by Oisin McGann
Solomon nodded.
‘Have you noticed the city’s colder lately?’ he asked her.
‘With Schaeffer gone, they have to fix up a lot of stuff,’ she said, speaking around the joint in her mouth. ‘Julio said they’ve shut down some of the ventilation heaters so they can rebuild them. There’s a lot of that happening now. They have to pull things apart to put them back together properly. He said it’ll take time.’
There was a quiet pause again.
‘I’ve been thinking of joining the police,’ Sol said abruptly. ‘Maybe even try to get into the ISS.’
‘Jesus! Really?’ Cleo coughed out some smoke. ‘You serious?’
‘Yeah. I want to help sort things out. And I want to learn more about the engineering too, get my head around how the whole system works, y’know? The guys in the DDF think we’ve got to come up with more ways to survive outside the dome – stop relying so much on the Machine. They’ve loads of ideas for adapting to the whole deal; they say the Neanderthals survived the Ice Age, so we should be able to go one better. But I figure the Machine’s all we’ve got for the moment. Things’re going to go a bit mad for a while, and I think we need to get on with doing something practical.’
She nodded reluctantly.
It did not matter that Maslow had lied about having proof of Schaeffer’s control of the Clockworkers. Once the word was out, dozens of people had come forward with stories. It turned out that Inspector Ponderosa had been trying to nail Schaeffer and his kind for years, but could never get enough evidence. Now he was on a witch-hunt, purging the cabal of industrialists involved in the sabotage and assassinations. They would be trying the cases for years. There were rumours that Ponderosa would be running for mayor, now that Haddad was destined for prison.
Cleo was planning to use her new-found fame to get gigs for her band in some of the city’s best venues. They’d got the end-of-year gig after all – with Julio’s help – but she found it wasn’t nearly as important to her now. Sol had preferred to keep out of the public eye. Maslow had completely disappeared after becoming the most famous man in Ash Harbour. Looking sidelong at Sol, Cleo guessed what he was thinking.
‘You’ll probably never see him again, huh?’
‘Don’t want to,’ he murmured. ‘Not after what he did. I’m done with him. That’s the end of it.’
Cleo took a breath of smoke and gazed up at the light.
‘Wonder if we can change enough,’ she mused. ‘Hard to think that there might be no one left, a few hundred years from now.’
‘Dunno,’ he sniffed. ‘Make for some good song lyrics, though.’
‘Damn right.’ She blew a twisting smoke ring. ‘Music to become extinct to. The Gig at the End of the World – now that would be a party. I wanna be there for that one.’
Sol grinned.
‘You’ve got to have something to live for,’ he said.
Acknowledgements
Writing is a solitary business, but no one creates a book on their own. As ever, I must thank my family for their ongoing enthusiasm and support – they are responsible for my best qualities. My thanks also to my agent, Sophie Hicks, for doing what she does so well, and for her tact and reassurance throughout the process.
Whatever concerns I might have had about working with a great big ‘corporate’ publisher like Random House were allayed almost immediately by the easygoing, conscientious and expert approach of Philippa Dickinson, Annie Eaton and the rest of the RHCB team. They were passionate and encouraging, and they made the production of this book a real pleasure. I’m especially grateful to my editor, Shannon Park, for her friendly professionalism in filing the many rough edges off the text, and to James Fraser for being patient with my overzealous design input.
And finally, a big thank you to The O’Brien Press in Ireland and to all the people who have taken such an interest in my books over the last couple of years and helped to get me this far. I am indebted to all of you.
About the Author
Born in Dublin in 1973, Oisín McGann spent his childhood there and in Drogheda, County Louth. Art college ruined any chance he had of getting a real job, so when he left in 1992, he set himself up as a freelance illustrator. In 1998 he moved to London, and through no fault of his own he ended up working in advertising as an art director and copy writer. After three and a half years he began to fear for his immortal soul. He returned to Ireland in the summer of 2002 much as he had left it – with no job, no home and some meagre savings.
Ever the optimist, he now works once more as an illustrator and mercenary artist by day and escapist writer by night.
www.oisinmcgann.com
Also by Oisín McGann
ANCIENT APPETITES
SMALL-MINDED GIANTS
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 9781 4 070 5018 8
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