Rainbow Bridge (5 page)

Sage seemed at a loss for an opinion. ‘What did Wang say? Have you told
him
where you think he’s living?’

‘It’s not like that… I saw the pictures in the bathroom. Then
he
told
me
.’ Dian shivered. ‘He says he’s making me live there to re-educate me; he’s living there to re-educate us. To teach us that the story of Rufus’s magic is nonsense.’

The Minister for Gigs thought it over.

‘Well… It’s a piss-off if he’s making a big thing of a place we’d rather forget, but he’s got the right idea. Dian, take my advice and ditch the evil magician, lord and lady shite. Paganism’s the religion of the Counterculture. No matter how close you are with the General, you can’t afford to talk like that.’

The mediababe looked very sick for a moment, and he wondered exactly why. ‘I could be useful,’ she blurted out. ‘That’s what I really came to say.’

‘What—?’

‘Look, I don’t want to do this, I want to survive. But I’m more afraid of what,
what might return
, than I am of s-starving. I’m sleeping with the enemy, that’s my business, but he’s off his guard with me. Wang uses me as a source of information, but he talks. He talks about immix, about the Zen Self experiment, using those words. These are forbidden topics, supposed to be treated like they never existed, but he doesn’t care with me. I could tell you things, find out things.’

Fer fuck’s sake, he thought. You could go back an’ tell your General we’re not quite as dumb as we look. But he felt her desperation. He believed she was sincere, in her own eyes, at this moment; and he pitied her, dangerous as she might be.

‘They’d kill you,’ he said, bluntly but not unkindly. ‘Don’t you understand that? And they’d take their time,
know what I mean
?’

She held her ground, chewing the glossy lip again.

‘He keeps asking me about Dilip. Why would Wang need to know about Dilip? He’s a m-minor figure, believed to be dead. You know that no bodies have been recovered from the State Apartments?’

Sage had not been in London since before the invasion, but he’d seen the news coverage of the breaking of the siege, and he’d had eye-witness accounts. The Chinese were refusing access to a heap of sodden spoil, on some atavistic theory that this would humble the English. In some atavistic way they were right. But there would be no
bodies
. When the human remains search teams were allowed in, they’d be sifting the ash for teeth. Dian stared at him, insistent: he refused to be drawn.

‘There never will be. What are you getting at, Dian?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean. But there’s something going on. If they’re lying to us, if they are adepts at Black Art, anything’s possible. I get a sense that Dilip may be in their hands. They may have called him up. Not alive, but—’

Sage stopped her, shaking his head.

‘You have a lurid imagination, did anyone ever tell you that? Dian, you’re giving yourself nightmares. Lay off, think better thoughts. The Chinese are our liberators, we needed to be liberated, let’s live with it.’ He stood up. ‘Are you on your own? You know, you don’t have many fans at Ashdown.’

‘I’m with friends.’

‘I’ll walk you back to them.’

The late bar was in one of the Reich’s prefab sleeping bag shelters. From the outside it looked like a sagging cowshed; with a front wall of layered marquee membrane that heaved like something alive in the dark. Inside it was warm and bright, full of bodies, and the draughts were welcome. Many of the defeated Utopians had been living without regular showers since September. The Few had scattered themselves through the throng; working the crowd. Fiorinda and Ax sat on stools at the counter, elbow to elbow, talking to anyone who accosted them; telling Reich-and-local mediafolk they were exhilarated to be starting from nothing again. They would not be meeting the mainstream press tomorrow. The situation was far too uncertain for that.

Fiorinda got into a conversation with Areeka Aziz, rising star of the Reich’s second generation, that began with medium-term strategy (slightly premature) and degenerated to Ashdown catering. The concession stalls weren’t running out of food, but too many ravers had turned up penniless. Wristie numbers were past five thousand, spot estimates on the ground already well over that, got to boost the free meal provision. If we can do pease porridge and beer, they won’t starve—

‘I’m on to it!’ cried Areeka, ‘I’ll check the stores physically, it’s the only way, festinet is
so
fucked up—’

Away she darted, burrowing between bodies, overjoyed to be back on board. Time was, they’d said that vivid London teenager was “the new Fiorinda”. Areeka, you are
nothing
like me. Brought up by loving parents, who taught you to believe in good things. You have A-Levels, or whatever they call them now. So caught up in the action, defending the poor, you couldn’t care less what you’re doing to your career, never mind that you’re risking your life: and how you shine—

I want a daughter like that…

(Her hand drifted to touch her belly, but she caught herself.
Absit omen
. Baby, what baby? Nah, silly idea, go away demons, no baby here.)

Ax’s kitten, who’d been left behind the bar all day, crawled from Ax’s knee to Fiorinda’s and hustled to be allowed inside her hoodie. He was a good little homeless persons’ cat, unfazed by anything as long as Ax was near. Ax glanced around and they grinned at each other, snatching a break.

‘Still up for blowing the lovely Boudicca out of the water?’

‘Boo-
dikki
,’ said Fiorinda. ‘Get it right. She’ll think we don’t care.’

Ax and Sage would be lying very low tomorrow. Fiorinda had a solo set, publicised only by word of mouth, in one of the tents. Boo-dikki, a much-touted singer/songwriter, was the top female act on the official line-up. They’d discovered that the rumour mill (Ashdown had a rumour mill in London apparently; amazingly) was billing this ‘collision’ as a catfight between the senior Nation’s Sweetheart and a hot young contender. A bizarre concept to deal with when you’re testing very murky water, not sure whether or not you have a price on your head. And by the way, Boo-dikki’s
older
than I am—

‘I don’t mind blowing people away,’ said Fiorinda. ‘I used to do it all the time when I was a teenage superstar. The best fun is when you blow someone away without knowing they existed, that’s when they get really pissed off.’

‘We could quietly cancel your tentshow—’

‘Nah, I’m fine. It’s these blackberry crushes, they make me quarrelsome. One more and I’ll be on the canvas. D’you ever envy them, Ax? The normal rockstars?’

‘Nah. I had my time in the sun. I’d only be embarrassing myself by now.’

‘Me too. I was born to burn out young, it’s what makes me so romantic. But I worry about our next generation (she was thinking of Areeka). Art for a cause is such a mug’s game. If you’re the real thing you just get shot, if not, pointless career death.’

She was twenty-four. I will see your name in lights again, he thought.

‘Why
are
we still alive?’ he wondered aloud. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘No one can say we haven’t tried.’

They raised their glasses, in silent accord, to the friends in this long struggle they would never see again. To all the
stupid
rockstars who’d got physically involved, when anyone could see all you had to do was talk the talk, in Crisis Europe. To every melodramatic fool who ever dared to be something other than a dumb pop idol. And the roll call stretches back, into the dim history of the twentieth century—

Hey, compadres. Long live Futuristic Utopia.

The bar crowd saw them toasting each other, which raised a cheer. Then Sage walked in, immediately followed by the huge and awesome Gintrap, with entourage. The amiable metallers were not supposed to be here. The official acts were supposed to stay in their trailers, until they were bussed to a special area backstage. But the Trap claimed it was okay, the Chinese were cool. Thrilled with themselves for being at Ashdown, rubbing shoulders with the rulers of the Reich, the non-Few rocklords prattled happily, a daft ego boost. Boje Strom trashed Rosamond at length. Dessy Foumart, the Trap’s old-style girly frontman,
spectacularly
hammered, needed to know what the Minister for Gigs had thought of ‘Save Your World’ (Why should I try to?), an ancient and punishing Heads track which the ‘deliberately crude’ ones had mined, in the creator’s absence, for its buried lyrics, and an unsuspected jolly tune.

‘’S
fine
,’ growled Sage, folded onto a barstool, all arms and legs; downing his second pint. ‘I couldn’t give a bugger, Des, an’ I hope it goes platinum. But I tell you what. If you ever give that shite treatment to ‘Colour of Stars’, or ‘Arbeit’, I am personally gonna have to invade your stage an’ kick your fucking head in.’

‘Oh fuck, I would be honoured. I’m selirious, Sage. I
would
be honoured. That would be the greatest,
greatest
moment of my life.’

‘What happened to you?’ murmured Fiorinda, as the flood of clean shiny hair, clean shiny clothes and
clean fingernails
dropped the two of them and swirled around Ax, fucking ace the President was still alive, and hey, fuckin’ great tattoo!

‘I got waylaid by Dian Buckley.’

And Marlon is missing, he thought. But that’ll wait until we’re on our own.

‘
Dian Buckley?
You’re kidding. What the fuck’s she doing here?’

‘Tell you later.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘Of course.’ Sage’s glass was empty: Mrs Brown from the Anchor at Hartfield immediately delivered another. ‘Thanks… Oh, I don’t know. She’s having problems adjusting, as aren’t we all. Her General fixed her up with permits, she’s with the press corps, but she was wandering around loose on our site. It’s okay, I walked her to their gates, she’s safe. I need a kitten to hug, lemme have Min. Can we go home soon?’

But they stayed, joining the outlaw revelry, getting used to being with people again; cravenly reluctant to go out into the wet dark, where who knows what might be waiting. It’s karma night, there are demons abroad, clawing around.

Demons, daft music biz spats and Dian Buckley, we must be in business again.

In The Cities, Flower Gardens

By midmorning on the second day of Ashdown, illusory peace and calm prevailed in the Reich HQ. The marquee, meant for workshops and meetings at summer festivals, was impossible to heat, but they had battened the hatches, lowered the ceiling sheets and were making liberal use of blankets. Cats and babies were tucked away in the security of an inner section. Off in their own space, Muhammad’s Islamic youngsters sat in a neat corral of bedrolls, having a religious discussion in Arabic with their
shaykh: Who could have foretold, a hundred years ago, that the creation of wealth would lead to utter destruction? Are the infidel not justified in reproaching GOD?

It needed no foretelling for us to know that profit amassed by the oppression of the poor was a transgression—

The Triumvirate had arrived early, lured by the promise of hot showers. Sage was getting his rows reconstructed by Dora Devine’s expert hands, while Ax worked on embedded tangles in Fiorinda’s curls. Call it superstition, but it was important that he didn’t resort to scissors. Desultory conversation passed around.

Thank God they’d given up storing the tour gear at the Insanitude, before the last disaster struck. Their roadshow had been discovered and impounded, but Hu Qinfu had handed everything back, lacking only the forbidden tech. So he’s not a total crook. Thank God you’re such a hoarder, Allie. The admin-queen had never allowed obsolete hardware to be thrown away—

Nathalie Que, the Vietnamese ceramics artist who’d been Dilip’s last squeeze, and ended up trapped in the siege, was still with them. She sat close to Allie, by the brazier (the other brazier was with the babies), and kept reaching out to charge it. ‘Don’t be dumb,’ said Allie, catching the girl’s spider-fragile hand. ‘You’ll pass out.’

As an alternative energy source, ATP was doomed. A gene therapy that allows you to turbo your own chemical energy production, and even add it to the local grid, only works when people have plenty more food than they need.

Nathalie had lost her terror of ending up in a Guandong re-education camp (a real danger for ethnics of the New Autonomous Regions, the countries that used to be China’s immediate neighbours). Her current dream was that Ax would use his mighty influence to get her repatriated to Hanoi.

‘I have relatives, I can prove right of citizenship, if my case is opened—’

You inherit your boyfriend’s clueless little babe. You hate her, but you get attached to her, as if she was his old coat, and all she wants to do is to leave you too. Allie, arms around her knees, rubbed her cheek against the sleeve of her beloved Gucci jacket. Fuck it. I will have love-affairs with my clothes.

‘Natty, you know, Ax might never be able to help you.’

‘Oh, he will. I hear the way they talk about him on Joyous Liberation news. The Chinese hold Ax in the highest respect.’

‘They don’t say much.’

Nathalie smiled, with irritating confidence. ‘Wait and see.’

Fiorinda talked to festinet with an earbead and a throat mike, ignoring Ax’s labour of love. Apparently the extra pease porridge for the free meals had been made with garlic, and the poor didn’t like it.

‘Tell them it’s boosting their immune systems… What’s
wrong
with garlic? Oh, all right, how much garlic?… Okay I
will
come and taste it…’

‘There, all done. The miracle of hair conditioner.’

The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down to comb their hair
. Where’s that from? Ax had a feeling he wouldn’t like the ref if he could place it. He twisted up a handful of springing, shining copper silk, kissed her nape and went to look at the 18
^th
October map, which was spread on a flexible e-broadsheet, on a table of boxes. The occupied zones made an irregular butterfly bow, south-west to north-east, leaving Cumbria, Sussex and the whole eastern flank untouched. He knew that shape, aside from the anomaly of unoccupied Sussex (and we know why they did that). The Chinese had subdued the Reich’s heartlands, and then stopped. Did that mean they believed they’d done all they needed to do? Or what? Cumbria had been isolated for a long time, and there’d been no-go areas in the east, Essex to the fens, long as Ax could remember—