Embedded (15 page)

  Except the end one. The dead blurds were scattered on the floor under the sill because the grille was free. Someone had taken the bolts out so it could be lifted off to open the window. They disturbed the collection of blurd corpses every time they did it.

  He lifted the mesh off and opened the window.

  The smell was worse. Overpoweringly worse. The fearsnake squirming in his gut, he peered out.

  The restroom windows looked out into a dead space, a blind gravel sump or run-off between the wings of the station. Directly under the window, five human bodies lay face-up, clothes plastered to them, skin like white cheese, draped over one another where they had been rolled out of the window and dropped. Black blurds were buzzing around pale, open mouths, clustering like sequins around unblinking eyes or the black-red punctures of hard-round entry wounds.

  He lurched backwards, feeling the panic attack hitting him like a roadliner. The window banged shut, and he threw up down the inside of it, then again on the floor.

  He spat. He moved towards the door. He tried the secure.

  "Sergeant? Sergeant, this is Bloom. Come back. Stabler? Kilo One?"

  He went out into the corridor.

  She was right in front of him, the young woman they'd raised oh-so-gently out of the inspection pit. She halted in her tracks as he stepped out of the restroom in her path. Her face was set with purpose but a curious lack of emotion. Clotted blood matted her sealed scalp wound.

  There was an SO-issue PDW in her hand.

  She shot him with it.

FIFTEEN

Someone in the sky was smiling down on him. Maybe it was God. His mother would have told him that it was God, God smiling down from the sky and watching out for him, but his mother wasn't around and he didn't know where she had gone.

  The smile was a big smile. It filled the sky up. It was a cheerful, happy smile, a smile full of big white teeth that were so big and polished, one of them was actually catching the light, like a cartoon glint. There were dimples at the corners of the mouth, smile dimples.

  He wanted to know where his mother was.

  Cold rain fell on his face, like dressmaking pins. The smile did not alter. He could hear voices in the distance. It was very strange. There was no sign of his mother.

  He recognised that this was an occasion when he'd been really scared. He'd been scared because he hadn't really understood what was going on, and he'd got lost, and his mother hadn't been there to find him or explain any of it.

  The smile was becoming a little unnerving. No one held a smile for that long. But there were periods of visual blackness, the durations of which he couldn't estimate. Each time his vision returned, the smile was still there. It hadn't gone anywhere, it hadn't stopped smiling, even when he hadn't been able to see it. It was all still there, the smile, the voices, and the rain on his face.

  It meant something. All of it meant something. It had great significance, just not to him.

  His hip hurt. His head hurt. He wondered where his mother was.

  They'd come into the city together, leaving home early. She had put on her best coat, and he had been able to tell, though she had said nothing directly, that there was something going on. Putting on her best coat and leaving home early meant something. It had significance, just not to him.

  They went on the rail instead of the bus. That had significance too. His mother said she wanted to be sure of being on time, and you couldn't trust the buses. The rail was much more expensive. His mother kept blowing her nose.

  You saw the city a great deal better from the rail than you did from the bus. You saw it sprawl out, veiled by plumes of white steam from the processor factories, glinting in the sun, catching the sunlight like polished teeth.

  He was hungry, but they had to keep an appointment. He wanted to stop at a ProFood counter and eat a chocolate stick or a Bill Berry Muffin. His mother held his hand and pulled him along. His mother said they had to see a man. She said orbital construction work was dangerous, a very dangerous occupation, and you had to be brave to do it, and they'd always known that, they'd always known the risk. She said it was a terrible thing, but they would be all right. The Office would look after them. That's why they were going to see the man.

  It all meant something. He knew it meant something. It had great significance, just not to him.

  The man was waiting for them in a brown building off the crowded streets. Sunlight outside, echoing halls inside, hushed voices lining the interiors like velvet. His mother had stopped on the steps outside the brown building and taken a breath, as if she was getting ready to sing. When she sang at church, she always took a moment to get ready and compose herself.

  The man was nice, but it wasn't real nice. It was put-on nice. Making-an-effort nice. The man kept looking at him and smiling.

  "And this is your son?" he asked.

  His mother sat down. She pulled down the hem of her best coat. The man offered her a tissue from a box on his desk. Someone brought tea-effect. Through the windows behind the man's chair, the glass of the city twinkled in the sunlight like polished teeth catching the light.

  The man talked about stuff that he didn't really understand, but the man was evidently worried that he could understand, that he understood too much, and kept looking at him, just to check. Another man came in. He was younger, and he wore a long black garment, and both his mother and the first man called him father.

  But the man in the black garment wasn't his father. He wasn't even Father Ercole from the church where his mother went to sing, though the garment he wore was similar to Father Ercole's. Father Ercole was old, and nice. Genuine nice. Father Ercole would ask his mother to sing most Sundays, and give his mother a moment to get ready and compose herself before singing out in front of all the people.

  This man, in his black garment, was too young to be anyone's father. He certainly wasn't his father. His father was older, and taller, and had big heavy arms, and worked in orbital construction, and they didn't see him very often because he was always away on contract.

  They hadn't seen him for months.

  The man in the black garment asked what kind of preparations needed to be made, and his mother said that her husband had never really been of the faith. It was her faith. She was the churchgoer. She liked to sing at the services. It was a community thing. Her husband, he'd never really been bothered with such matters. Even when he was home, he hadn't cared to come with her to church, even though he'd never stopped her doing it. He was a rationalist, she explained. That's how he'd described it. That's what the future was all about. God had only ever got people into wars and things. You didn't need God when you had space.

  The man in the black garment had expressed some concern. On the deceased's form, it clearly stated his personal conviction as being the same as hers. Many aspects of the deceased's work with the Office had been predicated on this, including work placements, family and accommodation allowances, and holidays. The Office funded a funeral service based on personal conviction, as it was listed in the form. The man in the black garment was concerned that his mother was misrepresenting her husband's choices and beliefs. Perhaps she was upset, and angry at God because of the accident? If so, this was understandable, because of grief but, the man in the black garment insisted, he needed to get at the truth. She mustn't, she
shouldn't
, let her own feelings get in the way of her husband's wishes.

  Besides, if it turned out that the deceased had misrepresented his personal conviction and registered false information, there would need to be an investigation to see if allowance and compensation had been wrongly administered.

  Her mother said that her husband had been brought up in the church, just like her, just like their son here, but it had become just a notional thing. He had ticked the box for the want of ticking a box. These last ten years, his faith had declined.

  His mother needed some more tissues to blow her nose on. Her tone changed. He knew this meant something. It all meant something. It had great significance, just not to him. She said she couldn't believe they were saying these things at a time like this, after what had happened. He'd given good service, devoted service. What did they mean, an investigation? If there had been overpayments or payments made in error, she couldn't afford to pay anything back. They had so little anyway, and particularly now. The man in the black garment assured her it wouldn't come to that, and that there would be full industrial compensation. But a few things might have to happen. They might, for instance, have to relocate to different accommodation. Smaller. There were only two of them now, and tied housing was in demand. This was especially likely if they had been receiving a faith-supported accommodation grant under false pretences.

  His mother said, in a very quiet voice, that this simply couldn't and shouldn't be the case. It was her home, her family home. Her son's home. Her son, her boy here, his home. She was part of the community, the church. They had neighbours and friends. They'd been there ten years.

  The man in the black garment suggested to the other man that perhaps the child would be better off waiting out in the hall while they talked. He might get upset. He didn't really seem to understand what was going on. He was only four, after all. There were picture books outside, and some toys.

  His mother kissed him and allowed him to be led out of the room, away from the window with its view of the city, twinkling like polished teeth.

  He was taken into the hall, which smelled of floorwax, and asked to sit on a bench under a window where the sunshine streamed in. A young woman brought him a juice box and a piece of fruit. She showed him the box beside the bench where there were picture books, and a woodblock puzzle, and a plastic tank with an SOMD logo on it, and a windup toy spinrad made of tin.

  He didn't like the fruit much, so he put it on the window ledge. He was still hungry, though. After what seemed like a long time, the young woman was called away, and the toy spinrad lost its appeal. He wandered along the echoing halls, through patches of sunlight falling through the tall windows, brushed by the soft voices.

  Outside, on the steps in the sun, he saw the ProFood counter that his mother had hurried him past on the way in. Workers were queuing for their beverage cups and chocolate sticks. He went over and looked up at the photograph menu displayed over the counter, the glossy coffees and sugar-dusted pastries and cheese-and-spinach slices.

  Then the man at the counter told a woman in the queue that she had a sweet little kid, and the woman replied that the child didn't belong to her, so whose child was it? The little boy was lost. A lost little kid in the middle of a busy city street. Where were his parents? Oh, the poor thing. He must be so scared.

  He wasn't scared, not until they started to fuss around him. They asked him where his father was, and he didn't know, and they asked him where his mother was, and he realised he didn't really know that either. She was in the big brown building with the steps at the front, but there were big brown buildings with steps at the front all around them, and he couldn't tell them apart.

  So that was when he got really scared. He wanted to know where his mother was. There was no sign of her. He didn't really understand what was going on, except that somehow he'd got lost, and his mother wasn't there to find him or explain any of it.

  And neither was his dad.

  The man who worked the ProFood counter came out, and took him round to the side of the stand, in front of the big, brightly coloured die-cut picture of Bill Berry the Astronut, and gave him a NoCal-Cola ice-pop to lick while someone called the police.

  He ate the lolly, and gazed up at the die-cut picture of Bill Berry. Bill Berry, in his shiny silver suit, was holding out a chocolate stick and smiling his trademark Berry Happy Smile
^®
.

  The smile was a big smile. It filled the sky up. It was a cheerful smile, a smile full of big white teeth that were so big and polished, one of them was actually catching the light. There were dimples at the corners of the mouth, smile dimples.

  "What's your mother's name?" the ProFood man asked him.

  "Mrs Carmela Bloom," he said.

  "Good, okay. That's good. We'll find her for you, don't you worry. We'll find her right away. So what's your name, son?"

  "Lex Falk," he replied.

The blackness came and went again, came and went. A couple of times, during the blackouts, he was sure he could hear a slooshing sound, like someone moving around in a bath tub. Each time his vision returned, the smile was still there. Bill Berry's giant Astronut smile. It hadn't gone anywhere, it hadn't stopped smiling, even when he hadn't been able to see it. It was all still there, the smile, the voices and the rain on his face.

  The rain was weird. He didn't understand the significance of the rain. Standing beside the ProFood stand, sucking his lolly, looking up at the Berry Happy Smile
^®
and trying not to be really scared, it was sunny. It was hot. It was a sunny, sunny day.

  Why was there rain on his face, cold and prickly like little dressmaking pins? Where was his mother? His hip hurt. His head hurt.

  When the man from the ProFood counter had asked him his mother's name, he'd said it was Carmela Bloom, but that was patently ridiculous, because his mother's name was Elaine, and she'd died when he was two years old, and his stepmother, the woman who'd raised him, her name was Clare Chavest, later Clare Falk, and neither of them had ever taken him to a brown SO building on a sunny day to discuss funeral arrangements and industrial accident comp with regards to his father, because his father wasn't in orbital construction, he worked for LowmannEscaper, and he wasn't dead either. He was living on Twenty-One with a new family, a family he'd left Clare to create, a family Lex had never met because he'd never really been prepared to make the effort and ride a driver all the way to Twenty-One, even if they were his halfbrothers and sisters.