Not yet.
“We were only interested in legitimate—”
“Yes, the tracks were covered quite nicely. DynaKrom did request a prisoner transfer, all aboveboard and legal. Prisoner was remanded to the local authority, which would have been Kopelund.”
“The prisoner?” Zlofter did not like the path this interview was treading. His welcome gift—a large fruit basket, with an envelope of hard credits tucked under burnished, glowing pears—stood forgotten on a side table. The agent hadn’t even glanced at it. “The case was appealed, and since Kopelund had requested—”
“Indeed.” Ochki picked up another sheaf of papers, glancing through them. There was a mote of dust on one of his lenses, and it was irritating. But he did not care for the idea of taking his glasses off just at the moment. “You were simply being courteous to the local military authority. Which is very much appreciated. We live in troubled times. Tell me, Mr. Zlofter, do you think he might have pulled it off?”
“I beg your pardon?” Yes, the corporate man was cheese-pale now. In a little while, that pompadour might begin to wilt. Even though he was merely a middling functionary, his mother corporation might make a certain amount of noise if one of its own disappeared in the scandal. DynaKrom was the local power, and a large source of tax revenue.
Such things mattered more than they should nowadays. But ILAC was tightening its hold, slowly and surely. The road was long, but it would end with more order. More safety. More sanity. Ochki looked forward to as much, though he would quite miss a certain amount of excitement, if it happened sooner. The very thought brought a half-pained smile to his moist, pink lips. “Kopelund. Do you think he might have brought something large enough out of that Rift to justify a quite surprising amount of resources wasted, despite the injunctions against such a thing?”
“I’m sure I can’t guess.” The corporate man had regained some of his aplomb, and sounded almost prim. His wristlet blinked, a sleepy green eye. It would be difficult to make someone who wore that type of tech disappear.
But it could be done. Oh yes, it could be. “If he did, I can’t help but think he would have a buyer for the item in question already on the sidelines. In fact, I am almost sure of it.” Ochki’s watery blue eyes swiveled up, swimming behind the lenses, and the soft, almost paternal expression the black-uniformed dumpling of a man wore was by no means comforting.
Zlofter’s throat moved, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “You are?”
Ochki nodded, slowly. He sighed, a heavy, nasal sound when his mouth closed halfway through. It was a peculiar noise, and also not comforting. “But I am an old man, at the end of his career. Of course I see bad things everywhere; it has been my job for so long.”
“It gets to you,” Zlofter agreed. “Especially so close to that.”
Ochki didn’t ask what he meant. It was, in any case, obvious. The slugwall did strange things to people.
He tapped the next crop of papers into a submissive, neat little shape with his soft, clever little hands, well-cared-for nails brushed and buffed. “So I’m told. It was very polite of you to visit, Mr. Zlofter. DynaKrom can rest assured its investments in this particular installation will be in more … honest … hands, now.”
The corporate man murmured a courteous, “Of course, of course. I shall leave you to it, then.” He lifted his hat politely, but did not place it upon his pompadour, and took care not to hurry as he moved for the door. The big man had not moved, but it would only take a single glance from Ochki to change that.
The agent let him get within a step of the door. One more step, and he would be over the threshold and safe. The reedy little voice rose behind him. “Mr. Zlofter?”
“Yes?” The corporate man’s hands clutched the brim of the new, custom-made, very expensive bowler. His palms were a little more damp than he cared for.
“QR-715 is a quarantine zone. We have new units arriving today with strict orders. Anyone attempting to enter the anomaly will be shot. And, of course, anything that comes out will be destroyed with whatever means are to hand. We simply cannot be too careful, now, can we?”
Zlofter’s smile was a painted doll’s grimace. “No. One can never be too careful.”
“Good day, sir.”
“Good day.” There might have been something caught in the corporate man’s throat. He stepped hurriedly into the hallway, and within minutes the soft rousing of an expensive engine echoed outside. Agent-Major Ochki, putting off retirement at the request of the Second Branch, shook his graying head. There was much more to be made here than a few crumbs from corporate scum, after all. Kopelund had no imagination.
Ochki indicated the fruit basket with a single contemptuous motion and told his faithful bodyguard to throw the offensive thing in the incinerator, bribe and all.
49
SOMEONE MUST
Another clear, beautiful day. The clouds were now innocently white, the air fresh and clean, and something had happened during the night. The bulging buildings they had walked between yesterday glowed under sunshine, the surfaces on the left now covered with a sticky amber film, hardening as the light hit it. The sheet of material stretched across corners, rippling as it settled; it looked exactly like giants had plastifreez shrink-wrapped one side of the street. The right-hand side, bulging and sagging, groaned a little, dust puffing from seams and windows making that high thin singing noise as the glass was warped and bent, but would not break.
“Fuck,” Morov breathed, a long drawn-out sigh of something too tired to be wonder. He could stand up without help, and even hobble without the crutch. All he needed was a stout short stick to act as a cane. The skinstrip on his forehead this morning had shown up nice and pale yellow.
It wasn’t much of a victory, but Barko was grateful nonetheless. He rubbed at his head, wincing a little as gritty dirt scratched between palm and naked scalp. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, again.
“Don’t care what you think, baldy.” Brood checked his rifle again, a completely unnecessary movement since he’d already done so twice. Maybe it was his version of a nervous tic. “Mako and I go with the rifter. We bring back this shitbird fairy-tale thing, then we all go home.” His bloodshot gaze passed over the street in a brief arc, not quite apathetic. “Rifter says that shit down the road won’t come here.”
“I said I don’t think it will.” She stood a little closer to Mako than she had to anyone else, and he didn’t step away.
“Still don’t think we should split up.” Mako’s broad face was worried, a vertical line between his eyebrows and his wisp-curling stubble blacker than usual because of the dirt rubbed into his cheeks. Maybe it was camouflage, because he’d smeared it down his neck too, and on the backs of his hands.
“Didn’t ask you.” Brood’s smile was wide, and white, and unsettling.
Mako looked at Morov instead. The captain nodded, wearily. “Go ahead, Mako. Get the fucking thing and come back.”
“Yessir.” Mako’s nod was a salute, and pointedly did not include Brood.
The rifter examined Morov for a long moment, then nodded. “Back soon.” She turned, smartly, tossed one of her little flying rags, and set off as soon as it hit the pavement with a sweet chiming. Mako trailed in her wake, and Barko thought it was quite possible the man’s back was crawling at the thought of Brood behind him with a gun, even if there was little rifle ammo left.
At least, Brood said there wasn’t much ammo left. He didn’t say just how much he did have.
Morov watched as Brood ambled after the rifter and Mako, with a lazy hip-loose stride saying he had all the time in the world. His big shoulders were rigid, though, and before they turned at the end of the street he sped up, obviously not wanting to be left behind.
Barko squinted against the sunshine. Anywhere but here, he’d have called it a beautiful day. He opened his mouth, shut it, then decided what the hell, he could at least ask. “You think any of them are coming back?”
M
orov’s shrug looked painful, and he grimaced. “Maybe the rifter.”
“Yeah. Can’t tell if that’s a shame.” Barko’s head hurt. For a few minutes, inside, he’d thought Brood was going to clear leather, go for Morov, and follow it up by shooting him for good measure. Morov’s diplomacy had saved the situation—dealing with Kopelund all the damn time probably qualified the commander for sainthood and a spot in the arbitration hall of fame. The rifter had piped up, too, telling Morov that the next stage of the trip needed some agility, and he was in no shape to attempt it.
Maybe she’d even been telling the truth.
In any case, it was out of their hands now. Morov’s drawn, suffering face was unreadable.
“Goddamn shame,” he agreed. “At least they left some food.”
Barko almost wanted to ask what the hell they would do if nobody returned, or how long they were going to wait. In the end, though, it didn’t goddamn matter. It was out of his hands, always had been, and if he made it out of here the first thing he was going to do was quit his job and move somewhere much colder, or somewhere tropical. Somewhere the Rifts didn’t stretch their soap-bubble fingers. “Yeah,” he said. “This gives us time for coffee, too.”
“Fucking optimist.” One corner of Morov’s mouth curled up. “You believe that shit, about the Cormorant granting wishes?”
What could he say? “Someone must.” Enough to send them in here, to almost certain death.
“You think Kope does?” As if Morov hadn’t had way more interaction with Kope on a daily basis. What was he asking Barko for?
“Looks awful likely.” Barko headed back into the damp, nasty-smelling office cave. Smoke had blackened the ceiling already, and he didn’t like the idea of staying here another night. He didn’t say the rest; he didn’t have to.
Believed it enough to send us in here to die for it, sure.
50
OPTIONS
She wasn’t even trying to hide her trail. Not that she could have, with a bunch of lundies tromping behind her. He could almost taste her, harsh soap and sweat on a woman’s skin, the slightly spicy tang of a brunette woman’s clean hair after healthy effort, the slight edge of ripe acridity that was a fully grown female used to hard effort and few showers. Overlaid with the oiliness of other males and their guns, metal and shiny ration pouches, a whiff of roughened fingers and the yeasty smell of men who drank. The last bit stayed even when they hadn’t had anything alcoholic for a while. The body remembered, and it changed.
Vetch crouched, easily, right next to the corner of what had been a department store. Its window bulged outward a bit, dusty glass pregnant with a faint swirling glow. Faintly hypnotic, the streaks rotated counterclockwise, and the pavement under the window held soft dimpled depressions. The dangerous zone wasn’t that big, but he was willing to bet whatever was under the paving ate well. Tossing a strip-and-bob into it might show him the thing’s feeding habits, but it wasn’t worth it. Best to stay in the little secure area, right in the window’s blind spot, and think about things while his hands worked at his mapper, organizing by touch.
She was taking them up the Alley. It was just like her, really. Pick the most dangerous route to peel away a bunch of lundie motherfuckers.
Across the street, crumpled in the shade under a bank of similarly bulging windows over mounds of rubble—office buildings brushed by the edge of the pressure wall and consequently weakened—two pinchoks mantled on a skinny body. The lundie lay on his back with his arms crossed, a thin blue blanket from his pack crumpled a few feet aside. Looked like they’d weighted it down with bits of broken concrete, but the wall had stripped it away and mummified the corpse, turning its black-rimmed spectacles into high nodding curlicues of burnt plastic and spun glass. The pinchoks, their sharp shovel-beaks clacking, jostled each other. They had already stripped the muscle mass on the thighs and opened up the belly. Tatters of a white lab coat fluttered under their big, grasping-nailed feet.
Vetch’s hands finished reorganizing his mapper. Next, his right hand dropped, and he eased the pistol free. Checked its clip, checked its sight, reholstered it without looking.
From here, he’d have to be even more careful. The last thing he wanted was any of his ripples touching the edge of her space. You could tell when someone was tracking you, if you didn’t have a shit-ton of interference all around.
At least one casualty in her group. If she was taking them up the Alley, there were bound to be more. Was she just letting the Rift do its work, or was she after the Cormorant? Did she believe any of the stories? Had Ashe left a whisper, a word?
He wouldn’t put it past the bitch.
Hearing the Rat had deezed hadn’t really pleased him, but it hadn’t displeased him either. He hadn’t meant to come across her trail, but shit happened. The Cancún Rift—Xoch’ Run—was the closest he could get to Guan, but it was a smaller bubble and had started to get crowded. Plus, a felon in solitary didn’t get mail, not that she would have opened anything he sent, anyway. So he’d hopped a few freightsleds and palmed it the rest of the way, ending up in this stretch of the woods, figuring the biggest bubble would be the one they got around to attempting to officially map last. The Rat, sniffing around the corners of anything profitable, had beaten him to it.
Like always.
Vetch uncoiled, slowly, careful not to brush the concrete wall with his sleeve or dungaree leg. A layer of thick paint had turned bleached-beige, and bubbled up from an application of unimaginable heat. She’d stayed well away from this side of the road; the lundies probably had no idea how carefully she was threading from one safe path to another, hopping sideways when she had to, going in gentle arcs to minimize eddies in the current.
Good rifting. She hadn’t lost anything, rotting in a prison cell.
What would he say?
No use in practicing a line. Vetch turned to his left, feeling for the path forward. It was there, and coming closer. Sooner or later the current would bring it right to this little safe patch, and he’d step off. Zagging across the street would bring him across her wake, and his palms were damp.
We can do an appeal, the gray-fringed lawyer in his seedy office had said while tropical sun beat down outside, but it’ll cost you.
What the fuck else did he have to spend his marks on? Vetch waited, his heart beating high and hard. Cabra might have been wandering around looking for Sabby, but she had to know he was gone. Sabby and Il Muto, lost in the wave. Whether the wall had gotten them or a slip in the mipsik herd was immaterial. If she was smart, she’d head for the wall and driftburn out while she could.
Nobody to share the payout with, except her. He’d judge his time carefully. A man could hope for something. If he didn’t get it, well, there were other options. The Rift was full of goddamn options.
You worked for it. For once.
Maybe it was the memory of that dismissive little headshake, the way she didn’t even look at him full-on, that made him jump the gun. He shifted his weight a fraction of a second too soon, his toe touching down just before the safe path swung near him, and the pavement rippled. A high, popping, crunching noise echoed off the buildings, and Vetch yelled, more in surprise than pain.
It was when he landed that the agony started.
51
CAUGHT THEIR FILL
The next slice of the Alley might have taken care of the problem, but Svin didn’t like the way it felt. So she plunged off the main road and kept up a good clip, moving as if she had another rifter or two with her. Throw, watch, let her instincts tell her where to put her feet, don’t overthink but don’t get complacent, either. Feeling each step, testing it as the weight shifts, head up, everything around her hypercolored, her skin alive with sensitive prickles. The danger of the man’s gun behind her was minimal for the moment; the far greater danger was letting it distract her from negotiating the single safe ribbon underfoot.
Mako kept up, his labored breathing echoing against the frowning walls on either side. He didn’
t step only where she did, and he clip-clopped like a blind horse.
No, not a horse. They probably had the good sense every other animal did. Svin had never seen one, but she thought they were probably much, much wiser than humans. Not to mention less murderous.
This road led down in gentle curves to the old riverport, taking advantage of the slopes to hide the bulk of the giant tumbled tangle of chemical plants and factories from those who lived above. Pipes sprouted from the plants like spines, buildings dozing in heavy midafternoon sun, having caught their fill of whatever the hard silver glitter of the river now carried. Smaller creeks were safest, you didn’t want to go too near a lake or a river in a Rift. Too much could hide under the surface, and the water bounced interference around.
It was the river she aimed for, eyeing each of the sleepy buildings and deciding no, no, no. One felt too carnivorous, one not enough, one almost safe—she took note of that rickety wooden building, set at the end of a train spur. The rails had fuzzed with black honeycomb, and she hopped over them, not quite hearing the angry buzzing as the small metallic un-insects with their whorled bodies and large sleep-veined wings took notice of a shadow passing by. Mako, behind her, lumbered into an ungainly leap over them, and it was probably the sunny daywarmth that made them slow. They did not rise until Brood, lagging too far to see Svin’s nimble hop and Mako’s blundering, almost tripped on the rails and gave a short cry.
The brittlebees rose in a humming cloud, and Svin moved her skinny legs. Her feet beat on the crumbling pavement; she cut across the corner of another railyard, Mako right behind her. The building on the right was too dark, the one looming now on her left too ramshackle and innocent-looking, so it would have to be the one in the middle.
It wasn’t perfect; it would have to do. The pale-eyed sardie wouldn’t believe leading him over the tracks was innocent. Which it wasn’t, and now she’d tipped her hand. His rage would explode, his greed unable to keep it in check.
Cormorant Run Page 21
