“No pleasantries, straight into negotiation.” Markovic mocked her. “So, what are you offering?”
“I’m not offering, I’m demanding.” Her voice was thready, occluded, the words hard to get out. But all the better, it would explain perhaps why she didn’t sound quite like the mayor.
Markovic had learned a new and unsettling trick. His component parts swirled together and formed into a rough oval shape. Then holes in the mass appeared where eyes on a face might be. And a slit of a mouth formed below.
“I’m still working on getting my ‘lips’ to move like I’m talking,” Markovic said.
“Impressive,” Cruz sneered. Impressive seemed like a mayoral kind of word. Markovic was a massive head floating in the air. He might almost have been a swirl of coins, copper and silver and gold, glittering in the dimming light from the great windows behind him. It was overwhelming, and something about the scene nearly triggered Cruz to cross herself. She was in the Cathedral of Vector, and Vector was playing his part to perfection.
“So, spit it out, your honor. Get the demands and the threats on the table so I can tell you to go pound sand.”
“I want you out of my city, Markovic. And I want you to undo the horrors you’ve caused.”
“No.” He appeared to be trying to shake his “head” but the result temporarily obscured his “eyes.” “Anything else?”
Cruz had a can of high-power insecticide stuck in the back of her trousers, invis
ible while she was in morph. She calculated the time it would take her to rush that stairwell, pull out her can, and spray.
Spray what? Maybe 5 percent of the bugs? No, that would be suicide to no purpose. The thing before her would not be terrified by a can of Raid. Anyway, she reminded herself, her job was distraction and delay.
Well, if it was about delay . . .
Like a boss, she reminded herself. Like a boss.
Cruz put her hands on her hips and took a wide stance. “I am prepared to negotiate.”
CHAPTER 29
. . . Ever Survives Contact With . . .
SHADE DARBY WAS already inside the terminal by the time Cruz arrived. So long as you were careful not to let anyone feel your wake, moving at just under Mach 1 made you damned near invisible. Of course, once you slowed down or stopped, you were quite visible, so she had raced up to the balcony opposite Markovic’s stage. Markovic was bizarrely framed by an Apple store, all glittery and sleek beneath the huge windows.
From the balcony level Shade sprang up to a narrow walkway behind a stone balustrade, nearly missing her landing because of the weight of the flamethrower. The walkway was just below the edge of the Sistine Chapel of a ceiling and ran all the way down the long sides the concourse. From here she could look across to the pillars framing huge chandeliers above the various arched ramps to the platforms, and by leaning out could quite easily see Markovic.
Beautiful place to die, Shade thought mordantly. It would look great if they ever made a movie of this day. Unfortunately moving along the high walkway was not easy; it was not intended for anyone but maintenance workers, and these had left a fair amount of debris behind. There was nowhere near enough room or clearance to get up to practically invisible speed, and at this level, too, there were half-moon windows against which she did not want to be silhouetted. She had to basically crawl and drag herself along the walkway, keeping her head below the balustrade, pulling the flamethrower behind her. And it was thickly dusty, so she had to fight a raging desire to sneeze.
This part won’t look so cool in the movie.
Below and to her left now was the circular information booth. Shade blinked and stared hard, not at first believing what she was seeing. A person in agony, with a comically wrong orange cushion held in place with gray duct tape wrapped repeatedly around his head.
It will be a pleasure killing you, Vector. A pleasure.
From her position at least fifty feet above and to Vector’s right, Shade could see everything, but the acoustics and Markovic’s reedy unnatural voice conspired to make him inaudible. She had seen the “mayor” walk in and had to stop herself from racing down to haul her away to safety, until she remembered that, of course, it was Cruz.
Cruz walking into the jaws of death. She must be terrified. Shade felt competing waves of emotion: pride in her friend’s courage. Guilt for having made that courage necessary.
Shade retrieved the flamethrower she had set down and adjusted the straps, then flicked a Bic to light the pilot.
Then she pulled out her phone and waited.
Waited . . .
Until . . . ding!
Time.
“Time to light up,” Shade said.