their prim and proper jobs, leaving behind their prim and proper car and house and swimming pool and life membership at the local gym and quiznight at the upmarket winebar and-
And all the other things they told him, time and time again, that they'd left behind because of him. They'd moved onto a ball of shit in space. They'd sacrificed everything, they said, to raise him where he wouldn't be victimised, to give him a chance at life. All they asked in return was for him to shut the sneck up. Siring a mute could be forgiven, in social circles. Siring a mutie could not.
Only now they were dead and given that they'd made such a big snecking effort for him, it seemed like the right thing to do to get even.
From below him, through a layer of roofing tiles came the unmistakable crump of a door being kicked-in. He tensed. A few muffled clanks followed the passel of goons through the room.
Demonstrating the sort of attention to detail that only the greatest of criminal minds ever grasped, a voice said: "Little puke's not here."
Roolán swallowed. It was now or never:
"Lost something?" he shouted.
He was still getting the hang of controlling his voice. He hadn't uttered more than twenty words in the last five years, so it was unsurprising that he hadn't quite perfected the abilities beneath his command...
The roof cracked. Every window for two blocks belched outwards. A light rain of jabberbats tumbled from the sky, pipes popped at their joints, hydrants sluiced the streets, milk soured in fridges and in every neighbourhood dogs howled with a sort of bewildered indignation.
Roolán's patch of roofing gave up the ghost. He dropped like a stone, landing with an ungainly crunch amongst the wreckage of his hotel room. So much, he thought, for playing it cool. Lying there in the dust, waiting for someone to slip a knifeblade across his throat, he opened his eyes and glanced around.
The goons hadn't fared much better than the jabberbats. They sprawled in various states of concussion, bleeding from noses and ears. One or two were unconscious and the others looked like they'd like to be, groaning like foghorns.
It wasn't just that his voice was loud, though it was. It wasn't just that it extended beyond the normal spectrum of audible sound, though it did. It wasn't just that it seemed able to poke and prick at anything it chose, oscillating through scales to find that one exact tone that resonated with the atomic vibrations of any material, shaking it apart at its molecular seams. Though it did.
It was something more than that.
If music was a pair of hands to massage the senses, then Roolán's voice had claws.
He picked himself up and surveyed the devastation. He'd fallen on the head of the greasy little snecker from the bar. The man dribbled disgustingly and snored, oblivious to the rapidly-growing lump on his scalp. Roolán hoped it hurt when he awoke.
The big man, the leader with the wide-load shoulders, the man right now lying half-propped against the wall, watched Roolán through a haze of sweat and snot. His eyes weren't behaving themselves.
"Wha... whaddasneg..." he burbled, mouth slick with blood. Roolán guessed he'd bitten down so hard that he'd broken some of his teeth and found himself, bizarrely, hoping it was nothing more serious. He wasn't ready for murder. Yet.
"Figure you boys set that bomb," Roolán whispered. Whispering was worse.
Whispering didn't break things or concuss people. It just slid like a knife through the mind. Like a maggot in the skull.
"Figure someone paid you to do it."
The big man choked on his own vomit.
"Figure someone had to have a reason."
The man's knife clattered to the floor. Roolán crouched down beside him.
"Give me a name..." he hissed, and there was no way in the world that anyone - not even a braindead xowpoke called Ziggig - could disobey.
"N...name of... of..."
"Stanley Everyone".
Kid Knee rubbed at his temples, lifting his leg to accommodate. He'd just woken up.
And all the other things they told him, time and time again, that they'd left behind because of him. They'd moved onto a ball of shit in space. They'd sacrificed everything, they said, to raise him where he wouldn't be victimised, to give him a chance at life. All they asked in return was for him to shut the sneck up. Siring a mute could be forgiven, in social circles. Siring a mutie could not.
Only now they were dead and given that they'd made such a big snecking effort for him, it seemed like the right thing to do to get even.
From below him, through a layer of roofing tiles came the unmistakable crump of a door being kicked-in. He tensed. A few muffled clanks followed the passel of goons through the room.
Demonstrating the sort of attention to detail that only the greatest of criminal minds ever grasped, a voice said: "Little puke's not here."
Roolán swallowed. It was now or never:
"Lost something?" he shouted.
He was still getting the hang of controlling his voice. He hadn't uttered more than twenty words in the last five years, so it was unsurprising that he hadn't quite perfected the abilities beneath his command...
The roof cracked. Every window for two blocks belched outwards. A light rain of jabberbats tumbled from the sky, pipes popped at their joints, hydrants sluiced the streets, milk soured in fridges and in every neighbourhood dogs howled with a sort of bewildered indignation.
Roolán's patch of roofing gave up the ghost. He dropped like a stone, landing with an ungainly crunch amongst the wreckage of his hotel room. So much, he thought, for playing it cool. Lying there in the dust, waiting for someone to slip a knifeblade across his throat, he opened his eyes and glanced around.
The goons hadn't fared much better than the jabberbats. They sprawled in various states of concussion, bleeding from noses and ears. One or two were unconscious and the others looked like they'd like to be, groaning like foghorns.
It wasn't just that his voice was loud, though it was. It wasn't just that it extended beyond the normal spectrum of audible sound, though it did. It wasn't just that it seemed able to poke and prick at anything it chose, oscillating through scales to find that one exact tone that resonated with the atomic vibrations of any material, shaking it apart at its molecular seams. Though it did.
It was something more than that.
If music was a pair of hands to massage the senses, then Roolán's voice had claws.
He picked himself up and surveyed the devastation. He'd fallen on the head of the greasy little snecker from the bar. The man dribbled disgustingly and snored, oblivious to the rapidly-growing lump on his scalp. Roolán hoped it hurt when he awoke.
The big man, the leader with the wide-load shoulders, the man right now lying half-propped against the wall, watched Roolán through a haze of sweat and snot. His eyes weren't behaving themselves.
"Wha... whaddasneg..." he burbled, mouth slick with blood. Roolán guessed he'd bitten down so hard that he'd broken some of his teeth and found himself, bizarrely, hoping it was nothing more serious. He wasn't ready for murder. Yet.
"Figure you boys set that bomb," Roolán whispered. Whispering was worse.
Whispering didn't break things or concuss people. It just slid like a knife through the mind. Like a maggot in the skull.
"Figure someone paid you to do it."
The big man choked on his own vomit.
"Figure someone had to have a reason."
The man's knife clattered to the floor. Roolán crouched down beside him.
"Give me a name..." he hissed, and there was no way in the world that anyone - not even a braindead xowpoke called Ziggig - could disobey.
"N...name of... of..."
"Stanley Everyone".
Kid Knee rubbed at his temples, lifting his leg to accommodate. He'd just woken up.
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