Juno stepped out into a chattering swarm of camera drones and photographers, beaming her smile and casting out handfuls of kisses to the crowds. Heywood Rope hovered at her side, the careful look on his face never changing, the distance from Juno’s shoulder never lengthening. Every gallery and balcony was packed, and below piezoplastic barriers corralled the fans that had been there since the night before, hands clasping the rails, on tiptoe, desperate for any breath of her. A CSC agent from the terminal manager’s office presented her with a bunch of flowers and a plush toy version of Di-Di. Juno gave it a coquettish hug and twirled it around in her arms. Her audience ate it up.
No one thought of the others who had gone before her, who had played the same kinds of songs and offered the same kind of hopeful distraction to the same kind of people. They loved Juno today, and in that moment it seemed like they would love her forever.
Fixx had a sour taste in his mouth, and his lip twisted. It wasn’t the mud-coloured slurry that Burger Konig called coffee. There was a taint on the air like rancid meat. He pushed the half-finished drink away from him across the cracked plastic table, suppressing a shiver even though the interior of Ocean Terminal was always a summery thirty-five degrees. For a moment, the ghost of the sensation he’d felt at the Hyperdome was about him, there and then gone. He glanced around at the laughing, clapping people. Their faces were the same as the fans in Newer Orleans, they shared the distant look in their eyes, desperate to capture some tiny fragment of Juno Qwan.
On this level, the view of the singer was decent. She was talking into a handheld microphone and waving. The crowds called to her, and even the cocky cluster of go-gangers drifting near the open patio couldn’t help but crack smiles. Fixx shifted to get a better angle and adjusted the gain on his espex. He took a breath, one hand dipping into his pocket to finger the bones, collapsing his view of the world down to the space between him and her. Fixx let Juno’s aura find its way to him, gentle and slow. He forced away the ill scents in the air, concentrating on the woman.
He’d had one of the waking dreams again. It came as he took the tunnel beneath the bay, the car dipping into the red-lit corridor, torrents of colour streaming over him. In there he’d seen webs come from nowhere, the reaching arms of things distant and older than space. They were gossamer, vanishing when he put his full attention to them; in among the ghosts he heard a woman screaming, tasted the bitter scent of things dark and alien.
“Juno,” he rumbled. It kept coming back to her.
She was singing, dancing through a rendition of “Capsule Lover” while overhead screens displayed directionless, watery vistas all blue and inviting. The waves became words: We Are Free, Break The Dark, Unstoppable. Fixx saw the aurora of Juno’s spirit, the faintest Kirlian glow about the woman. It was different.
He worried the bones a little more. Wrong. That is wrong. Fixx looked her in the eye at the Hyperdome, in that second of connection he had known Juno Qwan. That was the gift the loas gave him, the Sight. He could see a man and find the colour of his soul, turn it one way to mark a quarry or another to know a man’s intention. It had never failed him.
But the woman, the starlet down there wore a different aura from the morose girl he had faced in the stadium. Fixx frowned. It wasn’t like she was an impostor or someone disguised-no, he would have seen through that. Even a twin would have been visible to him. The colours of her were the same, but just wrong. Altered. Different. The experience was so new to him he couldn’t frame it in his mind. He knew with sudden conviction that he had never laid eyes on the girl on stage before.
“Who are you?” The words slipped from his mouth. Fixx shifted, for one instant his attention elsewhere, and bumped into one of the go-gangers, a skinny kid with a wired look and a wifebeater top.
The punk made a face and cocked his head. “Watch it, gwailo.”
There were three others, two who were obviously brothers. They exchanged loaded looks and the bigger one sneered. “Never saw a ‘white ghost’ as dark as him.”
“Break the dark,” mumbled the shorter one, tracing his fingers down to a bulge in his jacket pocket.
Fixx was back in the moment now. There was ample room on the terrace of the burger bar for trouble to unfold, if things went that way. He watched the first punk carefully; he would be the one to start it.
“You like Juno, huh?” said the skinny kid. “You like looking at our girl?” He stepped closer, looking Fixx up and down.
The sanctioned operative stayed very still. In the past, he’d seen what happened when a man made the mistake of underestimating packrats like these. In Mexico City, Fixx saw a rival gutted by a horde of Little Zulus, a fellow twice his weight taken apart by children under the age of ten. What kids lacked in experience they tended to make up for with speed and enthusiasm.
The last of the four finally spoke. “You know what I think? I reckon this guy doesn’t like Juno at all.”
Fixx, with slow and careful movements, stood up and smoothed the front of his coat. There was a flicker of concern on the face of the younger brother as he came up to his full height, but the other three were stone-faced. This was not going to end well. Nonetheless, Fixx felt compelled to try. “I’m a big fan,” he said. “She’s a dream come true.”
Big Brother made a flicky gesture that failed to get a reaction from him. “Gau’s right. This hwoon dahn, I bet he’s A4.” He approached. “Am I right, hwoon dahn? You here to mess with the gig like you did over there?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the ocean.
Fixx showed teeth. “I know what those words mean.”
“Yeah?” snarled the skinny one, getting into the swing of things, pointing his finger. “Do you know what these ones mean too? Fuck off ni-”
He moved. The troublemaker was suddenly on his knees and smothering a scream, his index finger pointing the wrong way where Fixx had snapped it like a twig. “Now, boys,” he said. “Let’s not say anythin’ we might regret. ”
The brothers came at him, the one called Gau blinking in surprise. From out of nowhere they materialised wicked balisong knives and cut high and low. For go-gangers, they were quick.
Fixx had the SunKings on him, but it was a safe bet that Ocean Terminal’s security would go wild at the sound of a gunshot. The mere fact that these boys had been able to freely enter with edged weapons told the op that the Panda probably turned a blind eye to the odd stabbing, as long as the shoppers weren’t deterred. Similarly, the flexsword would be too showy, would draw too much attention. He decided to remain barehanded. It would be good practice.
The big brother’s knife was one of those ostentatious toys with the faux-tribal laser etching on it, a blade with candy-colour anodization. Fixx caught his wrist and held it there for a moment while he used a sharp side kick to hobble the younger brother. Gau was pulling a spike-chain from his belt as Fixx turned the big brother’s hands the wrong way. He lost the knife and the op heard it clatter away across the table.
Skinny was getting to his feet, his face all puffy and crimson. Below them, Juno had gone into a powerful rendition of “Shade Me”, the crowd clapping along with the beat. “Unstoppable!” said the kid. “Break… Break the dark!”
Fixx drew the big brother in and crossed over his free hand; his elbow collided with the punk’s face and broke his nose with a solid crack. A fan of blood issued out of his nostrils and dribbled down his chin. Fixx reversed his grip and hit him again, this time with the back of his hand. He pulled the blow-but only a little-and sent the big brother down.