by George Mann
“We hunt and gather,” Brian explained. “And let me tell you, my friend, once you start doing that, every square foot of these parks becomes luminous with significance. Things you wouldn’t even have glanced at before will leap to your eye. When I was a little kid walking home from school, before the world became banal, I’d stare at garden walls with some moss upon them, and see a prehistoric forest there in miniature. When my granny lit a coal fire I could stare for an hour at the flames seeing spirit-creatures dancing.”
“Like you might see midges as tiny fairies,” said Rob, so as not to seem reluctant to join in.
“A cloud of fairies, to be sure.”
Rob waved his hand. “Why are there always midges around?”
“Because,” explained Weasel patiently, “this is the countryside.”
Hmm, a landscape of cars and veg and pyracantha hedge. But yes, an aspect of the countryside. This certainly wasn’t a city.
“Like, nature, like,” said Melanie.
Gesturing: “So why aren’t there are any midges over there, say?”
Weasel yawned. “Attracted to body heat, I suppose. Lucky they aren’t the bothering bitey sort.”
“So why be attracted to bodies?”
“Are you attracted to mine?” Weasel asked Rob naughtily. “Noticed you trying to peep in the bath.”
“I was not.”
“Why not, then? Are you queer?”
Mog emitted a ch*rtl* that was more like a guffaw. “Prefers them on the larger side, maybe! Just teasing, love,” she added, and Rob wished that she hadn’t. Truth to tell, he could relish taking a bath with Melanie, yet she seemed inseparable from her sister, and besides Melanie slept in the Mazda, unless sleepover visits occurred. Maybe Melanie would take a liking to him.
When they set off to hunt and gather, Rob tried repeatedly to catch one or other of the accompanying midges. However, the push of air from the motion of his hand always wafted the little fly away.
“Stop waving your hand about,” complained Melanie. “You look out of control, like.”
Theatrically Rob gripped his wrist with his other hand to subdue it, in an attempt to amuse her, but she just stared at him, then ignored him.
THAT NIGHT ROB dreamt that he was walking with Melanie in the small hours along a street somewhere in London, alert for a shop doorway into which he might maneuver her and embrace her, at the very minimum, without the others noticing. However, a CCTV camera which had been perched atop a streetlight took wing like an owl from that tall light to the next light which Rob passed, and then to the next; and to the next in turn; and he knew that the others would be watching on their wristwatches whatever the camera saw—why else were those called watches?
He awoke in the Volvo, his arm around Weasel, her head on his shoulder, and realized.
Was it a year since that he’d heard on his car radio about the miniaturization of surveillance equipment? Soon, apparently, mass-produced lightweight flying cameras no bigger than insects and as cheap as insects might take to the air, equipped with solar panel wings and micro-transmitters. Millions of them. Billions. Apparently this depended on the advent of nanotechnology; or did one even need to wait so long? A superfast computer monitoring the kaleidoscope of images could adjust and correct in real time. If wind or rain knocked the tiny flying cameras around and if thousands failed, that wouldn’t matter.
As he eased his arm from around Weasel, hoping not to rouse her in any sense, two of the midges which lived in the Volvo circled just out of reach, a bit blurred even in a shaft of dawning sunlight due to their seemingly random fluttering.
Where would you go about testing such a system so that people, if they realized, couldn’t report what was going on? And couldn’t lay their hands upon butterfly or tiddler nets, say, to catch prototype specimens and auction them on e-Bay to the Chinese?
WEASEL WOKE UP soon; as did Brian in the front of the car.
“Just look at him,” she said.
Rob was standing outside, a little way off, mouthing and gesturing imploringly to no one.
“Sure, he’s talking to the fairies now.”
“Jolly good,” said Weasel. “He’s settling in fast.”
A Soul Stitched to Iron
Tim Akers
MICOL CAME IN through the delivery-way, along the alley. He had keys to all the doors, but he only ever used the back entrance. The longer the neighbors thought the residents of the Manor Vellis were in the country, the better.
He dropped his dirty overcoat and the satchel of muddy tools in the kitchen, along with the shortri-fle and ammunition belt, then rummaged up a late dinner. Supplies were running thin, but it didn’t matter anymore. Another day, maybe two, to be sure that attention had shifted away, then he was headed up the river. Using the Manor Vellis as a safe house had been a risk, but once he was in place he couldn’t afford to move around much. Micol was anxious to be on his way.
Tucking the pistol from his pack into the waistband of his clothes, Micol gathered up his food and the bottle of red he had carefully selected from the Vellis’s limited collection. He felt like a bath. There had been a lot of grime and blood in the last few days, and now he felt like a little civilization. He crept down the hallway, pausing before the archway that led to the front drawing room and peeking his head through. Wide windows overlooked the street in front of the manor. Even this late at night, there was still traffic going past. This would all have been easier if the manor had a basement, even a wine cellar, where Micol could have holed up away from casual eyes. As it was, almost every room had a window, and windows had to be avoided. The only windowless spaces were the kitchen, the upstairs bath, the back hall, and the master’s den. And the den was uninhabitable, ever since Micol had made his entrance two days ago.
A long couch blocked most of the hallway from the front window, so Micol knelt down and, pushing his food in front of him, crawled past the archway. When he was sure he was clear, he stood up and continued down the hall. The stink from the den met him soon after. There were towels stuffed under the doorway, and Micol had broken open several bottles of vinegar and garlic to mask the scent, but it wasn’t doing much good. That was what would eventually drive him from the house, he suspected.
Upstairs, Micol crawled through the open hallway into the bathroom. He toed the door closed, then spun the friction lamps up to their dimmest revolution and poured himself a bath and a glass of wine. He laid his clothes out on the makeshift bed he had cobbled together in the corner and slipped into the warm water. The last few days had been hard on Micol, had made him into a creature of dust and violence and fear. Now, maybe now, he would finally be able to let that go. Maybe he would finally be able to relax.
The water was cool when he heard the voices downstairs. Micol had drifted off, and nearly fell as he stood up. Cooling water cascaded off of him, running in rivers down his beard and through his hair. The voices were quiet, but were clearly coming from inside the house. The spike of fear that had awakened him settled down. As quietly as possible, Micol toweled off his shooting arm and pulled on his pants, then took the pistol and crept downstairs in his bare feet.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs. There was no sound of movement, no opening doors or creaking floorboards to indicate the presence of someone else in the house. The voices had stopped. Maybe it had been a dream, or a trick of the ventilation. Just some conversation from outside, carried in through the garbage chute or something. Micol padded quietly down the hall, the pistol at his hip. A foot from the door to the den, the voices started again. Two voices, speaking in dull monotone, coming from the den itself. Micol stopped, and his heart soared into his throat.
Whoever it was, they were talking over each other. Though there were two voices, maybe more, they seemed to be saying the same thing, talking together as though with one mind. The towels and door muffled the conversation. Micol knew there was no one in there, knew that this door was the only way into the den. It hadn’t been opened for days.
Steadying his grip on the pistol, Micol kicked away the towels. He took a deep breath, emptied his lungs completely, filled them with as much clean air as he could, then held his breath and pushed open the door.
The bodies of Lady Vellis and the butler lay bundled against the far wall, still tied up with the twine Micol had taken from the pantry. The master of the house was sprawled across the desk, the wound at the back of his head sticky and black. A cloud of flies rose up. The bodies were bloated, the pale flesh cutting against their bonds, the blood of their death dry and matted on the carpet. There was no one else in the room.
“Yes, we saw him,” the three bodies said as one. “The other night. Two days, hard to say.” Their voices were stiff and flat, like tar that had dried solid. Micol leaned against the doorframe. Forgetful, he breathed out and then in. The stink cut through to his lungs.
“Yes,” the bodies said again, then silence. Micol felt like he was hearing one end of a conversation, like if he strained his ears just hard enough, he would hear another voice leaking into the quiet. “Yes, he’s here now.”
The fly-sticky eyes of Master Vellis snapped open. He looked at Micol with cold recognition. “You should have gotten rid of the bodies, Micol. We can always find the bodies.”
The front door crashed open. There were footsteps, heavy, metallic, gouging the wood of the foyer, ripping carpet in long, even strides.
Micol backed out of the den. He glanced down the hallway at the kitchen, at his coat and the shortrifle. The footsteps were between them, entering the sitting room, coming slowly and heavily past the couch, almost to the archway.
Micol raised his pistol. The stink of the den was burning through his chest, filling his throat with bile and fear. A shape lurched into the hallway, a dark outline in the dim light.
Micol fired his pistol, filled the hallway with the booming report and the sharp light of the flash. Cycled the chamber, sighted, fired again. The bullets slammed into the figure, sparks flying as they hit metal and wire. Those bullets that found flesh thudded dully, like they were fired into mud, bloodless. He cycled, sighted, fired. Cycled, fired, again and again. The figure lurched toward him.
Micol dropped the pistol and ran.
JACOB BURN WAS having a complicated day. He had a dozen deals suspended, the meetings called off and the merchandise on hold, and he didn’t have the kind of credit, financial or social, to keep that many balls in the air. The last remnants of the money his father had given him while expelling him from the manor were leaking away, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.
He hurried up the Hapner’s Row, fists deep in the pockets of his coat despite the warm day. His hands were shaking. The meeting with Under-Pressman Sikes had been his last hope, the last chance to get things moving. Sikes hadn’t even shown up, had sent an errand boy. “Master Sikes says everything’s off. Something came up, last night, and he needs to stay away for a bit. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” Jacob muttered. “That’s all is right.” Every one of his contacts had begged off, citing some disastrous event in the last couple of days. Contacts were fading away, keeping low, cutting Jacob off in mid-stride. The Badge had trebled their patrols in the last couple of days, refusing bribes and not honoring unspoken agreements about what they would and wouldn’t see. Deep trouble in the city of Veridon.
Jacob got to his apartment house and tumbled the clocklock. The foyer was empty and quiet, the usual gaggle of children and wives gone for the moment. A nice change, Jacob thought, a bit of peace in the filthy house. He walked upstairs to his room, locking his door behind him. He barely had time to take off his coat and splash water in his face before there was a knock, and then the door opened.
“Ah, Cacher,” Jacob said, lowering the pistol he always kept nearby, even in his own room. “Good of you to drop by. I was afraid I’d been blacklisted.”
Cacher smiled at the pistol, nodded, and walked in to the room. He was a short man, thin and clumsily dressed, like most of the criminals Jacob worked for. His teeth were lined in black gunk from some drug he kept tucked against his gums. He smelled less awful than usual, but Jacob still took a step back when he got too close.
“Not blacklisted, no. No more than any of us.” Cacher circled the room carefully, looking in the scant few hiding places the tiny room afforded. He finally settled on the windowsill, pulling aside the grimy drapes and signaling to someone below. “Tough days for everyone, I think.”
“Tough days, sure. Listen, I don’t suppose you have any buyers for a crate of silver pots. Something I picked up through some friends at the Ebd-side docks and, uh, it’s proving a difficult thing to...”
“Hush ye, Jacob Burn,” he said without looking around. There were quiet feet on the stairs, then heavier ones. A couple of men shadowed past the open door, standing to either side of it without looking in. Cacher stood up, crossed to the vanity, and took Jacob’s pistol. “I’ll be back with this,” he said, then went out into the hall. Valentine came in and closed the door.
“Jacob Burn, yes?” he asked. Valentine’s face was a clockwork trick, an artist’s mask of polished dark-wood on articulated levers and cogs. When he talked the smooth planes of his face clacked together, shifting to express anger or pain or confidence. His voice was a deception of pipe organs and clever mechanical valving. His eyes were empty and black.
“Yes,” Jacob said, nervously. He had only met Valentine once, and then only briefly.
“Good. So many things have been going wrong, I wouldn’t have been surprised had Cacher taken me to the wrong house.” His face clacked into a smile, like a fist clenching. “How have you been?”
“Oh, uh. Well. Business has been trouble.”
“Yes, it has.” Valentine circled the room slowly, checking each of the hiding places Cacher had searched moments ago. His hands were large and clumsy looking, like padded metal gauntlets. “Trouble for all of us, I think.”
“You’re here about my debt, I assume?” Jacob asked. Valentine had- acted in his interest shortly after Jacob had been expelled from the ranks of the city’s elite. It weighed on Jacob, that debt. “I’m working on it, sir, but with things as they are...”
“Let us not speak of that. For now at least.” Valentine settled against the bedpost, the wood and iron creaking. “You knew Micol Hart, did you not?”
“Yes, I did.” When Jacob had been kicked out of his family, Micol had been one of the first people to befriend him. They had fenced together, and shared many similar tastes, from music to food. Micol had done much to get Jacob through those first months as a new criminal.
“He is causing me trouble. Would you think him much of a killer?”
“No more than the rest of us, sir.” Jacob smiled uneasily and crossed his arms. “But not a particularly bloodthirsty man.”
“Yes, I would have thought the same. We are all,” he paused, seemed to taste the word. “Killers. You were in on the Orinns job, yes?” Valentine asked.
“I was.” Jacob remembered breaking in to the Orinns’s little hideout, the smell of gunpowder and blood on his hands. First kill, but a childhood of gentlemanly marksmanship had served him well. His hands had not shaken until after.
“Competently done. I remember that being a very clean job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s how I like my killing, Jacob. Direct. Clean. And better, I only want my people to kill when I tell them to kill. Do you understand me, Jacob?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t raise a hand if you didn’t order it.”
“And Micol?”
Jacob shook his head. “I’ve never known him to be rash, sir. Has he done something?”
“He has done a great many things, Jacob. And it is interfering with my trade.” Valentine stood up and ambled over to the window. It was strange watching him walk, trying to be casual. His clockwork body was precise, smooth. Any casualness was programmed in and carefully formed to give the impression of humanity to his actions
. He strolled like a metronome. He went to the window and flipped the drapes aside.
“Two nights ago, Micol Hart broke in to the Manor Stitch and kidnapped the daughter. Magdalene. You know her, from before?”
“We met a few times. Social events, mostly. She wouldn’t remember me.”
“Any idea why Micol would do such a thing?”
“No, sir. I don’t even think Micol would be aware of her. The family Stitch isn’t much of a player in the Council.”
“Wasn’t. You’ve been away from the inner circle, my friend. Stitch has bought out the Council writs of the Harbers and Cass-Mergers. There are few more influential families in the Council Chambers.”
Jacob felt sick to his stomach. Stitch was barely a generation old, their place on the Council bought in gold and commerce. This was the fate of all the founding families of Veridon, their power and influence slowly mortgaged away to these upstarts. Jacob’s own father barely held on to his place in the Council.
“Well. Gold will buy you many things.”
“It will,” Valentine smiled at the iron in Jacob’s voice. “You shouldn’t take it personally, Jacob.
Burn is still a grand name in the city. It still opens many doors.”
“So this is what Micol has done that has complicated things?” Jacob asked, diving away from the subject of his surname. “The Council has tightened the screws on the city to find this daughter?”
“Oh, that’s where he started.” Valentine turned away, gazing out the window wistfully. “Kidnapped the girl, then proceeded to kill an entire family of merchants. Perhaps killed the girl, as well. The Council is frantic. He’s disappeared from the city completely.”
“A family?”
“The Family Vellis. He killed them and hid in their manor while the Council was looking for him.”
“I don’t know them,” Jacob said.
“A strange family. But they had business with Stitch, so maybe there’s something to it. Still, a messy business.”
“But if he’s disappeared, why do you think he killed the girl?”