Which is why Maya needed a permit. I should have figured that out long ago.
As for what I said about the Peacock — that he’d made weapons, that he didn’t dare leave Demoth, that my noble protector was as much a murderer as Xe…
I thought of that moment beside Lake Vascho, snow falling thick, when the Peacock appeared gloomy as a ghost above the water.
"What are you?" I asked.
Botjolo.
Cursed.
Damned.
The Mouth and the Muscle came back into the room. They looked as iron-jawed serious as ever, but now it seemed put on — as if they were gleeful little boys pretending to be rough-tough customers. The dipshits were all bubbles, now that they saw a chance to get out of the Admiralty’s bad books: open the Peacock’s bunker, find tech that would dazzle the High Council. For all Mouth’s talk about Festina planting disinformation in my brain, neither of these pissheads believed their own conspiracy theories; they’d just been grasping at straws till I offered them something better — a whole bale of hay.
"We’ll go to this bunker," the Mouth said. "Tonight, after dark. And you’d better not be lying."
"I’m not," I replied. "Can you handle a Class 2 security lock? The Mines Commission bolted a steel cap-shack over the entrance to the bunker… like a hut sitting plunk on the tunnel mouth, and you have to open the door before you can head down. Of course," I added, "if you can’t open the lock, I can do it myself with one call to the world-soul. Any door the government locks, the Vigil can unlock."
"That won’t be necessary," the Muscle said, giving me a "How stupid do you think we are?" look. "We can open any lock up to a Class 5."
"In our sleep," the Mouth added, never one for a simple statement when he could twist it into a brag. "And speaking of sleep…" He drew a stun-pistol and aimed it at me. "Nighty-night."
In the last second, I pictured my fist connecting with his face. Maybe the image would give me sweet dreams.
Clawing myself awake was harder the second time — like a trick I’d forgotten how to do. I kept fumbling to get it right, then flopping back into blackness.
When I finally managed to grapple up to consciousness, I fiercely regretted it. It’s flat-out amazing how many ways you can feel god-awful at the same time — the hammer-thud headache, the rock-in-your-gut nausea, the scritchy-knife stab in your bladder. Festina had told me the average stun-blast put you out for six hours… which meant I’d gone twelve hours with no water, no bathroom break, and damned if I could remember the last time I’d eaten. Not that I wanted to eat; the thought of food brought me close to the heaves. But my body was running toward empty on blood sugar, and I felt like a mashed dog turd.
"Guys!" I shouted. At least it rasped like a shout in my croaking throat, and sounded loud to my headachy ears. I rolled onto my back and tried again. "Guys! Come on!"
Seconds crept by. As I lay staring at the ceiling, I could see the room was dark again. Night. Festina lay beside me, still breathing but now with a sandpaper edge when she inhaled. I wondered how often you could have a stunner frazzle your neural connections before you developed permanent nerve damage.
"Peacock?" I whispered. Silence.
Then Mouth and Muscle came through the door, and I tried not to sound whiny as I demanded a trip to the toilet.
We’ll skip past the hot-cheek/hard-face indignity of pouring pee while two men watch and you’re bound hand and foot… except to say I was glad the Muscle was there. He kept the whole operation businesslike; unlike Mouth, who was precious near licking his lips with the urge to play lord-and-master games while I was manacled. Sick-minded toad. If I got a chance to break his other knee…
Cherish that thought.
After my one-woman show on the John, the dipshits gave me water and some protein jelly… all my stomach was likely to hold down. They were dash-ahead eager now to make for the bunker as soon as possible, but Festina was still out cold — put down hard by two heavy stun-blasts, and a willowy little thing compared to yours truly. Gymnasium-tough, but not hardened by boozing, brawling, boozing, brawling. The Muscle wouldn’t leave her behind unguarded and the Mouth refused to lug her unconscious body around the countryside. They began to whisper together in the far corner of the room; and with a cold jolt of dread, I knew they were debating whether to kill her.
"Don’t be witless!" I snapped. "If you cork her in cold blood — if you even consider it seriously — the League will never let you off Demoth. Which means a heap of trouble, not just with the police; there’s a plague coming, and it’s going to be a vicious old bugger. You don’t want to be trapped and go Pteromic, just because you didn’t wait for someone to wake up."
"Admiral Ramos is already infected," Mouth said. "Isn’t that right? So putting her down painlessly now is just a mercy killing."
"Odds are that you’re infected too, you crazy buggers. You’ve been breathing our air, haven’t you? If you’re hot for a mercy killing, start with yourselves."
Mouth turned away from me and whispered something to Muscle. Despite input from our esteemed Proctor Smallwood, the proposed homicide was still on the table, being discussed in committee.
"Come on, Festina-girl," I said. After my trip to the bathroom I was sitting on the edge of the bed, Festina splayed out beside me. I twisted till I could touch her with my tied-up hands. Grabbed her knee and shook it. "Come on, wake up. Don’t give them an excuse."
Nothing. Her breathing hadn’t changed, and her face still had a nobody-home emptiness. I shook her leg harder, squeezing her knee. "You have to wake up now, Festina."
Sheer blank nothing.
I gave her leg a full-strength yank, and roared, "Explorer Ramos, atten-shun!"
Suddenly, I wasn’t sitting on the bed anymore. I was flying across the room, jet-propelled by a pair of feet slamming into my back with a double thrust-kick. For a second, I thought I’d plow headfirst into the wall; but I tucked enough to hit with my shoulder, denting the plaster before I toppled to the floor.
Stun-pistols slapped out of their holsters — I’d fallen with my face to the wall, but I could recognize the sound. "Stop!" I shouted. "Everybody stop!" Then I added, "Ow."
"Sorry, Faye," Festina said behind my back. "It’s a reflex."
"I’ll remember that next time we share a bed. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow."
My shoulder was going to have a grand old bruise. I contemplated the throb of pain while Mouth and Muscle impatiently processed Festina through the bathroom. They gave her a grudging sip of water but no food; I wondered if they were cranked at Festina herself or admirals in general.
Then: out to their skimmer in the chalet’s garage. The temperature was balmier than ever — soft spring. As the garage door opened, I caught sight of a night sky heaped with fast-moving clouds.
Mouth took the driver’s seat, and I sat beside, giving directions. In the two minutes we took to get to the bunker, Mouth must have said a dozen times, "You’d better not be lying about this."
His way of making conversation. Men.
The dipshits weren’t half as handy with the Class 2 lock as they thought they’d be: cocky-assed city boys who hadn’t expected the jet-black of night on the tundra, with clouds blocking the sky and no nearby lights. The closest home was the Crosbie family compound, a hundred meters off… and the Crosbies had always been crazy-cheap, never leaving a yard lamp burning once everybody was inside for the night. When I was seventeen, I sometimes parked Egerton plunk in the middle of his family’s lawn and with both of us bare-assed to the stars…