Principles of Angels

by Jaine Fenn

  ‘So, boy, yer a no s-status loser with no right to those colours in yer lovely locks,’ the Angel continued gleefully, ‘But you decided to jus’ drop in here fer a drink anyway. Just what the fuck d’ya think yer doing?’

  Good question. He needed to come up with a story, fast. There was one possibility, something that hadn’t occurred to him until this moment. ‘No, lady, I’m here to—’

  ‘Shuddup.’ She wasn’t smiling any more.

  Taro shut up.

  The Angel continued, ‘Y’know what? I’m sick of ungrateful, useless li’l shits who think that bein’ lucky enough to have Angel blood makes ’em special. They do nothing to earn their pr-privileges, and they abuse ’em, leaving us to deal with their shit. My sister, she’s gone and—Never mind. You wear the colours, you swagger an’ boast, but you got no idea what we are.’ She shook her head. The room had fallen silent; even the singer had stopped, though the beat-box still banged on mindlessly. Taro stared at the Angel as cold sweat prickled his back. She dropped her voice. ‘Without death we’re nothing. And I haven’t taken a life fer my City for over a year. I should’ve been chosen next. I’m a loyal and ef-ef-effishun’ servant of the Minister. But not good enough, ’parently. Hah.’ She flicked her hands out at her sides. The joyboy backed off with a squeal. Taro glimpsed movement behind the Angel, but he found himself staring at the long, thin metal blades protruding from the front of her wrists. ‘All ’n all I’ve had a really shitty couple of weeks. An’ y’know what? I think I’m gonna take it out on you.’

  Taro stared at the Angel, his mind blank, his body frozen. Of all the ways he’d expected to die . . . not like this. This was just too stupid, too pointless. Too soon.

  She floated a handbreadth off the floor, turning her hands to look at the blades as though greeting old friends, ‘Nothin’ personal, you understan’. Just need to get some o’ that tension outa my system.’

  Taro closed his eyes.

  ‘Outside, then.’ The voice was soft and feminine, yet oddly toneless.

  Taro opened his eyes to see the alien standing next to the Angel, its wingtips towering over them both. Under the canopy of the furled wings it was hardly taller than a topsider. Its spindly limbs had joints in all the wrong places.

  For a moment Taro expected the Angel to turn on it, but she just looked over at the alien, pursed her lips and looked back to Taro. ‘Solo hates mess, y’know.’

  ‘That is right,’ said the alien, ‘let us have no blood and guts to make smells and stains.’ The voice came from a box attached to the creature’s throat, nestling in the short purple-grey fur that covered its body. Other than the box it wore only a narrow pleated kilt. It still held the tray of empty glasses in one hand.

  ‘Fine. We’ll take it outside.’ But the anger had gone out of the Angel’s voice. Taro saw his chance.

  ‘Wait. I’ve a right to be here. I’m carryin’ out Malia’s last request.’ Not the truth, but not a lie anyone could prove, and it was the best he could come up with under pressure.

  ‘Really?’ The Angel sounded dubious.

  ‘Aye, lady. She wanted Nual to ’ave her gun.’

  For a moment the Angel and the alien stared at him. Taro wasn’t sure whose gaze freaked him most: the blurred violence of the killer or the cold curiosity of the creature from another world.

  Then the Angel snorted. ‘Nual. Fuck’s sake.’ She punched the air, her blades flashing. ‘That bitch. Takes my hit an’ fucks it up. Shit and blood.’ She retracted both blades and sat down unsteadily on the stool opposite Taro. She dropped her head into her hands and flicked a hand at Taro without looking at him. ‘Jus’ go away, boy. Get the fuck outa my sight.’

  Taro didn’t need to be told twice. He edged out, careful not make any move that she might take as hostile or insolent.

  The alien watched him. Its gold-edged eyes were too large and too round, giving it an innocent, almost idiotic look. The Angel had called it Solo.

  As he emerged from behind the table, it stepped back to let him out. He nodded his thanks and turned to go, but Solo put out a hand with too few fingers and too many joints. Taro flinched as the clawed fingertips snagged his sleeve.

  ‘You have no gun.’ Although Solo’s words came from the box, he heard a faint breathy trill below the mechanical voice and saw movement in the long fur on the lower half of its face. He wondered briefly what it ate, before deciding he’d rather not know.

  ‘Sorry?’ He stopped. ‘I didn’t wanna risk bringing Malia’s gun so far across unknown territory.’ Now he’d started on the lie, he had to hope the shit-gardeners who’d taken over Malia’s old homespace would hand the gun over to him when he asked. They’d seemed like reasonable people; they were probably just waiting for him to come back for it, soon as he got himself sorted.

  For some time Solo stared at him, not moving any part of its body. Taro had the crazy idea that it had fallen asleep, or shut down, or whatever these things did. Finally it blinked. ‘Follow me.’

  Taro was confused. ‘I—? You want me to follow you?’

  ‘Yes, follow me to somewhere private.’

  It pointed to the back of the room with one clawed hand, a freakily human gesture. Taro hesitated. It wasn’t far to the door and his path was clear. But there were a lot of fast, dangerous people in here and they were all watching him.

  He took a deep breath and followed the alien up the low step onto the upper level and out through the doorway at the back. He found himself in a small room with walls covered in shelves packed with glasses, bottles and boxes. Solo put the tray down on a low shelf and carried on through a curtained door at the back. Taro tried not to stare at the way the pointed elbows of the alien’s wings brushed the thin curtain as it held it aside. It led Taro into a larger area with more shelves and a firebox on a metal cooking stand. Like all the other rooms he’d seen so far in the Exquisite Corpse there were no gaps in the floor. The heat of the firebox made the room far too hot. There was a smell in here beyond that of food, a kind of dry, musty odour. It wasn’t unpleasant - it reminded him of the time a punter had taken him to a hotel room and shown him a wardrobe of clean new clothes from which he was invited to choose a suitable outfit for the night’s fun - but it wasn’t a smell he associated with living things. He wondered if it was the alien. He tried to breath through his mouth.

  Solo perched on the stool beside the firebox, the naked skin of its wings rustling as it settled itself in its seat. ‘Explain,’ it said without preamble.

  ‘Er, explain what?’ Now he was up close, Taro could see the small details of the alien’s appearance all too well: the way its face came forward to a point where the nose should be - only there was no nose, just a pair of tiny holes in the bald patch in the centre; that the skin beneath the thin fuzz of fur on its limbs was grey; the lack of visible ears . . .

  ‘Explain why you came.’

  The heat was making his head swim. ‘It’s like I said, Malia wanted Nual to ’ave her gun when she died.’

  ‘Why?’

  Talking to the creature was making Taro think how much he normally relied on stuff like the expression on people’s faces, or the way they shifted and fidgeted. Solo did not move at all, as though gestures and movement had nothing to do with how its people communicated - which they probably didn’t.

  ‘When an Angel knows she’s gonna die she often passes her gun on to someone she admires,’ he said.

  Solo made a musical rasping noise and the box on its throat said, ‘I run a haven for Angels. I know this.’ Despite the flat voice and lack of body language, Taro could have sworn he was having the piss taken. ‘So, I ask again. Why Nual?’

  ‘It’s ’cause . . .’ Taro hesitated. All he had to build on was one shaky lie. He was unlikely to get any breaks from the alien. He tried to put as much sincerity as he could into his voice and continued, ‘’cause Malia admired Nual. She has - had - a perfect record. You probably know that. It’s just . . . it’s what Malia wanted.’

&n
bsp; Solo watched him silently, still as death, not even blinking.

  It was way too hot in here. Taro found himself taking deep breaths, despite the smell, just to get enough air. He wondered if the alien would mind if he took his jacket off. ‘Listen, you’re obviously a very busy . . . person. Just tell me how to get to Nual’s homespace an’ I’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘No.’ It blinked, once. With the lack of any other visual cue, Taro found himself fascinated by the thing’s eyes. Did it blink when it was annoyed? Or was it just random, like with humans?

  ‘What? I mean, is that “no” you won’t tell me, or “no” . . . somethin’ else? ’

  ‘I know where she lives. I will not tell you. She does not wish to be disturbed.’

  ‘All right, that’s prime,’ Taro said quickly. ‘Is there anywhere else she hangs out? I’d heard she comes in here quite a lot. That’s why I came.’

  ‘She does come here, sometimes. I will give her your message. She will choose whether to act.’

  Not ideal, but probably the best he was going to get. At least it looked like the alien had fallen for Taro’s story, which was good. Then again, he wasn’t sure how he’d tell if it was just stringing him along. ‘That’s great,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Thanks, er, friend. I’ll come back later, when you’ve had a chance to talk to her, shall I? Tomorrow maybe?’

  The alien levered itself off the stool. ‘No. Do not come here to look for her again. She will find you if she wishes to speak to you. Go now. I am busy, as you say.’

  Taro backed out of the room and headed for the bar.

  He’d just have to hope the joyboy would keep the Angel occupied enough that she wouldn’t notice him on the way out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Shamal Binu was late again.

  Elarn waited on one of the damask-covered chairs in the lobby of the Manor Park Hotel. Her stomach fluttered and she had to resist the urge to get up and pace.

  Her thoughts kept returning to the gun hidden in her room. She wouldn’t need it tonight. She hoped she wouldn’t need it at all. But simply having a lethal weapon in her possession appeared to be affecting her ability to concentrate on anything else - and right now she needed to focus on her upcoming performance. The concerts were just an excuse to be here, but she had made music her life, and performing in front of strangers still filled her with anxiety. She always wanted to give her best.

  When Medame Binu finally arrived, twenty minutes late, Elarn was relieved to see that she was wearing a high-necked gown in a relatively sedate shade of green. Elarn herself wore a robe of sapphire sea-gauze over a cream chemise, with a black velvet cloak against the evening chill.

  Throughout the journey to the Merchant Quarter Medame Binu kept up a constant twitter regarding the other concerts (five confirmed, one still being negotiated); the guests expected tonight (several persons of consequence and at least two critics of note); and the skill of the accompanist she had hired for this evening (allegedly one of the best un-enhanced musicians in the City). Elarn tried to listen, but found it hard to do more than make occasional noises of assent. Luckily, Medame Binu didn’t expect any more.

  They were halfway up Silk Street when Medame Binu said something and put her hand on Elarn’s arm. Elarn jumped and the agent repeated herself. ‘I said, you look pale. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No,’ Elarn said, trying to focus properly on her agent. ‘I’m having dinner after the concert.’

  Medame Binu pounced. ‘Really? I did have a call first thing this morning, from a certain Consul, asking whether tickets were still available for tonight and what the arrangements were after the concert. I was going to offer to take you somewhere but if you’ve already got plans—’ She giggled like a girl waiting for shared confidences.

  ‘I have,’ said Elarn, and went back to looking at the expensive shop-fronts lining the Street.

  Medame Binu finally took the hint and shut up. For a moment Elarn felt guilty for snapping, but before she could restart the conversation the pedicab stopped in front of a shop displaying gentlemen’s formal wear on disturbingly lifelike semi-animated mannequins. The agent paid the fare, then led Elarn to a plain black door next to the shop, waving her bracelet over the reader beside it. The door opened onto a plush, spacious elevator, complete with human attendant, which delivered them to a large white-walled room where yet more attendants were laying out rows of chairs. Paintings hung around the walls, executed in a chunky, rather crude style that Elarn found both repellent and emotive. Plinths displaying vases and bowls decorated in similarly primitive patterns were arranged in groups under the windows and in alcoves and corners.

  At the far end a woman a couple of decades older than Elarn sat at a keyboard. Medame Binu bustled forward, introducing the accompanist as Medame Mier. As the woman greeted her with a warm smile, Elarn noticed the crucifix at her throat.

  Medame Mier was every bit as skilled as the agent had claimed, and familiar with Elarn’s work, even recognising pieces she had recorded both solo and accompanied. For the first time almost since she had arrived, Elarn relaxed, burying some of her apprehension in the mechanics of her craft.

  After the run-through, Medame Binu led her through a curtain to a back room furnished with comfortable seats and a table of refreshments, then left her with Medame Mier while she went to greet the evening’s guests. Elarn ignored the alcoholic drinks; while they might have helped with her nerves, tonight she needed to keep a clear head. Instead she poured herself some water, trying not to wince at the recycled tang. Elarn was half expecting Medame Mier to suggest they prayed together, at which point Elarn would have been obliged to confess her hypocrisy, but the woman was more interested in gossip. As the scrape of chairs and murmur of conversation beyond the curtain grew louder, Elarn was grateful for the stream of faintly disapproving comments on fashion, morality and current affairs. It saved her from having to think about how many people were waiting out there for her. She was about to ask how Medame Mier felt about the Concord when the noise level outside dropped away.

  From beyond the curtain Elarn heard Medame Binu give a short introductory speech, referring to Elarn as ‘an elusive and sacred talent’, which was about what she had expected. Many in the audience would see her as an eccentric naïf, a refreshingly primitive voice amongst the decadence of Khesh City. But she should not let their parochial attitudes stop her giving a good performance.

  Medame Mier held the curtain up for her to walk out and she mounted the dais. Most of the audience were her age or older; she thought they were probably genuinely interested in her music. Some of her nervousness abated. They had paid good money to see her; they wanted her to succeed. She just had to ignore the younger Kheshi who were here only because she was today’s fad. In the centre, near the back, she spotted yesterday’s fad; Consul Vidoran smiled encouragingly at her and her innards gave a girlish leap.

  Her first song, a relatively modern hymn in a still-used dialect, was barely technically competent, but with the first polite ripple of applause her nerves disappeared and she began to actually enjoy performing in public.

  The climax, the most technically difficult piece, consisted of fragments of a Requiem whose full score had been lost long before the Sidhe Protectorate; it was widely believed to be from Old Earth itself. She sang it with full accompaniment, her voice leading an invisible choir and as she sang she felt not as if she were making the music, but as though the music were making her, giving her substance. By the end she found her gaze locked with Salik Vidoran’s, as though this music were a sacrament they alone shared.

  The final applause was far more enthusiastic and some of the audience - the Consul included - rose to their feet. She sang two encores in a strange daze, detached, yet joyously alive.

  It was only when she took her final bow and retreated back-stage that all the emotion of the past few days caught up with her and she swayed, her legs threatening to collapse under her. She accepted a drink from Medame Mier and composed hersel
f before the various important persons started filing in to give their compliments. Finally she was alone except for Medame Binu and her last visitor; Consul Vidoran had hung back, but now he came forward and took both her hands in his. ‘Magnificent,’ he breathed.

  ‘Thank you, Consul,’ she said, her voice low.

  ‘Salik, please.’

  ‘Of course. Salik.’ She liked the way his name tasted in her mouth. ‘And you must call me Elarn.’

  He led her back out to the main room, where the chairs were being put away. His bodyguard, standing attentive beside a plinth, fell into step behind them. Seeing Elarn’s nervous glance at their shadow, Salik whispered, ‘Don’t mind Scarrion. He takes his duties rather seriously - for which I have cause to be grateful.’