Nylon Angel Page 18

I stepped back out of comm viewer range. Too late!

  For a split second Daac's eyes swept across me. I read things in them—surprise, annoyance, and something else…

  From a corner vantage point I peeked at him again. He looked weak, but resolute as always.

  His focus had shifted back to Teece. "Tomas."

  Tomas? Was I missing something here? Since when had Teece ever been called Tomas? And since when were these two on comm terms?

  "What is it, Loyl?" Teece rasped.

  Loyl? I held my breath. What could Loyl possibly want with Teece?

  Daac gazed at him: an intense, zealot's stare.

  I shivered. The look I'd come to loathe.

  "I wanted to warn you, Tomas," he said distinctly. "The Gentes are at war."

  The air seemed to rush out of the room with his words. Teece sagged forward like he'd been punched in the gut, and the present rushed away from me with a whistling roar…

  Angel, rejoicing, dancing. Wings fluctuating color, shining golden to warm bloodred. Chanting with a fiendish ecstasy. WAR! WAR! WAR!…

  I came out of it seconds later—horizontal—with Teece eyeballing me at short breath's distance and Loyl shouting tinnily through the speakers.

  "What's your problem?" I blurted, panic climbing my throat.

  Teece hauled me up like a sack of dried beans. "What's yours?" he demanded.

  I'd just had a full-scale hallucination. Half the world was chasing me. Now the man I most lusted after and trusted least was buddy with the man I didn't desire and trusted most.

  I couldn't stand much more.

  I ripped Teece's fingers from the shirt and without another word I bolted.

  Wandering half naked through The Tert is not sensible. Judging by the attention I attracted, I had to do something about it or Jamon would know I was back long before I hit Torley's.

  If Stellar hadn't already told him. Somewhere I'd stopped thinking of her as the bodyshop bitch—right about when she cried all over the winch mechanism.

  I bartered Teece's Beach Boys shirt for some baggy duds and a muscle top with a stoned-out Slummer and hoped it didn't get him killed on the beach in Fishertown.

  Feeling a bit less conspicuous I skirted Shadoville, avoiding the district around the pain parlor, and mulled over what to do. Though Teece had fed me, my stomach ached for food already, and I was flat strapped for credit. There was no way I could get near my room stash unseen. Having run out on Jamon I doubted he'd be very forgiving. He might have wanted to poison me along with Stellar, but that was his pleasure. He wouldn't let anyone else take it.

  As for Lang, well, stick his name at the top of my list of people to piss off! Whatever his game, I wouldn't play sucker for him again.

  All this confusion left me nowhere to go. I'd lived pretty low before, but never totally without means or a place to sleep. It didn't feel good.

  I slipped around the back of a tequila cum coffeehouse and hunkered down between the rubbish chute and an enormous steel vat of cooking oil.

  Note to self: Don't eat in here. Who knows who had their paws in the oil after hours?

  Methodically, I went over what I knew. Lang had double-crossed me. He'd set me up to be police bait when I broke in to Razz Retribution's home. The more I thought about it the more I was convinced Lang's shape-changing ability had something to do with Anna Schaum's research.

  Lang wanted me convicted for the murder. And the media had locked on to the idea. Coincidence? Or was there a link between the two?

  The whole deal made that old expression, between a rock and a hard place, seem like silk sheets and gel pillows.

  And what of Mr. "dispensable" Stolowski? He'd somehow got hooked up in this courtesy of Loyl Daac.

  Part of me still wanted to protect Sto. He was on the sharp end, no matter what way you looked at it. His only sin was being in the right place at the wrong time—that, and believing in a zealot. Guilt by association with Loyl-me-Daac—self proclaimed messiah and pheromone-saturated hunk.

  I crouched in the alley amid the squalor, and dithered.

  Daac talked of war. What in the Wombat did he mean by that? Whose war? Why war?

  According to Stellar, Jamon had been preparing for it.

  Questions piled on top of me faster and thicker than answers. And now, to complete my perfect picture of chaos, I was having visions. My symptoms were uncannily like the ones documented in Anna Schaum's files, but I couldn't see how. I wasn't one of her lab rats.

  Still, the similarities scared me. It sent a quiver through my insides, like a deep, vibrating note. My temples throbbed and my mouth began to water.

  Another vision crept unasked into my head.

  … bleeding, battered bodies. Bodies strewn across pavements, hanging from windows of buildings. Salty, metallic warmth in my mouth. Sliding down my throat…

  Shaking my head I forced the images away. With horror I realized I was biting my own arm, sucking at the wound for blood.

  I gagged and vomited.

  Then I calmly stood.

  I knew one person who could help me.

  Mei.

  But Mei meant Stolowski. Sto meant Daac. Daac meant my insides flip-flopping and some explaining I'd rather not do.

  Since when did I get to be such a coward?

  I sighed and scraped vomit off the tip of my boot.

  There was no point in agonizing over Daac and his family obsession, or which media 'Terro was going to shoot me in the back. If I didn't stop these visions I'd save everyone the trouble and shoot myself. One thing I can't stand is stone-cold crazy people.

  * * * *

  Mei, I figured, would be hanging out in one of two places. Either my old room or Daac's medi-facility. Since my room was definitely off-limits unless I wanted to wind up back in Jamon's grasp, I decided to try the other.

  I reviewed my compass memory from the day I'd left Daac standing on the roof pointing to Fishertown, and set my direction. With all going well I'd be there the next day.

  The Tert reeked of its usual unappealing odors and strange noises as I followed my bearing east. Normally I would take the route along the northern perimeter of Torley's. Instead I cut south of east, passing behind the places I knew well.

  The Tert had no strict divisions, apart from tolls, on the everyday walkways. The change of territory was just something you learned—like left from right. There were some obvious signs.

  Muenos tended to decorate things with gaudy colors. Torley's, Shadoville and the northern strip were easy to identify by the ratio of bars to everything else. In Plastique you found the results of some of the more extreme surgical makeovers. Where Teece lived on the eastern edge was populated with part-time Fishertown squatters who brought to it their own peculiar stench.

  The way I was headed—southeast of Torley's—increased the risk of encountering some first-grade crazies. They gravitated there inward, acting like a buffer zone to Dis and the black heart of The Tert.

  Walking along a cramped, disintegrating side path of one villa set, I felt the prickle of attention. Someone watching closely. Slowly and deliberately I peeled a broken plank from a makeshift barricade, making sure the nails were still attached. The watcher stayed with me for some time but made no move.

  Shame. I was nearly back in the mood for bother.

  I consciously drifted to more crowded thoroughfares and, as the day wore on, lost all sense of being followed.

  By late afternoon the rear of Torley's district gave way to rows of units with their plethora of lumpy cocoons and spiderlike antennae on each roof.

  I holed up on a rooftop in an empty cocoon, sleeping fitfully through the night. By midmorning the following day I began to recognize the architecture near Daac's patch.

  Now I had to sniff out his enclave. My stomach nagged at me to feed it, but I'd gotten good at ignoring it. Palatable water was the main problem. Most people drank from communal rainwater tanks. Some had their own small ones. Clean running water was a thing of history
in Tert Town.

  I fought tiredness and despondency.

  How could I get water, food and information with no cred?

  I rifled through my case and closed it again, unable to part with anything in it—even for water. In desperation I searched the pockets of the Slummer's pants.

  Nothing. I ran my finger along the tattered seams. Tucked in the hem, I found something. I ripped it free and examined it.

  A fish hook?

  What else would you expect from a damn Slummer?

  I hastened to the nearest hockster, a family-run stall with a rash of feral kids hanging around it. Without preamble I asked for a price.

  The trader laughed derisively.

  "I need money," I insisted.

  He stared hard at me. I saw a glimmer of recognition.

  "You're the one who tried to save that feral kid. I saw you on LTA. You got a damn 'Terro after you. And Militia."

  LTA! Live to Air. I held my breath wondering what he'd do with the knowledge.

  "My woman says youse a saint. Here. Staysharp hooks are pretty rare." With a big wink, he gave me a handful of cred for the tiny hook. Not a fortune, but enough for a meal and some.

  "Thanks," I said. "I'll remember. What's your name?"

  "Fleshette. But don' you go mentioning it to anyone. You're dangerous tackle. Keep your head down."

  I thanked him again and headed straight for a food stall.

  "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 onto 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 leaned 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 molded 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 paralyzed 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.

  "Chichi 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, multicolored mats hung across open windows and doorways. In places, tangles of ugly gray-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 recognized 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 jail? You should know better than to listen to rumors."

  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 surprisingly 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. Openmouthed.

  "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. Psylocybe 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…

  Images slammed against my face. So fast I lost my breath. Half creatures, half places blowing past me into a vortex. Vertigo—so steep and intense that I whimpered, curling into a tiny ball. Even with my eyed pressed tightly shut I could still see things. Memories. Shouts in anger. Color, leaking into the sides of my vision no matter how hard I pressed my eyes shut. Magenta bleeding to brown. Brilliant fluorescents bound by chains of silver and gold.