Code Noir (3 page)

I didn’t forgive a lot.

Or forget.

For the moment, though, they seemed to be leaving me alone. Too much public controversy, I guessed, over the truth behind Razz Retribution’s murder. Normally they didn’t give a canrat teste about the veracity of their viewing matter, but somehow enough doubt had separated the audience’s collective mind. Opinion had divided into camps.

Parrish guilty. Parrish not.

I guess intrigue made a change from the overdose of LTA ultra violence.

By forcing Jamon Mondo to confess live on the net, I’d bought myself some time. Now the Media
couldn’t
convict me without a trial and somehow they didn’t seem to be in a hurry to do that. They were milking ratings.

Though the heat had lessened I wasn’t off the hook, more like in a holding pattern. Too much was going on that I didn’t understand. Like my recent tête-à-tête with the Prier. The journo had tried to warn me about something (and failed on account of Teece’s trigger twitch), which left me with a case of chronic doubt and some ugly little skin flaps.

I didn’t like unexplained allies.

I continued to puzzle over it all as I knocked back my second tube, until a young, slick turk came hanging around my table. I picked him straight away - competitor!

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Problem?’

He was lean and dark and, from the way he arched his back reflexively, on a testosterone high. Hard to say if it was natural or paid for.

‘No problem,’ he said. ’Jus’ enjoying the view. Heard you’re the one that’s pretty dangerous. That true?’

I sighed heavily. Whatever tiny interest his looks might have aroused in me dampened instantly. ‘You got the wrong person.’

‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I been wantin’ to meet her. Real bad.’

‘Whyso?’ I asked, vaguely curious.

‘Heard she could match it with anyone. Heard she was real good at one-on-one.’

‘Uhuh.’

Now his mouth was geared up there was no stopping him. ‘Yeah. I wanted a piece before she got disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’
Now
he had my interest.

‘There’s talk,’ he mock-whispered and winked, sidling closer. ‘Someone’s put cred out to bag her. I got friends who know.’

I’m pretty funny about my personal space but I let him into the fringes of it.

My hand fell casually to my holster.

Hormone boy stopped dead when he saw what I was packing but I had the Luger drawn in the second it took him to breathe.

‘Siddown!’

His legs folded under him, so that he just caught the edge of the booth seat. His face flushed with anger and embarrassment. ‘You are
her
. I knew it,’ he cried.

He was beginning to irritate me. ‘Who wants her?’

A smirk ventured across his face. ‘What’s it worth?’

It was the second time someone had said that to me today, only this time I wasn’t feeling so charitable.

I examined him closely, my free hand fingering the collar of poisoned pins around my neck. ‘You could get to keep your own eyes. You might not need bone transplants. The benefits are endless, really.’

His smirk transformed back to anger - and a flash of fear. A reputation could be handy.

I shifted my aim to the spot right between his legs. I expected he was keen to keep his gonads in working condition.

‘Names,’ I said quietly.

Sweat appeared on his upper lip and his hair-freeze began to thaw. ‘Someone up Tower Town way.’

My breath caught in my chest. I leaned forward. Tower Town was Daac’s patch.

Hormone boy saw my reaction and sucked up a deep breath like it might be his last.

I jerked the pistol, firing it off. The booth’s table splintered to pieces. Vaguely I saw people scrambling away, but my sanity had waned as the parasite gorged greedily on my reaction to the news.

Somehow hormone boy had avoided the bullet and was crab crawling all the way to the door.

I let him go, flicked some credit the bartender’s way for damages and got the hell out of there.

The backwash of my neuro-chemical reaction struck as I lost sight of the café. I went down in a heap with the barest survival instinct to get my back against something solid before the hallucination took hold. It was the same as last time and the time before . . .

 

 

I was still screaming as my vision cleared.

‘Oya?’ said a muffled, frightened voice.

A group of ragged children - ferals - stood in a semicircle around me wearing breather masks. They looked weird but harmless. Everyone in The Tert knew better. Ferals carried bio-weapons. Lethal, close-range, fast-acting viruses.

I recognised one of them, a tall thin boy who had helped me once before.

‘W-what are you d-doing?’ I stammered.

The boy flicked his gaze to either end of the walkway. I could see figures moving past in the afternoon shadows.

He peeled the breather skin away from his mouth and nose. ‘We’ve been watching for you to come back. Some would harm you, Oya. We protect.’

I stifled an urge to laugh. What was it I’d said about repaying debts?

I got unsteadily to my feet and the ferals spread to give me room. Then I touched the boy lightly on the shoulder. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Link,’ he said, drawing together black brows over a thin, angular face.

‘Link, I have somewhere for you all to live. Pass the word. Torley’s barracks will be renewed.’

The boy’s eyes sparked. He turned to two of the others with a quiet instruction, watching until they disappeared amongst the passing trade. Then he faced me again. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his torn overall and produced another mask. ‘We stay with you. Oya’s guard.’

I raised my hand to protest and he deftly slipped the skin into it.

‘You won’t know we’re there, Oya. I promise. Keep this close.’

I sighed heavily and took it.

 

I didn’t stop again on the way back to Torley’s. Between my desire to avoid another hallucination and the knowledge that my movements were being monitored by a bunch of kids, the pleasure of being alone had faded.

Instead I ran hard. Along cracked walkways, dodging between villa sets, and occasionally up and down stairs that offered short cuts through buildings. It didn’t take long for the puff to hurt and the sweat to stream. A month of inactivity with Teece had left me soft and out of condition. Contrary to what you hear, sex isn’t enough.

I reached Torley’s circuit by late day. Overhead, the whine of Priers made for a constant background irritation. I glared into the sky.

What were they looking at?
Who
were they looking at? What made The Tert so damn constantly interesting to the media’s pedigree vultures?

Soon a hum of a different kind drowned them out. Tert noise. The bars in Torley’s ran twenty-four-seven but at dusk they assumed a new intensity. The biz end of the day. I hadn’t seen Link or his little band for a time, but I had no doubt if I wailed or had a mind flip they’d appear. Being guarded by a bunch of virus-carrying kids depressed me. My debt to those around me mounted, daily.

I walked with an indifferent pose, yet my whole body thrummed with tension. Would Larry Hein help me?

Although salvage rights on Jamon’s territory were mine, I’d walked away from them while I’d recovered at Teece’s, a time when I should have been cementing my intentions. Some would take my inaction as a signal it was up for grabs. Maybe Larry was one. Now I had to wade back in and put my stamp on it.

Jamon had run most of the north side of The Tert. Torley’s strip of bars, Shadoville and The Stretch. He didn’t
exactly
pimp, but he had the power to protect the babes if it suited him. He provided most of the entertainment there was to be had. Drugs, Sensil - sensory illusion - rooms, gambling, even down to the cockdog fights.

If I got the chance, I planned to make some changes and not everyone would like them.

I’d have to do some convincing.

That thought sent me through a weapons check. I could feel the weight of the garrotting filaments in the lining of my underwear. Two Lugers strapped to my thighs - show pieces - my charm bracelet of several short-range stun grenades and one gas hallucinogen (Minoj, my arms dealer, had set them to activate on my saliva only, after I’d nearly accidentally blown myself and Teece away one day; I told Minoj if he sold that information to anyone I’d gouge out his few remaining teeth with a screwdriver), an oxy torch and pouch, an assortment of knives and a push dagger. The necklace of lethally tipped pins around my neck completed the package. Close on two metres of pure arsenal.

Could anyone resist a girl like me?

Well, maybe. Mainly on account of my face. One side was caved. Nose bent as well. Unsightly, I knew, but somehow fixing it never seemed a priority.

 

The noise and sprawl of Torley’s was like coming home. Outside Hein’s bar a band of King Tide crazies performed strip theatre under the sulky daytime glow of a cheap advertible proclaiming ‘The End of the World foks’.

Inside, Hein’s looked pretty much the same as always - drab ’creted walls, tactile chairs, a hint of blood stains - apart from the absence of Jamon’s dingoboys. Most of Jamon’s canine army had run when I’d had my wicked way. I’d heard a few of the smarter ones had hung around hiring out as protection.

Late afternoon meant a reasonable crowd. I recognised some. They
all
recognised me. A few called out welcome. Others retreated urgently into their bio-comms, which probably meant trouble.

Larry Hein was in his usual spot behind the bar, orchestrating his servitors with a wave of his silk-water-colour scarf. Larry was straight but he loved to dress up. Tonight he wore slinky, pale green lurex with slits at the side. A month ago it was chiffon. I’d have to introduce him to Ibis so they could swap fashion tips.

When he saw me, I caught the startled flash of white around his deep-set eyes.

I strolled over. ‘You kept tab of what I owe you, Larry?’

He nodded stiffly, feigning insult at my question.

‘Then quit looking so nervous.’

He leant forward, wafting me with his tart imitation uptown cologne.

‘Where’ve you been, Parrish? I’ve had trouble keeping things tight here. And now all the nuts are nuts with this King Tide thing.’ He shrugged towards the door. ‘There’s talk that you’re dead. Or
changed.
Some of the ’goboys are howling that they’ve got salvage rights.’

‘Changed’ meant altered by the parasite. Like Jamon and Io Lang. Lang had shape-shifted right here at Hein’s in front of a room full of punters after I’d put a bullet in his adrenals. Since then word had spread through Tert Town. People knew something was wrong, that evil had been set loose.

The myth of shape-shifting had been around for as long as people had told stories. Now, though, it had become real, caused by the Eskaalim parasite. Nothing at all to do with vampires and werewolves.

I eased a Luger from its holster and fingered its worn familiarity. Comfortable was good, but when I got hold of Minoj, my favourite arms dealer, I was going to get him to manufacture me something special.

I propped my elbows on the bar, cocking the pistol at Larry’s prize magnum of genuine malt whisky. No one that came here could afford to drink the contents, nor did he want them to. He wiped the glass religiously to keep the label immaculate, and sniffed the shot valve when he was depressed.

‘Do I look changed, Larry?’

He smiled like rigor mortis. ‘Same old Parrish,’ he managed.

‘Just needed some thinking time. I’m moving into Jamon’s old rooms. Mention it around. Things are going to change. Are you still with me?’

He considered for the time it took him to pour me a tequila. With an exaggerated sigh he gave me his answer. ‘Always a pleasure to work for a lady.’

 

 

 

 

I holstered my pistol, knocked the tequila back and put on my most innocent, amicable face.

He poured me another. ‘Terms.’

‘I’ll clear what I owe you to date, and add some fat as soon as I get Jamon’s place sorted. On top of that you get the usual percentage to act as my broker on most things. And Hein’s gets free protection. I’ll even throw in a damages bonus. In the meantime I need something done pronto.’

His nostrils quivered with caution and interest. Larry knew I was good for intrigue so I pushed on while I had his attention, leaning across the bar, bringing my lips close against his ear.

‘Use every snitch you’ve got.
And everybody else’s.
A couple of Cabal shamans have disappeared. I need anything you can find about it.
Anything.
This is important, Larry. For all of us.’

He tensed at the weight of my tone, only relaxing when I eased back on to the stool.

With what could have been a prayer flicked in the direction of the whisky magnum, he nodded and moved away to serve.

Relieved, I stepped outside the bar. Link and the ferals appeared around me.

I’d forgotten them.

‘We were watching, Oya. But we didn’t want to interfere. It was good that you talk with Larry alone.’ Link nodded wisely.

Amusement tugged, but I pushed it away. I would never laugh at Link or his ferals. They had survived when many hadn’t. And they had helped turn the war against Jamon.

Still, such pronouncements from a child were curious.

Maybe I was the naive one?

‘Thanks, Link.’ I stared around at them. Thin, solemn faces, masks slung around their necks like bizarre masquerade adornments. ‘Go and prepare to move. I’ll send word when the barracks are ready.’