Carl Sargent - Black Madonna

“Surely he must be. If what he does for fun is wipe his traces clean from the Doge’s system, routine BBS scanning ought to be pretty simple,” Geraint said.

Michael sat down with his deck. “Okay. Consider it done. I’ll leave Smithers to plant it.”

“Smithers? Who the frag is Smithers?” Streak demanded.

“One of his frames,” Geraint told him. “This one does the routine clerk stuff so he calls it Smithers.”

“Don’t ask about Tracey,” Serrin said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Streak replied. “What a weird bloke he is.”

“I won’t take that to heart,” Michael said cheerfully. “Better than being boring, eh?”

It took less than a minute to post the message they finally composed, make the nominal payment transfer, and arrange the email drop. Now all they could do was sit back and wait.

“Now what?” Streak was becoming restless, agitated because he was still feeling the adrenaline rush that shooting people always gave him.

“Apart from this I’m not sure that’s much else we can do. We know something’s going to happen in the square tonight, so-”

Michael’s words were interrupted by a signal from his deck that Smithers had observed and located a reply to his posting. Eagerly, he downloaded it.

“Slot, that was fast,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” They all crowded around.

“ ‘Your understanding is superior to what we had expected. We look forward very much to further developments. Yours respectfully, Salin.’ Hmm.”

“Respect, indeed,” Geraint growled.

“Don’t be touchy,” Michael said. “look, he’s pleased with us.”

Are you a toy poodle or something?”

“It seems to imply that we’re being invited to get closer to him. ‘Further developments’.”

“We should post a reply to his reply,” Serrin suggested.

“Good idea, but what?”

“The flood. That apocalyptic flood.” For some reason, the idea suggested itself to him. “Thats so final. I think that’s a key, somehow. Maybe it’s just because he’s been here and been doing weird stuff with the canals, I don’t know. Let’s post a chunk about the flood. Maybe ask if it can be averted.”

“All right.” Michael settled to work with Serrin’s book open at the right page of text.

Again the reply came back within minutes. Michael read it aloud.

“ ‘Salai and his master congratulate you on making an intuitive leap that is beyond your understanding at this time, and express their admiration. They respectfully suggest no further communications are necessary at this time. Wail until midnight,’ Well, thank you, gentlemen.”

“Midnight tonight doesn’t leave us much time,” Geraint said.

“Look, we’ve got our channels open now, he knows about us and he’s said we understand some stuff. We’ll have to live with that for now.”

“It’s the best part of twelve hours until midnight in the square. What do we do until them?” Streak was pacing up and down the room now.

“Look, when Juan and Xavier get here, why don’t you take off and get some exercise?” Geraint told him. “I can see you need it.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m just getting a bit stir-crazy. Too much banging around and I start to seize up,” the elf said with a grin.

Right on cue, a loud knock at the door announced the arrival of the samurai pair. Streak opened it to find them already kitted out in full carnival regalia. The gold masks made them look even more sinister than usual.

“Ludicrous” Juan snarled. “But it covers the arms up.”

“Juan mate, good to have you on board again. And Xavier, my man,” Streak greeted them. “We’ve already had some unfriendly fire this morning.”

“Great” the ork said, cheered up no end. “Just tell me who we’re here to kill.”

Kristen sighed. Serrin Look her by the hand, off to their own room.

“Bleeding hearts,” Xavier growled.

“Disgraceful, ain’t it? And it was her they shot at,” Streak informed the troll, obviously somewhat embarrassed of the company he was keeping these days. “Anyway, guys, I need some fresh air. I wanna take off for an hour.”

“Now that Juan and Xavier are here, we all could,” Michael suggested. “I’m not sure I need twelve hours cooped up either.”

“I’ll go off alone if it’s okay. Meet you later,” Streak said.

“Sure, but-”

“Unless you really want to meet some ladies with highly nuyen-soluble virtue,” the elf said bluntly.

“Oh, right, well, no I don’t think so,” Michael spluttered. “Thanks for the offer, I suppose.”

“We could take Serrin and Kristen down to the Rialto, Geraint suggested. That’ll be the liveliest part of the city right now.”

“Sounds good to me. Let’s hire a gondola and just do the Rialto for a couple of hours.”

“If you don’t sink it,” Geraint said to Juan, laughing The ork had enough metal to sink something less fragile than the gondolas appeared to be.

“If you’d seen those Texans loading up this morning,” Michael recalled from observing a tourist group heading out of the piazza, you wouldn’t worry. They had to be two hundred kilos each, and that was without all the vids and cameras.”

They spent the whole afternoon sampling the city from their vessel, and if anyone was watching or following, they caught no sign of it. Even the Spanish mercenaries apparently unused to leisurely sightseeing, seemed to impressed by some of the sights. The cafes and Street theaters were in full swing as they sailed past the House Desdemona, the palatial dwelling named after Shakespeare’s character, past the monumental baroque church of Santa Maria with its vast dome and million-timber supports, past the royal gardens built by Napoleon, beneath bridges both tiny and magnificent, until they had gorged themselves on the colors and textures and shapes of Venice. It was after six in the evening when they returned, hungry for dinner, having resisted the dubious pleasures of canalside stalls that all offered an extensive range of remarkably poor fare.

“We’ll take a corner table,” Michael said diplomatically. “Juan’s arm will be less obvious in such shadows as there are.”

“Bad news for you, having to eat with an ork, huh?” Juan growled.

“No problem with that. It’s all that metal that’s the problem. Scares the customers, old chap,” Michael grinned.

Streak didn’t share the general good humor.

“Raoul’s been here,” he told them.

“Huctzlipochtli?” Juan asked. It was more of a teeth-baring snarl than a question.

“The very same, large as frag and twice as ugly.”

“We know him,” Xavier said, his tone leaving no doubt at previous meetings hadn’t involved sipping cocktails and discussing the latest developments in modem theater.

You guys will wear body armor underneath those costumes,” Streak told Geraint and friends.

“A fat lot of good that will be against the head shot any sensible hitman will want to take,” Juan observed.

“Yeah, so let’s reduce the size of the target,” Streak replied.

You could fit them with head shields if they wear the cowls with their cloaks. I saw lots of people doing that,” Xavier suggested.

“Good one. Then we can’t see much because of the masks and we’ll be able to hear bugger all. Then they can sneak up behind us and give us an APDS enema from five fragging meters,” Streak said. “I seem to remember discussing this with you guys somewhere else. Was it Swazi?”

“Yeah,” Xavier said in a bored voice.

Kristen’s ears pricked up. It wasn’t that far from her homeland, though the bandit- and warlord-infested petty fiefdoms of the Trans-Swazi Federation were a very different place from Cape Town. She’d known some escapees from the Swazi, as most people called it, and they’d been hard, mean souls.