After gorging on more bread and fruit, and drinking a lot of water, Essie had gone to sleep on top of the sleeping bag, snuggled up in his kaftan. It seemed to ease her somehow, and he was pleased to be rid of the garish thing. As always, her sleep was beset with nightmares. She moaned and snivelled continually. Several times she cried out and sat up, with wide frightened eyes. Florian soothed her back to a quiet slumber every time, unsure if she was actually awake during those episodes. That night she slept for a straight ten hours, waking up ravenous as always. The first thing he did was lengthen the dress straps by three buttons.
He began to review the general-band forums while he worked on another new dress. All anyone talked about was the nest alert. Retina-image files of the queues at the roadblocks showed stationary lines of vans and lorries for kilometres along the roads, their drivers either stoic or furious. Yesterday he’d seen a few files showing the Coperearl smashed up between a wall and two sheriff cars. He wondered if Lukan was all right, but after the ambush in the warehouse, he didn’t really care much.
The next morning the general band was full of news about people being arrested and carted off by the sheriffs without warrants. Florian recognized most of the names of those being taken to the PSR offices, even though he hadn’t thought of them in years. The PSR must have been pretty desperate to include them. In truth he’d not considered asking any one of them for help.
With the newest dress finished, he pulled the food processor cylinders out of the backpack. Most of the food Matthieu had given him went into the hoppers, with water from the tap. This time he set the menu to a paste which slowly extruded from the lower nozzle, directly into a bowl. It had all the same specialist fats and vitamins as the richmilk, but with a thicker constituency and a mix of flavours, from apple to beef, so he could give Essie some variety. He found another setting that produced hard pellets that she could suck on between meals like sweets.
It was while these were starting to emerge, rattling onto a plate as if they were pebbles, that the first ping with his code came in. Reception in the mod stable wasn’t great; the walls were thick, and there was only the one window. But his u-shadow had some excellent filters and its new subroutines had increased his reception sensitivity. He told it not to acknowledge any pings directed at him, but began reading the message headings. Opole’s Eliter community had discovered he was the reason the PSR had declared a nest alert. There was a lot of confusion about that; no one knew if he had Fallen or not. Some urged him to give himself in: ‘We’re suffering because of you.’ Most offered support and told him to run, to screw with the PSR bastards as best he could. Streaming in parallel to the pings for him, the general-band conversations were saying that all this was nothing to do with a Fall, that he’d struck some blow against the PSR. There were plenty of theories about that, from him burning down the PSR headquarters in Varlan (an impressive step up from his brother’s arson), to the development of some new kind of weapon which could wipe out Fallers with a single shot – with a whole lot of criminal acts in between proposed.
Essie woke up mid-afternoon, crying. ‘Legs hurt, Dada,’ she sniffled.
‘I’ll sort it out,’ he said as he always did. He massaged her calves and ankles while she sucked on the pellets. ‘I have a new dress for you.’
‘You best, Dada.’
Her simple love triggered a burst of emotions that made his throat constrict. ‘We’ll be safe here,’ he told her as his fingertips dug into her stiff gastrocnemius muscles. ‘You and me together.’
‘Hungree, Dada.’
He grinned. ‘Yeah, me, too.’ That was when Captain Chaing’s name popped up in the general access. Florian scowled at the mention of the captain. There were a lot of protestors outside the PSR office on Broadstreet, waving placards and chanting, holding up traffic. Surprisingly, the majority weren’t Eliters. The restrictions of the nest alert were antagonizing a lot of people. Encouraged by a fearless core of civil-rights activists, they were becoming bold, protesting against the cause of the disruption.
Matthieu turned up again in the late afternoon. He blinked in mild surprise when he saw the food basket was empty. ‘I’d better get you some more,’ he said in a mildly sarcastic tone.
‘Thank you,’ Florian said.
‘She doesn’t do much else, does she?’ Matthieu said as he gazed down at Essie, who was asleep on the kaftan again.
‘No,’ Florian said proudly.
‘Is she yours?’
‘No, she’s not.’
‘We’ve got a band playing tonight. Who’s MacLeod.’
‘What?’
‘That’s their name: Who’s MacLeod. They’re going to be loud. That’s how the kids like it these days. And there’s other clubs as well.’ He pointed to the window. ‘You might not get much sleep.’
‘That’s okay. It wasn’t too loud last night. Are you playing tonight?’
‘’Fraid not,’ Matthieu said sadly, and glanced at his hands. ‘Not that I don’t want to, but I can’t play so much now. I used to play guitar, but drums and singing are the best I can manage these days.’
‘Arthritis?’
‘No, actually. The PSR didn’t like the protest songs I used to perform. One night they came for me after a gig; they used wooden posts to break my hands.’
‘Oh, great Giu. Matthieu, I’m so sorry.’
‘You didn’t do it. That’s why I’m pleased you’re here. Whatever you’ve done, I’m glad of the opportunity to help you. It’s another blow against them. And besides, people still play my songs.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘We fight them in a thousand small ways each day, my young friend. That is how decent people will triumph in the end.’
Florian had never been more tempted to tell someone what had happened, who Essie really was. ‘You’re right. We will,’ he said fiercely.
Matthieu nodded in understanding. ‘I have some good and bad news for you.’
‘What?’
‘Castillito was taken into custody this morning.’
‘Mum?’
‘Don’t worry, they released her. I have friends who were outside the PSR office on Broadstreet. They saw her coming out.’
‘Oh, thank Giu.’
‘But it does mean they will be watching her. Closely, I suspect. She is their only true connection to you now. That means you cannot see her, Florian. You understand that. Don’t you?’
‘Yes. I . . . I guess so.’ In a way he was relieved. The fact that the one person who had never sent out a ping for him was his mother had been bothering him. Badly.
‘Good man.’
‘So she’ll understand why I came to Aunt Terannia and not her, won’t she?’
‘Of course.’ Matthieu hesitated for a moment. ‘I know you said you will only need shelter for a month, but have you considered what will happen if they start to get close? I’m not saying they will,’ he said quickly, ‘but I’ve never seen anything like this hunt. And they’re looking for Billop now. Florian, he’s a nasty piece of work who’ll do anything to save his own skin; he might be able to point them here.’
‘I’ll leave. I swear I’ll not put Terannia and you in danger.’
‘That wasn’t quite what I was getting at. Florian, there may be one person who can help you, but I don’t know how you’d feel about asking her.’
‘Her? Her, who?’
‘Why, the Warrior Angel, of course.’
‘The Warr— But she’s not . . . Oh, is she real?’
‘Very much.’
‘Crud.’ There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask about that. For his whole childhood, the stories of the Warrior Angel and how she protected Eliters had been a fascination and a comfort. It was her face that was the icon of every general-band file, a constant reminder to Eliters that they had a champion. She was a myth he so wanted to be real. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Me? Crud, no. But there are some Eliters that do, or at least know how to get a message to her. Or so
they say. There’s no direct link, no ping code; it’s more like shouting into haunted fog and waiting to see what comes out of it. And there’s no way of telling if she’ll come, or even if she’s there listening.’
‘So do you think I should ask?’
‘Right now, maybe not, but I’d like you to at least consider it if things get . . . heated. If I get dragged into the PSR dungeons, I’m not likely to hold out for long. Not at my age.’
‘Don’t,’ Florian said quickly. ‘Don’t hold out at all. Please. If they come for you, or Terannia, don’t antagonize them. I’ll go quietly if that happens.’
The old musician shook his head. ‘I’m not saying that’s going to happen. I’m just outlining a few options if things take a turn for the worse. You’re not necessarily as alone as you think you are.’
‘Thanks, Matthieu.’
‘You’re a good lad, Florian. Your aunt thinks the world of you.’
‘She was always here for us growing up,’ he said sheepishly. ‘She helped both of us. It wasn’t easy in those days.’
‘I know. And it’s never easy, not for us Eliters.’ He gave the sleeping girl a soft look. ‘Funny, she looks like she’s grown again, even since this morning.’
‘Um, Matthieu, she does grow. A lot. You need to be ready for that.’
‘Riiight.’ Matthieu glanced at him, then back to Essie. ‘Okay, I’ll get you some more food now. Then you’re on your own for the night. Can’t risk anyone coming into Terannia’s office while that secret door’s open.’
‘I have some songs,’ Florian blurted. He hated how much danger he was putting Terannia and Matthieu in, and there amid all the wondrous knowledge Joey had given him were music catalogues. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to thank the man with.
‘Good for you, Florian. I didn’t know you liked music.’
‘I . . . They’re part of the mindscape files I code,’ he said meekly.
‘The what files?’
‘The . . . Oh, I make images you can play in your macrocellular clusters, sort of like dreams, I guess.’ His u-shadow was assembling a file of titles based on a simple search request. He’d sampled a few tracks out of the thousands and thousands that the space machine had given him. Even he, who never really thought much of music, had to admit Commonwealth music was extraordinary. There was so much of it, and it varied enormously, from orchestras of hundreds to soloists, from bands, to single songsculpters creating directly through their technology. And the catalogue stretched back centuries, right back to the first recorded songs – further back if you counted the sheet music the truly ancient composers had written. The request he’d loaded into the secondary routine that handled simple searches was for songs that protested about injustice and gave people hope for the future, but also about love (there were an incredible amount of them), and there were plenty of lively tunes that were just plain fun. The last criterion was that they had to be written for guitars and drums and piano in any combination.
A list of several thousand slipped up into his exovision, dating from the mid-twentieth century on Earth. Data supplements told him Earth was the original home of the human race.
‘Show me,’ he instructed the u-shadow. And Earth appeared in his exovision. Earth from orbit – as if he was an astronaut! And a real vision, not the constructs he featured in his simple mindscapes. Earth had huge brown and green continents, and oceans smothered in exotic whorls of pristine white cloud. A world crowned by ice at both poles. The night-time continents glittered with the lights of cities – vast conurbations that stretched for hundreds of kilometres, especially along coasts. It was so beautiful he yearned to reach out and touch it.
‘Oh great Giu,’ he moaned. Tears started to fill his eyes.
‘Florian?’ Matthieu asked. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’ He wiped at his eyes, ordering his u-shadow to shrink the list of songs down to ten. ‘These are for you,’ he told Matthieu, and sent the files over. ‘Your band can play them if they’re any good. I don’t mind if you don’t.’
‘That’s very kind, Florian,’ the old musician said with a soft smile. ‘I know how hard it can be to show your work in public, especially something as personal as a song. These are very big files, so I’ll listen to them tonight, and we can talk about them in the morning. How’s that?’
‘Um, yes.’ He hadn’t expected to have to discuss them. ‘That’s fine.’
*
Chaing walked out of the clinic on the second floor of the PSR office and went down to basement level five, three levels below the records division. The operation had made progress during the morning. Perrick and terVask were now in custody and on their way in. The sheriffs were still hunting Bulron, but it was no longer a priority now Chaing had the other two.
Level five was where they were headed. The cells here were smaller than the Eliter cells up above, the corridors narrower, unpainted brick soaking up the light from the small bulbs in their caged glass holders. Iron doors on both sides of the central corridor had a central grille with a sliding panel covering them.
At the end of the central corridor was a junction with two other corridors leading off at right angles. It had a desk for this level’s cell chief, and a normal door into the guard office behind him.
Jenifa was standing beside the desk talking to the cell chief and a couple of guards when Chaing arrived. She turned, and the start of a smile swiftly turned to a concerned frown. ‘What the crud happened to your eye?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. The clinic nurse had been worried as she bathed it clean and applied a sticky ointment. She’d wanted him to go to the hospital optometrist – as if he had the time. So he settled for a small dressing and an eyepatch. One of the clinic’s orderlies had removed his broken cast, and put on a fresh one, which was larger than the first and still setting. It meant he had to cut off his shirtsleeve and wear his uniform jacket with its sleeve pinned across his side.
‘Just like Slvasta,’ the orderly had said when he finished helping Chaing back into his clothes. His humour vanished fast when he caught Chaing’s expression.
‘Nothing?’ Jenifa exclaimed. ‘But—’
‘I tripped. Hit my face on a door. Now move on,’ he snapped. The painkillers weren’t quite strong enough to stop the ache from his damaged wrist, and he was worried that Castillito’s kick had shifted the broken bone out of alignment. It just didn’t feel right somehow; the pain was sharper now.
Jenifa’s expression hardened. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘When are they due?’ Chaing asked.
‘The sheriff cars are pulling up outside in a couple of minutes, sir,’ the cell chief said.
‘Right. I want interrogation room three cleared out. Remove all the furniture. Then put Lukan and his cot in there.’
‘Er . . . sir?’
‘You heard, Comrade. And when the prisoners come down here, put them both in with Lukan. Clear?’
The cell chief clearly didn’t like any kind of shift in procedure, let alone this. But he nodded and said, ‘Yes, sir,’ almost as if he meant it.
Guards were summoned and started carrying the chairs and table out of interrogation room three. Chaing and Jenifa went into the observation room, which looked into the interrogation room through a big one-way mirror.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s happening?’ she asked coldly. ‘Nobody on the third floor knew where the crud you went after you interviewed Castillito.’
‘Sorry.’ Chaing gave her an awkward smile. He waved his hand at the eyepatch. ‘I had to go to the clinic. I did trip when I was hitting Castillito. I feel ridiculous. What kind of interrogator does that?’
She pushed her lips together in bemusement. ‘So is that why you let her go? To avoid the embarrassment?’
Chaing could practically feel her judging him; he was starting to get resentful about the way he had to justify himself the whole time. ‘Not quite. She’s still our best hope of a lead after Billop. Florian might co
ntact her. I’ve got her under constant observation. If he comes within a kilometre of her, we’ll spot him.’
‘He’s not going to go anywhere near her. She’s his mother, for crud’s sake; he doesn’t want her involved. At best he’ll do that Eliter link thing – how would we ever know?’
‘Some of Gorlan’s informers are watching for that.’
Jenifa gave him a puzzled glance. ‘You’re relying on them?’
‘What else have I got? Locked up here in a cell, out of contact with her kind, she was no use at all to me. This way at least I’ve opened up a possibility. And yes, I know how slim it is, but Florian might risk it.’
‘So this . . . ?’ she indicated the room on the other side of the shaded glass. Three guards were carrying in Lukan’s cot, with him on it. The driver was moaning feebly, barely conscious.
‘This is to encourage attitude adjustment. Information volunteered through fear is always more reliable—’
‘—than information extracted under duress. Yes, I know that’s your preferred method.’ She watched Lukan for a moment. ‘He’s not going to last much longer if you don’t get him back to a hospital. You know that, right?’
‘Know and don’t care. He helped a known nest-alert subject get into the city. I find that kind of behaviour beyond understanding. It’s treason against his whole species. Like this, he’s useful to me.’
For once her expression was almost approving.
They had to wait for a couple of minutes, then the door of interrogation room three opened again and PSR guards shoved Perrick and terVask in. Their shackles were unlocked, and the guards left.
‘What the crud?’ Perrick exclaimed, and went over to the cot. ‘Uracus, it’s Lukan!’
‘What?’ TerVask hurried over. He paled as Perrick pulled the blankets back, revealing the driver’s ruined legs wrapped in bloody bandages. Most of the cot’s blankets were stained with urine and faeces.
Perrick swung round to stare at the mirror, his round face showing signs of panic. ‘What did you do to him?’ he growled.