Why? Because she'd seen the canine?
Again, what the hell did Zipperhead have to do with Daryl Johnson?
Nohar had a nasty thought—another morey uprising?
He shuddered at the idea. He'd been through that once already, when he was in the Hellcats. His own father had been shot, deservedly, by the National Guard.
"Don't let it be a political killing," Nohar whispered to Cat.
The express mail people had left a message for him. He'd have to come pick up his package of ID replacements, they didn't deliver to his neighborhood.
Nohar let Angel sleep when he went out. Once he got most of his wallet replaced, Nohar realized there was nothing for his guest to eat. Nohar did some hasty shopping down by the city end of Mayfield Road, around University Circle,
Then, now that he had a card-key replacement, he stopped at his office.
The Triangle office building was a crumbling brick structure that was still trying to fight off the advancing FORESTS OF THE NIGHT US
decay from Moreytown. The brick looked like a patchwork from the many attempts to remove graffiti. It was getting dark, and the timers had yet to turn on the lights inside. There was just enough light to give Nohar a slight purple tint to his vision. He climbed the stairs in the empty darkness. Nobody else was around this late on a Sunday.
His office lived in the darkness at the end of a second floor hallway. It didn't even have a number to distinguish it. The door was simply a fogged-glass rectangle with a basic card-key lock. Nohar ran his key through the lock and the door slid aside with a slight puff of air.
The room was barely big enough to hold Nohar, even though it only contained two items of furniture— a comm that was a few generations out of date, and a file cabinet that was older than the building it lived in. Nohar knelt down and punched the combination on the padlock that held the bottom drawer shut. "Comm on."
There was a slight change in the quality of light in the room as the screen activated. This comm was mute, the synth chip had burned out a decade ago. He made sure the forwarding list was up to date, and got a bit of a surprise in the mail—a note from Stephie Weir. She'd found his listed number. It had been forwarded to his home comm while he was out. He played her message.
"Nohar, I need to talk to you. Can we meet for lunch tomorrow at noon? I'll be at the Arabica down at University Circle."
That was it. At least the joint she picked for the meet wasn't adverse to moreys. Although Nohar wasn't a great fan of coffee or coffeehouses, the college crowd seemed a little more tolerant.
He wondered what she wanted.
Nothing more interesting on the comm, so he opened the file drawer. It was nearly filled by a dented aluminum case, about a meter long by a half wide.
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The electronic lock on the case had long been broken, and there were scorch marks on that side. There was a painstaking cursive inscription on the lid that contrasted with the ugly functionalism of the box itself. The inscription read, "Datia Rajasthan: Off the Pink." He pulled his father's case out of the drawer. The lock had been broken for nearly a decade, ever since Datia Rajasthan had been gunned down by a squad of National Guardsmen. Nohar'd gotten it a few weeks later when he split the Hellcats.
Nohar opened it. The seal was still good. The lid opened with a tearing sound as the case sucked in air and released the smell of oil. Nohar looked at the gun. The Indian military had manufactured the Vindhya 12-millimeter especially for their morey infantry. A pink's wrist couldn't handle the recoil. It was made of gray metal and ceramics, surprisingly light for its size—the barrel alone was 70 centimeters long. The magazine held twelve rounds. There were three magazines in the case, all full. A dozen notches marred the composite handgrip.
He held up the gun and cleared it, checked the safety, and slid a full magazine in. The magazine slid home with a satisfying solidity. The Vindhya was in perfect condition, even after ten years of neglect. The weight was seductive in his hand.
Nohar had practice with guns before it was a felony for a morey to own a firearm, but he had never even taken this one out of its case.
There were two holsters in the drawer. He left the combat webbing and removed the worn-leather shoulder holster. Nohar had never worn it, but he tried it on now. It fit well, comfortably, and that disturbed hun.
One final item—a file folder containing a sheet of paper and a card for his wallet. Both items were pristine, the card still in its cellophane wrapper. It was the gun's registration and his license to use it. They FORESTS OF THE NIGHT
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were still valid, despite the ban on morey firearms. He'd gotten them a year prior to the ban.
He put the card in his wallet, bolstered the loaded gun, and, hot as it was, put on his trench. Nohar had brought the trench coat despite the fact there had been little threat of rain. He had brought it to hide the gun. He pocketed the two extra magazines and put the case back in the drawer. As he locked the drawer up again, he told himself he was never going to fire the thing, but he knew, if he'd really believed that, he would have never opened that drawer. Nohar left the office, the gun an oppressive weight under his shoulder.
Angel was awake again when Nohar returned with the groceries. She began cursing in Spanish the second be opened the door. Nohar had thought he'd get back before she woke up. After an experience like she'd been through, she should have slept like the dead.
"We had a fucking deal, Kit—" More Spanish. "You don't leave me alone like that."
He ducked through the living room and into the kitchen, shucking the trench as he went. Cat followed Nohar, and the food, into the kitchen.
"You listening to me, Kit?"
The dry cat food was still covering the counter where he had spilled it last night. Nohar had forgotten the mess. He set down his bag and picked up Cat's dish. After rinsing it off, he swept about half the spilled food off the counter and into the dish. When he put it down, Cat pounced on the bowl, oblivious to the fact that it was filled with the same stuff that was on the counter.
Nohar decided he could afford the waste and brushed the rest of the spill into the sink and turned on the disposal.
Angel was leaning against the door frame. She looked a lot better. She had taken a shower, returning her dirty brown coat to its original light tan. Her ears
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had perked up, though even with them she was still over a meter shorter than Nohar.
She was jabbering in Spanish, and Nohar knew she wasn't saying anything nice. He asked her what she wanted to eat.
She walked into the kitchen and looked into the bag. She was still angry,
Nohar could smell it, but her tone was softening. "And I thought you weren't a cop."
"I'm not."
She squatted next to Cat. She was calming down, and Nohar began to realize exactly how scared she must have been when she woke up here alone. Angel was someone who wouldn't like being scared. It would screw with her self-image. Angel was looking at Nohar's left armpit. "What about the sudden artillery?" Nohar had forgotten the Vindhya. "Just because I have a gun—"
"That righteous? That fine? Something that worthy goes for 5K at least. Tell me you bought it."
She tried to pet Cat, but Cat was eating and couldn't be bothered. When Cat hissed at her, she stopped.
Nohar began putting away the stuff he'd bought, tossing a half-kilo of burger into the micro for himself. "I didn't buy it. My father brought it over from the war. Got it when he died."
She stood up. She wasn't argumentive anymore. She seemed to have gotten it out of her system. "Knew your sire?"
"It's not unheard of."