draw the seared edges of his blocks back together, knowing they were leaking, knowing also that if Nielsson could get a clear shot he would take it, even with all of the witnesses. The flechette gun was silent, and besides, Nielsson was a psychopath.
He felt as if he ran on a rapidly spinning disk now. The lights of Paris weren’t points, but the tails of orbiting comets. His feet were becoming slabs of duracrete. He no longer had any idea where Nielsson was. He passed through a large crowd, ducked up a street into an alley, and finally, wheezing, hid in a recessed doorway.
As he collapsed against the brick wall, the dark alley strobed, and another-sunlit-scene replaced it. He was back in Teeptown, at the spot the Grins had burned into his mind. The vision shivered with unnatural color, as if the walls, trees, grass, and sky were producing light instead of reflecting it, as if their very atoms were tiny arc lamps…
The specter faded, and he was in the alley again, trying to be quiet, to make a quiet place… Quiet, quiet… He could barely inhale now. Water was still bubbling out of his nose. He wiped at it. It was sticky.
He was never sure if it was the realization that what he was exhaling wasn’t water at all, or a simple lack of oxygen that took him out. One moment he was sitting, back to the wall, trying to brace himself to face Nielsson. The next his face was pressed hard against the street. Then nothing.
A conversation woke him. Two black rats were discussing where their morsel had gone off to.
“A tasty corpse it looked, not long dead. It was here somewhere.”
“Maybe not dead at all. Maybe he’ll squirm a little when we start chewing on him.”
Then he really woke. His face was in a sticky puddle on the stone. The rats from his nightmare were still talking, though their conversation was a bit different. I can feel him. I think he’s out of it. This way.
Nielsson.
Let’s just get out of here, Port. That call… No. You felt him get it, the safe house. He knows where it is. He’s here, somewhere. He won’t be arty trouble. He’s already been too much trouble. This is taking too long. And he could hear their footsteps now, not through their ears, but through his own. This wasn’t good. He had to get up, to rim some more.
He told his muscles to do so. They told him they had the night off. He dimmed his mind, made it seem as if it were going out, as if he were dying. He was, of course. That seemed obvious. Still, he had no intention of going peacefully. He wondered what Cadre Prime would think of him now. Stupid or brave orjust suicidal?
They came closer. He held imagoes of their minds, now. Nielson’s was simple, and if he had to draw it, it would be a knife. Brazg’s was her face, simplified almost as much as a Grin’s, mournful, hopeless. Closer, closer he let them come. But once they saw him he would have to…
They saw him. He used every bit of will he had left to raise his head and establish line of sight. Nielsson was a blunt’ shadow, but that was plenty. He hit him with everything he had, just a simple burst to the pain center. Nielsson screeched, his knees buckled, then straightened. He laughed harshly.
“Still got some left, eh? This ends it. Tell the Devil I said hello.”
Then a confusing thing happened. Nielsson spun on his heel and fired the flŠchette away from Al. At the same moment, the alley flickered yellow-like someone lighting a cigarette-and the walls seemed to slap together like giant stone cymbals. That was the sound he heard, anyway. Then Nielsson’s knife mind was shattered. Al saw what looked like a door crack open, and white light stabbed through, and something yanked at him-He yanked back. The door slammed, the light went out. There were some scuffling sounds. Al coughed. And something large and wet came up. Then a hand touched him, warm, and he suddenly felt reassured.
“Ambulance. Now.”
A man’s voice, a rich baritone, very precisely articulated. What
He felt as if he ran on a rapidly spinning disk now. The lights of Paris weren’t points, but the tails of orbiting comets. His feet were becoming slabs of duracrete. He no longer had any idea where Nielsson was. He passed through a large crowd, ducked up a street into an alley, and finally, wheezing, hid in a recessed doorway.
As he collapsed against the brick wall, the dark alley strobed, and another-sunlit-scene replaced it. He was back in Teeptown, at the spot the Grins had burned into his mind. The vision shivered with unnatural color, as if the walls, trees, grass, and sky were producing light instead of reflecting it, as if their very atoms were tiny arc lamps…
The specter faded, and he was in the alley again, trying to be quiet, to make a quiet place… Quiet, quiet… He could barely inhale now. Water was still bubbling out of his nose. He wiped at it. It was sticky.
He was never sure if it was the realization that what he was exhaling wasn’t water at all, or a simple lack of oxygen that took him out. One moment he was sitting, back to the wall, trying to brace himself to face Nielsson. The next his face was pressed hard against the street. Then nothing.
A conversation woke him. Two black rats were discussing where their morsel had gone off to.
“A tasty corpse it looked, not long dead. It was here somewhere.”
“Maybe not dead at all. Maybe he’ll squirm a little when we start chewing on him.”
Then he really woke. His face was in a sticky puddle on the stone. The rats from his nightmare were still talking, though their conversation was a bit different. I can feel him. I think he’s out of it. This way.
Nielsson.
Let’s just get out of here, Port. That call… No. You felt him get it, the safe house. He knows where it is. He’s here, somewhere. He won’t be arty trouble. He’s already been too much trouble. This is taking too long. And he could hear their footsteps now, not through their ears, but through his own. This wasn’t good. He had to get up, to rim some more.
He told his muscles to do so. They told him they had the night off. He dimmed his mind, made it seem as if it were going out, as if he were dying. He was, of course. That seemed obvious. Still, he had no intention of going peacefully. He wondered what Cadre Prime would think of him now. Stupid or brave orjust suicidal?
They came closer. He held imagoes of their minds, now. Nielson’s was simple, and if he had to draw it, it would be a knife. Brazg’s was her face, simplified almost as much as a Grin’s, mournful, hopeless. Closer, closer he let them come. But once they saw him he would have to…
They saw him. He used every bit of will he had left to raise his head and establish line of sight. Nielsson was a blunt’ shadow, but that was plenty. He hit him with everything he had, just a simple burst to the pain center. Nielsson screeched, his knees buckled, then straightened. He laughed harshly.
“Still got some left, eh? This ends it. Tell the Devil I said hello.”
Then a confusing thing happened. Nielsson spun on his heel and fired the flŠchette away from Al. At the same moment, the alley flickered yellow-like someone lighting a cigarette-and the walls seemed to slap together like giant stone cymbals. That was the sound he heard, anyway. Then Nielsson’s knife mind was shattered. Al saw what looked like a door crack open, and white light stabbed through, and something yanked at him-He yanked back. The door slammed, the light went out. There were some scuffling sounds. Al coughed. And something large and wet came up. Then a hand touched him, warm, and he suddenly felt reassured.
“Ambulance. Now.”
A man’s voice, a rich baritone, very precisely articulated. What
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