Nylon Angel

by Marianne de Pierres

  The surprise and pleasure on his face was worth more than a week's sleep. Maybe, with a bit of luck, he might even forget that I owed him a bike and a new helmet…

  Then again, maybe not!

  I wasn't in love with Teece, but he'd earned my respect. And trust. Sometimes that means a whole lot more.

  * * * *

  When I'd recovered, I still had a lot of business to take care of; a media image to fix—like how to convince the world I hadn't killed Razz Retribution.

  Then I had a kid with no arms I had to see and an army of Muenos and ferals to repay. I also had to make that promised visit to Gwynn and get Trunk off his back.

  And there was no forgetting the Cabal! Would I do what they wanted me to if Loyl didn't stop his experiments?

  I didn't know.

  Daac had gotten under my skin. He'd also lied to me at every turn. The jury was still out on what that meant.

  But first, I had to find the complete set of research data. I'd realized one thing today. Lang was a minor player, like Jamon, when I'd thought he was the player. My real enemy still lurked in sinister silhouette.

  Besides. It was the only hope I had for undoing the genetic changes in me.

  Perhaps, then, I had a chance.

  Perhaps, then, we all had a chance.

  Or maybe I was just delaying the inevitable. While the Eskaalim mixed cocktails with my basic chemistry, the war inside me would continue. I didn't know if I would win it, but I wouldn't back down. I wouldn't give in.

  I wasn't on the run anymore.

  I was on the hunt.

  "Teece, I need some air."

  He nodded, understanding, and headed toward the bar. "I'll come and find you."

  I drained my drink and staggered outside.

  Torley's hummed a soothing business-as-usual tune. It settled my overstrung nervous system better than a wack of benzos. I needed some time alone. I'd killed a man and staged a gang coup—it was more than enough for one day.

  I made it down an alleyway half a block from Hein's and collapsed onto a set of rough steps. Leaning back, my eyes closed without my permission and my mind clouded with exhaustion.

  Despite the cracked plascrete sticking into my back, I dozed a little—maybe a lot—until something jolted me awake.

  "Parrish Plessis?"

  I opened my eyes. Recognition hit like a slap.

  Ann, finally!

  I jerked the Luger clear of the holster and whipped out my remaining garrotting wire, but neither would do much damage to the 'Terro crouched a body's length away.

  After a helluva long moment it periscoped its lens to within a hot breath of my face.

  I glared straight back into the iris, and directly, I hoped, into the face of its Prier journo. I had no juice left and I wasn't gonna get far on an ugly look. A wild urge to shout you'll never take me alive flashed into my head. I stifled it and dredged up some dignity.

  "What?" My belligerence easily matched my gaze.

  From the side of the lens unfolded another, smaller arm. The bud-end mic snaked toward my head.

  I stilled, and let it settle in my ear. Visions of my arrest being broadcast on the next LTA suddenly evaporated. If it wanted to kill or detain me, it'd be over by now.

  Seems, instead, though, it had something to say. I sighed. Didn't everyone?

  The connection crackled before the journo's voice came through from the Prier.

  "Ms. Plessis, I need work done. Privately."

  Acknowledgments

  First books are a huge, collaborative affair. How else could the writer ever get to the end of something written wholly on faith and borrowed time? So here are heartfelt thanks to my collaborators…

  Linda Curtin for starting it all (yes, Linnie—I blame you!). Robyn and Kerry Smith for reading very early Parrish when she was still Loretta. The ROR-ettes: Maxine McArthur for putting up with the hysterics, Rowena Lindquist for Scallywags, Trent Jamieson for consoling e-mails, Tansy Rayner Roberts for being beautiful, and Margo Lanagan for fire-lighting skills and telling it how it is. Lyn Uhlmann, Adrianne Fitzpatrick and Lu Cairncross. Kath Holliday for the "Attitude," and the long drive down with the Bolly. The Vision Writers Group, Brisbane, for carrying the speculative fiction torch, especially Kate Eltham and Grace Dugan. Dr. Ros Petelin for teaching me about excellence (still learning, Ros!). Peter Bishop from Varuna Writers Centre, NSW, for pulling me out of the pile. Tara Wynne, my agent, for being such a delight to work with and for taking a risk. Ben Sharpe, my dazzling editor, for letting Parrish loose.

  Rose, Nicci and Lorna, my real-Life heroines. All my family, de Courtenays and de Pierreses, especially cher frère, Paul, and my boys. And lastly, for Nick, unquestionably the light and love of my life.

  Coming Soon

  Need your Parrish fix?

  Turn the page to see who's

  got her in their sights now…

  Code Noir

  Coming from Roc

  in July 2006

  Two thin streams of water drilled into me like a needle gun. I told myself it was as good as a massage and jumped around under it like a dancing grrl in a cage. One arm, then the other. One breast, then the other. One buttock, then the…

  "What the hell—" I spun around as the water suddenly cut off.

  The man standing in the doorway of the san with his hand on the valve had the pleasure of my best side. He didn't look impressed.

  I stepped straight out and into his face, too annoyed to be embarrassed. "—are you doing?"

  "We have immediate need of your service, Parrish Plessis," he said.

  Those words had become too familiar. First the Prier pilot, now this. I couldn't remember hanging out the sign that said "gun for hire."

  "Our Clever Men have been taken. You must find them."

  He didn't even try to make it sound vaguely like a request. But then the Cabal Coomera were like that. All somberness and threat.

  This one seemed to shimmer—a dark-skinned figure with tribal scars on his bare chest and face, and an assassin's bleak, hooded eyes. His open leather jacket and titanium-capped boots were the only tangible part of him.

  The ancient ceiling fan extractor of Teece Davey's bedroom—my current home—struggled to disperse the steam that curled around him.

  You didn't invite the Cabal into your home. Certainly not into your san.

  Behind him a couple of paces stood an identikit. Except older, leaner.

  "How did you get—?"

  The pointless question died on my tongue. These guys were Kadais. They made it their business to sneak around and scare the whatsit out of everyone.

  Already I had a creeping urge to prostrate before them and beg for mercy.

  Jeez, Vanish, get a grip!

  The younger one slid forward without stepping—or so it seemed.

  Spooky.

  Legends said they once wore feather feet, and sang tribal lawbreakers to their death. These days the tribes were pretty damn diluted, like all the other nations that lived in The Tert, but a flavor of tradition survived. And the Kadais were the ones who ran the hits.

  He handed me a crumpled tee.

  "Remember you owe us goma."

  I struggled into the shirt, using the time to think.

  Goma. Blood debt. They'd killed my ex-employer, Jamon Mondo—before he killed me. Goma was something you didn't reneg on with the Cabal. In repayment they wanted me to stop Loyl-me-Daac, a renegade from the Cabal, from experimenting with genetic manipulation.

  I figured there was only one way to do that: execute the guy.

  Simple. But there was a downside. Daac happened to be the only person in this world I had deep feelings for. Not to mention serious issues with. Either way I didn't think I wanted him dead.

  "Your goma is… difficult for me," I said cautiously. Then I ventured, "He is your dirty washing, after all."

  I saw a flicker of amusement cross the younger one's face.

  The Cabal wanted rid of Daac. He'd strayed
from their code of beliefs. For all their sinsiter ways, they weren't hell-bent on genetic supremacy. Trouble is they didn't want to soil their hands with it. Or couldn't, due to some old custom.

  The older one frowned a gully. "The matter of the karadji is more pressing. You will attend to it before you repay goma."

  Karadji. The Clever Men. The ones with spirit power.

  "W-will I?" I stammered. There's something about the Cabal. An aura of dignity, and a cold, hard belief in what they did. It brokered no quarrel. Even from me: Parrish Plessis, pugilist and self-styled warlord.

  "Four of them have been taken from us. Those remaining are in hiding. And it is not just our karadji. We believe others are in danger as well… shaman of all beliefs."

  A couple of months ago I would have whimpered aloud at the thought of taking on such a task. Right now all I felt was the heavy resignation of someone who only ever gets deeper in it. "I'm—uh—pretty busy."

  It was worth a try.

  "When you find them, we shall return to you the research that holds the answers you seek, Parrish Plessis. This we pledge."

  An answer to the Eskaalim! The creature that invaded and tortured my mind. The creature that changed me—that would eventually possess my body and soul.

  My heart high-jumped at a chance to survive.

  See, I was infected by an alien parasite that was working overtime on perverting my humanity. Sounded weird, but the reality was weirder. I didn't have long and I wasn't the only one.

  I blamed Loyl Daac for it. My theory was that his genetic fooling had loosed this creature on the world after it had been dormant for eons. Maybe he could reverse what he'd done, except now he no longer had the splicing codes—they'd been stolen. The Cabal were telling me they knew how to get them back.

  They watched me, adopting an implacable take-it-or-leave-it-and-suffer-the-consequences silence.

  Find our karadji, they said. Find them! Like that was easy? Welcome to The Tert, boys—haven for the rather-be-lost-than-found! Sanctuary of secrets and zipped lips.

  "You have Loyl Daac's stolen research?"

  "We will."

  I hid a sigh. It was as good an answer as I'd get. It meant I had to trust them. And for some reason I did. Call it misguided respect.

  The older one did the spooky thing and slid alongside his partner, his expression bleak and cautionary. "There is one condition. If the karadji are not safe before the next King Tide, Parrish Plessis, the deal is off."

  King Tide? I swallowed my qualms and nodded in agreement.

  With the slightest swing of his shoulders he threw a dagger in a low arc. It stabbed the floor at my toe tips.

  I didn't even have time to twitch.

  Hotly, I bent down, jerked it free and waved it at them.

  Too late! The doorway wore nothing but air.

  I moaned aloud, letting the built-up fear and anger stream out of me and then subside. With only a tiny tremor I handled the dagger. The hilt shone like steel-colored marble. Polished iron ore.

  The Cabal spear that had killed Jamon Mondo had been jeweled. Opal inlaid and glittery.

  I fingered the handle of this one. It felt cold and warm at the same time.

  The sensation sent a shiver.

  Worse than any premoniton.

  About the author

  Marianne de Pierres's short fiction has appeared in a variety of anthologies. A film and television graduate from Curtin University, she writes reviews for The Courier-Mail. Marianne is a cofounder of ROR—wRiters On the Rise, a critiquing workshop for Australian professional genre writers—and was integral in the development of the Clarion South writers workshop. She lives in Queensland, Australia, with her husband and three sons.