He kissed her on the lips, and she responded professionally. He used her two or three times a day, always carefully. It wasn't unpleasant.
Without telling her how the work was going, he walked her to the bungalow.
There was a stick figure, oxygen mask welded to its skull, standing by the bungalow. It waved at her, and she shuddered…
"What is it, Simone?"
She couldn't tell him. She couldn't risk being rejected just yet.
"Someone walked over my grave."
The dead astronaut leaned against the whitewashed wall, depressed at failing to make contact. It had a bulky pack burned to its back, and thick, blackened boots. It was still smoking.
Inside the bungalow, Simone took off her dress and lay on the bed.
Roger paused. She said nothing, neither inviting nor forbidding. It was safest to remain neutral. Some of them liked to think you loved it, loved them; others needed your hatred, your resentment, your disgust. She hadn't worked Roger Duroc out yet. She probably never would. He was too cool.
He pulled off his shirt. She had never worked out how old he was, but his body was hard, tough. He had scars, but didn't appear to have any bio-implants.
He bent over her, and stuck his tongue in her tiny navel, pulling at her panties. She ran a hand through his hair, and thought of the ghosts. They were converging on the place.
There were more of them now than there had been when they arrived.
Roger was on the bed with her now, his hands kneading away, his mouth pressing on hers. She moaned ambiguously.
The Suitcase People were more active, too. Everyone knew things were coming to a head.
She gasped as they joined.
On the opposite wall was a framed religious picture. Elder Seth entering Salt Lake City at the head of his multitude. Simone loathed it, but couldn't understand why. It was something about the Elder's thin face and beetle-black glasses.
Roger was finished. They broke apart and lay still for a minute. Sweat dried on her body. She listened to the whirring of the fan, and the beating of her own heart.
Roger sprang off the bed, and walked into the bathroom. He always showered afterwards. He was as clean about himself as he was about his precious weapons.
Simone opened the wardrobe, and picked a dress she had never worn before. They had gone mad with cashplastic in the New Orleans boutiques. She chose a violent orange-and-turquoise sheath, with a matching headscarf. With barely enough material for a pillowcase, the dress had cost more than a contract killing.
The phone rang. She picked it up.
"Elder Duroc's bungalow," she said.
"Get him," snapped a voice. Simone recognized Sister Bethany Addams, and felt the hostility oozing over the line.
"I'll see if he's available. Roger…"
She held out the phone.
Dressing as he talked, Roger propped the phone between shoulder and cheek.
"Fine," he said, ending the conversation.
Simone had poured out some iced tea.
"They're nearly ready for another test-run," he said. "Fonvielle says he's sure."
Roger took a deep swig of his tea.
"I don't know, Simone. I think he's cracked. This is a bad business."
She was not required to say anything.
"And the Suitcase People are swarming out there. I'm having some heavy firepower imported. We need to get those lizards flushed out."
Simone agreed with that.
"I've got hunter-killer teams out there, but we can't divert enough personnel."
"It's bad gris-gris," she said.
He knew what she meant.
"Yes, that's it exactly."
He set his hat on his head, and left her.
She spilled a little tea on her chest, and let the cold soak through the dress, enjoying the sensation…
Po' little 'denty, she thought.
XIV
They were making good progress. The guitar sat in the stern, and Elvis imagined it was singing at him, reprimanding him like a long-neglected lover.
Krokodil was different today. She would never be communicative, but by comparison with her previous form, she was almost chatty, almost nervous. It was nice to know that she had human parts, but also a little frightening. He conceded that there was something attractive in the idea of putting all your trust in a cyborg fighting machine while staying in the bushes and laying down cover fire. He could see the gang-girl coming through now.
She told him things in bits and pieces. She told him about her meeting with Elder Seth, and the spectacles that had changed the way she saw the world.* She told him that she had spent time wandering in the desert, living like an animal, barely clinging to her sanity. And then she had been worked over by Dr Simon Threadneedle, a world-class bio-surgeon who had made her the Frankensteinian thing she was. After that, there had been many battles, many casualties. Armies had been sent for her, and formidable assassins. She had remade herself spiritually, she said, with the help of Hawk-That-Settles and a channel had been opened up to the beyond, through which had come a powerful manitou that had nestled inside her. It was dormant now, but it could be summoned up. There had been a monster at Santa de Nogueira, a monster she was unable to describe. It had been vast and devastating, and it was banished now, by the slightest of miracles.** Elder Seth had been around for centuries, and sometimes they spoke inside each other's heads. He had to get rid of her, and she had to stop him before he ended the world.
*See "Route 666" in the Route 666 anthology.
** See Krokodil Tears.
In a way, Elvis wished he didn't know all this. He had seen enough to make him believe her, but he wished it were three weeks ago and all he had to worry about was the Good Ole Boys trying to yank his license or coming home some night to find a hoodhead bomb rigged inside his fridge.
"One thing, lady?"
"What?"
"That million dollars? It ain't enough."
Krokodil laughed. "You want more. Ten million? We've got it. Gold bullion, cashplastic, jewels, negotiable information…"
"How did you get it?"
"I'm Frankenstein's Daughter, remember? Hawk and I stole it from corp convoys. GenTech and Winter can spare it. After all, it's in a good cause."
"I suppose so, if saving the world is a good cause."
"Don't think I haven't thought about it."
They were winding between islands, not pushing the boat too much. Elvis had been aware for an hour or so that there were creatures out there in the swamp. They might be human, they might not. They didn't want to be seen, and that meant he didn't want to see them. Last night, the Cajuns had told him about the babies lost to the local spooks, the Suitcase People.
"Maybe the Prezz will drop all the charges if you pull it off."
"No chance. I don't expect gratitude."
"What do you expect?"
"Honestly? To be dead."
"But what if you come through?"
"Then I just want peace and quiet."
A roaring split the air, and the boat started rocking violently. The waters up ahead broke and a huge head loomed out of the swamp, mud pouring from its mouth.
It was a dinosaur with a headband.
Krokodil had the Moulinex up, but something struck the bottom of the boat. The gun went off, bullets spraying the cypresses.
The dinosaur strode forwards. It was smarter than an animal.
Krokodil was off-balance. Elvis reached out, but she went over, splashing as she hit the swamp.
Green arms went around her, and she was dragged under.
"Hey," the dinosaur said, "leetle maan, behave, okeh?"
Elvis was trying not to be tipped out of the wildly shifting boat He didn't make it.
"I tol' you so, maaan."
He was struggling in the filthy water with something rough-skinned and cold.
He was pulled under, and took a lungful of ghastly-tasting liquid. He fought for the surface and tried to cough it all out. Clawed hands held him fast.