by Ian Whates
"What?" Tylus stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his colleague, appalled by what he was hearing. "The watch actually endorses these criminal activities?"
"Look, I don't know how it works up-City, but down here our main concern is with keeping the peace, and you don't do that by upsetting the street gangs and taking away their income. Now the way we go about things might not appear in any rule book, but then none of them rule books were written by anyone who ever had to try and survive down here. Maybe someday they'll come up with a set of rules writ especially for the City Below, but until then we have to improvise our own."
Tylus was impressed. This was the longest speech he had yet heard Richardson make. No question, the lad was coming out of himself now that he'd found somebody who was actually willing to listen to him. And what he said made a lot of sense, albeit in a twisted way. Tylus determined not to judge the officers of the watch too harshly; after all, he was the outsider here and didn't have to live as they did. Even so, he was singularly unimpressed by what he had heard and was finding it hard not to condemn the whole ethos of law enforcement here in the basement world.
The young Kite Guard did have a more immediate worry, a matter he was shying away from thinking about. It occurred to him that the street-nicks they were on their way to meet were likely to be the very same youths he encountered on first arriving here - the ones he had handed out a beating to - or at least their fellow gang members. He neglected to mention the incident to Richardson, fearing that the guardsman might be less inclined to arrange a meeting if he knew about it. The bottom line was that Tylus had no idea what sort of a reception to expect from the Scorpions should they recognise him, which meant that, as yet, he wasn't sure how to approach the upcoming meeting. However, so buoyed was he by the day's successes that not even this concerned him unduly. He felt sure that things would go his way, even if he did have to wing it.
His confidence wavered almost at once. A trio of street-nicks waited ahead of them and in the centre stood the lad who had lifted his puncheon earlier that day, the one he had knocked over with his fists. He managed to stifle the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth on seeing the boy's bruised cheek, not to mention his red and swollen nose, but was completely unprepared for the look of horror that spread across the street-nick's face at sight of him.
"It's the frissin' cloud scraper," the boy yelled. Tylus had never been called that before but knew the expression: common street slang for anyone living in the Heights. "The one who topped Des," the lad went on. "Run!"
With that, the trio of boys scattered, all disappearing down different alleyways.
"Go after the kid who spoke," Tylus told Richardson, pointing as the boy disappeared around a corner. "I'll try to cut him off."
Richardson sprinted forward obediently in pursuit of the boy, while Tylus darted to the right, down a broader avenue which promised to parallel the alley they had taken. As he ran, he drew a deep breath and held his arms out stiffly and slightly behind himself.
Those who knew nothing about kitecapes tended to assume that they relied entirely on wind currents. They were wrong. The wind had nothing to do with a kitecape's buoyancy or motive power but everything to do with deflection, misdirection and obstruction. A Kite Guard did not need the wind in order to fly, but did have to be well versed in the likely effects of its strength and direction or risk being dumped unceremoniously from the air, just as Tylus had been the previous night. To fly a cape you needed to know as much about running with the wind and tacking against it as any sailor; but, of course, all that applied only when there was a wind worth talking about.
In the confined environment of the City Below, just as in the corridors of the Heights, air movement tended to be slight and predictable. Tylus had heard that, given the right conditions, gales could sometimes sweep down the length of the Thair and through the cavernous underworld, but not today.
The only problem with flying in the Heights was the lack of opportunity to really let loose. Low ceilings and narrow corridors predominated, but there were no such strictures in the City Below.
Tylus spread his arms as he ran, and then leapt. Instantly the cape took hold, slicing through the air and lifting him upwards. He was aware of people staring and one child even cheered, causing him to smile. The low rooftops fell away immediately and the under-City spread out before him. The view was impressive, he had to admit; even more so from this close a range than it had been from the stairs when he first arrived. Not beautiful, perhaps, but certainly impressive.
He was surprised to realise that the stench of the place no longer bothered him. In fact, he barely noticed it - filtered out by familiarity as his senses came to terms with the environment. The gods knew what they were doing when they put together the human body; it was a truly remarkable piece of engineering, as indeed was the kitecape.
He dipped a shoulder, banking gently to the left only to straighten almost immediately as he caught sight of Richardson first and then the smaller boy fleeing in front of him. The guardsman didn't appear to be have made much progress in catching the lad.
His view was abruptly obscured as a woman opened an upper storey window and prepared to empty a slop bucket, only to catch sight of him, presumably in the corner of her eye, after which she stared upward, open-mouthed. In the process she dropped the tin bucket, which clattered to the ground, much to the consternation of the well-dressed man it narrowly missed as he passed in the street below. He raised a fist in protest, caught sight of Tylus and promptly joined the woman in open-mouthed Kite Guard-watching.
Tylus was past them, overtaking Richardson as he closed on the boy.
The lad zigged to the left and zagged to the right, darting down even narrower alleyways. Tylus tensed his shoulders and rotated his arms a fraction. The cape responded by taking him higher, enabling him to keep track as the street-nick weaved his way through the backstreets. He hoped that Richardson could keep up, but didn't want to call out for fear of alerting the boy to his presence.
During initial training, Tylus had listened attentively as the science behind the kitecapes was explained: the alignment of microscopic components within the cape's unique structure, the redistribution of weight, lift gained by scything through the air, energy created by a Kite Guard's own movement, all were said to play a part. Tylus hadn't believed a word of it then and he didn't now. Pseudo-science, used to baffle the gullible and mask the fact that something extraordinary was involved.
Why else would it take weeks to renew a damaged cape and make it airworthy again?
Tylus had soon reached his own conclusions. He had seen some of the things arkademics could do, knew they were privy to learning far beyond the reach of most people, and was convinced that something of the sort was invested in the kitecapes. Call it magic, call it hidden art or secrets, call it whatever you liked, Tylus didn't care. All that mattered to him was that the capes worked.
The street-nick was changing direction so often in what was increasingly becoming a warren of alleys, that Tylus overshot him more than once. Finally the boy burst out into a broader avenue and the Kite Guard knew this was his chance.
Remarkably, Richardson had managed to follow the lad's every twist and turn; either that or he'd lost the trail completely and blind luck saw him blunder out into the street close on the boy's heels. Whatever the truth, the nick knew he was there and kept looking back over his shoulder, paying as much attention to what was going on behind him as to what lay in front.
Tylus swooped, coming down to street level ahead of the boy and flying straight at him. Just before the inevitable impact he braked, bleeding momentum, and lifted his arms slightly, bringing his body forward and underneath, raising his legs, ready to kick out so that his feet would hit the boy, bringing him down.
At the last instant the boy saw him and threw himself to the ground. Tylus sailed over the prone street-nick towards a collision with a very startled-looking Richardson. The Kite Guard fought desperately for elevation, th
e cape reacting with sufficient swiftness that, despite the brief intervening distance, Tylus only clipped the guardsman's shoulder with a trailing foot. Even that he turned to his advantage, pushing off from Richardson's shoulder and twisting around in the process, so that he was once more facing the fast-disappearing street-nick.
Again the Kite Guard set out in pursuit, but this time he was determined not to take any chances. He climbed rapidly, making sure to keep the boy in sight. Taking anything out of his belt while in the air was a hazardous business, since it meant folding half the cape and so losing the ability to fly, but he hadn't wanted to waste time by landing, so, once he was high enough, he angled towards the boy before closing both arms, reaching for his belt and unclipping the netgun.
Although there was no wind here worth the name, it would have been easy to believe otherwise as he plunged downward, displaced air streaming past him, caressing and even pulling at hair, face and shoulders. He had the weapon drawn in plenty of time to redeploy his cape, converting an undirected plummet into a controlled stoop, which brought him directly behind the fleeing street-nick.
The only thing trickier than taking something out of your belt while flying was discharging a weapon on the wing. Recoil could be a nightmare and more than one Guard, Tylus included, had been sent into an uncontrollable spin during training. Tylus had been one of the lucky ones, managing to escape without any broken bones. Even so, the lesson had been a painfully bruising one. A few of his colleagues had been less fortunate and one had even broken a collarbone, which prevented him from ever flying again despite the best attentions of expert healers.
This was the first time Tylus had attempted such a manoeuvre in anger, but he didn't hesitate, firing the gun as soon as he was in a suitable position. Recoil jarred his shoulder and elbow as compressed air squirted the net outward, but he was ready for it and held his glide.
The net shot out, the weighted front corners easily overtaking the boy as the net deployed before falling to the ground, bringing the street-nick down in the process.
Tylus landed and approached the entangled boy, who tried to pull away with obvious desperation, almost dragging the net with him.
"Please, don't kill me," the boy pleaded.
"Kill you? Why would I want to do that?"
Richardson arrived, gasping for breath and face flushed.
"Dunno, but you killed Des."
"I never killed anyone," Tylus assured him.
"Well someone sure did."
"Not me. I may have bloodied your nose and knocked your big friend down, but that was all." Richardson was staring at him querulously, but he shook his head, hoping the young officer would correctly interpret this as "not now". "If I was here to kill you I'd have done so by now rather than going to all the trouble of bringing you down alive, wouldn't I?"
"Suppose so," the lad said, a little grudgingly. He still eyed the Kite Guard with open suspicion. "What do you want, then?"
Having recovered his breath, Richardson now stepped in, which had been the plan before they arrived. "My friend 'ere wants some information, which we think you can 'elp with." The guardsman's accent slipped dramatically when he addressed the nick, matching the boy's, and Tylus wondered fleetingly whether this was deliberate or a subconscious reversion.
"Information? That's all?" The fear drained from his eyes as the Kite Guard watched, to be replaced by a sly, calculating look. "You sure about that?"
"I'm sure."
"Get me out of this net, then, and maybe we can talk business."
Tylus nodded to Richardson and said to the nick, "All right, but remember, if you try to make a run for it, I'll simply hunt you down again."
They helped disentangle the street-nick from the net. He stood up, brushed himself down and faced Tylus, Richardson hovering behind the skittish boy to block any attempt to escape.
"I'm listenin'," the lad told them. Tylus had to suppress a smile. Moments before this kid had been a quivering wreck, now he was all cock and strut.
"Street-nick went up-City late yesterday, either a Scorpion or with passage arranged through you lot," Richardson said. "We want to know who it was and where we can find 'im."
Tylus watched the lad's face; the eyes gave him away. He knew something, the Kite Guard was sure of it.
The nick shrugged and addressed the Kite Guard, evidently realising who was in charge here. "I might know somethin' about that."
"Either you do or you don't. Which is it?" Richardson snapped.
"He knows all right," Tylus said.
"Like I say, I might be able to tell you what you want to know but if I can, it'll come at a price."
Expecting as much, Tylus had brought a full purse of coin, carried with him from the City Above. He just hoped that the senior arkademic would endorse his expense claim once this was all over.
"How much?"
"I don't want your breckin' money, cloud scraper!"
"Then what do you want?" Tylus asked, feeling suddenly tired and frustrated and wondering what in the world else he could possibly offer the nick.
The lad looked at him, as if searching his face for something. Then, decision evidently made, he lifted finger and thumb to his mouth and produced a piercing whistle. Within seconds, the other two street-nicks who had been with the boy when they first arrived stepped out of the shadows and came to stand with their friend. How these two had kept up with the chase, Tylus could only guess: perhaps the lad's flight had not been as random as it seemed. The three exchanged glances, before the one they'd caught said, "We want you to take us in."
"What?" Tylus looked at Richardson, wondering whether this was some code he wasn't a party to, but the guardsman looked as dismayed by the request as he was.
"You 'eard me. We want to be thrown in the clink, all three of us. That's the price for your information. Take it or leave it."
The body of a man had washed up on the silt which bordered a kink in the Thair's course. It lay prone and was slightly bloated by days spent in the water. The face was visible in profile, head half buried in the mud. The eyeball had been eaten. A pair of blood herons had discovered the corpse, their black and aubergine plumage rippling in the late afternoon light like a film of oil on water. They moved around with dainty fussiness on stilt-like legs, though there was nothing subtle or fastidious in the wounds their darting beaks made in the body's flesh. The deep slashes left by their probing bills as they tore off strips of meat joined the lesser bite marks and nips where small fish and crabs had already taken their share. Something moved beneath the mud, causing one of the herons to spread its wings and use them to half flap, half hop into the air. The bird came down astride the corpse, where it bent its head and continued to feed.
Close to the man's body stood one of the many pumping substations that littered the banks of the Thair; giant sutures stitching the water to the land. Resembling stretched bubbles built of layered metal, these structures squatted at intervals along the river's edge in both directions as far as the eye could see. "Water fleas" the locals called them, both because of their appearance and because of the manner in which they leached substance from the river. Though in truth their layered form was more akin to that of a woodlouse than any flea.
Inside this particular bubble, and so hidden from prying eyes, something stirred; something which had no right to be there. The something had a designated name: Insint; neither man nor machine, but considerably more than both and less than either.
Insint had no liking for this place, but needs must. Accessing the substation had been easy, slipping in from the depths of the river. Of course, doing so had meant disrupting the station's normal functions, but his own systems were now patched into the station's, masking the damage. The city would not even be aware that this facility had gone offline until long after Insint was gone.
There could be no doubt now that the boy had failed, returning to the under-City empty handed. Insint would have known were it otherwise.
The Stain had been Insint
's home ever since he slunk there at the end of the Ten Year War. From that polluted wasteland he had watched and waited, biding his time and only moving when the circumstances were right. The boy, with his burgeoning abilities, had been the stimulus, the thing he had been waiting for. Yet with this apparent failure priorities shifted. The boy could be a valuable tool, to Insint and to others. As such, he was far too dangerous to let live.
Demon hounds were formidable beasts but stubborn; it had taken years to subvert a pack to his will. Six in total he had claimed. Yet two were now dead; the work of years undone in moments. Still he risked the remaining four in pursuit of the boy, but they too had failed. He felt the moment when the boy used his power, doubtless to fool the hounds, and now the pack had lost the scent.
The authorities tended to keep their heads down when demon hounds were on the prowl, knowing they wouldn't stay long, but if the dogs hung around residential areas for too long, even the guards would feel obliged to react. Formidable though the demon hounds were, the watch had the means to capture or harm them once they were sufficiently galvanised to deploy such resources. He didn't want to risk losing any more of the pack. So, reluctantly, Insint recalled his hounds, sending them back to their home in the Stain.
The demon hounds' failure was a blow, but he had other resources. Part organic, part machine, Insint's body was encased within a metal exoskeleton, his back protected by an ovoid, beetle-like shell. This carapace boasted a series of small bulges, arranged in three neat lines along its length. Here and there a bulge was missing, a shallow oval depression marking where one may once have been. With a thought, a dozen of these bulges detached themselves, leaving behind more depressions. The detached drones floated away from his shell like rising bubbles and proceeded to circle around the cramped interior of the substation. After the few seconds needed to orientate themselves, they exited via a ventilation grill and were gone.
Insint was content. He sat, and waited. He was good at waiting.