Streets of Blood

by Marc Gascoigne

  "So I hunted down a woman who was the great granddaughter of the one who had painted them originally. She’s an artist, too. I scanned the images and let her redesign some using a paintbox. Very elementary. Actually, she didn’t get everything quite right so I rescanned and reconfigured some of them myself. Got what I wanted in the end."

  Yes, my friend, and that’s what usually happens, Serrin mused. But what do you do when you can’t get what you want? "Mind if I ask a personal question?"

  "Fire away, old chap."

  "What are you worth these days?"

  Geraint smiled. "Don’t mind telling you that. Forbes and Dunn could do the same for a trivial fee. Well, it varies day to day with interest and speculations, natch, and about sixty percent is usually tied up for a week or so, but in total, call it eighteen million, give or take one percent. And I watch that one percent like a hawk, mind you."

  "Eighteen million pounds? Spirits, how the—"

  "Eighteen million nuyen, dear boy. About forty-five million in sterling, not that I ever bother with it myself. Strictly nuyen for business."

  "My God, your family must be rich. You know, I had no idea you Welshies were worth that much."

  "Well, actually, they’re not. I made most of it speculating. As for my father, he owns a lot of land but it’s meager as far as rents and properties go. I deal with the estates, such as they are. Since I rarely go back to Wales, I don’t like to squeeze the tenants. I think it’s a pretty rum do when some absentee landlord charges a fortune of people who are struggling over their heads just to survive, then kicks them out when they meet hard times."

  Well, what do you know? the elf thought. He actually cares about those people. Enough not to rob them blind anyway. Good for you, chummer.

  "Like I say, I rarely go back there. Bloody disgusting country. Hills that pretend to be mountains, valleys on the more depressing side of desolate. Welsh people are friendly, but by God they’re nosy, too. There’s an old proverb: a Welshman prays on his knees on Sundays, and preys on the rest of humanity the remainder of the week."

  "Well, this one doesn’t seem to be like that," Serrin smirked.

  "Too right. Won’t find me in chapel on the sabbath." They laughed genuinely. Geraint put the pack back into its silk wrap, then got up and flexed his aching shoulders. "How about some coffee?"

  "I’ll make it." Serrin was about to head for the kitchen when something on the trideo caught his eye. "Hey, what was in that cough medicine anyway?" He’d just seen the time display. "I’ve been asleep nearly four hours."

  "Never you mind. It’s an ancient Welsh recipe specially made to stop elves from asking difficult questions."

  Serrin had come back with the coffee by the time Francesca was stirring. By now it had also occurred to him that a cough medicine invented in the 1850s might not, after all, have been concocted for elves. He put the tray down, smiled at Geraint’s back, and thought: this isn’t over yet. Goodbyes aren’t in order, surely.

  * * *

  Geraint had found nothing at the drop address. Even the sight of a hefty chunk of high-denomination notes hadn’t unbuttoned the clerk’s lip. He even insinuated that Geraint might be an agent from the Administrative Bureau come to entrap him into indiscretion.

  Well, good for you, Geraint had thought as he left. If I ever need a dead-letter drop, this is where I’ll come.

  "So that’s a dead end," he was saying now. "I don’t see how we can track Messers. Smith and Jones further, unless we hire some street detectives. I know a discreet, good firm, but those two are still only middlemen. Hell, Serrin, they didn’t even come to Seattle for you, they used a second middleman there. Even if we find them, I doubt we can do much with the information. Maybe they’re back in South America."

  As stuck as ever, they reluctantly decided to give up the pursuit.

  "What are your plans, Francesca?"

  "I think I’m going to spend a few days upgrading my system software. Need some better armor programs and I think the medic must have taken a beating. I’m also going to get me some hot poison."

  Geraint gave a low whistle as he sucked in his breath. "You’ll never get a license for that. Even the corps have to tread carefully with that kind of stuff."

  Poison programs, otherwise known as persona-attacking. It was almost the equivalent of an antipersonnel weapon in the Matrix. The officious British licensing regulators didn’t like that kind of thing at all.

  "No problem," Francesca muttered. "I’ve got a corporate contact who’s sure to have a global license I can hide under. Did some work for them a year back, maybe the best work I’ve ever done. I know I can get what I need. They’ll know I don’t intend to use the program unless I absolutely have to."

  Geraint was surprised at that. If Francesca had that kind of pull, she must be outstanding at her work. "Would it be impolite to ask which corp?"

  "Unfortunately it would. Not Transys or Fuchi, though. Of course, half the time I’ve got no idea who I’m actually working for. As long as I get paid, that’s enough for me." Her hard edge, that one unattractive feature, was showing again.

  Serrin jumped up from his chair with a yelp, making them all start. "Hey, I’ve got to call the Crescent. I should have checked out or back in hours ago. They’ll have thrown my stuff away by now." He was utterly panicked at the thought.

  "No, they won’t," Geraint reassured him. "All your things are in the guest bedroom. I had most of it here anyway, so I thought I might as well get the rest sent over. You can stay here awhile. How long’s the visa for?"

  "Until the end of the month, but—"

  "Well, that’s no problem. Terms and conditions: one, no spellcasting. The building security mage won’t like it. He’s getting on a bit now, doesn’t want any trouble, what with his pension getting closer. Two, you’ll have to pay half the coffee bill, the way you go through the stuff." Serrin pushed his mug away guiltily. "You can raid the fridge and freezer for anything else, as you wish. Third, don’t stay in the shower for an hour in the morning. Uses up all the hot water, and I get nasty if all I get is cold water. If you can handle all that, stay as long as you like. I won’t force you to stay the month, but I’m sure you can manage the weekend."

  "I’d love to stay. If you want, I can conjure a water elemental to do the dishes. Only a very feeble little thing, promise."

  "No thank you! Domestic service people do all that kind of thing. All you have to do is dump the dishes down the chute. Rubberized valves and relays make sure they don’t break—miracle of modern technology. In this day and age, we don’t even have to see our servants." Francesca playfully pretended to swipe him across the head as they laughed together. She got up to get dressed, and scant minutes later she was back in her overcoat, ready to go.

  "Want me to drive you over?" Geraint asked, still a little concerned.

  "No, I’m fine. Really. I’ll pick up a cab outside. See you!" She ambled down the hall, and Geraint got up to walk her to the door.

  "Give us a call. Hey, why don’t you come for dinner Saturday night? Tell you what, I’ll get Fortnum’s to do the catering and we’ll have a bottle of Petrus. Real Welsh beef, too. Chateaubriand or Wellington? "

  Ten thousand nuyen a bottle for the wine alone. He certainly knows how to enjoy his money, Francesca thought a little guiltily.

  "Sure. That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll bring you some champagne for aperitif. Dom Ruisse, huh? That funny bottle with the long tapered neck. Yeah, let’s celebrate. Seven for seven-thirty?"

  "Perfect. Keep well, you." He closed the door behind her, rubbed his chin lazily, and went to park himself in his favorite armchair.

  Serrin gave Geraint a look worthy of one of the Lord Protector’s puritanical high officials. "You’re a self-indulgent pair!"

  "Special occasion, old chap. We haven’t been together in a long, long time. I think it’s worth a celebration. I saw it, you know; the Tarot told me. Must have been right after you landed at Heathrow." But wait. He was forgetti
ng something, trying to figure out what he’d missed. Of course.

  "There was someone else, though. A woman. A strong woman. She was part of it, with you and Francesca. No sign of her yet. But there will be." He also remembered the Nine of Swords. Bloodied blades.

  That must have been Annie, he reflected, but tried not to remember that. To clear his head, Geraint thought he’d go make some money. He’d been neglecting that for too long.

  "Well, old friend, I’m going to be unmovable in front of the cricket in a few hours, and until then I’m going to be sticking my snout into the trough of speculative financing. Got to check out the West Coast markets. They’ll be humming by now. So you’ll have to excuse me for tonight.

  "There’re some good shows in town. Check the text service on the Beeb’s C-net, that’ll tell you everything you want to know. If you’re homesick, OzNet on the trid has reruns of ancient American sitcoms and soaps. Or there might be something on the satellite channels. Avoid anything Italian, though; it’s either the worst game shows in the world or atrociously dubbed porn. Tomorrow, we can do some touristy things. Y’know: Tower of London, the Palaces, all that glop. Sound good to you?"

  Geraint didn’t get the reply he expected. Instead, he heard the query that every British man dreads in the deepest recesses of his soul whenever it comes from an American.

  "Um, Geraint, could you explain to me the rules of cricket?"

  18

  Rani woke to find that a gang of trolls with sledgehammers was breaking up a road inside her skull. She groaned, looked at the digital, which read eleven-fifteen, and turned over. She wanted to get back to sleep, but she was desperately thirsty. It felt like someone had washed out her mouth with paint-stripper.

  She managed to get downstairs without killing herself and staggered around looking for the orange juice. I am never, ever, going to drink that Polish stuff again, she thought. Why couldn’t I have been satisfied with just food and sweets? When was. . . ? I think I started drinking about ten. I sure as hell can’t remember much after ten-thirty.

  Taking the bottle from the ancient electric fridge, she dropped the plastic beaker she was going to fill, and thought, Rakk this! I’ll just drink from the bottle.

  She drained half of it then and there in the kitchen, then slouched back toward the living room. That was when she saw the scrap of paper lying on the floor, in front of the door with its many locks and chains. The old letterbox had long been nailed shut, so someone must have actually forced the sheet through the infinitesimally small gap between door and floor. That was unusual.

  What the frag IS this? she thought, casting a bleary eye over it. It was a leaflet printed in heavy black and red ink on garish yellow paper, an advertisement for an appearance by the Blazing Paranormal Ambulance at The Subway. In the area to be sure, and they did play great electroslam, but the date on the flyer was August fourteenth.

  "What the hell is this?" she snapped to no one in particular, and was about to throw the plugger away when the crude scrawl running around the border caught her eye:

  May have something to tell you—Exit to Finchley Rd, remember?—Midnight—Can’t risk the daytime—You’ll be safe

  You bet I’ll be safe, Smeng. Hell, I’ll even get myself a cab, if I can find one willing to do business around here at that hour.

  Rani dragged herself back up the stairs and collapsed into bed with a splitting headache. She dozed on and off for an hour or two, then dragged herself out of the sweaty sheets and made for the bathroom. Splashing handfuls of cold water over her face while shivering in her underwear, Rani found no comfort in the fact that she looked only slightly less awful than she felt. And since that was like death warmed over, the mirror wasn’t doing her much of a favor. The window had ice flowers on it, but she wasn’t sure if she was shaking because of the cold or the hangover.

  Get out on the streets and get some fresh air, girl, she chided herself. Get yourself a quart of juice, stuff down as many high-sugar sweets as you can without puking, and get this body into working order. Tonight you’re going to get one move closer.

  * * *

  "So, what have you been up to these past few days?" They were savoring the first sips of the chilled champagne, mist forming on the side of the glasses, the long flutes raised to waiting lips. They had sighed as one at the first taste of lemony bubbles exploding in the mouth.

  "Well," Francesca replied, licking her deliciously glossed lips,"frankly, I spent a good day stripping my Fuchi-6 and checking it out. I got paranoid about whether someone had been horsing around with it. Ridiculous, of course. No one’s going to get past the security, but I wasn’t entirely rational at the time. I got the new medic program installed and an armor program like you wouldn’t believe. Withstand a tactical nuke, this one. I’ll have to wait on the poison, though.

  "In the interim, I checked some personnel agencies for my own benefit. Downloaded a few megs of various bits and pieces. Left the dumbframe to wander around it all, run some analyses. It’s always useful to see who’s been having a surge of interest in people who, er, work in related fields." That was enough about her. "What have you boys been up to?"

  Geraint replied with a slight shake of the head. "Not a lot. We chewed the fat over a glass or two. Took Serrin to the National Museum, caught Hamlet at the Imperial last night, made a little money. There’s a new Paraguayan root extract all the rage with the slammers here and I invested in some, sold some distribution rights, and covered myself with HKB’s commodity insurance. Allowing for the premium, should be up forty, fifty thou. Today’s been quiet."

  "He showed me the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace, then took me around the House of Nobles," Serrin piped in. "I actually had a good time."

  Geraint made a polite gesture of self-deprecation as Serrin enthused, then he leaned forward to refill Francesca’s glass.

  The evening drifted perfectly. Before long the liveried waiters began to emerge from the kitchen with a series of delights, though the three of them barely noticed, so caught up were they in each other’s company.

  Geraint must have paid a fortune for this, Serrin thought as he cut himself another slice of the perfect, slightly pink beef and heaped another spoonful of buttered broccoli onto his china plate. Sure, he had the money to pay for it, but Serrin knew plenty of people who wouldn’t treat friends this good.

  "Comes from farmlands near home, this beef," Geraint was saying. "I can guarantee there’s absolutely nothing in it you wouldn’t want to have in your tissues this time tomorrow. The land went through detox a decade ago. The cow this came from actually ate healthy grass under blue skies. Not factory stuff. A bloody miracle. Enjoy yourselves."

  They hardly needed the invitation. By the time the servants had brought the pavlova and zabaglione and the astonishing coffee tray filled with fresh cream truffles and sculpted mints, they were experiencing a sense of wellbeing none of them had felt for some time. When the last of Fortnum’s people had gone, closing the door carefully and quietly, they barely even noticed.

  Geraint drained the last of the Petrus, fabulously rich and luscious, its aftertaste developing in his mouth and at the back of his throat.

  "This wine is empirical proof of the existence of God. And if God exists this proves he must be a benevolent old bastard. I’m always tempted to quote poetry when I drink Petrus." He laughed at himself as he stirred thick cream into his coffee cup. "Only joking. I very, very rarely do that."

  "Only to women." Francesca smiled seductively at him, almost a challenge across the table as she leaned forward on her elbows. The alcohol had flushed her face slightly, and she tended to be indiscreet at such times.

  I wish you hadn’t said that, Geraint thought sadly. Serrin’s beginning to wonder now. He thinks something may be going on. He didn’t ask me about it, and somehow I didn’t feel like saying anything to him.

  "Well, that’s different. A little John Donne or Andrew Marvell. Life needs some bittersweet romance now and then."


  "Donne or Marvell, or the Queen’s song. That Babylonian song."

  "Sumerian. Dumuzi and Inanna’s Ecstasy of Love ."

  "How did it go? ‘Last night as I, the queen of heaven, was shining bright . . .’" She was lost in the recollection, forgetting how the verse continued.

  But Geraint did not forget. As I was shining bright, as I was dancing, as I was uttering a song at the brightening of the night, he met me. . . .

  He looked away, embarrassed and a little pained, gazing out over the skyline. In the winter’s chill, London’s bright city lights shone under a canopy of stars crisscrossed at intervals by shadowy fragments of the weather control domes. Ten million souls. How many of them meeting like that in the brightening of this night?

  With a pang of embarrassment, Geraint broke the spell. "Serrin, can you turn on the box, you’re nearest? Check the eleven o’clock news." Anything to keep the talk from getting any more personal.

  The elf got up from his chair and took the remote, zapped up the BBC News channel. I assume that’s what he wants, the elf thought. When in Britain, assume the locals watch the BBC.

  The screen flickered instantly to life. It was just ten past the hour, so they only got the tail end of the politics, followed by the face of a bimbo standing uncomfortably in front of a brick wall, her words caught in midsentence.

  ". . . tonight that the murder took place. The victim has been identified by police as a Ms. Elizabeth Stride. A police spokesman said the murder was unusually brutal even for this district." The reporter’s frisson of horror invited her audience to the hypocrisy of feeling shocked all the while they were pruriently interested. "Here in Spitalfields, police revealed, the victim was found dismembered by her attacker. Initial pathscan reports leaked to us say that the body was eviscerated. Senior police pathologist Dr. Leslie Phillips is alleged to have told investigating detectives that the mutilation of the corpse was conducted with surgical precision. The motive for the slaying is unknown, but—"