The Mammoth Book of SF Wars (37 page)

As Sula passed, vendors called her attention to cheap women’s clothing, baby clothes, shoes, stockings, scarves and inexpensive toys for children. There were bolts of fabric, foils of music and entertainment, sun lotion and sun hats, and items – unseasonable in the heat – alleged to be knitted from the fleece of Yormak cattle, and sold at a surprisingly low price.

Despite the heat the market was thronged. Tired and hot, Sula elbowed her way impatiently through the crowd to her doorstep. She entered the building, then heard the chime of a hand comm through her apartment door and made haste to enter. She snatched up the comm from the table and answered, panting.

Casimir surveyed her from the display. She could watch his eyes travel insolently over her image as far as the frame would permit.

“Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping to catch you in the bath again.”

“Better luck next time.” Sula switched on the room coolers and somewhere in the building a tired compressor wheezed, and faint currents of air began to stir. She dropped into a chair and, holding the comm in one hand, began to loosen her boots with the other.

“I want to see you tonight,” Casimir said. “I’ll pick you up at 21.01, all right?”

“Why don’t I meet you at the club?”

“Nothing happens at the club that early.” He frowned. “Don’t you want me to know where you live?”

“I don’t have a place of my own,” Sula lied cheerfully. “I sort of bounce between friends.”

“Well.” Grudgingly. “I’ll see you at the club, then.”

She had time to bathe, get a bite to eat and work for a while on the accounts of her delivery company. Then she checked the Records Office computer for Casimir’s friend Julien, and discovered that he was the son of Sergius Bakshi.

Sergius was someone she’d heard of as the head of the Riverside Clique. She hadn’t realized that he’d cheated the executioner long enough to have a grown son.

Sula left the apartment, negotiated the crowds at the Textile Market, then ducked down a sunblasted side street, trying to keep on the shady side. The heat still took her breath away. She made another turn, then entered the delightfully cool air of a block-shaped storage building built in the shadow of the even larger Riverside Crematorium. She showed her false ID to the Cree at the desk, then took the elevator upstairs and opened one of Team 491’s storage caches. There she opened one of the cases, withdrew a small item and pocketed it.

Casimir waited by his car in front of the Cat Street Club with an impatient scowl on his face and his walking stick in his hand. He wore a soft white shirt covered with minutely stitched braid. As she appeared, he stabbed the door button and the glossy apricotcoloured door rolled up into the car roof. “I
hate
being kept waiting,” he growled in his deep voice, and took her arm roughly to stuff her into the passenger compartment.

This too, Sula remembered, was what it was like to be a clique member’s girlfriend.

She settled herself on apricot-coloured plush across from Julien and Veronika, the latter in fluttery garb and a cloud of Sengra. Casimir thudded into the seat next to her and rolled down the door.

Sula called up the chronometer on her sleeve display. “I’m three minutes early,” she said primly, in what she trusted was a maths teacher’s voice. “I’m sorry if I spoiled your evening.”

Casimir gave an unsociable grunt. Veronika popped her blue eyes wide and said, “The boys are taking us shopping!”

Sula remembered that part about being a cliqueman’s girlfriend, too. “Where?” she said.

“It’s a surprise,” Julien said, and slid open the door on the vehicle’s bar. “Anyone want something to drink?”

The Torminel behind the controls slipped the car smoothly from the kerb on its six tyres. Sula had a Citrine Fling while the rest drank Kyowan. The vehicle passed through Grandview to the Petty Mount, a district in the shadow of the High City, beneath the Couch of Eternity where the ashes of the Shaa masters waited in their niches for the end of time. The area was lively, filled with boutiques, bars, cafés, and eccentric shops that sold folk crafts or antiques or old jewellery. Sula saw Cree and Lai-own on the streets as well as Terrans.

The car pulled to a smooth stop before a shop called Raiment by Chesko, and the apricot-coloured doors rolled open. They stepped from the vehicle and were greeted at the door by a female Daimong whose grey body was wrapped in a kind of satin sheath that looked strangely attractive on her angular body with its matchstick arms. In a chiming voice she greeted Casimir by name.

“Gredel, this is Miss Chesko,” Casimir told Sula in a voice that suggested both her importance and his own.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sula said.

The shop was a three-level fantasy filled with sumptuous fabrics in brilliant colours, all set against neutral-coloured walls of a translucent resinous substance that let in the fading light of the sun. Gossamer Cree music floated tastefully in the air.

A Daimong who designed clothes for Terrans was something new in Sula’s experience. The shop must have had excellent air circulation, or Chesko wore something that suppressed the odour of her rotting flesh, because Sula didn’t scent her even once.

Casimir’s mood changed the instant he entered the shop. He walked from one rack to the next and heaved out clothing for Sula or Veronika to try on. He held garments critically to the light and ran his hands over the glossy, rich fabrics. Veronika’s were soft and bright and shimmered; Sula’s were satiny and tended to the darker shades, with light accents in the form of a scarf, lapel or collar.

He’s dressing me as a woman of mystery, Sula thought.

His antennae were really rather acute.

His tastes were fairly good as well, Sula thought as she looked at herself in the full-length video display. She found that she enjoyed herself playing model, displaying one rich garment after another. Casimir offered informed comment as Sula changed outfits, twitched the clothing to a better drape, and sorted the clothing into piles of yesses, maybes, rejects. Chesko made respectful suggestions in her bell-like tones. Shop assistants ran back and forth with mountains of clothing in their arms.

It hadn’t been like this with Lamey, Sula remembered. When he walked into a shop with Gredel, the assistants knew to bring out their flashiest, most expensive clothing, and he’d buy them with a wave of his hand and a pocket of cash.

Casimir wasn’t doing this to impress anyone, or at least not in the way Lamey had. He was demonstrating his taste, not his power and money.

“You should have Chesko’s job,” she told him.

“Maybe. I seem to have got the wrong training, though.”

“Your mama didn’t give you enough dolls to play with when you were growing up,” Julien said. He sat in a chair in a corner, out of everyone’s way. He had a tolerant smile on his pointed face and a glass of mig brandy, brought by the staff, in one hand.

“I’m hungry,” Julien said after an hour and a half.

Casimir looked a little put out, but he shrugged and then looked again through the piles of clothing, making a final sorting. Julien rose from his chair, put down his glass, and addressed one of the assistants.

“
That
pile,” he said. “Total it up.”

Veronika gave a whoop of joy and ran to embrace him. “Better add this,” Casimir said, adding a vest to the yes pile. He picked up an embroidered jacket from another heap and held it out to Sula. “What do you think of this?” he said. “Should I add it to your pile?”

Sula considered the jacket. “I think you should pick out the single very nicest thing out of the stack and give it to me.”

His dark eyes flashed, and his gravel voice was suddenly full of anger. “You don’t want my presents?” he asked.

Sula was aware that Veronika was staring at her as if she were insane.

“I’ll take
a
present,” Sula said. “You don’t know me well enough to buy me a whole wardrobe.”

For a moment she sensed thwarted rage boiling off of him, and then after a moment he thought about it and decided to be amused. His mouth twisted in a tight-lipped smile. “Very well,” he said. He considered the pile for a moment, then reached in and pulled out a suit, velvet black, with satin braid and silver beadwork on the lapels and down the sides of the loose trousers. “Will this do?” he said.

“It’s very nice. Thank you.” Sula noted that it wasn’t the most expensive item in the pile, and that fact pleased her. If he wasn’t buying her expensive trash, it probably meant he didn’t think she was trash, either.

“Will you wear it tonight?” He hesitated, then looked at Chesko. “It didn’t need fitting, did it?”

“No, sir.” Her pale, expressionless Daimong face, set in a permanent caricature of wide-eyed alarm, gave no sign of disappointment in losing sales worth hundreds of zeniths.

“Happy to,” Sula said. She took the suit to the changing room, changed, and looked at herself in the old-fashioned silver-backed mirrors. The suit probably
was
the nicest thing in the pile.

Her old clothes were wrapped in a package, and she stepped out to a look of appreciation from Julien, and the more critical gaze of Casimir. He gestured with a finger as if stirring a pot.

“Turn around,” he said. She made a pirouette, and he nodded, more to himself than to anyone else. “That works,” he said. The deep voice sounded pleased.

“Can we eat now?” Julien asked.

Outside, the white marble of the Couch of Eternity glowed in twilight. The streets exhaled summer heat into the sky like an over-taxed athlete panting at the end of his run.

They ate in a café, a place of bright red-and-white tiles and shiny chrome. The café was packed and noisy, as if people wanted to pack in as much food and good times as possible before rationing began. Casimir and Julien were in a light-hearted mood, chattering and laughing, but every so often Sula caught Casimir looking at her with a thoughtful expression, as if he was approving his choice of outfit.

He had made her into something he admired.

Afterwards they went to a bar, equally crowded, with a live band and dancing. The other night Casimir had danced with a kind of gravity, but now he was exuberant, laughing as he led her into athletic kicks, spins and twirls. Before, he had been pleasing himself with a show of his power and control, but now it was as if he wanted all Zanshaa to share his joy.

He was taking me for granted the other night, Sula thought. Now he’s not.

It was well past midnight when they left the bar. Outside, in the starlit darkness, a pair of strange colossi moved in the night. Leather creaked. A strange barnyard smell floated to Sula’s nostrils.

Casimir gave a laugh. “Right,” he said. “Get in.”

He launched himself into some kind of box that, dimly perceived, seemed to float above the street. There was a creak, a shuffle, more barnyard smell. His long pale hand appeared out of the night.

“Come on,” he said.

Sula took the hand and let him draw her forward. A step, a box, a seat. She seated herself next to him before she understood where she was, and amazement flooded her.

“Is this a pai-car carriage?” she asked.

“That’s right!” Casimir let a laugh float off into the night. “We hired a pair for tonight.” He thumped the leather-padded rim of the cockpit and called to the driver. “Let’s go!”

There was a hiss from the driver, a flap of reins, and the carriage lurched into movement. The vehicle was pulled by a pai-car, a tall flightless bird, a carnivorous, unintelligent cousin to the Lai-own driver that perched on the front of the carriage. There were two big silver alloy wheels, ornamented with cut-outs, and a boat-shaped car made out of leather, boiled, treated, sculpted and ornamented with bright metal badges. Mounted on either side were some cell-powered lamps, not very powerful, which the driver now switched on.

The car swayed down off the Petty Mount and into the flat city-scape below. Sula relaxed against Casimir’s shoulder. Darkened buildings loomed up on either side like valley walls. The slap of the pai-car’s feet and its huffing breath echoed off the structures on either side. There seemed to be no other traffic at all, nothing but the limousine, with its Torminel guards, which followed them at a distance, the driver with his huge nocturnal eyes able to navigate perfectly well by starlight.

“Is this legal?” Sula wondered aloud.

Casimir’s bright white teeth flashed in the starlight. “Of course not. These carriages aren’t permitted outside the parks.”

“You don’t expect police?”

Casimir’s grin broadened. “The police are bogged down processing millions of ration card applications. The streets are ours for the next month.”

Veronika’s laughter tinkled through the night. Sula heard the slap of another pair of feet, and saw the savage saw-toothed face of another pai-car loom up on the left, followed soon by the driver and Julien and Veronika. Julien leaned out of the carriage, hands waving drunkenly in the air. “A hundred says I beat you to Medicine Street!”

Sula felt Casimir’s body grow taut as Julien’s face vanished into the gloom ahead. He called to the driver: “Faster!” The driver gave a hiss and a flap of the reins. The carriage creaked and swayed as the pace increased.

Veronika’s laughter taunted them from ahead. Casimir growled and leaned forward. “Faster!” he called. Sula’s nerves tingled to the awareness of danger.

A few lights shone high in office buildings where the staff were cleaning. A rare functioning street lamp revealed two Torminel, in the brown uniforms of the civil service, in an apparent argument. The two fell silent and stared with their large eyes as the carriages raced past, their silver wheels a blur.

The side-lamps of Julien’s carriage ahead loomed closer. “Faster!” Casimir called, and he turned to Sula, a laugh rumbling from deep in his chest. Sula felt an answering grin tear at her lips. This is mad, she thought. Absolutely mad.

She heard Julien’s voice calling for greater speed. The wheels threw up sparks as they skidded through a turn. Sula was thrown against Casimir. He put an arm around her protectively.

“Faster!”

Veronika’s laughter tinkled from ahead, closer this time. Casimir ducked left and right, peering around the driver for a better view of the carriage they were pursuing. They passed through an intersection and both carriages glared white in the startled headlamps of a huge street-cleaning machine. Sula blinked the dazzle from her eyes. The night air was cool on her cheeks. She could feel her heart beating high in her throat.