World's End Read online

  Were. I swallowed the word like a lump of dry bread. My hands moved behind my back; I touched my scarred wrists. I could protect my family from shame by staying away from home. But I had never been able to forget my failure; because my people would never forget it, and they were everywhere I went.

  He glanced up, frowning slightly at my surreptitious movement. “Inspector, I know you carry some unpleasant memory from your duty on Tiamat. . . . I know you still bear the scars.” He looked down again, as if even to mention it embarrassed him. “I don’t want to know what happened to you there, or why you haven’t had the scars removed. But I don’t want you to think that I hold what you did against you—”

  Or what I failed to do. The very fact that he mentioned it at all told me too much. I said nothing. I felt my face flush.

  “You’ve served here on Number Four for nearly five standards, and for most of that time you’ve kept whatever is troubling you to yourself. Perhaps too much to yourself. . . .” I knew some of the other officers felt that I was aloof and unsociable—and I knew that they were right. But it hadn’t mattered, because nothing had seemed to matter much to me since Tiamat. I felt the cold of a long-ago winter seep back into my bones as I stood waiting. I tried to remember a face . . . tried not to remember it.

  “You’ve shown admirable self-discipline, until recently. But after the Wendroe Brethren matter. . . . It was handled very badly, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. The Governor-General complained to me personally about it.”

  And the Police had to demonstrate the Hegemony’s good will. My eyelids quivered with the need to let me stop seeing. But I held his gaze. “I understand, sir. It was my responsibility. My accusations against the Brethren’s chamberlain were inexcusable.” Even though they were true. But truth was always the first casualty in our relationship with an onworld government. Kharemough held the Hegemony together with a fragile net of economic sanctions and self-interested manipulation, because without a hyperlight drive, anything more centralized was impossible. The seven other worlds of the Hegemony were technically autonomous—Kharemough cultivated their sufferance with hypocritically elaborate care. I knew all of that as well as anyone; I’d learned it on Tiamat. “I should have offered you my resignation immediately. I’ve had—family difficulties the past few months. My brothers lost . . . are lost in World’s End.” I felt the blood rise to my face again, and went on hastily, “I don’t offer that as an excuse, only as an explanation.” The Chief Inspector looked at me as though that explained nothing. I couldn’t explain even to myself the dreams that had ruined my sleep ever since my brothers came: the ghosts of a thousand dispossessed ancestors; the face of my father changing into a girl’s face as pale as snow; endless fields of snow. . . . I would wake up shivering, as if I were freezing cold. “I offer you my resignation now, sir.” My voice did not break.

  The Chief Inspector shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. Not if you are willing to accept the alternative of a temporary reduction in rank, and an enforced leave of absence until the Governor-General has forgotten this incident. And until your . . . emotional state has regained some kind of equilibrium.”

  If only I could forget the past as easily as the Governor-General will forget about me! I only said, faintly, “Thank you, sir. You show me more consideration than I deserve.”

  “You’ve been a good officer. You deserve whatever time it takes to resolve your problems . . . however you can,” he said, uncomfortably. “Rest, enjoy this vacation from your responsibilities. Get to feel at home on this world.” He glanced at me, at the scars on my wrists. “Or perhaps . . . what you need is to look into your brothers’ disappearance in World’s End.”

  For a moment I felt a black rush of vertigo, as if I were falling—I shook my head, saw a fleeting frown cross the Chief Inspector’s face.

  “Come back to the force, Gundhalinu,” he murmured. “But only if you can come back without scars.”

  Without scars . . . without the past. What’s the point of having the scars removed? It would only be one more act of hypocrisy. I’d still see them. And so would he. Life scars us with its random motion. Only death is perfect.

  DAY 22.

  Gods, I can’t believe what I did to myself yesterday. How could I have done something that asinine? I was sick half the night. I’ve never been drunk like that. It’s this place. It must be.

  This morning I swore to myself that if nothing changed today I’d give up this insanity. I’ll never know if I meant it this time or not . . . because something finally happened.

  I was back in C’uarr’s place, as usual. A local man came over to me where I sat, nursing my drink and my queasy stomach. Finally I realized that he was interested in me, and I looked up at him. He was tall and heavyset, closing in on middle age, with skin the color of leather and straight black hair. A Company man, I thought . . . an ex-Company man. His dingy coveralls had no insignia or identification, only white patches that showed they’d been there once. A tarnished religious medal dangled against his chest; bitter lines bracketed his mouth. “You Gedda?” he asked.

  I found my jaw clenching with resentment. I’ve gotten too used to this enforced solitude. I worked my tongue loose, and said, “Yes.” I go by Gedda here. It suits me better than my own name, and it hides my identity from chance encounters. My real identity is a liability in a place like this . . . and besides that, meaningless.

  The man sat down without waiting for an invitation. I frowned, but said nothing. He stared at me, assessing me in turn. There was something disturbing about his gaze. “I hear you’re a Kharemoughi. A Tech?”

  I nodded. “I was once.”

  The hooded eyes dropped to the scars on my wrists. “What happened?”

  I turned my hands over, palms down on the damp tabletop. “I got tangled up in Blue.” The standard phrase for trouble with the police. I saw his mouth quirk.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Waiting.”

  “Tired of it?”

  I felt my skin prickle. I had come to the end of believing that I would ever get permission to enter World’s End, ever master the rituals of whim and bribery that have confounded me all the while I’ve been here. And now this stranger seemed to be offering me clearance on a ceremonial platter. “What do you want?”

  He said, “I want to go prospecting. My vehicle is a Company junker. They don’t think it can be repaired. I think all it needs is somebody who knows his ass from a socket. I hear you Techs can fix anything. If you can fix this, we’ll go together.”

  That was all he wanted. I let myself laugh. “If I can’t fix it, no one can.” I offered my hand. The stranger shook it, after the local custom. I asked, “What do I call you?”

  “Ang,” he said.

  I finished my drink, out of habit, and we left the Wait together.

  DAY 23.

  I could hardly believe my luck this morning, when Ang actually showed up at my room with every permit and clearance I needed to get into World’s End. After so many weeks of maddening bureaucracy, it was like being set free from prison. I didn’t bother to ask him how he’d done it—there’s only one way. No matter; it seemed like a miracle.

  I should have known my good fortune was too perfect to be true. This afternoon Ang took me to see the vehicle—a triphibian rover, in bad shape but not impossible, if he can get me the parts I’ll need. That’s not the trouble. The trouble is that there are three of us, not two. Today I met the third man.

  He seemed about as surprised to see me as I was to see him, even though he’d apparently been expecting me. He was waiting in a junkyard when I arrived with Ang, kicking at the fungal creepers that grew up through the sea of scrap metal.

  Ang snorted with laughter as he saw the man kicking and cursing, as if discomfiture with the repulsive flora of this place were somehow amusing. “It’ll all be back tomorrow,” he said, to no one.

  “Who’s that?” I asked. The other man was peering out from under
the wide rim of his sun helmet. His skin and hair were the color of paste, as if he was never outdoors by choice. His blunt, tight-muscled body gleamed with sunblock lotion and sweat. I distrusted him on sight.

  “Spadrin,” Ang said, or rather called out. “This is our mechanic.”

  “You mean he’s a partner?” I asked. I was more than a little irritated. Ang hadn’t mentioned a third partner, either this morning or when he’d asked me to join him. He’d offered me an equal share of anything we found—but he never mentioned that it would be a three-way split.

  Ang didn’t bother to answer me, now that the answer was obvious. And Spadrin was staring back at me in a way that made me forget about Ang’s shortcomings.

  “This is Gedda,” Ang told him.

  Spadrin started visibly when he heard the name, but then his frown came back. “You got a Kharemoughi? You said we were going to get some Company hand—” He broke off. “Why?”

  “He was the best I could do.” Ang shrugged, but it wasn’t an easy motion. I wondered whether his comment was a compliment. His hands were making fists inside the pockets of his coveralls.

  Spadrin glared at Ang, disbelief plain on his face. Then he looked me up and down pointedly, as if I were an inanimate object.

  I stared back at him, reconfirming my first impression. He was clearly out of place. His clothes were made of a shining, silken fabric, and might have passed for stylish summer wear in some climate-controlled metropolis; but they were absurdly impractical here. The tattoos running up his bare arms told me a lot more, although I recognized only a few of the designs and symbols. They all have their separate meanings: They illustrate a man’s life history in the Hegemony’s underworld. Spadrin was a career criminal.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked me.

  “The same thing you are,” I said.

  He didn’t believe it, any more than I did. He looked at Ang. “I don’t want him.”

  “I do.” Ang turned away abruptly. “Gedda,” he said to me, pointing at the rusty metal hulk rising up beside us, “take a look at it, tell me what you need.”

  I moved warily past Spadrin, and began to inspect the vehicle. I heard the two of them arguing behind me as if I couldn’t hear them; listened while trying to seem like I wasn’t listening. Spadrin used the worldspeech of Number Four with surprising fluency. Anyone can learn a language quickly with an enhancer, but only someone with some intelligence will speak it well. Spadrin is not stupid . . . and I won’t forget it. At last he turned and strode away, cursing, and I finished my inspection in peace.

  “Well?” Ang said, when I climbed down from the cab.

  “It’s not hopeless.” I leaned against the rover’s pitted side and wiped rust from my hands. “The power unit is sound. You said you can get me tools and parts?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s not going to be cheap—”

  “I have contacts in the Company. I can get anything you want.” The last was said with something closer to arrogance than to confidence.

  “Good, then. How much do you understand about how a rover functions?”

  “A hell of a lot more than most people,” he snapped. “I’ve been piloting them since you were a snot-nosed brat.” As if somehow I were supposed to have known that. “Just tell me what you want.”

  I bobbed my head. “Then I’ll be precise.” I gave him my initial lists, being as technically accurate as possible, and watching him for signs of comprehension. “. . . And finally, but most importantly, I’m going to need a new repeller grid, if you want this thing airborne.”

  That got a reaction. “A grid? The grid is out?”

  I nodded. “It’s completely deteriorated. Believe me, you don’t want to risk flight on it.”

  “By the Aurant!” His frustration was scorching. A grid would make the difference between swift, comfortable travel by air, and an endless, arduous land journey. All the difference in the world. But he only grunted. “I’ll see what I can do.” He reached into a pocket of his coveralls, pulled out a fesh stick, and stuck the piece of narcotic soaked root into his mouth.

  “Ang—”

  He looked up sharply, as if he knew what I was about to say.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Spadrin?”

  He looked down again, lighting the fesh, and shrugged.

  “Listen, Ang. . . .” I took a deep breath, trying to hold on to my patience. “This is a two-man vehicle. Three of us is going to make spending a lot of time in it damned uncomfortable. I know why you need me on this trip; but why him?”

  “Protection.”

  “Protection!” It was the last thing I’d expected to hear him say. I almost told him that I was police-trained, that I could offer him better and surer protection than Spadrin ever could—but I didn’t want to start him asking about my motives instead of Spadrin’s. “Gods, man,” I shook my head, “don’t you know what Spadrin is?” I was sure Ang had never even been to Foursgate, let alone offworld. But spending his life here in this borderland, he must have seen hundreds of Spadrins passing through: on the run from the law, or looking for easy victims.

  “He’s an offworlder.” Ang said it as if offworlder and scum were the same word. “He came to World’s End just like you. Said he was stranded in Foursgate, needs a stake to get back to his homeworld.”

  “He’s more than that.” I couldn’t keep my own voice from rising. “Do you know what those tattoos of his mean? He’s killed more people than you have fingers to count them. He’s wanted for crimes on most of the worlds of the Hegemony. If he’s stranded here, it’s probably because he’s in trouble with his own kind, and he needs a place to cool out as much as he needs a stake. . . . He’s going into World’s End hunting fresh meat, and you’ll be the first—”

  “How do you know so damn much about it?” Ang said sullenly.

  I hesitated, realizing that I’d said too much already. But he went on, before I had to answer. “He’s no worse than the robbers and ‘jacks we’ll meet out there—and he’ll be on our side.”

  “On our side?” I echoed incredulously. “He’s on nobody’s side but his own. He’s a criminal, Ang! You’re not protecting yourself, you’re putting a target on your back.”

  “I’m not stupid.” His jaw clenched stubbornly. “I know what I’m doing. He won’t make trouble.”

  “You’re deluding yourself. We have a saying on the . . . there’s a saying, that a man who lies down with thieves is lucky if he ever wakes up again.”

  “You don’t have to go with us.” He pointed a thumb back toward town. “You can stay here.”

  My mouth tightened. “I’ll go,” I said, thinking, But I’ll sleep with my eyes open.

  “You’ll go.” His own mouth curved upward. “Just like all the rest.”

  DAY 32.

  For the past week I’ve been trying to resurrect Ang’s dead rover piece by piece, with whatever parts he can beg, borrow, or steal. He is an ex-Company man, as I’d thought; he must be calling in a lot of favors. He’s gone most of every day, hustling up more parts—or maybe just avoiding us, I don’t know. I don’t think he cares much for either Spadrin or me; probably wishes he didn’t need us. It’s mutual. But sooner or later everything I ask for shows up at the junkyard, where the rover lies like some immense dead beetle. Every time I trip over supplies inside the sleeping cabin, I try to imagine what it will be like to share this vehicle with two other people, even for a few days. Someone is going to sleep on the floor; it isn’t going to be me.

  Working on the rover is almost a pleasure, after sitting in C’uarr’s place for so long. Though if someone had told me ten years ago that I’d ever enjoy lying on my back in the mud, with lube sifting into my eyes, sweating and blistered like some common laborer, I’d have committed suicide. I . . . All in the line of duty, as they say. There are worse things than manual labor, and I’ve borne some of them, all in the line of duty.

  Not that today was unique for its hard work. More for its tedi
um, while I waited for the replacement grid I need to get the rover airborne. I spent the morning rereading the last of the information tapes I’d managed to unearth in the pathetic local datacenter. I’ve had to learn about this vehicle the hard way; they’ve barely heard of reading out here, let alone memory augmentation. I finally finished everything, and settled into adhani meditation in the rover’s shadow. Then Spadrin arrived. He kicked me in the thigh, and said, “Wake up, you lazy shit.”

  I lunged to my feet, my reflexes almost betraying my training as my hand reached for the weapon I no longer carry.

  Spadrin stepped back, and I froze as I saw metal. The knife blade disappeared into the sheath hidden in his sleeve. He grinned faintly, as if he’d proved something.

  Seeing him always makes me think of venomous insects exposed beneath overturned stones. This time he was wearing the loose-woven tunic and pants Ang had forced him to buy for practicality. He had a half-empty bottle of ouvung in his fist, as usual. He prodded the tape-reader I’d been studying and said, slurring, “You goddamn Kharemoughis make me sick. You think the universe’s got nothing better to do than wait around till you feel like fixing it.”

  I reordered my tangled instrument belt. My hands ached from the need to make fists. He was drunk—I could have had him disarmed and flat on his back in seconds, but I can’t afford to betray my police training. It would only make him more suspicious of me—and make it ever harder to get the cooperation I need from Ang. I only said, “I told Ang I’ll finish the work when he gets me the repeller grid. I never claimed to be a miracle worker.”

  “Then you’re the first Tech I ever met who didn’t.” He began to turn away.

  “Spadrin,” I said, and watched him turn back. “Don’t ever touch me again.” He grinned, and spat the iesta pod he’d been chewing on at my boot.