My working kit consisted of a SOG that made the multitask knives around look like nail files and a hacker's "dream" pack—worm, gateway and password mole, now upgraded courtesy of Raul Minoj. It wasn't elaborate by most professional standards, but B and E wasn't exactly my line. At my height you were an easy target if you stuffed up.
Besides, I had a few moral problems with the whole concept. I didn't like to steal. It showed—in my opinion—a distinct lack of class.
I tried to rationalize Lang's job in my mind. In this case I was poaching information not goods. And to be honest, if it meant Mondo's backside locked away I would have stolen the King of Viva's gonads.
Only two suits hung in my 'drobe, khaki pants and working singlet, and my matt black velvet skintight. I chose the velvet. Call me vain, but a girl's gotta go to the city dressed up. I slipped gray overalls over the top. Flameproof, acidproof. My most expensive glad rag!
As I ran over my kit again, an image intruded, making it impossible to focus.
An angel with heavy, golden red wings. My Angel.
I sat up with a jolt.
My Angel?
Why was I thinking like that? Maybe this voodoo talk was getting to me.
When I'd gotten Jamon off my back I'd go check up on Pas, see if he was feeding the ferals. Then I'd find out some more about the feathers and the blood, what they really meant; and about Oya.
Mei probably knew something, but I didn't trust her anymore. Did I ever? Maybe I was being hard on her, but she broke the rule. Never double-cross your female friends—even for your man.
Not in my world.
On impulse I keyed Minoj's line on my comm. His mouth appeared on-screen first, then the rest of his face built around it. Glossy hair and white teeth. Weird!
"What could the most popular girl on the block want with me?"
I ignored the bait. "Anchor?"
The image froze while he considered my request for a secure line. Weighing my value.
"Wait," said the lips.
The screen blacked for a few seconds, then he reappeared, older and dirtier with decayed teeth. The real Minoj.
"What do you want, Parrish? This is a risk for me. You're hot property."
"When am I not?" I grinned.
He didn't laugh, so I plunged on. "I need some information about a guy. Used to live around here a few years ago. A would-be with a bit of a following, who suddenly disappeared."
Minoj gave an exaggerated sigh. "Do you know how many of those there have been?"
"This one's different. They say he's old family. Big guy, with charisma. Calls himself Dark."
Minoj scraped his finger along his front teeth. It was probably the closest they got to hygiene. "Sounds like love, Parrish."
I scowled at him.
He continued, "There was one. Tall, very thin. A user. Amphetamines and lark, mainly. Ms. Feast was his dealer back then. He vanished. He must have trampled on someone's toes."
Doll? "Whose toes, Minoj?"
"My memory doesn't work so good without the sweet oil of moolah, my little Oya."
My blood chilled. "Where did you hear that name?"
"The Muenos are building shrines to you in their simple homes. They pray that you think kindly of them." He rolled his eyes. "Topaz is not altogether happy about the competition. How unfortunate for him that an orisa manifests when there has been none for so long."
Topaz unhappy with me? Well he could get in the queue! "What'll it cost for you to tell me who vanished this guy?"
A strange expression crossed his face. "Are you in your room?"
"Yeah," I said suspiciously. "Why?"
"Oh, Parrish! And I credited you with much more sense."
"What do you—'"
A hammering on my door was short but emphatic.
"Au 'voir, little thing. Give my regards to the Dead Heart."
He cut his transmission.
The Dead Heart! Minoj's warning sent fear shooting to my toes.
I reefed the chair over to stand on it and throw my kit up through the manhole. But something was wrong. The cover wouldn't budge. I shoved as hard as I could. Nothing.
Someone had sealed me in.
I'd only been trapped, physically, once before…
My arms ached, stretched wide by two 'goboys; the inside of my thighs throbbed, raw with bruises.
"Turn her over," Jamon ordered them, "she looks disgusting."
For a second relief poured through me, as they loosed my limbs. Then they tightened them again, my face shoved into the slick, hard floor. I think I stopped whimpering; there was nothing left but a kind of numbness.
Jamon's breath slithered hotly around the side of my face.
"You understand now, don't you, Parrish, that I am the one who owns your life?"
I emerged from my memories like a drowning person taking a breath. No one was ever going to trap me that way again!
Hoicking my kit onto my back, I yanked my door open. Abba strummed for one long second as I barreled straight over a peeping 'goboy. My knee kissed his face. As we went down, he bit as hard as his specially 'gineered canines would let him, locking on to it.
I straddled his face, screaming, as he tried to lift my kneecap off. In desperation I stuck three fingers in the side of his mouth to prise his jaw open. Not a preferred option—'goboys had hollow incisors that funneled poison. I knew my overall would stand up to the biting—if it didn't go on too long. But would my kneecap stay attached?
He jerked his feet up, trying to rake my back with his preternatural toenails. Mei reckoned they grafted them off dead people.
Noise on the stairs told me others were coming so I ditched the desperate idea and went for the guaranteed. Pulling my fingers from his mouth, I grabbed a pin from my tank. When I shoved it into his eyeball he howled in pain, freeing my knee. I was up and hobbling wildly in the other direction before he could howl again.
It wasn't pretty—what I'd done. But Jamon was never going to trap me again, not alive. The 'goboy would survive: eyes were easy to replace.
Chapter Ten
Normally, going from The Tert to Vivacity was a simple matter of paying a toll at the north end. A maze of enormous, discarded plastic pipes protected you from the poisonous soil. Walk through them, then catch the Trans-train to a Vivacity station. But that wasn't an option today.
Instead I had to leave from the northeastern stretch of The Tert. It had been natural bush once. A glorious stretch of tropical exotics and lushness that unfurled down to a sparkling beach. At least, so the archival holos said. Nothing much grew on it now, excepting a mud-colored fungus.
I jogged quickly over it to the last villa set. The buildings all faced out onto the brown waste. On the outskirts you could "feel" the weather more acutely and I zipped my collar up against the humid drizzle. It was actually stinking hot, but I couldn't stand having a wet neck.
I also didn't want Teece to see my black velvet underneath. He might think I'd dressed for him.
Teece owned an alternate way out of The Tert. It had been a lucrative number for him over the last couple of years; the quickest way to Fishertown, as the crow flies. Slummers were his main client base, but others used it too, if they were in a hurry or wanted to avoid the pipes.
Teece had been my first client when I moved from the 'burbs. I'd done a week as his minder while he set up his brand new biz. Turned out he was a biker with championship freestyle events to his name and enough sun-bleached hair to piss off any surfer. His sideline was cracking, so I took payment in bike lessons and 'puter crime. Being taught by a pro in anything never hurt.
These days Teece avoided Torley's. Too claustrophobic, he said. Nothing like a sunset over Fishertown, Teece reckoned. He'd even wanted me to live out on the edge of the waste with him. A business, sex and love deal.
It was the "love" bit that scared me off.
Anyway, I'm a city grrl. All that space gives me the creeps.
I found him sitting at a desk in his front o
ffice, overseeing a queue of unhappy customers. They were bitching about the price. It didn't surprise me. Teece was always quick to recognize a valuable commodity.
"This is double the normal fee," a thin, sun-dried Fisherwoman complained.
"And there are double the risks with this embargo on," he argued. "If my bike is destroyed. Poof! Where do I get the money to replace it? I am merely covering my costs. Insurance."
As if to back up his claim, the office rattled as a military bat swooped past overhead.
He smiled at her, teeth clamped around an overfat cigarillo. Wisps of smoke escaped. For a second, he could have been Raul Minoj's twin.
They were nothing alike really. Teece was as blond as Minoj was swarthy. He was strong, where Minoj was withered. Yet they shared the same feral talent for business.
The Fisherwoman seemed to be wavering. Teece patted her shoulder sympathetically. "I think it is wise to have second thoughts," he comforted, "the waste is dangerous at the moment."
He'd read her perfectly. She slapped the money down and marched out. A murmur echoed back along the queue.
As Teece began the next negotiation, he spotted me and signaled one of his men to take the desk.
"Parrish," he said aloud. "Lovely," he whispered as I got closer, embracing me fiercely. Teece was the one person in the world who made me feel beautiful, even though I wasn't.
We stepped into the back office—a comm cache with a narrow view of the bike yard. A fan stirred minute dust particles among the cathedral of hardware. Sagging lo-res prints of racing bikes decorated the walls.
Outside the Fisherwoman fumbled with her kick-starter.
Teece sighed. "My oldest bike. Due for scrap. I hope some pieces are left."
I stared hard at him. "She won't make it?"
"She won't make it."
I swore softly, at Teece. I couldn't warn her, now. She wouldn't listen.
"Don't you ever set me up like that, you bastard!"
He feigned hurt. "How could you even think such a thing? Anyway"—he shrugged—"Militia aren't damaging anyone. Just arresting them."
"What do you mean?"
"This embargo is a touchy thing, lovely. The Militia have to assist the media to find Razz Retribution's murderer. On the other hand they don't want to be seen as butchers. A situation may occur otherwise. Riots. Spills from The Tert into Vivacity need to be avoided at all costs. We couldn't have the riffraff and the terminally insane mixing with the real people."
"But the media do what they like. They don't need the Militia. Those damn Priers are running 'Terros right into the heart of The Tert," I said.
"Aah. It's a part of life. We must accept it, lovely."
"I don't accept it," I declared, thumping his desk. "Governments full of crooked lawyers and businessmen used to run the world. Now it's frigging journalists. What's the difference?"
He laughed at me. "What do you prefer? Anarchy? I thought perhaps you would grow wiser with age, lovely. We need authority. It leaves us a simple choice. We fight it or we bend over. Either way there is meaning in life."
"Crap!" I said. "I didn't know you were so unimaginative, Teece. Don't you ever dream about anything other than this gutter?"
This time his hurt expression was real. "I like this gutter. What more do I need? I have money. I have a little power. For Chrissakes, I even have a view."
We'd had this argument before and finished it the same way. He went back to his life and I blundered along in mine. In Teece's mind I'd chosen to come here from the spanky suburbs and yet I wanted more.
For a moment or two I'd toyed with his offer of a partnership. He was kind, he was attractive, he had money; it would have been a way out of Torley's.
But that was before Jamon. Nowadays, even Teece wasn't offering.
"Can you hire me something that will make it across?" I asked.
His washed-blue eyes got vague while he considered my question. The even tan on his face and his bleached hair reminded me of the guys in old surfing 'zines. Teece, the mixed metaphor. The original bikie surfer!
"It's not a place to be going. Truly, Parrish."
"I believe you, Teece," I said, "but this is important."
"How are you going to pay for it?" He raised an eyebrow and gave a sly, expectant grin.
I wavered. It would be easy to sleep with him to cancel my debt. Payment in kind. But something had changed inside me. Something to do with Bras; and the night in the barracks; and Doll; and mostly Jamon. The physical act itself wasn't the issue—giving away my power was.
"Sorry, Teece. Not this time."
He eyed me intently. "Something's happened?"
I nodded, struggling to keep the excitement out of my voice. "Yes. I've got a chance to make my life my own again. And even some scores."
He stood up and walked around to my side. He only reached just past my shoulders but somehow he always seemed bigger.
Outside sirens wailed in the distance. He pulled me gently to the window and pointed. "See, lovely. That is your chance."
About a third of the way across the waste the Fisherwoman wove her bike frantically, dodging fire from a 'copter. Suddenly the bike skewed and flipped, catapulting her off. Within a few seconds a jaw-net lowered and trawled her limp body into the sky. The bike lay, throttle jammed on, screaming its guts out.
"You got enough bikes for those people out there?"
He nodded cautiously. "Yeah. So?"
"Then let's deal. And Teece…"
"Parrish?"
"I want one of yours."
Suspicion chased surprise across his face. I knew he had a private fleet. I'd never seen them, but he was a rev-head. Bikes were his passion.
"What's the payment?"
"A vintage Brough Superior SS100. I'll set up the deal."
"You know where I can get one?" His voice rose.
"Yes." I was lying.
He probably guessed it, but the slim chance that I wasn't made it impossible to ignore. I knew how to pique his interest. The Brough was one of the first superbikes ever made. The early ones had a JAP engine, Harley forks. There were probably only a handful of them in the world. I'd find him one, all right. I just wasn't sure how. Or when.
"How are you going to get across there? Nighttime's no better. They're scanning with IR."
I smiled. "Do we have deal?"
"You'll bring me back my bike unharmed. And set up a deal on the Brough?"
I nodded.
"Then we've got a deal." He rolled his eyes. "I must be crazy."
"Try this for crazy," I said and strode out of the room.
In the office the queue had dissolved into an unhappy clump of punters, discussing the fate of the Fisherwoman. I vaulted onto the table and addressed them.
"You want to get across?"
Mostly there were nods. A couple stared, hostile.
"Then I say we leave together. It gives us a chance. There's only one 'copter out there. Even if they bring more, it's not enough to stop all of us."
"What about the ones they get?"
I issued the challenge. "I'm willing to risk that. My business is urgent. What about yours?"
"What about the price?" a punter called out. "It's twice as much as usual."
I turned to Teece. "You going to give us a chance, Teece? Or are you going to watch your bikes wrecked one by one? Or go out of business, 'cos no one will risk the crossing?"
He picked at his fingernails, sensing the mood of the room change. They turned to him now, in support of my idea.
Eventually he raised his hands. "All right! But you each pay a hundred cred extra, as insurance. And if you don't deliver them to Mama, I'll hunt you down."
Mama was a humorless ex-Sumo toll keeper. He penned Teece's bikes safely on the Fishertown side and worked the system in reverse.
When it came to bike thieves, Mama didn't have a scrap of maternal compassion.
* * * *
While Teece's men took DNA prints for ID and allocated bike
s to bodies, he took me through the villa out into a back area covered with corrugated plas. In one corner a shed had been improvised. I could see the security sensors winking around it at various angles.
Teece tripped his fingers over a pad tacked on to the door, and lights flooded the inside. Six bikes gleamed at me like wary beasts. He caressed each one in turn, trailing his fingers over them with a lover's touch.
"Almost as lovely as you."
I checked to see if he was being flippant. His expression said no.
"They all have a name." He stopped next to a red, streamlined number with silver and black faring. "The last model Katana before the company was swallowed by Gerda. Eleven hundred ccs and wire wheels. I named her after you."
I waited for a laugh or a smile. This was making me uncomfortable. A joke, maybe, a lecture, a smart remark, anything…
Not that being likened to a bike juiced me much. But coining from Teece it was patent admiration.
"So which one will it be then?" I asked.
"Any except this one." He placed his hand on the red bike. "She's mine."
"But they're all yours," I said, puzzled.
"This one's different."
In the end I chose a dirt bike with a racing engine, white body and green and gold faring. I rode it up the line of about thirty bikes. Every punter had a helmet that recycled the air. Teece paid meticulous attention to helmet maintenance. A lung full of true waste dust was as dangerous as rolling naked in a slag heap.
Teece understood that a dead client was a bad client.
"Ready?" I shouted.
The engines growled in answer.
"Remember to stay in a group. If you go it alone, you're on your own!"
I pulled my helmet on and sniffed the ventilator. It smelled clean and good with a whiff of sunblock. Teece hadn't said good-bye but he'd given me one of his own helmets to wear. That was his way of saying "come back."
To signal a start, I punched my fist twice in the air. The small pack shuddered and surged forward.
I bunched in amongst them, shivers dancing up my backbone, hair stiff like it might snap if I touched it. I wondered, briefly, whether animals felt like this when they ran in packs.
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