“How’s the symphony coming on?”
“That was a very sneaky thing you did, Mirabel; leaving me like that. I suppose I should thank you for returning the money that you made on my experientials, but you’ll excuse me if I don’t overwhelm you with a flood of gratitude.”
I shrugged. “I had a job to do. You didn’t figure in it.”
“How’s that job looking now?” Voronoff said, still sneering at me. “Time for a rethink, Mirabel?”
“You tell me.”
Quirrenbach flashed a quick grin at me, like an aggressive ape. “Tough talk from someone who didn’t even know his gun wasn’t loaded. Maybe you’re not quite the professional hot-shot we’ve been led to believe.” He reached over and helped himself to my tea, maintaining eye contact all the while. “How did you know he wasn’t Reivich, by the way?”
“Have a guess,” Zebra said.
“I could kill you for betraying us,” Quirrenbach said to her. “But right now I’m not sure I can muster the enthusiasm.”
“Why don’t you start with Voronoff, dickhead?”
He looked at Zebra, then at the man disguised at Reivich, as if weighing the idea seriously. “That really wouldn’t do, would it?” Then his attention returned to me. “We caused quite a stir back there, Mirabel. It won’t be long before what passes for authority here comes to take a look, and I really don’t think any of us want to be around when that happens.”
“So you’re really not Canopy security?”
“Sorry to shatter your illusions.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. “They were shattered quite some time ago.”
Quirrenbach smiled and stood up, the tiny little gun still nestling in his fist, as if with one spasm of his fingers he might crush it to shreds. He danced the barrel between Zebra and myself, holding his fake ID in the other hand like a talisman. Voronoff, meanwhile, produced a weapon of his own; between them they had us comprehensively covered. We walked through the crowd, Quirrenbach daring anyone to pay us anything more than glancing interest. Neither Zebra or myself made any attempt to resist or escape; it would not have been worth it.
Only three vehicles were parked on the landing ledge, cowled dark shapes glossy with rainwater, roof-mounted arms partially extended in readiness for flight, like three upturned dead spiders. One was the car in which Zebra and I had arrived. I recognised one of the other cars as well, but not the one to which Quirrenbach was leading us.
“Are you going to kill me now?” I asked. “Because if you are, you could save yourself a lot of trouble by throwing me over the edge here. There’s no need to spice up my last moments with a ride through the Canopy.”
“I don’t know how I’ve managed without your brilliant shards of wit, Mirabel,” Quirrenbach said, with a long-suffering sigh. “And, incidentally—not that you care—the symphony happens to be coming along rather splendidly, thank you.”
“That wasn’t a cover?”
“Ask me about it in a hundred years.”
“If we’re going to talk about people who hesitate to kill others,” Voronoff said, “you might crop up in the discussion, Mirabel. You could have dropped me when we first met around Methuselah. I’m rather puzzled that you didn’t at least try. And don’t say there was a fish in the way. You may be many things, Mirabel, but sentimental isn’t one of them.”
He was right: I had hesitated, much as I preferred not to admit it to myself. In another life—at least on another world—I would have dropped Reivich (or Voronoff) almost before I had mentally acknowledged their presence. There would have been no ethical debates about the value of an immortal fish.
“Maybe I knew you weren’t the right man,” I said.
“Then again, maybe you just didn’t have the nerve.” It was dark, but I caught the quick flash of Quirrenbach’s grin. “I know your background, Mirabel. We all do. You were pretty good, once, back on Sky’s Edge. Trouble was, you just didn’t know when to pack it in.”
“If I’m so washed up, why the special attention?”
“Because you’re a fly,” Voronoff said. “Sometimes they need swatting.”
The vehicle readied itself as we approached, a door opening in one side like a drooling tongue, plush steps set into its inner surface. A pair of heavies shadowed the door, packing indecently large weapons. Any lingering thoughts I had entertained of resistance vanished at that point. They were professionals. I had a feeling they wouldn’t even allow me the dignity of jumping over the side; that if I tried it they would put a pair of slugs in my spine on the way down.
“Where are we going?” I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know the answer, or if I could even expect an honest reply.
“Space,” Quirrenbach said. “For a meeting with Mister Reivich.”
“Space?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mirabel. But Reivich isn’t in Chasm City at all. You’ve been chasing shadows.”
THIRTY-THREE
I looked at Zebra. She looked at me. Neither of us said anything.
The vehicle into which the heavies escorted us had the reek of newness, leather trim sweating sumptuousness. There was an isolated rear compartment with six seats and a moundlike central table, with soft musak filling the air and elegant neon designs worked into the ceiling. Voronoff and one of the heavies sat opposite us, weapons still at readiness. Quirrenbach and the other man entered the front compartment, visible only as smoky shadows through the partition.
The car rose very smoothly, with a soft snicking from the roof arms, like someone crocheting at great speed.
“What did he mean, space?” I asked.
“A place called Refuge. One of the high orbital carousels,” Voronoff said. “Not that it makes any real difference to you. I mean, it’s not as if you’re just tagging along for the ride, is it?”
Someone had mentioned Refuge since my arrival in the city, but I could not quite place the reference.
“What happens when we get there?”
“That’s for Mister Reivich to know and you to find out. You might call it negotiation. But don’t expect to take too many bargaining chips to the table, Mirabel. From what I hear, you’re all cleaned out.”
“I’ve still got a few surprises up my sleeve.” But I sounded about as convincing as a drunk tramp boasting of his sexual prowess. Through the side windows I watched the hovering crystalline mass of Escher Heights recede, and—not inconse quentially—I saw the other car, the vehicle which did not belong to Zebra, unfurl its arms to maximum extension and commence following us at a polite distance.
“What now?” I asked, ignoring the heavy. “Your game’s up, Voronoff. You’re going to have to find a new mode of pleasure.”
“It isn’t about pleasure, you idiot. It’s about pain.” He leaned forward, imposing his bulk across the table. He looked like Reivich, but his body language and manner of speaking was all wrong. There was no hint of a Sky’s Edge accent and his physicality would have been alien to Reivich’s aristocracy. “It’s about pain,” he repeated. “Because pain is what it keeps away. Do you understand?”
“Not really, but go ahead.”
“You don’t usually think of boredom as something similar to pain. That’s because you’ve only been exposed to it in relatively small doses. You don’t know its true colour. The difference between the boredom you know and the boredom I know is like the difference between touching snow and putting your hand in a vat of liquid nitrogen.”
“Boredom isn’t a stimulus, Voronoff.”
“I’m less sure,” he said. “There is, after all, a part of the human brain which is responsible for the sensation we call boredom. You can’t argue with that. And it must logically be made active by some external stimulus, just like the brain centre for taste or sound.” He raised a hand. “I anticipate your next point. That’s one of my talents, you see—anticipation. You might say it’s symptomatic of my condition. I’m a neural net which is so well-adapted to its input that it hasn’t evolved in
years. But to return to the point in hand. You were doubtless going to say that boredom is an absence of stimulus, not the presence of a particular one. I say there is no difference; that the glass is both half empty and half full. You hear silence between notes; I hear music. You see a pattern of black on white; I see a pattern of white on black. More than that, in fact—I see both.” He grinned again, like a maniac who had been chained in a dungeon for years and was now having a meaningful conversation with his own shadow. “I see everything. You can’t help it when you reach my—what shall I call it?—depth of experience?”
“You’re quite mad, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been mad,” Voronoff said, apparently not taking it as an insult. “I’ve been through madness and come out the other side. Now being mad would bore me as much as sanity.”
I knew he was not mad, of course—at least not screamingly insane. If he had been, he would have been no use to Reivich as a lure. Voronoff had to have some residual grasp on reality. His mental state was almost certainly unlike anything I had ever experienced—and I had certainly known boredom—but it would be lethal to assume he was in anything other than absolute control of his faculties.
“You could end it all,” I said, helpfully. “Suicide can’t be the hardest thing to arrange in a city like this.”
“People do,” Zebra said. “People like Voronoff. They don’t call it suicide, of course. But they suddenly take an unhealthy interest in activities with a very low survival-probability, like diving into the gas giant or saying hello to the Shrouders.”
“Why not, Voronoff?” And then it was my turn to smile. “No, wait. You almost did it, didn’t you? Posing as Reivich. You were hoping I’d kill you, weren’t you? A way out of the pain with something approaching dignity. The wise old immortal gunned down by the out-of-town thug, just because he happened to take on the persona of a murderous fugitive?”
“With no bullets? That’d be a trick worth dying to see, Mirabel.”
“Good point.”
“Except,” Zebra said, “you realised you liked it too much.”
Voronoff looked at her with ill-concealed venom. “Liked what too much, Taryn?”
“Being hunted. It actually eased the pain, didn’t it?”
“What would you know about the pain?”
“No,” I said. “Be honest, Voronoff. She’s right, isn’t she? For the first time in years you actually remembered what it was like to live. That’s why you started taking stupid risks—to keep that buzz alive. But nothing was good enough, was it? Even jumping into the chasm was just mildly amusing.”
He looked at us with new eagerness. “Have you ever been hunted? Have you any idea what it’s like?”
“I’m afraid I have had that pleasure,” I said. “And fairly recently, too.”
“I’m not talking about your little hunting games,” Voronoff said, spitting the words with total contempt. “Scum in pursuit of scum—present company excepted, of course. When they hunted you, Mirabel, they stacked the odds so heavily in their favour they might as well have blindfolded you and put a slug through your head before they even let you run.”
“Funnily enough, I would have almost agreed with you at the time.”
“But it could have been different. They could have made it fair. Let you get further away before they came after you, so that your death wasn’t absolutely inevitable. Allowed you to find your hiding places and use them. That would have made a difference, wouldn’t it?”
“Almost,” I said. “Of course, there would have been the small matter that I never volunteered for it.”
“Maybe you would have, too. If it was worth it. If there was a prize. If you thought you could make it through the game.”
“What was your prize, Voronoff?”
“The pain,” he said. “Its absolution. For a few days at least.”
I started to answer him, probably. I think I did, anyway. It might have been Zebra, or it might have been the taciturn heavy with the bludgeon-sized gun. All I remember with any clarity is what happened several seconds later, the intervening moments neatly edited from memory. There must have been a pulse of light and heat, at first, as the other car opened fire on us. Then there would have been a blast of eardrum-piercing sound as the shockwave of the beam weapon slammed through the flensed-open cabin, followed by an explosion of metal and plastic and composites as the car’s innards eviscer ated themselves in a hot cloud of fused machinery. Then we would have dropped, as the shattered roof-mounted arms, amputated and twisted by the attack, lost their grip on the cables.
A second or so later our descent was arrested, violently, and that was when, approximately, something like normal consciousness resumed. My first memory—before the pain hit—was that the car was upside down, with the moundlike table now dimpling down from the ceiling, and the neon-patterned floor evincing a gaping, jagged hole, through which the lower reaches of the city—the festering complexity of the Mulch—was far too clear, and far too far below.
The heavy was gone, except for his gun, which was rattling to and fro on the new floor as the car lurched and swayed, adjusting to its precarious new equilibrium. The heavy’s hand was still present, clasped around the gun. It had been neatly severed by shrapnel. Seeing the bony details of the wrist reminded me of the absence of my foot in the tent, after we had been ambushed by Reivich’s people; the way I had pawed at the stump and held my blood-drenched palm to my face, in abject denial that a part of me had been removed, like a strip of annexed territory.
Except—as I now knew—none of that had happened to me.
Zebra and I had tumbled into one corner of the cabin, thrown together in an untidy embrace. There was no sign of Voronoff—or any parts of Voronoff. I was being assailed by waves of pain, but as I began to pay particular attention to my discomfort, I decided there was nothing sharp enough to be actual broken bones.
The car swayed and creaked. It was remarkably quiet, apart from our breathing and the soft moaning which came from Zebra.
“Tanner?” she said, opening her eyes to pained slits. “What just happened?”
“We were attacked,” I said, realising that she had had no knowledge of the other vehicle; that she had not been expecting anything at all, whereas I had been mentally tensed for some kind of intervention. “A heavy beam weapon, probably. I think we’re stuck in the Canopy.”
“Are we safe?” she asked, wincing as she untangled one limb. “No; wait. Stupid question. Incredibly stupid question.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I umm . . . just a moment.” Her eyes, glazed as they were, conspired to glaze a degree more, for an instant. “No; nothing that can’t wait for a few hours.”
“What did you just do?”
“Checked my body-image for damage.” She said it dismis sively. “How about you, Tanner?”
“I’ll make it. Assuming any of us makes it.”
The car lurched, slipping vertically downwards before something arrested its progress, shakily. I tried to keep my gaze away from the maw in the floor, but if anything, the Mulch looked further away than ever, like a street map held at arm’s length. A few of the lowermost merged limbs of the Canopy intersected the view, but they were spindly and uninhabited, and served only to enhance the sense of tremendous height. Shadows moved beyond the smoky partition, and the vehicle budged again.
“Someone will rescue us,” Zebra said. “Won’t they?”
“Someone may not want to intervene in what is clearly a private matter.” Then I nodded at the partition. “At least one of them is alive in there. I think we’d better move before they do anything we might regret, like shooting us.”
“Move where, Tanner?”
I looked down at the gap in the floor. “We’re not exactly spoilt for choice, are we?”
“You’re mad.”
“Just possibly,” I said, kneeling at the edge of the hole, spreading my arms wide around the rim and preparing to lower my head through it. “But I find it goes
with the territory, Zebra.”
I lowered myself through the aperture until my feet found purchase against the gnarled top-surface of the Canopy branch against which we’d come to rest. It was a narrow branch; we were very close to its extremity, where it tapered to a fine, tendrilled point, like the nub of an onion. Once I had my balance, I reached up and helped Zebra through, though with the extreme elongation of her limbs, she hardly needed my assistance.
Zebra looked up, appraising the looming bulk of the ruined vehicle. What had been the roof was a mass of scorched and melted components, only one of the telescopic arms remaining, which was the arm which was holding the vehicle in place, clutching precariously and twistedly at a somewhat higher branch. It looked like it would take very little more than a breeze to send the whole mass careering down to the Mulch. Quirrenbach and the other heavy, who’d been in the forward compartment, were inside, but they were struggling with the door, which was wedged against a protrusion from the branch.
“Voronoff’s still alive,” I said, gesturing a little distance up the branch, where it thickened. He was crawling along it, slowly but methodically, and I decided the branch must have broken an otherwise unintentional fall.
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” I said. “He won’t get very far.”
The shot was precise and surgical; sufficient yield to make a point, yet not enough to risk cutting through the branch. It made Voronoff stop in his tracks, but for a moment he did not look back in our direction.
Zebra looked up, into the overlying mass of structural branches, where the figure who had fired the shot was standing. She stood with her hips slightly canted to one side, the stock of a heavy rifle resting against the convexity of one thigh.
Chanterelle shouldered the weapon, then commenced climbing down via an improvised staircase of linking branches. Above, her car was parked intact, and three other dark-clad figures had spilled out onto the branch. They were covering her as she worked her way down to our level with even larger and nastier weapons.