by Nina D'Aleo
‘So tell us,’ Diega demanded. Her skin was vibrant and her stare hard.
Jude wrung his metal hands together. ‘I think I know what Keets is going to say. You . . . you already know I come from a noble family . . .’
Eli found himself nodding.
‘Well I do, and more . . .’ He paused.
‘Yes?’ the commander prompted, his voice dangerously soft.
‘I come from the royal family,’ Jude confessed. ‘I am . . . I am Crown Prince Isaiah U.’
Eli giggled hysterically before he could stop himself, then slapped a hand over his mouth. He glanced at Diega and Copernicus. The Fen looked confused and angry. The commander’s face was completely blank. Jude swayed where he stood, emotion threatening his composure. Eli pitied him. He wanted to say something, but didn’t trust himself to open his mouth.
‘The Crown Prince is dead,’ the commander finally said.
Jude shook his head. ‘When I was thirteen year-cycles my uncle, the Vice-Standard U, tried to have me assassinated. I escaped, so he knows I’m not dead, but not where I am. I didn’t know who to trust. Please understand that I didn’t mean to lie to you.’
‘You didn’t know who to trust?’ Diega repeated. Eli could feel the angry heat rolling off her skin.
‘Why did the Vice-Standard want you dead?’ Copernicus asked.
Jude looked up at the ceiling. He said, ‘Our views clashed.’
‘What views?’ Copernicus pushed.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Diega demanded.
Jude looked from the commander to the Fen and back. ‘Just . . . views about people . . . about races. I didn’t think the way they wanted me to think. I wanted people to have equality,’ he tried to explain. ‘And I didn’t tell you because I haven’t told anyone. I wanted . . .’
‘What?’ Diega said.
‘I wanted to forget, to leave it behind. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Jude moved forward and held out his hand to her.
She stepped back and kept her arms at her sides.
‘I’ve told you things about myself that I haven’t told anyone,’ Diega said. ‘And you’ve been lying to my face.’
‘I haven’t lied,’ Jude insisted.
‘You’re the Crown Prince!’ Diega yelled. ‘I don’t remember that coming up in any conversations!’
‘Diega, it’s me. I’m the same person,’ Jude implored.
He tried to reach out to her again and she yelled, ‘Stay away!’
Jude stopped. He lowered his head. Tears welled in Eli’s eyes.
The commander took control and said, ‘Jude, you and I will need to discuss this further, but first we need to investigate these attacks. Are you fit for duty?’
After a moment, Jude nodded.
Diega shook her head and mumbled something.
‘Then go to Moris-Isles, 9 Delta Street. Diega, you come with me to the Galleria. Eli, stay here, work on analysis of the data we already have. Find us some leads, and lean on Forensics to release the fluid results from the first scene. We need to know exactly who the victims were and exactly what killed them.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Eli said.
The commander’s communicator jolted on his belt and started whistling again. Copernicus thumped his fist into it and Eli flinched at the thought of the extremely delicate components within.
The whistling stopped.
Diega turned her back on Jude and spoke to Eli, her voice flat. ‘Mine’s not working either. I can’t hear my messages. There’s too much static.’
‘I’ll have to work on them more when you get back,’ Eli said. ‘I’ll fix them.’
Diega muttered, ‘Whatever,’ and stalked out the door. Copernicus gave Jude another look and then followed. Jude watched them leave, sorrow clouding his eyes.
‘Don’t worry,’ Eli managed to say. ‘It’ll be okay.’
The Ar Antarian shook his head.
‘I don’t have to start calling you Your Majesty, do I?’ Eli heard himself add and cringed, but it brought a smile to Jude’s face and tears to his eyes.
‘No, Eli. I’d really prefer that you didn’t.’
‘Don’t say that or I won’t be able to help myself,’ Eli said. ‘You know I can’t shut up.’
‘And I can’t talk. We’re a good pair,’ Jude said sadly.
‘Speaking of which, has SevenM returned from the Gangland?’ Eli asked him, searching to change the topic, scrambling back to familiar ground where they could stand and talk as friends as they always had.
Jude blinked to see where his robot was. ‘He’s still making his way out. Taking his time so he doesn’t get any unwanted attention.’ He blinked back. ‘He’ll be fine.’
‘I would have carried him, but I’m not strong enough,’ Eli said.
‘I think you’re stronger than you know,’ Jude said quietly. ‘I’d better get going.’
Eli nodded. They walked out into the corridor in uneasy silence and Jude shut the door behind them. He turned to head away and Eli remembered why he had come to the apartment in the first place.
‘Jude, I wanted to talk to you,’ Eli called him back. ‘I don’t know whether this is the right time —’ he suspected it was most definitely not ‘— but you heard what Shawe said in the Gangland. I don’t think the commander’s taking it seriously.’
‘The way I hear it, they’ve been warring for a long time,’ Jude replied.
‘They have, but this is different. Shawe thinks the commander has taken his brother. Who knows what he’ll do to get the boy back.’
‘I agree, but I don’t think I’m in any position to be advising the commander,’ Jude said. ‘He’ll probably end up discharging me – at the least.’
‘Don’t think like that,’ Eli said. ‘You know the boss makes up his own rules and his own mind. You’re a good person – better than all of us. He can see that.’
Jude gave a small smile. ‘Thank you, Eli.’
He turned and walked away and Eli watched him go. ‘Be careful,’ he called out as the Ar Antarian turned the corner.
Jude didn’t hear. He vanished.
*****
Eli sat hunched in front of his workbench. He blinked, his sights pixelated from staring at holo-images for so long. His stomach growled and gnawed at itself from hunger, and Nelly sat on the hardcopy data file he needed, refusing to budge until due attention was given to her. She was still angry at him for leaving her behind when he went to Greenway.
‘You wouldn’t have wanted to go,’ Eli tried to reason with her. ‘A very scary man lives there.’ He gently slid her aside and she berated him in a high chattering voice, her fuzzy cheeks puffed with outrage.
‘I know, I know, but I need to keep working. We’re in a crisis here. Go have a swim. Or eat some fish – look, nice fishies over there.’ He pointed to her dish.
She gave a final disgruntled huff and slunk away.
Eli rubbed his eyes and stared around at all the holo-screens full of information surrounding him. He had so much to do that he didn’t know where to start. There was everything from the crime scenes, the disturbing possibility of a gang uprising, the unofficial flesh and blood project the commander had asked him to think about for his ‘old friend’, and he was also waiting on a reply from the metal specialist.
Eli turned to one of the holo-screens and flicked through the crime-scene images. The image that he had accidentally opened in Greenway flashed up and he saw the spectral-breed’s face pressing out of the wall. He cursed himself for forgetting about it and not telling the commander. On closer inspection, Eli was pretty sure it was a Skilsy Wraith. Several year-cycles ago he’d conducted a study into the different spectral-breed subtypes to add to the combined knowledge of the trackers, but his findings had been limited by the spectrals’ suspicion of anyone outside of their society. The racial group, made up of Wraiths, Phantoms, Midnight Men, Living Ghosts, Deaths and various others, were an extremely secretive people ruled by their own councils and courts. They very rare
ly communicated with anyone outside their own kind. Some types of spectrals, like Midnight Men, couldn’t even talk. Skilsy Wraiths could, though, and they were also a unique type of spectral, in that each Wraith was born both male and female in one body and could switch between the sexes until they were separated into two different bodies. Eli hadn’t been able to discover when or how this happened. He considered how easy it would be for the Wraiths. They never had to look for a partner because they were born with their very own soulmate attached.
He continued to study the Wraith’s face. Why would a Wraith be at the crime scene? They weren’t a curious type of spectral and they weren’t blood-fascinated. Maybe it had just stepped through the wrong wall or the wrong floor and stumbled there by accident? He’d run it by Copernicus when he got back.
Eli glanced at the holo-screen showing the footage of Ev’r Keets’ cell through the spyer he had planted under the table. The fugitive was crouched unmoving in one corner. Eli thought about Jude and his confession for probably the billionth time that hour. He shook his head in disbelief. Ev’r shivered and Eli remembered something else that Jude’s announcement had blotted from his mind – he remembered Ev’r’s warning about Silho. Grabbing the communicator off his weapon belt, he checked the locator screen. The green spot representing Silho was not at her home where it should have been, but in Moris-Isles. Uneasiness wrung Eli’s gut.
‘Lai Lai, Silho, what are you doing there?’ he said to himself, then instructed his system, ‘Call Brabel.’
14
Droplets of blood shimmered ruby in the lantern light as they dripped from Silho’s head to her trousers, blossoming crimson flowers on the grey dullness of the fabric. She pressed her hands into her face, aware of the other passengers. They looked, but didn’t really see, all eyes focused inward.
A tinny voice erupted over the intercom, ‘Next stop Eastend Station, Moris-Isles.’
Silho dragged herself to her feet and went to stand in front of the door. She looked into the darkened glass and met her reflection’s stare. A sickness spiralled inside her. Oren Harvey’s eyes stared out from under her hood. They looked inside her heart and they mocked what they saw. What did she think she was doing going back to the crime scene? What would disobeying orders accomplish, other than getting herself discharged from the team or even killed, or worse? Why was she trying to retrace footsteps made by shoes she could never fill? I’m just the ghost of your shadow . . . Silho took the bottle from her pocket, shook out two more pills and swallowed them down. Synthetic serenity silenced her fear. And distorted her judgement.
The public transporter swooped to a halt at Eastend Station and the doors slid open. A hot gust of Moris-Isles air, stinking like an abattoir, rushed into the carriage. Some passengers covered their noses, others averted their eyes. Silho left them to their silence and stepped out onto the platform underneath a jittering fluoro light swarming with kamikaze moths. The doors closed behind her and the transporter zoomed away.
The neon lights of Eastend, Moris-Isles, gleamed in the distance and a booming bassline thudded in time with Silho’s heart. Bottles smashed, voices yelled and cursed. Someone screamed. Silho took in the barren platform littered with cigarette butts and rubbish. Anything once there, both freestanding and bolted down, had long since been broken or stolen, and graffiti marked every inch of space. Below Silho’s boots the words RIP Dupuesta, Weldido, Brahe sprawled across the concrete – the names of the first gangsters, the originals. Silho crossed the platform towards the top of the stairs, where a group of gang members dressed in the yellow leather of the Penny Little Alliance were loitering. As Silho neared, one of them, a human-breed of leopard blood, stepped out to her.
‘What you looking at, gadfly?’ he spat.
Show no fear, Silho told herself. She drew her military standard electrifier and pointed it at him. His self-assurance drained and he said nothing more as she passed.
Silho picked her way down towards the street. The steps, termite-eroded and precarious, without a railing to hold, blurred under her feet and she fought to focus around the pulsating of her head. Blood seeped from the wound. Afraid the smell would attract the Midnight Men, she pulled her hood further over her face, then jolted at the sudden buzz of her communicator. She snatched it off her belt, cursing herself for not leaving it at home. Her first instinct was to not answer, but then the team might think she was in trouble and come looking. But what if it was the commander and he sensed she was lying? With shaking hands, she pressed the receive call button.
‘Silho.’
She breathed relief to hear Eli’s voice. ‘Yes.’
‘My locator says you’re in Moris-Isles. Is that right or is my system glitching?’
‘No, your system is right. I’m just – visiting a friend,’ Silho tried to sound casual.
‘In the Isles?’ Eli seemed unconvinced.
‘She lives here. She asked me to come over.’
‘At three hours to dawn?’
‘She’s nocturnal . . .’ Silho winced as she said it.
‘But you should be at home. You should be resting. The commander ordered it,’ Eli reminded her.
Silho swore again silently and replied, fighting to keep her voice calm, ‘I know. I just – she had an emergency, an emotional emergency. Women’s business. Can you just keep this between us?’
Eli paused. His voice dragged with reluctance and uncertainty. ‘I suppose so, but I really think you should head home.’
‘I will,’ Silho lied. ‘Thanks, Eli.’ She pressed the end transmission button, then found the communicator’s power switch and shut it down. She knew it would look suspicious, but she couldn’t have him seeing her return to the same street as the crime scene. The friend story wouldn’t be enough to cover that.
She came to the last stair and moved out into the street, but her steps faltered as roaring snarls sounded close by. Two packs of Stogs, troll-breeds, turned the corners either side of where she stood. They were wielding spiky mallet-like weapons known as thupclubs and stretching wide, gooey maws full of blade-like teeth. Looking from one pack to the other, she realised she was in the centre of an imminent Stog turf war. She ran, ducking into a transflyer parking lot, which led away from the station district, and into the backstreets of night-time Moris-Isles. Silho’s heart thundered, throat too dry to swallow, but she moved quickly and purposefully, keeping a fearless front and her electrifier drawn.
The brothel district was still in full chorus of squeaky bedsprings, moans and screams when Silho hit the main stretch. As she passed under the windows of one grindhouse, a tall figure stepped out of the doorway and started following her. With her electrifier armed, she turned to face him. He hissed and evaporated – Midnight Man. Silho shivered and pressed onward until she finally reached Whitter Avenue and stopped at the top of the stairs leading to the crime scene. The boards that the guardians had nailed across the doorway to stop people entering had been ripped away. With nerves prickling, she tightened her grip on her electrifier, blinked into light-form vision and moved down the stairs.
A red light shone from the crime scene. Silho crept along the corridor towards the room and stopped beside the doorway. She swapped back to normal sight and peered in. The coroners had cleared away the corpses, but blood still stained the floor and walls. A vulture-faced woman, dressed in a long dark blue cloak, paced the room. Silho’s senses flared in warning. This woman reminded her of one of her early training missions to the cursed city of Glargsh, where the dead had scrambled from their graves and walked out to meet them. They’d been as this woman was, shrivelled and hollow-eyed with gnarled claw-like fingers, their bodies wafting of rot. Silho moved closer and saw the woman pause at a makeshift bench where someone lay squirming slowly, groggy. The cloaked woman arranged small pots around the bench and dipped a fingertip into each. She drew on the prone person’s face in blood red – a triangle within a triangle, within a square. From inside her cloak, the woman took a severed arm and cut flesh from it
, dropping pieces into each pot. They began to boil and rattle as her voice uncoiled from the darkness shrouding her face.
‘Power of Morsmalus, accept this flesh offering, accept this blood offering and grant your humble servant guidance to the key. Light the way to its resting place.’ She made some guttural sounds and the chamber shook. The shadows swirled around the walls. Silho stared in disbelief. The woman had used dark-words, curses, forbidden and punishable by immediate death without trial. They smelt of burning tar and stung Silho’s eyes.
The witch untied the cord from around her neck and let the cloak drop to the ground. She stood, naked and hideous, her scabby skin mutilated with symbol scars. A creature was moving inside her, pushing hands and a demon face against her back. Silho’s shock deepened. This wasn’t just a dark witch, this was a Skreaf – the worst of the demon cults. Silho recalled from her training that the Skreaf craft had once been, along with Cos, nature’s voice, the most widely used of the magics, but that the demons had been wiped out long ago in the purges during the reign of King Miron V. The Skreaf literature had been destroyed and little passed on about them, except that their members, born largely unskilled, paid for their power with flesh and soul.
The witch lifted something above her head and Silho saw the shimmer of a blade. The Skreaf plunged it down towards the trapped figure’s face. Silho’s instincts kicked in, overriding her shock. She aimed her electrifier at the Skreaf’s awful, writhing back and sent a massive surge of electricity into her. For a second the witch was trapped in a circle of light, then thrown forward, smashing into the wall. She lay crumpled on the ground, smoke rising from her skin.
Keeping the electrifier trained on the Skreaf, Silho moved swiftly to the trapped person. A spectral-breed, the Wraith whom she had seen earlier in her vision and in the wall, stared up at her with haunted grey eyes. There was nothing visible binding the Wraith to the bench, but her movements were sluggish, eyelids heavy – cursed.
‘Come on!’ Silho tried to help the grey-skinned spectral to sit up.