Fractions (24 page)

Cat had a very cat-like smile.

Moh grinned back. ‘Calamity Jane,' he said.

Teeth white in the sunlight.

‘It's all fixed?' she asked.

‘Yup,' Moh said. ‘You're in good standing again. An honest-to-goddess accredited left-wing combatant.'

‘Back to the struggle. Good.'

The jacket slipped to the floor as she raised the pistol she had concealed underneath. She held it in her right hand and brought the left – the plastic cast becoming visible as the loose, lacy cone of her sleeve fell back – to give a steadying grip on the right wrist. Very cool, very professional.

‘Now I've got you, you son of a bitch,' said Catherin Duvalier.

 

Cat felt she had been waiting for this moment, this perfect revenge, for years rather than days. A glimpsed thought told her this was the case, that recriminations from their original break-up still echoed. The thought passed, leaving a steely memory of Moh stalking out of the hospital bay.

Her anger tensed the muscles of her damaged forearm, and hurt.

She'd had more visitors than anybody else in the secure ward. First Moh, then – in a virtual sense – Donovan. And later that evening the nurse who'd brought her dinner had put her head around the partition, smiled and said, ‘A friend of mine would like to meet you.'

‘Who's that?'

‘She's a teller at the Body Bank. She's learned about your position and she'd like to help you.'

‘I don't want to be a security guard, thanks.'

‘Oh, that's not the idea at all. Nothing like that. That's why she wants to see you. I think you'll be interested.'

Catherin shrugged and agreed. A few minutes later the bank teller walked in, heels clicking, clothes whispering together. She poised herself on the chair beside the bed.

‘Hello,' she said. ‘I'm Annette. I understand you're looking for a safe place to stay, out of the fights.'

It didn't take Annette long to convince Catherin that the femininist community was a good place to go until her status as a combatant was restored. It would give her a retreat, a chance to plan.

‘But that's all,' Cat explained hastily. ‘I'm not saying I agree with your ideas or anything—'

‘Of course not,' Annette said. ‘But don't count on it. We've won over quite a few combatants who've got tired of the boys' games.'

Cat smiled. It wouldn't happen to her. ‘When can I go?'

‘First thing tomorrow morning?'

‘Fine.'

‘Good. That's settled, then.' As she stood up to leave, Annette picked up Catherin's denims and looked at them with some disdain.

‘We'll have to get you something decent to wear,' she said, making to take the whole blue bundle.

‘No, no,' Catherin said. ‘I want to keep these. I can do something with them.'

‘All right…Let me just get your measurements. Excuse me a moment.' She took a scanner from her pocket and waved it from Cat's neck to her ankles. ‘See you tomorrow, Catherin.'

She returned at an ungodly hour the next morning with long paper bags draped over her shoulder. The nurse pulled a screen across the bay. Catherin looked at the bags.

‘Modesty,' she said. ‘Oh, Jesus!'

‘Go out in style, kid,' Annette said.

They had to help her to dress. It wasn't because of her broken arm in its shell, or her innocence of the intricate fastenings. There simply was no way to put on or take off these clothes independently. When they had finished they stepped back and smiled at her.

‘Oh. Oh,' the nurse said. ‘You're so beautiful.'

Annette took Catherin's shoulders and turned her to face a wall mirror. She stared at this strange double, coiffed and corsetted, crinolined in blue satin and white lace. She stepped forward, then back, amazed at the sheer amount of
stuff
that moved with her, the trimmings that fluttered and swayed. She had to laugh, shaking her head at the absurdity of it. She plucked at the skirt in front of her with gloved fingers, let it drop.

‘I feel silly,' she said. ‘Helpless.'

‘Not quite,' Annette grinned. She reached over to give Catherin a small handbag. ‘In there, my dear, along with some make-up carefully chosen for your complexion, you'll find a neat, ladylike little pistol.'

Catherin smiled, relaxing. This trace element of the kind of protection she had always counted on reassured her and enabled her to accept the kind on which she must now rely: a power that didn't come out of the barrel of a gun. The shaping grip around her waist, the frame of fabric below her waist – they were not a prison but a castle.

‘OK, sisters,' she said. ‘Let's make an exit.'

She walked out of the ward with her head high, looking straight in front of her. She had once seen a royal wedding on television, so she knew how to get the effect.

 

Moh looked at her for a long second.

‘Look, Cat, I'm honestly sorry about what I did. What I didn't do. But it's settled, it's squared—'

‘Not with me it bloody isn't. That's the point. Now I'm back in action I can take
you
prisoner.' She grinned. ‘And I just have.'

‘On whose behalf?' Moh said sourly, playing for time. ‘If it's the Left Alliance we've already worked out what—'

‘Oh, no,' said Cat. ‘On behalf of Donovan. I called him when I was logged on to sign the release, as soon as I was in the clear. The
CLA
are sending a couple of agents—'

‘
You did what
?'

The lady's gun wasn't much of a stopper, he thought; he could kill her before he died. For a moment he took comfort in that. Then he remembered there was a way out of the trap and out of the absurd feud that his offence against Cat had started, and which she seemed determined to finish. He eased back from tensing to spring, and waited, forcing a sickly smile.

‘Formally,' Cat said, ‘they're coming here to pay you the ransom for me, as they have every right to. And there's nothing to stop me handing you over to them.'

Moh heard footsteps on the path outside. He stood where he was until Valery came in and stood beside him. Cat flicked a glance at her but the pistol didn't waver.

‘Here's something to stop you,' Moh said. ‘Valery, Miss Duvalier has just claimed me as a prisoner on behalf of the
CLA.
Two of their fighters are due here – when?'

‘Any time now,' Cat said. ‘Valery, this has nothing to do with you.'

‘Yes, it has,' Valery said. ‘For one thing, you're still inside our community. For another—' She hesitated, looking uncertainly at Moh.

‘Just tell her, dammit,' Moh said. ‘If I don't move it this minute I'll be—' He stopped, fighting for breath, for words, against the pictures that his too efficient brain displayed. The thought of falling into the hands of the
CLA
and, worse, Stasis was turning his skin cold and the room dark.

‘You'll do it?' Valery asked him.

‘Yes, I'll do it.'

‘You have to say it,' Valery said gently. ‘Say it to her. For the record.'

Moh drew a deep breath. ‘As a citizen of the United Republic I claim the protection of its armed forces and pledge on my honour to exercise when called upon by its lawful authority the Army Council of the Army of the New Republic all the rights and duties of such citizenship including but not limited to the franchise and the common defence. Is that it?'

‘Basically, yes,' Valery said. ‘So, Cat, unless you want to tangle with the
ANR
I suggest you put that gun away.'

Cat stared at them both. ‘This place is
ANR
?'

‘Yes,' Valery said.

Cat's shoulders slumped. She lowered the pistol.

‘You still owe me one, Moh.'

‘Later,' Moh said through gritted teeth. Calming himself, he smiled. ‘You
are
pretty,' he said – as if that would be enough, would help, would cover everything – and backed out. He sprinted across the courtyard lawn, leapt flowerbeds and shrubs, dodged people. He wasn't surprised to find Valery Sharp keeping pace. A sidelong glance showed muscles firmed, doubtless by aerobics, under the clothes which also weren't as daft as they looked; they didn't get in her way.

‘I'm sorry,' Valery gasped. ‘We never expected—'

‘It's OK. Neither did I.'

They stopped in the cool gloom of the entrance-way. Crates were being loaded on to the truck. Only a couple more to go.

‘Now, what were you going to tell me?'

‘Take the truck,' Valery said.

‘Where?'

‘As far north as you can, then to any controlled zone. We've got clearance for all the borders, and tax-in-kind, but…if it looks like anyone's going to find out what's really in it, stop them at any cost. If necessary, burn the container section. At any cost.' She looked at him. ‘Can you do that?'

‘Yes. Will you call my co-op, with a message from me to a guy called Jordan: the search is over, do your own thing.'

‘I'll do that. And I'll keep Cat out of Donovan's way for a bit.'

‘OK. I hope I see you again.'

Valery smiled and shoved him on his way. ‘Go!'

He ran to the back of the truck, grabbed the last crate and hurled it in, jumped up to the deck and hauled the tailgate down after him as he vaulted back out. A man fumbled with a lock. Kohn waited for what felt like seconds until it was secure, then ran to the cab and almost flew through the door. He found himself facing his own gun. Janis was crouched under the steering-wheel, aiming at the door and trying to fit an ammunition clip at the same time. The whiplash sensor extension writhed as it tried to keep level with the windscreen.

‘Get
down
!' she hissed.

Kohn threw himself on the passenger seat, gasping. Janis passed the gun to him as if pushing it away from her.

‘It
talks
,' she said.

‘Yeah, yeah, you knew that.' Kohn rolled on to his back and clashed the clip and the computer into place. ‘What's it
say
?'

‘Cranks. Coming for us. It's picking up signals—'

‘Helmet.' He waved a hand in front of Janis until he felt the helmet in it. He half-sat, cautiously, slid the helmet on and flipped the glades down, jacked the lead into the gun and keyed the screensight to head-up. The gun's two views – where it was pointing, and what the eye-on-a-stalk was seeing – overlay his own like reflections in a window. They had never looked so distinct.

‘What did you get, gun?'

There was a pause as the computer interrogated the even tinier mind of the gun's basic firmware.

‘Phone call, public,
CLA
encryption style, otherwise no data extracted. Source vehicle now entering square at—'

And there it was, flashily outlined in red: a black Transit van with black windows, turning the corner. It drove around the square and rolled to a stop a couple of metres in front of the truck. Kohn made out two heat-images behind the light-shaded windscreen of the van.

He turned on the engine and grabbed the steering-wheel with his left hand. Janis watched.

‘Seat. Belts,' said the truck.

‘Oh, shut the fuck up.'

Janis clunk-clicked the belt on the driver's side and looped her arms through it, grasped it firmly with her hands, letting it take her weight.

‘Good,' Kohn said, like some psychopathic driving instructor. ‘Expect a jolt. Now take the brake off and give us some juice.'

He braced his legs together against the lower edge of the dashboard. The truck lurched forward. There was a heartening crunch as its steel fenders rammed the thin metal and hard plastic of the van. Janis yelled but it was surprise – the impact hadn't been too severe.

Kohn jack-knifed up and out of the cab, hit tarmac and made a low lunge for the van door, his body wrapped around the gun. He used the butt to smash the side window and whirled the weapon around to cover the inside. A young man and a young woman, both long-haired, oily-denimed, hailstoned with safety glass and still shaking from the collision. The man reached under the dashboard. Kohn fired one shot across the back of the man's hand and into the corner below the steering column. The hand snatched back and something hydraulic failed at the same moment.

‘Out,' Kohn said, and stepped backwards off the running-board.

They came out. The woman had her hands on her head. The man held his bleeding hand to his mouth.

‘You come for me?'

The woman shook her head, the man nodded.

‘Well, now you've f—'

Kohn's words were swamped by a thrumming roar, a skidding screech.

He turned his head – the gun stayed steady like a handrail – and saw an overdeveloped 'thirties Honda rocking gently where it had halted, a couple of metres away. Its rider was built to match, all the way from leather boots to leather cap. He dismounted, thus revealing that what had looked like a spare fuel-tank was actually an armoured codpiece. His arm and chest muscles would have been troubling even without the holografts.

He held up a badge. ‘Rough Traders,' he said. ‘Do you have a problem?'

Kohn pointed the gun groundwards and said, ‘A disagreement.'

‘Does anyone wish to lay a charge?'

The couple by the van shook their heads.

‘Nor me,' Kohn said. ‘But I wish to claim a ransom for a hostage, and I've had some difficulty persuading these two. I think you'll find that they do have the documentation.'

They nodded frantically. Kohn felt some tension ease. It had been just a guess that Donovan's mob would try to maintain the cover.

‘How much?'

‘Five hundred marks,' the woman said, finding her tongue at last. She held out a grubby banknote. Kohn made an insultingly elaborate show of scanning it with one of the gun's sensors (which duly registered that it didn't contain any large masses of moving metal) and wrote out a receipt pertaining to the release of one Catherin Duvalier for the sum of, etc. The rent-cop witnessed it and the man took the top copy, with the wrong hand at first.