Falling (6 page)

‘Well, “our guests” would do nicely.'

‘Guests, Germans, whatever. Where are they?'

Schrader nodded at the two furthest booths. Under the neatly drawn curtains, she could see the turn-ups of their immaculate trousers, already splattered with mud.

‘Right. I could have told their fortunes. They'll buy up whatever they came here for, dirt cheap, and go home rich men. Because – any country, any commodity – their sort always do.'

Schrader's scowl deepened. It suited him. He never looked quite right smiling.

‘They came here,' he said, ‘to research the Hurst system. With a view to emptying their country towns. If that works, the cities follow.'

Them too. Then France, maybe, and Switzerland – they're halfway there already. The Scandinavians next…

Until there are no more cities left. Anywhere.

Jude shrugged, aware of how forced the gesture looked. ‘That's their business. I'm just here for the local colour, remember?'

‘I think not,' the third fortune teller said.

She leant forward into the light: a young woman, her thin face and roughly-cropped auburn hair giving her the appearance of a Victorian street urchin. Deliberate, Jude decided. All calculated to gain sympathy. But hell, it works. It's working on me, anyway. I always did have a soft spot for redheads.

‘I don't need my fortune told. I don't believe all that mumbo-jumbo. I make my own fortune.'

‘You make your own past, ReTracer. That's all.'

Jude looked to Schrader, to see if he'd said something that had given them away. He just looked uneasy, like he expected the crowd to round on them any second.

‘I'm willing,' the redhead said, ‘to tell you how to make your own fortune.'

Sighing defeat, Jude fished a coin from her pocket and laid it on the table.

‘Let me see your hand.'

Jude extended it slowly. Left hand; always keep your right free for emergencies. The girl's fingers closed around hers, squeezing. Hot fingers, greasy with sweat. Probably on something. Like everyone else within a quarter mile. Beautifully manicured nails, though. A coat of lightly tinted polish, pink, smoothed to a neat curve, so unlike Fitch's –

A shudder ran through her, and she pulled her hand free.

‘She loves you,' the redhead said, as if it was obvious. ‘Ask yourself: does the difference between you really matter?'

Aware of Schrader right behind her, Jude realised she'd made a terrible mistake. Swallowing, dry-mouthed, she managed, ‘Aren't all telepaths supposed to be state registered?'

The girl laughed briefly. ‘I'm not a telepath. I can't read your mind. I see what the powers chose for me to see. The powers, and you.'

‘All right, fine. I'm not here for a love life consultation –'

Schrader sniggered deliberately, as if he felt it was expected of him.

‘Just tell me my future. If you can.'

Turning her hand over, the girl studied her palm for a moment. ‘You're an autumn person, Jude.'

Schrader laughed aloud. ‘Yeah, orange and brown are so in. But it's going to take a miracle to Colour you Perfect.'

‘A passing person,' the girl continued, as if she hadn't heard. ‘One who finds beauty in defeat. One who loves the city because it's dying.'

‘The city's always been dying,' Jude murmured, unsure what else to say.

‘It's time you realised that there's beauty in victory too.'

‘I don't plan to fight any wars.'

‘Life rarely goes as we plan. You asked for your future; now you have it, accept it.'

Jerking her hand free, Jude snapped, ‘Some future. Platitudes and generalisations. You haven't told me anything.'

‘Your future lies in your past. You can only go forward by going backwards.'

Which is exactly what I'm doing. ReTracing. Looking for the key act to undo.

Both hands on the table, Jude leant into the booth until their faces almost touched. ‘How far?' she whispered. ‘How far back do I have to go?'

‘The scale starts at zero.'

Year Zero?

‘Bullshit,' Jude snarled, and turned away.

‘What's the problem, Jude?' Schrader sniggered, tailing along behind her as she shoved her way through the lines of dealers at the foot of the Millennium Bridge. ‘Didn't you get your money's worth?'

‘Aren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on your bloody VIPs?'

‘They can take care of themselves for a moment. It's not like they're stupid. Or American.' A final sprint, and he fell into step beside her. The bridge was busy and most of the crowd flow against them, but people shrank away from them, leaving them plenty of room to pass.

Shrank away from him, Jude corrected. From the man in the suit and the sunglasses and the wage-slave scowl. From the one who takes such delight in dressing different, acting different, proving he doesn't belong.

Why is he following me?

‘Jude, wait. Let's talk.'

He actually sounded apologetic, which was a first. The few times she'd shared an assignment with him, he'd spent the whole time throwing his weight around and angling for the credit. Maybe the vibe here was rubbing off.

She slowed, a little.

‘Look. Warner told me. That you're not operational. And I thought, well, if there's anything you want to tell me –'

Oh, this is all I need…

Jude looked away. At the main expanse of the park, and beyond; at the Serpentine, a few inches of clear water shimmering over a solid crust of mud and heavy metals.

‘Schrader, are you trying to break the Recommendation?'

He looked sharply at her – the way someone would if they thought you were mocking them, which puzzled her for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, ‘I can change my life any time I feel like it, Jude. I don't need the gory details of your future to do that. I just wondered if I could help, that's all.'

Wonderful. Ice-box Schrader gets overcome with emotion. Just to complete her day.

‘The fact is, I've been meaning to talk to you for a long time.' He drew breath, looking so much like a teenager about to proposition some impossible dream date that she almost laughed. ‘I've always felt we have a lot in common. Much more than you realise. But let's start with, oh, the same determined outlook on life, the same drive –'

‘Schrader, if you're trying to get inside my pants, forget it.'

Utterly unembarrassed, Schrader smiled. ‘Get with the technology, Jude. I can always have the same operation your girlfriend had.'

He was a tall man and well built; it took all her strength to swing him round and slam him against the bridge railings. But he wasn't ready and, before he could react, Jude had his wrists pinned against the handrail and was screaming into his face, ‘You heap of shit, Schrader, you keep your nose out of my –'

On the banks of the Serpentine, clearly visible through the metalwork, a tragedy was three seconds away from happening.

‘– business.'

Three steps from the edge of the river, a woman was running. There were people running after her; two, perhaps three, using the loose and scattered groups of bystanders as cover. Another domestic incident, and there had probably been a dozen far worse already. Any minute now, some stallholder's bodyguard would intervene. Violence had a way of escalating and violence was bad for business. There'd be some shouting, the auburn-haired woman would flounce off in a fury, yelling that it was all a misunderstanding, they'd fade back into the crowd and everyone would go back to buying and selling and stealing –

Only this time, it wasn't going to happen.

Jude could feel it. The way you did sometimes when you went back to a major crisis point; the death of a great leader, the small print of a vital promise, one of those rare and tiny moments that makes or unmakes a world. The way you did when the world split in two and on one side, the future you remembered,
on the other, a future you never imagined possible. A future
as easy and familiar
where everything is new and strange
as your own breathing
a future where this
never happened, where this
terrible
running stranger is a Woman of
Importance
No Importance At All
if only I could
just remember
that.

Jude blinked.

Worming free from her grasp, Schrader stepped sideways, his face creased with concern. ‘What the hell's wrong with you, DiMortimer?'

‘There,' she whispered. ‘Down there.'

Following her stare, he turned.

Down by the Serpentine, the running woman veered aside from an on-coming couple, turning towards the river.
And in this reality, the grass is dry
And in this? Wet grass, treacherous.
She can catch herself and turn
shoes, who knows the cause, but
and sprint away up the bank
either way –

She slipped.

Too close to the edge, too close to turn, to jump, and too far away for anyone to help her. Off balance, she threw out one hand to break her fall; but there was only the river behind her, and her outstretched arm hit water, then mud, then the solid crust.

The crust cracked beneath her, and she went under. Four feet of waste down, half a century of illegal dumping and blind eyes turned. The SoftGreens had managed to lock it away under a chemical-sustained crust, and a little clean water ran over the top, giving the shallow illusion of normality. But down below…

The woman's legs spasmed once and sank, sucked under the heaving, bubbling mud. It was shallow enough for her to stand up and walk back out again. But she wouldn't. One breath, one mouthful, one splash of that…

The only way for Jude to escape it was to close her eyes, but that didn't help, just fixed the memory like a photograph in her head.

And when she opened them again, Schrader was staring at her, like he couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

‘You have to ReTrace,' Jude blurted, ‘and rescue her.'

‘For God's sake, keep your voice down!' He glanced up and down the deserted bridge, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘A lot of these Luddite fanatics think we're servants of the devil or something. I don't think we should be advertising –'

‘Didn't you hear what I just said?'

Schrader turned back towards the river. The water was thick with disturbed silt; people were moving hastily away, clamping handkerchiefs over their faces as curls of sulphurous fumes rose from the deep.

‘It's a waste of resources,' he said.

‘ReTracing doesn't take any resources!' Jude screamed, oblivious to the stares they were attracting from the rabbit-in-headlights revellers. ‘I felt a Split. A big one. That woman was important for some reason. Her death changed things – big things. You know the drill. It's vital that you get back there and save her.'

Schrader stared at her for a moment, as if sizing up his opponent in a forthcoming prize-fight. For the first time, she felt a shiver of apprehension.

'I didn't feel anything,' he said.

‘Well, I did.'

‘Well,' he whispered, barely audible over the murmur of horror spreading through the crowd below, ‘I didn't.'

‘What's it going to cost you? Is it really too much just to help a fellow human being?'

His mouth wrinkled in disgust. ‘She was a SoftGreen, Jude. A wastrel, spending her life chasing fantasies. Worthless. Who am I to undo the ironies of post-industrial pollution?'

‘You heartless bastard.'

Shrugging, Schrader turned back towards the festivities. ‘So file a report.'

And he was walking away, back to the Germans and the festival and the utterly irrelevant, leaving her with the bitter aftertaste of failure, and a sudden, new understanding.

He felt it. He knows what happened here. But for some reason, he wanted it to.

Jude pressed her face against the cold metal railings, waiting for the body to surface. It might take a while, and it wouldn't be recognisable when it did, but…

Auburn hair.

Just like the woman in the fortune booth.

‘Oh shit.'

And she is back in her future-present; and still falling.

This is a tough one. She's never had to make more than three journeys to resolve a single problem before. Four is incredibly rare. Five almost unheard of.

No time.

ReTrace –

THREE

The Bankside, fifteen years ago

‘Hey, Drosser!'

A child's challenge, fierce and shrill, slicing the still night like a razor. She blinked. Dark skies overhead, midnight blue horizon hazed with smog. Her fingers were numb, her treasured padded polyfabric jacket blazed blue and red under the faded streetlights. Cold air burned her lungs like acid. Curtains twitched and settled at the high windows surrounding her, satisfied that whatever outrage was in progress was no worse than usual.