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Authors: Ilsa J. Bick
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couple of minutes. Just. Alone.
“Lights, out,” she said. And then Garrett sat, alone, in the dark.
Chapter 5
She hated being in the dark, in every sense of the word.
Batra and Halak arrived in the Kohol District well after the sun had slid behind blocky monoliths of apartments and tenement complexes. Most of the alleys were already dark—the better to hide the filth—and they moved in and out of slices of thick shadow and fading sunlight. The air was chilly, perhaps because the buildings were tall and blocked out what little sun might have warmed the streets and alleys, and smelled very bad. Instead of the scent of mint tea and spiced kabobs of the bazaar Batra caught the fetid odor of human waste, boiled garbage, and something else. Cautiously, she sniffed, cringed. Copper, or iron. And a rotted, sickly-sweet smell she associated with gangrene. The smell was strong enough to leave a taste, and she turned aside and spat.
The sounds were different here. If the bazaar swirled with life, the ghetto teemed with shadows: people rustling in and out of doorways, their backs hunched, their shawls or cloaks drawn up to hide their faces. She listened, hard, but she heard very little conversation. A few whispered exchanges, the slithering of bodies sliding along walls, the slip of footsteps against slick stone. The walkways were cluttered with mounds of things that looked like clothes, though Batra didn’t trust herself to take a closer look. Although Halak still had her by the hand, she picked her way through green muck and skirted gray pools of water. Her open-toed sandals squelched through gluey mounds of water-logged paper— paper, they still use paper here —and she winced, her teeth showing in a grimace, as she felt something wet and sticky ooze between her toes.
“Are you all right?” Halak asked, sparing her a quick glance that bounced away to scan the area immediately around them.
“Sure,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze. “It’s just ... I didn’t expect it to be this bad. You’re sure she lives here?”
“Gemini Street. A few more blocks, I think, and then to the left.”
“Any idea why?”
“Why she lives here? I’m not sure. Last thing I heard, she was living on the south side of town, near the bazaar. I didn’t realize she’d moved until that message of hers. It doesn’t make any sense. She knew she could contact me if she needed help.” He sounded worried. “I can’t imagine she lives here because she likes it.”
Batra had opened her mouth to reply when a low rumble shook the ground and panes of glass set in windows rattled. The ground twitched beneath her feet, and she saw ripples dance in a pool of gray water in the center of a pitted, rubble-strewn road that she was sure no vehicle had used in years. Then she heard the muted roar of an engine, and understood.
“Spaceport?”
Halak nodded. “There’s the central hub to the south, where we came in. Then there’s another, smaller transit center round about here about five kilometers to the east, near the Galldean Sea. Mainly private vessels.”
“Here?” Batra couldn’t disguise her surprise. “What for?”
“Drugs. Red ice, mainly.” Halak pulled her closer, and they started walking again. “It makes good business sense. Funnel the drugs in and out of the areas where your customer base is, though I would suspect that most of the people here get the stuff cut and diluted by a good half, if not more.”
Batra dodged a dead warden rat, its body so bloated with gas that all six of its legs bristled like the quills of a spiny urchin. “Red ice?”
“Genetically modified heroin. Amazing, when you think about it. There are so many other drugs you can manufacture that are cleaner, easier. Anyway, red ice is heroin that’s produced by crossing Asian poppies with the hallucinogen extracted from Morolovov gapsum plants from Deneb V. Only the powder’s not white or brown, like heroin from poppies. It’s orange.
“Lights, out,” she said. And then Garrett sat, alone, in the dark.
Chapter 5
She hated being in the dark, in every sense of the word.
Batra and Halak arrived in the Kohol District well after the sun had slid behind blocky monoliths of apartments and tenement complexes. Most of the alleys were already dark—the better to hide the filth—and they moved in and out of slices of thick shadow and fading sunlight. The air was chilly, perhaps because the buildings were tall and blocked out what little sun might have warmed the streets and alleys, and smelled very bad. Instead of the scent of mint tea and spiced kabobs of the bazaar Batra caught the fetid odor of human waste, boiled garbage, and something else. Cautiously, she sniffed, cringed. Copper, or iron. And a rotted, sickly-sweet smell she associated with gangrene. The smell was strong enough to leave a taste, and she turned aside and spat.
The sounds were different here. If the bazaar swirled with life, the ghetto teemed with shadows: people rustling in and out of doorways, their backs hunched, their shawls or cloaks drawn up to hide their faces. She listened, hard, but she heard very little conversation. A few whispered exchanges, the slithering of bodies sliding along walls, the slip of footsteps against slick stone. The walkways were cluttered with mounds of things that looked like clothes, though Batra didn’t trust herself to take a closer look. Although Halak still had her by the hand, she picked her way through green muck and skirted gray pools of water. Her open-toed sandals squelched through gluey mounds of water-logged paper— paper, they still use paper here —and she winced, her teeth showing in a grimace, as she felt something wet and sticky ooze between her toes.
“Are you all right?” Halak asked, sparing her a quick glance that bounced away to scan the area immediately around them.
“Sure,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze. “It’s just ... I didn’t expect it to be this bad. You’re sure she lives here?”
“Gemini Street. A few more blocks, I think, and then to the left.”
“Any idea why?”
“Why she lives here? I’m not sure. Last thing I heard, she was living on the south side of town, near the bazaar. I didn’t realize she’d moved until that message of hers. It doesn’t make any sense. She knew she could contact me if she needed help.” He sounded worried. “I can’t imagine she lives here because she likes it.”
Batra had opened her mouth to reply when a low rumble shook the ground and panes of glass set in windows rattled. The ground twitched beneath her feet, and she saw ripples dance in a pool of gray water in the center of a pitted, rubble-strewn road that she was sure no vehicle had used in years. Then she heard the muted roar of an engine, and understood.
“Spaceport?”
Halak nodded. “There’s the central hub to the south, where we came in. Then there’s another, smaller transit center round about here about five kilometers to the east, near the Galldean Sea. Mainly private vessels.”
“Here?” Batra couldn’t disguise her surprise. “What for?”
“Drugs. Red ice, mainly.” Halak pulled her closer, and they started walking again. “It makes good business sense. Funnel the drugs in and out of the areas where your customer base is, though I would suspect that most of the people here get the stuff cut and diluted by a good half, if not more.”
Batra dodged a dead warden rat, its body so bloated with gas that all six of its legs bristled like the quills of a spiny urchin. “Red ice?”
“Genetically modified heroin. Amazing, when you think about it. There are so many other drugs you can manufacture that are cleaner, easier. Anyway, red ice is heroin that’s produced by crossing Asian poppies with the hallucinogen extracted from Morolovov gapsum plants from Deneb V. Only the powder’s not white or brown, like heroin from poppies. It’s orange.
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