‘Ain’t that the truth,’ he says.
If anyone notices Leona rip a piece from her tortilla and toss it down as an offering, they have the manners to keep that to themselves.
Chapter 18
Leona whispers that someone is following. I know that already. One man, who picked up our tail when we hit Farlight’s centre but is still five or six people back. A few minutes ago, he was ahead of us. Before that he was in a parallel street, watching us through shop windows and sightings down side alleys.
He’s good. Although that turned-up collar and pulled-down cap must be a bastard in this heat.
‘You’re grinning, sir.’
‘Fuck of a way to spend my leave.’
She smiles. ‘You want me to do something about our friend?’
I shake my head. Anton and Sergeant Toro are ahead. My suggestion to break into two groups and make our tracker’s job a little less easy. I’ve got good reasons for not wanting anyone to know I’m here.
And Anton’s life depends on it.
For all I know, Toro and Leona have equally good reasons of their own. Which means one of us would have killed the follower if we thought him professional. But if he was professional we wouldn’t have seen him.
Unless, of course . . .
I’m tempted to tell Leona to drop back and kill him. Just so I can simplify my thoughts and get back to saving Colonel Vijay and getting Anton out of here.
‘How much longer?’ Anton demands.
Sergeant Toro tells him ten minutes.
We’re walking the boulevard feeding into Zabo Square.
The roof of the cathedral gleams in the distance. Gold domes reflecting the last of the evening light. Leona’s counting off the chimes from the tower clock. ‘Seven, eight, nine . . .’ Not sure why, since she’s wearing a standard-issue watch and knows the time already.
Smartly dressed women fill the colonnades.
Expensive hovers skim the road beyond the square.
People like me don’t belong. I’m thinking this, when I spot a naked woman, scrawled in red chalk on a nearby wall. A trampled rose lies underneath it. Seems people like me use this area after all.
Flicking the sign of Legba Uploaded, Leona blushes because I notice. So I pull Legba’s medallion from my shirt. Soldiers have their own saint.
Not everyone approves.
A truck goes by filled with Death’s Head troopers. Cropped hair, hard faces, thousand-yard stares . . . A small boy points and is slapped for his pains. The child’s father bustles him away. No one else stares or catches the troopers’ eyes. Not that they could; the Death’s Head troopers glare straight ahead.
‘Almost there, sir,’ Sergeant Toro tells Anton.
‘You’ve been saying that for the last ten minutes.’
The sergeant scowls. ‘Never approached the colonel’s house from this direction before . . .’ He’s still using the same excuse twenty minutes later, when the clock tower rings the half hour, and I decide it’s time to catch up.
‘You’re lost?’
The sergeant scowls some more.
Cutting under an arch, we find ourselves in a wide street, high walls on either side inset with double doors. The houses rise five storeys above us. Most have lenz over their entrances and weapons systems that track us as we move.
The weapons systems are obvious.
Makes me think they’re bluff. And the real systems are hidden. I waste time trying to identify them as Sergeant Toro tries to remember which door.
‘You’re certain, this time?’ Anton demands.
‘Yes, sir.’
There’s a tightness to the sergeant’s voice. Anton has that effect on me sometimes too. Stepping up to a door, Toro knocks three times in quick succession. A double knock answers from inside. I’d do one knock in reply, but the sergeant does three and a small door swings open.
Bombproof, I notice. For all that it’s painted faded green. The double doors it lets us enter have electronic locks and deadbolts fat as my wrist.
The soldier who lets us in is out of uniform.
‘You’re expected.’
We’re what?
Colonel Vijay’s courtyard is lit by hidden lights. A run of steps leads to its black and shiny front door. Exactly the place I’d expect him to live.
‘Fuck,’ says Sergeant Toro. ‘Look at that.’
A sleek hover sits near the steps. It’s got obsidian black windows, a knitted carbon skirt and a grille like a shark’s open jaw, with chrome teeth and recessed eyes. A tiny flagstaff juts from its long hood.
The flag itself is rolled and tied.
‘How the other half live,’ he mutters.
Leona nods.
‘Announce yourself,’ the soldier says. Seeing my glare, he adds, ‘If you would, sir.’
Wise man.
‘Lieutenant Sven Tveskoeg for Colonel Jaxx.’
‘And the others?’ The voice from the speaker grille isn’t Vijay. Wouldn’t expect it to be.
‘Anton Tezuka. Sergeants Toro and-’
The door clicks open before I finish my list. Either the AI is stupid, or we’re being covered by so much artillery that chopped meat is today’s option if we make a bad move.
At my hip, Vijay’s sabre shivers.
Unclipping it, I catch Anton’s gaze.
‘Sven,’ he whispers. ‘You’re not . . .’
He’s right. I’m not.
I’m assuming a software glitch between Vijay’s AI and the sabre he gave me. Since the AI outguns the sabre, it makes sense not to make the house nervous.
Putting the sabre to sleep, I reclip it and straighten my coat. We’re not in uniform, any of us. But Vijay Jaxx is still a Death’s Head colonel.
After knocking at a door, the housekeeper steps back and nods for us to enter. So we do, and that is when our day begins to unravel.
‘Good job,’ says a voice.
It’s talking to Sergeant Toro, who nods his head, accepting the praise.
‘And you two . . . What took you so long?’
Clearly, Sergeant Leona isn’t important enough to be in this conversation. General Luc sits at a desk. Behind him stand two Wolf Brigade troopers. At the Wolf’s signal, our travelling companion peels away to join them.
‘You bastard . . .’
‘Shut it,’ I tell Leona.
‘Sorry, sir.’
Toro’s a sergeant, all right. In the Wolf Brigade.
‘Like puppets,’ General Luc says. ‘Pull the strings and watch them walk. Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist it.’ He’s talking to me. Grinning at Anton, his gaze slides to a halt when it reaches Sergeant Leona.
‘Where did you find her?’
‘Picked her up on the way,’ Anton says. ‘Shortly before we met-’ He jerks his chin towards the wall. ‘Whatever he’s called.’
‘Toro,’ says the Wolf. ‘My staff sergeant.’
‘If I might, sir,’ Toro says.
‘Feel free.’
Pulling down his eyelids in turn, our travelling companion pops first one and then another coloured lens from his grey eyes.
‘Bastard things, sir . . .’
‘All in a good cause, Toro.’
Leaning forward, the Wolf takes a closer look at his map of the city. It’s a paper map, so old that it curls at the corners. However it’s not Sergeant Toro’s deceit, General Luc’s smugness, or the map that raises my blood pressure. It’s the girl sitting on the edge of his desk, swinging her legs like a teenage hooker.
‘Hi Sven,’ she says, trumping my scowl with a grin. ‘Wondered when you’d get round to me. Long time no see.’
‘Not long enough.’
Ms Osamu pouts. ‘That’s not kind.’
Paper Osamu is the daughter of the U/Free president, and a one-time lover of mine. She’s also their ambassador. Today her eyes are blue and her skin pale. Her dress is thin enough to leave nothing to the imagination.
‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I’m still wearing the same body as last time.’
Bitch.
‘Tveskoeg,’ General Luc says.
My hand is on my gun.
‘How many darts,’ he says, ‘do you think are trained on you?’
Now is when I need the SIG-37. My real gun could shut down the AI, or fool it into thinking we’re friends. At the very least it could tell me how much of the general’s confidence is bluff.