by L. Lee Lowe
'Wait,' Zach said. 'I'm riding with her.'
'Sorry, mate, against the rules. You know that.'
Zach shoved a hand between the doors, and the two stared at each other. Laura raised her head from the stretcher. Her eyes were pleading above the oxygen mask.
'If you're afraid of losing your job, I'll tell them I forced you,' Zach said. 'At gun point, if you like.'
The paramedic made a thoroughly unprofessional sound, then glanced from Zach to his patient, and back to Zach again. He let out a deep sigh.
'You needn't worry about my skin, lad.' He jerked his head to indicate that Zach should hop in. 'My people went through this sort of thing for plenty of years. Come on, your girl's waiting.'
Chapter 12
'What the hell have you been up to?'
With an angry set to his shoulders Lev tosses down his satchel and seizes the lamp off the floor. In a moment it's burning brightly again, a stark light which accentuates the planes and angles of his face. But his examination is as skilful and sensitive as before, and this time Zach feels a liquid warmth spread under his skin, a warmth which reminds him of spilled sunlight. Until Lev fingers the pendant with a provocative lift to his eyebrows.
'No!' Zach cries, and clamps Lev's hand in his own. 'Don't touch it.'
'Let go,' Zach says, 'or I'll break your fingers.'
Lev regards Zach without flinching, a frank appraisal. It's not easy to intimidate someone who can face a polar bear with more steel in his balls than fist. Slowly he nods and Zach releases his hand, which Lev flexes with no apparent resentment. Appreciatively, even.
'Laura's,' Lev says.
Zach's hand slides back to the pendant. A long silence, in which Lev trims the lamp, moves it to a less prominent position, waits. Zach counts, then recounts the stone figures lined up on a shelf, half of them in creamy green, the other half a dark burgundy. Thirty-one, thirty-two. Lev could have filled the air with verbal shrapnel—most people do. After a struggle, Zach allows that he might need more than Lev's medical skills.
'How do you know about Laura?' Zach asks.
Lev reaches for a pouch lying on the mantel. 'Mind if I smoke?'
Curtly, 'No.'
'I'd offer you one, but it's best you wait till you're fully healed.'
'I don't smoke.'
Lev extracts a packet of cigarette papers and some tobacco, whose sweet aroma, even unlit and from across the room, is distinctive if slightly noisome. Zach eyes the chessmen intermittently while Lev rolls his cigarette, touches a taper to the hot embers in place of a match, and inhales with serene pleasure, then notices the direction of Zach's gaze.
'Do you play?' Lev asks.
'A bit.'
'I carved them myself. Fine occupation of an evening. Like to see one?'
'You must think me an idiot!'
They study each other again. Lev wears a mask of smoke, no doubt aiming the two thin streams upwards from his nostrils as deliberately as Zach himself would have done.
'How did you get her chain?' Zach asks at last.
'What you really mean is, have I seen her?'
'Well, have you?'
'Let's just say I'm aware of her importance.'
Testily Zach brushes his hair off his forehead, only to grimace. His hair is greasy and needs a good wash. He needs a good wash. Meanwhile, Lev flips the end of his cigarette into the fire and proceeds to rummage in his bag.
'Here,' he says, handing Zach an unopened toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. 'Do you want me to help you bath?'
'No. What I want is to understand what's going on.'
'Will it allay your suspicions to learn we have certain interests in common?'
Zach casts his blanket aside, rises to his feet, and makes his way slowly and laboriously to the shelf on which the stone chessmen rest. He picks up a red pawn and cradles it in his hand. Runs his thumb over its surface. Beautifully carved for such a minor piece. Yet even a mediocre player knows the value of safeguarding his rooks. He sets it back down and turns to Lev.
'Are you telling me that you're also looking for Laura?' Zach asks.
Lev joins him at the shelf, where he plucks an irregular piece of dull red stone from beside the chessmen. He weighs it in his hand for a few minutes. 'Funny, but I sometimes prefer the raw stone, unprepossessing as it seems.' He replaces the stone with the air of a small boy who's been showing off his treasures. Proud, yet not quite sure someone else will appreciate their worth. 'How about something to eat? I don't know about you, but I'm famished.'
At Lev's words Zach's stomach grumbles, alerting him that some of the residual ache may be hunger. He has no idea when he's last eaten; no idea, in fact, how long he's been here. Despite Lev's trickster mindset, Zach finds himself asking that very question.
'I'll fetch some bowls. It's warmer by the fire.' Lev hoists the lamp and takes a few steps towards the kitchen.
'Hold on. You can't treat me like this.'
Eyes crinkling, Lev pauses to look from Zach to the chess set. 'It must be that simus are exempt from military service. Every soldier knows what it means to be a pawn—vital, but not always privy to command information.'
'And every simu knows not to take orders from self-serving monkeys!'
'Before jumping to conclusions, ask yourself why the abort function didn't work.'
'What the fuck are you trying to prove? That you're cleverer than me?'
'Intelligence—at least the sort to which you cling like men drowning—is vastly overrated in the larger scale of things.'
In exasperation, Zach sweeps a hand through the air as though clearing away a cobweb, the kind which hangs in horror films and ghost stories. 'Any more catchy—' he begins, then happens to glance down at his fingers. His mouth snaps shut. With mild distaste he rubs his fingers on his trackpants to dislodge the desiccated fly and sticky strands clinging to his skin.
'Enough's enough,' he mutters. Then louder, 'Abort the bloody run, you arseholes. There's a serious malfunction.' Again he tries the code; as a last resort, the escape key implanted in his upper left third molar, which he's always thought of as another of Mishaal's jokes.
'You still think it's a malfunction?' Lev asks, amused.
'What else?'
Lev lowers the lamp below knee level, making him look much older. Not just older—more skelemental, as though his skin has thinned to reveal struts and fathomless conduits, the very viruses swarming through his system. But a virus is unable to replicate without a host. It's not alive. Zach feels the hairs on the nape of his neck stir even before Lev speaks.
'I've disabled the return functions precisely so that Fulgur can no longer get its hands on you. Not till you're ready to deal with them.'
'Impossible!'
'Think so?'
'Look, it's obvious that whoever you are, you have some understanding of the interface. Maybe I imagined the cobweb, maybe I've been so ill that I can't remember how I got here, maybe even one of the programmers somehow learned about Laura's chain, but one thing is dead certain—the coding can't be altered from within. First of all, it's out of the question technically. And it would be madness to give that sort of power to anyone.' After a brief pause he concedes, 'Even to a simu.'
'I'm not a cognoscens.'
'A monkey?' Zach asks incredulously.
There's no dramatic change in the room—no sudden chill, no explosive fatal strike, no fresh blood or gore to stain his dreams. Tornarssuk, three-quarters of a ton of shrewd clawed blade-toothed battering ram, remains out of sight, patiently awaiting its long-stalked prey. But as Lev turns to leave, the air around him shimmers with a light dusting of crystals like fine dry snow in moonlight—a furred nimbus which disappears in an instant as Lev transfers the lantern to his left hand. By contrast, the pungent oily smell lingers first in Zach's nostrils, then in his memory, along with Lev's parting words.
'Remember, not every virus is malignant.'
Chapter 13
The division head waved Litchf
ield to a seat.
'Coffee, Charles?' Slade asked.
'Thank you, no.' He settled himself on the edge of the hide-upholstered chair. It never did to act as if they were having an awards-ceremony natter, despite his superior's genial smile. Slade was active in local politics, and if Molly's girlfriends could be believed, eyeing the soon-to-be-contested MP seat. A wartime stint in the oil zone was routinely touted, a tweet short of overkill. His squat, toad-like appearance worked entirely to his advantage, reminding you of a favourite bald uncle. Charles would never have known about the women if the adjoining flat hadn't belonged to Max's godmother, a piece of information he was hoarding like knowledge of falsified data. There were few others with his knack of reading a gatlas. He'd pick one up most evenings the way others indulged in bedtime thrillers, or Molly, trashy romances.
'How's Molly?'
'Very well, thanks.'
'And the children?
Here it comes, Charles thought, but years of marriage had trained him well. 'Just fine, both of them. Max's teachers are very pleased with his work, especially in science and maths, and he's shaping up nicely as a striker. And Laura's gone back to swimming. The usual adolescent ups and downs with her, and of course we wish she were a bit more academically minded, but nothing we can't handle.'
'I've heard that she had to spend a few days in hospital. Not a chronic condition, I trust.'
'Nothing of the sort.' He reminded himself that this fool sat in on assessments—their ridiculous Vertical Mobility Advisory Board. Andy had another name for it. 'An allergic reaction. Unfortunate, but we'll be very vigilant it doesn't recur.'
Slade leaned his elbows on his gleaming desk and steepled his hands against his lips. He regarded a single sheet of paper in front of him, at which Charles was careful not to stare. Not that he needed to.
After a measured silence, Slade smiled, picked up the paper, and tore it neatly in half before feeding the pieces through the shredder under his desk. Even in a largely paperless age, it was sometimes best to leave carbon rather than electronic footprints.
'I'm glad to hear that, Charles. We're men who understand the need for high standards.' His voice took on a slight sing-song tone that reminded Charles of his father-in-law in the pulpit. 'In our homes as well as our work, and above all in society as a whole. We live in unsettled times. We must never forget that the future lies with our children.'
Charles slowly let out his breath. A calculated risk, but the odds had been good—this time. He'd have to arrange a permanent solution. A pity, Zach was one of their best. But if Fulgur fired you, there was the dole, or scrubbing urinals in the morgue—not even cadavers.
'I couldn't agree with you more, Russell. Laura and Max mean everything to Molly and me. Well, almost everything.' He gave a deprecating cough. 'You know that my—our—commitment to Fulgur is 100%.'
'No need for that. We never expect more than 98%.'
They laughed together, two men sharing a pleasant joke. Then Slade's face took on the solemn look of distant relatives at a funeral. He reached forward and flicked a switch on his console. 'No calls or interruptions, please, Penelope.' He opened a drawer and removed a flat file. 'Now about Project Elysium—'
*****
'You've been going through my things.'
Her mum laid the iron on its side and reached over to turn down the radio. Bach, thought Laura, when it ought to be Wagner.
'What do you expect?' Molly asked.
'I'm nearly eighteen. I've got the right to my privacy,' Laura said hotly.
'Not if you break rules.' Molly's voice hardened. 'Break laws.'
'I'll buy a lock to keep you out, if I have to.'
'To keep you in would be better. Away from that—that simu.'
'I'm not going to let you choose my friends. Not any more.'
Molly's hand reached for the iron, and Laura took a step backwards, immediately furious at herself for cringing. Her mum smiled and dropped her hand.
'We'll see about that, won't we.'
Laura was too close to tears to notice the small patches of colour on her mum's cheeks, the slitted eyes, the silken vowels.
'Then I'll go to social services. You can't treat me like a—'
Molly's hand caught her across the side of her head, hard enough to bring the threatened tears to overflowing. Laura must have bitten her lip or tongue, she could taste blood. Before she had a chance to swallow properly, her mum had grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked, then began shaking her like a pitbull with a catch in its jaws. But the worst were the words, the vicious threats that Molly hurtled at her—'piece of shit' and 'slut' about the mildest of them. Long experience had taught Laura to retreat into a sheltered place until her mum's rage ran its course. Sometimes a deep blue, watery grotto. Sometimes a seal's pure white lair. And this time, a secret cave where you could float for hours in a warm pool buoyed by the hypnotic notes of a clarinet.
*****
Although they had arrived early, Owen's spacious sitting room was already crowded, and guests were spilling over into adjoining reception rooms. Laura's mum disappeared with her viola into the downstairs study reserved for warming up. Max grumbled sotto voce to Laura that they'd never get near the food later. Laura felt a touch on her shoulder.
'It's ages till they begin,' Owen said. 'Let's get out of this madhouse.'
Laura glanced round. Through the doorway into the conservatory she could see her dad talking animatedly to a pair of bespectacled research types with Nobel Prize engraved on their foreheads.
'If Dad surfaces before the quartet comes in, tell him I'm going over some maths problems with Owen,' Laura instructed Max.
'You can't just run off and leave me on my own,' Max protested.
'Go into the kitchen,' Owen said. 'Mike and George are watching TV and eating pizza. Our au pair will make sure you get back in time.'
'But Dad'll notice,' Max said.
'Doubt it. Those are the visiting Stanford neurogeneticists, your dad won't even hear the music begin.'
In Owen's room Laura was surprised to find a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks.
'You like to read,' she said.
Owen shut the door and switched on his sound system. 'Drink?' he asked, bringing out a couple of lagers from behind a row of thrillers.
After a hesitation Laura nodded, let him pop the ring-pull for her. The hiss of escaping gas seemed vaguely ominous, though she knew that the adder's strike had been soundless. She drank a few sips, then set the can on his desk.
Owen watched her over the top of his can, licking a bit of foam from his lips. Laura looked away, his tongue was too wet, too pink—like a small animal that had been captured and skinned.
'I'm not stupid,' he said.
'What?'
He waved at the books. 'I can read as well as the next bloke.'
Laura coloured. 'I didn't mean it that way.'
Owen continued to regard her intently. His gaze was beginning to make her uncomfortable, and she reached for her lager.
'Do you still see him?' Owen asked at last.
'Who?' As if she didn't know.
'Zach.'
Laura shrugged. 'I don't think he's been at school. Haven't you seen him around?'
Owen drained his can.
'Do you want to finish mine?' Laura asked.
He shook his head and moved closer. 'I don't really drink that much,' he said, taking the can from her and putting it aside. Now was the time to leave, if she were leaving.
'Why did you go there with him? To that wood?'
Neither Zach nor Laura had mentioned the cave to anyone. By the time she'd been well enough to explain, he'd already taken the brunt of the blame on himself. She was very worried what they'd done to him, but could think of no innocuous way to find out. How much did Owen hear from his dad?
'It was just supposed to be a motorbike ride,' she said. She wasn't able to blush on cue, but she'd perfected the lip-biting and fiddling with a strand of hair. 'Naïve of m
e, I know. That certainly won't happen again.'
'Did he try anything?'
She looked away. 'It's hard for me to talk about it.'
'I'll get some of my mates together, we'll sort him.'
'Leave it, Owen. Please. I don't want any more rack, my mum's already half-crazed about the whole thing. The police will have given Zach a good scare, and my dad says Fulgur has its own ways of dealing with such things.'
'Yeah.' Owen grinned. 'Yeah, they can be damned effective. And if I tell them about the fire—'
'What fire?'
'You know, at the old cannery. I didn't want to get the two of you into trouble, but now . . .'
'We didn't have anything to do with the fire.'
'You left together?'
Laura nodded. 'The boy died, there seemed no reason to hang round.'
'But Zach could have gone back later.'
'Maybe.' Laura waited to give him the impression she was thinking hard. 'We separated at the street, I went my way, he . . . I guess I don't know where he went. What would Fulgur do to him?'
Owen was quiet for a moment. 'You'll have to keep this to yourself.'
'Of course.'
Absentmindedly he picked up her lager and swirled it without drinking. Then he took a deep breath, as if he were about to swallow a dose of bitter medicine. 'There's something about the augers, about their body chemistry, which Fulgur controls.'
Her expression bland, Laura nodded to reassure him that her promise was no mere placebo.
'I don't know all the details,' he went on, 'but it's a big secret. Something so secret that even the augers themselves haven't been told the truth.'
'I don't understand.'
'Nor me. But it means Fulgur has a way to keep them in line. Punish them, if necessary.'
'Painful?'
Owen searched her face. 'Do you care?'
'Not particularly. I used to think we ought to treat them like us.'
'Then I'll tell my dad about that auger kid. You saw how mad Zach went. He's capable of anything.'
'I don't trust him. What if he makes up a whole string of lies?' She ducked her head, her voice contrite. 'You were right, you know. I should never have had anything to do with him. I feel so stupid. It was just that . . . those eyes of theirs . . . Are you racked at me?'