A cramping pain shot through Paul's leg. He gasped and slid under, then thrashed in circles in the muddy water, trying to find his way upright again. Something was gleaming nearby, something distorted but bright, like a candle seen through wavy glass. Paul struggled to the surface. Gally was paddling desperately beside him, chin barely held above the water, panic on his straining face.
Paul stuck his head under the water again. It was there—something golden, shimmering in the depths. He broke the surface, grabbed Gally, and pushed the boy's mouth shut.
"Hold your breath!" he gasped, then dragged them both under.
The boy fought wildly. Paul kicked as hard as he could, trying to drive them both downward toward the distorted glow. Gally caught him with an elbow in the stomach and air leaked from him; Paul coughed and felt the river rush into his nose and mouth. The yellow gleam seemed nearer now, but so was the blackness and the blackness was closing in swiftly.
Paul reached out toward the bright spot. He saw black water, swirling yet stone-solid, and bubbles, golden-lit, trapped as though in amber. He saw a frozen moment of Gally's face, eyes bulging, mouth wide in betrayed horror. Paul reached out. Then everything went away.
CHAPTER 19
Fragments
NETFEED/NEWS: Indoor Storm Kills Three
(visual: beach wreckage, torn dome overhead)
VO: Three people were killed and fourteen more hospitalized when an artificial indoor beach attraction went out of control in Bournemouth, England,
(visual: Bubble Beach Park during normal operation)
Malfunctioning wave machines and the collapse of the building's domed ceiling caused what one witness called an "indoor tsunami" that resulted in three drownings and numerous other injuries when sixteen-foot-high waves swept up onto the artificial beach. Sabotage has not been ruled out. . . .
She had avoided it for two days, but she couldn't any longer. The doctor's death had raised the stakes. It was time to start looking for help, and this particular source couldn't be ignored, however much she might wish to. At least now she could do it at work, which wasn't quite so awful as having the squalor of the shelter all around her. She didn't dare black out the visual—it would be an admission of something, or it would be perceived that way, that she had gotten fat or that she couldn't face him.
Renie tilted the pad so that she would be posed in front of the least cluttered wall and the one potted plant which had survived the toxic office atmosphere. She knew the number—she had tracked it down the day after Susan's death. It had been something to do, something to keep her active; but she had realized even at the time that if she found it, she would have no choice but to use it.
She lit a cigarette, then looked around the office again, making sure that nothing in view of her pad's wide-angle lens looked too pathetic. She took a deep breath. Someone knocked at the door.
"Damn. Come in!"
!Xabbu poked his head inside. "Hello, Renie. Is this a bad time to visit you?"
For a moment, her mind leaped at the chance of a reprieve. "No, come in." It was disgusting, groveling after excuses this way. "Well, actually, it is a bad time. I have to make a phone call I don't really want to make. But I'd better do it. Will you be on campus for a while?"
He smiled. "I came to see you. I will wait."
For a moment she thought he meant he would wait in the office—a breathtakingly daunting prospect—but the small man merely bobbed his head and backed out, shutting the door behind him.
"Right." She took another drag on her cigarette. They were supposed to be relatively harmless, but if she smoked many more today, she would set herself on fire from the inside, a genuine case of spontaneous human combustion. She called the number.
The male receptionist left the screen blacked, which was fine with her. "I'd like to speak with Mister Chiume. Tell him it's Renie. Irene Sulaweyo." Much as she disliked her full name—she had been given it in honor of a hugely fat, hugely Christian great-aunt—it might establish a proper tone of detached adulthood.
He answered quickly enough to catch her off-balance, the visual flicking on as abruptly as if he had leaped out of a cupboard. "Renie! I am really surprised—but it's a good surprise! How are you? You look great!"
Del Ray looked good himself, which was probably why he'd brought the subject up—stylish if slightly conservative haircut, nice suit, shirt collar embroidered with metallic thread. But more had changed than just the shedding of his student guise—he looked different in some deeper, more profound way that she couldn't immediately categorize.
"I'm okay." She was pleased with how steady her voice sounded. "Things have been . . . interesting. But I'll tell you about that in a moment. How is your family? I talked to your mother for a minute or so, but she was just leaving."
He briskly filled her in. Everybody was doing well except for his younger brother, who had been in conflict with authority almost since his cradle days and continued to fall into and (usually) out of trouble. Renie felt a little dreamy watching Del Ray talk, listening to his voice. It was all very strange, but not as painful as she'd expected. He was a completely different person than the one who had left her, who had—as she'd felt sure at the time—broken her heart forever. Not that he'd changed so drastically; it was more that he no longer mattered much. He might as well have been a friend's ex-lover and not her own.
"So that's my story," he said. "I'm sure yours makes better listening and I'm ready to hear it. Somehow I'm sure you didn't call me just for the sake of old times."
Damn, thought Renie. Del Ray might be a bureaucrat now, he might be a suit of the very kind they used to make fun of, but he hadn't become stupid.
"I seem to be in some trouble," she said. "But I don't feel comfortable talking about it on the phone. Could we get together somewhere?"
Del Ray hesitated. He's got a wife, she realized. Or a steady girlfriend. He doesn't know what exactly I'm asking for.
"I'm sorry to hear you're having a problem. I hope it's nothing serious." He paused again. "I suppose. . . ."
"I just need your advice. It's nothing that will get you in any trouble. Not even with the woman in your life."
His eyebrow went up. "Did Mama tell you?"
"I just guessed. What's her name?"
"Dolly. We got married last year." He looked a little embarrassed. "She's a solicitor."
Renie felt her stomach churn, but again it was not as bad as she'd anticipated. "Del Ray and Dolly? Please. I assume you don't go out much."
"Don't be nasty. You'd like her if you met her."
"I probably would." The idea, in fact the whole conversation, made her feel tired. "Look, you can bring her along if you want to—this isn't some desperate attempt by a jilted lover to lure you back."
"Renie!" He seemed honestly indignant "That's foolish. I want to help you if I can. Tell me what to do. Where should we meet?"
"How about someplace on the Golden Mile, after work?" She would have a long bus ride back to the shelter, but at least she could do her groveling for favors in a pleasant atmosphere.
Del Ray named a bar, quickly enough that she guessed it was a regular hangout of his, and asked her to give his best to her father and Stephen. He seemed to be waiting for news about them, her half of an informational hostage exchange, but there wasn't much she could tell without opening the whole thing up. She ended the conversation as quickly as she decently could and disconnected.
He looks tame, she realized. It wasn't just the suit or the hair. Something that had been a little wild was gone, or at least very well hidden. Is that me, too? Did he look at me and think, well, there she is, turned into a drab little teacher?
She straightened up, stubbed out the cigarette, which had burned down unsmoked, and lit another. We'll see about that. Perversely, she felt almost proud of her strange and extensive problems. When was the last time he or his little Dolly-wife had their house burned down by an international conspiracy of fat men and Hindu deities?
!Xab
bu returned a few minutes later, but she didn't stop giggling for some time. It was close to hysterical, she knew, but it beat the hell out of crying.
Del Ray regarded !Xabbu carefully. It was almost worth the extreme discomfort of having to meet him to watch him struggle to figure out who the Bushman was and what his position was in Renie's life. "Nice to meet you," he said, and shook the small man's hand with an admirably firm sincerity.
"Del Ray is an assistant minister with UNComm," she explained, although she'd already told !Xabbu that on the ride over. She was pleased she'd brought her friend along; it tipped the balance in a subtle way, made her feel less like a discarded girlfriend begging a favor. "He's a very important fellow."
Del Ray frowned, hedging his bets in case he was being teased. "Not very important, actually. A career man, still in the early stages."
!Xabbu, who did not have the polite chitchat reflexes of the urban middle class, simply nodded and then sat back against the thick cushion of the booth to stare at the antique (or imitation, more likely) swag chandeliers and heavy wooden paneling.
Renie watched Del Ray summon a waitress, impressed by his casually proprietorial attitude. During the previous century, the bar would have been the preserve of white businessmen, a place where he and Renie and !Xabbu would have been discussed under the general heading of "the Kaffirs" or "the black problem," but now Del Ray and other black professionals sat enthroned amidst the trappings of colonial empire. At least that much had changed, she thought. There were more than a few suited white men in the room, white women, too, but they were only part of a clientele that also included blacks and Asians. Here a form of real equality prevailed at least, even if it was an equality of wealth and influence. The enemy now had no identifying color, its only recognizable attribute was discontented poverty.
!Xabbu ordered a beer. Renie asked for a glass of wine. "Just one drink," she said, "then I'd like to take a walk."
Del Ray raised his eyebrows at this. He continued to make casual conversation as the drinks came, but with a sort of wariness, as though he suspected that any moment Renie might spring some unpleasant surprise. She skirted the main issue, telling him of Stephen's condition and of the fire without a hint of what might connect the two.
"Renie, that's terrible! I'm so sorry!" He shook his head. "Do you need something—help finding a place, money?"
She shook her head, then swallowed the last of her wine. "No, thank you, but you're kind to ask. Can we take that walk now?"
He nodded, bemused, and paid the bill. !Xabbu, who had drunk his beer in silence, followed them out onto the promenade.
"Let's walk down the pier," Renie suggested.
She could tell that he was growing irritated, but Del Ray had indeed become a politician. If he had still been his student self, he would have been angrily demanding answers, wanting to know why she was wasting his time. Renie decided that she approved of at least some of the ways he had changed. When they reached the end of the pier and were alone except for a few fishermen and the purring of the breakers, she led them to a bench.
"You will think I'm crazy," she said, "but I don't feel comfortable talking inside. It's very unlikely anyone can eavesdrop on us out here."
He shrugged. "I don't think you're crazy." His voice sounded less certain than his words.
"Someday you may be glad I'm taking such trouble. I don't particularly want to meet your wife, Del Ray, but I don't want anything to happen to her either, and I seem to have gotten myself in trouble with people who aren't very selective."
His eyes narrowed. "Why don't you just talk to me."
She started from the beginning, staying as general as she could and skipping as lightly as possible over the several times she had misused her position at the Poly or subverted UNComm regulations. From time to time she asked !Xabbu to corroborate what she was saying and the small man did, although always with a somewhat distracted air. Renie could spare little attention, but she wondered briefly at his mood and what it might signify.
Del Ray was largely silent, breaking in only to ask specific questions. He seemed interested by the inner workings of Mister J's, but only shook his head, expressionless, when she told him of her speculations about the club.
When she had brought him up to the present, describing the fire in her flatblock and Susan's murder, he did not respond immediately, but sat watching a gull preen itself on a railing.
"I don't know what to say. The whole story is . . . astonishing."
"What does that mean?" A spark of anger flared. "Does that mean astonishingly crazy, or astonishing so you'll do whatever you can to help me?"
"I . . . I just don't know. It's a lot to absorb." He stared at her, perhaps trying to gauge how well he knew her after all these years without contact. "And I'm not quite sure what you want me to do either. I'm not part of UNComm security or law enforcement. I'm a business liaison, Renie. I help chain stores make sure their systems follow UN guidelines. I don't know anything about the stuff you're talking about."
"Damn it, Del Ray, you're part of the Politburo, as we used to call it—you're an insider! You must be able to do something, if only help me get information. Are these people under investigation at all? Has anyone besides me had weird experiences with this Happy Juggler Novelty Corporation? Who are they? I need answers from someone I can trust. I'm scared, Del Ray."
He frowned. "Of course, I'll do what I can. . . ."
"Also, I think I need to get into TreeHouse."
"TreeHouse? What in hell for?"
She briefly considered telling him of Susan's deathbed message, but decided against it. Susan's laborious last words were known only to her, !Xabbu, and Jeremiah Dako. She would keep them secret a while longer. "I just need to go there. Can you help me?"
"Renie, I never made it into TreeHouse when I was a hash-smoking, full-time student hacker." He smiled self-mockingly. "Do you think I could get within miles of it now that I'm part of the UNComm establishment? We're the enemy as far as they're concerned."
Now it was her turn to frown. "This isn't easy. You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't really really need help." She blinked hard. "Damn it, Del Ray, my baby brother . . . is. . . ." She stopped, unwilling to go any farther in that dangerous direction. She would die before she would cry in front of him.
He stood, then reached down to take her hand. He was still very handsome. "I'll check around, Renie. Really, I will. I'll see what I can find."
"Be careful. Even if you think I'm crazy, just pretend I'm not and make your mistakes on the side of caution. Don't do anything stupid, and don't be obvious."
"I will call you by the end of the week." He extended his hand to !Xabbu. "Nice to have met you."
The little man accepted the handshake. "Everything Ms. Sulaweyo spoke of is true," he said gravely. "These are bad people. You must not take this lightly."
Del Ray nodded, a little flustered, then turned back to Renie. "I'm truly sorry about Stephen. Give my regards to your father." He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, squeezed her once, then turned and walked back up the pier,
Renie watched him go. "When we broke up," she said at last, "I couldn't imagine life without him."
"Always things change," said !Xabbu. "The wind blows everything."
"I am frightened, Renie."
She looked up. He had been silent for most of the bus ride, staring up at the buildings as they traveled through the windowed canyons of downtown Durban.
"Because of what happened to Susan?"
He shook his head. "I mourn for her, yes, and I am angry at the people who did such a terrible thing. But I am frightened in a bigger way." He paused, looking down, his hands folded in his lap like a child threatened into good behavior. "It is my dreams."
"You said you dreamed of something bad happening to me the night Susan was attacked."
"It is more than that. Since we went into that place, that club, my dreams have been very strong. I do not know what I fear, exactly, but I feel th
at I am—no, that we are all—being stalked by something large and cruel."
Renie's heart sped. She had dreamed something like that herself, hadn't she? Or was she remembering some dream of !Xabbu's, described by him then absorbed as her own? "I'm not surprised," she said carefully. "We had a terrible experience."
He shook his head sternly. "I am not speaking of that kind of dreaming, Renie. Those are the dreams that trouble individuals, made up of the things in their own lives—the dreams of city-people, if you will not take offense at my saying it. But I am speaking of something different, a kind of ripple in the dream that is dreaming us. I know the difference. What has come to me in the past days is the kind of dream my people have when the rain will soon fall after a long drought, or when strangers are approaching across the desert. This is a dream of what will be, not of what has been."
"You mean seeing the future?"
"I do not know. It does not seem that way to me, any more than seeing the shadow of something and knowing that the thing itself will follow is seeing the future. When Grandfather Mantis knew that his time on this earth was ending, when he knew that the time had come at last to sit down at the campfire with the All-Devourer, he had such dreams. Even when the sun is high, we know that it will sink again and night will come. There is nothing magical about such knowledge."
She didn't know how to respond. Ideas like that irritated her sense of the rational, but she had never found it easy to dismiss !Xabbu's concerns and insights. "Let's say I believe you, just for the sake of discussion. Something is stalking us, you said. What does that mean? That we have made enemies? But we know that already."
Outside the bus window, the gleaming security towers of the business district were being supplanted by an increasingly shabby landscape of jerry-rigged flatblocks and storefront businesses, each with its own garish squirt of chemical neon on the front. The street crowds seemed purposeless from her perspective, eddying randomly like an inanimate, liquid thing.