Terminal World (75 page)

He raised his lantern higher and peered into the gloom. The look on his face was that of a man who’d lifted the seat on an unflushed lavatory.

‘Like you said,’ he affirmed to Malkin. ‘Some cleaning up.’

It was only when Fray unbuckled the still-smoking spingun and placed the heavy piece on the ground that Quillon saw how badly he was trembling, how gravely the storm must have hit his already damaged nervous system. Malkin didn’t look much better, but then Malkin never had. Both men looked as if they had been living down in this black vault for years, as if daylight was no more than a distant memory.

Meroka put down her lantern and walked over to Fray. In the last few paces she broke into a loping run. She wrapped her arms around his tree-like girth, Fray looking down at her as if this was some arcane anthropological behaviour he had never counted on witnessing. He looked pleased and surprised and not quite sure how to react.

‘Guess you missed me.’

‘Tulwar told us you were dead, you big fucking oaf.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘He made it sound plausible,’ Quillon said, glad to walk away from the splattered remains of the two angels. He slipped the empty pistol back into his pocket and cupped his right hand over the wound in his left arm. ‘Told us you’d died of zone sickness. Said Malkin was dead too.’

The snake-thin barkeeper ran a hand through his oiled-back hair. ‘Do I get a hug as well?’

‘Some other time,’ Meroka said. Her attention was all on Fray. She released her hold, letting him breathe. ‘Did you really not know we were coming?’

‘You might find it difficult to believe, but we’re a bit thin on current affairs down here,’ Fray said.

‘We felt the pressure changes when the doors opened. Then we heard the shooting,’ Malkin explained. ‘Decided to see what all the fuss was about.’

‘Of course I guess I was hoping that if you
did
make it back to Spearpoint, you’d have the sense to work out where I’d gone,’ Fray said.

‘I don’t think Tulwar worked it out,’ Meroka said. ‘Fucker knew about the tunnels, but didn’t figure you’d made a bolt for them. And obviously didn’t know about this place, or what’s down here.’

‘It’s always good to keep a few secrets, even from your most trusted associates,’ Fray said.

‘Did you have your suspicions about him?’ Quillon asked.

‘No more than I have my suspicions about most people, Cutter. It’s good to have you back, by the way. I wasn’t expecting to see you for months, after we said goodbye. How was life outside? You did make it outside, didn’t you?’

‘For a little while.’

‘Guess we’ve got some catching up to do. You look like shit, by the way. Just between friends.’

‘You should see me in daylight.’ Quillon drew his hand away from his wounded arm.

‘How bad is it?’ Meroka asked.

‘I’ll mend.’ He realised that she hadn’t noticed the other wound, the one in his upper chest, and for now he saw no point in mentioning something that couldn’t be treated until they were back in daylight. ‘I don’t think it went deep; I can take care of it with what’s in my bag.’

‘We’ve got clean water and light,’ Fray said, looking past Quillon as he spoke. ‘Who are the other two, by the way? We haven’t been introduced.’

‘You will be,’ Meroka said.

Fray touched a hand to his forehead. ‘My hospitality’s slipping. Come with me. It’s not the height of luxury, but it’s kept Malkin and me alive down here. We’ll get Cutter fixed up in no time.’

He collected the spingun and started walking, limping with each stride, his shoes squeaking on the floor.

‘Tulwar’s going to send more people down here sooner or later,’ Meroka said. He’s got a whole army up there. Guy’s practically operating Spearpoint, the parts that haven’t been overrun by Skullboys and angels.’

Fray nodded. ‘That’s the way it was going before I decided to lie low. But we’ll deal with Tulwar in due course. He’s just an appliance that needs unplugging.’

They followed him to a black door in the black wall. He worked a key and unlocked it.

‘I couldn’t open it,’ Meroka said.

‘That was the idea, I’m afraid - I changed the locks. Not to stop you getting any further, but to stop Tulwar or anyone else I didn’t want down here. I figured if anyone did make it this far, I’d know about it.’ He shot her a grin. ‘Worked, didn’t it?’

‘Don’t go changing no locks on me again, all right? Nearly pissed in my shoes when I couldn’t get that door open.’

‘Meroka,’ Fray chided. ‘There’s a child present.’

 

On the other side of the door was a short tunnel, and at the far end of the tunnel was a room, much smaller than the main vault, which Fray had turned into his bolt-hole. It had metal doors leading out from it, the same kind they had already passed through. There were a couple of beds laid out on the floor, several crates stacked up around the beds, a couple of folding chairs, a card table. Quillon looked into one of the open crates and saw ammunition, packets of clinical-grade Morphax-55, candies, bottled water, cigarettes and alcohol. The place smelt inhumanly stale, but he supposed that was to be expected. Fray hadn’t promised them the heights of luxury.

Quillon sipped at bottled water - it had the gritty taste of collected run-off - and helped himself to one of the cigarettes. He had removed his coat and hacked away at his sleeve to expose the wound, but although he was unconcerned now about anyone seeing his wing-buds or the increasingly skeletal condition of his anatomy, he preferred not to draw attention to the chest wound. There was enough blood on his shirt from the arm wound to hide the evidence of it anyway. It could have been worse: the bullet had gouged a bloody trench through what little muscle bulk he retained, but it had left no trace of itself behind. With Kalis’s help he had staunched the bleeding, sterilised the wound, stitched the skin and applied a pressure pad and dressing. When it was done he shrugged the coat back on again, forcing his arm into the sleeve with difficulty. A knot of pain, hardening with each breath, told him that the chest wound would not be so easily treated.

‘You good, Cutter?’ Meroka asked.

‘I’m good.’

She shared a slug of Firebird with Fray, while Kalis and Nimcha declined the offer of anything to drink.

‘Meroka’s right - we can’t stay here now,’ Fray said, sorting through one of the other crates, his drink in the other hand. ‘Tulwar’s men will find their way down here eventually, if only to figure out what happened to the last bunch. There’ll be more of them, and they’ll have bigger guns. But that’s fine - Malkin and I were about ready to check out anyway.’

Malkin blinked. ‘We were?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Fray finished his drink and slammed the glass to the ground. ‘Place stinks like a shit-tip anyway. Pardon my language.’

‘It’s about time we told you about Nimcha,’ Quillon said, beckoning the girl away from her mother. ‘She’s the reason we came here, Fray. She’s the reason Tulwar tried to have us killed.’

‘I thought he set you up with the angels.’

‘That was just incidental. I don’t doubt they made it worth his while, a trade-off of some kind. You give us Quillon, we’ll let you keep Neon Heights. For the time being.’

‘So what does Tulwar have against Nimcha?’

‘Show him,’ Quillon said.

Nimcha reached up and removed her hat. She stared at Fray for a few moments then turned around slowly, presenting the back of her head to him, exposing the baubled star where her hair had been hacked away by Spatha.

‘Right...’ Fray said, on a falling note.

Quillon asked, ‘You know what this means?’

‘Kind of.’

‘And your opinion on the matter?’

‘You wouldn’t have brought her here if you didn’t think there was something in it. Right, Cutter?’

‘She can do it,’ Meroka said. ‘Make the zones change. I’ve seen - felt - it happen.’

‘There’s something in her head,’ Quillon said. ‘Machinery, I suppose. Machinery made of living matter, shaped from the moment she was conceived. But not like any machinery in our experience. I met a man called Ricasso while I was outside - he’s studied the zones and contemplated tectomancers and what they mean. I don’t think I understood all of it, but from what I can gather, the things we make - even the things angels make - aren’t very good at adapting to zone changes. They’re too clunky, too rigid. Living things make a better job of it - we’ re squishier, as Ricasso put it, more able to adjust to changes in the cellular grid. I think the stuff in Nimcha’s head must be like that as well.’

Fray looked sceptical but interested. ‘What stuff?’

‘She can feel Spearpoint. Or more specifically the Mire, or the Eye of God. She’s like a radio, and the Eye is the transmitting station.’ Quillon winced, as much over his inability to communicate his thoughts as from the throbbing pain in his arm. ‘But it’s not radio, or anything we can even begin to understand. Whatever it is, it’s able to reach through hundreds, thousands of leagues, into the mind of a girl.’

Malkin asked, ‘Why?’

‘That’s the hard part, the bit I don’t think even Ricasso understands. But we have to stop thinking of tectomancers the way we do. They’re not witches, that’s for sure. If that symbol on the back of her head means anything, then it was people like Nimcha - people with whatever gift she has - who made Spearpoint. They built it, for whatever purpose it was meant to serve. They were the architects, and perhaps the caretakers as well.’

Fray squinted. ‘Caretakers?’

‘Whatever Spearpoint is - and after the things we saw in the Bane, I’m starting to have an idea - it isn’t working now. The Mire, the Eye of God, is part of what’s gone wrong with it. The incursion, Ricasso called it: the intrusion into our world of something wrong. The world isn’t meant to be divided up into zones. They’re a mistake, a symptom, a sign that something isn’t right. But whatever’s wrong, it’s
been
wrong for so long that we’ve got used to it. We’ve been building our world around that wrongness for five thousand years. But it can’t go on.’

‘I kind of liked things the way they were,’ Fray said.

‘So did a lot of us, but that’s irrelevant. The world is dying. It’s getting colder and soon there won’t be enough trees to give us the wood and the firesap we need to keep things running. We have to leave, if only so that we can look back and see what’s gone wrong, and start thinking of ways to mend it. But the zones won’t allow us to escape. We can be as clever and ingenious as we like, but we can’t beat them.’

‘So we’re fucked, is what you’re saying. Not to put too fine a point on it.’

‘No, Fray. We’re not. Because we don’t need to fight the zones for ever. Whatever happened to Spearpoint all those years ago, I think it’s starting to put itself right. Perhaps it needed five thousand years to even begin to heal itself. All I know is that the process has begun, and that Nimcha is part of it.’

‘A kid?’

‘It’s what she can do that matters. What’s in her head, the talent. She’s probably not the only one it’s been calling out to. It’s been going on for generations: inheritance factors shuffling around in the population until they combine in the right way and give rise to a tectomancer. Someone who feels the zones, someone who can make them move. But for centuries - thousands of years even - they were wasted. Spearpoint couldn’t respond to them, couldn’t sense them, and they couldn’t sense Spearpoint. If they did discover their abilities, it was only enough to get them branded as witches and lunatics. But that’s not what they were at all. They were caretakers. Healers.’

‘Gatekeepers,’ Meroka said.

‘Yes,’ Quillon said emphatically, remembering the passage in the Testament.
‘ “And the mark of the keepers of the gates of paradise shall be upon her, and she shall be feared.”
But we don’t have to fear her! Revere her, possibly. Respect? Definitely. But fear? I don’t think so. She’s come to save us, not annihilate us. The Mire’s been calling her, seeking her guidance. It’s come all this way on its own, but now it needs a human mind to shape the process of recovery. That’s what she has to provide.’ He paused for breath. ‘That’s why we brought her here.’

Fray widened his eyes, nodded, then rubbed his palms together. For now, at least, his shaking had abated. ‘In which case, Cutter, I guess she’ll want to meet the Mad Machines. Because nothing happens in here without their say-so.’

‘Are they near?’ Kalis asked.

‘Just the other side of the zone.’ Fray flashed a devil-may-care smile. ‘Hope you’re all feeling up to the crossing.’

 

As Meroka had told him during their escape from Spearpoint, the zones became progressively more compacted within the structure. A boundary might span many leagues in the open lands beyond the city, several blocks inside Neon Heights or Horsetown, but now the transition between zones might easily be measured in hundreds of spans or less. Fray opened one of the doors leading out of the bolt-hole and led them down another shaft, one that became progressively steeper and more difficult to traverse. At length they came to another opening, and it was here that Quillon felt the first physiological tingles of an imminent transition, over and above the steady pressure that had been present since the last leg of the airship crossing.

‘We’re close now,’ he said.

‘You got that right.’ Fray set down his lantern. ‘Change vector’s pretty steep, just so you all know what to expect. Gonna feel like you’ve stepped from Steamville to Circuit City without taking a breath. Maybe worse than that. Think you can work out the Morphax dose for that, Cutter?’

‘I’ll do my best.’ By lantern light he dug inside his medical bag, sorting through the by now rather depleted supplies until he found the vials he wanted. He doled out pills to Meroka and Malkin, then turned to Kalis and her daughter. ‘I admire your strength,’ he told them, ‘but now isn’t the time to prove your self-reliance. I’ve seen it, and I don’t need any further convincing. But if Fray’s right, this is going to hit us hard unless we’re medicated.’ He demonstrated his own conviction on the subject by popping two of the pills. ‘I’m committed now,’ he said, swallowing them down. ‘I have to cross the zone now.’