We all stood in our places for a moment, nothing moving, not even a hint of breeze. Then Belling kicked the Stormer in the side.
“Go,” he said.
I looked around. London was on fire, and the sounds of rioting filled the air. We weren’t going to have any trouble getting out of the city.
We watched the Stormer climb painfully to her feet, stare at us for a moment, and then begin backing away warily.
“Don’t worry,” Belling called out. “We’ll kill you later.”
EPILOGUE
THE WHOLE GODDAMN WORLD IS AGAINST YOU NOW
Pickering’s was crowded. It was a rainy, dismal night in rotting New York, the heavy rain wearing down the melted stone of the old buildings and breaking up the crumbling asphalt of the dirty, trash-swamped streets. The regulars had gotten in early to drink blinding gin, smoke stolen cigarettes, and guard their seats against the influx of newbies. Fights broke out over the unsteady wooden chairs in Pickering’s, and people had been cut up and almost killed over territorial skirmishes. The place had always been crowded, especially on crappy nights, but within the last year things had begun getting beyond Pick’s ability to control. So many people were crowding into the place every night the fights were continuous, and he was approaching a point where he wouldn’t be able to bribe away the Crushers that showed up, sniffing suspiciously at so much underground talent drinking in one place.
The kid wasn’t more than seventeen years old. Tall, skinny, with broken teeth and long, delicate fingers, he stepped into the bar uncertainly, furtively peering around. His greasy dark hair was pasted to his forehead; his pale, blemished skin shone in Pickering’s weak light. The crowd eyed him surreptitiously and almost everyone came to the same unflattering conclusion: amateur.
The kid didn’t try for one of the seats. He looked around once, shrugged his cheap, tattered coat onto his narrow shoulders, and moved confidently toward the back of the room, where the metal security door led to Pick’s office. A tall, amazingly muscled man stood with his back against the door, arms crossed, illegally augmented muscles twitching with their own intelligence.
Halfway there, a leather-gloved hand shot out and took hold of the kid’s arm. The owner of the hand was a squat, gray-skinned man whose face was an intricate maze of broken blood vessels. A ragged, ugly scar trailed from his scalp to his throat. He licked his lips and looked the kid up and down before speaking.
“Tell ya what, kiddo,” he said in a thick, slurred voice, “gimme whatever it is ya got an’ I’ll let ya walk outta here alive.”
Soft, unenthusiastic laughter rippled around him-interested to see how the kid would react, but seeing no real sport in it.
“Let go,” the kid said, looking down. “Or I’ll feed your fingers to you.”
More laughter, this time mocking, and the squat man in leather took it to be mocking him. He might have let the kid past if he’d squirmed a little, begged a little, but a smart-mouth had to be taught a lesson. “Watch yer mouth, pup,” he growled, squeezing the kid’s arm tight. “This ain’t a place you get to smart-mouth, see?”
The kid continued to stare for a moment. Then, without warning, he whipped out his free arm, a knife popping from his sleeve into his open palm. Grasping the knife firmly, he slashed downward at the squat man, opening up a gash on his face. Blood splashed onto the table, and the squat man threw himself backward, hands slapped over his face, screeching.
“You fucking cut me! You little runt!”
The kid stared at him for a second or two, then wiped the knife on his coat and returned it to its spring-loaded holster in his sleeve. He continued to the guarded door.
The big man standing in front of the door eyed him warily. “Versuchen sie nicht das mit mir, zicklein. I’ll schnдpper sie in zwei,” The big man said. “Ya?”
The kid shook his head. “I don’t understand that shit, man.”
The big man sighed petulantly. “Fucking Americans,” he said in thickly accented English. “Don’t fucking know shit about the rest of the world. What the fuck do you want?”
The kid squared his chin. “I want to see Avery Cates.”
One of the big man’s hands whipped out and caught the kid by the throat, the other taking hold of the kid’s arm to prevent more knifeplay. He didn’t squeeze hard. Everyone ignored them.
“No name zicklein,” the German muttered. “No fucking name, ya?”
The kid nodded and licked his lips. “Okay, all right. I need to see him.”
The German released him and studied the kid for a moment. “You gots something to show the man?”
The kid nodded. “I got something.”
The German nodded. “Weapons. All of them. Then, I scan you, ya? Don’t fuck with me or out on your ass you go, ya?”
The kid nodded and handed over the knife. The German looked at it. “That’s it?”
The kid nodded. “That’s it.”
Sighing, the huge man picked up a small wand-shaped device and ran it up and down the kid’s body, studying a slim screen on one end. Satisfied, he stepped aside and waved the kid in. Hesitating for just a moment, the kid shrugged his coat on again and stepped forward. The door opened automatically.
Pick’s back room was as crowded as ever. The kid stared at the piles of paper as he shuffled through the narrow floorspace toward the ancient desk. He’d never seen so much paper in his life, and wondered what in hell it was good for. Three men watched his approach. One was very old, sitting behind the desk, one hand on a strange, flat device covered in buttons. The youngest-looking one was dressed all in black, and sat on the edge of the desk, a cigarette dangling between two fingers, his hair-starting to go gray-slicked down, long in the back. He was pale and unshaven, and smiled a little from behind his sunglasses.
The third man was old, too, but stood against the wall behind the desk, dressed expensively. His hair was entirely white, but was combed and trimmed. He smoked a cigarette, too, and stared at the kid with frightening, flat eyes.
The kid swallowed as he came to a stop in front of them. He stared at the younger man directly in front of him, eyes wide.
“Are you-” he started, but the younger man held up a hand immediately.
“No names, mi amigo,” he said. “The SSF has ears everywhere. We do our best to sweep the place, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
The kid nodded. “I was told to come here, and, um, talk to, uh…” He hesitated. “You, I guess.” He squared his shoulders. “I want to be involved.”
The younger man smiled and glanced back at the older man behind him. “Hear that? He wants to be involved in our good work.”
“Ask him.” The older man exhaled smoke. “If he has credentials.”
The younger man kept grinning, turning back to the kid. He put his cigarette between his lips and spread his hands. “Kid, you got credentials?”
The kid nodded. Reaching into a coat pocket, he produced a small leather case. He tossed it to the long-haired man, who caught it easily, flipping it open. A hologram of a golden badge glowed dimly in the room, along with a digital photo of a stern-looking black man and a running stream of textual information.
“Captain Calvin Billington. System Security Force.” He glanced up at the kid and passed the badge back to the older man, who accepted it silently. “How? When?”
“Hour ago,” the kid said, “Battery Cemetery. Throat cut. It was clean.” He kept his face stern and mean, but couldn’t resist snuffling back snot and dragging one arm across his nose. “That Pig’s been robbing us fucking blind. Whatever we nick from the swells, he’s there, like a goddamn ghost, pushing you around, bloodying noses, messing with the girls.” He nodded. “Fucker deserved it.”