John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

She stared at him, thinking about it. Then, slowly: “Maybe you’re right… Was Angie there when they hit him?”

“No. Why?”

“She used to be my friend. Judy and Angie. Lately…” She shrugged. “What now?”

He glanced around again, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned a little nearer. “We leave when the lights go out. They’ll turn out the lights in a day or two. I’ll have a flashlight. We’ll go back to rear launch.”

“It’s closed down, guarded.”

“The guards’ll be expecting us. It’s part of the deal.”

Her stomach twisted. But she said, “Okay. They expect three of us?” Looking at him meaningfully, waiting to see if he’d say, Your father can’t go.

“They expect only me. But they’ll let us through if I insist. I have a priority pass and that means anyone I authorize.” He hesitated.

“Yes? What else?”

“Molt. I’m worried about Molt. I think he suspects.” He shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it…”

He broke off suddenly, stepped back from her. Angie was coming toward them.

Claire thought, When the lights go out…

“You know what’s funny?” Rickenharp said. “That you can get used to being shelled. Bombs exploding around and after a while it’s like being used to traffic noises.”

“I am no bloody way getting use to it,” Willow muttered.

They were in the basement of the safe-house, tiny dirt-floored rooms once part of les caves, the wine cellars, when the building had been someone’s house.

Rickenharp said, “I mean, anyway, its just like I imagined it. Something hits, and the place shakes, a little dust comes down from the ceiling. You feel a vibration go through you. Only it sounds different than I thought it would. Sometimes. There’s a kind of whining sound after the blast. I think it’s metal breaking—”

“Rickenharp,” Hard-Eyes said suddenly, “you proved yourself on three raids now. You did great. Everyone thinks so. You got balls. But Rickenharp, shut the fuck up.”

Rickenharp shrugged and shut up.

Hard-Eyes was far from used to the shelling. It scared him more than a firefight, though he was probably less likely to get killed here. It scared him because he was helpless. The whole shebang could come down on his head, and it was no use trying to shoot back at it. There was no strategy except run to a hole and hide in it. You just sat and waited to see if your number was up. It sucked.

The Front had moved back. The US Army had been backed into Paris, and now the Russians were shelling it. Rubbling all that history.

The town was down to a fourth of its population, maybe less; more streaming south every day, running from the shelling. Thousands were clogging refugee camps, trading one kind of suffering for another. But maybe it was better than being stuck in the ghettos, hammered helplessly by shells.

He looked at the others in the light from the lantern, trying to get his mind off it. Rickenharp, Willow, Yukio, the doctor, Jenkins, Carmen. The others in other cellars. Everyone here looking sullen, or looking as if they were trying to keep from looking scared, except goddamn Rickenharp, that brain-damaged asshole, expression on his face like a kid watching fireworks. Ceiling falls in and we’ll see if you’re having fun, pal.

There was a little room left near the door. He was surprised Smoke wasn’t there. Smoke usually hung out with Yukio.

“Where’s Smoke and the—” He broke off as they heard the thud, felt the vibration pass through the room, chattering teeth as it rippled through them. Dirt sifted down from the ceiling.

“Smoke’s gone to the States,” Carmen said. “You were out on a hit, you weren’t in on that. Steinfeld set up—”

Another thud, another nasty vibration, feeling closer now.

She went on, her voice straining for normalcy. Rickenharp was looking at her, not smiling now. Thinking what Hard-Eyes was thinking: Carmen’s scared, wants someone to hold her, but her pride won’t allow it.

She said, “Steinfeld set up a route, everything. Smoke’s going to do some kind of lobbying in the States to get backing for us.”

Jenkins said, “That old burn-out?”

Carmen said, “Steinfeld says Smoke’s not a burn-out. He used to be some kind of traveling reformist. Philosopher, writer. Then something bad happened and I guess he gave up, lost touch… He’s like, changing, Steinfeld says. Says he used to talk to himself all the time. Now he talks to the crow or to people and that’s all. He writes stuff in notebooks… Steinfeld says he’s got some kind of special talent…”

Hard-Eyes thought of the scarecrow Smoke had been when they’d met. He nodded. “Yeah, he changed.”

They were silent for a while. So were the cannon.

The Algerian came to the door, a lantern in his hand. “Okay ici? Bon. Steinfeld dis, C’est fini.”

“What’s ’e fooking know about it?” Willow said irritably.

Yukio said, “His listening station in the north. He picked up their radio commands. We have the code.”

Hard-Eyes felt something unwind in him. He was going to live another day.

He found himself looking at Carmen. Thinking, Funny how, after you almost get snuffed, you want to fuck.

But she was looking at Willow.

Hard-Eyes shrugged. No accounting for taste.

Kessler’s first impression of the island was of a strange, almost featureless flatness, and a blaze of light.

Julie put down her hand-luggage, and fished in her purse for her sunglasses. “This light’s great for my headache,” she muttered, slipping the dark glasses on.

“It was a long flight,” Kessler said. “You’ll feel better after you get some rest.”

“I just can’t sleep on airplanes. I’m afraid they’ll crash while I’m asleep.”

“That’s the best time for it if—oh, there they are.” Charlie was coming toward the Lear jet in a three-wheeled jitney; the jitney’s driver was an islander, skin so dark he was almost purple. The pilot and the steward came down the metal steps behind Kessler. The pilot pointed a plastic matchbox at the plane and pressed a button; the steps retracted, whining, and the door sealed itself.

The jitney pulled up, Charlie jumped out, grinning under his mirrorshades, and pumped Kessler’s hand. “’Sap, man!”

“Hi, Charlie… This is all our luggage, just carry-on.”

“Shit, I came here with less than that. Come on.”

They rode the jitney across sticky black asphalt smelling of hot tar, through the heat-shimmer to the little glass-fronted airport building. There was no customs at all. “This island is ours, Jimmy,” Charlie said. “No one comes here but NR. If they do, they’re arrested, and put under an extractor…”

Kessler grimaced. Charlie said, “Yeah, I know. I don’t like the fucking things either. This one’s the only one we got. Anyway, anybody comes to the island by accident, they take ’em into custody—but they let ’em go later if they extract out legit.”

“This island got a name?”

“Merino. No government except a little police force, and Witcher acts as a kind of local judiciary, when he’s here. He’s here a lot now. He’s getting paranoid. Officially, Merino’s a territory belonging to—um, I’m not supposed to tell anybody what it belongs to, because if you got extracted they’d know what area to search through… I found out by asking the locals. And then got a big lecture about it. When it comes to extractor proofing, ignorance is safety. Anyway, Witcher’s got a deal with the country that the island belongs to. He owns it—shit, it’s only about thirty-five square miles.”

Kessler shrugged. He was enervated and logy as they got into a limo. It felt cold after the heat outside.