by Jaine Fenn
Taro had always expected that he would work for the Minister one day. He knew he would have to start small, just one of the many downsiders who ran errands and gathered info for the leader of the Kheshi League of Concord. He would have to work hard to get noticed, as his sex was against him, but one day the Minister would see his potential and make him an Angel. Angels never went hungry, or homeless. They never had to worry about waking up to find they were being robbed or raped. People didn’t mess with Angels . . .
Except that someone had messed with Malia - and not just anyone, an agent from another City. And Taro hadn’t had the balls to admit that to the Minister. This wasn’t how he’d imagined his career in the Concord starting. The circle-car had already passed the ends of several Streets - Chow, Elsewhere, Slice, Freak - and now it was at Groove Street, the last before the wall that divided the Leisure and State Quarters. He had been tempted to go the long way round, to see the Guest and Merchant Quarters too, but given how the ride was messing with his belly and head, he was glad he’d decided against it. Before boarding the circle-car he’d taken the time to visit a Soft Street fast-food joint, one that would serve downsiders, and used some of the funds on the cred-bracelet to get an over-sweetened drink and a something-like-meat roll but much longer in here and he’d be wasting his money all over the floor. He closed his eyes, turning down the chance to look over the unknown Streets of the State Quarter in favour of not throwing up. When the mellow-voiced announcement said they were approaching Confederacy Square he opened his eyes, eager to get in among the buildings again, but as the carriage pulled up at the end of the Street he found himself gawping down on an open space as wide as eight or ten Streets put next to each other. It was full of people, the most Taro had ever seen in one place: hundreds, maybe thousands of milling rollers, and the coves guiding, guarding or fleecing them. The tourists were taking holo-pix, reading their guidebooks, hanging round the clusters of sales and betting booths and generally making like they happened to find themselves there in that very place this morning almost by accident. Only the sinwards end of the square was empty. That section was dominated by a building twelve storeys high, fronted by a massive balcony supported by a row of huge black pillars.
That had to be the Assembly building; Taro had heard somewhere that those pillars were made of real stone.
The enclosed lift ride down to Street level was a relief after the wide-open spaces surrounding the circle-car, though gravity bit extra hard when it stopped, leaving his knees aching.
He wasn’t sure how long he had before the removal was due, or where to watch from, but he decided to get nearer to the Assembly building, as that would be where the mark would most likely be heading when he took his final walk. He wanted a good view. This was what Angels did, what made them special. These people were here for one reason only, even if they were pretending otherwise: to see death at its most skilled, its most just, its most perfect.
Because almost all removals took place in the State Quarter, Taro had never seen Malia do her duty for her City. And now he never would.
But today he would see the Concord go on without her, and know that justice would continue to be done. He aimed for a point to the right of the statue in the centre of the square. The statue was the size of a small building, three figures reaching up so their fingers just touched a floating ball. He supposed the ball must be Vellern, and the old coves in robes were meant to be the three nations of the Confederacy. Maybe that kind of thing made Tri-Confed citizens feel all warm inside, but Taro thought it was just plain ugly. His height gave him a clear view sinwards over everyone’s heads, where he could make out the line of floating grey grav-batons sealing the officials and politicians off from the plebs. Every few minutes groups of smart-dressed coves walked out of one of the smaller buildings and crossed to the big one, some of them looking pretty nervous as they emerged into the open. Whenever anyone appeared, the interest level amongst the watchers in the square went up for a while. Occasionally Taro stopped and looked back rimwards, on the tiny chance he might see the Angel getting into position, but the orange static of the forcedome was as featureless as ever - and painful, if you stared at it for too long. The buildings here were higher and cleaner than those in the Leisure Quarter, decorated with columns and carvings, and the ground was free of litter and dirt. The punters were better dressed too, but who was to say that after the excitement was over some of them wouldn’t head back sunwise for a different sort of gratification?
He’d just drawn level with the big ugly statue when the crowd noise changed. The hubbub died down, and he started to hear the name ‘Vidoran’ as attention focused on the rimwards corner of the square, all pretence at casual curiosity forgotten. Hurrying a little now, he cut in sinwards and rimwards. Most people moved aside without him having to say anything; to the less observant, or stubborn, he used his elbows and muttered, ‘City business, make way, please.’
By the time he had found himself a good vantage point, everyone had fallen silent and all eyes were on a group of three people walking along the sinwards edge of the square. That must be Consul Vidoran in the middle: perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect smile. He was playing it cool, smiling like that, walking out to his death like he hadn’t a care in the world.
Just to this side of him and a couple of steps behind he spotted a woman in the high-necked red tunic and black cap of the City militia: an official guard, here for the sake of form. She looked nervous. Taro didn’t blame her. Removals could be messy, with frequent collateral damage. She should be safe enough though; from what he knew of her rep, Nual never took out bystanders. Of course, the militia-woman didn’t know who was going to perform the removal. No one here did except Taro, and possibly the Consul, who was about to experience invisible, silent death from an Angel’s gun.
The past no longer mattered. He was here, in the centre of things, an official agent of the Concord, one of the Minister’s chosen. He was part of history.
The third figure was on the far side of Consul Vidoran, so Taro couldn’t see him very well, but he was wearing green and yellow: Yazil City colours. That made sense; Taro had heard something about the Consul doing some smoky trade deal with Yazil City, which was presumably why he was up for removal. The Yazilers probably felt obliged to put one of their men on the line too.
As the three of them turned to head towards the Assembly building, the third figure drew slightly ahead.
Taro saw him clearly for the first time - and knew him.
Nual sat on air.
She floated a few metres out from the edge of the disc of Khesh City, legs crossed, toes pointed to control the gravitic implants that kept her aloft. Her mimetic shimmer-cloak hung around her in loose folds, rendering her invisible against the forcedome.
Her head was bowed, her gaze fixed on the black object in her lap. The laser was as long as her arm, with a heavy triangular stock and a slender barrel. A sensor pad on the trigger was coded to her alone and would discharge a lethal shock into anybody else who tried to fire the laser.
She raised the gun to her shoulder and rested her cheek against the smooth stock, watching the distant throng in the square with un-augmented vision for a few seconds before shifting her head to put her eye to the sight. She would be visible from directly in front now, the foreshortened gun a dark smudge against her pale, narrow face.
Through the sight the distant mass of people in Confederacy Square resolved into individuals. She let her gaze wash over them, getting a feel for the crowd, reading her target’s approach in their faces. They were a varied lot, united only in their desire to vicariously experience another’s death. One figure, conspicuous by his height, caught her eye: a youth with a thin, dirty face and scraps of red-and-black fabric plaited into his long dark hair. A downsider, Angel lineage judging by his colours. Interesting. The Minister must have sent him as an observer. From the look on his face he thought this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
She was about to move off h
im when the youth’s expression changed from self-satisfaction into shock and hatred and she gasped as the force of the downsider’s emotions washed over her. She turned her head away from the gun-sight to catch her breath. Whatever was wrong with the boy, she couldn’t let it break her concentration. She had to stay focused. She swung the sight away from the downsider’s contorted face to the place where she expected to get a visual lock on the target; some twenty metres in front of the Confederacy Monument. That’s where Vidoran should emerge from the shade cast by the rimwards buildings.
She slid a finger under the trigger-guard. The sensor warmed to her touch.
Taro was stunned.
He knew that man - not his name; punters rarely bothered with such niceties - but he would never forget that face, that body, nor would he ever forget what the bastard had done. What the fuck was he doing here? He wasn’t just an honour guard, a token gesture from Yazil City: he was a Screamer, an agent from the Yazil League of Concord.
The Screamer was walking in front of Vidoran now, scanning the crowd. He noticed Taro and a corner of his mouth twitched, before the twitch resolved itself into an expression of mild surprise. He looked away and moved on.
The Screamer’s indifference jolted Taro out of his paralysis and he started to shove his way through the crowd. He wanted to shout, attract the fucker’s attention, but his throat was constricted. In his head all he could hear was his own voice, shouting I’ll kill you! - the silent vow he’d made the last time they had met. The wall of bodies gave way as he pressed towards the grav-batons separating the crowd from the three figures crossing the square.
Something was wrong.
Was she just fazed by the youth’s strange reaction or was it her own unease? The senses she tried not to rely on had told her not to accept this mission, but to refuse would make her rogue, fair game for her own, or any other, League. She just wanted to get the removal over and done with so she could return to the dark sanctuary of the Undertow.
He was close now. No distractions. No thought. Just focus.
Her vision tracked across the back of a man’s head: blond pony-tail, flash of yellow and green. Yaziler. Not in uniform, might even be a Screamer. Interesting, but not important now. There was someone else on the other side, a woman: Kheshi guard. Ignore her too.
And there, in the middle, his back to her now, was Vidoran himself, moving without haste, thoroughly self-possessed. She watched him for a moment, then took a deep breath, poised on the cusp, that glorious, awful moment between life and death.
Taro thrust the last few people out of his way and slammed into the grav-batons. The invisible force-field winded him, but the pain released his voice. He pressed himself against the barrier and screamed at the top of his voice—
‘—I’ll kill you, you fucker!’
For a timeless moment, everything froze.
Then the Screamer leapt backwards, pushing Vidoran down. Taro was vaguely aware of the politician falling and of the look of puzzled surprise on the face of the Kheshi guard before she fell.
Nual dimly registered the boy’s distant cry, but there was no time to reconsider. She was committed to the shot now.
Her finger tensed on the trigger-pad, began to draw back
There was a flurry of movement and Vidoran dropped out of her sights.
Too late.
She felt the subtle vibration as the gun discharged.
Taro was still shouting as the Kheshi guard hit the ground. The Screamer stared at him for a moment, his face expressionless, then looked around, searching for the real threat, the person who’d fired the shot. Vidoran was already scrambling towards the Assembly building when the Screamer turned and ran over to the politician, putting a protective arm across his shoulders as he hurried him back into the shadows.
Someone was screaming. Taro, hoarse and out of breath, tore his gaze from the Yaziler’s departing back and looked at the militia-woman, lying where she had fallen, her upper body curled in on itself and her legs twitching wildly. Her high, thin screech was the only sound in the square.
Nual expelled her breath in a low moan.
Vidoran was already under cover and out of the line of fire. She hugged the gun to her chest, flicked her legs out and dived down below the disc of the City, away from the faint sound of the guard’s agony.
The crowd were in shock. They’d wanted violence, but not like this, not an innocent bystander. Within the Concord an individual’s death was a matter of ritual and tradition: clean and efficient, an almost antiseptic state-sponsored thrill. The accidental shooting of a guard instead of the mark because of a random distraction wasn’t part of the deal.
People had pulled away from Taro; they had heard him cry out. This terrible thing was his fault. No one approached him, no one said anything, but he could feel the weight of their eyes upon him, glaring at him in accusation and confusion.
Taro ran, oblivious to the pain in his limbs. No one got in his way. By the time he reached the edge of the square, the screaming had stopped.
CHAPTER FOUR
From space, Vellern was an orange-brown wasteland. The screens showed magnified views of the Three Cities as the liner passed over each one. The text at the bottom of the screen currently read: Passengers for Khesh City please wait in the reception lounge for the shuttle.
Elarn Reen wished there was something else to look at while she queued with the other passengers. The dome of the force-field that enclosed the City reminded her of a boil on desiccated skin.
The queue started to move and Elarn shuffled along with it. The shuttles were tight on space, so no personal luggage was allowed. She had to trust that her possessions were on their way to her hotel in the freight shuttle.
When the queue reached the airlock, an insincerely smiling steward bid the passengers goodbye. Ingrained politeness made Elarn return his smile.
The shuttle was cramped, and the screen at the front played an endless loop of adverts for hotels, bars, massage parlours, specialist shops, dance clubs and restaurants. Elarn stared at the backs of her hands.
‘Excuse me, medame?’
She looked up to see another steward bending over her.
‘I have a message for you. The message had to be re-routed to the shuttle, as you don’t have a com.’ The woman made not having a com sound like an offence committed only by the ignorant or stupid.
‘Well?’
‘It’s from a’ - the stewardess checked her wrist and Elarn thought how she’d take an attention-span over a piece of tech any day - ‘Medame Shamal Binu. Is this person known to you?’
‘Yes, sort of.’ Shamal Binu was the local agent Elarn’s manager had assigned to handle her professional engagements. Elarn had seen a holo-pic of the woman - she looked every inch the kind of impresario Elarn would never normally have allowed near her - but she had yet to speak to her directly.
The steward continued, ‘The message reads: “Apologies, I have been unavoidably detained and may be a little late meeting you at the transit hall.” Did you wish to send a response?’
‘No, no. That’s fine.’ Actually it was far from fine. After days alone in the opulent confinement of the starliner, she was now being left in the lurch by her only contact on this planet.
‘Medame? Are you all right?’ The steward was still hovering.
Elarn waved her away. I’m scared and homesick, and I don’t want to be here at all, not that you care. She looked up at the screen. At least the adverts were gone now, replaced with pictures showing their steep descent towards Vellern’s barren surface. As Elarn watched, the disc of the City became visible as a dark smudge beneath the translucent force-field. Before she could make out more detail the screen went blank. The adverts were back briefly, followed by an announcement telling passengers to remain seated until instructed to disembark. The image of the approach to the City must have been a recording, probably typical of the kind of tricks and illusions she expected here.
She waited while the other passe
ngers filed off, running the words of one of her favourite songs through her head to try to relax herself - words with lost meanings, in a lost language, intended to celebrate a religious ecstasy she had never experienced. But the alien, ancient shape of the sounds calmed and relaxed her.
By the time she followed the tail-end of the crowd out there were only a dozen or so people left with her. She entered a great circular hall, decorated with a complex spiral-pattern in black and red on the ceiling and with black doors all around the windowless grey walls. She followed her little knot of tourists through one of the doors which had tell-tales blinking green, and gasped. She and her fellow tourists were standing in a transparent bubble clinging to a thin spine running from the shuttle-pads down to the middle of the massive disc of Khesh City.