Any glass had long ago shattered and melted away.
Gina stood in a park, surrounded by the charred husks of dead trees in various stages of falling down. Most were already flat on the ground. Their roots had been torn out of the earth in ragged clumps of wood and soil. They were already dead, but somehow it looked as if their suffering continued even now, smoke rising from the boughs where acid raindrops touched down.
The last few wisps of fog pulled away to reveal a cloudy red sky pouring its blood on the earth below. A flash of far-off lightning outlined the fat crimson rain as it fell. The wind picked up, moaning softly through the streets. Then the most horrible thing of them all, the ash people, came into view with a sound like rustling paper. Some stood frozen like statues, bits flaking off them in the wind. Others slowly collapsed or toppled over, only to disintegrate into heaps of black ash where they hit the ground.
Up close, she realised that it wasn’t New Orleans. Not the place she’d seen. That city had been dead in a solid sort of way, lying in state as a result of fallout conditions. This place on the other hand seemed to be in a permanent state of decay, swaying and undulating in the breeze. It was a shadow rather than a corpse, still animated by some unholy energy.
The next thing she noticed was the hot, throbbing pain that bored into her skull like an electric drill. A ragged scream tore from her throat, and she fought to keep her balance, to stop the artifact from overwhelming her. She wasn’t sure if she could do it. Fear tingled at the back of her brain. Her knees buckled with the effort of holding on, but she willed herself back upright and faced the wasteland head-on.
Jupiter rushed to her side with a face like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Take it easy,” the old man said, channelling his strength and support into her. “Don’t try to run before you can walk.”
Gina’s adrenaline rush quickly ebbed away under Jupiter’s soothing influence, and the calming effect of the Network in general. For the first time she stood in the middle of the burnt city without panic hammering in her heart. Before long, to Gina’s surprise, even the headache began to fade.
“Thanks,” she told him.
“Don’t mention it.” He squinted at the city outside the dome. His eyes grew wider as he absorbed the full horror of the scene. He only felt an echo of what Gina had been experiencing, but he had to steady himself on a tree stump, swaying and light-headed. “Damn . . . No wonder this got stuck in your mind. Where on Earth did you pick it up?”
She bit her tongue before she could talk about it. After some consideration she decided, “You don’t want to know.”
“Alright, if you say it’s none of my business, it’s none of my business. Just remember that I’m supposed to be your therapist. It might help to talk about it.”
“Ask me again later. Right now I just want to do this.”
Gina Hart gritted her teeth, stepped out of the park and headed into the city proper, determined to meet her nightmare head-on.
