seemed to stare at me.
I stayed away from the huge ring of fused metal surrounding clear water where the Forbidden Pleasure had been before it was destroyed by an orbital weapon at Rolleston’s bidding. He’d been trying to kill Ambassador. It had been like using a sledgehammer on an ant. More ghosts walking behind me.
I had come for one thing. It had better still be there.
As I approached the storage facility I heard the ringing sound of metal being banged on metal. It was coming from inside the tubular steel of the Rigs. It was coming from the world of the Twists.
I made my way across a badly swaying bridge made of driftwood and rusted corrugated iron. The armed guards, who came with the money I’d spent on storage, met me. They had honoured the contract. The bike was still there. It would have been sold off at the end of December if I hadn’t returned. I’d always paid in advance because my Triumph Argo was the one thing I could not stand losing. Besides, it was a source of income when I went scheme racing.
I ran some diagnostic programs on the bike and did some maintenance. It needed a few adjustments. I was going to need some synthetic oil and a few replacement parts sooner rather than later, but overall it was in good shape.
I was plugged into the bike’s system, kneeling next to it, letting the 3000cc engine idle, when he appeared. One moment there was nobody there; the next there was a small figure on top of one of the tubular supports of the old oil rig. I had a good look around to see if he had brought any friends with him. If he had I couldn’t see them. The heavy rain made a ringing noise as it hit the metal superstructure.
I recognised him. His name was Robby. He was a Twist, someone whose genes had been fucked by the war or pollutants so his growth had been stunted. Many of them lived in the metal tubes of the Rigs. Robby was the barman at McShit’s, a pub owned unsurprisingly by McShit, the crippled Twist who ran the inner world of the Rigs and who’d risked his livelihood and life by helping Morag and I escape.
‘You look a lot less desperate,’ he said. His accent was very broad Dundonian.
I was tempted to make a crack about his appearing trick. He was like a character from a children’s story, suddenly appearing small and wizened in front of me. That would have been low, however. The Twists get a hard enough time of it as it is and their community had done nothing but help Morag and I. Although admittedly they had got paid.
‘Not staying around then?’ he asked.
I stood up, unplugging myself from the bike’s systems, the diagnostic readout disappearing from my IVD.
‘Hey, Robby. No, I’m not hanging around.’
Robby made a point of looking me up and down. It was still me, the same armoured coat, though it had been cleaned and the temperature regulation system had been fixed. The same jeans and boots, though they were also clean on, and I was wearing a new jumper. And I’d had a shower and a shave on the train. I was also well fed.
‘Done all right for yourself.’ His tone was neutral but it was a forced sort of neutral. ‘Saw you on the viz. I think everyone did. They said it wasnae you, nae the heedbanger from the north side cubes, nae him, but I kenned and looked it up afterwards.’
I was wandering where this was going.
‘Does McShit want to see me?’ I asked. His answering smile held no humour in it whatsoever. That was how I knew that Rolleston had killed McShit. ‘I’m sorry, Robby. What happened?’
‘What do you think happened?’ Here was the anger he’d been holding back. ‘Those English bastards cut their way into our world, killed any who got in their way. Tortured McShit, not immersion, nothing fancy mind, not for us wee folk. They just beat him, broke parts of him, cut him till they got what they needed. What little he knew. Tell me, was it worth it, half my pals dying, I mean?’
It was a while before I answered. ‘I think so.’
‘Really! What
I stayed away from the huge ring of fused metal surrounding clear water where the Forbidden Pleasure had been before it was destroyed by an orbital weapon at Rolleston’s bidding. He’d been trying to kill Ambassador. It had been like using a sledgehammer on an ant. More ghosts walking behind me.
I had come for one thing. It had better still be there.
As I approached the storage facility I heard the ringing sound of metal being banged on metal. It was coming from inside the tubular steel of the Rigs. It was coming from the world of the Twists.
I made my way across a badly swaying bridge made of driftwood and rusted corrugated iron. The armed guards, who came with the money I’d spent on storage, met me. They had honoured the contract. The bike was still there. It would have been sold off at the end of December if I hadn’t returned. I’d always paid in advance because my Triumph Argo was the one thing I could not stand losing. Besides, it was a source of income when I went scheme racing.
I ran some diagnostic programs on the bike and did some maintenance. It needed a few adjustments. I was going to need some synthetic oil and a few replacement parts sooner rather than later, but overall it was in good shape.
I was plugged into the bike’s system, kneeling next to it, letting the 3000cc engine idle, when he appeared. One moment there was nobody there; the next there was a small figure on top of one of the tubular supports of the old oil rig. I had a good look around to see if he had brought any friends with him. If he had I couldn’t see them. The heavy rain made a ringing noise as it hit the metal superstructure.
I recognised him. His name was Robby. He was a Twist, someone whose genes had been fucked by the war or pollutants so his growth had been stunted. Many of them lived in the metal tubes of the Rigs. Robby was the barman at McShit’s, a pub owned unsurprisingly by McShit, the crippled Twist who ran the inner world of the Rigs and who’d risked his livelihood and life by helping Morag and I escape.
‘You look a lot less desperate,’ he said. His accent was very broad Dundonian.
I was tempted to make a crack about his appearing trick. He was like a character from a children’s story, suddenly appearing small and wizened in front of me. That would have been low, however. The Twists get a hard enough time of it as it is and their community had done nothing but help Morag and I. Although admittedly they had got paid.
‘Not staying around then?’ he asked.
I stood up, unplugging myself from the bike’s systems, the diagnostic readout disappearing from my IVD.
‘Hey, Robby. No, I’m not hanging around.’
Robby made a point of looking me up and down. It was still me, the same armoured coat, though it had been cleaned and the temperature regulation system had been fixed. The same jeans and boots, though they were also clean on, and I was wearing a new jumper. And I’d had a shower and a shave on the train. I was also well fed.
‘Done all right for yourself.’ His tone was neutral but it was a forced sort of neutral. ‘Saw you on the viz. I think everyone did. They said it wasnae you, nae the heedbanger from the north side cubes, nae him, but I kenned and looked it up afterwards.’
I was wandering where this was going.
‘Does McShit want to see me?’ I asked. His answering smile held no humour in it whatsoever. That was how I knew that Rolleston had killed McShit. ‘I’m sorry, Robby. What happened?’
‘What do you think happened?’ Here was the anger he’d been holding back. ‘Those English bastards cut their way into our world, killed any who got in their way. Tortured McShit, not immersion, nothing fancy mind, not for us wee folk. They just beat him, broke parts of him, cut him till they got what they needed. What little he knew. Tell me, was it worth it, half my pals dying, I mean?’
It was a while before I answered. ‘I think so.’
‘Really! What
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