"I hear tell you're a tamed little bitch these days. You really getting led around by an eyeless flatback?"
"She's an assassin, not a prostitute."
"Maybe now but I heard that in her lean and hungry youth she had another line of work."
"Didn't we all?"
"Yeah, and it was fun!" said the younger Spyder. "You gave it up, didn't you? You have that housebroken look. Way too upstanding to steal for your supper these days."
"What can I say? Unlike you, Peter Pan, I grew up."
"That's your excuse for what you've become? That's stone pitiful."
"I'm not going to justify myself to someone who doesn't even exist. However, on the off chance that it means something, I'll tell you this. Remember Santos Raye?"
"Fat, white-haired fucker at the chop shop. Everyone called him Santos Claus."
"That's him. You're too young to know this, but Santos got murdered. Iggy Atkinson did it."
"So what? Santos was a snake mean, drunk fuck who got what he deserved."
"Yeah, but I talked to him that morning. And Santos was Iggy's partner. Then Santos disappeared. No body, no nothing. But everyone knew what happened. I was a happy car thief, but I never pictured myself as a murderer. And I knew if I stuck around, sooner or later that's what I'd be. That or dead."
"You pussyed out. On both of us."
"We were always playing walking a fine line, painting and drawing in the day, stealing cars for Iggy and Santos at night. It was cool and fun. We were artists and above it all. Then Santos was dead and I knew who did it and I wasn't above shit. I made a choice. Art or crime. I chose art."
"You made the pussy choice."
" It's my life, and you're just the ghost of something I don't want to be, I don't even want to know about."
"Hey, remember this?" Young Spyder pulled a punch knife behind his back.
"I'm you. You can't hurt me."
"I saw that Star Trek, too. But it's not how things work here. That bloody hand hurt?" His youthful reflexes were still streetfight quick. He slashed Spyder's already bloody fist.
"Fuck!" Spyder yelled, grabbing his cut hand.
Spyder went down on one knee. He'd liked kicking people in the head in his youth. When his younger self approached, Spyder doubled over as if in pain, reached into his own waist band and slashed the kid's right knee with Apollyon's knife. Young Spyder went down hard, clutching his leg.
"Fuck you, fucker! You're gonna die, you sell-out motherfucker. When the Clerks gut that dyke cunt and your girlfriend, I'm gonna hold you down and make you watch!"
Spyder felt a overpowering desire to run away. Seeing his young reckless self lying bloody on the ground and cursing him, another powerful desire took over, however. Spyder kicked the kid in the temple. Then in the ribs. Then the groin. Then he just kicked to feel the thrill of his boot making contact with a body. When he stopped, the boy wasn't moving. Spyder wrapped the silk scarf tighter around his wounded hand and ran into the side streets of Berenice, hoping he could find his way back to the rendezvous point. He didn't want to get lost and have to trade away another pair of good boots.
Thirty Five
Unstrung
When Spyder finally found his way back to the corner on the pink flagstone street, the others were already there.
Lulu waved to him and Shrike cocked her head in his direction as he approached. Spyder wondered if she recognized his footsteps. He'd heard that blind people could sometimes do that sort of thing. His hand felt as if it were on fire.
"Hey, Tex, we got horses. We're real cowboys now!" said Lulu happily. "Damn, what's up with your hand?"
"Are you all right, Spyder?" asked Shrike.
"Let me see the wounds," said Count Non.
"Later. If we have horses, let's get the fuck out of here."
"You know how to ride?" Shrike asked.
"The end with a face goes forward. You can show me the rest on the way."
They walked to the stables where Shrike and Primo had traded the last of her jewelry for horses, saddles and feed. Riding down the long boulevard, they left the city using a smuggler's route they'd bribed the stable owner to reveaclass="underline" a refuse tunnel that swept away the waste and trash produced by the city's human population. The place was dark, stinking and, at times, the ancient masonry ceiling was so low that even lying flat on their mounts, the riders' backs slid along the slimy tunnel roof. But, it was better than trying to swim with the horses, or braving the sandstorm, fire or freezing waste at Berenice's other gates, Shrike reminded them, before vomiting into the filth. That set Spyder and Lulu off. Eventually, the tunnel ended at a sluggish stream in the open desert, just beyond the city walls. The fresh air and light was as thrilling as anything Spyder remembered in his life. They turned north, with Primo, the traveler and natural geomancer, in the lead. Lulu and the Count followed, and Spyder and Shrike rode at the rear.
"What went on back there?" asked Shrike. "Did you have words with Count Non?"
"He had words with me. And that's not why I'm tweaking. Listen, can you hurt those things back there? Those memory ghosts?"
"Tell me what happened."
"I had a run-in. With myself. It got out of hand. I might have killed him."
"I don't think you can kill those spirits. Do you still have the memory of the part of yourself that you fought with?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Then it's still alive back there. The only one you hurt is yourself. There's so much pain in your voice."
"He was just a kid. I was just a kid. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to wipe him out."
"That's not how you're going to get rid of him, you know."
"What is?"
"Learn to forgive him."
"Did you forgive the guy who betrayed you?"
Neither of them said anything for a while. His hand had stopped bleeding, so he wiggled his fingers to see if they worked properly. They did, but moving them was agony. "Don't tell the others about this, okay?"
Shrike leaned to him in the saddle. "Kiss me," she said. Spyder was happy to oblige.
"Are you cured?" Shrike asked. "Back home, at the Autumn Encomium-it's a lot like Christmas-members of the royal family must kiss any ill or injured person who asks. The kiss was supposed to cure all maladies."
"Did it work?"
"Tradition says Yes. As far as I'm aware, no, not even once."
They stopped to water the horses at a spring a few hours later. Berenice was long out of sight and before them was nothing but open desert and the Kaslan Mountains in the distance. As the horses drank, the group ate some bread and meat Count Non had traded for in one of the street markets. The meat was stringy, but spicy and rich tasting. Spyder started to ask what kind of meat it was, but decided to leave well enough alone.
"How's your hand?" asked Lulu, between mouthfuls of bread.
"It's all right. The Count put on some ranch dressing-smelling goo. It doesn't even hardly hurt," said Spyder, flexing his fingers.
"You see the fight barkers back in Berenice?"
"Think I must've missed them."
"Damn. You'd've loved it. After you took off, the Count and me were kind of looking for you. We went down this one street and there's all these sideshow freaks and retards in a big metal pen with all these locals staring 'em down. Pinheads. Guys with arms where their legs should be. Or their bodies stop just south of their nipples. Monster-headed hydrocephalic shemales. It's totally Tod Browning. And the real twisted part? These freaks fight each other while the barkers take bets!"
"And I thought I was having a twisted time."
"It gets worse," said Lulu. "I asked some old guy what the deal was. He said they were the broken memories. Like the memories of schizos or dying people. They're like the deranged homeless of Berenice, roaming the streets, attacking each other and normal memories. I guess some humans figured how to make some money off 'em. You'd never guess those shiny, happy people would be into that, would you? I mean, all those clean, straight streets, and here's the guy who made your shoes betting that the blind geek in the corner can bite the fingers off the legless tranny."