The energy cost meant that these days only the rich had wings; but there were still things that needed shipping transglobal, still cargo that had to get to the other side of the world and not with silk napkins, glasses of champagne and dinky little meal trays. SkyeCorp made that happen. They were the company that the companies went to when something had to make it around the globe, no questions asked, no damn passport control or t-wave cameras peering into the crates. SkyeCorp made a billion a day shipping “tractor parts” to greedy dictators or “baby milk” to covert gene labs. They owned a string of decommissioned air bases across the continental United States, and with them a fleet of ex-military transport aircraft in various states of disrepair. SkyeCorp lost one flight in every thousand; but there were plenty of mothballed planes out in the Nevada desert, their clients had insurance, and it was tough to complain when the manifest said that all that got mislaid were “machine tools”.
Fixx hesitated in the lee of a rusted barn and studied the aircraft. One of them was a giant, a huge C–5 Galaxy, heavy like a pregnant albatross and low to the ground on a cluster of fat wheels. There was no cockpit to speak of, not in the sense that Fixx thought of it. Where the Galaxy had been built with a cabin for pilot and crew there was now a blank banner of plastic and steel, pockmarked with sensor pits and twitchy antennae rods. SkyeCorp didn’t use human pilots for the most part. It was far more cost-effective to engineer out that whole part of the system and replace it with cheap logic circuits and bio-matter processors—that is, brain tissue harvested from high-order primates. The four-engine plane had its nose lifted so that container trucks could drive aboard and deposit their loads. He could see from his vantage point that the last items of cargo were already being secured; soon the nose cowl would drop and the Galaxy would amble out on to the runway. The jets were already spinning at idle—this flight was running late. Fixx dropped to his knee and rolled the bones on a patch of weed-cracked concrete. The pattern brought another smile to his face. Good choice. This bird would take him where he wanted to go.
There were a few men milling around the front of the hangar, some running cursory checks on the aircraft, others smoking and drumming bored fingers on the barrels of their rifles—aging Gulf-vintage Colt M–16s, as third-hand as the base and the transport jet. Fixx kept the sword close and moved in toward the hangar. He could have killed every man here with the SunKings switched to deep reticule mode, but that would have brought the house down. No. Tonight he wanted to move in silence, leave nothing but footprints and take nothing but advantage. If he had to make a kill, it would be quiet.
The op kept to the pools of shade, shifting in and out of them under the cowl of the black long coat, a piece of the night moving here and there. He reached the back of the hangar and got in through a broken window. A hooter sounded from the front of the Galaxy, and he smothered a dart of surprise; but the alarm was only a warning as the transporter’s nosecone began to droop, yellow hazard strobes flashing across the concrete. The cargo doors at the back of the plane were already shut, but a side hatch was still half-open. Fixx frowned. Shut or open, yes, but halfway? That seemed strange, but he had no time to consider the reason. The flight would go if he dallied, and there were things unfolding in distant places that needed him to be there. His free hand dipped into his pocket and worried the bones a little. Yes, he had to act, not think. Fixx sprinted from cover and launched himself at the hatch. He was in and had it shut just as the hooting siren fell silent. The jets were growling up to power and he felt a lurch as the Galaxy taxied from the hangar.
He glanced around. Cargo modules two stories tall crowded around him, and items that were loose inside made desultory clangs against the walls of pressed steel. There was an alley between them that he could make it down if he held his breath, and with the sword leading the way, Fixx got to the front of the jet. What light there was came from the dull yellow glow of biolumes on the cargo gantries and the handful of plexiglas portholes in the fuselage. The Galaxy rattled and howled as it took up a waiting position at the end of Barksdale Field’s Runway Left.
Fixx glanced around for some corner where he could seat himself and that was when he noticed the door. The cargo container on the starboard side, yellow with a red pennant that said “Tao Ge Shipping”, made a creaking noise. The metal doors that sealed the contents in were unlocked, and one of them hung open. Each fresh vibration of the engines made the door shift a little. Fixx considered the guns again, then ignored the thought. A stray round might punch through the fuselage. Bringing the sword to guard, he approached. He was maybe a metre away when he saw that there was blood on the handle, and more in a spatter pattern on the deck. Fixx lashed out and yanked the door hard. It came toward him with a squeal of poorly oiled hinges, revealing a sea of dirty, terrified faces.
At the front of the women—and they were all females—there were two girls in prison-surplus jumpsuits. They looked at Fixx like secret lovers caught in a tryst, and between them they held on to a man whose throat leaked red, whose struggles were getting more and more feeble by the second. The man had his trousers and underwear halfway down his legs. One of the girls held a bent piece of metal in her fist, the end of it wet with gore.
Fixx lowered the sword. The container was full to bursting with human cargo, thin and emaciated girls, all of them oriental. Joshua would have said Korean, if he was pushed, but he was no expert. They stood there, the jet screaming around them, the unlucky guy bleeding out, watching each other. Fixx knew the look in their eyes well enough. These women had gone beyond the point of no return.
The would-be rapist burbled something and went slack. His killer went to work stripping his body for anything useful. The other girl—the intended victim, he wondered?—had a nasty wound on her arm. Fixx finally sheathed his weapon and dug out a pocket medipack from his coat. “You speak English?”
The girl shook her head and took the packet, tearing it open with her teeth. The plane shuddered and began to move, picking up speed. Fixx sniffed and sat down, bracing himself against the hatch. The women, some of them fretting, copied him. In moments, there was the gut-wrenching motion of take-off. Cold crept into the cargo bay as they ascended into the night.
Fixx had a couple of packets of Insta-Kibble (Swells In Your Stomach! Easy On Your Wallet!) that he’d intended to eat on the way. He tore them open, and with great care, broke them into enough pieces for everyone. The erstwhile passengers sat there in the rattling chill, chewing on morsels and regarding each other with wary eyes.
Fixx settled back and drew in his coat around him.
I will tell you, if you care to listen, something of cruelty. It is a uniquely human conceit; you will not see animals indulge in it. What of the cat, I hear you ask? The cat that torments and toys with the mouse? Ah, but Brother Cat is only training himself, using his prey to stay quick and deadly. He is no crueler than the virus that strikes down the newborn, or blinds the artist. This is simply the manner of nature. As it is the manner of man to be cruel.
And so my story. Look around in the shops selling effects of the past to visitors from over the oceans, the places that overflow with bowls in black lacquer, careworn jade and the litter of a thousand years of history. Inside one day you may see terracotta warriors, the clothes sculpted upon them the same as those worn by the swordsmen of that era. Some date back to the Qin Dynasty, when China was a feudal land and ruled by the blade and the pen.
In that time, there was a man, an Emperor, who greatly feared the world beyond death. He had killed so many of his enemies that surely they would be waiting for him when he perished, a war band of ghosts with the curse of his name as their last earthly memory. This man, this Emperor ordered an army of the red stone men made to accompany him into the other world when death came to claim its price. More than three thousand of the pottery soldiers were forged—regiments of footmen, archers, soldiers with spears or crossbows, charioteers and horses—all of them to be buried with their dead lord in a great tomb that was pl
anted with trees and grass so it would appear to be a natural hill.
And so the man, the Emperor, died, and the army of stone was created. As this work went on, an act of cruelty came to pass.
A man, a swordsman, a simple fool with nothing of the Emperor’s greatness in him, a soldier in the real army upon which the facsimile was based, earned himself the ire of a minor warlord in the late Emperor’s service. It is not written nor remembered, what this simple fool’s misdeed was, but it was so grave—or perhaps, the warlord was so cruel—that it earned him a living death. The soldier was beaten senseless and pushed into one of the moulds used to make the terracotta men. He suffocated in there, seared to his demise and baked into the stone, bones and flesh buried along with thousands of identical mannequins.
The warlord later perished in battle and sank to the Nine Hells, as he deserved. But his cruelty extends to this day. The simple man remains lost, his bones encased in one of thousands of stone statues. Where they are, his spirit will never know. His peace is denied to him, forever.
This, then, is man’s cruelty. Better to be the cat’s mouse, neh?
Chinese Legend
6. Dreaming the Reality
There was a crackle of static on the wall screen, and the camera remote lit red to show the broadcast was going live. The woman’s face faded in. “Thank you, Shania, for that update. Now, I’m joined live by Heywood Ropé, manager and psychic nutritionist for pop sensation Juno Qwan. As our viewers will know, Juno’s sold-out tour came to a alarming conclusion in the stilt-city of Newer Orleans when an apparent domestic terror incident led to the hospitalisation of several audience members. You’re watching ZeeBeeCee’s Entertainment Pulse and I’m your host, Tammy Popeldouris.” The honey-blonde woman on the screen inclined her head and smiled at Ropé. “Heywood, good to have you on the show.”
“Great to be here again, Tammy.” He returned the smile, matching her tooth-for-tooth. “Juno wanted me to express her sadness at not being able to make the interview herself, but as you can understand, the events of the last twenty-four hours have been difficult for her.” Ropé showed a mask of concern, dressed with a slight sadness.
The reporter mirrored him. “Indeed. And the question Juno’s fans are asking is, how is she?”
Cue reassuring smile. “She’s resting, Tammy. Even without what happened at the Hyperdome, a ten-city tour across NorthAm takes its toll! But she’s fine, really. If anything, Juno is more worried about her fans, who she loves so much. After the incident, she asked me to send a generous donation to the NOLA Medicareplex, and with the help of our friends at RedWhiteBlue we’re doing just that.” He gave a calculated shake of the head, rueful and sad. “Those poor, poor people….”
Tammy spoke to her audience. “Juno is of course at the moment on her way back to her native Hong Kong aboard her private jet—click the green spot on your d-screens for more information or to purchase a virtual replica.” Her expression became neutral. “Heywood, what’s your take on this awful event? From what the local police franchises report, it seems that a group affiliated with the America Alone Alliance Army were responsible for the sabotage of lightshow display equipment at Juno’s farewell concert.”
A frown. “I’m no political expert, Tammy, I’m just a guy who wants to bring great music to the world. But we’ve all heard of the A4 and they’ve made no secret of their dislike of foreign entertainers on their shores… Look what happened in New York, a couple of months ago…”
Tammy nodded. “You’re referring to the so-called ‘Brown Noise’ attack on a concert by the British opera singer Robert Williams at the Carnegie Bowl. Viewers can hyperlink to ZeeBeeCee’s coverage of that incident by touching red on their d-screen.”
“Frankly, I think this is a failure on the part of the American law-enforcement community to properly police their country.” He leaned forward to display his seriousness. “Tammy, let me tell you that some people suggested that Juno should not come to America… But Juno did not want to disappoint the fans, whom she cares for so very much.”
“And those fans wish her well, Heywood. Here at ZeeBeeCee we’ve been inundated with emails asking after her. But regarding the incident at the Hyperdome, how do you react to stories we’ve been hearing that several audience members were attacked by…” She glanced at a data-screen. “Here I’m quoting… ‘an angel of death’?”
Ropé’s expression remained unchanged. “People under stress see many strange things, Tammy, and while our security do the best they can to screen out any attendees under the influence of illicit substances, some do sneak through…”
A nod. “An interesting point, Heywood. Only recently, I believe that the Mothers For Meddling attempted to bring a civil suit against Juno’s publisher, RedWhiteBlue, for what they alleged was ‘pro-drug use’ symbology in her songs.”
He allowed himself a moment of irritation. “Tammy, really. Those women are a group of middle-class busybodies with too much time on their hands, looking for scapegoats to blame for their poor parenting skills.” He swayed as the jet bumped an air pocket. “Let’s not forget their unfounded smear campaign against Senator Michael J Fox.”
She smirked, content at having been able to raise a flicker of anger from him. “Back to the fans, then. The other question on their minds—and on ours, of course—is the truth behind the rumours that Juno will headline the so-called WyldSky concert on Hong Kong’s Victoria Peak. What can you tell us, Heywood? True or false?”
Ropé waited for a count of three before answering. “Tammy, Juno is a very private person, as you know, and she certainly has a lot of respect for the independent positive-future groups involved in WyldSky. But I couldn’t possibly comment as to her intentions on this matter.”
“Here at ZeeBeeCee we’ve heard that Juno’s publishers are actively trying to dissuade her from having any connection to WyldSky given the markedly anti-corporate stance of the event—”
He held up a hand to interrupt. “Tammy, Juno is a strong-willed and very intelligent young woman. She isn’t going to let some suits tell her where and when she can’t sing. ”
“So you’re saying she’s going to be there?”
A broad smile. “I’m saying anything is possible, Tammy. That’s what I love about my job… I get to see the impossible happen. ”
The interviewer laughed. “Cryptic as ever, Heywood. Well, that’s all we have time for…” The woman turned away and the screen stuttered into blackness. The remote’s red eye dimmed, and Ropé saw one of the techs make a throat-cutting gesture. He stood, resisting the urge to spit.
“Are we done?”
The tech nodded. “Good job, Mr Ropé—”
“Don’t natter me,” he growled, the face he’d worn during the interview shifting into something cold and immobile. “Where’s our diva?”
“Still in her cabin. Her telemetry is a little wavy but it’s inside normal tolerances.”
Ropé bent to take a look out of the nearest window. Through the oval he could see glimpses of a black glass ocean and the steady blink of a red running light on the tip of the jet’s delta wing. He turned away and made for the compartment where his mobile office was located. “Don’t disturb me for anything less than the end of the world, understand?”
The bed enveloped her with coils of warm rope, sweat-hot sheets finding places for themselves to knot about her pale skin and torso. Juno tried very hard to remember how to make herself scream, but the method of it was lost to her. In a broken, detached way she saw the component parts of her thought process fall out of her mouth in coloured blocks of sound. They broke into pieces that smelled like dark.
Eyes where her mouth should be, words for tastes and noises for colours. Everywhere there were mirrors. Talking mirrors that screamed and cried or made sounds that could have been songs. She carefully recited the lyrics to “Halo Kisses” but discovered she could only remember them backwards.
Juno dragged herself off the bed and her bare feet touched the floor. Sh
e felt the singing of the wings through the fuselage, and imagined the footless depths of sky around her. She giggled and opened her arms wide. Closed her eyes and drifted over a mirror sea. Mirror see. See mirror. Mirror. Mirror—
She was on the floor in the corner of the room.
Flash/blink/change.
Coiled up like a foetus, shivering and afraid. Clothes ripped. Air heavy with fear. Juno’s breath came in bolts, she forced it through her throat. There were invisible hands at her neck, twisting.
The girl pulled at her own hair and felt the way the flesh on her face moved. She felt wrong in this skin, the shape too tight, hung wrongly across angular bones. Juno watched the worms gather in the shadowed corners of the room. They didn’t know she could see them. In the dark places they were piecing together the mirrors she had broken, fixing them when her back was turned. They left the little pieces on the floor where she could stand on them. The fragments would slip beneath her skin, work their way to her heart.
Blood taste on her tongue. She remembered being inside the egg floating in the dark waters. She remembered the screaming people who loved her. There were the angels of pain overhead—and there was the dark-skinned man. Dark like blood. Dark like sky. She would never see him again.
She began to cry as the walls grew teeth and the worms marshalled their forces. At her feet there was the needle, shiny and long and candy-bright. It ended in a bulb of perfect blue, beckoning and glistening, calling to her. With shiver-tremble hands she probed to it and gathered it up. It almost fell into the sky, she could barely keep it in her clammy fingers. “Buh-bubble inna stream,”
Jade Dragon Page 8