Turning back to the gate, she gripped the bars and pulled with all her might; the car-jack ready just in case.
Leeth watched the car speed away into the darkness. Well, that was weird. She'd been getting on just great with the man. Alan. He was good-looking, healthy, really affectionate, and kind, too: stopping for her like that, to give her a ride all the way into the city. He'd seemed real honest and open, too, and judging by the way he'd stroked its material, he even seemed to appreciate the nice navy dress she'd chosen, even though she'd mainly picked it ’cause it left her legs free.
She frowned. Odd that his wife didn't understand him. He didn't seem all that complex.
On the other hand, he had behaved pretty strangely when she'd mentioned she'd just snuck out of the Institute for Paranormal Dysfunction. All at once, his whole attitude completely changed. He'd taken his hand off her thigh – where it had been doing interesting things – pulled over, and practically made her get out of the car.
Weird. Maybe he did that kind of stuff to his wife, too.
Shrugging, she looked around until she saw a street sign, then got out her reader and called up the city map. A minute later she'd slipped off her high heels and was laughing with delight as she flew down the hill, seeing how fast she could go, each foot coming close to skidding out from beneath her as she plunged down the roller-coaster hill toward the lights and activity of Union Square.
For some strange reason, the people at the bottom of that long hill were staring at her. Panting, she ignored them, spinning around so she could take it all in, laughing in delight. That made them really stare at her, she saw. Remembering her uncle's words about fitting in, she took a hold of herself. She had to blend in; look ordinary.
She put her heels back on. Then started threading her way through the scintillating puzzle that was New Francisco by night.
The dojo had moved. She'd been surprised there'd been no sign displayed at the address she'd gotten from the net. But the guy who eventually answered the door had been real friendly. He seemed nice, especially the way he'd invited her in like that. She would have liked to stay, but she had to find the dojo and organize things, then get back to the Institute before Uncle missed her. She giggled as she thought how cross he'd be if he knew she was here. And how pleased he'd be that she'd found a teacher all by herself!
Two passersby glanced suspiciously at her, then hurried on. She laughed out loud. Her uncle was right about people – they really did seem timid. Even the guy, Alan, that she'd hitched a ride with.
She tilted her head, considering Hunting one of them. But then remembered her promise to Keepie. Besides, she wasn't here to play.
Actually, she was glad the Red Fist Dojo had moved. It gave her a chance to dive into the hurrying streams of people that flowed into and around the brilliant façades of the city's nightspots. Though, admittedly, the streams were thinning as her route took her away from the bright lights and into quieter, darker parts.
The fluoro-etchings of the street-signs on the buildings at the next corner had cracked and peeled away, but it didn't seem strange to her that she could read them, even so. She'd finally worked out why the horror-trids she sometimes watched always made everything go so black when they got to the good bits, so you could only see vague shapes and outlines. When she was younger, the nights had been like that. Dark and obscuring, like a heavy black cloak. Like the trids. And then she'd realized – that's what it was like for most people. Even Uncle – she'd watched him fumble around in her room at night, not seeing her, his hands stretched out in front of him. She giggled again at the memory of creeping up round behind him, as if she were the invisible monster.
Anyway, this was Folsom and Eighth, so the Red Fist Dojo shouldn't be far. She wondered why they'd moved. Maybe they didn't like all the bright lights of Downtown? They probably got better people in this part of the city – people who weren't scared of the dark.
The sound of her high heels echoed and re-echoed down the now-deserted street. Her feet ached. Maybe she shouldn't have dressed up so much. But she wanted to look good when she met her teacher for the first time. And the clingy navy dress showed off her body nicely, without really restricting her movements, since it was quite short. She'd just slip off her shoes if she had time for a quick lesson tonight.
Something moved, in a doorway up ahead, and she stopped abruptly. It was low, on the ground, like an enormous grub…
Someone in a sleeping bag? She looked around, puzzled. Why would anyone get into a sleeping bag on the street?
Maybe it wasn't a someone. She moved closer, frowning, trying to stay quiet despite her high-heels.
Dark hair, middle-aged, dark complexion, and – 'Whew!' she muttered, taking a step away – a very strong masculine smell. She blinked. Considered walking on. But it was just too strange to ignore.
'Hello!' she called, loudly enough to wake him.
'Unh? Wa’s d’n?'
She blinked again. Did he just ask what she was doing? 'Are you all right?'
He sat up, one hand reaching into his jacket and pulling out a battered-looking cashstick which he held up to her.
'Dum’ a few creds?'
'Huh?'
'Slot me some change, miz?' he elaborated, waving the cashstick more determinedly in her face.
'Oh. You want some money?'
He rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, gratz.'
The ’stick waved stolidly in the air before her. She knew cashsticks were like credsticks, except you didn't need a CID. She also knew you used your thumbprint somehow, and touched it to the other person's ’stick. But she didn't actually know how to operate one herself. Or why he wanted her to give him credits.
A thought made her suddenly a little unsure of herself: should she have a ’stick? How did you even get them? Would she have trouble getting back to the Institute later, without money, if it got too late to hitch?
It'd take hours if she had to run back!
He was still waving his greasy cashstick at her. 'Uh, I don't have a cashstick on me,' she apologized.
He muttered something that sounded like “flashin’ null bim” as he rummaged about, the ’stick vanishing. He held up a plastifoam cup, rattled it.
'Tokens, then, Lady?'
She looked at the cup in confusion for a moment. Did he just call her a bimbo, then expect her to give him money?
'Look, I just stopped to see if you were all right. I don't have any money, I just wondered why you were sleeping in this doorway.' She thought it better not to say that part of her, the childish part, had really kind of hoped he was some sort of giant larval mutant.
He stared at her a moment, then the cup slowly lowered. His enunciation suddenly became much clearer.
'Well, frick. Guess it just got too hot in my room at the Hilton. Came out here for some fresh air.'
He stretched back out on the ground and awkwardly humped over onto his side, muttering as he pulled the grubby sleeping bag up around him again. 'Frickin’ dumb bim. No-money, no-brain. Wake a man ’a see if he's ’sleep. Dumb sliv null…'
Leeth scowled, spun round, and stalked off. She didn't know what a “sliv” was, but she was pretty sure it was insulting. And she still didn't know why he was sleeping there.
She strode on quickly, angry now, her good mood evaporated. She had half a mind to go back there and shove his sleeping bag down his throat. If it wasn't for the smell. Maybe he was some new type of mutant, one that was allergic to water.
She stomped on, not quite muttering to herself. Then halted, startled, when a figure stepped from a recessed doorway to stand directly in front of her.
'Slow down, badette!'
Still cross, she'd almost walked into him. Khaki jacket, black sweatshirt, black jeans. Very thin. She looked him up and down, grimacing, before stepping round him and continuing on.
'Mean little minx,' she heard him mutter from behind, then noted his footsteps as he started following her. Up ahead, sprawled against a burnt-out Electrikar rammed dia
gonally up on the pavement, three more men watched her approach with interest. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she saw that the one on the trunk was an ogre. It looked mis-grown, over-sized – bony brows sticking out too far, teeth and jaws too big. Piggy little eyes. Completely hairless too, with dead-looking whitish skin. It stood and approached from her right. She moved a little left to give it a wide berth. Uncle had never really made it clear exactly how infectious they were, but she didn't want to take any chances.
'Hey, sliv, what's the race? Grab a break.'
The speaker, a human, leaned forward off the car, dusting down his vacated place on the front fender and bowing low as he offered it to her. When he straightened up, light gleamed off the bands of the healthy, muscled abs visible under his unfastened denim shirt and the biceps revealed by the torn-off sleeves. Mmm. He was pretty good-looking. And the way he said it, “sliv” didn't sound like an insult.
She stopped. 'What does “sliv” mean?'
He smiled a wolfish smile that made her like him a little bit more. 'Means “sliver”.' At her confused look, he waved up and down her body. 'Just means ya young.' He eyed her up and done, speculatively. 'How age, enway?'
She lifted her chin. 'Eighteen,' she lied. 'Almost nineteen.'
His eyes narrowed in an interesting kind of way and she heard the thin one moving quietly up behind her for some reason. If he got too close… She smiled innocently. 'I'm trying to find the Red Fist Dojo, actually. One-oh-two-oh on Seventh Street, isn't it?'
His eyebrows raised and he grinned. Nice teeth, too, she thought.
'Yeah, that's true. Meeting someone there? Or you taking self-defense classes?'
The others laughed.
'Self-defense?' She frowned. 'Maybe. Sort of, I guess.'
'Good idea,' growled a deep voice to her right. As the ogre approached, she turned and backed away a little, making sure it couldn't touch her.
'Dainty little sliv like you, alone in these dark alleys – could get tasty cruel, eh?'
'I'm not a dainty little sliv, and I can take care of myself.' She spun around to her left as the thin man now came almost within arm's reach, and she jabbed a finger at him. 'And don't you come any closer if you know what's good for you!' He stopped, then moved back a little, smiling like he knew something she didn't.
She returned her attention to the grinning ogre. 'And I wasn't talking to you,' she added, before turning back to the handsome one.
For just a moment, she shivered, cold, and looked around. That had felt kind of like… was Robo around? Here? She did her not-looking, but didn't see him. In fact, it'd been a long time since she'd seen Robo. Not since the cold attack that one night. Years ago. Could he be out here, in the city?
The third man laughed. 'Rufe, it does appear the lady is conversing with Randy,' he mocked. 'Seems like good looks win again, eh?'
She glanced at the new speaker. Registered a pretty, almost feminine face: fine features and skin, large eyes.
'Oh! You're Altered!' She took a step away from him, turned a little to “Randy.” 'You hang around with mutants? Aren't you worried you'll get infected too?'
Randy's chin came up, and suddenly he wasn't smiling. 'Hey, they're not infected. They're just different. Where'd you get this “infected” smek from, bim?'
The other two were scowling now as well. 'Well, they are, aren't they? The Melt virus infected him and he mutated,' she said, pointing to the ugly hairless ogre, 'and this guy has all sorts of weird viruses re-writing his DNA. They're not really human any more, are they?'
'You dumb little sliv,' growled the ogre, from her right. He reached out and grabbed her shoulder, spun her round to face him. 'I think it's time someone-'
She'd hesitated almost too long, not happy about having to touch him even now that his hand rested on her bare shoulder.
Grimacing as she turned, she stepped in toward him. All the force of her disgust went into the blow that exploded into his stomach. She felt something rupture: his eyes glazed and his hand slipped from her shoulder as he bent over. With a scowl of distaste, she hammered her bare knee up solidly into his descending chin.
There was an unpleasant cracking sound, then he fell heavily to the pavement. Leeth backed away in revulsion, dusting her knee clean.
The Altered ran to his prone friend. Knelt down to take his pulse, then looked up, disbelief morphing the elegant planes of his face into an angry mask of hatred. 'She killed him! The dirty little racist sluk killed Rufe!' Something appeared in his hand as he got to his feet, a blade flicking out with an ominous snick.
'Hey, guys, no, wait.' From the corner of her eye she saw the thin one back further away. 'We don't need more heat.'
The pretty-faced one stepped forward, his knife weaving competently back and forth. She felt light-headed for a moment as the reality of her situation sank in. Suddenly everything was happening in slow motion. The Altered moved in, his blade slashing across, and she grabbed his wrist and hooked a leg behind him, intending to throw him down, like she'd seen Nightshade do on the trid a dozen times.
But he twisted, grabbing her, and they fell in a tangle, the knife slamming point first into the bitumen. His hand, now gripped by hers, slid down roughly off the hilt and onto the blade. He cried out in pain as it cut him, but thrust his other arm across her throat even as his weight descended on her, forcing her breath out in a rush.
She couldn't breathe. She tried to knee him, but the angle was wrong. Chest heaving, she tried vainly to draw in air, tried to pull his arm from her throat against the full weight of his upper body.
She struck at him, but he ignored her blows like they had no strength. She didn't understand. He seemed to be getting stronger. She struck again, and somehow he tore his other hand, bleeding and knife-less, from her grasp and brought it, too, to her throat.
I might lose, she realized, staring up into the Altered's livid face. The thought brought a flood of shame that scourged like flame. No! she swore to herself. Never. Deep inside, something took fire, spread up her arms. Snarling low in her throat she raked both hands crosswise across his stomach; felt them slice deeply into him: and rejoiced. Wet heat flooded over her as the Altered's triumphant glare drained into disbelief.
'No!' he whispered, face suddenly ashen. He fell off her.
She rolled to one side, sucking in huge breaths.
'You little bitch!' Randy snarled as he moved closer. She looked up as he kicked the abandoned knife away, well out of her reach. He was gazing down at his dying friend, his handsome face a mask of anger and grief.
'With his own blade!' His voice shook with rage.
With her breathing returning to normal, the strange weakness fading, she gathered herself to leap.
And saw he had a gun.
Her heart sank. Then a surge of anger burned the feeling away. All she'd wanted to do was go to the Red Fist Dojo! She looked up from the gun, and saw his eyes now on hers.
'That's right, bitch! Look at me!' He raised the weapon till the barrel pinned her with its ugly dead stare like a shark's black eye.
Thought abruptly vanished. She dived forwards, launching herself desperately up at him; registered the look of surprise on his face as he fell back a step. Her hand lashed out as the gun sounded like a thunderclap and something smashed into her.
Then her hand ripped through his throat and he flew backwards. She fell slowly, fighting the darkness swimming up from all around, swallowing her. She didn't even feel the impact when she hit the ground.
Chapter 47
In the New Francisco soup kitchen, Marc Disten froze, ladle poised just above the troll's large and very empty food bowl, head turning from side to side slowly, unseeing. The Call.
The old troll standing eagerly before the mouth-watering tureen of Irish stew, his limbs twisted by gargantuan rheumatism, stared down at the suddenly-unmoving man holding the brimming ladle, then looked across to the manager. Maisie, though, had her hands full with some gangers who'd sauntered in, looking for fun.
Abruptly, the ladle went back into the drum of soup and the man's eyes focused. 'It is time to leave. There is important work to do.'
The troll watched his server untie his apron and then cross the room, heading for the street while Maisie and the other volunteers called out angrily. They started after him, demanding to know what he was doing, where he was going?
The troll looked around shiftily, then picked up the entire drum of soup and began gulping it down swiftly, before anyone noticed.
Disten dropped the apron on the ground, oblivious to the angry shouts from the drafty room behind him. She was here. Back in the city. The pull was strong.
Trotting north along Potrero, he covered ground swiftly. But slowed, passing the remnants of the old General Hospital. The sense of anguished confusion from the many people inside flooded out, calling.
Their pain could be stilled; their confusion ended. In contrast, the call of the girl was fainter, less appealing.
For long seconds Disten stood, considering.
Moments later he was running north again. Gaining access to the closely monitored patients in the hospital would not be as easy as isolating derelicts from the soup kitchen, to bring to clarity. That much had been learned from those deaths. So much that could now be shown to the girl; which she would in turn reveal.
Not far, now. Disten jogged on.
The female was very close. Yet though the ugly disturbance she caused was stronger, it started to diffuse, making it harder to locate her.
Now was not the time to rush. Instead, more care was needed, to follow the dwindling Pull. Staring around the deserted, derelict streets, Disten paused, narrowing focus to just the pain of the chaos she radiated.
She was close. Why was the sensation fading, weakening?
Stepping around the corner, the answer became clear.
Soon he stood amidst the dead and dying. The opportunity had been spoiled. Disten's gaze swept back and forth. Wasted deaths.
The barbs of emotion that radiated from her, plucking and pricking, continued fading. In the wristcomm's harsh light the girl's skin looked unnaturally pallid. Bending down, Disten checked the pulse, felt it flutter weakly, then stop. Instantly, blissfully, the ugly chaos was gone, smoothed out into the simple regular patterns of sanity. The girl lay dead.
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