Implied Spaces (22 page)

If he circled to his left, he thought, he could draw her out onto the terrace, then pin her against the rail with the chair. It might give him enough time to break away and escape into the apartment, or perhaps even to defeat her in some way.

He took the step to his left, and in her frenzy she was unable to resist the opening and jumped onto the terrace. Before Daljit could settle herself for another attack he was attacking himself, thrusting with the four legs of the chair, driving her back. She snarled and slashed with the knife. He ducked the first slash, then caught her wrist on the backswing. He leaned all his mass into the chair and drove her by sheer weight onto the terrace rail.

He jerked his head back as her teeth snapped within centimeters of his ear—her bite was almost certainly contagious. While Aristide pinned her to the rail with his weight, he got both his hands on her wrist and began to exert steady pressure on her knife hand, bending the wrist inward. She punched to his face with her free hand, but her arm had to bend awkwardly around the chair and her strikes lacked force.

Daljit gave a cry of despair as her fingers lost strength under Aristide’s pressure, and the knife dropped with a carbon-steel clack to the surface of the terrace. Aristide kicked it over the edge. Her feet flailed his shins. She tried to bite his wrist and he jerked his hand back. With his other hand he palmed her broken nose and she wrenched away from him, blinded with pain—partly turning her back, which is what he wanted. He grabbed her shoulder with both hands and hurled her face-first against the rail, in the corner where she had no opportunity to move left or right.

He fully intended to strangle her. Bear down with his superior weight and get an arm across her throat, if he could do it without being bitten. Once he had choked her into unconsciousness he would find some means to tie her, then call emergency personnel and wait for rescue.

But Daljit reacted quickly. Once in the corner, with both hands on the rail, she kicked back with both feet and connected with Aristide’s midsection. He lost his wind and took a deep step backward. Daljit fought free of Aristide and the chair and swung herself feet-first over the rail, pivoting on one arm like a gymnast on a pommel horse.

Her feet made contact with the rail, and Daljit rose to a crouch, balancing on the rail with uncanny ease. On her bloody face was a wild grin of malicious triumph as she prepared to dive atop Aristide with her hands clawed.

Aristide remembered the same expression on Antonia’s face.

Aristide swung the chair backhand, and watched as Daljit overbalanced and went backward off the balcony, toward the pavement forty-nine floors below.

He didn’t watch her fall. Instead he dropped the chair to the deck and sagged against the frame of the terrace door.

He could hear emergency sirens wailing through the city.

He needed to lock the doors, he thought, against any more maniacs who might infest the building. Then get into the shower and wash himself thoroughly, in case he’d got any of Daljit’s blood or saliva on him.

But he couldn’t bring himself to move. Instead he remembered Antonia lying still in the garden, a murdered maenad spattered with her own blood.

He thought about all the people he had killed over the centuries, and wondered why so many were those he had loved.

11

The sound of nearby shots shook him out of his contemplation of eternities. Aristide took his shower, and dressed in another set of his new clothing, items that had remained in their delivery bags while Daljit was on her rampage, and which hadn’t been touched.

Images of Antonia and Carlito and Daljit rose in Aristide’s mind, then bled crimson into one another.

“Pablo?”
Endora’s voice echoed suddenly in Aristide’s implant. Her delivery was faster than normal and sounded strangely like panic.

“Yes?” Aristide replied. “Where have you been?”

Endora chose not to answer the question. Her voice returned to its normal fussy precision.

“You’re in Daljit’s bedroom. Good.”

“Not really,” he said. “She got the bug and—well, she’s dead.”

He spoke aloud, rather than mentally dictating into his implant. The latter would have taken far too much of his scattered concentration.

Endora’s voice was suddenly all business.

“Did you get any blood on you?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m sharing the air that she’s breathed.”

“It’s unlikely you’ll catch it that way. You should want to wash your hands and possibly take a shower.”

“Already done.” Aristide heard running in the corridor outside the apartment, and a thump on the door, followed shortly thereafter by a greater thumping in his chest. He made certain Tecmessa was within arm’s reach.

The running footsteps receded.

“What’s the situation?” he asked.

“It’s difficult to tell. We’re having a bandwidth crisis, and that’s keeping me from getting a clear picture.”

“
Bandwidth?
Your bandwidth is
immense
.”

“But not infinite. Not only am I receiving millions of distress calls from victims, I’m being swamped by messages from every wrecked car, every broken window, every damaged bit of plaster. None of us ever anticipated how many inanimate objects would call for help during a major crisis. On top of all that the zombies have sabotaged a lot of the communications grid—apparently they don’t
like
voices in their head telling them they’re ill.”

The scent of ghee and fried onions floated into the room from the kitchen. Aristide closed the door.

“Is the government responding?” Aristide said.

“It’s beginning to. But a lot of police and emergency workers have been infected, and they’ve got access to weapons. And a great many of the infected are blaming the government for their problems, and are launching attacks against government installations.”

“Well.” Aristide lifted Tecmessa, the little ineffective wand mounted in the businesslike hilt. “I should offer help.”

“I would advise remaining where you are, in relative safety.”

Aristide considered the prospect of being locked in a small room with his memories, and decided against it.

“I was backed up only this afternoon,” he said. “If I become a casualty, I’ll lose only a few hours—and,” he added, “there’s nothing in those hours I wish to remember.”

“As you wish.” Endora knew him well enough not to dispute his decision.

“Where will I be most useful?” he asked. He began going through Daljit’s drawers, and found a scarf he could wrap around his mouth and nose, and a floppy hat he could pull down over his forehead to minimize his exposure to flying blood and spittle.

“Police and police stations are being attacked,” Endora said. “So are other government buildings such as offices, jails, and courthouses.”

“It’s after office hours, so I expect the offices and courthouses are mostly empty.”

“True.”

“And if the police can’t defend themselves with their firearms, I don’t imagine I’ll be able to help them. What of the higher branches of government?”

“The Prime Minister was at a dinner when the outbreak occurred, failed to reach Polity House, and is besieged at the Haçibaba Hotel along with elements of the Guard. The President was infected and his current whereabouts are unknown. The Chambers of Parliament are being attacked, and my understanding is that the High Court has been overrun.”

Aristide reflected that he had no means of reaching any of these places. He opened the door and stepped into the hall, which he followed toward the kitchen and the foyer.

“Can you ready a car,” he asked, “and have it at the garage elevator?”

“Yes.”

Aristide stepped over scattered onions and chicken and opened drawers to find Daljit’s cutlery. He stuck the larger kitchen knives in his belt and told the apartment, through his implant, to ping every object in the front closet. This told him of a plastic raincoat, of a type that folded into a small pouch. It was generic and would fit him.

“A strong executive is essential in time of war,” he said absently, as he sealed the raincoat. “And besides, I’m fond of my old friend the Prime Minister,” he said. “I’ll go to the PM’s aid.”

“If you insist.”

“Anyone in the corridor outside?”

There was a pause. Then, “I’m afraid that data is not available.”

Aristide wrapped the scarf around his head, then his mouth and nose. His fingers were accustomed to turban wrappings and he performed this task efficiently. He tucked the ends into the raincoat and then anchored the whole thing in place with the hat.

He realized that in this getup he probably looked crazier than the zombies.

“Send for an elevator, will you?” he asked, and reached for the door.

He realized that the addition of the raincoat made it impossible for him to reach his weapons, so he unfastened the raincoat, took out Tecmessa and a kitchen knife, and fastened the raincoat again.

“The elevator is waiting,” Endora said.

“Very good.”

He opened the door, cautious. He heard nothing. He stepped out into the corridor and moved with deliberate speed past a series of blank doors toward the bank of elevators at the end of the corridor.

A series of crashing noises came from behind one of the doors, as if someone were smashing a piece of furniture to bits. Aristide’s nerves gave a leap with each crash. He heard no screams or pleas for help, and did not intervene.

A few doors farther along the corridor, he saw a puddle of blood creeping out from beneath a door.

It was clearly too late to intervene here.

One of the elevators gave a chime, and polished bronze doors slid open.

Aristide ran for the elevator as fast as he could.

In Aristide’s youth there had been a genre of films about zombies, animated dead who preyed upon the living. In these films the zombies shambled, minds and bodies barely functioning. They were formidable only in large numbers, and as they killed off their victims their numbers grew greater.

When real zombies were brought into the world, they resembled their cinematic counterparts only slightly. For one thing, they were
fast,
their bodies responding to their pumped metabolisms. While they were unlikely to indulge in long-range planning, they retained a certain ingenuity and brutal cunning.

And, like the film zombies, they could spread their infection to others.

Aristide took command of the car, not trusting Endora’s bandwidth problems to allow her to drive safely. By the time he drove into sight of the Haçibaba Hotel, the car was covered with dents, and blood streaked its sleek hood and ran in airblown trails up the front window.

“You’ll let them know I’m coming?” Aristide said.

“Yes. I’ve told them not to shoot.”

Aristide accelerated, smashed through a pair of vehicles that had been drawn across the pavement as a roadblock. Angry figures raced out of buildings. A shot cracked off the rear window. Aristide avoided another roadblock by hopping the car onto the curb, which gave him the opportunity to crash into a half-dozen zombies that had just run out of an office building to see what all the noise was about. Bodies flopped urgently at the impact. One hung grimly onto the nose of the vehicle, bashing with a hammer on the windscreen, until he slipped in the blood of his companions and fell under the wheels.

The car thumped and thudded over the bodies that lay motionless before the hotel.

Aristide hopped the curb again near the entrance to the hotel, left the vehicle, and ran into the building. Oddly, Aristide thought, the transparent doors were fixed in the open position. Guards stood in the lobby, compact rifles at the ready. Clear ballistic armor draped around them in much the same style as Aristide’s raincoat. The lobby floor was a deep golden perfection, the shellac-like vomit of a species of genetically modified insect, and the guards stood on their own perfect reflections, their weapons ready. Aristide looked into a half-circle of rifles all aimed at him.

“No, really,” Aristide said, pulling off his hat. “I’m on your side.”

An officer lowered his weapon. “So we are told.” He nodded at the raincoat. “Is that a form of armor?”

“A raincoat only.”

He smiled grimly. “Too bad for you.”

“How is the Prime Minister?”

“Well, but rather busy at the moment.”

“Here they come!” someone called.

The violent spectacle of Aristide’s arrival had stirred up a fury among the besiegers. A swarm of zombies came running out of nearby buildings, weapons in their hands. Most carried clubs or knives, but the few who had firearms shot wildly as they ran. The bodyguards stepped forward and presented their rifles through the open doors.

Rifles cracked. Aristide readied Tecmessa. The guards fired single, aimed shots, and each shot dropped a zombie to the pavement.

Tecmessa proved unnecessary. The zombie tide broke a few yards from the entrance, and the survivors fled, uttering howls of rage. Once the zombies had retreated, the guards drew back out of sight.

“Nicely done,” Aristide said.

“Thank you,” said the officer. “Securing a building this large is difficult with so few men, but at least it has good fields of fire. We’ll do well as long as the ammunition holds.”

“And how is the ammunition supply?”

There was a slight hesitation.

“We’re taking care not to waste it,” the officer said.

“I don’t suppose you could loan me a weapon.”

Once again the officer offered his grim smile. “Our attackers have dropped a number of firearms in the street outside. You are welcome to search among the bodies.”

Aristide looked at the kitchen knife in his hand.

“Perhaps I will bide here.”

“As you think best.”

Time passed. The guards passed it efficiently, exchanging few words, remaining in a state of alertness. They had already provided themselves with snacks and coffee from the hotel restaurant, and they shared their refreshment with Aristide.

No zombies made their appearance on the street, though the crashing sounds that echoed down the street demonstrated that they were passing their time in vandalism. The sound of shots indicated that combat was taking place elsewhere.