A Night Without Stars (41 page)

“Great Giu,” Florian groaned.

“We don't even know how many Fallers there are. The worst-case figures the Eliter Council came up with are terrifying. And they're organized, Florian. There are nests in every city. Their children are spreading out, safely—because everyone knows the eggs are destroyed before they land and the PSR is just mopping up any stragglers. But they're not stragglers, they're the vanguard. The nests that orchestrate the attacks on places like the rocket factory, they're the expendable ones. Take out one, and three more quietly start up to finish their work.”

“But the government…”

“Is truly terrified. Prime Minister Adolphus even has an evacuation plan for the People's Congress and their families; the Varlan Regiment and three squadrons will retreat with them to Byarn. They think—they hope—the island's free of them. They've been building fortified bunkers there for the last thirty years.”

“That's…How can they do that? What about everyone else?”

“We think the IA-509s will atom bomb the whole Lamaran continent if the Fallers have overridden it. It's called Operation Reclaim, which is a big fat stupid government lie-name. It's actually a scorched-earth policy. Bienvenido will wind up like Macule, all radioactive desert and glaciers.”

“They wouldn't!”

“Survival makes people desperate—not that it'll do them any good. Faller eggs must have been landing on all the uninhabited islands like Rachweith and Tonari while we were in the Void, and we know Fallers mimic the bigger animals the same as they do us, so presumably they can copy the creatures that live on the polar continents, too. Crud knows how established they are across the rest of this world, because we don't venture outside of Lamaran. Even the old Captain's government had an isolationist policy; Slvasta just carried that on. For all we know, humans are already in a minority on Bienvenido.”

Florian shook his head, feeling the tears welling behind his eyes. “No. That can't be right.”

Terannia glanced at Essie. “She really is our last chance. Matthieu told me where she came from. She and the Warrior Angel are all we've got left.”

Florian let out a long breath; there really wasn't a decision to make. “All right. We'll go. Keeping her safe is the only thing that's important. Another three weeks, that's all.” He put his arm around Essie. “Did you hear that, sweetheart? We're going to go somewhere else. Somewhere nice.”

“Where, Daddy?”

“Near the seaside,” Terannia said. “You'll like that.”

Florian bowed his head. “Okay. When can you do it?”

“Tomorrow. Matthieu had to get someone else out fast today, but our friends in the underground railway will be back in place in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

This time she hugged him tight. “You stay ahead of them, you hear me? And when the time is right, you and Essie shake this world so hard it rattles.”

“I will. I promise.”

Chaing opened the door to his flat and saw Jenifa sitting at the small kitchen table.
Crud!

She glared at him. “You never said a crudding word to help me. Not one, you bastard!”

He closed the door and took a few steps toward her. She'd risen to stand rigid-backed, her face all belligerent. Seeing her like this, so angry, with her body all tense, he was surprised to find he was getting very turned on. “Half the office was there outside Castillito's place,” he retorted, refusing to give ground. “What else could I do? If I'd had an argument with Director Yaki in front of everyone, we both would have been backed into a corner with no way out. Is that what you wanted? Because you damn well know what the inquiry is going to find. You shouldn't have left Castillito; you shouldn't have given her the chance to escape. She made you look ridiculous. The PSR is a laughingstock because of you.”

“Me? It was your crudding idea!”

Chaing ducked forward and kissed her. Jenifa pushed him away hard, then grinned viciously as she slowly unbuttoned her uniform blouse. “That bitch has got something on you, hasn't she? That was the real message I carried back.”

Chaing never took his eyes from her small black bra. “You screwed up, Corporal. Don't try and blame me.”

“You messed up somewhere and she knows about it,” Jenifa sneered back at him. “You're running scared from a filthy Eliter, Captain.”

He grimaced at the raw truth, then grunted in shock as her hand closed around his balls, squeezing roughly. With a yell he tugged her bra off, tearing the clips. She slapped him. He lunged forward.

They fucked right there on the kitchen table. It was anger sex, hot and turbulent, both trying to climax first, to win. The table legs scraped across the floor as they writhed about, a screeching sound blotted out by her sharp cries and his animal grunts.

Chaing didn't care about the noise, or who heard them; he laughed in triumph as an orgasm claimed him. Losing Florian, being outsmarted by Castillito, none of that mattered now. This was real victory. Beneath him, Jenifa spasmed in pleasure.

They lay on the tabletop for a long time, panting almost in unison, clothes tangled, sweaty skin pressed together, limbs at awkward angles. Then the slow extrication began, like undoing a tricky knot of sticky flesh.

“So what happened after I was dismissed?” Jenifa asked. She frowned in annoyance at the ripped buttons on her uniform skirt as she slipped it off.

“Nothing,” he admitted as he eased his ruined shirt over the cast on his arm. “Castillito made a very clean getaway. It was impressive considering how tight the observation team was.”

“What about the raids? I heard the sheriffs were starting as I left the office.”

“A few of them turned up some petty crud, but nothing connected with Florian. We still haven't got a clue where he is.”

“What about Castillito's friends and associates? Are you bringing them in?”

“Procedure says we should, but we both know that's going to be a waste of time. First, there's hundreds of them. And she won't have implicated anyone.”

“This is Falling into a grade-A crudstorm.” She shook off her blouse so she was standing completely naked in front of him.

“Somebody knows where he is. I'll find them,” Chaing said resolutely. His eye patch had slid around to his cheek; he took it off carefully, fingers probing at the sore flesh around the eye where the bruise was now coloring up.

“Uracus, you look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

She pressed her fists into the small of her back, arching her spine as she tried to work the knots out of her muscles.

He enjoyed the sight of her flexing body for a while, then asked: “Why do you do it?” genuinely curious.

“Do what?”

“Build your muscles up like that.”

She looked down proudly at herself. “I want to be strong, to be exceptional. Not just my body, but my mind, too. This job we have—if we're weak we fail. It's that simple.”

“And being physically strong…”

“The two are connected; one feeds the other. I need to be strong enough to withstand anything that can happen to me. And I am.” She tossed her head and put her hands on her hips, staring at him defiantly with her wide hazel eyes. “Why? Don't you like it?”

“I like it very much.”

“I admire you, Chaing.”

“Admire me? Is that all?”

“What do you think? I'm crudding furious with you, right now. But yes, you're so obsessed with catching Florian, you even sacrificed me. That's a kind of strength.”

“I didn't sacrifice you, I diverted Yaki, that's all,” he lied. “The only testimony that'll matter at your inquiry will be mine.”

“I can't be pushed out of the PSR. You know that, right? It's everything to me, my whole life. We're all that stands between Bienvenido and the Faller Apocalypse.”

“You'll be fine. I'll make sure of it.”

“You want to screw again?” she taunted. “Are you strong enough for that?”

Chaing gave her a greedy look. He was playing with fire now, and he knew it—which was what made it so exciting. “Oh, yeah.”

“Get onto the bed.”

He lay down, trying not to smirk.

Jenifa clambered onto the mattress beside him. With a dirty grin, she licked the length of his cock. “When are you going to talk to Yaki about me?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I want to be reinstated.”

“I know you do.” He sighed in delight as her tongue flicked out again.

“And fully vindicated.”

“Oh, Giu! Yes. Yes, you will be. Just…Don't stop.”

Ry took the tenement steps two at a time on his way to the back door. For the first time since he started watching Cameron's, there was someone else using the stairwell—a woman holding hands with her young son as they climbed up, both dressed in faded clothes. Her face tired and beaten down by the life this part of the city offered.

She gave him a sullen look as he hurried past; nobody acknowledged anyone in the tenement. The boy cocked his head to one side, blinking in amazement. Then he smiled.

Ry reached the bottom of the stairs. Above him he heard the boy saying: “It's him, Mum. It's him! Really.”

“Who?”

“The astronaut. Major Evine. He just flew a Liberty mission.”

“Don't be so stupid.”

“I'm not stupid. It is him, it is, honest. I recognize him from the magazine.”

Ry grinned to himself as the boy carried on protesting, but it was an uncomfortable reminder of how precarious his own position was. His beard was thickening nicely, but he was still out of place here and very much on his own.

He retrieved the tuk-tuk and drove onto the east end of Midville Avenue, where the deep shade from the walwallow trees made it difficult to see anything—especially if you were standing in the bright morning sunlight outside Cameron's.

The van was outside the club, with Shaham just climbing into the front passenger seat; Ry's visual recognition routine had extracted Shaham's identity from the general band streams even quicker than it tagged Perrick.

There were two other goons accompanying Roxwolf's senior lieutenant, just visible in the back of the van. It pulled out from the curb and did a U-turn. Ry cursed and throttled the tuk-tuk hard, turning down the first alley on the left. Following Shaham and the van for a couple of days had left him as familiar with the crumbling dockland area as any of its hard-up residents.

He did a fast circle through the tangle of backstreets, catching up with the van on Krestol Street, which was one of the main thoroughfares heading back into the center of Opole. Twenty minutes later they were in the Jollarn district, which was made up of neat streets lined by solidly average houses. The electromagnetic spectrum chittered with link transmissions; Jollarn was an area favored by Eliters. But then Ry already knew that; he'd followed Shaham to the same district yesterday afternoon. The gangster's van had cruised around for a while, moving up and down Stower Road for no reason Ry could make out. Presumably it was some kind of inspection, scouting out the street.

As they turned onto Stower Road that morning, three motorbikes raced past the tuk-tuk, all three with pillion passengers. Ry instinctively reduced speed to let them go. Up ahead the van was slowing, pulling in to park in front of the last house in a neat two-story terrace at the far end of the road.

Ry turned into a side road and got off to watch. One of the bikes rode down the alley behind the terrace. Then the entire electromagnetic spectrum used by Eliters to communicate was flooded by a blast of white-noise signal. All the people on bikes and the two goons from the back of the van hurried into the house, pistols drawn from holsters that had been covered by bulky jackets. Two minutes later Shaham joined them inside the house.

The few pedestrians on Stower Road were looking around in puzzlement as the jamming signal continued to blast out its interference. A couple of the goons emerged from the house and opened the back of the van. Boxes were carried inside. One of them tucked a big roll of what looked like chicken-wire mesh under his arm.

Ry simply could not work out what was happening. It didn't look like part of a protection racket.
Is that the house Florian is hiding in?
His retinas zoomed in for a better look. That was when he got lucky. One of the goons half tripped on the curb, the box he was carrying slipping from his grip. Even from where he was, seventy meters away, Ry could hear the other man's cry of fear. The box fell to the ground and tipped over, its top flapping open. Both goons froze. Then they were both scrambling around on the pavement, picking up the small gray cylinders that had spilled out of the box.

A chill crept along Ry's skin, and he quickly retreated back down the street to sit on the tuk-tuk while his racing heart slowly calmed. He recognized those innocuous waxed-cardboard cylinders: dynamite.

“It's time,” Aunt Terannia said.

Florian took a last look around the dank mod-stable. It was a wretched place to hide, but it had been safe. This was the fifth day they'd spent here, which meant Essie had now spent half her life in the gloomy room. And that wasn't fair, not at all. He wanted so much more for her.

“We're ready,” he said.

“I brought you something,” Terannia told Essie, and held up a green dress. “For the journey, sweetie. Can't have you going outside dressed in rags, now can we.”

A huge smile broke across Essie's face. “Thank you so much, Auntie.”

Terannia swallowed something in her throat. “You're welcome. Got you some shoes, too—well, sandals.”

Essie grinned and went over to the far end of the mod-stable to change out of the robe she was wrapped in.

Florian smiled awkwardly. “Thanks.”

“Like I was going to do anything else,” Terannia said. “I care about her, and not just because of where she's from.”

“How's my mother? Do you know?” He'd spent most of the previous evening accessing the general band, hearing about Castillito's disappearance, the fury of the PSR.

“I don't know. And if
I
don't, you can be crudding sure the PSR hasn't got a clue where she is. So don't you worry about her, or us. You focus on your job, you keep that girl safe for the next three weeks.”

“I will.”

“She looks about eight or nine now. Damn, it makes my head hurt just thinking what the Commonwealth can do, even though stuff like this is defying nature. They're like gods.”

“They're not gods, but they're not backward like us, either. If we could just talk to them, they'd help. I know they will.”

“I hope you're right, Florian. I really do.”

Florian heard crying, and turned to see Essie shuffling slowly toward them. She'd overeaten again last night, bloating up her limbs so she had trouble moving her joints. The new dress only emphasized how grubby her skin was despite a halfhearted attempt to wash that morning. Ebony hair hung oily and limp against her head; for whatever reason, it didn't grow at the same rate as the rest of her, leaving it disturbingly thin. The memory organ was prominent underneath the lank strands, its livid color vivid against her pale skin.

“Dad,” she whimpered. “It just hurts.”

Florian ran over and swept her up in his arms. “It's all right, sweetheart. I'll get you some medicine. It'll take the pain away. I promise.”

He sat her down and collected the medical kit. Terannia's eyebrows lifted at the sight of the smooth box extruding tablets. Essie swallowed them eagerly.

“I'm sorry, Dad. It just hurts!”

“Hey.” He stroked her brow. “It's okay. It's going to stop soon, I promise.”

“Thank you, Dad. I love you.”

“And I love you, too, sweetheart.”

He cuddled her for another couple of minutes, waiting for the painkillers to take hold. Then they made their way back along the narrow, low passage to Terannia's office.

Most of the boxes of bottles had gone. The floorboards were wet with wine and spirits, and the air carried their smell. There was no chair behind the desk anymore. The top of the desk was covered in tall piles of paper.

“The sheriffs did this?” Florian asked.

“Let's just concentrate on getting you out of Opole, shall we?” Terannia said.

Downstairs, the club was missing half its tables and chairs. Matthieu was waiting by the bar, a big dressing taped on his cheek. Anger brought a flush to Florian's face as he saw the injury.

“I'm fine,” Matthieu said quickly.

“No you're not! Who did this?”

“It happens.”

“It shouldn't!”

“I know.” Matthieu smiled softly. “And you're going to put a stop to it, aren't you, my boy?”

“Yes!”

He smiled at Essie. “Looking mighty fine today, young lady.”

Essie sniffed and managed a sheepish grin.

“What now?” Florian asked.

“Well, you don't leave by the front door, that's for certain,” Terannia said.

There was a trapdoor in the cellar, concealed in the floorboards as cleverly as the doorway in the office paneling. Florian guessed it was the same carpenter who'd made both of them.

Matthieu handed them both torches and climbed down the ladder.

“You take care,” Terannia said, giving Florian a hug. She gave him a velvet hat with a broad rim. “There, that should keep anyone from getting a good look at you. It'll only be a few paces in the open to the van.”

“Thank you. Without you—”

“Go,” she croaked. “We'll be waiting to hear about you.”

“The whole world is going to know what she does,” he said solemnly.

Essie climbed down the stairs slowly, trying not to wince at every movement. Florian followed her down.

It was another cellar underneath, made of stone rather than brick. Florian knew it was older. The walls bulged in places, and the wooden beams were starting to crumble.

“The whole city is built on the remains of previous buildings,” Matthieu said. “It's been here for over fifteen hundred years, after all. And the Gates is the oldest part. Giu knows how old some of these chambers are.”

Florian followed him through sagging archways and rough holes knocked through thick walls, trying not to think of the weight of the Gates above them, nor the age of the catacombs and their cracked, decaying pillars. Matthieu seemed very sure of their route. The torch beams probed through numerous doors and arches they passed, sometimes illuminating chamber after chamber, occasionally falling on piles of rubble. There were even a few stone stairs curving down to lower levels. Bussalores squeaked somewhere in the darkness, their tiny paws scampering along unseen. Essie pressed up against him, and his arm went around her shoulders.

“Here we go,” Matthieu announced at the foot of some crumbling stairs that led upward. Each stone step was worn from age.

Florian's u-shadow told him Matthieu was sending out a ping. There was an answering ping from above. A trapdoor was open, sending a fan of yellow light sweeping down.

The steps came up into another cellar, where a man called Euphal was waiting for them. He ran the greengrocer's above, he explained. They were on Coal Gate Lane, which ran along the south edge of the Gates. Florian realized they must have traveled nearly a kilometer through the catacombs. He shook his kaftan vigorously, trying to get rid of the dust and grime that the fur lining had soaked up underground. Essie's nice new dress was streaked with dirt, too.

“This is as far as I go,” Matthieu announced as they slipped into the back of the cluttered shop. “Redrith should be waiting outside.”

“Who's Redrith?”

“A friend. He'll take you down to the docks in his van. There are way too many ships for the PSR to check properly. We've fixed it for you to sail with the
Takiti;
she's a river barge that hauls grain up and down the Crisp. There are some compartments that aren't on the plans. The captain's one of us. You'll be fine.”

“I guess the Warrior Angel didn't come to help, then?”

Matthieu pulled a face. “No, sorry, man. You're on your own. You and a world full of friends.” He went to the front of the shop and peered out through the window. “He's there. I see him. He's in the van marked
REDRITH MARITIME SUPPLIES
.”

Florian's u-shadow reported a quick exchange between Matthieu and the van parked outside. Now that the time had come, he was reluctant to go. “I won't let you down,” he said.

Matthieu gripped his arm. “Oh, I know you won't. Now go on; it'll look odd if he's there too long.”

“Bye-bye,” Essie said solemnly.

“You take care,” Matthieu told her.

There was a moment by the door when Florian looked at Matthieu. There was so much he wanted to say, but as always he didn't really know how to say what he felt.

Matthieu was clearly having a similar moment. He opened the shop door, and tipped Florian's hat down so the rim obscured his face. “Go on; go!”

And Florian was out in the open air, which smelled so sweet after too many days in the mod-stable. The sun was bright and warm on his skin, making the colors of the street so vivid after poorly illuminated drab walls. The noise and bustle of the city center embraced him.

His arm went around Essie, who was wincing as she walked. Her round heavy face was glancing around curiously as vans and cars and tuk-tuks drove past. Up ahead at the junction with MillCoate Street, a tram rattled along its tracks, bell clanging to shoo cyclists out of the way. “Combustion engines?” she muttered in what sounded like dismay.

In front of them, the side door on the Redrith Maritime Supplies van slid open. The interior was empty, lined in stained plywood. The engine coughed into life, making the whole vehicle shake.

“Come on,” Redrith called from the driver's seat.

Florian noticed there was someone sitting in the front passenger seat as he helped Essie into the van. Then he was inside, and the door was sliding shut, pushed by the man in the back of the van. A tall man who was perturbingly thin. His eyes were obscured by glasses with dark-yellow lenses.

“Who are you?” Florian asked.

“More to the point, do you know what this is?” The man held up a small Bakelite stick with a red button on the top. His thumb was pressed down on it. A thick electrical cable snaked out of the stick and disappeared into the plywood paneling that coated the van.