Night Without Stars (Chronicle of the Fallers Book 2)

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘Thank you.’

  This time she hugged him tight. ‘You stay ahead of them, you hear me? And when the time is right, you and Essie shake this world so hard it rattles.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  *

  Chaing opened the door to his flat and saw Jenifa sitting at the small kitchen table. Crud!

  She glared at him. ‘You never said a crudding word to help me. Not one, you bastard!’

  He closed the door and took a few steps towards her. She’d risen to stand rigid-backed, her face all belligerent. Seeing her like this, so angry, with her body all tense, he was surprised to find he was getting very turned on. ‘Half the office was there outside Castillito’s place,’ he retorted, refusing to give ground. ‘What else could I do? If I’d had an argument with Director Yaki in front of everyone, we would both have been backed into a corner with no way out. Is that what you wanted? Because you damn well know what the inquiry is going to find. You shouldn’t have left Castillito; you shouldn’t have given her the chance to escape. She made you look ridiculous. The PSR is a laughing stock because of you.’

  ‘Me? It was your crudding idea!’

  Chaing ducked forwards and kissed her. Jenifa pushed him away hard, then grinned viciously as she slowly unbuttoned her uniform blouse. ‘That bitch has got something on you, hasn’t she? That was the real message I carried back.’

  Chaing never took his eyes from her small black bra. ‘You screwed up, corporal. Don’t try and blame me.’

  ‘You messed up somewhere and she knows about it,’ Jenifa sneered back at him. ‘You’re running scared from a filthy Eliter, captain.’

  He grimaced at the raw truth, then grunted in shock as her hand closed around his balls, squeezing roughly. With a yell he tugged her bra off, tearing the clips. She slapped him. He lunged forwards.

  They fucked right there on the kitchen table. It was anger sex, hot and turbulent, both trying to climax first, to win. The table legs scraped across the floor as they writhed about, a screeching sound blotted out by her sharp cries and his animal grunts.

  Chaing didn’t care about the noise, or who heard them; he laughed in triumph as an orgasm claimed him. Losing Florian, being outsmarted by Castillito, none of that mattered now. This was real victory. Beneath him, Jenifa spasmed in pleasure.

  They lay on the tabletop for a long time, panting almost in unison, clothes tangled, sweaty skin pressed together, limbs at awkward angles. Then the slow extrication began, like undoing a tricky knot of sticky flesh.

  ‘So what happened after I was dismissed?’ Jenifa asked. She frowned in annoyance at the ripped buttons on her uniform skirt as she slipped it off.

  ‘Nothing,’ he admitted as he eased his ruined shirt over the cast on his arm. ‘Castillito made a very clean getaway. It was impressive considering how tight the observation team was.’

  ‘What about the raids? I heard the sheriffs were starting as I left the office.’

  ‘A few of them turned up some petty crud, but nothing connected with Florian. We still haven’t got a clue where he is.’

  ‘And Castillito’s friends and associates? Are you bringing them in?’

  ‘Procedure says we should, but we both know that’s going to be a waste of time. First, there’s hundreds of them. And she won’t have implicated anyone.’

  ‘This is falling into a grade-A crudstorm.’ She shook off her blouse so she was standing completely naked in front of him.

  ‘Somebody knows where he is. I’ll find them,’ Chaing said resolutely. His eyepatch had slid round to his cheek; he took it off carefully, fingers probing at the sore flesh round the eye where the bruise was now colouring up.

  ‘Uracus, you look terrible.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She pressed her fists into the small of her back, arching her spine as she tried to work the knots out of her muscles.

  He enjoyed the sight of her flexing body for a while, then asked, ‘Why do you do it?’ genuinely curious.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Build your muscles up like that.’

  She looked down proudly at herself. ‘I want to be strong, to be exceptional. Not just my body, but my mind too. This job we have, if we’re weak we fail. It’s that simple.’

  ‘And being physically strong . . .’

  ‘The two are connected; one feeds the other. I need to be strong enough to withstand anything that can happen to me. And I am.’ She tossed her head, and put her hands on her hips, staring at him defiantly with her wide hazel eyes. ‘Why? Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I like it very much.’

  ‘I admire you, Chaing.’

  ‘Admire me? Is that all?’

  ‘What do you think? I’m crudding furious with you, right now. But yes, you’re so obsessed with catching Florian, you even sacrificed me. That’s a kind of strength.’

  ‘I didn’t sacrifice you, I diverted Yaki, that’s all,’ he lied. ‘The only testimony that’ll matter at your inquiry will be mine.’

  ‘I can’t be pushed out of the PSR. You know that, right? It’s everything to me, my whole life. We’re all that stands between Bienvenido and the Faller Apocalypse.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘You want to screw again?’ she taunted. ‘Are you strong enough for that?’

  Chaing gave her a greedy look. He was playing with fire now, and he knew it – which was what made it so exciting. ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Get onto the bed.’

  He lay down, trying not to smirk.

  Jenifa clambered onto the mattress beside him. With a dirty grin, she licked the length of his cock. ‘When are you going to talk to Yaki about me?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I want to be reinstated.’

  ‘I know you do.’ He sighed in delight as her tongue flicked out again.

  ‘And fully vindicated.’

  ‘Oh Giu! Yes. Yes you will be. Just . . . don’t stop.’

  5

  Ry took the tenement steps two at a time on his way to the back door. For the first time since he started watching Cameron’s, there was someone else using the stairwell – a woman holding hands with her young son as they climbed up, both dressed in faded clothes. Her face was tired and beaten down by the life this part of the city offered.

  She gave him a sullen look as he hurried past; nobody acknowledged anyone in the tenement. The boy cocked his head to one side, blinking in amazement. Then he smiled.

  Ry reached the bottom of the stairs. Above him he heard the boy saying: ‘It’s him, Mum. It’s him! Really.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The astronaut. Major Evine. He just flew a Liberty mission.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid.’

  ‘I’m not stupid. It is him, it is, honest. I recognize him from the magazine.’

  Ry grinned to himself as the boy carried on protesting, but it was an uncomfortable reminder of how precarious his own position was. His beard was thickening nicely, but he was still out of place here and very much on his own.

  He retrieved the tuk-tuk and drove onto the east end of Midville Avenue, where the deep shade from the walwallow trees made it difficult to see anything – especially if you were standing in the bright morning sunlight outside Cameron’s.

  The van was outside the club, with Shaham just climbing into the front passenger seat. Ry’s visual-recognition routine had extracted Shaham’s identity from the general-band streams even quicker than it tagged Perrick.

  There were two other goons accompanying Roxwolf’s senior lieutenant, just visible in the back of the van. It pulled out from the kerb and did a U-turn. Ry cursed, and throttled the tuk-tuk hard, turning down the first alley on the left. Following Shaham and the van for a couple of days had left him as familiar with the crumbling dockland area as any of its hard-up residents.

  He did a fast circle through the tangle of backstreets, catching up with the van on Krestol Street, which was one of the main thoroughfares heading
back into the centre of Opole. Twenty minutes later they were in the Jollarn district, which was made up of neat streets lined by solidly average houses. The electromagnetic spectrum chittered with link transmissions – Jollarn was an area favoured by Eliters. But then Ry already knew that; he’d followed Shaham to the same district yesterday afternoon. The gangster’s van had cruised round for a while, moving up and down Stower Road for no reason Ry could make out. Presumably it was some kind of inspection, scouting out the street.

  As they turned onto Stower Road that morning, three motorbikes raced past the tuk-tuk, all three with pillion passengers. Ry instinctively reduced speed to let them go. Up ahead the van was slowing, pulling in to park in front of the last house in a neat two-storey terrace at the far end of the road.

  Ry turned into a side road and got off to watch. One of the bikes rode down the alley behind the terrace. Then the entire electromagnetic spectrum used by Eliters to communicate was flooded by a blast of white-noise signal. All the people on bikes and the two goons from the back of the van hurried into the house. Pistols were drawn from holsters that had been covered by bulky jackets. Two minutes later Shaham joined them inside the house.

  The few pedestrians on Stower Road were looking round in puzzlement as the jamming signal continued to blast out its interference. A couple of the goons emerged from the house and opened the back of the van. Boxes were carried inside. One of them tucked a big roll of what looked like chicken-wire mesh under his arm.

  Ry simply could not work out what was happening. It didn’t look like part of a protection racket. Is that the house Florian is hiding in? His retinas zoomed in for a better look. That was when he got lucky. One of the goons half-tripped on the kerb, the box he was carrying slipping from his grip. Even from where he was, seventy metres away, Ry could hear the other man’s cry of fear. The box fell to the ground and tipped over, its top flapping open. Both goons froze. Then they were both scrambling round on the pavement, picking up the small grey cylinders that had spilled out of the box.

  A chill crept along Ry’s skin, and he quickly retreated back down the street to sit on the tuk-tuk while his racing heart slowly calmed. He recognized those innocuous waxed-cardboard cylinders: dynamite.

  *

  ‘It’s time,’ Aunt Terannia said.

  Florian took a last look round the dank mod stable. It was a wretched place to hide, but it had been safe. This was the fifth day they’d spent here, which meant Essie had now spent half her life in the gloomy room. And that wasn’t fair, not at all. He wanted so much more for her.

  ‘We’re ready,’ he said.

  ‘I brought you something,’ Terannia told Essie, and held up a green dress. ‘For the journey, sweetie. Can’t have you going outside dressed in rags, now, can we.’

  A huge smile broke across Essie’s face. ‘Thank you so much, auntie.’

  Terannia swallowed something in her throat. ‘You’re welcome. Got you some shoes, too – well, sandals.’

  Essie grinned and went over to the far end of the mod stable to change out of the robe she was wrapped in.

  Florian smiled awkwardly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Like I was going to do anything else,’ Terannia said. ‘I care about her, and not just because of where she’s from.’

  ‘How’s my mother? Do you know?’ He’d spent most of the previous evening accessing the general band, hearing about Castillito’s disappearance, the fury of the PSR.

  ‘I don’t know. And if I don’t, you can be crudding sure the PSR hasn’t got a clue where she is. So don’t you worry about her, or us. You focus on your job, you keep that girl safe for the next three weeks.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘She looks about eight or nine now. Damn, it makes my head hurt just thinking what the Commonwealth can do, even though stuff like this is defying nature. They’re like gods.’

  ‘They’re not gods, but they’re not backwards like us, either. If we can just talk to them, they’ll help. I know they will.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Florian. I really do.’

  Florian heard crying, and turned to see Essie shuffling slowly towards them. She’d over-eaten again last night, bloating up her limbs so she had trouble moving her joints. The new dress only emphasized how grubby her skin was despite a half-hearted attempt to wash that morning. Ebony hair hung oily and limp against her head; for whatever reason, it didn’t grow at the same rate as the rest of her, leaving it disturbingly thin. The memory organ was prominent beneath the lank strands, its livid colour vivid against her pale skin.

  ‘Dad,’ she whimpered. ‘It hurts.’

  Florian ran over, and swept her up in his arms. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll get you some medicine. It’ll take the pain away. I promise.’

  He sat her down and collected the medical kit. Terannia’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of the smooth box extruding tablets. Essie swallowed them eagerly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. It just hurts!’

  ‘Hey.’ He stroked her brow. ‘It’s okay. It’s going to stop soon, I promise.’

  ‘Thank you, Dad. I love you.’

  ‘And I love you too, sweetheart.’

  He cuddled her for another couple of minutes, waiting for the painkillers to take hold. Then they made their way back along the narrow, low passage to Terannia’s office.

  Most of the boxes of bottles had gone. The floorboards were wet with wine and spirits, and the air carried their smell. There was no chair behind the desk any more. The top of the desk was covered in tall piles of paper.

  ‘The sheriffs did this?’ Florian asked.

  ‘Let’s just concentrate on getting you out of Opole, shall we?’ Terannia said.

  Downstairs, the club was missing half its tables and chairs. Matthieu was waiting by the bar, a big dressing taped on his cheek. Anger brought a flush to Florian’s face as he saw the injury.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Matthieu said quickly.

  ‘No you’re not! Who did this?’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘It shouldn’t!’

  ‘I know,’ Matthieu smiled softly. ‘And you’re going to put a stop to it, aren’t you, my boy?’

  ‘Yes!’

  He smiled at Essie. ‘Looking mighty fine today, young lady.’

  Essie sniffed and managed a sheepish grin.

  ‘What now?’ Florian asked.

  ‘Well, you don’t leave by the front door, that’s for certain,’ Terannia said.

  There was a trapdoor in the cellar, concealed in the floorboards as cleverly as the doorway in the office panelling. Florian guessed it was the same carpenter who’d made both of them.

  Matthieu handed Florian and Essie torches, and climbed down the ladder.

  ‘You take care,’ Terannia said, giving Florian a hug. She gave him a velvet hat with a broad rim. ‘There, that should keep anyone from getting a good look at you. It’ll only be a few paces in the open to the van.’

  ‘Thank you. Without you—’

  ‘Go,’ she croaked. ‘We’ll be waiting to hear about you.’

  ‘The whole world is going to know what she does,’ he said solemnly.

  Essie climbed down the stairs slowly, trying not to wince at every movement. Florian followed her down.

  It was another cellar underneath, made of stone rather than brick. Florian knew it was older. The walls bulged in places, and the wooden beams were starting to crumble.

  ‘The whole city is built on the remains of previous buildings,’ Matthieu said. ‘It’s been here for over fifteen hundred years, after all. And the Gates is the oldest part. Giu knows how old some of these chambers are.’

  Florian followed him through sagging archways, and rough holes knocked through thick walls, trying not to think of the weight of the Gates above them, nor the age of the catacombs and their cracked, decaying pillars. Matthieu seemed very sure of their route. The torch beams probed through numerous doors and arches they passed, sometimes illuminating chamber after chamber, occasionally
falling on piles of rubble. There were even a few stone stairs curving down to lower levels. Bussalores squeaked somewhere in the darkness, their tiny paws scampering along unseen. Essie pressed up against him and his arm went round her shoulders.

  ‘Here we go,’ Matthieu announced at the foot of some crumbling stairs that led upwards. Each stone step was worn from age.

  Florian’s u-shadow told him Matthieu was sending out a ping. There was an answering ping from above. A trapdoor was open, sending a fan of yellow light sweeping down.

  The steps came up into another cellar, where a man called Euphal was waiting for them. He ran the greengrocer’s above, he explained. They were on Coal Gate Lane, which ran along the south edge of the Gates. Florian realized they must have travelled nearly a kilometre through the catacombs. He shook his kaftan vigorously, trying to get rid of the dust and grime that the fur lining had soaked up underground. Essie’s nice new dress was streaked with dirt, too.

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ Matthieu announced as they slipped into the back of the cluttered shop. ‘Redrith should be waiting outside.’

  ‘Who’s Redrith?’

  ‘A friend. He’ll take you down to the docks in his van. There are way too many ships for the PSR to check properly. We’ve fixed it for you to sail with the Tahiti; she’s a river barge that hauls grain up and down the Crisp. There are some compartments that aren’t on the plans. The captain’s one of us. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I guess the Warrior Angel didn’t come to help, then?’

  Matthieu pulled a face. ‘No, sorry, man. You’re on your own. You and a world full of friends.’ He went to the front of the shop and peered out through the window. ‘He’s there. I see him. He’s in the van marked Redrith Maritime Supplies.’

  Florian’s u-shadow reported a quick exchange between Matthieu and the van parked outside. Now that the time had come, he was reluctant to go. ‘I won’t let you down,’ he said.

  Matthieu gripped his arm. ‘Oh, I know you won’t. Now go on; it’ll look odd if he’s there too long.’

  ‘Bye bye,’ Essie said solemnly.