Authors: Marianne de Pierres

Nylon Angel (22 page)

BOOK: Nylon Angel

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
n the end I walked most of the way to the outskirts of Viva, resting in a storm-water drain the first day. The Militia wouldn’t expect me to hoof it, but I still had to dodge several ’pede patrols.

Ibis had lent me a battered old fake fur coat, stifling hot in the mild weather, but it helped me blend in with the rest of the homeless that roamed on the fringe. I hung my case over my shoulder on the inside of the coat. It rubbed reassuringly against my body armour.

I found another storm-water drain, about five in the morning, just a klick from Viva’s outer limits and the main access to The Tert. ’Pedes full of rousties clustered around the checkpoint and a Prier hovered overhead like a vulture’s mother. For a second I thought enviously of Daac’s ultralight, until the black fear of flying flooded back.

I’d have to sprout wings before I flew again!

I sat in the mouth of the pipe, peering outwards. ‘Where’s your manners? You should knock ’fore you come in.’

I jumped at the gravelly voice.

Down the other end of the drain, a pile of rubbish grew arms and a head. In the mounting light I caught the gleam of a throwing knife.

‘Just passing through. Figured this was vacant,’ I said carefully.

The half a body elongated slightly. ‘You was wrong. Not from round here, eh? There’s a waitin’ list. You gotta earn your drain.’ The knife moved subtly from one hand to the other. ‘On t’other hand, mebbe you’re one of Trunk’s mob.’

‘Who’s Trunk?’

I slipped my hand inside the coat and fumbled the lock of my case. Normally I wore knives or pins. But at the moment advertising a walking arsenal was not a great idea.

‘Put your hands out in front of you. Where I can see ’em.’ The voice sounded dry as Tert dust. ‘You prove me you not one of Trunk’s. Mebbe I not kill you.’

I ran through a list of possibilities. If he only had a knife I could probably overpower him. He might be an amputee. Teece warned me to watch for them round the border.

Yet something told me to tread gently. Enemies were easy to make - friends harder. I settled on the truth as my angle.

‘Militia and media want me for something I didn’t do. I gotta get back to The Tert. Save my arse.’

The pile of papers and rags considered what I’d said. ‘Come close. Slow. Real slow.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Me ask questions. You answer.’

His clipped talk reminded me of Bras. ‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Stop. Close enough. What under ya coat? Show. Careful.’

I reached slowly inside and snapped the case off its strap. ‘You want to trade?’ I asked.

He laughed. A wild, high-pitched sound. ‘What about, me take, you go. That’s my trade.’

‘Look, I need cover till dark, then I’m gone. Maybe I can trade you time in your place for something I’ve got.’ I was close enough now to see the outline of his face and shoulders. His knife was aimed at my eye.

‘Open case, put down,’ he ordered.

I did as he said, sliding it forward. Greedily he leant for it.

As he moved, I rolled, snatching the largest knife cleanly from its slot, bringing it hard against his throat, knocking his own blade away. At that same moment I felt the muzzle of a semi-auto slide against my belly.

‘Fun, fun,’ he whispered with rotted-meat breath. ‘What do we now?’

I thought fleetingly I might faint from the stench.

‘My finger quicker on trigger than your stab. I win.’ He cackled again.

I hesitated a second then forced a grin. ‘You win.’

At my surrender his hand slackened, just a fraction - maybe fatigue, maybe poor judgement. I kneed the muzzle sideways with all the force I could muster. It clattered away.

Quickly I increased the pressure of my knife hand. ‘No ammo, was there?’

I could distinguish his features now. Long nose and sagging, lined cheeks. Eyes like a dirty pavement.

He shrugged. ‘You win. How much Trunk pay you to take my home?’ One hand stroked the culvert wall tenderly.

Slowly, with great care, I took the knife away. Then I crawled backwards, keeping it raised. ‘Nothin’. Like I said I need some cover till dark. That’s all.’

His stared at me, uncomprehending. ‘You not kill me?’

This time I grinned for real. Keeping the knife in clear sight, I said, ‘I’m Parrish.’

He responded with a gush of stinking breath. ‘Gwynn.’

I dragged the case back closer to my body and rummaged through the compartments with one hand. I sent a quick thanks to Daac when I found what I wanted. I tugged an ammo clip free and waved it under his nose. ‘This fit your rifle?’

Gwynn studied it. He nodded hungrily.

‘When I go, you can have this. As payment. Help you keep your . . . place safe. OK?’

I edged back to the other end of the pipe. ‘I’ll keep out of your way until I go.’

With that Gwynn seemed to fold back into himself, like someone had stepped on him. From where I crouched it looked like he was shaking. How the hell does he get food to eat? I wondered.

Half an hour answered my curiosity. A skinny figure crept into the opening of the culvert and up to Gwynn. The old man seemed pleased with their whispered conversation. After a quick exchange the figure crept away.

He spoke then, catching me by surprise. ‘You want food, Par-rish?’ He held out a handful of scraps.

I was starving and inside my coat was a package of decent food from Anna’s well-stocked kitchen. I felt suddenly ashamed that I hadn’t offered some to Gwynn. Instead he was trying to share something that a rat would have passed up.

But then he had tried to rob me!

‘No thanks, Gwynn.’

He seemed relieved and gobbled down the handful in a matter of seconds. The food sparked a mood of conversation in him. ‘What they want you for, Par-rish?’

I hesitated. How much did I tell this old creature?

Again, I settled on the shortened truth. ‘They think I killed a media hound.’

Gwynn gave a tuneless whistle. ‘Bad.’

‘Yeah. And wrong,’ I added irritably.

‘How you gonna stay out of gaol?’

I smiled grimly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You know who did it?’ he asked.

‘Maybe.’

We sat in silence for a while. Gwynn appeared to have gone to sleep.

My thoughts drifted to Anna Schaum’s compound. Had Ibis gone back to the Emporium? How quickly was Daac recovering?

‘You not know Trunk?’

Gwynn’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I stared at him. ‘No. Like I said before. Who is he?’

‘Trunk wants what’s mine. But there’s only one way he get it.’

The old man was telling me he’d die for this filthy culvert.

What was it Daac had said?

Something about a place being part of your soul’s code, no matter how mean or putrid it was.

Maybe that was just a fancy way of saying you had no other damn place to go.

‘Mebbe I show you a way out then.’ Gwynn caught my attention again.

‘Another way?’ I held my breath.

He cackled, tapped his forehead. ‘Gwynn the Grate Keeper. Anywhere you need. I can show you how.’

‘What do you mean, “anywhere”?’

‘Those Militia out there . . . phh,’ he made a sound of disgust. ‘Gwynn show you underneath ways.’

‘Underneath?’

He held out his hand. ‘You give me ammo. I show you way to Tert.’

I studied him in the shadowy light. ‘Should I trust you, Gwynn?’

‘No,’ he said simply.

‘Yes’ would have been a lie. I fingered the clip for a moment then I threw it to him.

In seconds he had it loaded in the chamber of his semi. With a deep sigh of pleasure he settled back against the wall. ‘Now we wait. Be ready.’

The waiting took hours. Time enough for me to doubt Gwynn’s sanity - and my own, for giving him live cartridges. Gut instinct could be cool sometimes. Sometimes it could be witless.

I brooded over the times I’d been wrong and wondered if this would be one of them.

Then on some unbidden cue Gwynn stirred from his pile of rubbish and dragged his body along past me toward one end of the culvert. He was old and dirty but his shoulders looked like a weightlifter’s. I guess chair aids weren’t much use for drain dwellers. Nor synth legs.

I crawled behind closely, without touching him. He stopped metres shy of the other end and scraped away rubbish from the floor. With a grunt he began to strain. A slab of concrete ground free and he easily shifted it to one side.

‘Gwynn is strong,’ I said, impressed into comment.

His old face brightened. ‘Gwynn Pan-Sat medal. One time.’

He dug around in his tattered shirt. From inside it he produced a vaguely silver coin on a grubby ribbon, the Pan-Sat symbols still clearly visible.

My mouth dropped.

Somehow I caught myself before the obvious question fell out of it. If Gwynn had been an ex Pan-Sat athlete, then I guessed he wouldn’t want to be discussing his current living arrangements.

He tapped his head sadly. ‘They look inside here. See what makes Gwynn strong without pharma. Gwynn not same after. Ever.’

‘You mean you won a medal
without
enhancers?’

‘Gwynn born that way. Then they take me. Then they take my legs.’

‘What? They cut your head open and your legs off to see what made you so strong?’

‘No. Cut head open to see. Then legs don’t work properly any more. Gwynn get sick. Medic have to take legs,’ he said.

‘Who did that to you, Gwynn?’

‘Don’t matter, Par-rish. Past is done. Gwynn got food. Got job. Gwynn the Grate Keeper.’

He sucked in a lung full of air and expanded his chest proudly. Then he poked a finger at me. ‘Now you go down. Go south. Pipe goes three ways. You follow east, left. To Tert. Canrats hide there too. Be careful.’

I reached inside the coat and pulled out the food Ibis had given me. I gave it to him. ‘Here, old man. Thanks. Maybe I’ll come see you again one day.’

He smiled. At least I think that’s what it was.

I glanced back at him as I slipped down into the gloom. But he was already sliding the grate back across. Another minute and I was in pitch black.

Small spaces are damn awkward when you’re my size. Fortunately the first few klicks of Gwynn’s pipe were big enough for me to walk along in a semi-crouched manner. But even that, after a while, sent drilling pains up my legs and back. I settled into an alternating pattern of exhausting duck waddling and hunched walking. I drew the line at crawling.

I had my coat wrapped tight, and hood up, to avoid skin contact with the soil.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I stretched my senses to detect canrats. I cursed the fact I’d given Gwynn all my food.

The pipes, I decided, trying to distract myself, were a maze of obsolete sewerage pipes. In sections tree roots broke through like claws. In other parts the pipes were smooth apart from a coating of dirt and mottled fungus. Some of the fungus may have been edible but I wasn’t willing to risk it. Not yet anyway.

I wondered how many people knew about and used these pipes. The possibilities for undetected movement in and out of The Tert astounded me.

Periodically, smaller pipes ran off at angles. So many that I lost count. But it wasn’t till my legs and stomach had clenched into a permanent cramp that I found the major junction.

Muscles screaming for relief, I sank down to rest. A brief hunt through the coat’s pockets turned up a choc bar Ibis had left in there. Brilliant!

I formed a mental picture of my pleasure and sent it out to him, tagging a hug on the end.

Then I felt stupid.

Ibis was the closest thing I’d made to a friend since . . . well, ever really.

If you didn’t count Kat.

Kat was making top cred from pro-ball somewhere in Eurasia. Living and playing hard. I didn’t blame her for picking that option, really. A short life, but good. The last time I cried - I think - was when she left. Her choice.

At least she had one!

Gwynn’s story, on the other hand, made me spit. If I ever managed to sort out my own problems and stay out of gaol, I’d come back and see Gwynn. See what I could do for him. Maybe get this Trunk guy off his back for good.

There I go again!

If I didn’t watch out I’d begin to sound like Daac - deciding who needed help and when!

I rubbed my lower back for a last, long moment, urging blood into it. Then I shuffled forward down the left fork of the pipe.

The first canrat appeared soon after. You don’t exactly see them in the dark, more like feel them. And with my particular augs, smell them. The first whiff of damp dograt fur sent me fumbling for the Glock that I’d left loose in my coat pocket.

It was handy to be able to smell in the dark, if only I could see as well.

See what? Great golloping ropes of saliva hanging from mutated fangs - maybe not.

I aimed the Glock low.

‘Let me past. No harm to you,’ I called out.

Canrats couldn’t talk much, but most of them could understand a little. Man’s best friend and nature’s best scavenger combined.

It growled. Low and menacing.

How many others lurked behind it? I sensed their heavy presence close in, like a fog rolling down the pipe towards me.

I racked my brain for an alternative, one that didn’t include wasting my entire ammo supply shooting the first couple of canrats I’d come across. Who knew what would happen later?

I tried a long shot. A deluded sort of idea.

Canrats had an organised community. A pecking order and a communication network. Maybe they’d heard something about my bout with ‘the Big One’.

‘I killed the Big One!’ I shouted into the darkness.

The growling intensified into a cacophony of terrifying noises. Snarling. Barking. Preparatory to disembowelling and chewing.

BOOK: Nylon Angel

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