Zefla drank again, then said, “What are you grinning at?”
Sharrow had turned away from the view while Zefla had been talking. She stood, smiling down at the other woman. “I’ve missed you, Zef.”
“Thank you very much,” Zefla said, holding one long leg out in front of her and looking at the bruise. “Wish I could say the same for your car.”
Sharrow looked down and ran her finger round the top of her glass. “So are you saying I should just go to Geis?”
“Hell, no; I’m just saying that if you ever did have to especially as a last resort after you’ve run the Huhsz round in circles for a few months and aren’t getting any closer to the Gun-you needn’t worry about hurting him legally.”
“Even so,” Sharrow said, frowning at her drink. “But just because of that… maybe I should take him up on his offer now.”
“You-hic!-want to?” Zefla said, her eyebrows rising.
“No,” Sharrow admitted, glancing at her.
“Then,” said a deep, rumbling, reasonable voice from the other side of the conservatory, “don’t.”
Sharrow looked at Dloan. He was even taller than Zefla, and much broader. He had precise, short-cropped blond hair which merged smoothly into an equally carefully trimmed blond beard; he lounged in a crumpled sweatsuit, exuding fitness. He kept on tickling the sarflet, and looked up only momentarily at Sharrow, smiling as though shyly, then looking away again.
“And let’s not forget the law is just one way of the Huhsz getting what they want,” Zefla told Sharrow. “I’d guess what Geis would really have to worry about if he sheltered you wouldn’t be a legal manoeuvre, it’d be simple betrayal. One disgruntled employee, one, spy, one Huhsz convert in the right place, and all the law in the system wouldn’t make any difference; they’d get you and destroy Geis.”
Sharrow nodded. “All right, but the alternative is to take to the trail again, and ask you guys to come with me.”
“Shar, kid,” Zefla said. “We never wanted to give it up.”
“But I feel I’m being selfish; especially if I could just run to Geis and everything would be all right.”
Zefla sighed exasperatedly. “Geis is a pain, Sharrow; the guy has a kind of charming facade but basically he’s a social inadequate whose real place in life is out mugging pensioners and cheating and beating on his girlfriends, and if he had three more names and been raised in a rookery in The Meg rather than the nursery at house Tzant, that’s exactly what he would be doing. Instead he jumps out of the commercial equivalent of dark alleys, strips companies and fucks their employees. He’s got no idea how real people work so he plays the market instead; he’s a rich kid who thinks the banks and courts and Corps are his construction set and he doesn’t want anybody else to play. He wants you the way he wants a sexy company, as a bauble, a scalp, something to display. Never get beholden to people like that, they’ll piss on you and then charge irrigation fees. You crawl under that scumball’s skirts and I’ll never talk to you again.”
Sharrow grinned and sat on a small chair by the glass wall. “So, do we go back on the road?”
Zefla drank, nodded. “Just point us to the on-ramp, girl.”
“You’re sure?”
Zefla made a pained expression. “Shar, I’ve been lecturing law at Capitaller for the last five years; I’ve said all I’m ever going to say and I keep hearing the same old fucking questions; a really smart student comes along now and again, but it’s getting harder and harder to wait during the fallow times in between; an exciting day is when a hunky student bends over or one of the male staff starts growing a beard. My brain’s atrophying. I need some excitement.”
Sharrow looked at Dloan, who was sitting back in the gently swaying hanging-chair and sipping at his drink, the sarflet snoring at his feet. “Dloan?” she said.
Dloan sat looking at her for a while. Eventually he took a long deep breath, and said, “I was watching some screen a few days ago.” He cleared his throat. “Some adventure series. The bad guys were firing bi-propellent HE rounds from FA 300s, fitted with silencers.”
Dloan fell silent.
Sharrow looked at Zefla, who rolled her eyes.
“I’m holding my breath here, Dloan,” Sharrow said.
Dloan looked down at the animal at his feet. “Well, obviously there’s no point fitting a silencer when you’re firing bi-propellents; the rocket stage makes… lots of noise.”
“Oh, yes,” Sharrow said. “Of course.”
“Come on, Dlo,” Zefla said. “That sort of stuff always annoyed you. So what?”
“Yes,” Dloan said. “But it was the third act before I realised.” He sucked his lips in and shook his head.
Zefla and Sharrow exchanged looks. Dloan reached down to stroke the sleeping sarflet.
“I think,” Zefla said, “he means he’s get-hic!-zing disgustingly rusty and it’s time he saw some action before he forgets which end of a gun goes against your shoulder.”
Sharrow looked back to Dloan, who just sat there being blond and nodding wisely.
“Fine,” Sharrow said.
Zefla drank again. “So; via the Book to the Gun. Think the Huhsz really will call off the hunt if you get them the Lazy Gun first?”
“So It Is Written,” Sharrow said with sarcastically emphatic pronunciation.
“And Breyguhn’s clue-whatever it is-is it going to work?”
“It sounds semi-plausible,” Sharrow said, shrugging. “These days that’s about the best I have to go on.”
“The Universal Principles,” Zefla breathed. She looked thought-ful. “Supposed to be somewhere midsystem, if you can believe thousand-year-old rumours. This just an excuse to put some vacuum between you and the Huhsz?”
Sharrow shook her head. “Like I say, I have a lead.” She glanced at Dloan, who was stroking the sarflet. “Gory details to follow,” she told Zefla.
“Can’t wait,” Zefla said, waggling her dark blonde brows and flexing her perfect toes.
Sharrow raised her glass. “Think team,” she said.
Zefla raised her glass. “Yo to that.”
Dloan raised his glass. “Team,” he said.
Zefla frowned at her glass as though it contained something disgusting. “This calls for something stronger,” she said. “And I’m getting too sober anyway.” She put the glass down under her seat, felt around and pulled out an inhalant tube with a look of victorious anticipation on her face. “Let’s get into something mind bending!”
She stood in the doorway and looked out, shivering, at the night. It was raining and the wind was hurrying down the dimly lit street, filling the air with paper scraps like a flock of palely fluttering injured birds. The water in the gutters was thick and black and smelled rancid, washed from some of the hillside tip-mines further up the slope.
She was average height and dressed cheaply but gaudily; high heels, a micro skirt and a figure-hugging top. She clutched a small, shiny black fake-hide purse, and wore a little pillbox hat with a black lace veil which even with the heavy make-up couldn’t quite hide the mass of ridged, twisted scar tissue that covered the left side of her face. She held a little transparent plastic parasol over herself, but some of its spokes were broken and the wind kept gusting, sending rain spraying into her face every now and again. It smelled like somebody had used the doorway as a urinal earlier in the evening.
The street was fairly quiet for this time of night. The occasional car crawled past, windows mirrored. A variety of civilians splashed along the pavement, huddled under cloaks or umbrellas. There were few punters. The ones that were around mostly knew her already; you could always tell the new ones because they’d pass by the doorway she was standing in, do a double-take-or just stare-then come forward, looking her up and down and grinning that big grin that said, My lucky night!