Vengeance (21 page)

The locals had been able to build survival skills that he simply didn't have. They knew which parts of the city were safe and which weren't. Until he had time to gain a little knowledge, the spells were more dangerous than helpful to him. If a robber thought he had something worth stealing, his life was worthless. So he shuffled around and looked simpleminded if one of the patrols stopped him. Unfortunately, conflict always attracted men who persecuted the weak. O'Malley quickly learned to dodge such groups, but one cold morning his luck ran out. In trying to avoid one such group he ran into another. This group was dirty and unkempt, a band of wolverines taking the chance to kill those they disagreed with, hiding behind the guise of ‘militias.'

Their leader had lost an eye, and O'Malley could smell the odour of death-gnawing-from-within on his breath. The man forced his pistol into O'Malley's mouth and pulled the trigger. O'Malley's guts rumbled with the expectation of death, but he heard only the click of the hammer falling. The chamber was empty. The bully laughed and forced the gun in further.

"You can suck this, old man, or you can suck my cock. Which do you prefer?” He laughed, and withdrawing the gun, pushed it up O'Malley's nose. The man's stubble rasped against O'Malley's face, and he whispered, “I could let you live, fool. What do you want?"

O'Malley knew the man was lying. He wanted only to prolong the agony and offer hope he could snatch back when it suited him. O'Malley tensed, wondering which spell to use.

It never came to that. Instead a voice called out from behind him, “Who do you have there, Bartholomew?"

The bully drew back. “Just a loon, comrade,” he said sulkily.

As O'Malley looked at his rescuers, his heart sank. They were as dirty and unkempt as the others. But at least they carried themselves like proper soldiers, not thugs.

"Who are you?” Their leader was lean and stooped as if to hide how tall he was. “Don't you know how close you were to the front lines? Or are you a Hetero spy trying to sneak through?” He signalled, and his men searched O'Malley, pulling the spells from the pockets of his greatcoat. O'Malley tensed, briefly considered trying to snatch them back, but the gun pressed against his neck decided him against that.

"I've got some things you may be able to use. But you won't be able to use them without my help. I'll help if you make the right offer."

"Follow me,” the man said. “I think I know someone who may have a use for you."

Near the end of the morning session, Michael called Karen. “Sorry to intrude.” He chewed his moustache.

"That's okay.” She smiled.

"Sergei wanted you to come for lunch. He couldn't call himself; he's in a meeting, but he'll be out by one."

"He's changed his mind?"

"I guess so.” His smile was feeble,
but at least he's trying,
she thought.

"Tell him I'll see him at one."

"Great,” he answered. “See you later."

The spellhound preferred to hunt at night, though it had had several narrow escapes. The first time it encountered a native, the little girl ran screaming from it. It had eavesdropped on the locals until it could understand them and knew rumours now flew of animals escaped from the ruins of the zoo. Several times, pellets from primitive weapons had grazed it; only lightning reflexes and an acute sense of danger saved its life.

It was starving, reliant on scavenging for scraps filched from bins and small animals fought over with other predators. It was permanently ravenous, and if necessary would live on dead meat, whatever the animal it came from. Worse, there was so little magic around, it was inevitable the midgies would turn on it in a cannibal feast.

It needed magic; it craved it, just a sign that it wasn't completely in the wrong place. There was nothing here for it. Just fossil science, so steeped in ignorance it was laughable. O'Malley should have been as visible as if someone was lighting flares above him. The spellhound started worrying that it was completely wrong, and the man was nowhere around.

Then one day the spellhound sensed a spell. Faint, but clear.
The mage can't resist showing off his toys
, it thought with grim satisfaction, thoughts of failure suddenly forgotten.

It set off in the direction of the spell. It needed to be quick in case O'Malley fled before it reached him.

Sergei's meeting lasted longer than expected, and when Karen arrived, Michael met her on his own, apologising for his moodiness over the last few weeks.

"It's okay,” she said.

He spent the hour showing Karen the pet nanot he'd developed after hours, and she never did see Sergei. Michael said, “Cheerio, then,” as she headed for the underground car park. She hurried off to meet Gramma.

The city had once been a mediaeval port, but when the river silted up and ships grew bigger, it inevitably declined. There was left a network of cellars beneath the city where the merchants kept their sherry casks. The tunnels were extended at the start of the civil war, and now it was possible to scuttle several kilometres underground through damp passages half-lit by lamps, ignoring the scurrying rats in the darkness. Overhead both sides carried on killing, but an unofficial truce prevailed here, and it was even possible, if one knew the right people, to pass safely through the lines.

Karen was scanned for hidden weapons at each checkpoint. They found nothing. If she planned mayhem, she thought wryly, carrying weapons through the surveillance mesh wouldn't be her choice. As one who'd been monitored almost every day since birth, she knew the watchers could always be beaten but only to do it when really,
really
necessary.

She was met by an earringed brave wearing the colours of the most militant gay revolutionaries, who looked at her with distaste. “Come,” he said.

Blinking, they emerged into daylight. The houses had once been elegant Georgian mansions but were now squalid ruins. Gangs of vagrants squatted amongst the rubble between the remaining buildings. Every so often they'd hear the
screee
of an incoming near miss and the crump of its impact, sometimes close enough to shake the ground. These alternated with the thump of returning fire from Homo guns. Some of them had been obsolete for years, but they could kill as well as any smart weapon. Others were newer, for weapons were still a source of money and influence.

Her guide led her past more checkpoints until they reached Gramma's house. He watched her climb the steps, making sure she went exactly where she was supposed to, because she was from the other side. Neither side, she decided, had a monopoly on bigotry.

Inside, a curtain twitched. Marta, Gramma's bodyguard-cum-secretary probably, or Gramma herself. The door opened, and Marta studied her. She was a tall redhead, powerfully muscled from hours of training, slender as a reed but tough as cable.

"Hello,” Karen said.

"Hello yourself.” Marta was equally cool but not unfriendly. She led Karen into the lounge.

"Your grandmother will be here soon. Drink?"

"I'd rather have a hug, old girl.” Karen suddenly felt very tired.

Marta put her arms round her, and they hugged and kissed.

Karen fought down old emotions, long-buried passions. “I've missed you.” She wiped her eyes.

"You know where we are.” Marta smiled. “I know it isn't easy, but you made your choice."

"Yeah,” Karen said dryly, and the door opened.

A big, red-faced old woman with grey, frizzy hair entered, still upright, despite the need for the stick on which she leaned, still vigorous despite her age.

"Hello, child,” Red May Vickery greeted her granddaughter.

"Hello, Gramma.” They hugged fiercely.

"Finally got away from him, have you?” She winked.

"You'll need to better that, old girl. Still got that dummy of a girlfriend?” Karen shot back, getting an approving nod.

"Leave us, Marta.” Gramma nodded toward the door.

Marta said, “See you later,” and, as she reached the door, shot Karen a smile so brief she almost missed it.

Karen's heart lurched, but she reminded herself she'd made her choice when she'd met Sergei.

She and Gramma studiously avoided politics, though it tainted everything they talked about—Linda's death, which shocked her more than she would admit, Sergei, Michael, Marta, the mutual acquaintances who one or the other of them had been unable to keep in touch with. Several times Gramma started to speak but stopped.

"You know,” Gramma said when they'd exhausted every other subject and turned to politics. “There are people on both sides who'd call us traitors for sitting here together."

"Probably,” Karen agreed. “But intolerance is nothing new. And surely your side wouldn't harm their revered elder states-person?"

Gramma's laugh was a bark. “Don't you believe it. For some it wasn't enough that I came out. I shouldn't just have left your grandpa but taken his cojones in a box.” She growled at Karen's grin. “What?"

"
Cojones
?” Karen asked incredulously; years of watching Latino vids had given Gramma a colourful vocabulary.

Gramma chuckled. “
My
grandma used to watch gangster films. I won't bore you with the quotes from those."

"Must have been tough, leaving Grandpa.” Karen suddenly had a feeling of moving into uncharted territory.

"Broke his heart. I did love him, I thought,” Gramma said. “When I was young, being a lesbian wasn't a good career move. Marriage was better for a politico's image. It took years to stop fighting my sexuality."

"Is that why Mum went to America? Because she couldn't cope with being Red May's daughter?"

"Probably,” Gramma admitted cheerfully. “Unlike you, she never had any backbone."

Karen felt the titanic weight of her approval. “Look at us now.” She looked at the ruins outside. “Would you have done things differently if you'd known how they'd turn out?"

"Probably.” Gramma weighed her answer. “I only provided a focus. I didn't start the war. That just needed dogmatism on both sides. One side wanted their rightful place in the sun, the other worried their children would be corrupted. It was okay while times were good. But once the postmillennial boom was over and times got hard, the backlash against the liberals started. We drew together for protection, but creating our own zones was probably the worst thing we could have done. Instead we created our own ghettos.” She sighed, then returned to the present. “Anyway, it's done. And if I had known, I'd still have followed my conscience."

Her gaze grew bleak, and Karen shivered a little at how inhuman she suddenly looked. “I'd do anything to give us a chance,” she said. “I'd sell myself, Marta, even you, if I thought it would help us win.” She smiled, and suddenly Red May was again Karen's Gramma. “It's academic. We're outnumbered ten to one. Nothing's going to turn the trickle of support we get from the States and the rest of Europe into a flood, is it?"

Karen paused, judging her next question carefully because they'd moved onto really delicate ground. “Isn't there anything you can do? How many more Lindas do there have to be?"

"How long have you been in politics, girl?"

Karen shrugged. “I had to ask."

"I know you did. But it's not that simple. At the risk of sounding sexist, it's the guys on both sides who are the problem."

"You mean...” Karen raised an eyebrow. Sarcastically: “It's all the men's fault?"

Gramma sniffed. “You know damn well that's not what I mean. Most women only fight when they're backed into a corner. The atrocities tend to be committed by men.” She sighed. “To be honest, some of our guys are probably worse. As if they have to be more macho than the Heteros,” she said. “Most of them were gentle guys to start with. But atrocity after atrocity, retaliation after retaliation, it's a crucible, melting away any softness. Most don't so much kill to live, as live to kill.” After a pause, she added, “I'm sorry about Linda."

Her use of Linda's name triggered the deep programme Michael had implanted at lunchtime, after he'd greeted Karen with the immobiliser. Karen had never suspected the depth of his hatred, that he was so cunning, or even that he knew who her Gramma was.

The killer programme surfaced from the depths where Michael had buried it, a yawning monster that would devour them all. Karen tried to speak, to warn Gramma. She had no volition to call Marta, anything, but her traitor muscles refused to obey. As her mind screamed, she picked at the false nail Michael had replaced one of the real ones with.

Gramma stared into space, perhaps thinking she'd offended her, while Karen wanted to warn her to get away, that she was a loaded gun ready to fire.

Reacting to the nails on her other hand, the false nail unravelled into a thread-thin garrotte. When Gramma coughed, Karen lunged, wrapping the cable around her throat.

Gramma fought in vain to loosen the wire, but despite the blood making it difficult for her to grip, Karen held on grimly until her grandmother's struggles weakened.

During the midmorning break when the rain stopped, the groups took a walk in the grounds, while overhead the
thwacka-thwacka-thwacka
of gunships standing guard echoed.

For twenty minutes the two groups circled in their goldfish bowl, separate schools pacing one another but avoiding eye contact. For each party the other might as well have not existed.

Only at the end when they went in together did the Parti Homo delegation acknowledge Karen's existence. The hatred in their eyes should have frozen the blood in her veins. But she stayed composed, even when one of them spat at her feet. For a moment it looked as if there would be violence, and everyone tensed.

"Enough!” Red May's voice rang out, and the Parti Homo withdrew slowly. “Get inside,” she ordered her people.

She stood looking at Karen when the others went in. Karen stared back. Finally the old woman nodded and followed the others.

Karen never found out why Marta entered the room at that precise moment. Perhaps she heard something—maybe they knocked over a vase. Whatever the reason, she came in as Gramma weakened, life ebbing from the old woman's body. Marta jabbed a paralysis dart into the base of Karen's skull, jamming the signals from her brain so her muscles locked up. It left her paralysed, whilst her body struggled with both the intruder device and Marta's dart. Meanwhile Marta called a medic team and set about saving May.