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When she'd first heard that she was to go with her mistress on this mysterious expedition, Oenone had felt glad. Isolated in the sky aboard the Stalker's flagship, surely she would find a chance to use her weapon? But the world she had seen on the way, scarred and ruined by Municipal Darwinism, made her wonder afresh if she really had the right. She hated the war, but she hated Traction Cities too. By killing Fang, might she not be handing victory to them? If the Green Storm collapsed, the whole earth might soon look like those wrecked rubble heaps below her. She did not want that on her conscience.
"Still finding reasons not to do what you came here for, Oenone," she told herself in the disappointed tone her mother had used when Oenone was a child and shirked her schoolwork. "What a coward you are!"
She looked ahead, into a brownish haze that she knew was made partly from the exhaust smoke of cities. Beyond it somewhere lay the Middle Sea, not far off now. Oenone tried to crush her doubts. A battle was coming, and she knew enough about battles to feel sure that there would be moments of such chaos and confusion that she would be able to unleash her device upon the Stalker Fang without anyone understanding what she had done.
She turned from the gun slit and climbed up into the thundering passageways inside the envelope. As she neared the officers' mess, she could hear the voices of some of her comrades, and she paused at the open door, unnoticed, listening.
"She says we are to target only Brighton!" Lieutenant Zhao, the gunnery officer, was saying, pitching her voice low
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for fear the Stalker Fang might hear. "Why Brighton? I've read the intelligence reports. Brighton is the least of cities, the merest pleasure raft."
"She has spies of her own," said Navigator Cheung, staring into his empty cup as though he could divine the Stalker's plans from the tea leaves there. "She has deep-cover agents who report to nobody but her."
"Yes, but why would she have placed one aboard Brighton?"
"Who knows? There must be something important about the place."
"Such as?" Zhao shook her head. "There are fat predator towns lurking in these hills below us. Why must I save my rockets for Brighton when I could be blowing the tracks off predator towns?"
"It is not for us to question her orders, Zhao."
That came from the expedition's second-in-command, General Naga. Oenone saw the junior officers stiffen and bow their heads at the sound of his voice. Naga had been with the Green Storm since its foundation. There was a famous photograph of him, young and handsome, raising their thunderbolt banner over the wreck of Traktiongrad; Oenone had had a poster of it on her bedroom wall when she was a girl. But Naga was not young anymore, and not handsome either: His hair was gray, his long ocher face seamed and scarred. He was thirty-five, an old man by the standards of the Green Storm military. He had lost an arm at Xanne-Sandansky and the use of his legs at the air siege of Omsk, and he could walk and fight only because the Resurrection Corps had built him a powered metal exoskeleton.
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"I don't like this mission," he admitted, the segments of his mechanical armor scraping as he leaned across the table. "Brighton is no threat to us, and I hear it's spent the summer hammering those parasite brigands up in the North Atlantic. I was a cadet at Rogues' Roost when they attacked our air base there. I lost good friends to those devils, and I'm glad Brighton's sorted them out. But orders are orders, and orders from the Fire Flower ..."
He stopped suddenly, sensing Oenone standing in the doorway. "Surgeon-Mechanic," he said gruffly, turning toward her. His mechanical hand clamped on his sword hilt; his exoskeleton clanked and hissed, making a clumsy half bow. Behind him, Oenone saw fear on the faces of the junior officers as they recognized her. She knew what they were thinking. How long has she been there? How much did she hear? Will she tell the Stalker? Even Naga was afraid of her.
"Please, forgive me," she said, bowing formally to the general and again to the officers at the table. She went into the mess, poured a glass of jasmine tea that she did not want, and drank it quickly, in silence. Everyone's eyes lingered on her. They were almost as wary of her as they were of the Stalker Fang herself, and she felt glad of that, because it proved that they did not suspect her real motives.
But someone aboard the Requiem Vortex suspected her. As she left the mess and climbed the companion ladders to her cabin high among the reinforced gas cells, Grike watched from the shadows, and waited patiently for her to make her move.
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25 The Pepperpot
***
AFTERNOON WAS TURNING INTO evening as Tom walked toward the Pepperpot through streets filled with carnival. A procession was moving slowly along Ocean Boulevard, with pretty girls and boys dressed up as mermaids cavorting on electric floats, giant dancing puppets of the sea gods, paper lanterns shaped like fish and serpents twirling on long poles, and drag queens in enormous feathery hats showering down confetti from low-flying cargo balloons. Through gaps between the white buildings, Tom kept glimpsing the sea, and once, with a scream of engines, a patrol of those unlikely flying machines came hurtling low over the rooftops. Tom clapped his hands over his ears and turned to watch them pass. He would have been thrilled by them when he was younger, but now they just reminded him of how dangerous the world was, and how much it had altered while he'd been
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away. The more he saw of it, the more he longed to find Wren and return to the peace of Vineland.
He pushed on through the crowds, heading for the address that the girl at the aquarium had given him. He knew that Hester would be cross with him later for going without her, but he had been far too anxious to wait any longer for her at the Pink Café. Besides, he kept remembering what she had done to Gargle, and it made him feel uneasy about how she might react when she learned Wren's fate. He wanted to talk calmly to this Shkin fellow. He might turn out to be a reasonable man who would give Wren back to her parents when he learned the truth. If not, Tom would arrange to buy her back. Either way, there should be no need for violence.
When he saw the Pepperpot, he felt even more optimistic. Most slavers' dens were dingy places, tucked away on unmentionable tiers of savage salvage towns, not elegant white towers. Outside the glass front door, a guard in smart black livery politely stopped him and ran a metal detector over him before letting him into a reception area as calm and tasteful as a hotel lobby. There were soft chairs, and hard metallic-green potted plants, and a plaque on the wall that read THE SHKIN CORPORATION, and underneath, in smaller letters, AN INVESTOR IN PEOPLE. The only real clue to what sort of place it was were the angry, muffled shouts and clanging sounds that came up faintly through the sea-grass carpet.
"I'm sorry about the noise," said a well-dressed woman sitting behind a black desk. "It is those filthy Lost Boys. They were very meek when we first brought them aboard, but they are growing more troublesome and contumelious by the day. Never mind. The autumn auctions begin tomorrow, so
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we shall soon be rid of them."
"Then you have not sold them yet?" cried Tom. "I'm so glad. I'm looking for my daughter. Wren Natsworthy. She was with the Lost Boys, and I think you might have taken her by mistake...."
The woman had penciled-on eyebrows as thin as wire, and she raised them both in surprise. "One moment, please," she said, and leaned across her desk to whisper into a brass-and-Bakelite intercom that Tom thought very futuristic. The intercom whispered back, and after a moment the woman looked up at Tom and smiled and said, "Mr. Shkin will see you in person. You may go up."
Tom moved toward the spiral staircase that led up through the ceiling, but the woman pressed a button on her desk, and a narrow door slid open in the wall. Tom realized that it was a lift. It looked nothing like the huge public elevators he remembered from his boyhood in London; it was just a posh cupboard, paneled in mother-of-pearl, but he tried not to look too surprised, and stepped inside. The door slid shut. He felt his stomach lurch. When the door opened again,
he was in a quiet, luxurious office where a man was rising to meet him from behind another black steel desk.
"Mr. Shkin?" asked Tom, while behind him the door closed softly and the lift went purring down.
Nabisco Shkin bowed low and extended a gray-gloved hand. "My dear Mr. Natsworthy," he said softly. "Miss Weems tells me you are interested in one of our slaves. The girl named Wren."
It made Tom angry to hear Wren called a slave so calmly, but he controlled himself and shook Shkin's hand. He said,
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"Wren is my daughter. She was kidnapped by one of the Lost Boys. I've come to get her back."
"Indeed?" Shkin nodded, watching Tom carefully. "Unfortunately I had no idea of the girl's history. She has already been sold."
"Sold?" cried Tom. "Where is she? Is she still aboard Brighton?"
"I shall have to check my files. We have processed so many slaves this month...."
The elevator door opened again, and the room began to fill with men, armed guards in black livery. Tom, taken by surprise, barely realized what was happening before one of the men slammed the handle of a truncheon into his side and two more caught him as he doubled over, breathless and choking.
Nabisco Shkin moved around the room, pulling down canvas blinds to hide the long windows. "A lot of pleasure craft in the sky today," he said conversationally. "Wouldn't want any happy holidaymakers peeking in on us, would we?" The room grew shadowy. He returned to his desk and spoke into the intercom. "Monica, send the boy here. Let's find out if this wretch is really who he claims to be."
Tom's captors twisted his arms painfully behind him and held him tight, but they need not have bothered, for he was in no state to stand, let alone try to overpower four strong guards. He felt his heart flutter and thump, pain twisting through his side. Shkin came closer, pulled up Tom's sleeve with a look of faint distaste, and removed his wedding bracelet.
"That's my property!" Tom gasped. "Give it back!"
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Shkin tossed the bracelet up in the air and caught it again. "You don't have property anymore' he said. "You are property unless you have papers to prove that you are a free man. But if you are who you say you are, you won't." He held the bracelet up and squinted at it. "HS and TN," he read. "How touching...."
The lift bell rang again and another of Shkin's black-clad guards stepped out. This one was just a boy, dressed up like the rest in a black uniform and a peaked black cap with a silver SHKIN logo on the front.
"Well, Fishcake?" Shkin asked him. "Do you recognize our guest?"
The boy stared at Tom. "That's him, all right, Mr. Shkin," he said. "I saw him on the screens when we was at Anchorage. That's Wren's dad."
"How do you ... ?" Tom started to ask, and then realized suddenly who this boy must be. Fishcake. That was the lad Uncle had talked about, the newbie who had kidnapped Wren! Tom knew he should feel angry with him, but he didn't. He just felt more angry than ever with Shkin, because he could see the logo branded on the back of the boy's thin hand. What sort of a man would do that to a child? What sort of a city would let a man like that grow rich and prosperous? He said, "Fishcake, please, is Wren all right? Was she hurt at all? Do you know who bought her?"
Fishcake was about to reply, but Shkin said, "Don't answer him, boy." One of the guards hit Tom again, knocking the air out of his lungs in a loud, wordless woof.
"Fishcake has learned obedience," said Shkin. "He knows that if he disobeys me, I shall put him back in the holding
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cells with his friends, and they will rip him to pieces for betraying Grimsby." He tore open Tom's waistcoat, pulled up his shirt, and traced with one gray-gloved finger the scars that had been left by Windolene Pye's amateur surgery. There was something like a smile on his face.
"The mayor of this city is a very irritating man, Mr. Natsworthy," he said. "I believe that you may be able to help me expose him as a fraud and a liar. But first your daughter will help me to retrieve something he has stolen from me. Who knows--if you cooperate, I might let you both go free." As he turned to his desk, he tossed the bracelet up into the air and caught it again. Leaning down to the brass mouthpiece of the intercom, he said, "Miss Weems, arrange a cell on the midlevels for Mr. Natsworthy, and have a bug ready to take me to the Old Steine at seven thirty. I think I shall be attending His Worship's ball after all."
Hester had already looked in through the front door of the pretty little tower once without seeing any sign of Tom. She had looked for him everywhere else that she could think of, hoping that he might have gone back to the Screw Worm before attempting to talk to the slavers, or circled back to the Pink Café. Now she was back outside the Pepperpot, feeling angry and faintly scared. She was sure Tom was in there, and that something bad had happened to him. The blinds had been drawn across the windows on one of the upper stories, and there was a bunch of black-overalled guards in the reception area, chatting to the snooty-looking woman there. Hester wondered if she should barge in and confront them, but she did not want to walk into the same trap as Tom.
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The man outside saw her peering in again and stared, so she walked quickly past as if she were just a curious tourist and went into a coffee shop on the far side of the square, where she drank iced coffee through a straw and thought. This Shkin character must have decided to take Tom prisoner for some reason. Perhaps he thought Tom was connected with the Lost Boys. Well, that was not so big a problem. She would go and rescue him, just as Tom had come to rescue her when she had been a prisoner at Rogues' Roost.
But how to get inside that tower? The guard at the door was already wary of her, and with all these carnival crowds about she could not just shoot her way in. Oh, poor Tom! Why had he come here alone? He should have known that he couldn't cope on his own with people like this Nabisco Shkin.
She paid for her iced coffee and asked the waiter, "Is that Shkin's place? The tower? It looks too small to hold many slaves."
"It's got hidden depths," the waiter replied, glancing happily at the tip she put down on the table. "The cells and stuff are down below. That's where they're keeping all those horrible pirates."
Hester thought again of Rogues' Roost, and of how she had led Tom to safety through the confusion of a Lost Boy raid. Then she left the café, walking quickly, glancing down once to make sure that the gun in her belt didn't spoil the cut of her new coat.
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26 Waiting for the moon
***
AS THE SUN SANK red and fat into the haze above Africa, the breeze stiffened. Brighton began to rock gently on the long, white-capped, shoreward-rolling combers. Undaunted by the heaving pavements, parades of children trooped round Ocean Boulevard with bright banners and huge moon-shaped paper lanterns, and a thousand self-styled artists held private viewings in one another's houses.
"Keeps 'em busy, I suppose," said Nimrod Pennyroyal, gazing down philosophically at it all from one of Cloud 9's many observation platforms. "There are so many tenth-rate painters and performers on this city, we need a good festival every week or two to make them feel their silly lives are worthwhile." Drifts of bubbles swirled past him, vomited into the evening sky by an art installation in Queen's Park. The breeze brought carnival noises gusting up too: guitars
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and cacophoniums jangling in the streets of the historic Muesli Belt, premature fireworks banging and shrieking on the seafronts.
On the blue-green evening lawns of the Pavilion gardens, between the shadows of the cypress groves, the guests were starting to gather. All the men wore formal robes, and the women looked wonderful in ball gowns of moonlight silver and midnight blue. Paper lanterns had been strung along all the walks and between the pillars of the bandstand, where some musicians were tuning up. The Flying Ferrets had arrived, looking terribly dashing in their fleece-lined flying suits and white silk scarves, talking loudly about "archie" and "bandits" and "crates" being "ditched in the briny." Orla Twombley, her hair lacquered into backswept
wings, hung on Pennyroyal's arm.
Drinks and snacks were being served before the dancing began, and Wren was one of the people doing the serving. She felt pretty and conspicuous in her MoonFest costume-- baggy trousers and a long tunic made from some floaty, silvery fabric that she could not name--but the guests seemed not to notice her at all; they were interested only in the tray she carried. As she wove her way through the gathering crowds, hands reached out without a thank-you or a by-your-leave to snatch at her cargo of drinks and canapés.
Wren didn't mind. She was still tired and uneasy after the events of the night before. All day there had been an odd atmosphere in the Pavilion, with militiamen coming and going and security being tightened up. The other slave girls kept coming to ask Wren if she had really seen the body, and had there been ever so much blood? To make matters worse,
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Mrs. Pennyroyal smiled knowingly at Wren every time she saw her, and kept finding excuses to send her into rooms where Theo Ngoni was, or Theo into rooms where Wren was, as if she hoped someone would write an opera about them one day and there would be a part for a soprano of a certain age as Boo-Boo Pennyroyal, the thoughtful mistress who made their love possible.
Strangely, all this kindness made Wren like Boo-Boo less: It was one thing to keep slaves, but quite another to try to arrange their love affairs. She felt that the mayoress was pairing her and Theo off like a couple of prize poodles.
So she was glad to be invisible for a while, to look and listen. And everywhere she looked, she saw someone she recognized from the society pages of the Palimpsest. There were Brighton's leading painters, Robertson Gloom and Ariane Arai. There was the gorgeous Davina Twisty, fresh from her triumph in Hearts Akimbo at the Marlborough Theatre. That man in the hat must be the sculptor Gormless, whose ridiculous artworks clogged the city's public spaces like barbed-wire entanglements. And wasn't that the great P. P. Bellman, author of atheistic pop-up books for the trendy toddler? Wren wondered how they would all feel if they knew that a man had been murdered, right here on Cloud 9, less than twenty-four hours ago.