Within Each Other's Shadow

by Jan Turk Petrie

  A man comes down the stairs. He fits the description of Robert White – the owner. ‘It’s all good,’ he says addressing the girl behind the bar who has to be Anna. White then disappears through a side door.

  ‘Hi there,’ Anna says, her voice bright and pitched high above the music. Her hand hovers over the controls as she waits for a hopper fill. ‘Be with you in a minute.’

  ‘No hurry.’ Kass glances up at the array of spirits and mixers on offer. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar; the hard-eyed person staring back isn’t her. Before she left the apartment, she’d changed and made her face up with cosmetics half dried up from lack of use. Wifrith had looked at her with a critical eye. ‘I won’t even ask,’ she’d said, shaking her head. A smile continued to play on Wifrith’s lips as she turned her attention back to the onion she was chopping. Kass often wonders what she’s done to deserve such a woman.

  A customer is approaching from a different direction; this building has way too many entrances – or should that be exits, which means too many variables in play.

  The customer – a man – sits down on one of the stools; he looks less than comfortable. ‘Give me a double gin and whatever you’re having,’ he says to Anna.

  The girl serves him and, at his suggestion, tops up her own glass. ‘Skál!’ she says as they clink glasses.

  Kass suspects the girl’s playing that old trick of drinking water but charging him for the gin and pocketing the difference. Pretty girl like her would otherwise be blind drunk in no time.

  The customer peers sideways at Kass. ‘Not drinking then, darling? Can I get you something?’

  ‘Sure.’ She gives him her best smile. ‘I’ll have a single vodka straight up with ice.’

  Anna eyes her with suspicion. ‘Haven’t seen you in here before,’ she says, as she waits for the machine to do its thing. It’s not hard to read the subtext in the girl’s eyes.

  ‘Skál!’ Kass raises her glass to them both in turn. Anna peers at her over the rim of her drink. In the end Kass says, ‘I’m waiting for a friend.’

  The man leans towards her ‘Male or female?’

  Kass turns her head slowly. ‘Are you asking about me or my friend?’

  The man’s taken aback, tries to hide it with wink at Anna. He holds up his hands in surrender. ‘I’m certainly not making any judgement call here,’ he says. ‘I’m all for a bit of laissez faire – as the French like to say.’

  Anna’s glass is on the counter just in front of her. When a couple more customers rock up, it’s almost too easy to slip the clear liquid into it. Then all Kass has to do is wait for it to take effect.

  ________________

  Bruno rubs at his forehead then realises he’s emulating a favourite gesture of Nero’s. ‘It’s Saturday night,’ Nero’s voice says in his ear. The stud’s sound quality is crap. ‘You’re young. Leave things to the trained professionals like we agreed.’

  He’s not done yet. ‘Why don’t you go out and have some fun with that girl of yours?’

  Bruno jumps to his feet. ‘You seriously expect me to ignore what might be happening over there right now?’

  ‘I’m saying you’re just a kid; sure, you may have some extraordinary abilities but they’re not superpowers. You can’t save the world.’

  Bruno shakes his head. ‘Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Besides, we’re not talking about the whole fokking world – I’m talking about one innocent family. I literally bumped into Baltasar on campus a half hour ago, so I know about the footprints outside their garden. He said they were too long and narrow to be dog prints. You and I both know exactly what Freyja’s capable of. She’s utterly ruthless.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve made sure extra patrols are circling the streets around their mansion. They’ll spot those vixens if they’re out there. And don’t forget we’re talking about a family who live in a virtual fortress with dozens of security guards. Avraham knows the risks – he’ll be taking extra precautions.’

  The piece-of-crap stud is getting hotter as if it can sense his mood. ‘Don’t bullshit me,’ Bruno says. ‘We both know they won’t even see her coming.’

  ‘I understand your concern but realistically there’s nothing you can do to help.’ He can hear raised voices in the background. ‘Look, I’m really sorry,’ Nero says. ‘I haven’t got time for this – not tonight.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m well out of favour with Baltasar so there’s no way I’ll be able to get near that house even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Now you’re seeing sense at last.’ It’s just as well he’s not using that AVR or Nero would know he wasn’t about to capitulate. He opens the wardrobe and finds that black pair of trousers.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to go right now,’ Nero tells him. ‘Promise me you’ll stay safe – okay?’

  ‘You got it.’

  There’s only silence after that.

  Bruno goes over to the window and looks out. The lights around the campus are half smothered by fog. With visibility reduced to a few metres or so, street-cam images will be vague; that could work in his favour.

  Bruno rifles through his sack of dirty clothes until he finds the black jacket someone spilt beer over. He sniffs and the strong smell of beer is still there. Too bad – those fokking vixens will smell him coming whatever he’s wearing.

  Next, he selects a black hat and pulls it well down over his ears.

  Bruno turns to study himself in the mirror. At first, he only sees his own reflection standing there dressed like he’s going to a fancy-dress party as a villain. Then he sees Kleiner – the assassin.

  Once again, he is the person holding that Glock against the man’s ribcage and, at the same time, he’s the one whose chest explodes. Pain robs him of breath. Bending over, he dry retches. Nothing comes out; nothing ever does. He’s possessed by the man he killed and that’s his permanent punishment – part of who he is.

  Bruno knows he needs to refocus on the here and now; somehow, he has to find a way to stop what he knows is about to happen to Silla and her mother.

  He switches on his holo and the newsfeed plays out in the centre of his room. It’s all about Liljan and her promises to stamp out corruption. Her placard-waving supporters are going all out on the “Homes not Zones” message. Bruno turns the sound up enough for the students on either side to be able to hear it, then he overrides the auto-shutdown. It’s not much of an alibi but it’s all he has.

  _________________

  The drug works faster than Kass had imagined. The girl has stopped talking. Her face loses all expression – she’s the ghost of the animated person she was only a few minutes ago.

  Her boss, Robert White, has returned to cast one final eye over everything. ‘Anna – are you alright?’ With an impressive turn of speed he dodges from the path of her projectile vomit.

  ‘Jesus!’ The man beside Kass slips away from the barstool still clutching his drink. The stench of puke permeates the air in seconds.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Anna says, her face a mask. In other circumstances Kass would laugh at the men’s horrified paralysis. Then again they probably don’t have young kids.

  She takes charge of the situation. Walking round to the other side of the bar, she grabs an empty container in time to catch the girl’s next outpourings.

  Robert still hasn’t moved. He’s doing his best not to look at the long streak of vomit across the floor. A look of desperation is in his eyes – the timing couldn’t be worse.

  ‘You need air,’ Kass says, her arm around the girl’s sagging shoulders. ‘Come on – let’s get you outside.’ At this point she’s meant to add something along the lines of “I’ll see her home safely”. Fokk it; she’s a police inspector – the same rank as Nero; technically speaking, she can’t be accused of disobeying his orders.

  With the girl safely whisked away, Kass turns around. Vomit-fetid air hits her afresh as she steps back inside the Nordic Cross. It amuses her that the place appears to have been vac
ated by the squeamish. Standing well back like a man surveying a crime scene, Robert is there alone.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, it’s only puke,’ she tells him. ‘If you want, I can clean it up.’ She must have done this dozens of times in the last few years.

  ‘I’ll pay you.’ He keeps giving nervous glances around him. At this moment she could almost name her price.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘So how much will you give me if I stay to serve drinks as well?’ She smiles. ‘Always charge extra for the whole night.’ Kass gives him what she trusts is a suggestive look. ‘I’m a fast worker and I know what I’m doing behind a bar.’

  ‘Then consider yourself hired,’ White says.

  Forty-Five

  Nero is riding a TYR 10 – the less agile two-seater version. In Requisitions he’d stated the loan was necessary for “surveillance in a volatile situation”. He might even apply for a permit to own one of these – assuming he survives the night. To the observer, and more importantly the street-cams, it must look like he’s alone.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I still haven’t been able to get hold of Freyja,’ Quentin tells him in his ear. ‘Afraid she’s set on pursuing her own agenda.’ There’s a pause before he adds, ‘Always has been.’ It’s a reference to their personal relationship.

  ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ Nero says. Behind him he feels the decoy’s weight shift in time for the next corner. ‘I guess she’ll never make a team player.’

  Quentin gives a hollow laugh. ‘Apart from with those vixens of hers – she trusts them more than any human.’

  In the silence that follows Nero takes a moment to enjoy the ride as they weave in and out of slower-moving vehicles. Under different circumstances this journey would be fun, life-affirming even.

  The decoy taps his shoulder. ‘Can we talk about this plan of yours, Cavallo?’

  ‘Okay. What do you want to know?’

  The outside temperature rises as they head into the tunnel. ‘Well, you sort of skated over the finer detail the other night,’ Quentin says. ‘I mean, I get what you want from me, but without Freyja, realistically, how are you going to make this work?’

  The bike’s lights bounce along the curved walls. ‘Guess I’ll just have to improvise,’ Nero tells him.

  They emerge into the dazzle of the CBD. ‘Okay, we’re almost there,’ he says more to himself than Quentin. He knows he’s heading into this without factoring in yet another change of circumstance but tonight might be their only chance. Has to be worth the gamble. At least this time the risk is all his and no one else’s. ‘Emergency coms only from this point,’ he says. It shuts down any further discussion.

  He parks up in an official bay a couple of hundred metres short of their destination knowing the bike’s precise location will be flagged on the grid. The bitter cold hits his face as soon as he raises the canopy. He waits for the decoy to dismount first. Standing right beside him, Quentin is a mere disturbance in the air – nothing more substantial.

  As Nero walks towards the Nordic Cross, he switches his stud over to DSD coms. ‘Control, this is Merlin. I’m approaching the premises. Do you copy?’

  ‘Loud and clear, mate,’ Rustler says in his ear. ‘I have confirmation of full visuals.’ There’s a pause before he adds, ‘Kestrel is still in play. I repeat – Kestrel has not exited the building.’

  Nero curses under his breath. Damnit – Kass doesn’t seem to know what’s good for her.

  Looking round, he notes a couple of stationary Norsemen 80s parked in different side streets; both approximately fifty metres or so back from the building.

  ‘Any word on our target?’

  ‘That’s a negative on Sea Eagle. However, we have visuals on six black kites in the vicinity. A total of fifteen have entered.’ Rustler snorts. ‘Taking a guess, I’d say the fokking eagle has already landed.’

  Though he’s walking close to one of the Norsemans, the outside is seamlessly black. By design, there’s no way of telling if there are people inside it.

  Nero heads towards the entrance he’d identified. He takes it easy, tries to stroll like he’s in no hurry. The ground is heavily frosted, and he hopes Quentin has the sense to walk inside his prints. He daren’t look round to check.

  Up above the doorway the glowing off-set cross winks at them through the mist.

  This is it.

  They step inside. Above the music he hears uproar coming from the packed-out bar. It looks like a boxing convention. The heat is intense; he can almost taste their collective sweat. No one pays him the slightest attention because they’re crowding around the counter where Kass is locked in an arm-wrestle with some guy more than twice her size. Her jaw is set and she has her eyes shut concentrating. Having seen her in action before, Nero would stake a month’s salary on her.

  He shakes his head in disbelief, a smile spreading across his face. Looking around, he clocks the stairway over to one side.

  Checking again, he sees those two arms are still locked in the upright position. No one can hear a thing above the music and the shouting and swearing going on. Knowing her usual hit-rate, it seems likely Kass has spotted him through the crowd and is planning to draw this out as long as possible.

  With his foot on the first step, he checks one last time before climbing the stairs.

  Out of sight from below, Nero waits on the landing until he feels a slight current of air behind him.

  This is the point of no return. Reaching into his jacket, he takes out his ID and pulls open the door.

  All heads turn towards him. Amongst the ring of seated players, he recognises Dr Arthur. Two players on from him there’s a tall, white-haired man who’s an almost exact match of the image Rustler had produced. There can be no doubt this is the fabled Viktor Persson himself.

  Standing behind the players, he counts five scantily dressed women. With their made-up faces, he can’t tell in this light if they’re of legal age. Their dulled eyes seem to look right through him.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ When Nero holds up his ID, several players pull weapons and hold them trained on him. He raises his other hand to show it’s empty then turns his head slowly to record the undeniable evidence of playing cards and poker chips strewn across the table. Unless they’re running deets in here, his stud should be capturing copious images of unlicensed drug consumption even if it can’t transmit them. He hears Rustler cough – at least the audio feed is live.

  ‘I’m Inspector Cavallo,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that you’re all under arrest on suspicion of participating in unregistered gambling activities contrary to the 2057 Gambling and Gaming Act.’

  He lowers his hands very slowly. ‘Furthermore, I can see ample evidence that leads me to suspect offences against the 2063 Drug Misuse Act have been taking place here tonight. Other serious charges may follow.’

  Viktor scrapes his chair back. ‘Well, well, Inspector Cavallo was it? Don’t tell me you’re about to read us our rights because that would be too fokking hilarious.’ His sideways smile turns into a chuckle and then a full-blown laugh like a man finally getting all the subtleties of a great joke. Around the table, the other players join in; some laughing so hard tears are watering their eyes.

  ‘Who laid on the clown?’ one of them asks. Peering closely at the speaker, Nero recognises the distinctive features of Commander Grímsson himself.

  ‘Unfortunately for you, Commander, in this city no individual is ever above the rule of law.’ Nero allows a pause before he adds, ‘Sir.’

  Forty-Six

  Head bowed, Bruno keeps his gaze averted from his fellow passengers. The yeastiness of the beer on his jacket seems to fill the pod. He must really stink because no one chooses to sit next to him. The conversations going on around him reveal the many and varied preoccupations of the privileged classes.

  He presses his face to the glass and tries to distract himself with the panoramic views of the city; from this height the sheer scale of the luminous metropolis never fails t
o impress.

  Turning a bend, the dark waters of the fjord are revealed. Is that a freighter about to leave the harbour or just a reflection of something inside the pod?

  Way out there beyond the horizon, the luxurious cabins of Naglfar are pitched at a crazy angle on the seabed; a playground now for so many sea creatures. Fish of all sizes swim under and over the same bed he’d lain on; its once opulent covers are floating free like weed. Every surface is quietly undergoing a sea change.

  He mutters the lines, ‘Full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made.’ People half turn towards him and then immediately look away.

  Shutting his eyes, Bruno’s brain continues to flash with images – too many for any kind of rational analysis. It feels like he’s having one of those febrile dreams you have when you’re coming down with something.

  In an effort to focus, he tries staring down at his gloves where the worn patches show up on each of the fingertips. Nero’s words keep resounding in his mind: “Realistically, there’s nothing you can do to help”.

  ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head like the man himself is standing there in front of him. Instead of going home, Baltasar will spend the evening at Reyndis’ place – that much he knows for sure. For better or worse, the boy is out of the picture.

  In his head, the rest is clear in every last detail. Cleaning up, that’s how Freyja sees it and she prides herself on her professionalism. They’re in the kitchen – one standing one sitting. She uses a silencer. Two shots. Boomf! Boomf! Quick as two heartbeats. Each one followed by a thud; the second quieter than the first.

  Legs bent at awkward angles, mother and daughter seem still to be reaching for one another; as perfect in death as they were in life except for the tiny red dot like a bindi mark on each of their foreheads.

  As a child, Bruno used to think his visions of the future were unalterable. Experience has taught him there is no such thing as predetermination. The tiniest of variables can change the run of things. He shivers. Doing nothing is not an option; he can’t simply leave them to their fate.