by E J Frost
they’re like the Pack. They’re nice enough
one-on-one.” She rolls her head to look up at
me. “Or maybe it’s just you. I’ve been here a
couple of times and they’ve never been very
nice to me. Happy enough to take my credits,
but when I ran out it was very much fuck you
and fuck off.”
I kiss the tip of her nose. “Yeah, I’m
known for makin’ friends everywhere I go.”
She chuckles. Links her arm through mine
and together we walk down to the beach,
where the best food smells are coming from.
Chapter 25
The beach is crowded with stalls.
Squeezed between the stalls, hoverropes
define squares of display space. I buy a bag
of flash that Kez and I share as we stroll and
take it all in. The fried seaweed is a little
soggy; definitely not up to the standard of the
stand in Nock. But, I discover as I begin
eating, I’m hungry and soggy flash is better
than nothing.
We stop to watch holotattoos being
sprayed onto a pair of twins, born or
modified to be identical, their smooth brown
skins already bearing matching wave and
fish designs. One of the girls nods to Kez in
recognition. “Redsand Bra,” Kez tells me, as
we watch the holoartist create a spiral of
shimmering red and gold flowers that
blossom and wither, blossom and wither,
around the twins’ thighs. I’ve heard of the
surf gang, who are notorious for their clashes
with the Mirrormen. The diminutive girls
don’t look tough enough to tangle with Capp
and Dag’s crew – even standing on platforms
to let the holoartist work on their lower
bodies, they don’t come up to my chin. But
Kez doesn’t look all that tough, either.
My deceptively soft-looking kitten
rummages around in the bottom of the flash
bag and looks up at me. “You’re worse than
the rabbits.”
“Didn’t hear you complainin’ last time.” I
give her a dirty-old-man leer.
“I’m complaining now. You ate all the
flash.”
I put my arm around her. “If this
partnership’s got any chance, we’re gonna
haveta work on your concept of ownership.
Repeat after me. Snow’s ship. Snow’s
flash.”
“Snow’s black eye,” Kez retorts.
I chuckle and lead her toward the source
of a good meaty smell. The source turns out
to be a stall selling entobabs. I inspect the
baskets of ingredients. Kuseros’s native
insects are mostly edible, but I’m not a fan of
the mushier bugs. The baskets hold different
types of hopper. Nothing too gooey. I hold up
a hand to the vendor and take the five
skewers he passes me.
“Those better not be Snow’s kebabs,”
Kez says as she pays.
“If you’re nice to me, you can have one.”
“Three by my count. Sixty-forty,
remember?”
“On the money. Fifty-fifty on business
decisions, and the division of bugsicles is
definitely a business decision.”
Kez appropriates two of the skewers,
tears the front legs off a hopper and crunches
them down as we continue to walk. Watching
her, I feel a swell of admiration. How many
of the women I’ve been with would eat roast
bugs without complaint? Marin wouldn’t eat
anything but the NuBal packs from her ship,
and went hungry on the last day we were
together rather than eat the emergency rations
I salvaged from the crashed transport. Mouse
was more practical, but I still never saw her
eat anything that wasn’t prison-issue. I guess,
when it came down to it, neither of them
were survivors. Kez is a different breed, my
one in a billion.
“How’re your bugs, kitten?” I ask before
pulling a hopper off my own skewer.
“Good.” She wipes her mouth with the
back of her hand.
I crunch down the hopper, which is salty
and crispy, but doesn’t have much flavor
beyond a faint acidity. “Not as good as that
rendang.”
Kez shrugs. I don’t think she’s worried
about taste at this point. She just wants
something to fill her belly. She was much
more hungry than she let on.
I pause in front of a stall selling
flatbreads. Scan the holomenu and order a
clyros-stuffed round with two bulbs of fruit
juice. I’m tempted to get the fermented
version, but if we’re sleeping rough, we
can’t afford to dull our senses. Booze won’t
speed healing, either, and both of us need
that in a bad way. So I get the straight juice,
which, with the bread, will fill my kitten’s
tummy.
Once Kez pays, I lead her further down
the beach, past a big square marked out with
hoverropes where people are dancing, to a
band of wet sand a dozen meters from the
waterline. A couple of glaz-smooth volcanic
rocks provide warm, dry seats while we eat
our bugs and bread. A stand of cer-cer grass
shields us from the rest of the beach and its
soft susurrus combines with the roll of the
waves to mute the heavy bass whump coming
from behind us. The grass’s natural
phosphoresce throws a soft light over Kez’s
face as she rips the bread in half and bites
into it hungrily.
I watch her for a moment, then pat my
thigh. Kez shifts from her rock onto my lap
without even pausing her chewing. I settle
her comfortably between my thighs, not the
easiest thing in the fucking skirt. Put my arm
around her and cuddle her while I eat my
own bread.
“Where’s this hover in the morning?” I
ask, once her chewing slows down a little.
“Back at the port,” she says.
“Then we’ll stay close.” The port lights
up the far end of the beach. No more than a
half-klick away. Thinking back, that’s a long
way for my kitten to have dragged me.
“How’d you get me to Doc Gray’s?”
“I got lucky. A couple of kids were
passing with float boards. I got you on one
and floated you to the market.” She pauses in
her chewing just long enough to take a sip of
juice.
“Did I say thank you for savin’ my life?”
She tilts her head to the side. Chews.
“Not that I can remember.”
I poke her in the side. “Pretty sure I did.”
“Maybe it just wasn’t memorable.”
I find that good ticklish spot along her
ribs. Give it a poke. She thrashes in my lap,
giggling. Chokes on her bread. I whack her
on the back until she can breathe again. Still
giggling, she leans into me, puts her head on
my shoulder, and stuffs another piece of
br
ead into her mouth.
“You’re welcome,” she says. “You
would have done the same for me.”
Yeah, I would. Three days ago, I
wouldn’t have. But everything’s changed in
that short time.
We’re both silent for a while, chewing. I
like that about Kez: she doesn’t feel the need
to constantly yap at me. When she finishes
her bread, I offer her the rest of mine as a
reward for her silence. She chews for a
minute, then says, “Where’d you learn to
make knives?”
That’ll teach me to share my food.
“S.A.W.L. Just basic shit. Enough for a
makeshift weapon if I lost my primary.”
“Those knives you sold weren’t basic.”
“No. Took me a while to figure out how
to make those.”
“They were beautiful. I’m so sorry you
had to sell them.”
“Don’t be. Look, it’s opened up a whole
new line of business for me. You’re not
seeing a credit of my knife money, by the
way.”
Kez snorts and pops the last of the bread
into her mouth. “Being partners means I see
sixty percent of our knife money, thank you
very much.”
“Sixty-forty, fuck. I musta been drunk
when I negotiated that.”
Kez chuckles. “No, you weren’t. I’ve
never even seen you drink.”
That makes me regret not ordering the
fruit wine. I’d have liked to have a drink
with her. But not tonight. “Tell you what.
Once we’ve finished this, we’ll hole up at
my place for a couple of days and do nothing
but drink and fuck.”
“God, that sounds good,” Kez sighs.
“You finished?” When she nods, I evict
her from my lap and rise. The skirt’s twisted
around my waist. I adjust it with disgust.
“Who designed this fucking thing?”
“A man, trust me.” Kez picks up the
purple bag and slings it over her shoulder.
Stands hipshot and flashes me a grin more
wicked than mischievous. “So, how about a
dark alley?”
“Yeah.” I stretch. Feel the pull of the
newskin at my shoulder. The derms on my
neck. The soreness of my muscles. The
heaviness of my belly. “Can’t believe I’m
about to say this, but —”
Kez laughs. “I’m wrecked, too.”
“Don’t think this is a permanent
condition. You still owe me a massage,
noodles, a naked dance and a sunburn-free
fuck. You’re not gettin’ out of any of that.”
“You owe me a double-bag of the
universe’s best flash. Not that crap we just
ate. Which you ate. And I paid for the bugs and bread.”
“With my money,” I mock-growl, putting
my arm around her. She leans into me as we
stroll back up the beach.
While we’ve been eating, the eDub has
been replaced by neo-Tribe, heavy on the
pipes and drums. The dance floor’s cleared,
and a crowd clusters around the hoverropes,
their backs to us as we walk up the beach,
watching something in the middle of the
square. When an arc of fire sweeps above
the heads of the watching crowd, Kez
suddenly grows animated and drags me into
the crowd. As we move through it, I catch
glimpses of the performance in the shifting
gaps between bodies. In the center of the
square, there’s a tall, bare-chested kid
leaping, weaving, dancing around two balls
of fire that whizz weightlessly around him.
He jumps and the fireballs spin between his
legs like his nuts have nothing to fear. Maybe
they don’t – maybe its chem coldfire or
something like that. Or maybe he’s got no
nuts. Mine start trying to climb up into my
belly just watching him.
The crowd is clapping, gasping, hooting.
It’s that hushed collective appreciation from
a crowd that’s truly enraptured. Kez pushes
to the front and I join her, standing behind
her, my chin resting on the top of her head.
Arms loose around her shoulders. I watch the
kid, and I’m entertained, although I’m too
tired to really enjoy it. But Kez seems
wholly focused, intent. Her body sways in
time to the music and the kid’s acrobatics.
There’s something about this show that’s
really got her attention.
When the fireballs finally puther out into
streamers of gray smoke, the kid rests them
on the ground to widespread applause.
Without the brightness to destroy my night
vision, I can see they’re wads of some fire-
retardant material attached to chains the kid
has looped around his fingers. The kid takes
a bow, flips the braids he’s got bound in a
headscarf over his shoulders, and moves
through the crowd with a cloth hat
outstretched. When he reaches us, Kez drops
one of our few remaining octagons into the
hat.
“Thanks, g,” the kid says absently, then
does a double-take. “Lightfoot? Kez, my g!
Damn, is that you?”
“Yeah, hey, Slip.” Kez holds out her fist
and they rap knuckles.
“I didn’t recognize you. Where’re your
dreads?”
Kez shrugs. “You know how it is. Good
show. Where’s your drummer?” She tips her
chin at the silvery cylinder, sitting on the
ground next to the kid’s smoking fireballs,
which is still cranking out the neo-Tribe.
“Alb has some family thing, so I’m
soloing tonight.”
“Too bad,” Kez says.
“Hey, you bring your poi? Duo with me,
g!”
“I didn’t, sorry. I’m out here on
business.”
“Well, fuck, take mine. I’ll take a break.
Work the crowd. You can have half.”
Kez twists to look up at me. Her face is
alight. “Sixty percent?”
“Fifty and breakfast,” I say.
Kez smiles at the kid. “Fifty percent and
you buy us breakfast.”
“Sorry, g.” The kid’s narrow, moon-pale
face splits into a grin so wide for a moment I
think his head’s going to hinge open. “I’ve
got a date.”
“No problem. Fifty it is.” Kez tugs on my
hand. “Remember how you said you like to
dance?”
“I don’t think I ever said that.” I can feel
the trap closing, but I can’t see how to avoid
it.
“You definitely did. Come on, Snow,
please? Dance with me.”
“Didn’t we just establish that we’re both
too tired for this?” I raise an eyebrow at her.
“This is different.” She drags me under
the hoverrope, into the circle. “It’ll be fun, I
promise.”
She pulls me over to where the kid’s gear
sits in a cloud of gray smoke. She drops the
ugly purple
bag next to the small pile of
cylinders and boxes, picks up the smoking
balls, and hooks her fingers through fabric
loops at the non-lethal ends of the chains.
The kid trails us. Once Kez attaches herself
to the balls o’ fire, the kid opens a
pseudowood box, takes out a cylinder and
drips clear liquid onto the dangerous ends.
Smells like citrus.
“You’ve done this before, right?” I ask.
I’ve seen her skill with the monofilament.
Throwing around balls of fire is another
thing. Particularly if they’re going between
her legs. Or, more importantly, between my
legs.
“No, but I’m a fast learner.”
“G!” The kid protests. He peers up at me
incredulously. “Don’t you know who she
is?”
Kez laughs. “Snow’s too important to be
on the Liquid Circuit, Slip. Can I borrow a
scarf?”
“Sure, g.” The kid takes a length of pale
fabric out of the box, wraps it carefully
around Kez’s head, and ties off the ends at
the nape of her neck. “That too tight?”
“Nope, perfect. Light me up and give me
something I can dance to.”
“You got it, g.” The kid snaps his fingers
and a bright flame appears above his first
and middle fingers. He holds his hand out
and Kez dips each ball into the flame. They
catch with a whush. There’s something
intensely primal about that sound. Fire. Heat.
Life. I step in close behind Kez and she leans
back against me.
“Stay with me as I move. Maybe, um, put
your hands on my waist?”
I’m still not clear on how this is going to
work without turning us both into human
torches, but I trust Kez more than I’ve ever
trusted another living creature. I cup her
waist and wait to see how we’re going to
avoid immolation.
Slip gives us a thumbs up, fiddles with
one of the boxes until the music changes to a
slower, deeper beat, then backs away to the
edge of the hoverropes. Kez flexes her
shoulders, flicks her wrists, and the fireballs
whirl around us.
The crowd, which had been drifting after
the end of Slip’s performance, snaps back to
attention. They press, three deep, at the
hoverropes. Probably hoping to see me and
Kez burn.
But as Kez begins to move, slow steps,
echoed by the whushing, whirring fireballs
that weave around us, describing bright
circles in the night air, it becomes clear to
me that she’s not going to light us up. Her
moves are perfectly rhythmic. Wholly fluid.
