Novahead (14 page)

‘
It is indeed time, human Parker, for the Hand to depart the ballistic nursery. Human Atom, place a votive firearm upon the altar.
'

I was baffled but Parker made it clear I should offer up the whisper gun. I placed this on the altar and a metal scoop gathered it in. The Hand of Glory was immediately delivered from a slot below. The whole setup was like a fairground machine.

The Hand was a gun of cursive design looking like one big trigger, ribless as an angel.
‘
Doesn
'
t look too different.
'

‘
Different enough to make her own way here in the first place.
'

‘
I need to be sure it hasn
'
t been compromised.
'

‘
She has, by allowing herself to be used by you. But she doesn
'
t mind. For old time
'
s sake, she says. But no dicing and splicing.
'

‘
Eh?
'

‘
No stripping or recombining, human Atom.
'

‘
Don
'
t the gats go with evolution?
'

‘
Under their control.
'

‘
That
'
s not how it works.
'

‘
Have you heard of motive weave ordnance?
'

‘
No.
'

‘
Goodbye, human Atom.
'

I holstered the Hand in the etheric joeypouch and turned to Parker.
‘
Thanks.
'

I turned to go but he grabbed my arm, staring me in the eye.

‘
Will your life be a partial gesture, Taffy Atom, or a completed one?
'

‘
I don
'
t know, Brute Parker.
'

 

 

Walking toward the rotting decks of the harbour I passed a car with a nosebleed - the semi-moon and water in the oil made ostrich-feather colours.

Hanging out over the gigantic chemistry experiment of the sea was the shack where I
'
d seen a couple of pareidolls at obscure mischief in which I was assumed to be included. I
'
m not what they had in mind. And I
'
d come such a long way to get here, as if through the centre of the Earth. All the pieces were pointing this way like a flight of ducks. Win, lose or draw - options I had no intention of taking.

The sagged roof cradled stale rain. The doorknob came off in my hand and squashed into mush - I realised I
'
d grabbed a mushroom that had been growing on the door. I pushed into the shack and flashed a penlight.

Two chairs, one of rust and one of rotten wood. I tapped the bullet-encrusted fly strip to swinging. The dancing plastic flower stood still on the crooked little table. There were always nightmarish little things in shacks like this. I almost expected dove skeletons flying around the place. What surprised me was the presence of the functionally obscure device Ract had called an atomic clock. Close-up it looked more like a lacuna compass, a contraband voodonic used to test the temperature of an occupied culture. They had supposedly been consulted on neighbourhood beachheads during the middle World War.

Obviously not base-camp but a clue venue. I scuffed around and found a soggy flyer titled
‘
Night of August 7
'
:
‘
What to do when the comet lands and you will die. The comet is coming to destroy you. There is no bargaining with a fiery death, sonny jim. You will not be friends with the comet. You will not
“
click
”
with the comet. All is fire. Comfort is a nonsense. Know that you are being destroyed. Death, death, death.
'

The leaflet was coming apart in my hands - I threw it to the floor with a wet slap. The vinyl roof crackled loudly above me as if bullets were pummelling it. But it was only a hard and sudden rain. The walls started drooling. The flower shimmied delicately. I saw movement in the dark outside the window. Junco conjured a predatory-looking Lusa submachine gun from his coat and prowled smoothly forward. The gun advanced like a miniature steam locomotive, rained on and runnelling - it had travelled.

I crouched to strop the microSteyr out of the ankle rig, and scrabbled about in my coat for the mags. I had no idea which ammo I was loading. They were European banana clips, straight as a ruler. The window exploded above me and the back wall was holed by a burst of crucible shells loud enough to set the flower jigging happily. I stood and let rip with the machine pistol, dodging aside as he delivered another burst of charm - the flower fell, cut in half.

I peered outside to see fireflies orbiting Junco. They were hornet rounds, mini-triage prehensiles that stopped to look around before darting at the target and crowding into its chest. But they seemed content to faintly illuminate this strange block of personal pageantry like his own little satellites. I didn
'
t know how they
'
d read a gun-saint-in-waiting, unmaverick only by a wrong turn, and in balance against myself. Triage. If I thought about it too much my guts would get all wound up like a corkscrew.

‘
Be nice!
'
I shouted, but he was already barrelling through the door and throwing a punch at me with a look that suggested I shouldn
'
t get any ideas about dodging it. I grabbed him about the middle and he put a chokehold on my raw bloody head - we went backwards into the table, crashing it over.
‘
Give up!
'
I suggested. This proposition had been heard too often to glean amazement or scorn any longer. I couldn
'
t blame him for ignoring it. Braced against the wall, I hit him with all I had, not much. But he skidded on the slimy floor and went backward, slamming to the boards. He looked awkward, and reached under him, pulling out the smashed atomic compass. I flinched at something flying in the door, but it was the triage ammo, gathering in the doorway to see what was happening. I
'
d never seen anything like it. They were withholding judgement but following him like a conscience. Junco, it seemed, was finely balanced.

He shook himself and stood up in a big way. He certainly dominated a room. It would take a lot of work to kill him from beginning to end. I could see more clearly the carbon scoring amid the broad belts, smooth leather and deflectors in valentine red. That uniform was a classic product of a world that overstates every case, but I did like it, even beat up as it was now like a disintegrating canvas.

I scraped the rusted chair over, and sat down. Rain rolled like sweat down the dark walls.

‘
A few days ago,
'
he said.
‘
I shot you point-blank with a Kingmaker.
'

‘
I forgive you. But don
'
t shoot anyone else. It makes them uncomfortable.
'

‘
There
'
s no bullet-hole.
'

‘
I
'
m American,
'
I said.
‘
I breathe through a bullethole.
'
But I was careful this time not to claim his Mexican nature as my invention.

I glanced at the machine pistol where it had fallen - it was close by, and he saw it.

‘
I may help you to breathe a little easier.
'

The fireflies behind him swirled a little faster.

‘
Careful,
'
I whispered.

Junco made a gesture as of a train that somehow brakes violently while not having been in motion. He flicked a little glance over his shoulder to see the little doom nimbus at his back.
‘
Think it
'
s the wrong play?
'

‘
With a metal
“
W
”
. You
'
re not Betty
'
s, I know that. The only hired gun who isn
'
t, I think. And I don
'
t believe you
'
re on the warpath. Perhaps we could forego the injuries and come to a resolution.
'

‘
That would be reneging on a contract.
'

I was glad he understood. But he didn
'
t answer the question.

‘
I been watching this place,
'
he continued.
‘
The Pale Man said you might drop by. A pattern, he says.
'

I touched the tender side of my head, wincing.
‘
Avail yourself of the secret soup of the brain before doing anything hasty. I dredged you, Parker rates you and I
'
ve seen what you can do. And now you
'
re a dead-leg-man for Gordi Pivot?
'

‘
Parker rates me?
'

‘
You play your part well, anyway.
'

‘
It
'
s over, nearly.
'

‘
I
'
m glad you said it first. It
'
s over already. No-one
'
s even listening to these stories anymore. For argument
'
s sake, say you were no longer crippled by appearances.
'
I tried to look him in the eye.
‘
Can you hear what I
'
m saying? Society and its intricate array of dramas - we can take a direct or indirect road among these trivialities, but we will be among them, wasted and annoyed. Don
'
t be a sap. You
'
re being used. I
'
m saying, don
'
t be a sap.
'

Junco looked drifty as if something had taken shape in his mind. He was a slack tide that could resume in either direction. Most of my horizon was Junco
'
s bulk, the shadowy increase and decrease of a breathing secret. He was throttling down through several grades of curiosity.

‘
The Obliterati,
'
he said.

‘
Who are they?
'

‘
City fathers. Money men.
'

‘
Based where?
'

‘
I only know Pivot
'
s place.
'
He gave me the address.

‘
I
'
ve driven past there, it
'
s a gutted block,
'
I said.

‘
Looks that way. And there
'
s another layer of camo inside. But it
'
s a home.
'

‘
And the others, Ract and Darkwards?
'

‘
Money in the head. Like insane generals at the end, their strategy seems to depend on forces that don
'
t exist. But I realised just now, it doesn
'
t matter. Any violence serves them. Does that sound mad? Maybe it is. Two hundred and seventy-one missions.
'

He moved slowly over to pick up the Steyr. He popped the clip and threw that out the door, then gave me the gun. He stepped past me to look out a busted board at the black ocean. The waterfront - debt in the air and chains in the water. It was basically an extension of ill-health.

‘
By the time fish started plodding ashore,
'
he said,
‘
the world
'
s fate was sealed. A mistake by those accountable to life itself. Analogies for misery don
'
t really make it.
'

Then he turned and walked out the door into the dark and rain, treasured by a swirling aura of abeyant ammunition.