‘If you say so.’
Jack climbed out and stood by the door. ‘Grey taught me one useful thing,’ he said. ‘Don’t trust the gods. Don’t believe their bullshit.’ The last of the flyer cockpit’s warmth gusted out and away. ‘You’re smart, Corazon. That’s a lesson you should learn too.’
‘You’ve only got a short time,’ Corazon replied. ‘Go and see your father and your mother’s fetch. Make your peace with them, at least. And keep your nose clean. I don’t want to see you again.’
[ First Andrea rejects you, now it’s Corazon. You have quite the way with the ladies, lover boy!]
The flyer door folded back to black wholeness, until there was only a machine beside Jack. A high-pitched whine and it lifted out of the streets, climbing up and away into the round and limited sky.
Chapter 7
Kanji Square was at its busiest. People bustled in and out of bars, queued to enter nightclubs, or just staggered randomly up and down ’ti Bon Ange Street. Most were talking and laughing. Some danced, twitching to beats that only they could hear.
[ Now that’s done, we’ll find Andrea,] said Jack.
[Stalk her, you mean. And anyway, how? We don’t know where she lives, where she goes.]
[ The old-fashioned way. We’ll visit all the places she used to perform, and we’ll keep going till we track her down.]
Jack was standing in a brilliantly lit, manically driven entertainment district, surrounded by flaring light, pulsing beats and fashion-crazed teenagers. East and the Twins ruled here, showering thrills on their acolytes, tossing out loyalty points by the score. But Jack was offweave, so he saw only blandly identical buildings, lit with blandly identical light, full of blandly identical people. Perhaps the weave sigils changed with each face and façade, but he was not machine enough to scan each one and differentiate between them.
The only people who stood out were the sweatheads. As long as they took their drugs in private, they could move at will through the city. Every so often he’d spot one, stumbling through the crowd. They were invisible to all but him, deleted by overlay. It was easy to see why people would rather not see them. The drug had bitten at their faces, removing noses or chewing through cheeks. Tattered clothes covered most of the deeper damage. Some were still in relative control of themselves, but most staggered and shook as they went. Occasionally, one would tug at a sleeve, or pull at an arm. There’d be a whispered request for money, made close enough to its target for a touch and a voice to break through obscuring weavecode. Most people froze and did nothing. Some would move to brush away the supplicant, risking physical contact and further overlay breakdown. A very small minority would wave a little cash into the sweathead’s account.
Above Jack, the spinelights flicked from evening to night. He quickly realised that, offweave, he couldn’t even tell nightclubs from bars or theatres, let alone read individual billings to see if Andrea was performing. Her act had always been deliberately retro in feel. He spent a while wandering at random, hoping that she might have decided to advertise herself with words that he could read – a poster stuck to a wall or a flyer handed out to one or other of the club queues that he passed. Perhaps that was all the advertising she was doing nowadays, explaining why Charles hadn’t been able to find her. He wondered if he might even recognise one of her friends tottering out of a venue, or just bump into Andrea herself. But there was no trace of her anywhere.
[ This is a waste of time,] grumbled Fist. [ Why can’t we just ask someone?]
[ You’re only offweave if you’re a criminal. You saw what happened in the café last night.]
But after more fruitless searching, Jack gave in and tried to talk to people. Most ignored him, treating him as if he were some new, deceptively healthy form of sweathead. Three stopped and listened until they understood what he wanted them to do. The first person told him to fuck off. The second ran. The third threatened to report him to InSec.
[OK, Fist, let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll try again tomorrow.]
[ Well that IS a relief.]
A long walk back to the Wound, and Jack found himself again striding past the little Twins café – empty now, not even a haven for lost Grey acolytes. There was an alleyway just next to it, leading back into darkness. Muffled shouting erupted from it. Jack paused and took a couple of steps back.
[Can you see that, Fist?]
A couple of Sandal’s wheelie bins half-blocked the view. Beyond them, Jack could just make out sudden, violent movement. A raised hand, gripping a piece of piping, disappeared sharply downwards. A strained voice, dense with static, shouted ‘Help!’
[ Jackie, that’s a biped – no, don’t!]
Jack pushed the bins aside and threw himself into the passageway. It was so much darker than the street.
[Come back! You’ll get hurt!]
That made some stubborn part of Jack want to damage himself. But he’d have to live with the consequences too. He ran forwards. Wet concrete was slippery underfoot. Damp had corroded brickwork. Empty walls stretched up and away. There was a smell of piss. A girl and a boy – not even teenagers – were standing over a fallen biped. Violet light glowed feebly out of its head. It had pulled itself back into a doorway, curling up in a weak attempt at self-protection. One arm waved feebly. The boy pushed it aside and brought the lead piping down again. It hit the victim’s chest and sank in. The biped groaned. ‘Fucking squishy,’ said the boy. The girl kicked the prone figure. It squeezed a little further back into the door. The soft light it cast illuminated its attackers’ tired faces and exhausted clothing. Neither of them noticed Jack.
[ Well, if we must,] grumbled Fist, resigning himself to helping Jack. He hissed combat options. [ Take the boy first. Twist his throat out. The blood panics the girl, she runs.]
[ For gods’ sake. You know I won’t do that. Just manifest.]
[ What?]
[MANIFEST. Lightshow. Blow their little minds.]
A crack and a flash of light, and the two attackers turned, surprise becoming shock then fear. Jack stood there, a bright point of light hanging next to him. That point began to grow, emitting whiplash cracks of brilliance. Fist’s cage expanded into dark bands, made silhouettes by the vivid luminosity that they contained. There was one last great crackling burst, then all was silence. The cageware rings revolved slowly and deliberately. Within them hung the little figure of Fist, apparently lifeless.
Then they blurred and shimmered and vanished, and the little puppet looked up. The attackers gaped at his red-painted cheeks and lips, dead glass eyes, perfect little hairpiece and perpetual grin. His body floated beneath his carved face like an afterthought dressed in a blue-grey suit, a starched white shirt and a little red bow-tie. He clacked his mouth open and shut twice, the snap of wood on wood echoing down the alleyway. Then he roared in fury:
‘I’LL EAT YOU ALIVE, YOU LITTLE FUCKERS!’
The two children stepped back, first slowly, then more quickly.
‘I’LL TEAR YOUR OVERLAY OFF YOU! I’LL KEEP YOU OFFWEAVE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIVES!’
Now they were turning, now running. They reached the corner of the little alleyway and the boy was gone. The girl stopped and looked back.
‘Puppets don’t scare me!’ she shouted. She suddenly seemed terribly young. Another pulse of light from Fist and he was next to her. She stood there unmoving. He leant in, a dream of wood almost touching real flesh.
[ Just tell her to go, Fist. Try not to scare her too much.] Uncomprehending silence from Fist. [ Remember how young she is.]
The girl’s eyes widened, unsure of what Fist would do next. Her hand trembled up and she touched the cageware, as if to make sure it was real. It flashed, and she snapped her hand away as if it had been stung.
‘Come on!’ shouted the boy. ‘We’re done here!’