Read Online Resolution by John Meaney - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Meaney
Tags: Speculative Fiction
Ads: Link
the other customers.
A touch on the back of his hand whipped Kian’s attention downwards. With a sultry smile - or as near as Josette could get to one - she wrapped her fingers in his.
‘You know it doesn’t matter,’ she said, ‘about my knee. Getting injured. It was worth it, darling.’
‘I don’t—’
‘You can try again. You know what I’d like?’
Kian’s tongue was dry. He swallowed, tried not to flinch as Josette leaned across the small table and whispered in his ear.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Huh?’
Kian could feel his face burning. ‘You’ve been doing what?’
Josette, suddenly pale, sat back in her chair with a thump.
‘Kian ... ?’ Then, raising her voice to stop all conversation in the café. ‘You’re not Dirk. You pervert!’
‘Oh, merde.’ But Kian could not help smirking. ‘No wonder you strained your ligaments. Don’t you think that was a little, er, ambitious?’
Josette’s hand arced through the air. Kian shifted slightly, and her palm smacked into the wall.
‘Ow! Now look what you ’ ve done.’
‘Me? All I...’
But he let his voice trail off then as she placed her injured hand in her lap, covered her face with the other, and began to sob.
Accusing faces, all around, stared at Kian.
‘I’m sorry.’ It sounded inadequate. ‘Look, see ... Dirk couldn’t face having this conversation. You mean so much to him. It’s just not working—’
‘Bâtard!’ She hissed, an indrawn breath between her teeth, then: ‘Espèce de con! Je te déteste!’
‘I don’t—’
‘I hate your brother, and I hate you. Both of you!’
Kian pushed his chair back. It was time to leave. He signalled to Alberto: the universal handwriting-on-palm gesture which had survived into an age when no-one used pens.
There was a hiss. His left eye stung.
The fragrance bottle was in Josette’s hand and he knocked it aside. It arced through the air, bounced off a pillar onto the floor and lay there.
‘You bitch.’ Kian rubbed at his eye.
‘I didn’t—’
He used his thumbnail to lever off the contact lens, blinked rapidly. He ought to rinse—
But then he saw the expressions on the other diners’ faces, shock mingled with something else, and he slowly rose. There was a mirror on the far wall, inscribed with an advert for Toblerone chocolates. In the reflection, his exposed eye glittered darkly.
Obsidian. Jet. Shining black with no surrounding white.
A Pilot’s eye.
Something Dirk didn’t share with you?
Josette was frozen, the tears down her cheeks beginning to congeal. She knew that Dirk and Kian lived at the convent which doubled as the Pilots’ School. Had she never put the picture together?
‘Alberto?’ He fingered his infostrand-torc. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Ponderously, Alberto came around from behind the counter, scanned the patrons of his beloved café.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nichts, nul. Rien.’
Kian took a breath, trying to ignore the pain in his eye.
‘But you’d prefer I didn’t come back, am I right?’
Alberto said nothing more, but his meaning was clear.
My kind is not welcome here.
Kian looked at Josette.
‘See you around.’
He left quickly, hiding the trembling in his shoulders, feeling sickened.
Outside, the night was icy black and unforgiving, but Kian kept his hood down as he walked, his eye burning, preferring December chill to the stony hardness of his supposed friends’ hearts.
<>
~ * ~
9
NULAPEIRON AD 3423
Sitting there, in the half-lit cargo hold of a speeding arachnargos, Tom wondered about the nature of obligation and duty. When Axolon was cut free and later restored, what then? Tom had the future to think of, yet no plans beyond attending a Convocation and trying out for any vacant positions. He did not even know
A touch on the back of his hand whipped Kian’s attention downwards. With a sultry smile - or as near as Josette could get to one - she wrapped her fingers in his.
‘You know it doesn’t matter,’ she said, ‘about my knee. Getting injured. It was worth it, darling.’
‘I don’t—’
‘You can try again. You know what I’d like?’
Kian’s tongue was dry. He swallowed, tried not to flinch as Josette leaned across the small table and whispered in his ear.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Huh?’
Kian could feel his face burning. ‘You’ve been doing what?’
Josette, suddenly pale, sat back in her chair with a thump.
‘Kian ... ?’ Then, raising her voice to stop all conversation in the café. ‘You’re not Dirk. You pervert!’
‘Oh, merde.’ But Kian could not help smirking. ‘No wonder you strained your ligaments. Don’t you think that was a little, er, ambitious?’
Josette’s hand arced through the air. Kian shifted slightly, and her palm smacked into the wall.
‘Ow! Now look what you ’ ve done.’
‘Me? All I...’
But he let his voice trail off then as she placed her injured hand in her lap, covered her face with the other, and began to sob.
Accusing faces, all around, stared at Kian.
‘I’m sorry.’ It sounded inadequate. ‘Look, see ... Dirk couldn’t face having this conversation. You mean so much to him. It’s just not working—’
‘Bâtard!’ She hissed, an indrawn breath between her teeth, then: ‘Espèce de con! Je te déteste!’
‘I don’t—’
‘I hate your brother, and I hate you. Both of you!’
Kian pushed his chair back. It was time to leave. He signalled to Alberto: the universal handwriting-on-palm gesture which had survived into an age when no-one used pens.
There was a hiss. His left eye stung.
The fragrance bottle was in Josette’s hand and he knocked it aside. It arced through the air, bounced off a pillar onto the floor and lay there.
‘You bitch.’ Kian rubbed at his eye.
‘I didn’t—’
He used his thumbnail to lever off the contact lens, blinked rapidly. He ought to rinse—
But then he saw the expressions on the other diners’ faces, shock mingled with something else, and he slowly rose. There was a mirror on the far wall, inscribed with an advert for Toblerone chocolates. In the reflection, his exposed eye glittered darkly.
Obsidian. Jet. Shining black with no surrounding white.
A Pilot’s eye.
Something Dirk didn’t share with you?
Josette was frozen, the tears down her cheeks beginning to congeal. She knew that Dirk and Kian lived at the convent which doubled as the Pilots’ School. Had she never put the picture together?
‘Alberto?’ He fingered his infostrand-torc. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Ponderously, Alberto came around from behind the counter, scanned the patrons of his beloved café.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nichts, nul. Rien.’
Kian took a breath, trying to ignore the pain in his eye.
‘But you’d prefer I didn’t come back, am I right?’
Alberto said nothing more, but his meaning was clear.
My kind is not welcome here.
Kian looked at Josette.
‘See you around.’
He left quickly, hiding the trembling in his shoulders, feeling sickened.
Outside, the night was icy black and unforgiving, but Kian kept his hood down as he walked, his eye burning, preferring December chill to the stony hardness of his supposed friends’ hearts.
<
~ * ~
9
NULAPEIRON AD 3423
Sitting there, in the half-lit cargo hold of a speeding arachnargos, Tom wondered about the nature of obligation and duty. When Axolon was cut free and later restored, what then? Tom had the future to think of, yet no plans beyond attending a Convocation and trying out for any vacant positions. He did not even know
Similar Books
