Edge

 

"A spectacular writer. He makes SF seem all fresh and new again."

– Robert J Sawyer

"What lifts this novel far above the norm is that Blackthorne is such a fine writer. Cumberland leaps off the page, a trained killer whose anger and grief at his daughter's condition is brilliantly portrayed; the depiction of his simmering rage, barely held in check, and how he channels it, provides a masterclass in characterisation."

–
The Guardian

"A dark, believable vision of a (near) future Britain, but more importantly an intelligent, slick and brilliantly executed novel with a quite unexpected but superbly scripted ending."

–
Science Fiction & Fantasy UK

"One of the best authors of hard SF in the world…"

–
SFX

"One of British science fiction's most original and exciting practitioners."

–
Barnes & Noble

"A wonderful writer who deserves worldwide recognition."

– Cheryl Morgan,
Emerald City

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A member of the Osprey Group

Lace Market House,
54-56 High Pavement,
Nottingham
NG1 1HW, UK

www.angryrobotbooks.com
Kiss the blade

Originally published in the UK by Angry Robot 2010

Copyright © 2010 by John Meaney
Cover by Spring London

EBook set by ePub Services dot Net

All rights reserved.

Angry Robot is a registered trademark and the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-85766-041-1

 

They drove through the Wiltshire night not saying the name of Sophie. He at the wheel, she in the front passenger seat, tension clamping her mouth. Over and over, not saying it aloud. The insistent thought of her was a black transformation, joy into pain, the sundering of reconciliation; while from over the trees, a golden butter moon watched as it had in the centuries before humans, the eras before primates, aeons before vertebrates, never commenting on what it saw. For Josh and Maria, the suddenness of loss was everything.

    Headlights floated in the mirror: call them company. Josh was in no mood for anything but darkness; but perhaps that was wrong. He reached halfway to the dash, needing music to slow down by, then changed his mind. With her name inside his skull, mantra-like –
So
phie, oh, sweet Sophie
– he fastened his hands back on the wheel, 10 and 2 o'clock, the way they had drummed into him, then hammered the engine, the gear too low if he wanted the car to maintain its value, but on ops they always thrashed the things because you did the business now or there was no later.

    "What a
twat
."

    The headlights from behind were incandescent, almost on them.

    "What is it?" Maria's first words for hours. "What's wrong?"

    "Besides the obvious, some arsehole coming up our rear."

    And a blind bend ahead. Shadows like ink, the road twisting to one side and out of sight.

    "So drop your speed and–"

    A blaze in the mirror, a suddenness of black then massive light in front –
lorry coming at us
– white paintwork flashing as the arseholemobile swung across – Audi – fighting to pull in before colliding, while the lorry driver yelled unheard, his face a glimpse of onrushing death as Josh reacted.

    "Fuck!"

    Magnetic brakes are supposed to be quiet but the car howled and shuddered as he slammed down, the car bucking, then the oncoming lorry and the maniac who'd come from behind to squeeze between them were past. The Audi's driver had cut in fast enough to save them all, the innocents whose lives he risked. Josh had done worse but always with good cause, and this wasn't it. At his hip – he grew conscious of it now – was the feel of hardness clipped to his belt: the mark of citizenship, his with the royal coat of arms because that's what you got for military service: W
illiam Rex, Dieu et
mon droit
. Kill the foreign bastards for the sake of the state; except that if you'd been born in their country, you'd have done the same as them; and that was how it always was, had always been since tribal groups of primates fought, because even the most peaceful apes kill on occasion.

    "Jesus. Jesus
fuck
."

    He'd stopped the car. Silence was an invitation. Maria looked vulnerable in a way she rarely did these days – when had she become so strong, developed that strength? – and if he found the right words he might perhaps fix everything (
everything but Sophie
) here and now, repair the damage he had done, that the world and random cruelty brought on. Build a bridge; bring her back; and make things whole.

    But all he said was, "Motherfucker."

    "Josh?"

    "Stupid mother
fucker
."

    He shifted gear and pushed the accelerator down, needing the pressure against his back, the kinaesthetic analogue of computation: inertia, vectors of velocity, the tactics of the chase; as he drove his lips were curling back. They call
Homo sapiens sapiens
the smiling ape, and while we're fangless like prey, we have eyes in the front of our heads, for we are hunters too; and when there's a target we need to track it, focus hard and close the distance, all the way until it's dead, and we have bones to crunch between our teeth. As Lofty Young used to have it:
"Identify target. Take 'em out. Repeat until
done."

    He forced the car, accelerating harder.

    
"Till every bastard is down."

    Harder still.

    
"Every last one of 'em."

    And the engine's scream was cutting through Maria's command: "Stop the car!"

    His response was visceral, muscles tensing and releasing as he hauled the car through a turn, increasing speed all the way through the arc, hammering down as the road straightened. Red tail lights beckoned like targets on the firing range.

    "Josh. Stop now."

    Her words were in the air but meaningless because Sophie's name was howling in his blood while the reptile brain that lives in all of us was locked on now, targeting its prey. A lizard might not know the way to stop a speeding car but Josh Cumberland did. His own car was juddering as he drew alongside the white Audi – the driver looking over, eyes wide – and then Josh was past, fingers curled around the handbrake lever – "Dear God, no, Josh!" – and ripping up, the car slewing sideways on to block the road, the burning-rubber stink immediate, smoke-clouds rising from the tyres as he halted and the chassis rocked.

    If the Audi failed to stop he'd hit the passenger side, right where Maria was sitting –
shit
– and for a fifth of a second sickness filled Josh. Then the idiot
was
screaming to a halt; and Josh was already out on the road, like some quantum effect, with no memory of unfastening of the seat belt or opening the door. The bulk of his car was between him and his target, and he did it the quick way, a half step back for the plyometric spring, then throwing himself across the front, shoulder-rolling, dropping feet-first on the roadway, then four sprinting paces to the moron's door.

    The guy's mouth was working like a goldfish which has leaped from the tank into a new and deadly world. Josh's hand went for the thermoplastic sheath on his belt – he could hammer the hilt into the window – and then he had a thought. Grinning, he pulled at the Audi's door – and it came open.

    
Idiot. No idea.

    A suicide jockey, with none of the most basic precautions.

    
No fucking idea.

    He unsnapped the guy's seat belt, clamped hands on jaw and the crown of the head, digging in his thumbs and fingers as he twisted, hooked, and pulled. With a squeak, the guy came out of the car headfirst. Still controlling the head, Josh hauled him half upright, then let go.

    "Formal challenge." He pointed to the man's hip. "Citizens' confrontation."

    "Jesus Christ."

    "You're a voting citizen," said Josh. "Aren't you?"

    The sheath was shiny with polish, not with use. Likewise the too-smooth hilt.

    "Th-that's all. To vote, I mean. I've never… You know. Never."

    "Always a first time."

    Josh hardly seemed to move, but his blade was in his hand. Tau-bar, military, balanced for throwing in addition to slash and thrust: it had everything, including the memory of blood, and God but he wanted to use it now.

    "I can't." The man was shaking. "I can't. I'm not… Not like…"

    His whimper accompanied a rising pungent aroma. In the headlight beams reflected from bodywork, Josh saw the spreading dark patch at the man's crotch.

    "Draw or die, motherfucker."

    Go on. Draw and come at me.

    Trembling, the man fumbled at his sheath. There was a narrow safety strip around the hilt, and it took him three attempts to fumble the clip open. Then he held up the knife, shaking, tears like rain-streaks down his face. The blade was polished and unmarked.

    Yes. Do it.

    "Josh, no."

    Maria's voice was commanding… through the car's open window. She knew better than to climb out of the car, understanding the danger, for in extremis the amygdala takes over, the brain's emergency response bypassing conscious thought, our civilised selves that are far too slow for deadly action. And that was the risk, because there was no rational thought, not here and now – only the need to act.

    "Now!" yelled Josh.

    He leaped forward, sheathing his tau-bar as he moved, slamming down with his left hand, tension in the elbow, keeping it bent, while his right hand punched – throat – pulling his aim down – no – hitting the collarbone, not the neck, hitting twice more, then ripping the bastard's knife from his clammy, slackening fingers. And the man was on the ground, propped on one knee, holding up a useless hand, every limb shaking. Josh grabbed a wrist, twisted, and pressed the knife against soft inner flesh.