Nylon Angel

by Marianne de Pierres

  I thought a lot about Teece. As long as he's alive, I thought, I can cope with the rest.

  If he wasn't I'd never forgive Loyl. Or Jamon.

  Or myself.

  * * * *

  Sometime after the report on his man's disappearance, Jamon emerged, grimly, from his comm room.

  He sent the two internal guards away, leaving only the four outside. Then he came and sat next to me, holding a set of wired-up restraints. Lifting the waist of my shirt he rubbed them across my bare skin. The charge prickled mildly.

  He lowered his mouth and ran his lips along the same line then he mounted me, awkwardly, tearing the rest of my shirt away. His face contorted with frustration and anger.

  With the tips of the restraints he administered a series of electric shots across my breasts. I spasmed in pain but clamped my teeth tightly together, willing myself not to give him the pleasure of my screams.

  Every now and then he stopped to survey the marks on my skin and smile in satisfaction at the tears streaking down my face.

  "Why have you started this, Jamon? Why are you killing all these people?"

  He frowned, his eyes dark with madness. "Loyl Daac wants my territory, Parrish."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Lang."

  Lang! I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the grainy-gray beginnings of a vision. The parasite was swarming my consciousness. I let it come. With it came an excruciating burning, heralding the sudden return of sensation to my legs.

  I strove to control my reaction to it, and as Jamon shifted position, moving his weight off me to tear away my pants, I kneejacked him in the throat.

  He gurgled and flopped forward onto me.

  We wrestled for a few seconds before crashing off the sofa, into the large plastic block. The shroud fell from the block and caught up between us. He tried to strangle me with it but I punched him in the face with both fists.

  The sound alerted his guards. They crowded in to surround us.

  "Call them off," I screamed, gripping his throat.

  Something was wrong. My knee blow should have knocked him unconscious.

  The 'goboys circled us, frantic, unsure what to do.

  I tightened my hold, pounding Jamon's head against the floor.

  "Call them off!"

  "Back," he ordered them, but his eyes, coldly furious, were on me.

  I pinned his arms with my knees and fished out the small Beretta strapped under his arm. I shoved the barrel between his eyes. "Untie my hands. Carefully."

  While he fumbled to comply, something caught my attention. A shape. A human foot.

  I glanced quickly across.

  Inside the acrylic block, clear as Jamon's best highball glasses, naked and absolutely dead, was Stellar. Preserved in the act of kneeling.

  "Charming. Isn't it?" Jamon gasped as the last knot unwound. "A taxidermy teknique. Shame her body wasn't better to look at. You, on the other hand, will make a marvelous sculpture."

  Sculpture! My stomach heaved at the atrocity and my hand tightened on the trigger. It would be so easy to kill him now—here, like this. Then the 'go-boys would shoot me and it would be mercifully all over. No more struggle, no more visions.

  But if I died the war would continue, maybe escalate.

  I couldn't let that happen. Too many people were dying for me.

  With the Beretta aimed at his head, and taking care to shield myself from his bodyguards, I hauled him to his feet and inched backward into the comm room.

  They followed at a distance, not daring to attack without their master's word.

  When I reached the doorway, I pulled Jamon through, slammed the door shut with my foot and locked it. Like all paranoiacs he had the room well reinforced.

  "Sit!" I moved the Beretta to the spot right behind his ear.

  That's when I noticed it. A black whorl, curling behind his ear like a slug. The sight of it sent my stomach crawling up the back of my throat.

  "What do you want, Parrish?"

  I had to admire how readily he regained his composure.

  "Call your troops off."

  For a second the composure slipped. "Are you crazy?"

  Now it was my turn for silky smiles. "Likely," I agreed. "Get on the comm and call them off."

  He stared at me, trying to guess my motive.

  I thumbed the trigger on the Beretta just to let him know I was serious. "Don't waste time, Jamon. Call them off. Then broadband a statement to say you are withdrawing. You can't win this."

  He whitened, then tapped a shorthand code to his troops.

  I prodded him harder. "So that I can understand it."

  He repeated his orders in plain speech. His voice was cold and tight.

  "Now broadband. To Viva as well. I want the media picking this up. Identify yourself as the instigator of this gang war," I said, steadfastly ignoring the howling as the 'goboys in the next room hurled their bodies at the door.

  He shot me a look of pure venom then turned back to the comm. The blackness behind his ear began to ooze along his neck like molasses.

  He was changing—but into what?

  "Hurry," I screamed at him. "Tell Loyl Daac you'll meet to discuss territorial issues."

  He unclenched his fists and opened the audio links to all nets. "This is Jamon Mondo. I have ordered my people to withdraw. Loyl Daac. Let's…"

  I stabbed the muzzle into the skin on his scalp.

  "… meet to talk about territorial issues."

  I let out a breath of air. For a few minutes we watched and listened as the Common Net blitzed out. Eventually a message came through on Jamon's P line.

  "Answer it with visuals," I instructed.

  Loyl's face filled the screen. "Mondo?"

  A ripple of antagonism played along Jamon's slight body. "You heard it," he snarled at Loyl.

  "Why?"

  "Let's just say… it comes down to current choices."

  I couldn't resist leaning over his shoulder to study Daac's face—make sure he was in one piece.

  Stupid mistake!

  The same one Gwynn had made with me in his drain. The distraction caused me to drop the muzzle of the Beretta a fraction.

  With the swiftness of a death-adder strike, Jamon snatched it away and shot me at point-blank range. I managed to deflect his aim by my own reaction. The shot burned along my left side, missing anything vital.

  I struggled to stay upright but Jamon was out of the chair raising the pistol again. I kicked his legs as hard from underneath as I could, but my wound hampered my movement.

  "Parrish!" I could hear Daac shouting from the comm.

  Jamon righted himself and leveled the Beretta for another shot. His face had nearly totally transformed now, his flesh crawling with darkened whorls like leprosy rapidly spreading.

  I froze, appalled at the sight of him. "What are you?" I whispered.

  My horror must have penetrated his mind. Pistol poised, he moved away to glimpse his reflection on the screen.

  I could hear Daac again. "Parrish! What's happening? Get out of there!"

  His cries mobilized me. I scrambled for the door, frantically working the locks. They sprang open and I catapulted into the embrace of half a dozen 'goboys.

  "Out," I shrieked, pointing back at Jamon.

  They howled in confusion and fear. I shoved against them but they held me fast in a wall of sweaty fear.

  Jamon stepped toward us touching his own face, his voice awed. "Lang said I would change."

  The 'goboys ran from him then: instinctively frightened.

  I felt the same. But I couldn't move.

  "Lang?" I croaked. "What else did he tell you? That he would make you invincible? Did you really swallow that crap?"

  Why wouldn't he? I nearly had.

  He stopped as though my words confused him. "I'll be able to shape-change. I'll live longer. Can't you see the advantages?"

  "No!"

  He wiped blood from his lip and held it toward me. "You could be
transformed as well."

  "What are you doing?"

  "My blood will change you too."

  "Your blood…" I gasped with sudden comprehension. The feathers. Dripping with blood. Blood in my mouth. Had I somehow been infected that evening in the Muenos' villa? No!

  "It's a parasite, Jamon. Using you for food. It'll leave you nothing. No 'self.' "

  "Self?"

  "Surely even you want to retain that!"

  "Come, Parrish, aren't you tempted?"

  "You're offering me that, and yet you tried to poison me," I accused.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The swordfish you served Stellar and me was contaminated with mercury."

  He shook his hideous head. "Impossible. Lang provided the ingredients for the meal. He insisted. That's why he ate it without concern."

  Then Lang tried to poison me. But he stopped me from eating it!

  Threads of reason tied and untied in my head.

  No! He wanted me to think Jamon had, so I would do his errand. Which meant… Stellar had died in order to make a convincing story for me.

  It seemed unbelievable and yet…

  "Parrish, help me stop your Cabal kin."

  "Cabal kin?"

  "Didn't you know? Loyl Daac is Cabal Coomera."

  My mouth dropped. Daac. Cabal Coomera! "Liar!"

  Adrenaline roared through me, sending the world into fast rewind. I spun back to that moment when I met Daac at Hein's bar, when the strange heat passed through me. I'd put it down to attraction. Chemistry.

  But it was Kadaitcha work.

  And from then on—his constant lies. My mind ran over them.

  "Then why are you in his bloodlines register?" snarled Jamon.

  I felt dizzy at the layers of deception. Vomit rose in my mouth. I was down on one knee when Jamon came for me. His inhuman snarl reeled me back to the present.

  I threw up fists to ward him off, but he never reached me.

  An explosion deafened and he convulsed then slumped over like he had fallen asleep. I crawled back from him, shaking.

  Between his shoulder blades a jeweled spear protruded. Streamlined, sophisticated and deadly. Explosive tip. Minoj special.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They helped me to my feet. Four dark-skinned men with tribal scars and markings, dressed in worn leather coats. As much as I dared to look into their faces, they bore a resemblance to Loyl-me-Daac. Although older and leaner and with an aura of dignity.

  The tallest held out a cloth for me, then averted his glance while I wiped myself clean of Jamon's blood.

  When I'd finished, he spoke in a quiet, accented voice. "Parrish Plessis, you now owe us goma—blood debt. To repay it you are required to perform a task. This done, you will be offered sanctuary with the Coomera."

  Sanctuary. I tried to control the chattering of my teeth. The thing I had dreamt about for so long was before me—and yet my very reason for wanting it was dead on the floor at my feet, his heart pierced by a tribal spear.

  I drew myself straighter, trying to muster some dignity of my own. "Th-thank you for your's-service." Another shudder rolled through me. "He—he was infected with a parasite."

  "We know of the Eskaalim. It concerns us. Many things concern us."

  "W-what do you want from me?" It was getting to be a tired question.

  There was a heavy silence as if the four were communing silently. I'd felt something similar before, with Vayu and her shamans. Understanding without words.

  "There is a traitor amongst the Cabal who has taken something of much value for his own devices. With it he seeks the shadow path—to change what should be untouchable within us. Parrish Plessis, you will stop Loyl-me-Daac."

  "Loyl," I gasped. "But he's one of you. Can't you—"

  Another of the four stepped forward. Older, I thought, and painfully gaunt. His words came hesitantly as if speech was something he rarely practiced.

  "Tradition… makes such a task… difficult. It is better done by… other hands."

  "He won't do it, though. He won't stop."

  "Then… you must… send him to… the other side."

  The other side. The very thought set me shaking violently again. "A-and if I don't?"

  The four faded back, as if they might suddenly vanish before my eyes.

  "You would forfeit sanctuary?" They exchanged looks—confident smiles, I would have said, if their lips had moved.

  "First I want to know if you murdered Razz Retribution." I blurted the question without thought for the consequences. It was at the root of so many things.

  A solemn shake of heads and a "Look further" was all I got. They prised the spear free from Jamon's lifeless body and were gone.

  * * * *

  I sank to the floor.

  The Cabal wants me to stop Loyl!

  I almost laughed aloud at the irony.

  Even they had their dirty politics and they wanted me to wash it.

  It occurred to me then that Loyl had been well named. But his loyalty didn't belong to the Cabal, or Razz Retribution, or me. It belonged to his obsession with recreating his gens—his craving for immortality.

  Jamon had risked everything for the same thing.

  Desire, whatever form it took, was the real energy of the human world. The Eskaalim would use it and twist it and bloat on it.

  Right now my desire was to have a wash. Followed by painkillers and food. Then I wanted to crawl into bed for a week with someone who didn't have plans for me other than to rub my back.

  But life was ever the bitch and never the good fairy. So instead I re-covered Stellar's body with the shroud.

  I felt I should pray for her, or cry.

  But neither came to me.

  Instead I dragged myself back into Jamon's comm cache. One-World was alive with news that the war was over. I switched the babble down and focused the remaining fragile shreds of my concentration on hacking into Jamon's personal files.

  My side throbbed every time I moved, but stubborn determination kept me at it.

  That and an overriding desire to know if Jamon had spoken the truth.

  Was I really linked to Daac's gens?

  The idea seemed ludicrous, and yet I'd been drawn to live in The Tert. Maybe there was something to Daac's romancing about "place."

  * * * *

  An hour later and I'd found part of what I was looking for. Daac's bloodlines register, a genealogical spreadsheet casting back a hundred years and further. I skimmed page after page searching for my name.

  The entry came up with my old address in Viva, a brief history of Rene and my natural father's breakup. It also had a genealogical tree constructed of Rene's ancestors.

  The revelation left me dazed.

  Rene always acted like she'd been born in a reproducer. I didn't even know who her mother was. I didn't think she did either. But she must have. I felt a wave of anger and frustration toward her. The secrets she'd kept.

  I zipped the entire register, dumped it onto a disk and continued searching for anything else of use until my eyes felt swollen and strained. In the end I powered down the PC, disconnected it from its peripherals and stuffed the drive and the disk down my pants. Then I closed the door on Jamon and his polished mahogany table for the last time.

  In a matter of hours the place would be looted. I hoped someone would burn him.

  * * * *

  Outside, above Torley's, Priers still swarmed, camming everything. Their drone filled the background like net babble. I wondered at the level of interest, and which one carried the 'Terro with my name on it.

  Why hadn't it come for me yet?

  Meanwhile punters surfaced from their hidey-holes, cramming the bars to find out what was happening. Snatches of conversation floated to me.

  "Oya ended the war."

  "Mondo is dead."

  "Cabal work."

  "Renegade Cabal…"

  "—saw a feral girl take out a heap of them. She was glowing, like them holy icons.
"

  Wearily, I climbed the stairs to my room. There were no dingoboys guarding it now. Someone had even repaired the door. With relief, I pressed the lock shut and fell onto the bed.

  I gave myself long enough for a large hiccup of self-pity, then I stashed the disk and drive in my best hidey-hole and forced myself into the san unit before my wound opened its own bacteria factory.

  By the time I'd washed, found my oldest set of fatigues, done a patch job on my side and scrabbled around for my last pro-sub, my mind started to tick. With a clarity born of relief at my unexpected survival, I suddenly knew what I had to do.

  I just didn't know whether it would work.

  As insurance I slipped a couple of Tempo tabs in my pocket. The though of feeding the parasite what it liked best—adrenaline—worried me, but my body had its limits and right now my flesh was redlining with exhaustion.

  I checked the credit on my comm with Merry 3# and found enough left for a few calls.

  Minoj's face came up, greasy and old on the screen. No synthesized image this time.

  "Little thing," he rasped tiredly, "you are a survivor."

  "Better than that, Minoj. I'm a player." I said it with total conviction and a hard face.

  His look got suddenly cagey. Age melted from his face and a spark lit in the depths of his jaded eyes. Minoj loved Tert politics.

  "Jamon Mondo is dead. I claim salvage rights," I said.

  "Who supports this?"

  Bluff was not my game. I usually told it the way I saw it—but sometimes you have to cheat. "You."

  He blinked. Only once—enough for me to see the surprise.

  "Think, Minoj. Jamon is dead. I take this stretch, hard and fast with your support. I give you exclusive selling rights. Only your weapons. You can open up shop here."

  "The 'goboys will never work for you."

  "I don't need them. I have my own muscle." That was a lie, but I kept my expression tight hoping he'd heard enough rumors about Oya to buy it.

  He turned the idea over in his mind—the list of Jamon's possible successors. In the end he came to the conclusion I guessed he would. Back Vanish and then manipulate her.

  "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

  "Spread the word, loud and quick. Jamon Mondo is dead. Parrish Plessis claims salvage. Minoj Armaments second her."