Nylon Angel (25 page)

‘Tabbed water and three quesadillas. You know where can I find a shaman named Mei Sheong?’ I asked the woman.

Her brow creased in concentration as she slopped the quesadillas together. ‘Don’t know that one.’

I thought for a moment. ‘What about a dealer named Styro? Plastique type.’ Surely Daac’s buddy would be well known.

She slapped the debugged water and the food on to the tiny counter. ‘I know that one. Cred first.’

I sized her for a minute and passed it over. She tucked it safely into her greasy apron and continued raking lumpy mincemeat with a long-handled fork.

‘Hey!’ I objected. ‘What about Styro? Where can I find him?’

She spared me the most fleeting glance. ‘Turn round.’

I did. Quesadilla halfway to my mouth.

Styro leant against a makeshift smoking booth about ten feet away. Gone was the piebald skin, replaced with something smooth and olive. But the boots were still thigh-high and pink, and the hair moulded into a gothic castle complete with ramparts. He smirked at me as if he’d been enjoying the show.

Note to self: teach Styro some manners.

I strolled over, munching my way through the food.

‘You want something?’ he asked slyly.

I hesitated, suddenly paralysed by the thought that Daac might be nearby. Then I remembered his warning to Teece.
The Gentes are at war.
Surely Tall, Dark and Hormone was busy preparing for his own bit of excitement.

I didn’t want to think about what his bald statement meant - even the memory of it sent blackness swarming across my vision. No way did I want to do the horizontal hallucination thing in front of Styro.

‘Chi-chi boots,’ I murmured.

He stared suspiciously at me.

‘Truly,’ I said.

‘You weren’t looking for me to admire my boots.’

‘No. Where’s Mei Sheong?’

Styro affected disinterest, picking at his stiletto-sharp nails. ‘Why should I tell you?’

I swallowed the last of my quesadillas and grabbed his frilled shirt. The frills tightened like a noose. This close, I could see he wasn’t stoned. The best dealers never were.

‘What do you want from her?’ he gasped.

I caught something in his look, the mere flicker of softness in a bitter, narrow face. Styro had feelings for Mei. I released the pressure on his neck a fraction. ‘I’m not going to hurt her, Styro. I need some advice.’

His eyebrows arched at the word ‘advice’. ‘What happens if she doesn’t want to give it to you?’

I considered his question. ‘She owes me nothing. If she has no advice, then our business will be over.’ I smiled silkily and smoothed his frills.

He nodded in doubtful agreement.

Implied violence was an art, really. You didn’t have to be big, although it helped. You just had to mean what you said. I remember an islander I’d met in my first months in The Tert. A small, heavyset guy with a baby face and tight curls. People either respected him or they avoided him. ‘It might sound stupid, Parrish,’ he told me one time, ‘but nothing scares me. Nothing. Punters can tell. When I go up against someone they
know
it’s not bluff.’

Right now I cared for nothing except getting a handle on these hallucinations. I certainly didn’t care about a weed like Styro who’d maxed me out on sedatives. Perhaps he could read that in my eyes.

I followed him amongst the rows of identical units that one time must have been hard to tell apart. They still were, only now patchwork alterations and tacky decorating touches gave them their uniformity. Barely sloped, gutterless roofs designed for torrential midsummer rains made them ideal flooring for the thousands of sleeper cocoons. Every now and then whole sections of roof collapsed under the weight.

Some Mueno influence had crept across from The Slag. Dirty, multi-coloured mats hung across open windows and doorways. In places, tangles of ugly grey-leafed lead-resistant vines curled along broken stair rails. Canrats and smaller Tert hybrids sometimes came down to hide among them.

Styro led me into one building, and then through to another along an unsteady connecting passage. We climbed a set of internal stairs until we came to a long corridor that looked vaguely familiar. Glimpsing into rooms as we walked, I recognised the medi-facility where Sto had been.

How long ago that seemed.

Several doors down, Styro stopped abruptly. Two scrawny figures lounged outside playing a card game called Brand. The winner notched a series of burns on his arms and legs. Like initiation scars.

Styro whispered them aside and knocked on a door. They went back to their card game as if they had no interest. It didn’t fool me.

I hung back in the dark of the corridor, curious to see how Styro handled things.

Stolowski answered the door, bleary-eyed, hair bleached and mussed like a bird’s nest. His face had altered too, the freckles gone. Daac must have arranged a makeover to help keep him safe.

The air between the two men crackled. They wasted no time on pleasantries.

‘What?’ grumbled Sto.

‘Mei there?’

‘Yeah. What if she is?’

Styro’s face purpled.

Any other time I would have found the whole thing amusing. Right now I was in a hurry.

I stepped out of the shadows, keeping the bodyguards in clear sight. ‘I need to see Mei, Sto.’

‘Parrish,’ he gasped. ‘I thought . . .’

‘You thought what, Sto? That I was dead? In gaol? You should know better than to listen to rumours.’

He swallowed rapidly, like he might choke. Then he held the door aside for me to enter.

I stepped past Styro and shut the door in his face. Then I snipped the locks and looked around.

It wasn’t much of a home. A bed, built out of the closet, a badly peeling mirror - glass, not even a synth - and a sink that doubled as a san unit. But surprising clean. Jasmine incense wafted through.

Mei crouched on the window ledge, fussing over a burner and aluminium cooking cup and staring out on the street. Only someone as small as her could fit up there. I wouldn’t have had a hope.

‘Mei,’ said Sto nervously. ‘Visitor.’

‘’Lo, Parrish.’ She didn’t even turn in my direction. She was probably still pissed off at me from the last time.

‘Sto? Get some exercise,’ I said quietly.

He glanced between us both, waiting for Mei to tell him what to do.

I sighed. Some women don’t know how lucky they are.

Mei glided off the ledge like a small exotic cat and prowled over to rub herself against Sto’s shirt. ‘Go for a walk, honey.’

Sto gave her a quick hug and left obediently.

As the door clicked behind him she rounded on me, hands on hips, feet spread. For a little creature she had mettle.

‘So you want to know what’s causing your visions, eh?’

She had me there. Open-mouthed.

‘How did . . .?’

She went on, ‘It’s a sort of possession. I could sense its presence there before but I wasn’t sure. This time I could feel it even before you came in the room.’

‘A sort of what?’ I didn’t like what I was hearing.
Possession was for the stone-cold crazies.

‘I’m not certain. Sit down on the floor,’ she instructed, ‘drink this. It’s the only way to know.’

I hesitated then sat. I didn’t trust her, but what choice did I have?

Cross-legged we faced each other and she gave me the cup she’d been warming, waiting impatiently while I rolled the bitter fluid around my tongue. Psyilocybe or datura, I thought at a guess. Hallucinogens for the hallucinator.

I swallowed and she reached her hands out for mine. Hers felt small and warm, mine felt large and roughened against her soft skin.

‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. But you should know, Parrish, it’ll feel bad,’ she warned.

I stared into her cool almond eyes, forgetting the ridiculous pink curls and haughty act. ‘Why are you helping me, Mei? Do you want money?’

‘Who said it would help?’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, this is my work, Parrish. I’d do the same for most anyone.’

Her honesty was vaguely comforting.

‘Now concentrate,’ she ordered. ‘I’m going to piggyback there with you. Think about what you’ve been experiencing. Let the visions fill your mind. Don’t be afraid, I’ll be on your shoulders. And whatever you do, Parrish, don’t throw me off. Got that? I’ll take care of the rest.’

I nodded, terrified at the thought of summoning images of the Angel.

Did I ever mention I hated voodoo shit?

Mei began a toneless hum, swaying. She performed an elaborate set of hand movements and the scent of jasmine intensified - the last ‘real’ world thing I remembered.

 

 

I heard a gasp in my ear, a sharp intake of breath. Shock. Someone else was here with me.

Speak to it
, the someone else said.

I tried to see who it was but it hissed in my ear,
I am too small to see. Turn back or it will become suspicious.

I felt foolish, but the voice in my ear compelled me.

‘Hey!’ I called.

The Angel soared upward, droplets spraying in all directions, like a magnificent bird shedding water from its wings. It swooped towards me, landing lightly.

I tried to look into its face but my eyes hurt, so I settled for staring at the tips of its wings where my blood dripped in long, coagulating strings. The sound of a hundred synchronous drums assaulted my mind. I resisted the temptation to clap my hands over my ears and stifle the sound.

Though I couldn’t see its face, I knew how terrible it must be.

Terrible and beautiful.

Its body, uncovered before me, was sculpted muscular perfection. It took my breath away.

Distract it!
hissed the someone in my ear.

‘Who are you? Satan or Mamba?’ I gibbered.

It laughed - a hideous sound - arching its wings in disdain.

Where feathers should have been was a swarming, crawling mass of data. Scrolling past at a frantic rate.

Words filled my mind, gradually ordering themselves into meaning - like a voice, but not.

Confusion slowed my thinking. ‘Waiting for what?’

I stared at the Angel’s wings, fancying that I glimpsed snatches of stories - from the Bible and folklore. Names as well: Jesus, Thor, Zeus.

What strange creature inhabited me? Or - had it always been there?

Keep it up,
whispered the someone else,
I need more time.

Time?

The Angel filled my mind again with its words.

‘E-evolve?’

A strange sensation built in the back of my neck. My skin prickled and rippled and stretched.

‘You mean you’re a p-parasite?’

I tried to consider the question much more calmly than I felt.

‘Perhaps not. But then what do you mean by “consume”? Practically speaking, if you consumed all those things, it would in the end deplete you of your resource for living. Then what would you feed on?’