Falling (24 page)

Switching streams to turn right, towards some kind of park entrance, Jude thought, this Living Before The Migration business, it's not so bad once you get the hang of it.

The park turned out to be a false alarm. Some kind of garden, yes. And pretty. But the gates were marked PRIVATE and padlocked. Given that there didn't even seem to be anyone in there, what was the point of that?

She positioned herself with her back to the gates – careful not to hide the PRIVATE sign, which was keeping a three-foot clear zone round her – and considered her options.

Going to the authorities was definitely out. Anyway, they might not know any more than she did. Biotech probably wasn't even public yet. No, she was going to have to sort this out on her own.

So, yes, Mr Warner, I just strolled into the lab as these all-powerful Travellers of yours were about to destroy the first successful regening experiments, and I simply overpowered them with the force of my personality. All in a day's work for Jude DiMortimer, super-Traveller.

The lab.

That was another thing. She was going to have to work out where they were.

She must have ReTraced to somewhere in the right area. That was how things worked. And Warner said she was being drawn through time to these Travellers anyway. So, somewhere round here.

And somewhere small. Maybe not officially a lab at all. Bioteching had been perfected during some kind of crackdown, hadn't it? An attempt to regulate genetic experimentation after some kind of over-hyped disaster. The law-makers cracked down on everything – and ‘everything' went underground, took stupid, unregulated risks, and made the traditional giant leap for mankind.

What had the first companies been called? So many, now the tech had been licensed, pirated, extorted and stolen. BodyTech, BioDiverse, geneClean… All too obvious. During a crackdown, they'd have been called something neutral, something that might pass for a computer company or a standard medical research outfit.

Century Technology. They'd had a place on Great Windmill Street, a whole block, back before the Migration had leeched all the big players from the city and left the field to backstreeters like Harchak. Now, if they'd started off in that location, and expanded…

It was as near to useful information as she was likely to get. And anyway, this was ReTracing. Her problem didn't really need to be hunted down. All she needed to do was keep busy until it came up and slapped her in the face.

Then someone spoke her name and she looked up, timestreams colliding in her head. Overlaying the blonde woman's dreary department-store raincoat with the memory of a silk overcoat and patent shoes, her frown with the smile of a killer.

Little Miss Leather Shoes And Matching Handbag, who'd tried to kill her on the SideRide in Little East Bankside, and succeeded in a tastefully decayed backstreet twenty years later.

Or not. It was getting a little hard to tell.

‘Well,' Jude said, because it was the only thing that came to mind that wasn't childishly obscene. ‘Fancy seeing you here.'

‘The place to be,' Little Miss agreed, ‘if you're a sardine.'

‘Or a homicidal maniac.'

‘Now, Jude, that's no way to talk about yourself.'

‘Wow, you're a natural, Miss Prim. Do they have Friday Night Comedy Showcase in this century?'

The pressure of the crowd was pushing them together, nudging her nemesis towards the rear of the pavement. The blonde woman spread her empty hands and smiled. ‘All right, let's take the wisecracking as read and get down to the talking.'

She's scared of me.

‘Talk, right. Like you did last time we met?'

She just kept on smiling. ‘That's all over, Jude. I can't hurt you now. Not like that, anyway.'

‘Because I'm dead.'

‘Because you're like us. The dying – or the continual ReTracing, something – pushed you over the edge. Awakened your latent abilities. I could stick a knife in you right now, and you'd be gone before it touched you. You're no longer tied to your body – and that makes you indestructible.'

‘Thanks for the tip.'

Little Miss frowned. ‘You don't believe me.'

‘I don't believe anyone hands the advantage to their enemy by telling them they're the Woman of Steel.'

The blonde woman glanced away. Just for an instant, and without her gaze seeming to settle anywhere, but Jude marked the direction anyway and began circling against the slow current of bystanders, to check it out.

‘The fact is,' the woman said wearily, ‘I'm not your enemy. Why don't we go somewhere less crowded? There's a square this way – without the padlocks…

‘No.' Jude nodded in the opposite direction. Away from whatever Little Miss was so interested in, off in the crowd. ‘That way. Walk.'

‘It's too busy to –'

‘That way, or nothing.'

Shrugging annoyance, Little Miss started to walk.

By the next intersection, Jude knew the street by name. Collymore Street, leading down into a jumble of theatres, takeways and clubs that still existed, much diminished, in her day. Shapeless blocks of concrete and glass jutted over a narrow road choked with erratically parked cars, offering unpredictable impediments to the speed-crazed cyclists.

The crowds had thinned, but there were still enough bystanders around to make her nervous. People in bad suits smoking in doorways, or grunting and twittering into mobile phones, raising their gaze to the thin ribbon of blue sky now and then, as if in desperation.

She glanced back down the street. It didn't look like they were being followed, but since she didn't have much idea who the third Traveller was, it was impossible to be sure. Any of these office boys or lost tourists could turn on her any second.

With what weapons, Jude? You don't even exist here.

Lunging forward, Jude grabbed the woman by the shoulder and swung her round; fast, hard, stopping her with the heel of her hand on the other shoulder. Looked dramatic, and probably felt it, too. The two lads sharing a cigarette on the steps a few doors away looked up, blank as corpses. Probably wondering if they were about to witness some of that inner-city crime they were always hearing about on the news.

Little Miss Prim wasn't looking happy. But, despite the obvious shape of an underarm holster showing through the immaculate cut of her jacket, she hadn't gone for a weapon.

So maybe it was true. They couldn't hurt her any more.

Riding her new-found confidence, Jude leant forward, deliberately invading her personal space, and snapped, ‘The other Travellers. Where are they?'

‘And why would I want to tell you that?'

‘Because I'm more powerful than any of you, shit-for-brains. I'm dead – and still moving through time. I have the power to twist time any way I want, and if I decide to throw you down the bottomless pit of eternity, there's no way you can stop me.'

To her surprise, she sounded pretty convincing. And Little Miss looked faintly worried.

Good. It looked like these Travellers were only half a step ahead of her in the theory department, and weren't entirely sure where she fitted in to the scheme of things. She could use that.

‘I can't tell you where they are,' the blonde woman said, ‘because I don't know. They arrived separately. Could be anywhere.'

Jude leant closer, clasping her shoulder with one hand, lowering her voice to a growl. ‘So take me to where you're going to meet them.'

‘All right. Fine. But we have half an hour, so it won't hurt for you to give me a chance to explain, now will it?'

‘Explain what? How you're so sorry you tried to kill me – whoops, I mean “actually did kill me”, don't I?'

Miss Handbag sighed. ‘I did what I had to do. I'm not saying I'm proud of that – but it looks to me like you're on the “by any means necessary” trail yourself, so maybe you should climb off your high horse for a moment.'

‘I'm not –'

‘A killer? Sure. So how are you planning to stop us from trashing Century Tech and bombing Martin H.'s few remaining brain cells back to the stone age?'

The surprise must have shown on her face, because Little Miss was fighting a smile. ‘Nice to see you were well briefed. Who did send you after us, anyway? Njallsson? Warner doesn't have the guts. Kelly Kotomo, of course. A conspiracy among you street-kids-made-good, that would really appeal to you, wouldn't it?'

‘What appeals to me right now,' Jude muttered, ‘is shoving you in front of the next moving vehicle I see. Unfortunately, this seems to be a quiet street. So state your case, fast, before one comes along.'

Adjusting the weight of the bag on her shoulder, she fixed Jude with a cold stare. ‘It's simple. We're going to win. You can't stop us. You have exactly one choice – you can be on the winning side, or the losing one. It's up to you.'

Jude drew breath, fighting the unfamiliar tang of carbon and sweat that seemed to be choking her. ‘Will you really be that surprised if I say – no deal?'

A long wail of sirens; coloured lights flickered as a police car raced through the parallel street. Despite herself, Jude glanced back, a reflex born of long nights of mischief on the Bankside that hadn't even happened yet.

Little Miss ducked out from under her hand, turned on one stiletto heel, and bolted.

This, Jude thought, starting after her, is where I'm going to wish I'd kept up that gym membership Fitch bought me.

No problem. I can do this. I'm better dressed for running than she is. Woah, watch the car… Look at her, can hardly walk in those shoes, let alone run. Turning left now – if she doesn't fall over that stray toddler first.

Another backstreet, bins and fire escapes. Go on, give in to instinct, run upwards and trap yourself –

All right, then, don't. Still gonna catch you. Thanks to the running shoes. I wonder how Warner arranged that? Or perhaps I did. Perhaps there's a part of me that foresees how I need to be dressed, and arranges…

Shit. Now where's she going?

A recessed doorway in the alley wall, a glimpse of a bulky figure leaning out to shepherd her inside.

A safe house.

She arranged this. Suggested we walked one way, knowing I'd choose the other. Towards her escape route, her back-up, just in case the attempt to win me over didn't work.

And she's gone.

Skidding to a halt three paces from the door, Jude drew herself up to her full height. That left her only about eight inches shorter than the bruiser currently occupying the whole doorway.

Then she saw the gold letters on the plaque half-hidden by his elbow, and realised exactly how well prepared her adversaries were.

‘Stand aside,' she snapped, ‘on the authority of the Department of GenoBonded Psi-Talent Operatives.'

His eyes narrowed, just a little, and she knew exactly what was passing through his head. Where does she know that name from?

The real question, big fella, is – how come you recognise it, years before GenoBond was founded?

Perhaps because its initials are embossed on the doorbell plaque right beside you?

‘I'm sorry,' he said mildly, steadying himself to repulse an expected attack. ‘This is a private club. Members only.'

‘Okay, fine. And what do you think the police are going to say when I report all this to them?'

The bruiser raised an eyebrow, an attempt at subtlety that sat uneasily on his big, blank face. ‘I daresay, madam, that they'll agree that private clubs are perfectly legal. If you'd like to apply for membership, I'll be happy to take your details, but the waiting list is rather lengthy.'

‘Forget it,' Jude murmured, turning away. ‘I'll just…'

It had been a long time since her last kick-boxing lesson. In fact, the last person she'd used it on had been Lazy Jay. Her reflexes were rusty, but the big guy wasn't likely to be quick on his feet, so –

Swiveling on one foot, Jude planted the other solidly into the bruiser's lower stomach.

He didn't move a muscle.

‘. . . go,' Jude conceded, withdrawing from the awkward stance with what little dignity she could muster. ‘I'll just go.'

The bruiser bowed his head slightly, infinitely polite. ‘I think that would be wise, madam.'

End of the alley: an open square, crowded with sweaty men eating ice cream, screaming kids, a few ragged women staking out the benches with carrier bags stuffed with litter. End of the alley, end of the line.

I wonder what Little Miss Handbag would have done if I'd said yes?

If they really can't harm me, if I am dead to the physical world, they'll be desperate to find another way to stop me. Buy me off. Win me over. Something.

Otherwise, this could go on forever. Me chasing them through time, always patching up the damage they've done. Them just about to wrench history round to the way they want it, only for me to head them off at the pass – again.