Zero history

62. WAKING

Milgrim woke with a leg over both of his, bent sharply at the knee, Fiona’s inner thigh and calf across the front of both his thighs. She’d turned on her side, facing him, and was no longer snoring, though he could feel, he discovered, her breath on his shoulder. She was still asleep.

How long, he wondered, if he remained perfectly still, might she remain in this extraordinary position? He only knew that he was prepared to find out.

A spidery, simultaneously sinuous and scratchy guitar chord filled the high-ceilinged twilight of Bigend’s Vegas cube, afloat on rainlike finger-drums. Milgrim winced. It died away. Came again.

Fiona moaned, threw her arm across his chest, snuggled closer. The chord returned, like surf, relentless. “Bugger,” said Fiona, but didn’t move until the scratching, writhing chord returned again. She rolled away from Milgrim, reaching for something. “Hullo?”

Milgrim imagined that the foam was a raft. Made the walls recede, horizon-deep. But it was a raft on which Fiona was taking calls.

“Wilson? Okay. Yes? Understood. Put him on.” She sat cross-legged now, at the very edge of the slab. “Hullo. Yes.” Silence. “I’d need to dress for it, the chartreuse vest, reflective stripes.” Silence. “Kawasaki. GT550. Bit tatty for the job, but if the box is new, should do. Benny can bolt anything on. Have the manufacturer’s URL? I could measure it for you, otherwise. I’ve already put it together. Haven’t tested it.” A longer silence. “Organ transplants, plasma? Autopsy bits?” Silence. “Send over enough of that precut foam from a camera shop, the throw-away-the-bits kind. I doubt vibration would do it much good at all, but Benny and I can sort that. Yes. I will. Thank you. Could you put Hubertus back on, please? Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, “we do seem very busy, suddenly. Benny can bodge your box on, but I’ll need new dampers. This drone won’t travel as nicely, I don’t think. Different sort of moving parts. Yes. He did. He was very clear. Bye, then.”

“Hubertus?”

“And someone called Wilson. Something’s up.”

“What?”

“Wilson wants my bike outfitted like a medical courier, professional-looking box over the pillion, extra reflectors, safety gear. Our new drone goes in there.”

“Who’s Wilson?”

“No idea. Hubertus says do what he says, to the letter. When Hubertus delegates, he delegates.” He felt her shrug. “Good kip, though.” She yawned, stretched. “You?”

“Yes,” said Milgrim, keeping it at that.

She stood, went to where she’d left her armored pants. He heard her pull them on. The zip going up. He restrained a sigh. “Coffee,” she said. “I’ll have Benny get some in. White?”

“White,” said Milgrim, “sugar.” He groped under the foam for his socks. “What was that music, on your phone?”

“I’ve forgotten his name. Brilliant. Saharan.” She was pulling on her boots. “He heard Jimi and James Brown on the shortwave, when he was little. Carved extra frets into a guitar.” She went out without turning the Italian umbrella back up. Grayish sunlight. Then she closed the door behind her.