Authors: Gwyneth Jones
Sage shook his head. ‘Dunno. She had a thick skin for personal danger. Like her dad and that highly contraband ghost-catching rig.’
‘If there was a b-loc in her room, it’s in Chinese custody now.’
‘It might not be, Ver,’ said Fiorinda, eyes on Coz, her mind (for once) distinctly elsewhere. ‘Say the bodysnatchers were ordinary medics, who didn’t know they were part of a cover-up. Say General Wang had been forced to off his trophy courtesan, but only the secret cabal could be allowed to know the truth—’
‘What secret cabal?’ asked Verlaine. ‘Who’s in it?’
Fiorinda hadn’t got that far. ‘I don’t know. I’m groping.’
‘What about DK?’ wondered Sage. ‘It takes two.’
‘We had a b-loc pair in the siege,’ said Verlaine. ‘The idea was each party would take one set, if we had to split up, but we kept them hidden. They weren’t in our stuff when we were taken into custody by Hu, and that’s all we know—’
‘Any
idea
what might have become of them?’
‘It’s all a blur: what happened, what order things happened. I don’t think we ever used b-loc, not once. Someone might remember something, maybe Allie.’
‘DK expected to die,’ offered Chip. ‘When we were trapped, after the “Republic of Europe” nutcases took over, he was convinced he was not going to make it. The rest of us maybe, not him. So, it was any moment could be the last goodbye.’
Dilip came back to them then: the veteran Mixmaster, free spirit; their friend himself, not a piece in a tantalising puzzle. He had been HIV positive for nearly half his life. He’d been living for the moment, partying in the shadow of death, for as long as any of them had known him. DK expected to die, what does that mean?
Grief, fresh grief, flickered through them and was gone—
‘What are we saying?’ asked Verlaine. ‘They snatched him from the burning building, he somehow has access to b-loc, and he called
Dian Buckley
?’
They stared at each other, three weird scientists and a witch. DK, living or dead, was in Chinese hands and
had access
to the most forbidden tech? Have we actually found a chink in our liberators armour? Cosoleth failed to roll over, remained good-humoured, and tried swimming through the grass instead.
‘No,’ said Sage, slowly. ‘Not like that. More like, Dian comes to me, and I turn down her offer. She still has her b-loc, still has its address book, so she tries to place a call to DK. She gets through, in some sense. But she doesn’t come back to me with the news because, I don’t know. I wasn’t available, or she took fright. Later when she’s at home with pneumonia, maybe she knew she was dying, and had nothing more to fear. Maybe she felt she was safe from Chinese surveillance… She tried again, and got through again. And then she died.”
Chip frowned. ‘You think we should go back and search the room?’
‘No!’ Sage pocketed the button. ‘We’ve done enough. Leave it. Lemme interrogate Lance’s virtual bedroom, see if there’s anything in this.’
Fiorinda went with Verlaine to the recycle bins, where they deposited the scrapings from the nappy in one orifice, the nappy itself (a nasty one, let the Occupied Rural Council sterilise it) in another. ‘It’s like having a dog,’ she said, as they washed their hands. ‘The scorn and pity I used to feel for dog-addicts doing the pooper-scooper, I am chastised. Ver, do you two still have that diamond you showed me?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘D’you want it?’
Some choirboy rockstars go to seed; or their faces change so completely that you can’t see how they were ever cute. Kevin Verlaine was becoming only more luminous as his bones grew stronger. He looked—light brown curls tied back, sober dark eyes—like an Elizabethan poet, who? Philip Sidney? Someone like that.
‘Not right now. Keep it safe.’
Notch by notch the brutal grip of the Occupation was stepping down. The Triumvirate were able to take Cosoleth to Somerset for Ax’s mother’s birthday, to introduce her to her Preston family. A few days later Ax was back; for a celebrity cricket match that marked the official return of Civilian Freedom of Movement (terms and conditions apply). Crowds gathered on the slightly fake village green of a suburban ‘village’ outside Taunton. Bonded servants served breakfast out of the backs of big fat Country Living hybrids. Cooler rurals, not in the neo-gangster class, left their horses and their pony-carts with the stablehands in pub yards. Common folk arrived by bus or on foot, and gave the swathe of soldiers around the AMID top brass a wide berth. Mr Preston sat with his mum and her tutor from Bristol Uni, on the deck chairs, among the neighbours, and watched the multi-angle Big Screens being raised and tested at the scoreboard end. That was another first, officially sanctioned Big Screens again.
Ax had never liked this place. It was gated—not much use against a Chinese invasion—; a practice Ax considered sickening, but it had been Jordan and Milly’s choice, and understandable at the time. Their house was just visible from the green, identified through the trees by a blue flood of wisteria. It reminded him of the Chosen Few’s original HQ, in Taunton itself, which the Second Chamber had turned into a museum… Wonder if the inscription’s still there, on the slab we cemented over the front door.
This world is a bridge, make no house upon it.
Min, who had been letting the kids admire him, hopped onto Ax’s knees: much cat these days, little Bat-ears long gone. It gave him a pang to think that this would happen to Coz: she would grow up, she would no longer say ‘Eh!’, or stare in such blown-away wonderment at bathwater, sunlight, her spiderweb picture—
‘That’s a wonderful cat, sir,’ said the tutor, a stylish middle-aged bloke with a high forehead and a braid down his back. Mum had been in Bristol before the invasion, starting a new life; studying Law. She’d been ordered back here, but she’d been allowed to keep up by videolink, mainly with this guy’s help. So be nice. ‘He must be worth a packet.’
‘What,
Min
? Oh, no, no, he’s a mog. I picked him up as a stray kitten.’
Pigtail smiled at Mr Preston’s joke. ‘No, seriously, of course he’s a terrific Spotted Bengal. What is he, F4? Looks too near the leopard cat for an F5. D’you always take him around with you, aren’t you afraid to lose him?’
‘Min’s more like a dog than a cat,’ said Sunny, Ax’s mum, as non-cat-lovers will, and thankfully Jordan appeared. Time for the pre-match huddle.
‘What’s up with you?’ said his brother.
‘Nothing, just something Pigtail said.’
‘Huh. Him… What d’you think of him?’
The crowd whooped and waved as the brothers passed. Ax looked at Jordan, narrow-eyed. ‘You’re winding me up.’
Their dad had been dead nearly four years.
‘Why would I do that?’
The home team’s dressing room was a green wooden hut with a sagging verandah, predating the gentrification around here. The Rockstar Eleven, plus extras, were inside, marauding the lunch sandwiches and drinking tea, alcohol VETOED by captain J. Preston. They were worried. Jordan had accepted the Taunton Fort’s overtures, encouraged by his big brother; expecting a PR stunt. The squad that had arrived this morning was a fucking different proposition. By no means all of them were Han Chinese. They’d been hand-picked from the whole invasion force. It was the Sphere against the Rest of the World, the rest of the world comprising one young County all-rounder, T. J. Suppiah, who also played guitar for a well-known Bridgwater band. Milly Kettle, reliable at bat, Boje Strom, good on form, great to watch but erratic, the notorious Preston brothers, and a tail of West Country resident pop musicians, of varying fame, with no special talent on the field.
Hindsight said they should have organised, they could have bussed in half the England squad, done them up with eyeliner, made them honorary pop-idols. But then
they
get pasted (all-too-likely scenario), and it looks even worse—
‘Right,’ said Jordan. ‘How are we going to approach this?’
‘Lose?’ suggested Shay, the youngest Preston brother, wryly. Their sister Maya, the Chosen’s lead guitar since Ax moved on, didn’t care for cricket, refused to make sandwiches and was exercising her restored mobility somewhere else.
‘Seems like that’s the Chinese plan,’ reasoned someone else. ‘If we were supposed to win, their lot would be squaddies barely knowing cricket from baseball.’
‘Better take a fall, Jor. They’re the bosses.’
‘Fuck, no,’ said Ax, grinning. ‘I say we go out there an’ mash ’em.’
A little startled shock went through the company, and straight to Ax’s balls. You forget, you forget. You’ve been telling the people to grovel, to accept humiliation and say thank you, you forget that what you say actually means something to them—
The Rockstars raised a cheer. ‘We shall fight them on the beaches!’ roared Boje, Gintrap’s Swedish
soi-disant
hot-shit guitarist. ‘We shall NEVER surrender!’
‘Hey, Jor. Make sure Ax doesn’t get tempted to take his clothes off out there.’
‘If you had a big dick,’ said Ax, ‘you’d like to show it off, too.’
This team was Jordan’s drinking pals, plus the ubiquitous Gintrap. They thought the Anglia movie was a load of unpatriotic weirdo crap, even if it
was
a Norman Soong. The hotly rumoured sex-show, on the other hand (which would never see the light) was a mammoth hit. And one day we’ll live it down.
Strange thing, you look for the ageing demi-gods, and oh fuck, that’s me. The Rockstars wore white. The Sphere had come to the pyjama party in red and green; promising an entertaining clash of cultures. Jordan won the toss, and put his side in to bat. It wasn’t bad. The Sphere could bowl, but they’d only just met. They were sloppy fielders and they didn’t know the ground. The magnificent partnership of M. Kettle and B. Strom formed the backbone of a creditable performance, the home team were bowled out for a respectable 232; three overs short of their allocation.
There was a moment, as he walked out at the start of the afternoon session, when it was literally General Wang Xili Ax saw at the other end. A horror gripped him, and Fred Eiffrich’s voice whispered
go belly-up, look helpless it’s your only chance
. They took the children’s heads, a haunted house, oh fuck. His right hand was full of blood, a mass of solid blood, he could smell it. It’s called transient psychosis, happens a lot, people don’t talk about it—
Fucking hope I don’t incite any hooligans, because the last thing I dare to do now is act submissive. We are winning the peace, I am confident, I’m among friends, I have nothing to fear. He ran, his arm swept, of its own volition; the red ball flew.
Exit one startled AMID officer of Australasian origin, who had assumed the President-in-Hiding was on first for reasons of protocol. He was not the only victim. A. Preston was as one possessed, J. Preston took over with his slow and cunning left hand, the last Preston was a coffin-nail in the hopes of the Sphere. Rockstars inspired, miracle catches; tourists demolished. The (English) champagne fizzed and showered, the Rockstars gambolled through a disorganised victory lap, to ecstatic ovation. The South West General himself, like a good loser, came over all smiles to congratulate.
‘You’re a dark horse, Mr Preston! I am sincerely in awe.’
‘Bit of a fluke,’ said Ax, malignly modest. ‘I can’t remember when I last played, tell you the truth. My brother and his wife are the cricket fanatics.’
‘Hm. Your partners aren’t with you?’
‘Not this time.’ Nothing to do with avoiding the Chinese, perish the thought.
‘That’s a shame, I was hoping to meet young Cosoleth.’
‘It’s a little too public. We really don’t want her to be a rockstar baby.’
‘Quite right.’
Wang Xili gazed around at the warm-toned modern brick houses, dazzling ‘cottage’ gardens, fine trees; ducks on a pond. The tower of a mediaeval church, rising beyond the candled green of a majestic horse-chestnut avenue. Ax remembered a coloured lad born on a sink estate in Taunton, who had loved the Somerset landscape so passionately, and felt so excluded. It was a strange kinship. You think this is England, First Class Treasure. But
this
is not what I was fighting for, Wang. I’d take a blow-torch to most of this, frankly, and I did. What I want has no homeland.
The thought rang in his soul, and chilled him.
‘How perfectly English it has been, delightful…but I believe,’ Wang added, with a thoughtful look, ‘Mr Pender and Fiorinda were on my doorstep, the other day. Or just over the county boundary in Oxford
shire
, I should say.’
‘Yes. A visit of condolence, to a bereaved family. You know about Ms Buckley’s death, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Wang shook his head. ‘A sad business. Poor Dian.’
‘Very sad,’ agreed Ax.
A few seconds’ silence for the trophy courtesan.
‘You’ll have received your invitation from Elder Sister’s office?’
‘I have,’ said Ax. ‘It will be a great honour and pleasure to meet her again.’
The General seemed oddly unsure of himself, though he must have seen so many Presidents, Cultural Icons, Popular Front Leaders, National Heroes, Feisty Power Ladies, picked out of the rubble, dusted down and benignly set upon their thrones. Never a rockstar before, maybe that made the difference.
‘I must return to my battered troops and organise the retreat. Goodbye, Mr Preston. Do drop in and see me when you are at Rivermead; if you have a moment.’
‘Norman Soong is
gay
?’
Ax shrugged. ‘Yeah.’
‘How can he be gay? He’s a
trannie
. That’s hooky, if you ask me. I mean, if he wants to be a man, then he wants to be a man, doesn’t he, and—’
‘Men aren’t gay. Mmm, right.’
‘Seems like cheating, though,’ mused Shay, ‘somehow. Like that Jam Today bird, says she’s a gay man in a girl’s body, and
that’s
why it’s okay for her to screw a fucking sexist old dinosaur like Bill.’
‘Takes all sorts.’
Most superannuated rockstars morph into solid bourgeois. Conservative views, rather odd clothes, worried about the kids’ schooling
.
Ax recalled telling Norman Soong that… Ah, if we could sit simply in that room again. I used to tell you two I was going to lead a futuristic utopian revolution. What the hell did I mean by that?