Streets of blood

13

Rani had attended too many weeping family scenes in the last three days to have much enthusiasm for any more of them, but at Sachin’s wake one of his cousins made himself useful. She had overheard him in the kitchen, berating Imran for having taken the young man on such a dangerous run. Imran had whined that he hadn’t known it would be dangerous. The mission had seemed so simple and straightforward. His angry interrogator had then asked why Imran was not out on the streets seeking vengeance. Rani could not make out her brother’s reply because just then a whole gaggle of cousins had come teeming into the hallway, jostling Rani away from her listening post just beyond the kitchen door.

Imran had evaded her attempts to question him, spending most of his time away from the house, rising early and not returning until late at night. What she had just overheard suggested that he wasn’t making any moves on the street.

He hadn’t even missed his Predator, though perhaps that was not so surprising. It was Rani who had picked it up as they fled to the car. Imran might have assumed he’d lost it. Afterward, they were all in such a state of shock that she’d forgotten about it, too, until its weight jammed into her ribs when she finally collapsed on the bed. What was surprising was that Imran had never asked about it. Perhaps it was because he felt ashamed and powerless. Whatever he was doing with his days, he was lying low, avoiding his usual chums and fellow gang-boys.

When he still wasn’t back by seven o’clock Wednesday evening, Rani changed into her jacket and thick cotton trousers and geared up for a trip to Bethnal Green Road. She took the knife, as usual, and she raided a small can of ammonia complex from the kitchen cupboards. A faceful of that stuff would stop even a troll, unless he had the kind of cyberware that would make him an instant killer anyway.

Shutting the door behind her and then checking the three locks, Rani paused as the November night mist closed around her. This mist would turn to heavy fog before many more hours had gone by. She pocketed her keys, hoping this wouldn’t take long. Knowing Mohinder, he’d probably turn up three hours late on purpose and she’d have to walk home in ten-foot visibility carrying more than a thousand nuyen on her. Maybe no one in the restaurant would notice a package changing hands. Whatever happened, she’d have the gun, knife, and the gas on the way back, none of which would make her an easy mark for anyone.

Rani set off down the street, smiling despite her fears.

The Toadslab, the East End’s most singular restaurant, was doing a roaring trade by the time Rani arrived and pushed her way inside. A large group of orks and dwarfs sat along the far wall, the trestle tables groaning under the weight of food and tankards of foaming beer. Rani was glad to see as many females as males among them. It made her feel less conspicuous as a female Indian ork out on her own.

The large group wasn’t any local gang she knew of, but a glance around the room showed her the emblems and tattoos of various other gangs of whom she’d heard Imran speak. She saw nose-rings, stapled jeans, rat-tail bracelets, rusted skull badges, the full litany of signs and symbols. Each little group sat in its own area, respecting the territory of the others but making their own presence known. A handful of solitaires strong enough to command respect passed through the crowd. The outsiders didn’t seem to arouse either contempt or dismay among the locals, and she wondered how they had earned such acceptance. Probably because there are forty or fifty of them, she thought; that might do it.

It was a double birthday celebration, she realized. An ork and a dwarf stood up to cheers from their family and friends, and behind the service counter three of the ork waiters were grinning, their huge flat scoops laden with steaming food. As soon as the standing ork at the table seemed ready to speak, food began to fly through the air toward him.

A great cheer and an outbreak of foot-stomping broke out as the waiters pulled out all the stops for this one. With superb coordination, they flung the first volley of foot-square slabs of toad-in-the-hole fully thirty feet to the gathered throng, who grabbed the batter-fried sausage slices and slammed them down on their plates. One of the dwarfs managed the rare feat of impaling a descending slab on his fork, while the standing ork mistimed his grab and got hit full in the face by a greasy serving. The cheers grew louder.

Food continued to fly through the air as a young ork girl came rushing out of the kitchen with another massive flat pan of the sausages in batter. She dropped it onto the serving counter, shaking her cloth-swathed hands to show how hot it was. As one, the waiters spun around, made deft cuts with the honed edges of their scoops, then turned around again and unleashed another volley of foot-square slices.

Rani remembered having once seen synchronized swimming on the trid, but it had absolutely nothing on this. The waiters were poetry in motion, moving as one, their aim perfect, body movements in total harmony with the rhythm of the bhangratech pumping out over the ancient speaker units. It took them less than two minutes to deliver forty portions to their hungry and expectant customers. They completed their act by delivering a steaming pan of glutinous, rich gravy by the simpler method of carrying it across the room. The party managed to spray most of it over the table and themselves as they slam-dunked their slabs of meat into the viscous gunge.

Rani was tapping her feet to the insistent beat of the music by the time her own slab and beer arrived. Perhaps it was her obvious pleasure that made Mohinder frown as he sauntered over, dressed in the heavy synthleather go-gang jacket he favored for evening. It was voluminous enough to conceal a grenade launcher; sometimes it did. She saw his disapproval and stopped enjoying herself so visibly. A good little Indian girl shouldn’t be seen having fun alone in public.

“Imran not showing his face, huh?" Mohinder sat down and helped himself to a chunk of spicy sausage from her slab, swallowing it whole and licking his fingers. She wondered if people with retractable hand razors ever made mistakes when they did that, rather hoping they did.

“He wanted to come, but he’s been out all day and night.”

“I don’t usually do business with women, Rani. Well, not unless they’re selling something besides guns." He leered unpleasantly. From most people, the remark would have had sexual connotations, but from Mohinder it probably referred to street prices for transplantable organs. In most cases, at least.

"But they say you do business when the goods are worth it.” She pandered to his ego, unfailingly the largest part of any chauvinist.

“No complaints, Rani. Nice heat. I might even keep it for personal use.” His expression changed to a crafty smirk. “Show me some affection, lady.” He leaned very close across the small table, and she shuddered in repulsion for a moment until she realized what his gesture meant.

The package was pumped down his arm by the force of contracting muscle, then deposited inside her jacket as he caressed her right breast. He disgusted her, but she had some of what she’d come for. At least the slint hadn’t tried to kiss her; that would have been too much.

He ripped off a great strip of batter and crammed it into his mouth. He was clearly about to leave, looking around at the door, lifting his huge hands off the table and straightening his jacket.

“Mohinder, I’m still trying to find out what happened that night. Who set us up."

“But now that Imran’s spending all his days and nights on the streets he’ll be able to find out, huh? He tell you who hired him?" Mohinder’s brows frowned at her.

"Of course, but he won’t tell me where, nor any of the details.” She had to lie. If Mohinder knew that her own brother hadn’t told her a thing, he’d never trust her with any information he might have.

“I don’t think you’re leveling with me, gopi. You’ve still got the smell of the kitchen about you." He stood up, stretched his arms out behind his back, then folded them across his chest. "But you’re lucky. This afternoon I cut a fine deal. I’m a happy man tonight, Rani, so perhaps I will tell you a little something.”

She stretched across the table eagerly.

“But first you promise to put a word in with your man Mohsin, huh? Not that he wouldn’t do a good job for me anyway. He knows not to cross me. But family gets best treatment, and I’m not family, so you put in a word, right?”

Rani gave him her most winning smile. “I’ll threaten to dose him with one of old Chenka’s powders if he doesn’t give you the best!” Chenka could make up anything, including poisons and toxins that would send a troll’s guts into spasms for a month.

He laughed contentedly. "Deal.” He placed his huge paws on the table, staring straight into her face. Rani did not flinch from the inhuman stare of his cybereyes. “Well, Imran got a job I should have had. If your family had been working with me, little one, they’d be still alive and safe. Your brother is a greedy fool. Pershinkin hired him. The little rat would be an intermediary for some heavy rollers, yeah? Can’t tell you where to find him, though. He’s vanished. Wouldn’t mind a word with him myself. Not that you’ll see him-but if you do, tell him to look me up sometime.”

Finally he turned to leave. "Don’t you forget to have that word with Mohsin, girl. Now I got to sort out Typhoid Mary. Later.”

Without another word, Mohinder stood up with a howling scrape of chair legs, then shouldered his way through the crowd toward a gaunt young woman. She was dressed in black and wore her hair in a mass of tangles. A datajack showed on one temple, but she sat nervously avoiding everyone’s eyes and playing with a near-empty glass. Mohinder made only the slightest beckoning motion with one finger and she stood and followed him out of the noisy restaurant.

Rani pulled on her jacket and headed out into the thickening fog as the birthday party guests began emptying their pockets to pay the bill. She’d gotten what she’d come for.

Pershinkin.

A real freak. Part-Ukrainian, part-Indian, part-Italian. Spoke eleven languages, lied fluently in all of them. He drifted in and out of Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Bethnal, even the Squeeze. Chipped to the cybereyeballs and as fast and elusive as a greased piglet on crack.

Pershinkin was a big-time fixer, a conduit for corporate money stretching out to hire poor street muscle from across the river while his employers sat safe and cozy in their Estates penthouses and boardrooms or some other safe patch. Nobody ever knew how to find Pershinkin. He only appeared when he had to fill the bill for some work.

Rani had heard Imran mention the little man a few times when in a boastful mood. She’d never seen him, but she had a name and that was a start. At least she could confront Imran and force something out of him now, though she’d need Sanjay’s help if the wretch ever came out of his stupor.

She was most of the way down a deserted Brick Lane before she realized just how thick the fog was. She coughed into her hands, the sound quickly sucked up by the wet night. The street lights along here were intermittent, and the little light they emanated diffused into a purulent yellow haze at unpredictable intervals along the street. As an ork, her low-light eyes gave her an advantage most nights, but in a fog this thick even she struggled to see more than a few yards ahead of her as she padded along the wet sidewalk.

Near the junction with Mile End Road the fog began to thin out, a gap in the pea-souper suddenly revealing a circle of figures standing there. Their features were dim, but their intentions were obvious. The curved blades and chains made sure of that.

"What have we here, boys?" said one.

There was an answering voice from behind her. “Dear me, a little Indian girl out on her own at night. Bad gopi girlie." There was a nasal snigger.

The acne-scarred face of the snakeboy advancing slowly toward Rani broke into a grimace of pure hatred. “Well, well, that’s none too smart, huh? Oh and look, it’s an ork, too. The kind of filth we don’t need on the streets of our country. Wouldn’t you say, boys?”

Rani was dead and she knew it. Her terrified eyes took in the white flash marks on their jackets and on the forehead of their yellow-toothed, crazy leader. His twitching hands said he was high as hell on something, and the motif told her: White Lightning. Anti-metahuman, pure racist, neo-Nazi street scum.

All that was left to hope was that she could kill or maim as many as possible before they ripped her apart. She drew both knife and pistol, clenching them with trembling hands.

The leader’s face broke into an insane cackle, staring at her, pupils dilated to the max. “She’s going to make a fight of it, boys! Oh look, a little Ceska pistol! Frag me, it’s going to rip my ballistic so bad I’m never gonna scrag another rakkin’ subhuman again!” He clutched at his chest in mock agony. Head shot for you, you wanker, she promised him silently. One or two of the shadows behind him seemed just a little less eager at the sight of the twin weapons. Take him out and you might just reduce the odds, girl. Maybe only half a million to one.

Don’t think it.

Do it.

She armed the Ceska, drilling him right between the eyes. He dropped like a stone, blood spurting gore over his chest and the pavement. A low growl broke out from the others and they advanced on Rani, moving to flank her on either side. She realized that now they would have to avenge their leader.

Well, that’s one fascist scumsucker gone, thought Rani. If I knew who to pray to, I’d beg to take out another dozen before I die. She aimed at the closest gangboy, a drooling one-eyed skinhead with a ribbed scar running from forehead to chin. Before she could squeeze the trigger, something heavy hit her in the back and sent her shot flying wide. Running now, the gangers were still coming at her.

The first creep was four yards away and screaming, his knives ready for action, when his throat suddenly sprayed crimson and his scream turned into a ghastly dying gargle. Something from behind her had hit him, but she hadn’t any time to wonder what was happening. The gangboy staggered backward and half-knocked down the one behind him. Without pausing for thought, Rani kicked him sweetly under the chin, feeling the pleasing crack of a breaking jaw as her steel boot cap connected with his face.

Spinning to her right, she slammed two pistol shots straight into the stomach of another skinhead just as his weighted throwing knife whirred past her face. A sear of pain told her that she might suddenly have one less ear than before, but what did that matter when she was fighting for her life? Rani was dimly aware that other figures were struggling elsewhere in the fog, and then she heard some rapid cracks of gunshot, but not many. She was looking for the next skinhead to attack when she heard the footfalls in the distance, heading up from Whitechapel Road. She also heard the marching cry, “Light-ning! Light-ning!”

Sod it all. Reinforcements.

"This way. NOW!” Standing before her was an ork, a grim-faced brute in filthy leathers and with blood on his knife and hands. She stood shocked for a moment, unable to move. lie slapped her hard across the face and screamed, “NOW, you acing git!” He grabbed her arm and began to drag her out of the Street and into the shadows.

Rani no longer had any clear idea of what was happening, but she dimly registered that this was no cretinous While Lightning attacker. He was an ork like her, so she let herself be carried along in the group that coalesced out of the fog. Shadows and forms seemed to flow along the back streets as they hurried along, the chanting behind them become screams of fury. They’ve found the bodies, she thought.

Then she was being pushed roughly into an abandoned, tumble-down building. All around came the monotonous sound of water dripping steadily from an unseen ceiling. As she looked up, one heavy drop hit her square in the face, and she blinked to regain her vision. Hands pushed her behind a mass of what looked like collapsed brickwork, a wooden door appearing out of nowhere as though by a conjurer’s sleight of hand. A flight of stone steps opened up below it.

“Down.” It was an order.

“What the f-"

“Down. Or d’ya want anovver fifteen rounds wiv White Lightning?" A dwarf with a broken nose and a face not even his mother could love gave Rani a push. She stumbled through ork and dwarf bodies, half-falling down the first few steps until the broad back of another ork female stopped her.

Well, she thought, I may not know where I’m going, but it’s better than being dead. She drew in her breath and hurried down into the gloom and stench. I hope.