[Let’s go,] he said.
[Awww.]
[ We need to keep moving.]
Thoughts of the past led Jack’s mind to East’s cathedral. That too had been a temple to loss. He remembered Corazon’s death. It came to him again and again, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. Each attempt to forget began to feel like a betrayal. He walked faster and faster, forcing himself through the streets of Docklands, away from the past and into a future where – he hoped – he would no longer be quite so helpless in the face of all that time and the gods had stolen.
Chapter 25
Raindrops landed like little cat feet. [ I really can see everything now,] Fist chirped. [Stop, Jack, let me show you, there’s so much!]
[ No,] Jack said and strode on, making Fist dance through the sodden night streets to keep up with him. The little puppet skipped in and out of the gutter, searching for the deepest puddles to jump into. He cooed with glee every time his tiny, ghostly feet disappeared. He used his newly enabled weave access to simulate splashes.
[So many droplets, all flying up!] Another little leap. [ It’s astonishing, Jack, I’ll take you onweave to see. I can do anything!]
Jack remained silent ahead of him. He’d pulled his hat down and twitched up the collar of his trench coat until his face was all but invisible. That didn’t stop people from stopping and admiring him. ‘Oh, that coat’s beautifully cut,’ said one. ‘He knows how to wear a suit,’ said another. ‘I’d fuck him,’ announced a third. Every time he heard someone thrill at his East-enhanced weave presence, Jack pulled his hat a little further down and for a minute or so broke into a near trot to escape.
They arrived at the Panther Czar at about eleven o’clock. Outside the club, the queue laughed and jostled and squabbled. Deep beats boomed out from within. They ducked into a doorway just over the road. The light rain turned the hard neon signage that crawled around the club into something far gentler and more subtle than Pierre Akhmatov had ever intended.
[Let me get you onweave,] begged Fist.
[Later. It’s not the right moment.]
As late evening turned to deep night the queue waned. At about half past two, as the weather worsened, the exodus began. Drenching rain suffused the night, encouraging those leaving to dart quickly away. Its heaviness was deliberate, Pantheon planners reducing late night crime by nudging revellers off the streets. It dulled sound and light, filling the night with a soft, static hiss, turning streetlamps into half-seen orbs. Couples huddled up against each other, nearly running, spilling high-heel clacks into the air. Groups shouted farewells and then rapidly split into ones, twos, threes, taking off up or down the street.
[Let’s go in now. I can’t wait!]
[ We’re going to wait until it’s just him in there.]
[ How do you know he’ll stay?]
[ I spent months studying his routine. Sunday night, and he processes the week’s takings alone. The club hasn’t changed much since then. His habits won’t have done, either.]
There was one final burst of departures before the door staff began shutting up the front of the building. One by one, neon lights winked out.
[ They’re taking it offweave.]
Jack watched Fist kick at a real pebble. The stone didn’t move but Fist looked up suddenly, his eyes swivelling as he watched its virtual equivalent fly through the air.
[ You’re chasing dreams, Fist.]
[ Fun dreams.]
A small swarm of sweatheads drifted by. Jack pretended not to see them. One had empty sleeves where her arms should hang. Another moved on crutches, a single leg swaying backwards and forwards between them. Fist stepped into the road, and, pointing towards them, turned his eager face to Jack.
[ I could make them all look so beautiful, Jack. Almost as beautiful as you can be! Get them all laid, what do you think? And then there’ll be people waking up with them tomorrow, when the overlay lifts off. Won’t it be funny?]
[Come back here, Fist. Save your energy. You’ve got much more important things to do tonight.]
[ When, Jack, when?]
[Soon.]
Fist was clearly spoiling for a fight. Jack was surprised by relief that East hadn’t broken his fighting spirit. It was such a fundamental part of the puppet’s personality.
Now the staff were leaving the club, running under the rain as their customers had done. The last few lights in the entrance hallway flicked off. A heavily built man tugged the club’s main doors closed and locked them. As he turned to walk away, a gust of wind snatched at his coat, exposing a white shirt and a black bow-tie. He started to whistle, deliberately walking slowly; refusing to acknowledge the storm. His whistle died away. Rain hissed like a detuned radio.
[ Now, Fist,] snapped Jack, starting across the road. Fist followed, rising into the air until his head was level with his master’s. [Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this!] he sang out. Jack almost commented on how much more helpful he was being compared to the last time they’d visited the club. But the change might turn out to be temporary. Mentioning it could break it. [ Then open that door,] he said [and let’s go play.]
No one either inside or outside the Panther Czar saw them enter. Nobody could, because Fist had reached into the weave and – using the codes that managed sweathead perception – made them both invisible. Camera stalks swivelled away from them as the main doors opened with a rainwater hiss.
Inside was warm and dry and dark. Fist constructed a view of the corridor that led away from the main reception area from infra-red security camera footage and dropped it in behind Jack’s eyes. [Straight ahead, then over the dance floor,] he told him. They moved silently, barely as substantial as the shadows that surrounded them. Their shared experience of training and fighting rose up inside them like a rebooted operating system.
[ No security manifesting, Fist?]
[ That’ll kick off a bit later, when I let them see us.]
[ Wait till we reach the private area.]
The empty club oozed memories of spilt drinks, transient highs and hobbled lives. Jack wondered at the kind of mind that could achieve transcendence in such a limited, limiting space.
[ I could turn on some of their weaveware, Jack. Then you’d see something.]
They slipped towards the stairs that they’d climbed only a few days ago. [Let him see us,] said Jack. A moment, then Fist replied, [Done.] Jack shouted up the stairs, his voice suddenly, shockingly harsh in the velvet silence that suffused the empty club.
‘We’re coming for you, Akhmatov.’
Akhmatov’s response took maybe a second. The air shimmered and a huge black cat was roaring towards them, already in midleap. Its mouth was a shocking neon pink against darkly blazing fur. It was four times larger than Jack remembered. He threw his arms up and tottered backwards. It was all he could do not to scream.
Then Fist touched it and became the panther. [So much for his outer security perimeter,] he growled through his new mouth. [ It was all of them at once. He’s scared. You OK?]
[ Bad memories.]
They went up the stairs and through the security doors, Fist padding on all fours, carefully keeping his distance from Jack. Jack kicked Akhmatov’s office door. Wood tore away from hinges. He stepped through it and found himself in a desert. A jagged sun blazed in a blue sky above harsh yellow sand and bleach white rocks. Each colour was an assault.
‘We’ve come for you, you murderous fuck.’
Fist followed Jack into the room. He split into four normal-sized panthers, each made puppet. Soft fur was replaced by black paint; tooth ivory by pale, unstained wood. The first panther stopped and licked itself. Its wooden tongue clacked softly as it moved across its haunches, flicking against wooden joints that replaced ones made of ligament and bone.