Principles of Angels

by Jaine Fenn

  She held out her wrist. ‘No, take the full fee. Consider it payment for your time.’

  She probably thought she was buying his loyalty. Perhaps she was. If she really was looking for a lost child, then he would do his best for her. And the extra credit wouldn’t go amiss. ‘Of course, if you insist. Shall I run the image-scan anyway?’

  ‘I . . . yes, you’d better. I need to be certain.’ She sounded almost relieved that he’d failed.

  ‘It might take a while. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything. My com number is on the transaction receipt on your bracelet; do contact me if there’s anything else I can do for you. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Medame Reen. Please allow me to show you out.’

  She stood abruptly, but forced a smile as she left.

  Meraint decided that, late or not, it was time for lunch.

  When he got back to the office an hour later he had no reason to suspect anything was wrong. The outside door was closed and no alarms had been tripped. It was only as he sat down behind his desk that he noticed that the twins’ picture was missing.

  The hairs on the back of his neck started to rise and he froze, listening. Someone was in the kitchen alcove, behind the curtain on the far wall. He could buzz for building security, but they charged a small fortune just to stick their heads round the door, and the only other time he’d had to call them - to deal with a drug-addled dissatisfied customer - they’d taken a frighteningly long time to arrive. His best defence was right in front of him. Meraint pulled his chair forward, resting one arm by his keypad and slipping the other hand under the desk to stroke the trigger for the set of three dart-guns concealed there. Even if only one hit, the drug in the hollow needle should sedate the intruder within a couple of seconds. Two, and most people would be unconscious. Three would take down anyone - assuming there was only one person of course. And assuming he could convince the intruder to come into range.

  The curtain of the alcove was drawn back and a man he’d never seen before emerged, glass in hand. The intruder looked round in faint curiosity, as though he was checking out the office suite with a view to making an offer to buy. From his blond hair, heavy build and ostentatious suit of gold-trimmed dark green, Meraint concluded that he was from Yazil City. When the intruder finally deigned to look directly at him, his expression was disconcertingly neutral, almost blank. Without a word he raised the glass in a silent toast, drained it, and set it back on the work-surface.

  Meraint decided to go for the casual approach and, hopefully, lull him into range. ‘Can I help you, sirrah?’ he asked pleasantly.

  The man regarded Meraint and said, ‘You might be able to, yes.’ His voice was low and sonorous but husky, as though talking were not something he did often. His blue eyes looked hard. Meraint thought he had seen him somewhere before.

  ‘Would I be right in assuming that you require information?’

  The Yaziler walked out of the alcove, but did not approach the desk. ‘Information, yes.’ He sounded disinterested, as though he did not much care what Meraint did, up to and including shooting him.

  ‘Good. Right. If you’d like to take a seat and tell me what I can do for you, I’ll see if I can help.’

  The Yaziler favoured him with a Do you think I’m stupid? look and started to pace along the far side of the room. There was something in the way he moved that reminded Meraint of the predators in the Zoo. The Yaziler reached the end of his short walk and turned on his heel. ‘What did she want, Sirrah Meraint?’

  ‘Who would this “she” be, exactly?’ Meraint reckoned that he’d cross the arc of fire for a couple of seconds when he walked back in front of the door, though the range would be extreme. He hoped the sweat on his palms wouldn’t dull his accuracy.

  ‘Please don’t be difficult,’ said the Yaziler. For the first time some emotion came into his voice, as though he was hoping Meraint would be difficult, to give him the excuse to be difficult in return.

  ‘I’m trying not to be, believe me. I’m just not sure what you’re talking about.’ And he had thought Elarn Reen was just looking for a lost child - there was obviously more going on here than that. But he had no intention of selling her out to this Yazil bastard if he could avoid it.

  ‘Medame Elarn Reen. Offworlder. Scared, lonely, probably never been kissed.’ He made the word ‘kissed’ sound obscene and insulting. ‘She came here. What did you tell her?’

  He’d been so distracted by trying to talk to this madman that he’d missed the shot. He’d have to wait until the Yaziler turned and came back across the room. ‘I’m sorry, sirrah, but my service is confidential.’

  ‘Really?’ The Yaziler turned and started to retrace his steps. He sounded bored again.

  Meraint tensed, ready to press the trigger the moment the man crossed in front of the desk. ‘Of course. My clients rely on my confidentiality.’

  ‘Really?’ repeated the Yaziler. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the picture of Meraint’s children. He looked down at the image and said, ‘It must be nice to be relied on.’

  Meraint pressed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  The Yaziler stopped pacing and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. ‘Your guns appear to be broken.’

  Meraint recognised him now. He’d seen this man walking behind Consul Vidoran in the news footage from Confederacy Square. He was a Screamer. No wonder he was so calm. Meraint felt a pressing need to visit the toilet.

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you. She was trying to find someone.’

  ‘Who would that be?’ The Yaziler walked over to the desk and perched on one corner.

  Meraint barely resisted the urge to push his chair backwards, away from the threat of the Yazil assassin. ‘She wanted to know about a woman called Lia Reen.’

  The Screamer looked impassive. ‘Lia Reen?’ he repeated. Meraint couldn’t see how Medame Reen’s estranged child - if that was who she was - had any relevance to Consul Vidoran. Neither, apparently, could the Consul’s bodyguard; it sounded like he had never heard the name before.

  ‘Yes. I think she might be an adopted daughter. I didn’t ask.’

  The Yaziler pursed his lips. ‘And what did you tell her about this Lia Reen?’

  ‘Nothing. The search failed. No matches.’ The Screamer didn’t need to know about the trace on the file. Whoever had put that on was someone with more clout than a mid-level politician.

  The Screamer raised an eyebrow, as though questioning whether such a thing were possible. ‘That’s a little odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. Medame Reen lost touch with her years ago. She wasn’t even sure the girl had come here.’ Not entirely what she had said, but he would tell the Yaziler whatever got him out of his office the fastest.

  The Screamer looked down at the picture in his hands. Meraint flinched at the thought of the killer’s fingers on the image of his children. ‘So Medame Reen did not get what she wanted?’

  ‘No. I did my best, but—’ Meraint forced a shrug, feeling his shoulders jump up round his ears. ‘I can only pass on what information is available.’

  ‘Obviously if you think of anything else, or if Medame Reen comes back, you’ll let me know at once.’

  Meraint looked at him in panic. The unpleasant thought that he might have to deal with this psycho again had not crossed his mind.

  ‘I said, you’ll let me know.’

  ‘I . . . yes.’

  ‘Good. I’ve sent the number of a confidential voicemail service to your com.’ He smiled down at the image, kissed his fingers, then touched them to the picture. ‘What charming little girls you have.’ He put the holo-pic back, face down.

  Meraint continued to stare as the Screamer slid off the desk and left. Only when the door clicked shut did he put his head in his hands and let out a low moan.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Some bastard had held a party in Taro’s head without inviting him. He swallowed. His throat tasted like hot leather. He rolle
d over onto one side, coughed, and managed to open his eyes on the third attempt.

  He was lying in the whores’ sleeping room. Morning light oozed up through the nets of the floor-gap, illuminating a dozen or so boys and girls asleep, curled up in pairs or trios. Others sat around talking. Soot and damp streaked the walls above the lamp brackets; lower down, some people had drawn on the wall, or tacked pictures to it to mark their space. The place reeked of stale sweat and cheap perfume.

  He levered himself upright. Giddy heat flashed through him and his head wanted to roll off his neck, but he wasn’t going to give in. No, he was going to get up now, ’cause it was either that or piss where he lay, and that wasn’t a good way to make friends with his new troupe-mates.

  He staggered up to the brocade curtain, drawing curious glances from the other whores, and made his way to an alcove he remembered passing yesterday. No one had pointed it out, but the smell told him all he needed to know.

  The piss-pot was nearly full. He guessed that, as the new boy, he’d be the one taking the poo-pot to the shit-gardeners and the piss-pot to the water-traders. Something to look forward to. Then, as memories of the last day seeped back, it occurred to him that this wasn’t such a bad idea. He wasn’t sure which water-trader Limnel’s troupe usually used, but if he took the pee to Fenya’s, maybe he could talk to her partner and find out whether Federin really had seen Scarrion on the day Malia was killed.

  He reeled back to the sleeping room and asked of no one in particular, ‘You want I should take the pots out? I don’t mind.’

  A youth about his own age with pert lips and cautious eyes said, ‘No, that’s Arel’s job.’ He nodded to a girl curled tight against the far wall. ‘If she ever wakes up. Poor bitch keeps us awake with her moanin’, then crashes out when it’s time to get up. Good job she’s on the late shift. Yer on early, with us.’

  A waterskin and a bowl of cold mash were being passed round. He gratefully accepted the drink, but his stomach shrank away at the idea of food. The youth who’d spoken wetted a rag and threw it to Taro. ‘Wash yer face. You got a change of clothin’?’

  Taro wiped the rag round his face and neck, then tottered off to get his pack. He rummaged in it and found his other shirt. It wasn’t much cleaner than the one he had on, but at least he hadn’t slept in it for the last three nights. The girl in the corner still hadn’t moved.

  By the time he’d changed his head had stopped pounding in favour of just throbbing, and his body had settled into an overall tired ache. The tarts were putting on their make-up, and a girl far too young to be in the trade approached Taro and offered to help him. Rather than use his mirror and risk envious looks, he let her put lines round his eyes and dabbed the scent she offered behind his ears and on his wrists. He thought she wanted to chat with him as she worked, but he wasn’t sure how the others would react. He was just painting her lips when Keron strode in. ‘Let’s move those sweet arses topside, boys an’ girls.’ As Taro walked past him he asked, ‘Hoi Taro, how’re ya doin’ this mornin’?’

  ‘Bad as I deserve, given how prime I felt last night.’

  ‘Oh aye, that shit’s quality. Bring in plenty of the foldin’ stuff today an’ I’ll see if I can’t getcha a little more of the happy dust tonight.’

  That made Taro feel a bit better, until he spotted the looks this comment got him: looked like not everyone had such easy access to Limnel’s stash. Maybe it was only those Limnel wanted to keep a hold on - which wasn’t good news for him.

  Taro followed the whores as they filed through the Undertow behind Keron. The more talkative gossiped while they waited at the base of the nets. Taro didn’t try to butt in, but he replied to anything said to him. He let the others go topside before him.

  The exit Keron used was sunwise of Taro’s normal one, only a short walk through the sidestreets to Soft Street. Their pitch was a good one and it looked like most of them had set places to work from. Keron directed Taro to a spot already occupied by the girl who’d done his make-up, next to a shop selling mechanical sex-aids. Then the pimp sauntered away hubwards towards a bar that, according to the holos playing outside, featured low-g mud wrestling every evening.

  Once Keron had gone inside, Taro turned to the girl next to him and said, ‘I gotta make a com call. Be back soon.’

  She looked at him as though he’d suggested going into a restaurant and ordering a steak. After a moment she said, ‘Sure, I s’pose. Better be quick - Keron’ll be back soon as he’s got his drink.’

  Taro ignored the other hustlers as he walked back rimwards to the public com booths he’d spotted.

  He didn’t have much to report, but he should check in, at least. ‘I’ve made some enquiries but I’ve nothin’ to report yet, sirrah,’ he told the emotionless voice.

  The Minister’s response was just as terse. ‘Let us hope there will be soon.’ The connection was cut as soon as he’d finished speaking.

  Taro returned to his space. It wasn’t long before the lag who’d spoken to him earlier came over and asked, more curious than hostile, why he’d gone off like that. Taro decided it wouldn’t do any harm to let people know the Minister’s eye was on him, but when he said he was working for the Minister, the tart laughed and told him, ‘Hope yer not gonna start thinkin’ that makes you special - you ain’t the only one got Angel lineage, you know.’

  The girl beside him chimed in, ‘Our older sister shacked up with an Angel fer a while. Never got to wear the colours or take her name ourselves; still, word gets around, y’know.’

  ‘But now—’ He shrugged to show their fall from grace.

  ‘Aye, I know,’ Taro said. ‘Same fer me. I’ll deal with it.’

  The boy nodded, happy he’d made his point, and walked off. His sister said, ‘We was lucky though. Her girlfriend dumped her fer somethin’ pretty she found at the Exquisite Corpse, rather than . . . you know.’

  ‘The Exquisite Corpse? That place real?’ Malia had mentioned the name, he thought - and something about an alien who ran a bar in the Undertow? It’d sounded gappy to him: Malia had been wrecked at the time, so he’d assumed she’d been winding him up. Apparently not.

  The girl laughed ‘Aye, it’s real enough. It’s under the Merchant Quarter. Never been there, but they say Angels come from all over the Undertow. Only Angel brood get served, though. Anyone else prob’ly gets used fer target practice.’

  ‘No shit,’ murmured Taro. An Angel bar in Nual’s part of the Undertow - where better to overhear gossip about her? He still had his colours; that’d get him in. He just needed to work out how to get there.

  He was just about to ask the girl’s name when Keron came out the bar and shouted, ‘Hoi, you two! Less talk, more action!’

  She gave him an apologetic grin, pulled her top down and focused on the Street.

  Taro knew the drill. When he’d turned fourteen, Malia had given him a choice: find a trade, or find another place to live. Being good-looking and easy to get on with didn’t put mash in the pot or water in the skin in a normal troupe, and she wouldn’t be around for ever.

  Gappy idiot that he’d been, he’d thought she was wrong on both counts, and he’d set out to prove it. An older woman, a troupe leader, mother of a boy who’d dumped him, had come on to him just the week before - but of course he’d turned her down; she was old and he had his pick of the local action. He went back to her and offered himself to her; in return, he wanted the necklace he’d seen her boy palm from a topside boutique. It was as easy as that. He’d offered the necklace to Malia, and told her, proudly, how he got it. So that’s your choice. That’s what she’d said; not, Well done, or I knew you had something special. She’d looked at him oddly - he’d wondered if she’d been upset at his choice of occupation, but then she’d said, In the end, we’re all whores. You give pleasure, I take lives.

  Over the last three years she’d directly pimped for him half a dozen times, and told him to go find himself some trade two dozen more. Many of his own clients had bec
ome regulars - but other than the necklace, she’d never taken anything from him.

  Though he did it mainly for the cash, he didn’t mind the hustle. He liked sex, and he was good at it; doing it as business made everything simpler: there were no misunderstandings, no broken promises, no hurt feelings. All he had to do was put up an invisible shield, and keep the client on the far side of it. And the hustle was just a way of filling in time until the Minister took him on; he’d always known that was what he was destined for. So what if all his other relationships broke up within a month; he’d never cared for anyone enough to want to prolong things once they started to go stale.

  Except the last client had broken through the barriers, and had used Taro in ways that went way beyond physical pain. After Scarrion, he never wanted to sell himself again - but now he no longer had the choice. Forget the Screamer. Make the score. He bent one leg up, leaning into the wall, casual-like, making eye contact with anyone who looked like a potential trick, dropping his gaze as soon as they noticed him. Playing it shy always worked best. Don’t scare off the punters.