Ahead, a metal gate barred their way, and Amy rolled to a stop. A short, thin man, hardly more than a boy, emerged from a doorway in the alley wall and barked something at them in what Paula thought was Chinese. He held something that might have been a weapon under his arm, though it looked more like a console of some sort.
Amy shook her head. “Don’t speak that shit to me, you little fucker!” Then she shifted into Vietnamese.
The boy answered, still in Chinese, anger in his face. Amy snapped back at him, and finally the boy answered in Vietnamese. The two spoke back and forth for several minutes, the only words intelligible to Paula being “Amy Trinh” and
“Paula Asgard.” Finally the boy did something with the console and the gate crackled, a pulsing glow flowing over the metal. Then the boy disappeared back into the doorway.
“Fucking young punks,” Amy said to Paula. “No pride. The Chinks still have the most power inside, and a lot of the young kids coming up want to be just like them. No pride, and no sense of history.” She shook her head.
“Where did he go?”
Amy turned to her, grin visible under her visor. “Kid thinks he’s bad shit, but he’s afraid of making a mistake, let the wrong person through. He doesn’t know me, so he juiced the gate and went to get authorization.”
The kid reappeared, followed by a tall, handsome man with a thin moustache. “Amy,” the tall man said, nodding.
“Hello, General,” Amy replied.
The tall man smiled and shook his head. “Are you in a hurry?”
“Yes.”
“Then this is not the time to talk. Perhaps some other night.”
“Sure, General.”
Still smiling, the tall man switched to Vietnamese and spoke to Amy for a minute. She responded, after which the man turned to the boy and said a few words. The boy, stiff and silent, Addled with the console; there was more crackling from the gate, the metal dulled, a click sounded, and the gate swung open. Amy gave the tall man a mock salute, flicked the scoot into gear, and they shot forward.
The alley beyond the gate was more of the same: enclosed, and lit by the pulsing swatches of green and blue. Near the end, as pale gray light began to appear ahead of them, another gate was already open, and they drove through, Paula glimpsing a shadowed form standing back in a wall opening. Then the alley ramped upward, a rectangle of light appeared, and moments later Paula and Amy shot up and into the Tenderloin night.
They emerged in the Asian Quarter. The sky was filled with lights: message streamers swimming through the air in flashing red, three and four stories up; above that a shimmering green, red, and gold dragon undulated, sparks shooting from its eyes, smoke pouring from its nostrils, and advertisements flowing along its body; and high above the dragon, a network of bright white lights and tensor wires webbed across the street, connecting one building to another, pulsing rapidly against the night sky.
The streets and walks of the Asian Quarter were as full of people, vehicles, and movement as the sky was of lights. Amy maneuvered the scoot into the thronging street traffic, a mass of bikes and scoots and carts and riks and vans. They were in the heart of the Asian Quarter, and they had to get out. The Saints were definitely a Western thing; no trace of them would even be allowed here. Paula and Amy would have to make their way to the Euro Quarter.
Paula had lived in the Tenderloin for six years, right where the Asian and Euro Quarters merged together. She had loved the energy, the unrestrained life that flowed through the streets and the air. She had lived here and breathed all of it into her, giving just as much back in her own way—with her music. The days had been for sleeping, the nights for living. An endless cycle of energy. But as she’d grown older, it had become too much for her. When you lived in the Tenderloin, you couldn’t ever get away from it. Paula had come to need times of peace and quiet, relaxation, things she could never get while she lived here. She still loved the Tenderloin, but now only as a visitor.
Their pace was agonizingly slow. Paula craned around Amy’s neck, but didn’t see anything that unusual, just a typical street jam. Then, as they crept forward, she saw it: a pedestrian spillover from the sidewalk, flooding the street. Paula finally spotted the source, Hong Kong Cinema disgorging a huge audience through three doors while a crowd waited to get in for the next showing. The marquee floated in the air directly above the street, rolling the titles in Chinese, English, Vietnamese, and French. Paula hooked onto the only one she could read: Ghost Lover of Station 13.
Shit, Paula thought, no wonder.
They slowed even further as they got closer to the theater, now at a lurching crawl. Paula breathed slowly, deeply, trying not to think of what might be happening to Mixer. She let her gaze drift slowly from side to side and behind them. Familiar places, old haunts. Hong Kong Gardens, the café next to the theater. Shorty’s Grill across the street, sandwiched between Tommy Wong’s Tattoos and Ngan Dinh Body Electronics. Back half a block, a favorite hangout of Paula’s—Misha’s Donuts and Espresso.
And then, amid the familiar places, Paula spied a familiar face, a woman legging a pedalcart three vehicles behind them. Jenny Woo. Like Boniface, a name Paula had given to Carlucci just a few days earlier. Like Boniface, someone she couldn’t stand.
Paula swung around to face forward again. Another coincidence, like seeing Boniface? After all, Jenny Woo did live here in the Asian Quarter. But still... Boniface was harmless. Jenny Woo wasn’t. Jesus.
They were finally past the Hong Kong Cinema, traffic eased, and their speed picked up a bit. Amy found a break at the next intersection and turned hard left, giving the scoot a blast to shoot through and down the street. Now they were headed straight for the Euro Quarter, only three blocks away.
Paula turned around again, but didn’t see Jenny Woo. There were riks and bikes and a pedalcart behind them, but no one familiar in any of them. Maybe it was another coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t even Jenny she’d seen.
For the next three blocks, Paula kept looking behind them, but never saw Jenny Woo again. Then they were crossing into the Euro Quarter, and Paula turned her attention back to the street in front of her and the shops and sidewalks around them. She couldn’t worry about Jenny Woo. Mixer was more than enough to worry about. And it was Mixer’s face, more than any other, that she wanted to see again.
Amy and Paula gave up just after dawn. As they’d expected, they’d had no luck ferreting out the site of St. Katherine’s trial, they just got further confirmation that it was to take place, or already had, and that Mixer was definitely the “defendant.” So they had spent the last hours of darkness cruising the streets of the Euro Quarter, occasionally venturing a block or two into the other Quarters, searching for a staggering, catatonic wreck. They’d come across an astounding number of candidates, but none of them had been Mixer.
Amy dropped Paula off at her apartment building as the sun was rising, with a promise to return later that afternoon to pick her up for another run through the Tenderloin. They both needed sleep and food, and rest for their burning eyes. Unspoken was what they both knew—the fact that they hadn’t found Mixer within an hour or two of the trial, whenever it had been held, was bad. Real bad. The two most likely possibilities? Scavengers had picked him clean before Paula and Amy could find him. Or he hadn’t even survived the trial. Paula didn’t try to decide which was better.
She climbed the stairs to the third floor, walked down to her apartment, and unlocked the door. She stood in the doorway for a minute, listening. The building was so quiet. This early, most people were either still in bed or just waking up. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
The apartment seemed terribly empty. Paula wandered through it, making several circuits of the two rooms until she finally sat on the edge of her bed and stopped. Yes, it was the same place, nothing had changed. Except...
Two weeks ago she’d lost Chick. Now it looked like she’d lost Mixer as well. It was just too much. Paula lay back on the bed, staring up
at the ceiling. She was tired, so tired. She closed her eyes, and wondered if she would ever get up again.
TWELVE
THIS TIME WHEN Mixer came to, he was naked from the waist up and strapped to a large, flat, horizontal wheel, his arms and legs spread-eagled, bound at the elbows and wrists, thighs and ankles. He was on his back, sweating in the stifling heat, his blurred gaze trying to bring the ceiling overhead into focus.
The ceiling seemed very far away, and after several moments Mixer realized it was—twenty, twenty-five feet above him. He found he could move his head, and he raised it, turned it from side to side. The wheel was about three feet off the floor, supported by ... what? He couldn’t tell. Though the ceiling was high, the room was smaller than he’d expected, maybe twenty by thirty. At the moment it was empty. There was a door at the other end of the room, but no windows. The walls were covered with prints and paintings and photographs depicting saints and martyrs, some dispensing good works, others being tortured and killed.
How the fuck did I get into this? Mixer wondered. And why St. Katherine? Why not one of the others, like the one who pulled all your teeth out of your head without any anesthetic? Right now he’d take that over having his brain gouged and jittered by St. Katherine’s Wheel.He let his head fall back on the wheel. He flexed his hands and feet, his arms and legs. Not much give. But his right arm.... They’d left the exoskeleton in place. He wondered if there was enough power in the exo to tear out the straps.
Mixer turned his head to the right. His vision was sharp now, and he could see the straps over his right arm and wrist, wrapped tightly over the exo. He didn’t much like what he saw. The straps were made of woven metal strands. What were the chances of ripping through that, even with the exo? Not good, not fucking good at all.
Mixer rolled his head back, facing the ceiling once again, then closed his eyes. His stomach was fluttering, knotting up on him. Man, oh, man, he was scared. Dying was one thing. This was another. He’d seen a survivor of St. Katherine’s Wheel. The guy had been a mess, like he had perpetual epilepsy—a walking seizure, with two “pilgrims” caring and begging for him like he was a holy man. And that’s where I’m headed, Mixer thought. His one hope was that he’d be so far gone when it was over that he’d have no idea how fucked up he was, and how much he’d lost.
What he could use right now were a few of the neutralizers he’d taken for the wham-wham. Or some kind of drug. Something to freeze him down. Of course, that was part of what got him into trouble at the wham-wham, the neutralizers fucking up his judgment.
Goddamn wham-wham. How long had it been? Hours, or days? Days, he thought. The Saints had kept him doped, he knew that much. Good stuff, though, since he felt pretty clearheaded. He’d come to several times, and he thought he remembered being given food and water, being taken to the can, but it was all pretty vague. He remembered different faces. St. Katherine’s, hers he knew best—long and sharp and, he had to admit, beautiful; if she wasn’t so crazy, and if she wasn’t going to scorch his brain, he could fall in love with a woman who looked like that. There was another woman, older, dressed all in black, with a hard, worn face. And then a third, a woman with the most incredibly beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Electric blue. Couldn’t have been real, those eyes. St. Lucy.
Mixer opened his own eyes again. How long was he going to be here? The “trial” was going to start soon, he was sure of that. Why else strap him to the wheel?
The straps. Why not try? Nothing, absolutely nothing to lose. Mixer breathed deeply twice, closed his right hand into a fist, then pulled, trying to rip his right arm free. There was no give, and he pulled harder, trying to use his elbow for leverage. He could hear the whine of the exo motors straining, getting nowhere. Sweat dripped down his face, his neck, slid off his arm.
Nothing.
He kept on, but pain started in his wrist and moved up along his arm to his shoulder, then around his neck and back. The pain jacked up; he felt like something in his bones was going to pop, and he finally quit. The straps hadn’t loosened a bit. His arm throbbed, and he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Damn exo. What good was it?
Fuck me, he thought. He was stuck here, and he was going to die. No, worse than die.
The door opened. Mixer wanted to close his eyes, pretend to still be out, but instead he turned his head and watched St. Katherine walk toward him. She was alone, dressed as she had been at the wham-wham—deep, blood-red cloak over more layers of red.
When she reached the wheel she stopped and looked down on him, smiling. He was at waist level to her, and she reached out, placed her warm fingers on his cheek, lightly brushing his skin. God, she was beautiful.
What the fuck am I thinking? Mixer asked himself. She might be beautiful, but she’s insane and she’s going to scorch my brain.
“It’s all right,” St. Katherine said, moving her fingers to his forehead.
No, it’s not all right, Mixer thought. But there was something quite calming about her touch, and he almost believed her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Even her voice was beautiful, deep and smooth, washing over him. For a moment he wondered if the air in the room was gassed, but decided it wasn’t. St. Katherine’s impact on him, he was sure, was all her own.
“Cat got your tongue?” she said, smiling.
What the hell did that expression mean! he wondered. “I’m feeling just terrific,” he finally said. “What do you think?”
“Your trial will begin soon,” she said. “I’m here to prepare you.”
“Prepare me?” Mixer almost laughed, but it came out as a choking sound. Why was he even talking to this woman?
“Don’t you want to know why you’re here? What the trial is for?” She ran her fingers lightly across his face, down his neck, like soft warm feathers, then down his chest, tingling his skin. “Why I’ve chosen you!”
She was gazing into his eyes, and he could not turn away from her as her fingers moved downward, over his belly, and finally across his pants and to his crotch, where they circled and brushed and pressed lightly at him until, astoundingly, he began to get hard.
This is fucking insane, he told himself. I’m insane, I’m as crazy as she is! He closed his eyes and clenched both of his fists. Preparation for trial. What was she going to do, crawl up on the wheel and mount him?
The motion of St. Katherine’s fingers stopped and she pulled her hand away.
“If you survive the trial,” she said, “you will be my consort.” Then, “Open your eyes, Minor Danzig. Look at me.”
Mixer opened his eyes, stunned to hear his birth name. How could she know that?
“My name is Mixer,” he said, looking at her. “I’ve seen survivors of your trials, and they didn’t look like consorts to me. They hardly looked human.”
St. Katherine slowly shook her head. “They only survived in the crudest sense of the word. In truth, they all failed their trials, failed miserably.”
“Did you ‘prepare’ all of them, too?”
“Yes.”
“You did a piss-poor job, then. And I’m fucked.” He moved his head from side to side. “Let’s get this over with.”
St. Katherine smiled, leaned over, and kissed him on the mouth. Then she pressed something on the side of the wheel and stepped back.
The wheel began to move. Mixer tensed, disoriented at first. He had expected the wheel to spin, but it didn’t. Instead, it angled upward, his head and arms rising while the lower end of the wheel dipped toward the floor, moving smoothly, steadily, until he and the wheel were vertical. The straps held him in place, but he could feel the strain on his arms as gravity tried to pull him to the floor. He coughed, struggling a moment for breath. Fucking great, he thought, I’m being crucified.
He was at the head of the room, facing St. Katherine. Two more large, metal wheels emerged from the wall behind him, one on either side; another slid out above him, suspended directly over his head.
“Your own
wheel will remain stationary,” St. Katherine said. “The others will turn, producing and casting the energies for the trial.”
Her explanation meant nothing. All Mixer could think was that at least he wouldn’t get dizzy. But what did it matter? He stared at St. Katherine, waiting for further explanations of what would be done to him, but she didn’t offer any more.
The door opened again, and women filed into the room. Four in simple gray robes entered first, followed by six in lush, layered outfits like St. Katherine’s, but in different colors. The six were followed by a dozen more in gray. What? Full-fledged Saints and novitiates?
The six Saints—Mixer recognized St. Lucy among them—sat in a row on the floor just a few feet in front of him, silent, gazing steadily at him. The novitiates sat behind them in four rows, just as quiet.
St. Katherine reached into the layers of her clothing, withdrew her hand, and held up a bundled neural net. She shook out the net, held it spread in front of her, then turned and displayed it to the Saints and novitiates.
“The Neural Shroud,” she said.
Oh, fuck me, Mixer thought. He expected her to keep talking, mouthing ritual words and phrases, but she said no more, only bowed her head once. All the Saints and novitiates bowed their heads in return, and then St. Katherine turned and faced Mixer, holding the neural net up between them. Her face was crosshatched by the fine wires and nodes, and her skin seemed to shine behind the net.
She stepped forward and draped the net over Mixer’s head, face and shoulders, the nodes tinging against the metal of the exoskeleton. The net was surprisingly light, but the fine wire dug into his flesh, not quite breaking the skin. A panic attack a lot like he had in elevators kicked in, sending a jolt to his heart and a flush to his neck and face. He managed to keep from crying out by breathing slow and deep and reminding himself that a lot worse was still to come.
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