Daylight Runner (13 page)

“Looks like we have our audience,” Maslow remarked.

Sitting in a simple chair at a table set for dinner was an old man. Standing by a door behind him was Necktie Romanos, the man who had threatened Sol on the steps of the Earth Center.

“Maslow.” The old man nodded in greeting.

“Cortez,” Maslow replied respectfully.

“Who's the pup?”

“Gregor Wheat's son,” said Maslow.

“Ah.”

Cortez regarded Sol with a piercing gaze. His round, benign face did not hide the coldness in his eyes. This was the look reserved for those who owed Cortez money, and Sol began to suffer a renewed fear for his father.

“How much?” Maslow asked.

Cortez turned his gaze on the younger man. “Three hundred, plus a week's interest. Are you taking it on?”

Maslow took out a roll of plastic coins and threw three hundred and fifty credits on the table.

“That should more than clear him. I don't want to see Necktie or any of your other people near this boy again.”

Cortez didn't touch the money, letting it lie on the table. “What's your part in this, Maslow?”

“I have a debt of my own to pay.”

Cortez nodded. He waved to the other seats around the table. He had a cup of aromatic tea in front of him, and he gestured toward the teapot.

“You want something else too, I can tell. Have a seat, have some tea, and let's talk like civilized people. Solomon…it is Solomon, isn't it? I bet you like to drink, a young man like you, eh? What would you like? We have everything.”

“I don't drink, thanks.”

“A careful young man.” Cortez smiled approvingly.

Maslow took a seat, and Sol sat down beside him.

“The boy's looking for his father,” Maslow said. “You owe me a favor from that time before.”

“I don't know where he is. That was why Necktie came looking for his son.”

“We're trying to trace him.” Sol spoke up. “Anything you could tell us would help. I don't know much about this…this side of his life. Who did he know? Who was he friends with? Three hundred credits was more than we could afford to gamble with. Why was he betting so much?”

“Easy! Slow down there, boy.” Cortez held up his hands. “I'm an old man and slow in my ways. One question at a time.”

He took a sip from his tea. “My people built this city. They blasted out the crater, dug the foundations, hollowed the crater walls, riveted the steel, and molded the denceramic. And yet many of us are still forced to live beneath its feet, under the gutters and the machinery. But we retain our ingenuity, Sol, and we can supply what others cannot. That is why people come down here from the higher, brighter levels. To satisfy their needs: for drink, for drugs, for cheap goods and cheap labor. We keep them sitting pretty in their comfortable lives. And I will always be happy to take their money.

“I didn't know your father well; he was just another face eager to forget the terrible tedium of his life for a few hours.
He knew many people here—this is a social place, and men talk easily when indulging forbidden appetites. The man he spent the most time with is a local businessman named Tenzin Smith. He had some kind of bond with the man—I don't know what—but if you want to start talking to people, he should be the first. Smith has a workshop and office on Magellan Street; you'll find him there.”

“What about the bet?” Sol asked. “It's not like him to risk that kind of money. I mean, I know he gambled on the fights and on the animals, but never so much—”

“Oh, that.” Cortez gave a gurgling laugh. “That was nothing to do with our business on the floor. That was a personal wager. Ha! Your father, he was struck with a temporary madness, I think. I thought he was having a joke, but everybody knows I never joke about money. He bet me three hundred credits that within two days there would be rainfall in Ash Harbor.”

T
HEY TOOK A SUB. CITY
tram to Magellan Street. The carriage was nearly empty; at the far end, three pale, hungry-looking men in overalls were sitting in the half trance brought on by the motion of the tram. Sol was thinking about the money Maslow had given to Cortez. He had handed it over like it was nothing to him, a sum that was two weeks' wages for his father.

“What do you actually
do
for a living, Maslow?” he asked.

The man glanced at him, expressionless. “I solve problems for people. The kind of problems the law won't deal with.”

“What did you do for Cortez?”

“I warned him somebody was going to make an
attempt on his life.”

“Did you kill them?”

“No, Sol. I didn't kill them.”

“But it's part of what you do, isn't it?” Sol turned to stare into his face. “You shot those men to save me. And you've done it before; it's easy to see that.”

Maslow met his gaze. “I do it when I have to. It's a different world, this low in the city—we work by different rules. You'll learn that when you've been living down here long enough.”

“Gregor said once that Cortez goes on all the time about his people being walked all over but that he reckons people like Cortez do a lot of the walking.”

“Gregor should mind what he says.” Maslow grunted.

“That kind of talk can get you in trouble.”

“What, worse than betting more than you can afford on something that will never happen? What the hell was that all about? Why would Dad bet that it was going to rain in Ash Harbor?” Sol paused for a second as a terrifying thought occurred to him. “Does Cortez kill people who don't pay up?”

“Cortez is a businessman. Dead people don't pay. But anybody who owes him and doesn't pay gets hurt. And the longer the debt is owed, the worse the hurt.”

Sol thought again about what Maslow did for a living. “Why won't you tell me how you knew my dad?”

“I don't want to talk about it. Leave it alone.”

Magellan Street was a long, thin thoroughfare in an industrial area. Smith's workshop was halfway along, beneath the huge, swinging arm of a counterweight for a moving bridge that carried pedestrians from one level above the street to a higher one. A massive block of steel-reinforced concrete on a denceramic arm, it swung back and forth at slow but regular intervals as its platform transported the midday crowds up and down.

Its shadow swept backward and forward over the street as Sol and Maslow studied the entrance to the workshop from the concealment of an alleyway.

“I'm going in first and check things out,” Maslow decided finally. “It's not a safe place. No back exit—see the way it's backed up against the vacuum wall? The only other door is on the side, and it can be seen from the front. Let me go first, and I'll wave you in if it's okay—got it?”

Sol nodded. Looking warily up and down the street, Maslow stepped from the mouth of the alley and strolled across, taking one more look around before knocking on the door. Sol watched him go inside and then leaned back against the wall, rubbing his hand over the stubble on his scalp. He was tired. This whole situation had left him scared and confused; who were these people who were after his father? What did Gregor know that had them so worried? And this new twist from Cortez had not helped. Why would his father make such a stupid bet?

He was roused from his musings by the appearance of a man in the alley at the corner of the workshop. He was peering around the corner as if he didn't want to be seen but was looking casual about it. Sol stood up straighter and stared at him. At one point, the man glanced across the road, and when Sol followed his eye line, he found a woman stopping to lean against a lamppost. She was looking casual too. Sol put his hand into his jacket pocket and found the handle of his gun, finding reassurance in its solid weight. His eyes flicked from the man to the woman and back again, studying them, watching to see what they would do. There were not many people on the street, and Sol was sure that both of them were watching the workshop door. Then the woman started across the road, walking so that her path would intercept a third person making his way toward the workshop along the pavement on the other side. She bumped into him just as he passed the corner of the alley, and he looked up in surprise. As he did, the man in the side passage grabbed him from behind and dragged him into the shadows. The woman struck him hard over the back of the neck with a short club as he stumbled backward. All three disappeared from sight.

Sol stood watching in shock, his heart pounding. Was this just a mugging, or was it something to do with him? The way they had assaulted the man brought back vivid memories of how he had been snatched from the street
himself. His hand was sweaty on the gun's grip, but he was frozen to the spot, unsure of what to do. He had just seen a man viciously attacked, and he had the means to go and help. But Maslow had told him that under no circumstances were they to draw attention to themselves. They were supposed to stay invisible.

Whether it was from the bravado born of having a gun in his hand or the days he had spent living as a fugitive with a trained killer, Sol found his resolve hardening. His father would have gone to help; he would not have hesitated. Sol ran across the road and ducked his head around the corner of the alley. The two assailants had their backs to him, half hidden behind some large recycling cans. Their victim was obviously on the ground behind the bins. Drawing the gun from his pocket, Sol walked quietly toward them, taking careful aim. He was within ten meters of them but wanted to be sure that they could not dive for cover when he shouted. A quiet, insidious voice inside him hissed that he should just shoot…shoot now.

“Who else knows?” the woman was saying. “Tell us now, and this will be quick.”

“I don't know what you're talking about…. I swear I don't know,” the man on the ground protested, just his hands visible, raised defensively. “What do you want from me?”

Sol was close now; he knew he should call out, tell
them to drop their weapons. Tell them to “freeze.” He'd seen it so many times in films. But he just kept walking, gun held out in front of him like a flashlight probing a scary darkness. His voice was caught somewhere in his throat.

Suddenly, directly above him, there came a grating screech, and a shadow swept over him, slowing to a halt. The sound of a tremendous weight crashing down nearby made him stop. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and the shriek of grinding metal made all four of them look up. The huge counterweight had grated to a halt in midswing, hanging motionless above them.

Sol came back to his senses and lowered his gaze, to find the other three staring at him.

“Jesus,” said the woman. “That's the—”

Sol still had the gun pointing at them. He swiveled to point it first at the man, then the woman. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Don't…Freeze!” he barked.

The two would-be assassins burst out laughing helplessly. It was giddy, tension-breaking laughter, and Sol was shocked to see their victim smile despite being obviously terrified.

“‘Don't freeze'?” The woman chortled. “God, that's funny!”

“You're a card, kid,” the man exclaimed as he calmed down. “Where the hell have you been? We've been looking
for you everywhere! Give me that gun before you hurt someone. Come on, hand it over.”

He was reaching out, his hand almost touching the barrel of the gun. His other hand was sliding inside his jacket.

“Stop it!” Sol screamed, his throat tight with terror.

“Don't move!”

They weren't listening. People were supposed to listen when you pointed a gun at them. Sol had expected to hold them at bay and get their victim out of there. Instead, it was as if they were willing him to shoot. Everything that happened next seemed helplessly slow and yet inevitable. The man's gun slid from his jacket. The woman already had her gun out, and she was raising it. And then Maslow was behind her. He moved like a shadow. Some instinct must have alerted the woman, because she turned her head, but it was too late. He had one arm over her shoulder and under her chin, his other hand clasped the side of her head and, with one twist, her neck was broken, her body slumping limply against his.

Her partner was lifting his gun. Sol aimed, shutting his eyes as he fired. Only for an instant. His bullet took the man square in the face. The shot was loud in the narrow alley.

“We have to go…now!” Maslow said grimly. He turned on the man lying beside the garbage bin. “You're Smith, right? Tenzin Smith? You need to come with us.”

Smith didn't argue. Sol stared down at the man he had just killed. There was a small hole to the left side of his nose, and his eyes were still open. There was very little blood on his face but a large splash of it on the wall behind where his head had been. Sol knew his life had just changed forever, but part of him wasn't ready to accept it, as if it wanted to keep him at a distance from the gun in his trembling hand. Standing there in a daze, he shook his head. He had just shot somebody dead. He couldn't believe it.

“Sol!” Maslow snapped.

Sol looked up and nodded. But his eyes fell again on the woman who lay at Maslow's feet, her head twisted at an impossible angle. Even more than the man he had shot, Sol found the sight of a woman killed like that profoundly unsettling.

Maslow grabbed Sol's shoulder and pushed him toward the mouth of the alley. All three of them hurried as casually as they could for the street, making themselves scarce before the gunshot attracted unwanted attention. Before long they had lost themselves in the warren of back alleys under the shadows of the upper streets.

 

Smith sat on a stack of concrete blocks, warily eyeing first Maslow and then Sol. They were on a derelict building site; a small bit of waste ground in the shadow of an electricity substation. Nearby, the glow of a light-
well carrying daylight from the levels above was the only indication that it was still early afternoon. The gaslights around them flickered weakly, casting a frail, wobbling light. The power plant's hum throbbed out of sync with the ever-present rumble of the city, and the chill air had a grittiness to it: a smell of static and dust. Sol stood in front of Smith, with Maslow leaning against a wall to one side. Smith was short and stocky, with fair hair and a ruddy complexion, the broken-veined hue of a heavy drinker. His mouth drooped at the corners, and his eyes were a faded blue. He was trembling, still in shock from what had happened. Rolling a joint of stem with shaking fingers, spilling more than he rolled, he put it to his lips and pulled an ancient Zippo lighter from his pocket.

“I haven't seen your father in weeks,” he said again as he lit up. “I'm sorry, I don't know what else I can tell you.”

“So why were those people about to do you in?” Sol asked.

“'Cos, like you, they seem to think I know something I don't.”

“Do you have any idea where Gregor might be hiding?” Sol persisted. “Anywhere he might go if he was in trouble? I have to find him. He's up to his neck in crap.”

“I think he might be aware of that, kid.”

“He's dropped me in it too—and you as well. You think he's aware of
that
?”

Smith glanced sourly at Maslow, then turned his gaze back on Sol.

“Look, Sol. I'd help you find him if I could—honest.” Smith brushed his hair back, looking tired and under strain. “I know this has got to be tough for you. But your dad's vanished off the face of the earth, and it's probably better he stays that way for the time being. If Gregor could help you, I'm sure he would. If he hasn't been in touch, it's because he can't, so cut him some slack.”

“What are you going to do now?” Sol asked him.

“They'll be looking for you too.”

“I've got some friends I can stay with for a while.” Smith sighed, rubbing his hands together. “But long-term? I don't know. You can't hide in this city forever; there's just nowhere to go. If they really want to find me, they will eventually.”

“I wish you luck,” Sol told him bitterly. He looked up at Maslow. “Let's go. He's not going to be any use to us.”

“One thing, Sol,” Smith called after him as they walked away. “The guy they say Gregor killed? Hyung? Your dad had him pegged for an earhole. Maybe the guy had it comin', huh?”

Sol ground his teeth as he strode out of the building site and into a side street. He wasn't getting anywhere. Maslow followed close behind, leaving him to his thoughts and keeping watch around them for any sign of a threat. Sol could feel him at his back without having to
look behind him—a reassuring shadow, his guardian angel.

“I need to talk to Cleo again, see what she's found out.”

“You mean go to her place?”

“Yeah. I've no other way of getting hold of her, seeing as we can't use the web.”

“I don't think that's a good idea, Sol,” Maslow cautioned him. “Not this evening. We've just had a run-in with two Clockworkers; contacting Cleo would be a stupid thing to do right now.”

Sol stopped abruptly, turning on him. “That's the first time you've called them that. ‘Clockworkers.' You know more than you're telling me, don't you? Who the hell are they? What do they want with my dad?”

“I only know what they are; I don't know who's running them.” Maslow calmly met his gaze. “Somebody with real pull, and I don't mean like Cortez; these guys want to affect the workings of the Machine itself. Over the years the system's grown much more…more complicated than it was supposed to be, and that makes it difficult to manage. The Clockworkers trim it—keep it hemmed in so it doesn't get out of control. Like I said, I've dealt with their types before. We've been lucky so far; we've crossed them twice and come out on top both times. But if we expose ourselves too much, then sooner or later they'll corner us.”