Sam stole glances at her old friend as they walked. He looked five kilos lighter than when he’d left, and a thin black beard grew on his chin and neck. His hair looked like a dirty bird’s nest, but that was nothing new. There’d been a time when Skadz fussed over maintaining his throwback hairstyle. Clearly that hadn’t been a priority while living outside the city.
A pair of Nightcliff guards stood to either side of the hangar door. They eyed the newcomer with open suspicion but said nothing. Sam rolled the heavy doors closed behind them and waited until the booming clang reverberated through the building before she turned to face her friend.
Whatever she’d been about to say, the words died on her lips. Skadz stood facing the empty hangar, shaking his head. “I thought maybe you guys were out on a mission, and the blokes at Woon’s were just fucking with me.”
“It’s no joke,” Sam said. “The Mel is gone. Crashed.”
“Skyler go down with it?”
“Many think so, but no. He survived. A lot of shit’s happened since then, though. If he’s alive now, I have no idea. It’s a long story.”
Skadz digested that for a moment, and grunted. “So where is he? Where’s Jake? And where’s Prumble? I stopped at the garage on my walk in and it looked like the place had been bombed.”
Samantha bit back her answer. There were more important things to discuss. “What are you doing here, Skadz? What do you want?”
“Huh?” he asked, and glanced over his shoulder at her. “This is my hangar.”
“Like hell it is.”
He burst into laughter then, and pointed at her. “The look on your bloody face! C’mon, Sammy, relax. I came in for a bit of trade with the big man, and thought I’d say hello. Let’s open that bottle, yeah? I’ll stay the night, and we can trade our stories.”
“Stories,” Sam repeated.
“Yeah. Though I’ll be damned if mine is even a tenth as interesting as yours. Holy shit, Sam, what the hell happened here?”
She ignored the question. “You walk away without warning, for a year, and the reason you come back is to do business with Prumble? Where the hell have you been?”
“Here and there,” he said with a shrug. “Spent some time down in Derby, but mostly I just wandered. Walkabout, the locals call it, yeah? It’s as boring as it sounds.”
“If it was so boring why’d you go? Why’d you stay away so long?”
“Boring is exactly what I wanted, Sammy. What can I say? I cracked. I hated being the candy man for an entire city.”
She stepped up close to him, using her height out of habit, and looked down into his bloodshot eyes. “That’s it? You couldn’t handle the responsibility?”
He said nothing. Instead he gave her an exaggerated shrug.
“What a crock of shit,” Sam said.
Skadz swallowed hard. “Fine, you need to know? Someone died.”
“Lots of people die. Everyone, in fact.”
“Someone died because I didn’t scavenge what they needed.”
“Who?”
“Remember Mary? The sheila I was seeing down in Hidden Valley?”
Sam nodded. “Shit. She died?”
Skadz shook his head. “Her daughter. Seven years old, cute as hell. She had this condition, called … doesn’t matter. I promised to find the meds she needed.” He hung his head. “No, fuck that. It’s not that I couldn’t find the damn pills, it’s that I bloody forgot, all right? The lists back then were huge. Our missions totally mental. One request out of hundreds slipped my mind and Mary’s little girl died.”
“That …” Sam paused, searching for words. “It’s tragic, but not the worst thing—”
“You want to know the worst part? Okay. Mary told me to apologize to the girl, before they cremated her. Told me to say something that might make her understand. And I tried, Sam, I fucking tried, but I … I couldn’t remember her name, Sammy. The little girl. Her name was just, gone. Mary spotted it in my face and flew into a rage, threw my scatterbrained ass out, and told me never to come back. I still can’t remember that little girl’s name, Sam.”
Sam backed off a step. “Jesus H. Why didn’t you just tell us?”
“I already had to deal with seeing her accusing fucking stare every time I closed my eyes, Sammy. Didn’t need to see the same every time I talked to you. You or anyone else.”
“It wouldn’t have been like that.”
“Wouldn’t it? I can see it now, in your freaky blue eyes.”
“Don’t. I’m just surprised to see my old friend, that’s all. I’m not going to judge you, Skadz. That’s in the past, and … Fuck, man, billions of people died. You’re pretty damn low on the list of bad guys.”
He glared at her. A flash of that temper she knew too well. Then Skadz sucked in a long breath through flared nostrils, and the hardness in his face melted.
“If it’s any consolation,” Sam said, “Skyler almost ran us into the ground after you left. But then …”
“Then?”
Sam motioned for him to sit. “Neil Platz hired us, and truly did run us into the ground.”
Chapter 29
Darwin, Australia
29.SEP.2283
RUSSELL BLACKFIELD WOUND up, sucked in a sharp breath, and heaved with both hands.
The Jacobite painting flew from the roof of Nightcliff’s tower like a Frisbee, spinning in a flat trajectory for a moment before it banked and veered to the right. A second later the flight turned to more of a plummet, down into the depths of hell. That’s fitting, he mused as he wiped his hands together.
He watched the canvas tumble and flutter until it disappeared just over the wall of the fortress.
“He scores!” Russell shouted as he thrust his fists into the air. A faint echo of his cheer rebounded off the skyscrapers that huddled next to the fortress like beggars at a trash fire. Somewhere a dog barked viciously, and he even saw a few candles lit in the tower windows at his booming cheer. Two in the morning might not have been the best time for his rampage, in hindsight.
He had to imagine the horrible excuse for artwork, now that it had left his field of view. The cult’s sacred image, lying in a heap near Ryland Square, waiting to be ripped apart by Darwin’s pickers when the sun rose.
It was almost enough to quench his rage. Almost.
Russell stood there, at the edge of the roof, and inhaled. The air tasted worse than it smelled. Stagnant ocean with a hint of piss, a classic Darwin vintage amplified by time spent above. Atmosphere on the space stations was sterile with a faint hint of metal and silicon. Once in a while he’d catch a whiff of flatulence not his own, but otherwise it was like breathing nothing.
He’d completely forgotten the giant armpit Darwin turned into when the rains went away. It would be even worse when the sun rose.
The skyline before him had changed since he’d last seen it. Seen in the dead of night it took him a moment to figure it out, but once he knew, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Gardens, he thought. He could see the foliage, the greenhouse tents, silhouetted against a starry sky. Fucking gardens everywhere. Had the slumlord succeeded so completely? The thought bewildered him. Even more confusing was how they could water and fertilize so much growth. It implied a level of organization he would have sworn was impossible.
“No wonder they haven’t been complaining about food,” he said to himself. “And after I went to all that trouble to get some of the bloody farms back, too.”
He shrugged. So Grillo had accomplished his task. Good, now I can thank him and send him back to his maze. Breathing through his mouth, Russell stomped back to the door and trudged down the stairs to his office.
My bloody office. It felt like an alien world. Grillo not only had decided his mandate included remaking the office, but the posh bastard also seemed to have a penchant for interior decorating. The space was clean, warm, inviting, and devoid of any personality.
The painting had been the only thing with any meaning. Russell grinned again at the thought of it crumpled and broken in the dusty alley below the wall.
A quick search of the room failed to turn up any alcohol, so Russell went to the double doors, opened them enough to see the anxious guards fidgeting there, and barked a request for vodka. The two men looked at each other as if he’d spoken to them in Swahili.
“Whatever you can find, then,” Russell said. “I need a drink.”
Neither man moved.
“Now!”
He shouted so loud that both men flinched. One finally broke away and shuffled off down a side hall. Russell sneered at the one who remained, then slammed the doors closed.
A few minutes later a soft knock at the door preceded the entrance of a bleary-eyed administrator.
“Kip Osmak,” Russell said. He’d plopped himself into the sleek office chair Grillo had placed behind the simple desk. “What a pleasant surprise.”
The greasy, feeble man stepped into the room and set a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the desk. He put a single shot glass next to it.
Russell plucked the cup and flipped it in the air, catching it deftly. He examined it, and though it looked clean he made a show of wiping it with his undershirt. “It’s been awhile, Kip. How the hell are you?”
The man fidgeted. He turned back and forth between Russell and the exit, his stringy gray hair swaying about his face with the movement.
“Somewhere to be?” Russell asked.
“I’m fine. Good. No, nowhere especially.”
“Sit,” Russell said. “Drink.” He poured a shot and pushed the glass toward the man.
“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind,” Kip said.
“I do mind.”
“Uh,” Kip muttered. He wrung his hands together, relented, and picked up the glass.
Russell hoisted the bottle in a silent toast and tilted it back. The liquid burned in his throat before giving way to pleasant warmth. Kip only sipped his drink, Russell saw.
“What’s the matter with you?” Russell asked.
“It’s two in the morning. We weren’t expecting you.”
“Clearly.”
Before Russell could interrogate the pathetic man for information, the doors swung open again. Grillo entered. Even at the odd hour, he wore a tailored suit and had not a hair out of place. Still, it had taken him an hour to get here since Russell stepped off the climber.
“You may leave, Mr. Osmak,” Grillo said in a calm voice. “And thank you for the prompt alert of our guest’s arrival.” The two guards remained at the threshold of the room, and when Kip hurried past they stepped out and closed the doors behind them.
Russell leaned back in the modern, uncomfortable office chair and plopped his feet on the desk.
Grillo, to his credit, simply took the guest chair opposite, and clasped his hands in front of him. “Welcome back, Russell,” he said.
“I thought we might chat.”
“Of course. Please.”
“Do you want to say a little prayer first, or anything like that?”
A flicker of anger shone in the man’s eyes, then vanished. If he’d noticed the missing painting, he hid it well. “I’ll be fine.”
“Drink?”
“No. Thank you. Why are you here, Russell?”
Blackfield spread his hands wide. “This is my office. Am I unwelcome?”
“I mean on the ground,” Grillo said thinly. “Of course you are always welcome, but I thought we had everything running to your satisfaction.”
“Very much so,” Russell said. “In fact, I was so impressed by your status reports that I found them hard to believe.” He pressed the tip of his index finger onto the desk and held it there.
Grillo said nothing. His face betrayed nothing.
Russell Blackfield slid his finger across the desk and then checked it for dust. He found none, then smelled it just to be an ass. “Thought I’d come see for myself. First things first, you really ought to fire your decorator. This place is as bland as a piece of toast.”
“I could have it restored to—”
“Don’t bother,” Russell said. “It suits you.”
Grillo smoothed his pant legs. “Well, regarding my progress here. If you found my report unbelievable, perhaps another tour would dispel your concerns.”
“Nah, I saw the gardens from the roof. Nice trick, that. How’d you do it? How’d you get all those fuckers to work together?”
“Don’t you recall my demonstration? I offer them a carrot and a stick, and they get to choose one.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Carrots are quite popular in a starving city.”
Russell nodded. He understood that, though he preferred to offer two sticks. “Same goes for this Jacobite act? You give them a little hail-Jacob-on-high blah-blah nonsense, and they line up to suck your willy?”
Grillo’s bottom lip pursed inward, his temples bulged. There, Russell thought, I got under your skin for once. How’s it feel?
“My beliefs are my business,” Grillo said. “And regardless, the Jacobites have brought peace to the streets. Something as alien to this city as the Elevator itself.”
“Don’t you mean ladder?”
Grillo leveled a gaze on Russell that could have withered a fresh rose. “My personal life is not your concern. You gave me six months,” he said. “It’s been five, and I have given you no reason to doubt my success.”
“Darwin on a serving plate, yeah. But what happens at six months?”
At that Grillo shrugged. “That’s for you to decide.”
