by Jaine Fenn
As the elevator descended she was treated to a panoramic view. The first thing she noticed was that there was no sky. After a life spent under the dramatic open horizon of Khathryn, she found her mind rebelling at the idea of being stopped by the orange force-field. The sun was visible only as a small bright patch high in the wall of static, but there were no clouds, no horizon. While the ‘sky’ was featureless, the disc of the City itself was intricate with detail. She knew it was ten kilometres across but she could see nothing to give it any scale. Only as the elevator dropped lower did the thin lines radiating out from the centre of the disc resolve into boulevards dozens of metres wide, and the jumble of shapes between them into low, close-packed buildings. She gripped the handrail and leaned against the elevator wall as she looked down. The greenery directly below - the famous Gardens, presumably - was shrouded in a faint mist and broken up by various structures. She spotted one big building, a sports stadium, maybe, and what looked like an amphitheatre, and a cluster of buildings round a large pool. The view disappeared and the elevator went dark for a brief moment before they emerged into light again. The elevator was inside now, decelerating through a high-ceilinged hall whose floor was alive with figures and holo-projections.
When the door opened she followed her fellow travellers through an ornate free-standing arch. Elarn’s suspicion that the structure was not just ornamental was confirmed when two gentlemen in red uniforms decorated with black piping stepped forward to accost the idiot who had pestered her that morning. Elarn, already through the arch, slowed down to overhear what was being said by the men, who she assumed to be the Khesh City militia, the nearest this place had to formal law enforcement.
‘We have reason to believe you may be carrying a propellant pistol, sirrah,’ one said, his hand firm on the tourist’s arm.
‘What? How do you—? I mean, what makes you think—?’
‘You have been scanned, sirrah.’
Much as she enjoyed seeing the man discomfited, Elarn couldn’t help wondering what other, less orthodox checks might have been carried out on Khesh City’s visitors. The man protested, ‘I was told that personal weapons were legal here. In fact, I was advised to carry one.’
‘Yes, sirrah. You may buy or carry non-projectile or gas-powered weapons for self-defence purposes. However, if you wish to bring your own weapon into the City, you’ll have to pay import duty. That was clearly written in the small print of your travel documents.’
The man spluttered, but held out his credit-bracelet.
Elarn allowed herself a small smile and joined the trickle of tourists sauntering across the open area beyond the arch towards a line of floating grey batons. The area on the far side of the batons swarmed with people, many of them pressed up against the barrier, trying to attract the attention of the new arrivals. Tacky holo-adverts flashed above the crowds: ‘Diamond Mall - jewellery from across the universe’; ‘Try a bodysculpt for a You you’ve only dreamed of ’; ‘Whatever your pleasure, you’ll find yourself fulfilled on Soft Street’. The graphics on that last one stopped Elarn in her tracks: apparently there were no laws against public obscenity here. The human hucksters beneath the holo-ads were also trying to sell things - weaponry, narcotics, maps, trinkets, themselves - and as she passed through the gap in the barrier, the sound of the competing sales pitches melded with the soundtracks of the holo-ads into a barrage of noise.
Elarn recoiled from the onslaught. Even if her agent had been here, she doubted she would have found her. But she couldn’t stand around in this place all day either. The best thing she could do right now would be to find somewhere quiet to wait, somewhere she could keep an eye out for Medame Binu. She lowered her head and started to push through the crowd, muttering apologies that no one noticed. She found herself constantly jostled by the press of people, but her obvious lack of interest meant no one bothered her directly.
A hand shot out and grabbed for her wrist. Elarn snatched her arm back and looked up. Standing in front of her was a fearfully pale girl well over two metres tall, wearing a mismatched collection of ragged, ill-fitting clothes, and plenty of dirt. Instead of shoes she had strips of fabric wound round her feet. Orange and dark-green rags had been plaited into her otherwise unkempt hair. Her dark eyes were huge, and the left one was made even bigger by a curved pink scar that pulled down the outside corner. Elarn realised that this was someone to whom the concept of personal hygiene was obviously unknown. She drew a quick, frightened breath.
The girl put out a hand in a warning, shushing gesture. The other hand performed a complicated flick and when Elarn’s eyes followed the movement, she saw that her attacker was holding a short, jagged-edged grey blade.
She managed to look away from the knife, hoping to find help. Now, finally, people were avoiding her. She was an island of calm in the sea of hustlers as people passed by quickly and avoided looking her way.
She must not panic. The relative safety of the arrival area was only a few metres behind her. She took a step back, then another.
Her heel hit flesh.
The gravity was only a fraction more than she was used to, but it was enough to make a difference. She toppled backwards, falling hard. As soon as she hit the floor an arm snaked out from behind her and clamped across her neck. Something dug into the small of her back and foul, hot breath fanned the side of her face.
Elarn froze. Though she was terrified, some detached, analytical part of her mind recognised her attackers from recordings: they were downsiders: exotic, brutal and immoral. Deep inside she felt the scream building, the scream she must not allow to escape.
She needed to stay calm, to try to reason with them, convince them to leave her alone. If she panicked now, they would be more likely to hurt her. And if she let the scream out, she wouldn’t stop screaming until everyone here was dead.
She took a couple of rapid breaths and forced herself to speak ‘Wh—what do you want?’ she panted. Perhaps if she kept the downsiders occupied long enough the militia would see what was happening and come over to help her.
‘Bracelet, please, medame,’ said the downsider in front of her in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘Bracelet?’ echoed Elarn stupidly, until she realised the girl wanted her credit bracelet. There wasn’t much on it - the guidebooks had advised against carrying too much stealable credit - and though it also held Elarn’s City ID, this skinny thief was welcome to it. Chances were she’d let her go once she had the money. ‘Yes, of course, but I need—’ She shifted, and the pressure round her neck tightened. She struggled to speak. ‘You’ll have to let me sit up to get it off.’
The girl crouched down and Elarn flinched: for a moment she thought the downsider was going to use that vicious-looking knife on her, but instead the girl looked past Elarn and nodded.
The pressure on Elarn’s neck relaxed, although she could still feel a knife pricking into her back. She sat forward and reached over to thumb the clasp on the front of the bracelet. She just had to do what they said and she would be fine. She could panic later.
Sudden movement made her look up.
The downsider girl was scrabbling backwards, staring up at something behind Elarn. In her terror she suddenly looked very young. She swore under her breath - Shit and blood! - then turned and was gone in a flurry of scrawny limbs.
From behind, Elarn heard a sharp crack, followed by a soft sighing sound. Somehow she knew that however bad the attempted mugging had been, this was worse. She threw herself forward, away from the sound, her heart in overdrive, and started to crawl away, but she had to look back, even though she knew she’d regret it.
A downsider boy was sprawled in front of an athletically built young man with a handsome, cruel face and blond hair swept back over his shoulders. The man held the boy’s head in his hands; the boy’s neck was bent sharply to one side, his eyes were wide with surprise and the tip of his tongue protruded from his lips. He wasn’t moving. Elarn looked from the boy to the blond man and met the calm, dead ey
es of a killer.
For a second, she thought she was going to lose control of her bladder, but she couldn’t - wouldn’t - let herself do that. She couldn’t faint, either, much as she wanted to; a lifetime of being in control wouldn’t let her take the easy way out.
She tried to gather her legs under her to stand, but, no matter how strong she was in her head, her body refused to co-operate. All she could manage was to twist herself off her knees to a sitting position. She had never expected to die this way, killed by a random lunatic on an alien world.
‘Are you all right?’
Something was being held out to her. A hand? A man’s hand, clean, elegant. Not the hand of an enemy. She grabbed the hand without thinking. It was firm and cool.
‘Here, let me help you.’
Elarn let the man pull her to her feet. Even through her fear she could see he was immaculately groomed: his dark hair and small beard were cropped and shaped, and his red-trimmed dark green suit looked made-to-measure. He had a narrow, aristocratic-looking nose, dark brown eyes and lips which, though thin, had a sensuous twist to them. It was the most wonderful face in the world.
‘It’s all right, medame.’ The man’s voice sounded close to her ear; Elarn found that she had pressed herself into him. ‘Scarrion won’t hurt you.’
For a moment Elarn was confused; then she realised the man was referring to the killer. Should she trust someone who kept company with murderers? But the man said, ‘He’s my bodyguard. I saw what was happening and told him to help you.’
‘He . . . he broke that boy’s neck.’ A stupid thing to say. She must be in shock.
‘And if he hadn’t, that boy and his friend would probably have killed you. Besides, it was only a downsider.’ The man raised his voice slightly, addressing his bodyguard. ‘Fetch the militia and get them to clear up this mess, please, Scarrion.’
The blond man hesitated for a second, looking between Elarn and her saviour, who addressed him with a nod. ‘We’ll be fine for a while. I think the lady needs some air.’ The bodyguard dropped the body as though it were a sack of rubbish and strode off through the crowd without a word. Elarn noticed a small dribble of blood running from the corner of the dead boy’s mouth, and a new, unpleasant smell emanating from the body. So this was what death was like.
‘Let’s get you away from here.’ The man put an arm round her shoulder and turned her from the scene.
Elarn let him lead her through the crowd, most of whom had seen enough to move aside and let them pass. Her legs still felt like they wanted to bend the wrong way and she couldn’t stop her teeth chattering, but with every step she regained some of her composure.
As they left the transit hall, the noise level fell. Elarn found herself at the side of a small tree-lined square where a queue of peculiar little vehicles waited to take the arriving tourists to their hotels: pedicabs, three-wheeled pedal-powered contraptions with a double seat in front of the driver. A fountain played in the centre of the square and pots of red and white flowers decorated the walkways. The trees that surrounded the square had glossy leaves; they looked healthy. After ten days in a space-going box breathing recycled air Elarn found the smell and sight of so much vegetation a pleasant surprise, but the ‘ground’ out here was still the same grey material as the floor of the hall they had just left, a reminder that despite the plants disguising it, she was on a man-made construct, floating three kilometres above the planet’s surface.
Her saviour guided her to one of the varnished wooden benches just outside the door. ‘You’re sure you’re not hurt?’ he asked solicitously.
‘No, I’m fine, really. Just a bit shaken. I can’t believe that everyone ignored what was happening like that.’
‘Ah. I take it this is your first visit to our City? I’m afraid that’s fairly typical, especially when downsiders are involved. It’s safer to just pretend it isn’t happening, to avoid drawing attention to yourself.’
Elarn had assumed from his cultured manner that he must be a visitor, but he’d said ‘our City’. ‘Do you live here, then?’
‘I’m being rude. Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Salik Vidoran. And yes, I am one of the minority who think of this City as home.’
‘Elarn Reen. I’m very pleased to meet you.’ Salik Vidoran? Elarn had heard that name recently.
‘Ah, here’s Scarrion.’
The bodyguard stopped outside the doors and scanned his surroundings. Unlike his employer he was dressed ostentatiously, in embarrassingly tight dark green trousers and a loose cream-coloured shirt shot through with golden thread. He was a little barrel-chested. When he spotted them, he nodded, but didn’t come over - watching for threats, presumably. Elarn was quite happy for him to keep his distance.
Salik Vidoran stood. ‘May I get you some transport, Medame Reen?’
‘Er, no, thank you. I’m being met.’ She wondered what he would assume from that, whether she should say more - just in case, for example, he took her comment to mean that she had a partner.
‘Of course. I can wait with you, if you like. My day’s appointments have just been cancelled and I’m at something of a loose end.’ His smile was dazzling. She found herself smiling back.
‘Well, if you—Oh!’ That had to be Shamal Binu, disembarking from a newly arrived pedicab. She was slender, and looked almost like some exotic bird, right down to the feathers in her hair. She spotted Elarn and waved enthusiastically. There were pink and lilac feathers at her wrists too, colour-coordinated with her short-skirted suit.
‘Ah.’ His tone said that he shared Elarn’s first impression of Medame Binu. ‘I do believe your ride is here.’
Elarn turned to him, but he was already standing up. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
He smiled down at her. ‘Might I be impertinent enough to suggest that we meet up again? Perhaps after one of your performances? Assuming I have leapt to the correct conclusion and you are the Elarn Reen?’
So there was one person at least in this uncivilised place who appreciated music. She smiled. ‘Yes, I am. And yes, I would like that. Thank you, again.’
He left, and Elarn tried not to peer after him.
Moments later Shamal Binu arrived in a flurry of feathers. She mimed two quick kisses to the air behind Elarn’s left and right ears, and then stared with the intensity of a bird of prey spotting a mouse at Salik Vidoran’s departing back. Without looking at Elarn she said, in a voice surprisingly deep for one so slight, ‘Unbelievable. Here two minutes and you’ve already snared the man of the moment.’ She turned back to Elarn and favoured her with the full force of her make-up. ‘Now that, my dear, is style.’
CHAPTER FIVE
At first Taro welcomed the burning in his legs, because pain stopped thought. But gravity soon got the better of him and by the time he was out of the Square into Confederacy Street he had to stop running.
Ahead, an open gateway marked the hubwards end of the Street and the edge of the State Quarter. Taro attracted nothing more than a hostile stare from the baton-boys on the gate. They couldn’t have heard the news; if they knew he’d caused the death of one of their own they would’ve beaten him to a pulp, valid City ID or not.
He found himself in the Ringway, the circular street that ran around the Gardens. From here you could get to the hubwards ends of all thirty-two Streets. Ahead, the dark pillar of the spine towered over the green chaos of the Gardens. Taro plunged into the wall of foliage.
Branches scratched his face and the change underfoot from flat City material to uneven, root-impacted soil nearly tripped him up, but he carried on, deeper into the Gardens, until the sounds of the Streets tailed off to a distant drone and all he could see in any direction was green. Only then did he allow his legs to buckle and he fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He made no attempt to stop them. For three days he’d been numb with shock and guilt; now he gave way to grief.
Eventually the tears ran out. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the shifting pattern
of leaves against the orange sky. All this growing stuff around him made him feel safe, cut off from the screw-up his life had become.
Something cold dropped onto his face. He flinched. Another drop. As though mirroring his mood, water was falling from the sky. He’d been in the Gardens once before when this happened; the roller he’d been with, a Kheshi homeworlder, had told him the water fell from unseen structures in the trees to feed the Gardens. Maybe that was true. Right now it felt more like City magic. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes, swallowing whenever one of the fat drops landed in his mouth. He lay there until the ground below him began to feel damp, then slowly climbed to his feet.
He knew what he had to do.
He had messed with the sacred process of the Concord by disrupting a removal. His reason had been personal vengeance, but the Screamer had broken more rules than he had. The Minister needed to know what had happened. And Taro must be the one to tell him.