The Night's Dawn Trilogy (375 page)

“How’s that angle coming along?” Halo asked.

“The Banneth connection is just about covered. I’m not sure about the Kavanagh girls; they’re a long shot, and a pretty random
one at that. But I’m working on it.”

______

Louise spent an hour using the room’s desktop processor block and got nowhere. The directory provided her with enough entries
under Banneth (173,364—once she’d removed the deceased), but no matter how she tried to cross reference that with Quinn Dexter
the result was always negative. She racked her brains to remember everything Dexter had said back in the hangar at Bennett
Field. Banneth was female, she remembered that for certain. And Dexter said she’d hurt him. That was about it, really.

Somewhere, somehow, those facts should link up. She was sure they did. But finding the connection was beyond her woeful programming
ability. The idea that had begun back when they got in the taxi was becoming more and more attractive. If she dared.

Why not? she thought. There’s nothing dangerous about neural nanonics, not physically, the rest of the Confederation uses
them. Joshua has a set. It’s only Norfolk which doesn’t allow them. She raised her arm, and looked at the discreet medical
nanonic package bracelet. Also banned on Norfolk, yet it was helping her pregnancy. That settled it. She grinned, emboldened
by her decision. I have to take responsibility for myself now. If I need neural nanonics to help me on Earth, then I will
get myself a set.

They hadn’t left the room since arriving at the hotel. Lunch had been a snack delivered by room service. Genevieve had flopped
on her bed in weary disgust at the inactivity, and activated her own block. She was smothered by a laser-haze of grid lines
and feisty fantasy beasts which leapt about enthusiastically at every excitable shouted command.

“Gen?”

The projection shrank. Genevieve blinked up at her, trying to focus. Louise was sure that being immersed in the projection
so much was bad for her little sister’s eyesight.

“What?”

“We’re going out. I can’t get the hang of the desktop block, so I’m going to buy some neural nanonics instead.” There, she’d
said it out loud. There’d be no backing down now.

Genevieve stared at her in astonishment. “Oh Louise, don’t tease so. We’re not allowed.”

“We
weren’t
allowed. We’re on Earth, now, remember. You can do anything you want here as long as you’ve got money.”

Genevieve cocked her head to one side. Then the most charming smile graced her face. It didn’t fool Louise for a second. “Please,
Louise. Can I have one, too? You know I’ll never be allowed once we get home.”

“I’m sorry. You’re not old enough.”

“I am!”

“Gen, you’re not. And you know you’re not.”

She stamped her foot, little fists clenched in outrage. “That’s not fair! It’s not. It’s not. You always pick on me coz I’m
the youngest. You’re a bully.”

“I’m not picking on you. You just can’t have one, your brain is still growing. They can’t connect it. I checked. It’s not
legal, and it’ll do a lot of damage to your brain cells. I only just scrape in if you measure my age in Earth years.”

“I hate being small.”

Louise put her arms round the girl, reflecting on how much she’d done so since leaving home. They never used to hug much before.
“You’ll be bigger one day,” she whispered into her sister’s fluffed up hair. “And things are going to be different when we
get home.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yes.”

______

The receptionist seemed rather amused at being asked, in a lofty sort of way. But she was helpful enough, telling Louise that
Oxford Street and New Bond Street were probably their best bet for clothes, while Tottenham Court Road was where they would
find any conceivable kind of electronics. The sisters were also assured these areas were safe for girls to walk through by
themselves. “And the hotel runs a courtesy collection service for any items that you purchase.” She handed over an authorization
disk, keyed to Louise’s biolectric pattern.

Louise loaded a comprehensive street map into her block, taken from the hotel’s memory; and combined it with the guidance
program. “Ready?” she asked Gen. “Let’s go spend the family fortune.”

Aubry Earle had spoken the truth on the lift capsule when he told them arcology dwellers would always respect their privacy.
Out on the street, Louise couldn’t quite work out how people always slid to one side at the last second. She was constantly
scanning bodies all round to try and find a way through the gaps, while locals moved as smoothly as the automated traffic
without ever once glancing in her direction. Some of the pedestrians quite literally glided past. People their own age wearing
calf-high boots with soles that seemed to flow over the pavement slabs without any resistance. Genevieve watched their effortless
progress with admiration and longing. “I want some boots like that,” she said.

A subwalk got them under Piccadilly and into New Bond Street. It turned out to be a dainty little pedestrian lane, lined with
enchanting boutiques whose marble frontage was embossed with brass lettering saying when they’d been established. None of
them were under three centuries old, while some claimed to be over seven. The labels on show meant nothing to either of them,
but judging by the prices they must have been admiring the most exclusive designer garments on the planet.

“It’s gorgeous,” Louise sighed longingly at a shimmering scarlet and turquoise evening gown, sort of like an all-over mermaid’s
tail—except it wasn’t all-over, nowhere near. It was the kind of thing she would love to wear at a summer ball on Norfolk.
The planet had never seen its like before.

“Then buy it.”

“No. We’ve got to be sensible. Just everyday clothes that we need to get about in the arcology. Remember, one day I’ll have
to explain the entire bill to Daddy.”

The evening gown was just the start of New Bond Street’s provocative temptations. They trailed past window displays she could
have bought en masse.

“We’ll have to have supper in the hotel dining room,” Genevieve suggested artfully. “I bet they won’t let us in unless we
dress up.”

It was an insidious suggestion. “Okay. One dress. That’s all.”

They dashed across the threshold of the boutique in front of them. Privacy didn’t apply inside the shop; three assistants
swooped eagerly. Louise explained what they wanted, and then spent the next forty-five minutes ricocheting in and out of a
changing room. She and Gen would look at each other, comment, and go back for the next trial.

She learned a lot in the process. The assistants were very complimentary about the sisters’ hair. Except… on Earth, it was
fashionable to have actives woven among the strands. Their one-piece suits with big pockets, were current, but not that
À la mode
. Yes, Oxford Street stores were perfect for buying streetfashion clothes, and we recommend these. Louise could have sworn
she heard the block’s memory creaking under the load of names they entered. She used her Jovian Bank credit disk with only
a momentary twinge of guilt.

Out on the street again, they laughed at each other. Gen had wound up with a scarlet dress and deep-purple jacket. While Louise
had bought herself a full length gown of deepest blue, that was made from a material crossed between velvet and suede. There
was also a short ginger-coloured waistcoat to go with it, which complemented its square cut neck.

“It’s true,” Louise said happily. “Retail therapy actually works.”

They didn’t get directly to Oxford Street. There was a stop at a salon at the top of New Bond Street first. The beauticians
made an incredible fuss over them, delighted with so much raw material to work on. The owner himself came over to direct the
operation (once their credit rating had been verified).

After two hours, several cups of tea, and enthralling the staff with an edited version of their travels, Louise had the wrap
taken off. She stared in the mirror, not believing she’d spent her life tolerating unmanaged hair. Norfolk’s simplistic regime
of washing, conditioners, and sturdy brushing was barbaric ineptitude. Under the salon’s professional auspices her hair had
become lustrous, individual strands conducting a little starlight shimmer of light along their length. And it flowed. Every
day of her life she’d held that thick mane in place with clips and ribbons, sometimes getting the maid to braid fanciful bands.
Flexitives made all that irrelevant. Of its own accord, her hair fell back over her shoulders, always keeping itself tidy
and together in one large tress. It also rippled subtly, as if she was engulfed in her own permanent private breeze.

“You look beautiful, Louise,” Genevieve said, suddenly shy.

“Thank you.” Gen’s hair had been straightened, darkened, and glossed, its hem curling inwards slightly. Again, it held its
shape no matter what.

Stalls were lined up against the road barriers, filled with brassy, cheaper items than those in the shops. Genevieve saw one
with pairs of the magical boots hanging from the awning. Slipstream boots, the cheerful owner told her as he found some her
size. Popular with the under fifteens because you didn’t need neural nanonics to switch the directed frictionless soles on
or off.

Louise bought them on the condition Gen waited until they got back to the hotel before she tried them out. She also got a
duster bracelet. When Gen clamped the trinket round her wrist and waved it round, it sprayed out a fine powder which emitted
a fiery sparkle as it fell to earth. Holding her arm up and pirouetting, a spiral of twinkling starlight spun around her.

______

Quinn sat on one of the benches along the banks of the Seine, opening his mind to the demented screeching reverberating through
the beyond. It had taken him two and a half hours to reach the Paris arcology since being struck by that inexplicable wave
of emotional torment that had swept through the beyond.

The first thing—obviously!—was to get the fuck out of New York. It wouldn’t take the cops long to review the memories of sensors
covering the concourse and identify him. He’d gone straight down to a platform and taken a vac-train to Washington. A short
ride, not quite fifteen minutes. He’d kept within the ghost realm for the whole trip, apprehensive that the vac-train would
be halted and returned to New York. But it arrived at Washington on time, and he switched to the first inter-continental ride
available: Paris.

Even then, he’d remained invisible as it streaked along the bottom of the North Atlantic. Still anxious that another of those
waves would surge up and expose him. If it had done during the journey under the ocean, he knew he’d be finished. He couldn’t
believe God’s Brother would allow that to happen. But the first time was causing all sorts of doubts.

It wasn’t until he was out of the Paris terminus and walking through one of the old city’s parks that he had allowed himself
to fully emerge. He clothed himself in an ordinary shirt and trousers, hating the way his white skin tingled in the bright
sun shining through the colossal crystal dome. But it meant he was safe, there were no processors in the middle of the park
to glitch at his appearance, nobody near enough to see that he’d appeared from nowhere rather than walked round the ancient
tree. He stood there for a minute, scanning the nearby minds for any sign of alarm. Only then did he relax and make his way
down to the river.

Parisians strolled along behind him as they had for centuries—lovers, artists, business executives, bureaucrats; none of them
paying attention to the solitary downcast youth. Nor did any of them avail themselves to the space left on his bench. Some
subliminal warning steered them along past, frowning slightly at the unaccountable chill.

Slowly, Quinn started to gather the strands together, faint images and hoarse wailing voices filling in the story. He saw
clouds which surprised even him, an arcology-born. Rain cascaded down on huddled bodies, so thick it was almost solid. Terrifying
blasts of lightning ripping through the darkness. The encircling forces, radiating their stern nonhuman determination, closing
in.

Mortonridge was not a place where a possessed should be caught outside today; and two million of them had been. Something
had struck at them, tearing away their protective covering of cloud. Some technological devilry. The signal for the Liberation
to commence. A one-off; a unique act in response to a unique situation. Not some miracle wrought by the Light Bringer’s great
rival.

Quinn lifted his head, and smiled a contemptuous smile. Such a shock was extremely unlikely to occur again. There was no unknown
threat. He was perfectly safe. Night could still dawn.

He stood up, and turned slowly, examining his surroundings properly for the first time. The celebrated Napoleonic heart of
the city was encompassed by a range of splendid white, silver, and gold towers. Their burnished surfaces hurt his eyes, as
their grandeur hurt his sensibility. But somewhere among all this cleanliness and vitality, the waster kids would be grubbing
through dank refuse, hurting each other and unwary civilians for no reason they understood. Finding them would be as easy
here as it had been in New York. Just walk in the direction everyone else was coming from. His heartland, where his words
would bring its denizens purpose.

He completed his turn. Right ahead of him the Eiffel Tower stood guard at the end of a broad immaculate park, with sightseers
wandering round its base. Even in Edmonton, Quinn had heard of this structure. A proud symbol of Gallic forbearance through
all the centuries of Govcentral’s pallid uniformity. Its very endurance reflecting the strengths and determination of the
people who regarded it as their own. Precious to the world. And now, so terribly fragile with age.

Quinn started to chuckle greedily.

______

Andy Behoo fell in love. It was instantaneous.
She
walked in through the door of Jude’s Eworld, kicking off a cascade of datavised alarms, and he was utterly smitten.