again. But the approval is still there. Approval keeps the spine straight and the chin up, in a slave.’
Then I closed the book and left the hotel, stuffed to the eyes with questions.
3 RING THE BELLS, I’M GOING OUT
Parked by the shamefaced and abandoned building of the Terminal Embassy, I nursed a needle, thumb on the plunger. It was Jade, the stuff people took to either raise or lower their intelligence to a median level: communication was almost impossible otherwise. Tonight though, a mistake.
If your heart stops in Beerlight they steal the wheels off it. I cloaked the car and walked down Plenti Street in slate Faraday pants, a decoy shirt and glacier glasses rare as copper wire. Stina Hang was a smashed piazza of shattered asphalt and white dust. The bone idle stood around traditional trashcan fires or sat on the lumpy ground trying to identify their next meal. I spotted a group of three guys who looked to be Mexican. They were sat around a fire, smoking cigars rolled on the thighs of baffled women. I let them know I was coming by giving a brief sketch of my interests and depravities: ‘My hobbies are shaped charge explosions and being meticulously misunderstood. Other than that I’m as useless as a hen on a garbage island.’
‘Friend or foe?’ asked the leader, a dashing bastard in a vintage AV-6 flight jacket.
‘Neither.’
‘Join my bottle.’
I did as instructed. ‘Here I am, crouched for adventure.’ I found I had to shout above the sound of growing mustaches. ‘Mexican eh?’
‘Si - it’s final.’
I drank whisky out of a dead spyglass.
He continued in a sawmill voice. ‘I first came to Beerlight on a sniper exchange program, to see the Miracle of the Snarling Virgin. What I found dried the slime on my heart. Numb calibrations. Russian doll pinatas. Abominations.’
I nodded. That sounded like the way it might have happened. ‘I agree tooth and nail. I remember when there were banks to be robbed or supported. Let’s pray something’ll crawl out of an ocean trench to bring retribution on us all, eh? I’ll drink to that! I’ll die, and nature will probably be unsatisfied with rotting me once.’
‘As for me, my judge shall find me ready and ripe with crimes.’
‘We’ll be clearing you away with a leaf-blower.’
‘As we are now being frank, whose eyes nest behind them blockers, senor?’
I took inventory before replying. They were all multistrapped but I could only see a few of their flaws. The speaker was dressed in brown, with yellow gloves. He had a Stigmata Hardball in an oxblood boast pocket and a few throwing knives in a waist sheath. The big guy was a bullet-banded jack of clubs - he was stroking a Kingmaker pistol like a pet and had something that might have been a Failsafe bar in a shoulder rig. The third guy appeared to be playing air-dagger. He had hair the appearance and cost of tobacco and an irregular object in the centre of his face. I could only explain it as some sort of nostril array. He favoured a Calico mini sub with a helical magazine. It was unlikely any of them had sidespace holsters.
‘The name’s Atom.’
Telling him this was like interrupting a Kamikaze pilot as he straps on his alice band. He frowned, making a notch between his eyes like a trigger guard. ‘You and your bloodcurdling calm are well known to me. Gumshoe analog. Gun in cookie jar etc. Thought you were dead.’
‘Sure, dead like a fox.’
‘They say you have blank hands and that you killed a President with the one and only Siri gun.’
‘Unavoidable I’m afraid,’ I said, pursuing a course of mildness with utmost resolution.
He thought that over without reaching any apparent conclusion. Then he smiled benignly. ‘As to that, this round man is Jose,’ he said, indicating the bewigged guy with the knife. ‘This rocklike man is Junco, known as El Mozote.’ That was the squarejaw jack with the chest fence and heavy sender. ‘And I am Alfonso.’ He gave a ghastly grin.
‘Well, now I can put names to faces.’
He looked as if he were tasting his own teeth. ‘Ach, you strike a nerve. Look at Jose’s face. There’s not one feature you can name with any certainty. He looks like he began as a man and then Mother Nature lost her nerve. Nose like a chicken bone and downhill from there. And El Mozote - his face, apparently through the workings of sheer chance, has gathered into this pattern while standing fast against the eroding forces of the sea. I make no great claims for mine either. It is just a nose surrounded by other features that swirl around for lack of clear instruction.’
‘Well, if we’re comparing, how about my own face - fixed-wing ears, a snap-brim forehead and forty-calibre tearducts.’ I indicated Jose’s legs. ‘What manner of things are these?’
‘His legs. And now you know everything. Ach, look at their faces. And look at yours. And mine.’
‘How long would that be fun? No, gentlemen, I think it’s time we admitted we’ve sealed our fates by being born behind these distortions.’
We continued the small-talk, air phrases melting before they were received, and touched lightly on politics, agreeing that several well-known figures should be destroyed.
Alfonso ritually offered up the old story of Roni Loveless, the boxer who, ordered to throw a fight, beat not only his opponent but everyone in the arena and its locality in an outward-blooming explosion of violence against enforced mediocrity. Protocol demanded I counter, so I laid out the story of the guy who had quietly killed and disposed of a delegation of government agents visiting his home in Atlanta. A follow-up posse sent to investigate were also quietly disappeared. A subsequent arrest crew were soon missing in action. Word got out and hundreds, then thousands of people flocked to his door seeking a way out. The address was eventually posited as a method of population control. Maybe this last was only legend. My audience sat thoughtfully around the mothering pot.
I was silent for a while, idly painspotting. A moon covered in vaccination scars had ignited Beerlight’s cordite borealis, forming concentric rings of death-smoke. Winged spiders with loose legs wove feebly around in the air. Stina Gate itself was like the gate in King Kong but without the tiki styling. Old code graffiti covered the dented metal behind which stretched a desert consisting not of sand particles but of those sleep-crumbs people roll out of their eyes - the baked flats of the Fadlands. This gap in the world was the endplace of a culture pumping nothingness into a chick-mouthed vacuum. It was artificial, this absence - I knew the difference between it and the tilted fertility exposed when a civilisation is scored back to its bedrock of illusion and doom. There was something honest about the latter’s unrealistic hope. The Fadlands were about cowardice, the denial of anything intense or specific. It had spread like a stain without detail, a blandness its inhabitants had subdivided to keep themselves busy.
Stina Gate was not the portal for contraband notions.
‘What was the man’s name, senor.’
‘Which man?’
‘The man in Atlanta. Who disappeared the killers.’
‘I don’t remember.’
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