Part 23 (2/2)
Or maybe he was wrong, because she was impossible to read and totally intriguing; and how could he be thinking like this? Petra's supper invitation was a signal to be careful, and his attention needed to be out in the world, not wrapped up in his own head. Among the other pa.s.sengers, no one betrayed the signs of trained watchers: the use of geometry and reflection, or a toodeliberate attempt to ignore him.
One missing boy. That's all we're after.
But the real world was more complicated and nastier than simple missions. And it always threw surprises, his being Sophie, and the end of the future he had always imagined.
Petra grinned at them, ushering them inside her flat. Josh checked the short hallway droplet-lensed cameras, spyb.a.l.l.s, beaded the interior and stopped at the edge of the lounge. It was far bigger than expected, with a sunken square in the middle, and black leather couches running along the edges. The floor was polished wood. And as part of the effect, the other occupant was beautiful, dressed in trousers and threequarter-sleeve s.h.i.+rt.
”I'm Yukiko.” Her voice was beautifully pitched. ”Come in.”
”Josh. And this is Suzanne.”
”Great to meet you both. And we've got something to show you.” Yukiko gestured at the blank screens on three walls. ”But Petra's too squeamish, so she's going to check on the food.”
”Uh, right.” Petra smiled. ”What she said. And the place is hardened, so we can say what we like.”
”Hardened?” asked Suzanne.
”No bugs,” said Josh.
”She understands.” Yukiko shook hands with Suzanne, then Josh. ”Make yourselves comfortable.”
They settled on the couches. Yukiko pointed her phone, and a picture flicked into life: a transparent cage, scarcely visible, in which two bloodied, half-armoured fighters stood with a referee between them, holding each by the wrist, waiting for the verdict. End of a fight, going to a judges' decision. Both fighters wore fast-stick wound-dressings; the larger fighter's arm and torso were wrapped in them. This had been the rule since Switchblade Saxon died while waiting for the result: walking wounded now received emergency dressings as soon as the final klaxon blared.
The referee raised the smaller fighter's arm, as the crowd howled.
”That's a Knife Edge Knife Edge tournament,” said Josh. ”The guy who won is Manning. Trains with Hatchet Dawkins.” tournament,” said Josh. ”The guy who won is Manning. Trains with Hatchet Dawkins.”
There were other promoters, smaller fight circuits, but they used different styles of cage.
”So you're a fan?” Yukiko thumbed her phone, and a lean, bearded man appeared on screen. ”You'll know Zak Tyndall, then. He owns the whole show.”
Suzanne, Josh realised, was looking at him and Yukiko, not the screen.
”Tyndall,” he said. ”Zak, son of Zebediah. Rich b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.”
”Entrepreneurial geniuses. The father is a real political power in the land, without ever holding office.”
Josh stood up, turning away from the screen.
”This isn't about Knife Edge Knife Edge, is it?”
”Not really,” said Yukiko. ”Apart from the coincidence that the big knife-fighting final is on the night of the general election, right before online voting commences. And that Fat Billy Church has his name linked to the programme.”
”Uh-huh. Thing is,” said Josh, ”my diary's fully booked. Was.h.i.+ng my hair, picking my nose, important stuff like that. Maybe we can do changing the world next week? Or how about never?”
”Or you could pick your a.r.s.e” Yukiko's tone remained as elegant as cut gla.s.s ”if your head wasn't stuffed right up it.”
”Whoa.” Petra came out of the kitchen, salad bowl in hand. ”Ding, ding, time out. Fighters, return to your positions. Suzanne, would you lend me a hand?”
”So long as you protect me from these two.”
Josh spread his hands. ”Sorry, Yukiko. Sometimes my mouth runs away by itself.”
”Are you kidding?” Yukiko nodded toward Petra. ”How often do I get to win an argument round here? I need the practise.”
”Ouch,” said Josh. ”Also, I surrender.”
”Before we eat” Yukiko tapped her phone ”look at this. See how healthy he is?”
The screen showed Zebediah Tyndall, the father, face lined but his hair still black, his stance erect.
”Eats right, keeps fit,” said Josh. ”Can afford the best doctors.”
”Actually, he's never been reported as athletic.”
”He must be doing something right. Or is that your point?”
”Hmm.” Yukiko called out in the direction of the kitchen: ”There's hope for the man yet.”
”Good,” answered Suzanne, while Petra said: ”Are you sure?”
”Jesus Christ.”
Yukiko was working her phone again. A sequence of panes spread across the screen, each running a five-second loop, showing fighters in action or just afterward.
”Fireman Carlsen.” Josh pointed at the first pane, then the second. ”Him, I forget his name, but he's good. And that one is Serpent Sam, aka Captain Cut.”
”And how healthy would you say they look in the pictures?”
”Pretty fit.”
More panes opened, showing b.l.o.o.d.y wounds, fighters spinning away from flas.h.i.+ng blades or simply falling. Date-and-timestamps popped up, labelling every picture.
”Take your time,” said Yukiko.
Josh had been injured before. He knew how long and hard rehab could be.
”That's not right.”
No one could recover that fast.
”The dates are correct.” Yukiko dipped her head. ”But yes, something isn't right.”
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