by Frost, E J
The smell of frying bread, strong even among the varied smells of the night market, catches my attention. Makes me aware of the emptiness of my belly. “You hungry?” I ask Kez.
She shrugs. “I think we should save our credits.”
“Let me worry about that.” I’ve already decided to sell one of the kukris to get us dinner, and seats on the hover tomorrow. “Tell me what you want to eat.”
We circle through the market to see what’s on offer. As we walk, Kez pauses here and there to read the graffiti that burns like white phosphorus in the black light. Where she recognizes clan signs, she names them for me. The Mirrormen’s bold, interlocked pitchforks. The stylized shaka of the Redsand Bra. At a set of stairs that lead down into thumping music and a good frying fish smell, Kez examines a set of glowing white chevrons, shakes her head and turns back the way we’ve come.
“What’s wrong, kitten?” I ask.
“Deep Whites,” she says. “They’re like the Kuus Pack. They might . . . I don’t know. We shouldn’t take the chance.”
Remembering the unfriendly rat-men, I nod and follow her retreat.
Once we’ve made a circuit of the Market and I’ve mapped it out in my head, I take the lead. First stop is a metal stall presided over by a man wider than he is tall, who wears nothing more than a stained genSkin apron over the ubiquitous wrap-skirt. I can smell his body odor three stalls away. But every knife on display is gleamingly, lovingly polished. I offer him one of the kukris without a word and watch his eyes, set deep in brown rolls of fat, light up.
He strokes his fingertips over the flat of the blade. Smiles a gap-toothed smile. “This is part of a pair,” he says. He presses the knifemaker’s mark I’ve laz-etched into the ricasso with the tip of his fat finger. “Says so here.”
I shake my head. “I need the other one tonight.”
“Wait, wait.” He rummages around behind his display for a moment. “Here. Fifty hard and this for the pair. I can tell you’re a connoisseur.”
He offers me a survival knife. I let Kez go for a moment to examine the blade. Good, strong thermium. Faint oily sheen that says it’s been coated to avoid the radiation pitting thermium is prone to. Black microgrip handle. Good for everything I’d need a knife for tonight. I test it on my palm. Well-balanced, but not a throwing knife. Neither is the kukri, of course, but if I’m going to trade the pair, I might as well get a little extra out of it.
“Toss in a real one of those.” I nod at a pair of throwing knives, hung on the wall of his stall, which hiss softly and burn with a pale white flame. Burning-lithium blades are sexy as hell, as long as all you’re doing is looking at them.
The knifeseller looks pained. I let him sweat. I can tell he really wants the kukris, and fifty hard plus two knives is still a good deal for him. Finally, he sighs and digs around behind the counter again. He produces a classic McEvoy throwing knife, with a handle that feels like real wood. It looks antique, and not in a good way. I test it. Good balance, even if the knife has seen better days. I nod. Take the second kukri from its sheath and lay it on the counter. The knifeseller sets a stack of five octagons beside it.
I glance at Kez. She’s got the bag; she can keep track of the money. I find her looking up at me with tears in her eyes.
I cup her cheek in my palm. “What’s wrong, kitten?” Is she regretting selling her hair when she could’ve sold my blades?
“Your knives,” she whispers. Definitely not about her hair.
I smile at her. “I can make more.”
The knifeseller leans over his counter. “You can?”
“Sure.” I learned how to make basic blades from scrap metal in S.A.W.L. Like swimming, it’s a skill that saved my life more than once. Years in the metal shops of K-G and the Island enhanced my skill and technique. Usually I make utilitarian blades like the throwing knives; the kukris were a labor of love.
“I’ll pay you top credit. As many as you can make.”
I lift an eyebrow at Kez. “Whaddo you think?”
“I think we’ll take an advance on the first delivery.”
I chuckle. My practical kitten.
After some haggling, the knifeseller and I agree a price. I build in ten percent for Banks, since I don’t intend to trek out to the Cloudlands for every delivery. And I kind of like the kid. The knifeseller balks at paying an advance, but invites us to his place for the night when Kez explains why she wants it. When I gently turn him down – there’s no way I can stomach his stink in an enclosed space – he tells us about the Eff Tubes.
“Far side of the port. They’re old outlet pipes for the Tyng Blue Water plant. I’ve heard people say they’re a good place for the night. Safe. There won’t be any Mirrormen there tonight.”
I shake the knifeseller’s hand, trade names and K-Net codes with him, and promise to have Banks get in touch with him to set up a delivery schedule.
As we stroll away from his stall towards the second stop, I put my arm around Kez and give her a squeeze.
“I was wrong about somethin’,” I tell her.
She snorts loudly enough to be heard over the crowd. “Jeez, it’s the end of the world . . .”
I poke her in the ribs. “Sarcasm’ll just earn you a harder spankin’ later.”
She giggles and lays her head against my shoulder. “What were you wrong about?”
“Cloudlanders. They ain’t unfriendly.”
Kez considers this for a moment. “I guess they’re like the Pack. They’re nice enough one-on-one.” She rolls her head to look up at me. “Or maybe it’s just you. I’ve been here a couple of times and they’ve never been very nice to me. Happy enough to take my credits, but when I ran out it was very much fuck you and fuck off.”
I kiss the tip of her nose. “Yeah, I’m known for makin’ friends everywhere I go.”
She chuckles. Links her arm through mine and together we walk down to the beach, where the best food smells are coming from.
Chapter 25
The beach is crowded with stalls. Squeezed between the stalls, hoverropes define squares of display space. I buy a bag of flash that Kez and I share as we stroll and take it all in. The fried seaweed is a little soggy; definitely not up to the standard of the stand in Nock. But, I discover as I begin eating, I’m hungry and soggy flash is better than nothing.
We stop to watch holotattoos being sprayed onto a pair of twins, born or modified to be identical, their smooth brown skins already bearing matching wave and fish designs. One of the girls nods to Kez in recognition. “Redsand Bra,” Kez tells me, as we watch the holoartist create a spiral of shimmering red and gold flowers that blossom and wither, blossom and wither, around the twins’ thighs. I’ve heard of the surf gang, who are notorious for their clashes with the Mirrormen. The diminutive girls don’t look tough enough to tangle with Capp and Dag’s crew – even standing on platforms to let the holoartist work on their lower bodies, they don’t come up to my chin. But Kez doesn’t look all that tough, either.
My deceptively soft-looking kitten rummages around in the bottom of the flash bag and looks up at me. “You’re worse than the rabbits.”
“Didn’t hear you complainin’ last time.” I give her a dirty-old-man leer.
“I’m complaining now. You ate all the flash.”
I put my arm around her. “If this partnership’s got any chance, we’re gonna haveta work on your concept of ownership. Repeat after me. Snow’s ship. Snow’s flash.”
“Snow’s black eye,” Kez retorts.
I chuckle and lead her toward the source of a good meaty smell. The source turns out to be a stall selling entobabs. I inspect the baskets of ingredients. Kuseros’s native insects are mostly edible, but I’m not a fan of the mushier bugs. The baskets hold different types of hopper. Nothing too gooey. I hold up a hand to the vendor and take the five skewers he passes me.
“Those better not be Snow’s kebabs,” Kez says as she pays.
“If you’re nice to me, you can have one.”
“Three by my count. Sixty-forty, remember?”
“On the money. Fifty-fifty on business decisions, and the division of bugsicles is definitely a business decision.”
Kez appropriates two of the skewers, tears the front legs off a hopper and crunches them down as we continue to walk. Watching her, I feel a swell of admiration. How many of the women I’ve been with would eat roast bugs without complaint? Marin wouldn’t eat anything but the NuBal packs from her ship, and went hungry on the last day we were together rather than eat the emergency rations I salvaged from the crashed transport. Mouse was more practical, but I still never saw her eat anything that wasn’t prison-issue. I guess, when it came down to it, neither of them were survivors. Kez is a different breed, my one in a billion.
“How’re your bugs, kitten?” I ask before pulling a hopper off my own skewer.
“Good.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
I crunch down the hopper, which is salty and crispy, but doesn’t have much flavor beyond a faint acidity. “Not as good as that rendang.”
Kez shrugs. I don’t think she’s worried about taste at this point. She just wants something to fill her belly. She was much more hungry than she let on.
I pause in front of a stall selling flatbreads. Scan the holomenu and order a clyros-stuffed round with two bulbs of fruit juice. I’m tempted to get the fermented version, but if we’re sleeping rough, we can’t afford to dull our senses. Booze won’t speed healing, either, and both of us need that in a bad way. So I get the straight juice, which, with the bread, will fill my kitten’s tummy.
Once Kez pays, I lead her further down the beach, past a big square marked out with hoverropes where people are dancing, to a band of wet sand a dozen meters from the waterline. A couple of glaz-smooth volcanic rocks provide warm, dry seats while we eat our bugs and bread. A stand of cer-cer grass shields us from the rest of the beach and its soft susurrus combines with the roll of the waves to mute the heavy bass whump coming from behind us. The grass’s natural phosphoresce throws a soft light over Kez’s face as she rips the bread in half and bites into it hungrily.
I watch her for a moment, then pat my thigh. Kez shifts from her rock onto my lap without even pausing her chewing. I settle her comfortably between my thighs, not the easiest thing in the fucking skirt. Put my arm around her and cuddle her while I eat my own bread.
“Where’s this hover in the morning?” I ask, once her chewing slows down a little.
“Back at the port,” she says.
“Then we’ll stay close.” The port lights up the far end of the beach. No more than a half-klick away. Thinking back, that’s a long way for my kitten to have dragged me. “How’d you get me to Doc Gray’s?”
“I got lucky. A couple of kids were passing with float boards. I got you on one and floated you to the market.” She pauses in her chewing just long enough to take a sip of juice.
“Did I say thank you for savin’ my life?”
She tilts her head to the side. Chews. “Not that I can remember.”
I poke her in the side. “Pretty sure I did.”
“Maybe it just wasn’t memorable.”
I find that good ticklish spot along her ribs. Give it a poke. She thrashes in my lap, giggling. Chokes on her bread. I whack her on the back until she can breathe again. Still giggling, she leans into me, puts her head on my shoulder, and stuffs another piece of bread into her mouth.
“You’re welcome,” she says. “You would have done the same for me.”
Yeah, I would. Three days ago, I wouldn’t have. But everything’s changed in that short time.
We’re both silent for a while, chewing. I like that about Kez: she doesn’t feel the need to constantly yap at me. When she finishes her bread, I offer her the rest of mine as a reward for her silence. She chews for a minute, then says, “Where’d you learn to make knives?”
That’ll teach me to share my food. “S.A.W.L. Just basic shit. Enough for a makeshift weapon if I lost my primary.”
“Those knives you sold weren’t basic.”
“No. Took me a while to figure out how to make those.”
“They were beautiful. I’m so sorry you had to sell them.”
“Don’t be. Look, it’s opened up a whole new line of business for me. You’re not seeing a credit of my knife money, by the way.”
Kez snorts and pops the last of the bread into her mouth. “Being partners means I see sixty percent of our knife money, thank you very much.”
“Sixty-forty, fuck. I musta been drunk when I negotiated that.”
Kez chuckles. “No, you weren’t. I’ve never even seen you drink.”
That makes me regret not ordering the fruit wine. I’d have liked to have a drink with her. But not tonight. “Tell you what. Once we’ve finished this, we’ll hole up at my place for a couple of days and do nothing but drink and fuck.”
“God, that sounds good,” Kez sighs.
“You finished?” When she nods, I evict her from my lap and rise. The skirt’s twisted around my waist. I adjust it with disgust. “Who designed this fucking thing?”
“A man, trust me.” Kez picks up the purple bag and slings it over her shoulder. Stands hipshot and flashes me a grin more wicked than mischievous. “So, how about a dark alley?”
“Yeah.” I stretch. Feel the pull of the newskin at my shoulder. The derms on my neck. The soreness of my muscles. The heaviness of my belly. “Can’t believe I’m about to say this, but —”
Kez laughs. “I’m wrecked, too.”
“Don’t think this is a permanent condition. You still owe me a massage, noodles, a naked dance and a sunburn-free fuck. You’re not gettin’ out of any of that.”
“You owe me a double-bag of the universe’s best flash. Not that crap we just ate. Which you ate. And I paid for the bugs and bread.”
“With my money,” I mock-growl, putting my arm around her. She leans into me as we stroll back up the beach.
While we’ve been eating, the eDub has been replaced by neo-Tribe, heavy on the pipes and drums. The dance floor’s cleared, and a crowd clusters around the hoverropes, their backs to us as we walk up the beach, watching something in the middle of the square. When an arc of fire sweeps above the heads of the watching crowd, Kez suddenly grows animated and drags me into the crowd. As we move through it, I catch glimpses of the performance in the shifting gaps between bodies. In the center of the square, there’s a tall, bare-chested kid leaping, weaving, dancing around two balls of fire that whizz weightlessly around him. He jumps and the fireballs spin between his legs like his nuts have nothing to fear. Maybe they don’t – maybe its chem coldfire or something like that. Or maybe he’s got no nuts. Mine start trying to climb up into my belly just watching him.
The crowd is clapping, gasping, hooting. It’s that hushed collective appreciation from a crowd that’s truly enraptured. Kez pushes to the front and I join her, standing behind her, my chin resting on the top of her head. Arms loose around her shoulders. I watch the kid, and I’m entertained, although I’m too tired to really enjoy it. But Kez seems wholly focused, intent. Her body sways in time to the music and the kid’s acrobatics. There’s something about this show that’s really got her attention.
When the fireballs finally puther out into streamers of gray smoke, the kid rests them on the ground to widespread applause. Without the brightness to destroy my night vision, I can see they’re wads of some fire-retardant material attached to chains the kid has looped around his fingers. The kid takes a bow, flips the braids he’s got bound in a headscarf over his shoulders, and moves through the crowd with a cloth hat outstretched. When he reaches us, Kez drops one of our few remaining octagons into the hat.
“Thanks, g,” the kid says absently, then does a double-take. “Lightfoot? Kez, my g! Damn, is that you?”
“Yeah, hey, Slip.” Kez holds out her fist and they rap knuckles.
“I didn’t recognize you. Where’re your dreads?”
&n
bsp; Kez shrugs. “You know how it is. Good show. Where’s your drummer?” She tips her chin at the silvery cylinder, sitting on the ground next to the kid’s smoking fireballs, which is still cranking out the neo-Tribe.
“Alb has some family thing, so I’m soloing tonight.”
“Too bad,” Kez says.
“Hey, you bring your poi? Duo with me, g!”
“I didn’t, sorry. I’m out here on business.”
“Well, fuck, take mine. I’ll take a break. Work the crowd. You can have half.”
Kez twists to look up at me. Her face is alight. “Sixty percent?”
“Fifty and breakfast,” I say.
Kez smiles at the kid. “Fifty percent and you buy us breakfast.”
“Sorry, g.” The kid’s narrow, moon-pale face splits into a grin so wide for a moment I think his head’s going to hinge open. “I’ve got a date.”
“No problem. Fifty it is.” Kez tugs on my hand. “Remember how you said you like to dance?”
“I don’t think I ever said that.” I can feel the trap closing, but I can’t see how to avoid it.
“You definitely did. Come on, Snow, please? Dance with me.”
“Didn’t we just establish that we’re both too tired for this?” I raise an eyebrow at her.
“This is different.” She drags me under the hoverrope, into the circle. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”
She pulls me over to where the kid’s gear sits in a cloud of gray smoke. She drops the ugly purple bag next to the small pile of cylinders and boxes, picks up the smoking balls, and hooks her fingers through fabric loops at the non-lethal ends of the chains. The kid trails us. Once Kez attaches herself to the balls o’ fire, the kid opens a pseudowood box, takes out a cylinder and drips clear liquid onto the dangerous ends. Smells like citrus.
“You’ve done this before, right?” I ask. I’ve seen her skill with the monofilament. Throwing around balls of fire is another thing. Particularly if they’re going between her legs. Or, more importantly, between my legs.
“No, but I’m a fast learner.”