There was a broad wooden gantry at the top of the steps, dotted with small sheds and ladders; it stretched along the side of the dank, bow-sided tenement. She couldn’t see him, but then a hand came out of the shadows and pulled her into the shelter of a small lean-to. A hand went over her mouth and she let him pull her against him, his breath warm on the back of her neck. Something glinted in his other hand, pointing out to the deck of the wooden gantry. Her eyes were wide and her heart thudded. She clutched the little black purse to her chest, as though hoping it would protect her.
She heard a creaking noise, then slow footsteps. The hand over her mouth clamped tighter.
The figure in the long dark coat came into view, still walking lopsidedly, then stopping and standing directly opposite them. The figure reached in through the coat, and from what must have been a leg-holster, pulled out a very long gun with a slim sight on top of the barrel. The man holding her tensed.
A creaking noise came from behind and beneath her.
The figure spun towards them, the gun coming up.
The man behind her shouted something; his gun fired, a burst of light and sound that lit up every grubby cranny of the alley and filled its length with a terrible barking noise. The figure with the rifle was blown back, folding in two; the great long gun made a quiet roar and something flashed overhead as the figure went straight through the hand rail at the edge of the wooden gantry to fall flaming to the stones of the alley-way.
She looked up; above the wooden gantry a small net swung from a piece of broken guttering. The net swayed in the wind, making a fizzing, sputtering noise and glowing with a strange green light.
The man followed her gaze.
‘Prophet’s blood, it was only a stun-net,’ he whispered.
She tottered to the broken rail and looked down to see the figure lying torn almost in half and burning amongst the packing cases and trash against the wall of the tenement opposite. A smell of roasted flesh wafted up from the body, making her feel sick.
The man grabbed her hand. ‘Come on!’ he said. They ran.
‘God help me, I almost enjoyed that,’ he said, stumbling into the service entrance of the quiet apartment block. He took out his key, then paused, breathing hard, looking at her. ‘You’re still keen, I hope, yes?’
‘Never say no to a man with a gun,’ she said, trying to get out of the bright light shining near the laundry baskets.
He smiled and took off his short cloak with a flourish. ‘Let’s take the service lift.’
She busied herself with her make-up in the lift, turning to the corner and squinting into the little mirror, leaving the veil down while one hand worked behind it. She caught a glimpse of his face; he looked amused.
They entered his apartment. It was surprisingly plush, lit by subdued but expensive wall panels, full of ancient art works and pieces of fancy-looking equipment. The rug in the main room - patterned after the fashion of an early electronic chip - had a deep, luxuriant pile. He lit a cheroot, and sat down in a big couch. ‘Strip,’ he told her.
She stood just in front of him, and-still determinedly holding the little purse - slowly pulled her veil away and let it fall to the floor. The radiation burn looked livid and raw, even under the make-up. The man on the couch swallowed, breathing deeply. He drew on the cheroot, then left it in his mouth as he folded his arms.
She took hold of the pillbox hat and removed it too. Her hair had been gathered up under the hat; now it fell out, spilling down her back.
He looked surprised. ‘When did you - ?’ he began, frowning.
She held one hand up flat towards him and shook her head, then put the same hand to the side of her face. She gripped the top edge of the radiation scar and slowly pulled it down, tearing it away from her cheek with a glutinous, sucking noise.
His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. The cheroot fell from his mouth onto the chest of his shirt.
She dropped the black purse from her other hand, which now held a small stubby pistol with no muzzle aperture. She spat out the fake teeth; they bounced on the printed-circuit rug.
‘Hello, Cenuij,’ she said.
‘Sha-!’ he had time to gasp, before the gun in her hand buzzed, his eyes closed and he went limp, sliding slowly off the couch onto the floor.
She sniffed, wondering what was burning, then took two quick steps towards him and removed the cheroot from the hole in his shirt before it burned any more of his chest hair.
He woke to the sound of spattering rain; he was sitting slumped in the rear seat of a tall All-Terrain and it was dark outside. Sharrow sat opposite him. His whole body was tingling, his head was sore and he didn’t think it wise to try speaking for a while; he looked around groggily.
Through rain-streaked glass to the right he could see a giant open-cast mine lit by dotted lights. The mine had eaten away half of an enormous conical hill and was continuing to shave away the other half. Looking carefully, he could make out a motley collection of trucks, draglines and lines of people with shovels, all working the canted grey face of the floodlit, sectioned hill. At least he wasn’t having trouble focusing.
‘Cenuij?’ she said.
He looked at her. He decided to try speaking.
‘What?’ he said. His mouth seemed to be working all right. Good sign. He flexed the tingling muscles in his face.
Sharrow frowned. ‘Are you okay?’
‘She fries my synapses with a neurostunner whose insurance warranty ran out around the time of the Skytube, then she asks if I’m okay,’ he said, attempting to laugh but coughing instead.
Sharrow poured something brown and fragrant from a flask into a cup; he took it and smelled spirit; he sipped at it, then knocked it back, smacking his lips. He almost threw it up again immediately, but held it down and felt it warm him.
‘You once told me,’ she said, ‘that if you had to be knocked unconscious, that’s the way you’d like it done, with one of those.’
‘I remember,’ he said. ‘It was the morning after Miz nearly rammed that Tax destroyer. We were in a tavern in Malishu and you were whining about your hangover; you wore a low-cut green scoopneck and Miz had left a line of lovebites like footprints leading down your left tit. But I didn’t think you’d treat an innocent observation as a definite request.’
‘As you see,’ Sharrow grinned, ‘the stunner has totally scrambled that perfect memory.’
‘Just testing,’ Cenuij said.
He stretched. He didn’t seem to be tied up in any way, and Sharrow wasn’t holding the stun gun.
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Indeed. I can see contrition oozing from your every pore.’
She nodded towards the open-cast mine. ‘Know where we are?’
‘Mine Seven; a little west of the city perimeter road.’ He rubbed at his leg muscles; they still felt tingly and weak.
‘We’re right on the city limits,’ Sharrow said. She nodded. ‘I step out that door and I’m outside the jurisdiction; you step out your side and you’re back in Lip City.’
‘What are you trying to do, Sharrow? Impress me with your navigational skills?’
‘I’m giving you a choice; asking you to come with me . . . but if you won’t, I’m letting you go.’
`You kidnap me first, then you ask me?’ Cenuij shook his head. ‘Retirement’s addled your brains.’
‘Dammit, Cenuij! I didn’t mean to snatch you; I just wanted to get to you. But that enthusiast with the stun-net rattled me. I wanted to get us both out of there.’
‘Well, congratulations,’ he said. ‘What a spiffing plan.’
‘All right,’ she said, raising her voice. ‘What was I supposed to do?’ She got her voice under control again. `Would you have listened to me? If I’d tried to contact you; would you have given me the time to say anything?’
‘No; I’d have switched off the instant I knew it was you.’
‘And if I’d written?’
‘Same. Switched the screen off or torn the letter up, accordingly.’ He nodded quickly. ‘And if you’d approached me in the street I’d have walked away; run away; hailed a cab; jumped on a trolley; told a policeman who you were; anything. In fact, all the things I intend to do right now, or at least as soon as my legs feel like they’ll work again.’
‘So what was I supposed to do, you awkward bastard?’ Sharrow shouted, leaning forward at him.
‘Leave me a-fucking-lone, that’s what!’ he roared back into her face.
They glowered at each other, nose to nose. Then she sat back in the seat, looking out at the darkness on the other side of the car. He sat back too.
‘The Huhsz are after me,’ she said quietly, not looking at him. ‘Or they will be, very soon. With a Hunting Passport. A legal execution warrant’
`I know what a Hunting Passport is,’ he snapped.
`They might try using you to get to me, Cenuij.’
‘Sharrow; can’t you get it through those artfully wanton black curls that I want nothing to do with you? I won’t indulge in some pathetic, nostalgic attempt to get us all back together again and be pals and pretend nothing bad ever happened - just in case that’s what’s on your mind - but equally I assure you I have no interest whatsoever trying to help the Huhsz second guess your every action; that would be almost as bad as actually being in your company.’
Sharrow looked like she was trying to control herself, then suddenly sat forward again. `Nothing to do with me? So why are you fucking the only whore in Lip City who could pass for my clone?’
‘I don’t fuck her, Sharrow,’ Cenuij said, looking genuinely surprised. ‘I just enjoy humiliating her!’ He laughed. ‘And anyway, she’s rather better looking than you are.’ He smiled. ‘Apart from that unfortunate eight-year-old radiation burn. I wonder how the poor girl got that?’
‘Cenuij
`And where’s she? The real girl? What have you done with her?’
Sharrow waved one hand. ‘Teel’s fine; she’s spaced on Zonk watching screen from the whirlbath in a hotel suite. She’s having a great night.’
`She’d better be,’ Cenuij said.
Oh! You enjoy humiliating her but now you’re all concerned for her well-being.’ She sneered back.Make sense, Cenuij.’
He smiled. ‘I am. But you wouldn’t understand.’
‘And what sort of weird kick do you get from humiliating her anyway?’
Cenuij shrugged languidly. ‘Call it revenge.’
Sharrow sat back again, shaking her head. `Shit, you’re sick.’
‘I’m sick?’ Cenuij laughed. He crossed his arms and gazed up at the car’s ceiling lining. `She murders four hundred and sixty-eight thousand people and she calls me sick!’
‘Oh, for the last fucking time,’ she shouted. ‘I didn’t know they were going to start hacking the Gun to bits in the goddamn city!’
`You should have known!’ he shouted back. ‘That’s where their labs were! That’s where they announced they were going to dismantle the damn thing!’
‘I thought they meant the lab in the desert! I didn’t know they’d do it in the city!’
‘You should have guessed!’
‘I couldn’t believe anybody would be that stupid!’
`When have they ever been anything else?’ Cenuij roared. ‘You should have guessed!’
‘Well, I just fucking didn’t!’ Sharrow yelled. She sat back, sniffing mightily.
Cenuij sat silently, massaging his legs.
Eventually Sharrow said, ‘That was probably some contract hunter with the net-gun tonight. If they’d succeeded you’d be in a Huhsz satrapy by dawn, all wired and juiced up so you’d have no fucking choice but to tell them what I was going to do next.’
‘So I’ll stop talking to strangers,’ Cenuij said. He tested one leg, flexing it. He sat forward suddenly. ‘Where are my shoes?’ he demanded.
Sharrow dug under her seat, threw them over to him. He slipped them on and fastened them.
‘Have you heard from Breyguhn recently?’ she asked.
He stopped tightening a heel strap and glanced at her. ‘No. The good Brothers have what one might call a playful attitude to mail. I expect I’ll get another letter in a month or so.’
‘I saw her four days ago.’
Cenuij looked wary. ‘Mm-hmm,’ he said, sitting back. ‘And how . . . how is she?’
Sharrow looked away. ‘Not too good. I mean, surviving physically, but . . .’
‘She didn’t give you . . . a letter or anything for me?’ Cenuij asked.
‘No.’ Sharrow shook her head. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘If we find the Universal Principles we can get her out. I only need the message in it; we can give the Brothers the book itself.’
Cenuij looked troubled, then sat back, sneering. ‘You say,’ he said. His cloak lay on the seat beside him; he put it over his shoulders and fastened it, laughing. ‘Some piece of utterly unattributable Dascen family folklore has it that your grandpa somehow left a message in a book nobody’s set eyes on for a millennium and which there is no indication he even started to look for, and you believe it?’ He shook his head.
‘Dammit, Cenuij, it’s the best we’ve got to go on.’
‘And what if this rumour is - by some miracle - only half wrong and you do need the book itself?’ Cenuij asked.
‘We’ll do all we can,’ Sharrow said, sighing. ‘I promised.’
‘You promised,’ Cenuij sat still for awhile. He flexed both legs. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He put one hand to the door of the vehicle.
Sharrow put her hand over his. He looked into her eyes but she wouldn’t take her hand away. ‘Cenuij,’ she said. ‘Please, come now. They’ll take you if you try to stay. I’m telling the truth, I swear.’
He looked at her hand. She took it away. He opened the door and climbed down out of the All-Terrain. He stood holding the door for a moment, checking that his legs were going to hold him when he tried to walk.
‘Sharrow,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘I’m only just starting to think that maybe you really are telling the truth about what happened to the Lazy Gun and Lip City.’ He gave a sort of half-laugh. ‘But that’s taken eight years; let’s not rush things, shall we?’
She leant forward, imploring. ‘Cenuij; we need you; please . . . in the name of . . .’ Her voice died away.
‘Yes, Sharrow,’ he smiled. ‘In the name of what?’ She just stared at him. He shook his head. ‘There’s not really anything you respect or care about enough to use as an oath, is there?’ He smiled. ‘Except perhaps yourself, and that wouldn’t sound right, would it?’ He took a step backwards, letting go of the door. ‘Like I said, I’ll think about it.’ He pulled his cloak closed. ‘Where can I contact you?’