Jan clung to Needles' hand. Jan was quieter these days, and she'd always been a sort of quiet kid. She wasn't always in tears anymore; she hadn't cried for almost a week.
It was mean of Zoe to bring her here, Needles thought, but he hadn't tried to argue with Zoe about it, and Jan had wanted to come.
Zoe hadn't said a single word for weeks after the UN had brought the Overtrump into the Quarter. Then she'd pulled a chair up to her workstation in the tiny apartment and asked Jan how school was going, just like nothing had happened. Zoe stayed in the net most of the time, the light from the computer screen reflecting on her thin face in the dark hours of the night, a haunted, driven woman researching some project she wouldn't talk about.
Personally, Needles figured she was seriously tweaked in the head. Seriously gone.
Zoe walked around the perimeter of the square of raw earth, her attention on the plantings of rose of Sharon. Jan brought out the jug she'd carried and watered one of the shrubs - it was a new tradition in Jerusalem, to carry water here and tend the flowers.
Jan got up, brushed dust from the knees of her skirt, and walked to a trench cut deep and square in the dry yellow rock of the hills.
"Next week they'll set up the marble helix," Jan said.
Zoe had finished her lonely tour. Dressed in black, as she always was now, she came up to the pit in the earth and stared into it.
"It won't be like the Vietnam memorial. The names won't be carved in it. Anne Harris. Balthazar Delacourt. James Kilburn, James Russo. The thousand others, bits of bone that came out of the crematoriums after they burned the infected bodies, skulls that no one could identify. Nobody will remember them. Nobody cares. It's last week's news."
Jimmy and Jimmy were Owl and Angelfish, Needles thought, no matter what Zoe calls them now, and I care. I'll always care.
We'll never know exactly how they died - most of them.
I remember too much, Zoe. I remember running for home when Hannah and Hartmann sent me away, and how it felt when there was nobody there. I looked for you, for Anne, for Angel.
I saw Balthazar die. People boiled out of that rickety stalled truck. The UN started yelling through a loudspeaker when we tried to rush the gates, and Balthazar heard what they said, that there was a cure. Some joker shot him because they thought he was trying to keep us inside to die.
Angel didn't die of Trump. Angel bled to death. The medics got us to line up and sniff Overtrump, but Anne was coughing by then. Owl - the Trump killed him.
"There's a lot to be learned from last week's news. From history. I have names, places, actions that people recorded on film, in writing. Addresses."
Zoe stood at the edge of the empty pit, her fists clenched so tight at her sides that her arms shook.
"Jack Braun. Thomas Tudbury. Nephi Callendar. A lot of names. The ones who weren't here. The ones who didn't help us, and some of the ones who thought they knew what was best for us."
"Like Tachyon?" Jan asked.
"Tachyon!" Zoe spit the word. "He's in a category all of his own!"
"What do you plan to do?" Needles asked.
"Kill them."
Zoe turned her back on the memorial and started downhill toward Jerusalem, her long black skirts lashing at her ankles.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
"Why did they give you the key to the city?" Jerry Strauss complained as the hostess led them to the big booth in back where Peter Pann was waiting. "I did just as much as you."
"They gave the key to the city to the agency," Jay said. "I just accepted it, that's all. What are you complaining about? You got to meet John Woo, didn't you?" He slid into the booth.
Peter looked up from the menu. "Look at these fucking prices. This better be a business lunch." A tink was buzzing around his head, as usual. He swatted at it with the menu, missed, swore.
Jay sighed. "It's great to be home."
Bradley Finn looked over the seating and sighed. "They don't design restaurant booths to accomodate people like me."
"So stand in the aisle the way you usually do," Jay said. "It always makes the waiters so happy." He opened his menu. His face was still mostly black and green and purple, and the bandages made him look like the Mummy's abused child, but he was bound and determined to get some solid food. He'd been living on fruit juice and painkillers all the way from China.
Jerry was still grousing. "I was the one who took out Eric Fleming. That should have been worth the key to the city. And Sascha and I found Mark Meadows before you did. I was the one who rescued Sprout."
"You were the one who got caught and wound up with your tits in a wringer," Jay reminded him. "Actually, they were Sprout's tits, but never mind."
The menu was black and glossy and speckled with stars, like the ceiling overhead. Starfields, it said, and under that, food that's out of this world. Jay looked down at the lunch selections, and wondered why he bothered. He couldn't pronounce the Takisian words and he knew the cuisine by heart. He'd been forced to sample every dish when Hastet was fine-tuning her menu.
Finn was looking over the selections curiously. "What do you recommend? I've never had Takisian food before."
"Better get used to it," Jay said.
"Pardon?" Finn said with a puzzled look.
Jerry leaned over and pointed out some items. "Here, these are all very good. Little pastries full of spiced meats and nuts and these crunchy little sprouts, very delicate."
Peter said, "You missed it, Finn. On Thursday they serve bales of hay in this divine hot oat sauce." He took out a long black cigar, lit up, grinned.
Finn lowered his menu. "This is the smokefree section. And I warned you about the horse jokes, Pan."
"Pahn," Peter said. "It's Dutch." He blew a smoke ring across the table at Finn, and smiled.
Finn raised his hands slowly and began to clap.
Peter sat up, frowning. "Cut that out," he said. A second tink winked into existence and began to flit around his head. Finn kept on clapping. "I mean it," Peter said. A third tink appeared, then a fourth. "You mangy son of a fucking mare," Peter swore, "here, fuck you, you win, Seabiscuit." He ground out his cigar, but Finn just clapped faster, smiling.
"Oh, applause, applause, did someone do something wonderful?" their waiter asked as he came over to the table. He was a tall, slender young man with a gorgeous tumble of blond hair spilling out from beneath his plumed white cavalier's hat.
"Clap if you want a big tip," Finn told him.
The waiter began to applaud enthusiastically, chanting, "Oh, I do believe in fairies, I do, I do."
"Stop it, you shits," Peter yelled, swatting at tinks with his menu. He bopped Jerry on the head.
Finn looked around at the lunch crowd. "Clap if you want a free meal," he shouted out. The whole restaurant burst into thunderous applause. In seconds there were so many tinks buzzing around that Jay could hardly see Peter's face. "I'll get you for this," Peter promised Finn as he leapt out of his seat, "you're Alpo, I swear." He fled the restaurant at a dead run, cursing a blue streak, a cloud of tinks trailing after him.
"Well, wasn't that refreshing," the waiter said when the clapping had died down. He wore purple pantaloons, a gold lame waistcoat over a red silk shirt, a long white scarf, and matching boots in a suede soft as butter. All the waiters at Starfields dressed like Dr. Tachyon. It was part of the Takisian ambiance.
"Very refreshing," Jay agreed. He nodded over at Finn. "All the free meals go on his tab."
"It was worth it," Finn said.
"I'm Rex, and I'll be your waiter today," the waiter said.