Chaing was surprised by how small Port Chana was. Given how prominently it featured in his life—with the endless rumors of its status as the capital of radical Eliter activity, the probable hometown of the Warrior Angel, and the final destination of the underground railway—he’d been expecting something altogether more grandiose. The buildings were made from thick granite blocks to withstand the winter winds blowing in off the sea, which made them imposing but hardly significant. Industry was mainly warehouse storage for all the farm produce harvested across the rich lands of the county to the west, and the docks, where bulk cargo ships competed with the rail freight companies to ship all that food out to the rest of Bienvenido.
The PSR office was on Haigal Avenue, a commercial street that ran back directly from the waterfront marina where all the smaller, more prestigious stores were clustered. Buses roared along it, belching out thick fumes, elbowing their way among the cars and vans. Unlicensed food stalls cluttered the pavement, tipping pedestrians over into the dedicated cycle lanes, creating a constant chorus of angry bells. The pace of life here was more like one of the larger cities, Chaing decided, everybody busy and rushing.
He made his way carefully across the pavement. Most people moved out of the way when they saw his uniform and crutch, but some had to be stared away. There were several youths strolling along in their outlandish clothes; he’d noticed them about the city, inevitably in their twenties, dressed like colorful tramps with long unkempt hair, looking like they were high on narnik half the time. Talk in the PSR office was that they did it in reaction to the strictness of their regiment service.
Port Chana’s temperature was lower than in Opole, so he’d felt the chill in his customized uniform with its thin cloth. Today, his third day, he’d worn a sweater under the jacket—which had to be cut to fit over the cast. But at least he’d finally got rid of the eye patch and dressing on his face.
Decent vision allowed him to see the taxi with its green “for hire” light on sixty meters away. He raised his crutch. The taxi shot over two lanes with other vehicles tooting angrily. It wasn’t much bigger than an Opole tuk-tuk, but it had four wheels and two passengers could fit in the back. Just.
Chaing climbed in and told the young driver to take him to Empale Street. He couldn’t drive himself, and he’d politely turned down all Director Husnan’s offers of providing a car and driver. Officially he had a room at the Raffiat Hotel on the waterfront and he didn’t want the local office knowing different.
He spent most of the journey pulling on an ankle-length raincoat. As disguises went it was pretty ineffectual for a man with an arm in a cast and using a crutch, but it would cover the fact that a PSR officer was going into a house on Empale Street every day.
The section seven safe house was a typical Port Chana two-story, three-bedroom fisherman’s cottage, one in a long row of similar homes with tiny backyards making up the winding street that rose up a gentle slope. Chaing paid off the taxi and waited until it had driven around the corner before crossing the road and walking back five houses to number 37.
Jenifa was in the ground-floor living room, jacket off, sleeves rolled up as she read through reports. The long table was covered in files, as were most of the chairs.
“Good news,” he said, and dropped the thick briefcase down on the table in front of her.
“What?”
“More reports.”
She gave him a sour look. “Funny.”
Under Stonal’s direction, every PSR office on Lamaran was now running an investigative analysis operation, compiling reports of “unusual” commercial or engineering activity. Stonal was hunting any clue that might indicate the Commonwealth girl was building something. So far a team of Port Chana investigators working under Captain Fajie had found nothing. But that wasn’t good enough for Stonal, so every evening Chaing would bring back the team’s reports, and he and Jenifa would go through them all again. In addition to that paperwork, Corilla was supplying them with any suspicious cargo invoices she could find from the railway yard, where she’d been placed in the handling office.
“We’re not getting anywhere, are we?” he said.
“No.”
“I just wish I could come up with a new angle.”
“Section seven has been hunting the Warrior Angel since the Great Transition,” she said. “We’ve been here three days.”
“I know, but the situation has changed now.”
“Are you going to tell me you can ‘feel’ it?”
Chaing gave her an annoyed glance, wishing she’d keep barbs like that for the bedroom. “I’m acting on instinct and logic,” he said patiently. “This is the most likely place she’ll be.”
“Have you seen anything to suggest Stonal is right about the local office being compromised?”
“No. Director Husnan doesn’t like me being there, but that’s to be expected. And Fajie is a straight arrow; her team is doing their best.”
Jenifa pushed the paper away and leaned back in the chair, yawning. “I don’t like it here.”
“Take a break; I’ll make some coffee. Then we can go through the rest of this crud together.”
“No.” She stood up, stretching. “I’ll get the coffee. I don’t want you in the kitchen.”
“Okay.” Chaing couldn’t judge the tone. Was she saying she didn’t want him to risk a boiling-water accident because he had his arm in a cast, or that he couldn’t make decent coffee? It was strange. Each night they went up to the bedroom and had the best sex ever, but the rest of the time it was almost as if she didn’t like him. He was always slightly on edge around her, never forgetting her suspicions about the whole Castillito incident. While he was in the hospital, recovering from the explosion, he’d had the most vivid dream of her taunting him.
The smart thing would have been to leave her behind in Opole, but he just couldn’t bring himself to make the break.
Chaing shook his head to clear it. Just concentrate on getting the job done. He sat down at the table and opened the briefcase. Two dozen files spilled out.
Florian had a fast shower in the small en suite, then put on a toweling robe and went back out to the bedroom. It had been a long day, with the whole farmhouse a bustle of activity. He’d taken part, of course; the ANAdroids always found some task for him, though he suspected they could do it themselves in a tenth of the time. Today they’d had him making up lists of food to take on the expedition. He’d quite enjoyed that, even though it wasn’t fancy food. The farmhouse’s smartcore had catalogs of every supplier in the county on file, so after the lists were compiled, he’d gone on to place orders. They couldn’t be large orders, nothing that could attract attention, and they had to be shipped to a warehouse company on the edge of Port Chana, sometimes via intermediaries. There were a dozen different bank accounts, false invoices, different delivery firms, never the same route. The farmhouse had a secure cable down to the town’s three telephone exchanges, wired in to circumvent PSR monitors. He’d thought about putting on different voices on the phone, but that was taking it a stage too far. Besides, his false accents were seriously cruddy.
It had been a rewarding day; he’d achieved a lot. Probably not as much as everyone else, but they wouldn’t starve on the trip. And now there was going to be sex.
He hopped onto the bed and looked expectantly at the half-open door. Lots of sex. Great sex. Like every night since he’d arrived, and sometimes during the day, too. Kysandra was so utterly divine. He didn’t even think about the risks facing them on the expedition, how the Faller Apocalypse was going to come crashing down on them very soon now; nor did he care that Captain Chaing had arrived in town to continue his hunt. Those things were just intervals between his times with Kysandra, endured and enjoyed as much as filling in all those eternal warden office reports.
“Florian,” Kysandra’s voice called from the landing.
He smiled in anticipation and rolled over on the bed, feeling his erection growing. “In here.”
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“Is it that little black lace number, the one that makes you look really hot and dirty?”
“Er…”
“Hello, Florian.”
“Mum!” Florian yelped in horrified surprise as Castillito peered around the door.
“Oh, Giu, you really are here.” There were tears in her eyes.
“Mum.” He hurried over and hugged her—still blushing furiously. He saw Kysandra standing on the landing, an unreadable expression on her face. Then her lips twitched and she gave him a little finger wave. A link opened from her u-shadow. “See you later,” she told him.
Then his mother was stroking his face, needing the reassurance of touch. He was surprised she was so anxious. She’d been such a force of stability and calm throughout his life, always supportive, always encouraging, understanding, and tolerant with his coding obsession. She hadn’t even shown any disappointment at him signing up for the warden service, though he knew it was a bitter blow to her. She’d aged, too, which shocked him. It had only been seven years. Guiltily he realized his letters home had gradually become fewer and fewer.
“They told me the PSR had arrested you,” he said.
“Captain Chaing himself,” she said with what sounded suspiciously like pride. “I was the one who gave him a black eye.”
Florian remembered Chaing walking toward them at Hawley Docks, wearing an eye patch. “Really? That was you?”
“I guess we’ve both surprised each other.”
“I didn’t visit you in Opole,” he blurted. “I wanted to keep you safe from the PSR.”
“I know. I guessed you’d be with Terannia.”
“I was. They smashed up her club. And they arrested her as well for a bit. I really messed up.”
“Silly boy. You made it here.”
“And you,” he said in wonder. “How are you here?”
“Underground railway, of course. I’ve dispatched enough people along it. It was an interesting experience. Not exactly first-class the whole way.”
“You’re safe; that’s all that counts.”
“Safe from the PSR, for now. From what I understand, that isn’t going to last for long.”
“No, it probably won’t.”
“The Warrior Angel said you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“Oh. Did she?”
“Yes. It was quite overwhelming, finally meeting her. Such a pretty girl, too.”
Florian gave his mother a curious look. She’d never used that teasing tone on him before. “Yes, she certainly is.”
“Well done, you,” she pinched his cheek playfully. “So what has been happening? Why was the entire PSR going crazy hunting you?”
“Let’s go downstairs. I’d like you to meet Paula. And you’re going to need a drink.”
The log fire in the lounge was still blazing away, so they sat on the sofa and chatted away in a fashion that surprised Florian. He tried to tell his mother everything that’d happened without bragging too much, but she seemed genuinely impressed by what he’d done. She actually stumbled over her words when he introduced her to Paula, which she never did.
“So,” he said when his story was over. “Do you know where Lurji is? They’ll be looking for him now.”
“Lurji is fine,” Castillito said. “And you’re an uncle, by the way. He has a daughter: Zoanne. She’s eighteen months old.”
“Really? That’s amazing.”
“Yeah. He calmed down a lot after he left Opole; I think burning down the mayor’s residence made him realize how he’d run too wild. He lives on a farm about a hundred kilometers away. I’m going to visit him next. I want to see my grandchild before—” She sucked on her lip.
“Not going to happen,” he said, gripping her hand for emphasis. “Paula is amazing. And the team here…equally cool. We’ll find the Viscount, don’t you worry.”
“My son,” she shook her head ruefully. “Always the quiet ones.”
“Tell Lurji hello from me.”
“Will do.”
“And, Mum. Who’s my father?”
“Oh, Florian.”
“This is the end coming, Mum. Either we die in the Faller Apocalypse, or the Raiel will take us home to live in the Commonwealth like we always dreamed of. Either way, I deserve to know.”
“You do, yes. His name is Salvatore.”
Florian was surprised by his own reaction: He felt nothing. The name was just some syllables; it didn’t mean anything. He’d been expecting it to resonate somehow, to connect him. “Thank you, Mum. Is he still alive?”
“I honestly don’t know. We agreed not to stay in contact—to protect you and Lurji.”
“When this is all over, I want to find him.”
“You want to ask me why, don’t you? Why we split up? Why I never told you? Why I never registered your father at the birth?”
Florian nodded meekly, keeping his gaze away from his mother’s face.
“Well, don’t worry; we weren’t one of those couples who split up and are so bitter we can’t stand each other afterward. It’s actually rather special. You see, your father’s grandmother was Dionene.”
“But—” There was only one person he knew called that, and he didn’t need his secondary routines to run a file search for that, either. “She…I don’t…No! Really?” His heart was beating faster. “The Dionene?”
Castillito was smiling sheepishly. “Yes, Florian. Your great-grandmother is the youngest daughter of Captain Philious. She escaped the revolution and Andricea’s psychotic massacre of her family. That makes you and Lurji the direct descendants of the Captains of Bienvenido. The last of the line.”
“Crudding Uracus!”
“Which means there are quite a few people, not just in the PSR, who would like to exterminate you simply because you exist.”
Florian started to chuckle, and it soon became a full laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Castillito asked curiously.
“You know Ry Evine saved me? He snatched me and Paula away from Chaing.”
“Yes. You said.”
“Ry is related directly to Slvasta.”
She grinned. “I never knew Giu had such a sense of irony.”
“Thank you for telling me, Mum.” He embraced her. “I missed you. If you’d asked me to stay, I would have. You know that, don’t you?”
“That’s why I never did, darling. It’s not easy being a mother; we all know we have to let go at some time. And you couldn’t have stayed in Opole. You were so miserable it was killing me to see you like that. You had to leave to grow. And how you have grown!”
Florian was worried he was going to start crying.
“We’re going to save Bienvenido. You’ll see.”
“I know, darling.” She patted his leg. “Just don’t go thinking you’re invincible. You’re not.”
The Ankatra Café was at the western end of Port Chana’s waterfront, with a hedge of bushy heliotrope-shaded trasla trees marking out a snug area for their pavement tables outside. Jenifa walked along the edge of the marina at midday, where the rigging ropes slapped constantly on the masts of the yachts and yigulls circled overhead, vigilant for unwary sightseers leaving their pasties or ice creams unguarded. Her legs still ached from last night’s hot athleticisms; with Chaing practically immobile she had to exert her splendid body to thrilling extremes. In bed he was completely obedient, so much so she sometimes wondered if he did remember what she’d done to him in the Opole hospital. Uncertainty heightened the whole experience quite deliciously.
She walked past the outside tables into the café. It was darker inside, with traditional valseed oil lamps hanging from the beams, casting a shady jasmine illumination across the small black tables. Corilla was sitting in her usual corner, munching on an almond croissant, with a glass of hot chocolate with whipped cream in front of her.
Jenifa sat opposite her, keeping her face rigid with disapproval. “Do you have anything for me?” she asked the Eliter.
Corilla shrugged pugnaciously. “Plenty. It’s all crud, though.” She slid a brown paper store bag out from under her seat.
Jenifa dropped it into her own bigger, woven shoulder bag. The weight of the dockets from the rail freight office meant a couple of extra hours tonight. She almost asked: Then why did you bring it? But that would have been an excuse for Corilla to start bitching. So instead she asked: “What are the Eliters talking about today?”
“Same as yesterday. Everyone’s worried about the Faller Apocalypse. They know Opole docks was important.”
“Did they say how it was important?”
“No, just that the Warrior Angel wouldn’t show herself unless something really heavy was going down. People are speculating about Florian.”
“In what way?”
“Saying he has weapons. Does he?”
“No. He’s a forest warden, for crud’s sake!”
“Okay. No need to bite my head off.”
“Are they saying anything about the Warrior Angel?”
“Not much. No one knows if she can hold off the Fallers if they do overwhelm the rest of Lamaran. Talk is, probably not. Unless we use nukes.”
“There’s too much talk of the Faller Apocalypse,” Jenifa grunted disapprovingly. “Too much like traitor propaganda.”
Corilla rolled her eyes. “One day you’ll learn: We’re all in this together. The only people who discriminate between humans are you. What kind of person would ever ally themselves to Fallers?”
The image that immediately dominated Jenifa’s sight was the firefight outside Cameron’s, where gangsters had fought alongside Fallers. “Bad ones,” she said softly.
“You’re crazy. No human would do that. We’ll be fighting against them just as hard as you, despite everything you’ve done to us.”
“Faller Apocalypse is just more Eliter lies.”
“Like breeder Fallers and the Warrior Angel? So what was that attacking us in Frikal Alley?”
“A cat.”
“Like bollocks it was!”
“You would be wise to focus on your job.”
“I’m working ten-hour shifts in that cruddy office. Those are dockets that I thought you might want to see. It’s not me that breaks deals.”
Jenifa picked up her shoulder bag and stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Already looking forward to it.”
Jenifa smiled thinly, imagining how Corilla would look, stripped naked and strapped to the frame in the safe house interrogation cell. Not so smug, I’ll bet. She wondered if Chaing would agree to that. He’d enjoy watching; she’d make sure of that. “And if you hear anything—”
“Emergency phone number memorized.”
Jenifa walked out and hailed a taxi. “DeMarco Hotel,” she told the driver.
Nobody apart from her mother knew about the room she’d taken at the DeMarco, which was an easy three-street walk from the safe house. She spent a couple of hours there every day, which was why she was always so far behind when Chaing came back to the safe house at night. She spent those hours going through his old Portlynn case files, which Yaki had sent to her.
The DeMarco was a lovely old five-story building with an elegant interior that had remained in good condition. She walked through the lobby, heading for the broad curving stairs.
“Ma’am,” the receptionist called.
He had to call again before Jenifa even looked around, surprised to find he really was calling to her. Why? She felt a slight chill, her senses alert. Hand at her side, resting close to the concealed pistol.
“What?” she asked crisply as she reached the desk.
The receptionist was intimidated by her attitude. He reached to the wall of pigeonholes behind him. Room 101—her room—had a folded sheet of hotel notepaper. He handed it to her, and quickly looked away.
It read—
Courtyard Bistro, Corporal.
C.
Jenifa took a good look around the lobby but couldn’t see anything remotely suspicious. “Who gave you this?” she demanded.
“It was given to Mariebelle; she was on duty this morning. I can ask when she comes back for the evening shift.”
“Never mind. Where’s the Courtyard Bistro?”
“Through the bar, ma’am.” He pointed.
As she went through the bar, she slipped the safety off her pistol. Calling it the Courtyard Bistro was somewhat aspirational for a paved area eleven meters long and three wide, possessing five tables à deux under pergola beams draped with a vine. The ancient granite wall at the back had two narrow slit windows opening to the alley that ran behind the hotel. It was empty.
Jenifa gave the kitchen doorway a suspicious look. She could hear the head chef shouting at his sous chef inside.
“Over here, Corporal,” a female voice said.
Jenifa drew her pistol and walked to the back wall. “Who is it?”
Castillito walked past one of the open slits. Jenifa ran forward and shoved her pistol through the gap. Castillito was out of sight, and she couldn’t get any kind of angle up or down the alley.
“Remove your hand or I’ll smash an iron bar across it,” Castillito said.
“Crud!” Jenifa glanced up, but the granite wall was nearly four meters high. No way could she scramble up it. Bring one of the tables over? But the pergola beams formed an effective cage lid. Something slapped her hand firmly in warning. Furious, Jenifa withdrew the pistol. When the barrel was level with the slit she had her widest angle, but Castillito remained out of sight. She was on the left, though; Jenifa was sure of that. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got some information for you. It concerns your boss, Captain Chaing. You know, the one who betrayed you back in Opole?”
Jenifa gritted her teeth and brought the pistol back through the slit. “What about him?”
“Those old files you’re looking through in your room upstairs, they’re not going to tell you what you want to know.”
“How did you—” She cursed herself for playing Castillito’s game. “Then what do I need to know?”
“The two of you are alone in that PSR safe house every night. Are you screwing him?”
“I am going to come around there, and you’ll be—”
“He’s one of us.”
“Us? What do you mean? A radical?”
“Oh, no, little girlie,” Castillito chuckled. “Think bigger.”
Jenifa slammed her fist against the stone slit. “Tell me!”
“He’s one of us, a filthy Eliter. How do you think he managed to call the Warrior Angel to Xander Manor? How did she know he was heading for Hawley Docks?”
“No! You’re lying.”
“Oh, you’ll rage and shout about it for a few minutes, then you’ll calm down and you’ll know. Goodbye.”
“Wait! If he was an Eliter, there’s no way you’d betray him to me!”
“This is personal now. He was going to catch Florian, my son. Prove to you all what a perfect little PSR bastard he is. Florian would have been tortured for weeks; and when you were through with him, you’d either murder him in your dungeons or send him to a yellowcake mine where the radiation would rot him to death. So, yes, I’m betraying comrade Chaing, because I know what you’ll do to him. My only regret is that I don’t get to watch.”
“How much has Chaing told your people? Does the Warrior Angel know we’re here? We want to talk to her!”
There was no answer. Jenifa shoved her face into the slit, but she still couldn’t see along the alley. She knew it was empty, though. Castillito was gone. “Giufuckit!”