Archon's Queen (4 page)

“Oh, I’m sorry, Pix… I didn’t mean to make you think of Tommy.”

Anna looked up, red around her eyes, and wiped her nose. “I… I couldn’t save him. Bloody filth shot him because of me. He was always reckless, showing off.” She covered her face as the tears came on strong. “Tommy was more worried about Arsenal winning than us gettin’ killed.”

“Every time I ask how it was your fault, you change the subject.” Penny’s spatula scraped a pan. “When are you going to let me into your private world?”

“Is your autoshower buggered or did he just want to peeping tom me?”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. The water’s a bit tepid, but it runs.” Penny put two sausages on a plate with some eggs and set it on the table. “Probably wanted to gape.”

“Figured.” Anna tucked closer to her breakfast. “Thanks.”

Penny fixed herself a plate and sat. Before she touched the food, she put a hand on Anna’s wrist. “I’ve been looking after you for ten years, yet I feel like you’re shutting me out of some important bits. You need to change some things, Pix. Ol’ Jack said you were a mess last night, called him Daddy.”

Wearing a fierce blush, Anna poked at her food, unable to look up. “Yeah.”

“You can tell me, Pix. I don’t care what you’re hidin’ from. I can’t help unless you let me. You used to kill people for that sod Carroll, didn’t you? You know the Syndicate never forgets. Is that what you’re trying to protect me from?”

“No.” Annabelle shuddered.

She stared at the plate; flickering blue light, men screaming, and the scent of burned meat came back to her. Her nature had turned her own father against her. She could not bear it if Penny reacted the same way. She had to keep it down. She had to drown it in zoom.

“It’s got somethin’ to do with the way electronics tend to ‘ave short lives ‘round you, innit?”

Anna cringed, biting her lower lip. “You noticed.”

“How could I not?”

“Please don’t make me say it.” Anna sniffled like a ten-year-old.

Aside from the scraping of forks, silence held the kitchen for a few minutes before Spawny returned, still naked, and collected his breakfast on a plate. Anna leaned her head in her left hand, looking away from him.

“Good morning, ladies.” Spawny slid his hand over Anna’s head as he passed, patting her like a cat.

“Put some bloody clothes on, we ‘ave a guest.” Penny threw a napkin at him.

“Nonsense, luv. You know she can’t ‘elp but bask in the glory.”

“You’ve an odd notion of glory,” muttered Anna, too low for either of them to hear.

“Stuff it.” Penny scowled. “You know she’s sensitive about it.”

“Oh yeah, real sensitive. Sensitive enough to dance starkers at BC.”

Anna shrank in on herself.

“Lay off it, Milo.” He cringed at Penny using his real name. “The dole ain’t enough to get on, and it’s the only work she’s got. Did it ever occur to you maybe she
hates
it?”

“Roight. Uh”―Spawny scratched his head and swiped pajama pants off the back of a nearby chair―“Soz, luv.”

“I should be off, then.” Anna started to stand, but hesitated with a dying thought at the tip of her brain. Whatever she had wanted to say came out as, “thanks for the brekky.”

She forced a pleasant smile at Penny, left her plate in the sink, and walked out.

ondon these days had two types of weather: raining, and about to be raining. Today was the latter, though the breeze was still up and about. Anna’s thin red jacket did not do as well against it as Spawny’s imitation denim. The Ruin, lit by the day, stretched out into a sea of black mud lakes, bridged here and there by fragments of surviving road.

A trio of little girls wearing dirt and simple dresses giggled and climbed over a decrepit tank hulk that mired in the ground long before their parents were born. A boy their age dangled from the bent cannon. Anna glanced at them and balanced her way across a fallen signpost crossing a huge puddle.

Poor kids…
She watched them play, jealous of their innocence and pained by what the future held for them.
He’s probably gonna wind up with the Boys, if he lives long enough.
The unrestrained joy on the girls’ faces made her feel even lower at what she had become.
Why do Covs have children? It’s cruel.

“Oi, kids. Get ‘way from that. Might be somethin’ left behind in it could hurt ya.”

The children darted off as a pack into the muck, and Anna made her way as best she could along the paved bits towards the police line. Anywhere a route away from The Ruin was passable, the police blocked it off.

It had been that way for three years now, ever since the Trafalgar Unrest. The people responsible for the attack had fled into The Ruin to elude the law. For all anyone knew, they still hid out here somewhere, though they’d be geriatrics. The police wanted no part of the place. Everyone from patrolmen to politicians had been certain it would set off a massive gang war and give the left-wingers endless ammunition to weaken the Crown. Despite pressure to bring the terrorists to justice, the authorities decided to wall it off. Rather than take the criminals to jail, they made their home into a prison―and to Hell with everyone else in there.

At six of them to one Cov, Old Bill acted the lords of London; the other way around, they ran like chickens in black. Perimeter watch offered boring inglorious work to a constable, and it had become a dumping ground for less-than-stellar officers. The longer a constable spent here, the less likely they would get redeemed back to being ‘real’ policemen. Most of the long-timers took out their vexation upon the Covs.

Anna hesitated behind the shadow of a slab of concrete wall, staring at the checkpoint. Usually, Spawny and a couple of his friends would walk her to town to lessen the chances The Filth would mess with her. She chewed on her lip, chiding herself for storming off alone. Cold fingers brushed at the bridge of her nose, trying to push her drug-addled mind closer to something resembling lucidity. Evading detection used to be an easy trick for her to do.

She focused on the police, trying to get a sense of their minds. Her atrophied telepathic sense sputtered, producing only a feeling as though she eavesdropped on a conversation through a thick wall.
How did it go?
She recalled it had something to do with wanting them not to see her. She concentrated on forcing their minds to disregard her existence.

At a snail’s pace, she crept, concentrating.
Do not see me.
A pair of police vans sat nose to nose at the street she chose to leave by, four men in black armor with yellow armbands stood guard at the wall of a small portable building.

It’s working…

“Oi, Wot’s your name?”

Fuck.

A ponderous fellow, whose belt barely contained his gut, waved her to a halt.

Her words came as a pitiful squeak, a hair above a whisper. “Annabelle, constable.”

“Annabelle wot then?”

“Morgan, constable.” She kept her gaze upon the wet road.

The shadow of an armored man fell on her; a mixture of sweet pastry, sweat, and coffee exuded from every pore. She knew what meat felt like, knew it every night she worked at the Bristol City Club―only here she would not be paid for it.

“Need some extra precautions with this one.” He nodded to his comrades with a wink, waving her at the door of the little building. “Come on then, in ya go.”

Keeping her eyes down, she offered no protest as he led her by a one-handed grip on her arm to the small pod building at the boundary line. Decorated in plain steel grey, it was as bleak inside as the sky outside. One desk, two chairs, a plain chrome table, and a weapons vault complimented the communications suite at the far end. Through a tiny doorway, the presence of holding cells brought a shiver.

“There’s a bit of a gate tax, luv.”

Her mousy response sounded like someone else had taken control. “Yes constable, whatever your pleasure.”

“‘Ands up then.”

She complied, passive as he handcuffed her through a bar overhead. The posture forced someone of her stature up on tiptoe. Anna bit her lower lip, grunting from the discomfort of her weight shifting to her wrists. The large man walked around behind her, pulling off his gloves.

“Where ya off to on this fine mornin’?”

“Work, constable.”

“Work?” Condescending surprise laced his chuckle. Gloves clattered to the metal desk. “What sort of work would that be?”

He patted her down, ostensibly searching for weapons.

“Dancing, constable, at the Bristol City Club.”

A bellicose laugh thundered over her from behind. “Titty City eh? Well then, I imagine you know the drill.”

“Yes, constable.” Overhead lights weakened and flashed as a wave of fear went through her, making him look up. “I don’t want no trouble.”

Last night’s zoomer was almost out of her system, only the knowledge of the spare in her jacket pocket staved off outright panic. She shifted as best she could to avoid him, which was not much at all. For a moment, hands pawed all over her. He pulled her skirt up; a rush of cold air made her gasp. Brown’s amusement at her lack of panties gave her a few seconds’ reprieve. One of the other dancers had stolen her last pair months ago.

Cold plastisteel around her wrists reminded her of Tommy. He’d been into that sort of thing. Somewhere in the fog of the past several years, she had gone from hating feeling helpless to using it as armor. The more pathetic she acted, the better people treated her. Silent tears ran down her face. Anna blushed, mortified at how the handcuffs excited her despite wanting no part of the slovenly constable’s attention. Her body was at odds with her mind. She tugged at the chain, a genuine effort to escape, which had the paradoxical effect of turning her on more. Warmth flushed her cheeks, her heartbeat quickened―she could not move. No matter how much she wished it, man sliding his hands down her arms and sides was not Tommy.

She felt like a deer hung for cleaning.

A shower of sparks burst from the corner of the room as any sense of titillation at her predicament gave way to repulsion and anger. The constable shifted toward the sound. She let all her weight hang on her wrists, trying to slip free.

“Constable, beggin’ your pardon, you shouldn’t. I ain’t clean.”