Use of Weapons (36 page)

'You
do have those numbers?'

'Oh,
yeah.'

'Or,
we've a downlink tap on Solotol's emergency services; just dial three ones and
scream "Zakalwe!" at the operator; we'll hear.'

'I
am filled with confidence,' he breathed, shaking his head. 'Don't worry,
Cheradenine.'

'Me,
worry?'

The
car came; he saw it from his window. He went down to meet Mollen. He'd liked to
have worn the suit again, but doubted they'd let him into their high security
areas wearing it. He took the old raincoat, and the dark glasses.

'Hello.'

'Hello
there, Mollen.'

'A
pleasant day.'

'Yes.'

'Where
are we going?'

'I
don't know.'

'But
you're driving.'

'Yes.'

'Then
you must know where we're going.'

'Please
repeat that?'

'I
said you must know where you're going if you're driving.'

'I'm
sorry.'

He
stood by the side of the car while Mollen held the door open.

'Well,
at least tell me whether it's very far, I may want to tell people I won't be
back for a while.'

The
large man frowned, the scarred face creasing in strange directions, unusual
patterns. He hesitated over which button on the box to press. Mollen's tongue
licked his lips as he concentrated. So they had not literally taken his tongue
out, after all.

He
assumed whatever was wrong with Mollen was to do with his vocal chords. Why the
man's superiors hadn't just fitted him with an artificial or re-grown set he
couldn't deduce, unless they preferred their underlings to have a limited set
of replies. Certainly they'd have a hard time speaking ill of you.

'Yes.'

'Yes
it's far away?'

'No.'

'Make
up your mind.' He stood with his hand on the open car door, indifferent to his
unkindness to the grey-haired man; he rather wanted to test his inbuilt
vocabulary.

'I'm
sorry.'

'Is
it quite close then, within the city?'

The
scarred face frowned again. Mollen tutted with his lips and pressed another set
of buttons with an apologetic look. 'Yes.'

'Within
the city?'

'Perhaps.'

'Thank
you.'

'Yes.'

He
got in. It was a different car to that he'd been in the night before. Mollen
got into the separate driver's compartment and belted himself in carefully; he
pedalled a gear and drew smoothly away. A couple of other cars followed
immediately behind them, then stopped at the entrance to the first street they
took outside the hotel, blocking the cars of the pursuing media people.

He
was watching the small, high specks of wheeling birds when the view started to
disappear. At first he thought that black screens were rising outside the
windows behind and to either side of him. Then he saw the bubbles; it was some
black liquid which was filling the space between the double-layers of glass in
the back of the car. He pressed the button to talk to Mollen. 'Hey!' he
shouted.

The
black liquid was halfway up the screens, gradually rising between him and
Mollen as well as on the other three sides.

'Yes?'
Mollen said.

He
grabbed a door handle. The door opened; a draft of cold air whistled in. The
black liquid continued to fill the space between the panes of glass. 'What is
this?'

He
saw Mollen carefully pressing a button on his voice synthesiser, before the
liquid blocked the view forward.

'Do
not be alarmed, Mr Staberinde. This is just a precaution, to ensure that Mr
Beychae's privacy is respected,' said an obviously prepared message.

'Hmm.
Okay.' He shrugged; he shut the door and was left in the dark until a small
light came on. He sat back and did nothing. The unexpectedness of the blacking
out was perhaps meant to frighten him, perhaps designed to see what he would
do.

They
drove on; the yellow light of the small bulb gave a stale, warm feel to the
interior of the car, which although large

was
made to seem small by the absence of an exterior view; he turned up the
ventilation, sat back again. He kept the dark glasses on.

They
turned corners, zoomed and dived, boomed through tunnels and over bridges. He
guessed he noticed the vehicle's motions more because of the lack of any
outside reference.

They
echoed through a tunnel for a long time, going downwards in what felt like a
straight line but could have been a wide spiral, then the car stopped. There
was a moment of silence, then some indistinct noises from outside, perhaps
including voices, before they moved forward again a short way. The transceiver
jabbed delicately at his ear-lobe. He pushed the bead further into his ear.
'X-ray radiation,' the earring whispered.

He
allowed himself a small smile. He waited for them to open the door and demand
the transceiver... but the car only moved forward a little again.

The
vehicle dropped. Its engine was silent; he presumed they were in a large
elevator. They stopped, moved forward again, still silent, paused, then carried
on forward and down. This time the spiral was obvious. There was still no noise
from the vehicle's engine, so they were either being towed, or freewheeling.

The
black liquid drained slowly from the windows as they drew to a halt. They were
in a wide tunnel under long white strip lights. The tunnel extended back until
it started to curve, forward until it ended before large metal doors.

Mollen
was nowhere to be seen.

He
tested the car door, opened it, stepped out.

The
tunnel was warm, though the air seemed fresh enough. He took off the old
raincoat. He looked at the metal doors. Set into them was a smaller door. There
was no handle to pull, so he pushed it, but nothing happened. He went back to
the car, found the horns, blew them.

The
noise crashed into the tunnel, rang in his ears, echoing. He sat in the back of
the car.

After
a while, the woman came through the small door. She came to the car, looked in
through the window.

'Hello.'

'Good
afternoon. Here I am.'

'Yes.
And still wearing your glasses.' She smiled. 'Please; come with me,' she said,
and walked quickly off. He collected the old raincoat and followed.

Behind
the doors the tunnel went on, then they came to doors set into the side of the
wall; a small elevator took them down still further. The woman wore a straight,
all-covering gown in black with thin white stripes.

The
lift stopped. They entered a small hallway like that of a private house, set
about with pictures and potted plants and finished in streaky, smokily smooth
stone. A thick carpet smothered their footsteps as they went down some steps
and onto a large balcony set halfway up the wall of a large hall; everywhere
else the hall was covered with books or tables, and they walked down a
staircase with books below the wood under their feet, books above the wood over
their heads.

She
guided him round floor-standing book-stacks, and led him to a table with chairs
around it. A machine stood on the table-top with a small screen set into it and
spools scattered about it.

'Wait
here, please.'

Beychae
was in his bedroom, resting. The old man - bald, face deeply lined, dressed in
robes which hid the modest paunch he'd developed since he'd devoted himself to
study - blinked as she tapped at and opened the door. His eyes were still
bright.

'Tsoldrin.
I'm so sorry to disturb you. Come and see who I've brought to see you.'

He
came with her along the corridor, and stood at the door while the woman pointed
to the man standing at the table with the tape-reading screen on it.

'Do
you know him?'

Tsoldrin
Beychae put on some glasses - he was old-fashioned enough to wear his age
rather than try to disguise it - and peered at the man. The fellow was fairly
young, long-legged, dark-haired - the hair swept back, held in a pony-tail -
and possessed a striking, even handsome face, darkened by the sort of
beard-growth that never disappears through surface shaving alone. The lips were
disquieting, looked at exclusively; they appeared cruel and arrogant, and only
when the eye took in the rest of the face as well did this impression seem too
severe, and - reluctantly, perhaps - the observer had to allow that the dark
glasses could not completely hide wide eyes and full brows, which - open and
obvious - made the complete impression not disagreeable.

'I
might have met him, I'm not sure,' Beychae said slowly. He thought that perhaps
he had met the man before; there was something worryingly familiar about that
face, even behind the shades.

'He
wants to meet you,' the woman said. 'I took the liberty of telling him it was
mutual. He thinks you might have known his father.'

'His
father?' Beychae said. That might account for it; perhaps the fellow bore a
resemblance to somebody he'd known, and that accounted for the odd, slightly
disturbing feeling he was experiencing. 'Well,' he said, 'Let's see what he has
to say for himself, shall we?'

'Why
not?' the woman said. They walked out into the centre of the library. Beychae
drew himself up; he'd noticed that he was stooping more these days, but he was
still vain enough to want to greet people straight-backed. The man turned round
towards them. 'Tsoldrin Beychae,' the woman said; 'Mr Staberinde.'

'An
honour, sir,' he said, looking at Beychae with a strange, intense expression,
his face tight-looking, wary. He took the older man's hand in his.

The
woman looked puzzled. The expression on Beychae's old, lined face was
unreadable. He stood looking at the man, his hand limp in the other's grip.

'Mr...
Staberinde,' Beychae said, flatly.

Beychae
turned to the woman in the long black gown. 'Thank you.'

'My
pleasure,' she murmured, and backed away.

He
could see Beychae knew. He turned and walked towards an aisle between the
book-stacks, and watched Beychae follow him, eyes full of wonderment. He stood
between the shelved books, and - as though it might have been an unconscious
movement - tapped his ear as he spoke to Beychae. 'I think you may have known
my... ancestor. He went by a different name.' He took off the dark glasses.

Beychae
looked at him. His expression did not change. 'I think I did,' Beychae said,
glancing round the space behind him. He indicated a table and chairs. 'Please;
let's sit down.'

He
replaced the glasses.

'So
what brings you here, Mr Staberinde?'

He
sat down across the table from the older man. 'Curiosity, as far as you're
concerned. What brought me to Solotol was... just an urge to see it. I'm, ah...
connected with the Vanguard Foundation; there have been some changes at the top
there. I don't know if you've heard.'

The
old man shook his head. 'No; I don't keep up with the news, down here.'

'Yes.'
He made a show of looking around. 'I guess...' he looked back into Beychae's
eyes '... I guess it isn't the best place for communication, hmm?'

Beychae
opened his mouth, then looked annoyed. He glanced behind him. 'Perhaps not,' he
agreed. He stood up again. 'Excuse me.'

He
watched the older man go. He forced himself to sit where he was.

He
looked round the library. So many old books; they smelled. So many words set
down, so many lives spent scribbling, so many eyes dimmed by reading. He
wondered that people bothered as much as they did.

'Now?'
he heard the woman say.

'Why
not?'

He
turned in the seat to watch Beychae and the woman emerge from the stacks.
'Well, Mr Beychae,' the woman said. 'It might be awkward...'

'Why?
Have the elevators stopped working?'

'No,
but...'

'Then
what's to stop us? Let's go; I haven't seen the surface for too long.'

'Ah.
Well, all right... I'll make the arrangements.' She smiled uncertainly, then
walked away.

'Well,
Z... Staberinde,' Beychae sat down again, smiling apologetically for an
instant. 'We'll take a little trip to the surface, shall we?'

'Yeah;
why not?' he said, carefully not looking too enthusiastic. 'You keeping well,
Mr Beychae? I heard you retired.'

They
talked generally for a few minutes, then a young blonde woman walked out of the
stacks, arms loaded with books. She blinked hard when she saw him, then came
over behind Beychae, who looked up and smiled at her. 'Ah; my dear; this is
Mr... Staberinde.' Beychae smiled diffidently at him. 'My assistant, Ms Ubrel
Shiol.'

'Delighted,'
he nodded.

Shit,
he thought.

Ms
Shiol put the books down on the table and put her hand on Beychae's shoulder.
The old man put his own thin fingers on top of hers.