Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille (17 page)

The music was loud, the beer strong, the bar crowded. Each was dark, in its own way. She’d been there for half an hour and had already been hit on three times. The first was the guy sitting next to her, a short man with a receding hairline, who seemed nice but dull. The second looked like a musician, and might have been interesting but she wasn’t in that sort of mood. The third was a body-building type who looked like he probably couldn’t count to eleven without using his toes. The fourth came as she finished her drink, and another bottle of Juliana Dark appeared in front of her. She looked a question at the bartender. He nodded to her left.

Number four was tall and blond, with a square jaw and a good tan, probably acquired out of a bottle or in front of a cancer-lamp. Instead of talking to her, he went up to the guy who was in the next stool and said, “Hey, friend, I’ll buy your next two drinks if you’ll give me your chair.”

There was maybe just a shade of intimidation in how close the big guy stood, but short but dull shrugged and moved. Tall and blond signaled the waiter, paid for two drinks for the guy, and sat down.

“Hi there,” he said, showing off his teeth. They weren’t bad teeth.

“Hi. Thanks for the drink.”

“My pleasure. I’m Jacques.”

“Souci.”

“You know, you are just about the cutest babe I’ve ever seen in here.”

“Just about?”

He laughed, a big, easygoing laugh that probably turned some girls to jelly. “All right,” he said. “
The
cutest.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “I figure if you’re about the best-looking woman, and I’m the best-looking guy, we ought to be sitting together, don’t you think?”

She wondered how much of a joke that was supposed to be. She said, “I like this place better when they have live music.”

“Yeah, me, too. Wanna go somewhere else?”

“Maybe in a while.”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

An hour later they were in his car, on the way to her apartment. Fifteen minutes after that, she watched as if from a distance as he undressed her and kissed her nipples and did all the other things that he must have thought made him a magnificent lover.

Then he was on her, then he was in her. She gave him a few perfunctory scratches on his back with her nails and wrapped her legs around his hips until he came. Then, as he lay on top of her, breathless, she came back to herself. She placed her palms against his chest and pushed.

“I didn’t come,” she said.

“What?”

“I didn’t come, you bastard.”

“Hey, I’m—”

“You’re a horrible lover. Clumsy prick.”

“Now, look—”

“Get your smelly body away from me.”

He stirred and looked at her, an expression of amazement just beginning to cross his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Didn’t you hear me? You’re terrible. You’re the worst lover I’ve ever had.” It had been building for days, and it exploded. “Ever. Do you understand me, you stupid asshole? Just get out of here. I don’t ever want to see you again. If you don’t get out of here now, I’m going to call the police.”

By now he was kneeling in front of her, staring stupidly. “Get out of here,” she screamed.

He scrambled into his clothing and practically crawled out of the apartment, too quickly for her to get all of the bitterness out of her system, but enough for a while. She heard him close the door—quietly, not slamming it. She lay facedown, naked on the bed, and did not cry.

She’d do it again next weekend.

She was seventeen.

Sunset fell upon New Quebec, the white of Laurier’s sun, Chaucer, sending rays dancing off the reflective windows of the Grain Exchange, splashing up the long, narrow corridor of Rue LaVelle, and sending the shadows from the bell tower of the New Hope Reformed Catholic Church to tickle the feet of the tall, Gothic Merchandise Mart.

Now that there is no living man left in the city or upon that world, let it be recorded, lest it be lost as so many things have been, that sunset upon New Quebec was a beautiful thing. I am sorry that New Quebec is no more. I do not believe that I could have prevented the destruction of that city, that world, yet I am sorry. I am sorry for so many, many things, but it is gone, anyway, my sorrow availing nothing. It is gone as are so many of those who were once close to me. Dead by violence personal, as Rich and Fred and the others. Dead by violence impersonal, as those I left behind on Earth, on the Moon, on Mars, and on Laurier. Or dead by violence passive, as are all of those I once knew who did not come with me across this barrier through which I now examine the ghost of sunset past.

What is this quintessence of dust, as the man said, and on bad days I understand why.

We put our instruments away, wondering, I guess, if we’d ever see them again. Jamie came up with a box of shotgun shells. He put several in the pocket of his leather jacket and passed the rest of the box to Christian. Jamie’s .357 was under his jacket, and he had two quick-loaders for it in his other pocket. He looked ready.

Christian had his pump-action and an ankle-length leather coat and a long-riders hat and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He looked ready.

Libby wore a hot-pink sweater, black pants, and pink leg warmers. She carried her automag, with two spare magazines located, ironically, in her medical kit, which she carried over her shoulder. She looked ready.

Rose had her derringer in the pocket of her jacket, which was an old one of Jamie’s. She took a hit off a bottle of Jameson. She looked ready.

Tom’s feet were up on the booth across from him. He had three spare magazines in the pocket of his CPO. He looked ready.

I had the commando knife under the arm of my motorcycle jacket. I carried the canister of kerosene with which they’d tried to burn down Feng’s. I looked ready, but it was a lie.

“Let’s go, troops,” I said.

“Just a minute,” said Rose. She ran off for a moment and came back with her fiddle case. “I just remembered that I’m the fiddle player.”

“Right,” I said. “Are you sure you want to take the chance of something happening to it?”

“Nothing will happen to my fiddle,” she said.

“All right.” We walked out the door. Carrie came with us because we didn’t trust her not to warn them if left on her own. She stayed next to Tom and looked frightened but resigned.

Jamie gave Rose Eve’s helmet and took Rich’s. They wheeled the motorcycle out onto the street. No one noticed us. Jamie started the bike, Rose got behind him, and they waited for the rest of us.

The car was something locally made, solar-powered, and small. Christian drove. The five of us fit in it, but without much to spare. On the other hand, comfort was not our first consideration on that particular ride.

After a mile, the city was behind us and we were definitely in a rural area, and it was another mile before we came in sight of the small horse barn that I remembered near Rudd’s house. It hadn’t seemed this far away when I was chasing Claude, or during the walk back. On the other hand, I was pleased that, along with a horse, a goat, and a few dairy cows, he did not keep either turkeys or hogs. I know the smell of each, and I’ll pass, thanks.

We stopped the car well away from the house and left the kerosene in it. I didn’t know if we were going to use it, but I didn’t want someone shooting bullets into it in the meantime. Jamie and Rose pulled up behind us and killed the bike.

Jamie and Christian went around to the back. Libby gave them each a grenade, and Tom explained how to use them. “You pull the pin and it’s armed,” he said. “It’ll go off when it hits something. If you want to disarm it, put the pin back in. It doesn’t have a timer, just an impact detector.”

“Okay,” said Libby. “So you, Jamie, go around back and pull it. When you hear the boom from ours, throw yours. You’ve got the other one in case you miss the door.”

“You want to be a good seventy-five feet away,” said Tom.

Libby said, “Can you hit that, Jamie?”

He nodded.

“Good. If you don’t hear ours go off after about five minutes, disarm the thing and head back for the car, and we’ll figure it out from there.”

“Got it,” said Jamie.

“What about Carrie?” said Tom.

I said, “As soon as we toss the grenade at the front door, she can go.”

“How do you know she won’t call someone.”

I turned to her. “Will you?”

“No.” Her voice was very small. I believed her.

“Last chance to back out, everyone,” I said.

“Shit,” said Christian.

“Let’s get to it,” said Tom.

Rose said, “I want—”

“Later,” said Jamie.

“Right,” said Libby. “Meet you in the middle.”

“‘Sister Goldenhair,’” said Tom.

“By America,” said Christian.

Jamie and Christian walked quietly around toward the back. We crept along the wall in front and waited, giving them a good long time to get positioned.

“You know,” whispered Libby, “we should have had them throw first, since we’re closer.”

“Now’s a great time to think of that,” I whispered back. “Do it.”

She stood up and threw and we ducked behind the wall. The sky seemed to brighten and a wind swept overhead. It was almost quiet, compared to the shooting from the day before. Libby took out her pistol. Tom already had his ready. Rose stayed behind me. Carrie ran away. We closed on the house where smoke was clearing to reveal a jagged, but almost round hole where the door had been. The night was lit by another flash, accompanied by a dull boom from the other side of the house.

Tom and Libby fairly leapt through the hole. Rose and I followed more slowly. There were no shots yet, but there was some clattering from a stairway just to our right. Tom walked over and stood at the bottom of the stair, his .45 held in both hands, his elbows bent, while Libby headed for the kitchen. Rose and I waited where we were. Rose was holding her pearl-handled derringer with the ebony dragon’s head inlaid.

Rudd came charging down the stair and stopped cold when he saw Tom. There was a small revolver in his hand, but it was at his side. I held my breath. Tom said, “Drop that thing or I’ll blow your fucking head off.” He said it just like that, and I knew he meant it, and would have done it, and that chilled me, though why it should is a mystery.

Rudd dropped the gun and I breathed again. Tom said, “Get down here.”

Libby came back and said, “This must be Monsieur Rudd.” There was a heavy note of irony in the way she said “Monsieur.”

“That’s him,” I said.

“Well,” she said. “We’ll just wait here.”

I said, “Rose, you stay with Libby and watch Rudd. Tom and I will go upstairs.” We did this thing, creeping up the stairs and bursting into rooms like Starsky and Hutch, except that I didn’t have a gun. The first room we burst in on I thought was a bedroom, but eventually realized it was a walk-in closet.

Tom said, “Do you have the map?”

“Map?”

“The floor plan Carrie made.”

“Oh. Right.” I dug it out of my back pocket and unfolded it, oriented it, and said, “We’re here.”

“I don’t want to look. Just tell me which way.”

“Next door on the right is a bathroom.”

“I don’t have to go.”

“
Man
,” I said.

The bathroom, or rather, the bathroom suite, could have fitted a king-size bed. Everything was done in ornate brass, and there were frosted bulbs around the mirrors and blue carpeting. Scary.

The first real bedroom was very big, very plush, and had bright yellow curtains, a bright yellow canopy on a big, round bed with a bright yellow bedspread, pale yellow walls, and a comfortable-looking black chair in the middle of the room facing the window.

I shuddered and we moved on. From down the hall, Jamie called, “Billy?”

“Over here,” I said.

“Okay. Don’t shoot when we come around the corner.” Good idea, that warning, if Tom was half as jumpy as I was. Jamie came around a bend in the hall and said, “Christian is downstairs with Libby and Rose. I thought you might be able to use more help.”

A splinter of wood hit me in the face and I heard a shot from very close by. Tom knocked me down while Jamie’s gun made very loud noises. I stayed where I was while I heard scuffling sounds and “Get out of my way,” and “Look out,” and more shooting, then stillness.

Tom let me up. I said, “What the fuck—”

“Justin,” he said. There was more shooting from the floor below. Tom went over to a window, and his back tensed. “He’s getting away,” he said. He hit the window with his pistol, but it didn’t shatter. He cursed loudly, then turned back to me. “He was sitting up there waiting to nail us. He almost got you, didn’t he?”

I touched my cheek where it still stung from the ricochet and I nodded. Tom shook his head. Jamie rejoined us. “He’s gone,” he said. “I was going to follow him, but he wrecked the bike on his way past it.”

“That’s another one we owe him,” said Tom.

“In any case,” said Jamie, “no one’s hurt.”

“All right,” I said. “It could be worse.”

We finished exploring that floor, which held two more bedrooms and another bathroom. One of the bedrooms showed signs of being tenanted, but was not currently occupied. There was a phone in the wall, which I took off and destroyed. It took quite a while to explore every nook and cranny of that floor, and I became nervous about Christian and Libby and Rose. Before going up the stairs I called down to them, and Libby called back that they were doing fine. We made our way up the stairs, Tom and Jamie edging in front of me, both of their guns out at waist level. In a large room, actually more like a boudoir, mostly done in red with touches of purple and green, Souci sat, smoking a cigarette and waiting for us. A white Persian cat sat on her lap and shed all over a black turtleneck shirt that was too tight for her. She also wore a pair of corduroys with torn knees, and high black boots, the left had a spur. Her face was still that perfect set of angled planes, her lips still pouted, her eyes were still feline. She looked at me without any expression at all. My throat hurt.

Tom and I escorted her down the stairs without a word being spoken. Libby frisked Souci while I frisked Rudd, then Libby and Christian searched the house again, but there was no one else there. Tom held the prisoners under guard and kept them from speaking with each other while Jamie and I found some wood and hammer and nails and sealed the front door so it would be harder for them to escape. We also made sure the windows wouldn’t open.

At last all gathered together in the living room for some private conversation. I was glad that we had the guns.

“Well,” I said. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here today.” Souci rolled her eyes. M. Rudd had the grace to smile. I continued, “There is a particular piece of information that I’m looking for. When I get it, we will leave you alone. Until then, you will all be staying right here. If it takes until the missiles come, then”—I shrugged—“we’ll all go together when we go.”

“Ah,” said Rudd. “You know about the missiles.”

“Does that startle you?”

“I suppose not.”

“Tell me where Sugar Bear’s home planet is. Tell me, and convince me you’re not lying, and you can go.”

He said, “You tell
me
something. It can’t hurt, since we’re all to die here together in, what, twelve hours? Twenty-four? Just what was it that you had on me to keep me from killing you here the first time you came in.”

I laughed, glad he’d asked. “Nothing. I was bluffing.”

He sighed. “I suspected that.”

“Good for you.”

“Well, not to be melodramatic, but I
am
willing to die for the cause, as it were, and in any case you ought to be aware that only the Physician himself has that sort of information.”

“Well, where is the Physician?”

“That is difficult to say, from one moment to the next. This city, another, this planet, another, who can say?”

“I see. Well, we’ll give you some time to think about it. All of you, take Souci and Monsieur Rudd away and keep watching them. I’d like them to sweat for a while and contemplate their sins and probable futures. Keep them in separate rooms, though. Jamie, go and get the kerosene from the car, in case we need to keep warm.”

They left without a word, and we began to wait. We worked in shifts, changing places every hour. Watching the front and back doors—well, holes, actually—in case Justin chose to return, watching Rudd in the kitchen, or Souci in the sitting room. There was little conversation among us, and our prisoners said nothing at all, except occasional requests to use the facilities or to have water, which we granted.

Each hour moved more slowly than the last, but I didn’t start getting nervous until I realized that the sun was coming up. I met Jamie in the hall between the kitchen and the sitting room. He said, “How are you doing, bror?”

“Tired, but still alert. You?”

“About the same. Is Rudd looking at all frightened?”

“No. Souci?”

“Nothing.”

“Shit. I don’t think we’re going to be able to break them this way.”

“Let’s try a little longer.”

“All right.”

An hour, two, three, still nothing. The missiles were rushing toward us, we were accomplishing nothing. Should we have told news services? Would they have believed us? Would any good at all have been accomplished if we had? I didn’t know, I still don’t, but it was something to torture myself with. Three times I went in to talk to Souci, and her only communications to me were the expressions of scorn on her face.

The fourth time I sat facing her it was well after noon. We sat in the same pair of chairs that Rudd and I had occupied earlier, at the same oblique angle. I did not offer her brandy, nor did I offer to light a fire. It seemed that I was more tired than she was. She met my eyes; there was no trace of friendship in hers. It would have been stupid to expect any, under the circumstances.