Authors: Marianne de Pierres

Nylon Angel (31 page)

BOOK: Nylon Angel

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In a matter of hours the place would be looted. I hoped someone would burn him.

Outside, above Torley’s, Priers still swarmed, camming everything. Their drone filled the background like net babble. I wondered at the level of interest, and which one carried the ’Terro with my name on it.

Why hadn’t it come for me yet?

Meanwhile punters surfaced from their hidey-holes, cramming the bars to find out what was happening. Snatches of conversation floated to me.

‘Oya ended the war.’

‘Mondo is dead.’

‘Cabal work.’

‘Renegade Cabal . . .’

‘- saw a feral girl take out a heap of them. She was glowing, like them holy icons.’

Wearily, I climbed the stairs to my room. There were no dingoboys guarding it now. Someone had even torn the Abba jingle from the door. With relief, I pressed the lock shut and fell on to the bed.

I gave myself long enough for a large hiccup of self-pity, then I stashed the disk and drive in my best hidey-hole and forced myself into the san unit before my wound opened its own bacteria factory.

By the time I’d washed, found my oldest set of fatigues, done a patch job on my side and scrabbled around for my last pro-sub, my mind started to tick. With a clarity born of relief at my unexpected survival, I suddenly knew what I had to do.

I just didn’t know whether it would work.

As insurance I slipped a couple of Tempo tabs in my pocket. The thought of feeding the parasite what it liked best - adrenalin - worried me, but my body had its limits and right now my flesh was redlining with exhaustion.

I checked the credit on my comm with Merry 3# and found enough left for a few calls.

Minoj’s face came up, greasy and old on the screen. No synthesised image this time.

‘Little thing,’ he rasped tiredly, ‘you
are
a survivor.’

‘Better than that, Minoj. I’m a player.’ I said it with total conviction and a hard face.

His look got suddenly cagey. Age melted from his face and a spark lit in the depths of his jaded eyes. Minoj loved Tert politics.

‘Jamon Mondo is dead. I claim salvage rights,’ I said.

‘Who supports this?’

Bluff was not my game. I usually told it the way I saw it - but sometimes you have to cheat. ‘You.’

He blinked. Only once - enough for me to see the surprise.

‘Think, Minoj. Jamon is dead. I take this stretch, hard and fast with your support. I give you exclusive selling rights. Only your weapons. You can open up shop here.’

‘The ’goboys will never work for you.’

‘I don’t need them. I have my own muscle.’ That was a lie, but I kept my expression tight hoping he’d heard enough rumours about Oya to buy it.

He turned the idea over in his mind - the list of Jamon’s possible successors. In the end he came to the conclusion I guessed he would.
Back Parrish and then manipulate her.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

‘Spread the word, loud and quick. Jamon Mondo is dead. Parrish Plessis claims salvage. Minoj Armaments second her.’

‘You’ll be challenged. You’ll need protection.’

I smiled. ‘No. They will.’

His indecent smile mirrored mine.

‘One last thing, Minoj. I want you to give Lang a message.’ I felt sure Minoj had some way to contact him. What arms dealer couldn’t source a big client in an emergency?

‘No, Parrish. Claiming salvage is one thing. Taking on Lang is something else. I won’t back you on that.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He is not what you think . . .’

‘Tell him I figured out about the wiper and I have a copy of the research. I want to negotiate at Torley’s.
Directly
.’

Minoj sighed.

I placed three more calls. One to Pas.

‘Oya. You have ended the war. The people are rejoicing.’

I cut quickly across his religious fervour. ‘I need you
now
, Pas. Bring some men to Torley’s.’

He beamed. ‘Of course. We leave immediately.’

‘One thing, Pas. Tell me. The Feather Crown . . . was it chicken blood?’

There was silence, as if the question surprised him. ‘No, Oya. It is part of our custom that the Crown is dipped in human blood.’

Human blood. My heart sank. It had been a futile hope, and now even it was gone.

My next call was to Teece.

‘Parrish!’ He looked relieved. ‘Why the hell did you run out on me like that?’

‘Had to take care of some things. Have you got anything for me?’ I hung on his answer, trying not to hold my breath. Was Teece with me or not?

‘Yes. I saved what looks like some gene sequences. I’m not sure exactly. And some of her diary.’

‘What did the diary say?’

‘Looks like she didn’t trust Loyl’s scientist. She had her watched. Seems Dr Schaum must have some sort of conscience because she had a regular visitor to her place. A preacher.’

A preacher!

My adrenalin spiked as a bunch of suspicions met and melded. I could barely keep the tremor from my voice.

‘Teece, I owe you something for this. Bring the disk to Torley’s pronto. I’m claiming salvage on Jamon’s stretch.’

‘You’re
what
?’

I cut him off before he could rant. A shiver ran deep through me. Thrill. The parasite liked what I was doing. But it didn’t know the half of it.

I placed my last call.

‘Parrish?’ Loyl’s face lightened. ‘Where the hell are you? I’ll send someone—’

‘I don’t need your protection, Loyl. I’m claiming salvage on Torley’s, the Shadoville stretch and everything Jamon owned. If you want to do business with me, you’ll find me where we first met.’

His expression was nearly worth the heartache he’d caused me.

Nearly.

I cut the comm line and armoured up.

There was hardly anything left in my weapon stash. A couple of throwing knives, a garotting wire and a real old-fashioned Luger with two packets of ammo. I holstered it to my thigh. Now was not a time for subtleties.

Hein’s bar looked pretty untouched by the war.

Larry Hein spotted me the instant I entered. He gave a nervous, beckoning wave and I strolled over.

‘Larry.’

‘Parrish.’

His acknowledgement was short and loaded with angst. I wondered what had twisted his panties. His deepset eyes were hard to see on the best of days. Now only the clumps of mascara along his lashes were visible.

‘Just passing through?’

‘No, Larry, I’m claiming salvage.’

He swallowed hard. ‘The ’goboys are prowling. Riko says the place is his now. He’s trouble. Using my place as his
office
and Mondo’s not even cold.’

I didn’t know Riko particularly, but I could read Larry’s displeasure like a beacon. ‘Get me a tequila! And send Riko my way.’

I took a seat, back to the south wall. The usual.

Sipping on the tequila, I swallowed a tab and tried not to jitter. I’d cast my net wide and I prayed to the great freaking Wombat that I could haul it in when the time came.

In less than an hour and the smell of ’goboy interrupted my nervous reverie. A waft of Larry’s chiffon-clad arm sent his servitors scurrying to secure the tables. Battening down.

Still edgy, punters saw the drill and clasped their drinks. Things quietened.

A howling followed hard on the ’goboy scent as a handful of them sauntered through the doors. The patrons at the bar shifted. Magically a clear path opened between the ’goboys and me.

That was the best thing about The Tert. People understood the rules.

Riko was easy to pick, dressed in red synthetics and smelling like carrion. The others wore synths in blues and greys and stooped just a fraction lower so that he appeared to be the biggest, even if he wasn’t.
Dog rules
.

Saliva glistened on their chests like beads.

Larry leaned across the bar to talk to Riko. In a matter of seconds their untidy heads swivelled in unison in my direction.

Group snap, guys.

I swallowed a private laugh and pushed back from the table.

Not hip to the art of polite conversation, they converged on me in a mass of stinking fur and wet, gaping mouths. Five of them, with Riko reclining at the bar to watch the fun.

I had a knife in each hand as the first one leapt across the table. I could have used the Luger but I wanted to make them bleed - for show - and, if I was honest, because they could repair themselves more easily from knife wounds than a hole in the head.

Yeah, OK, I didn’t really want to harm the dog part of them. It was the human bit I was after.

I sliced the first one in a thin line across his stomach, dodging his poisoned finger- and toenails.

Number two was nearly on my back when I launched upward and sideways. He collided with number three coming in. I creased their necks with blade and scrambled away. The remaining two came at me from different sides, but I dodged between them as if they were standing still and headed for Riko. I’d been born with quick reflexes and the parasite seemed to be sharpening them. The tab helped too.

A vision swarmed.

I realised suddenly that my real problem was the smell of their blood. I held my breath as I lunged across the room. An arm’s length away from Riko I took a quick gulp of air, just to clear my sight.

But Riko rolled a second before I contacted the space he was occupying. Quicker than I expected, his fist caught me on the corner of my jaw.

I stumbled and spun awkwardly. He was baring his teeth, pleased with himself. Sprouking. Flanked by the pair I’d dodged.

‘This place is mine now, girlie.’

Girlie!
The term raged like a scrub fire through my brain.

He stretched his hands out, beckoning. ‘You work for me. I pay you. I look after you. Not like Master.’

A garotting wire was in my fingers before I knew I’d even reached for it. I bridged the gap to Riko in one blurred stride, looping the wire around his hand, twisting, severing the skin like it was jelly.

Blood spurted and Riko howled. The wound gaped, baring the wrist bone. I could have sliced that as well but I didn’t want him to lose the hand permanently.

‘Bitch,’ he screamed.

Then he began to cry.

The ’goboys clambered around him, pressuring the wound, licking his face in comfort and, I suspected, for the taste of his blood. They carried him out. If they didn’t hurry up and find him a medic, he’d bleed to death.

From the corner of my eye I could see Larry sending his Pet cleaners to deal with the mess. Larry didn’t like blood. In ten minutes Hein’s would be like nothing ever happened - the beauty of running a bar you could hose out.

I glanced around at Hein’s silent patrons, some pinch-faced and scared, others grimly entertained: all careful.

My voice rose harshly. The wire stretched taut from one hand to the other. ‘I claim Jamon Mondo’s territory. Any disputes will be settled by me. Larry Hein will post new lore and act as my broker. Spread the word.’

Some punters cheered. Others stayed silent.

I could feel Larry’s concealed pleasure. He’d warned me about Riko, I’d remember that. Besides I needed some allies.

Parrish Plessis. Twenty-first Century War Lord!

Shite!

I waited in my room for Larry’s call. Tremors racked my body - a combination of gut-deep fear, the bad end of the speed and the parasite’s gluttony. Partially severing Riko’s hand had made me nauseous, and the parasite ecstatic.

All up it didn’t make for sang-froid.

Possible outcomes of the next few hours frayed my mind. Timing would influence everything in the end. And I had no damn control over the timing at all.

Lang would come, because he couldn’t risk me having a copy of the research he had gone to such lengths to destroy. But how would I know him? His shape-shifting made him the most dangerous of all.

Daac would come. Out of aggravation with me and concern at what I might do with his bloodlines register.

Pas and the Muenos would come because I was Oya.

Teece would come - because he loved me.

Poor Teece.

I dozed on the bed, shivering, and listened as The Tert came out of hiding. Gunshots sounded occasionally still, but it was mostly just shouts of drunken, celebratory relief.

Once or twice the Angel swarmed across my vision but I breathed it away in slow meditative breaths. The effort left me with a tearing headache.

To distract myself I dialed into Infonet and read what I could about the adrenal glands. Where they were. How they worked.

Larry’s call came a little before midnight.

‘Parrish, there’s a guy called Daac here demanding to see you. He’s got half an army with him. They’re making the punters
real
edgy.’

‘On my way, Larry.’

I stood and stared for one long moment at Merry 3#, wishing I could change places with her. Then I swallowed my last tab.

Hein’s was stinking Fishertown sardine material. Torley’s punters shoulder to shoulder with thirty or more of Daac’s men.

I could pick them now. They had a lean and hungry look, like the war would never be over.

The hum of conversation persisted when I entered, but like before a gap opened for me to the bar. It seemed my days of going unnoticed had gone the same way as my finer feelings towards Loyl Daac.

And there he was. Drink in hand with a face like hell. Stolowski was next to him, pale-faced and jumpy. On his other side, to my annoyance, stood Anna Schaum.

I stopped a couple of paces away, feeling the weight of his men around me.

‘Loyl. Sto.’ I nodded towards Anna. ‘What’s she doing here?’

BOOK: Nylon Angel

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