He was leaning in a shadowed portico like someone with nothing better to do than watch insects crawl by. I’d only dealt with him via telephone or video before — keeping our conversations as brief as possible — and I’d been expecting someone a lot taller and a lot less ratlike. His coat was as heavy as the one I was wearing, but his looked like it was constantly on the point of slipping off his shoulders. He had ochre teeth which he had filed into points, a sharp face full of uneven stubble and long black hair which he wore combed back from a minimalist forehead. In his left hand was a cigarette which he periodically pushed to his lips, while his other hand — the right one — vanished into the side pocket of his coat and showed no sign of emerging.
‘Vasquez,’ I said, showing no surprise that he had trailed Dieterling and me. ‘I take it you’ve got our man under surveillance?’
‘Hey, chill out, Mirabel. That guy doesn’t take a leak without me knowing it.’
‘He’s still settling his affairs?’
‘Yeah. You know what these rich kids are like. Gotta take care of business, man. Me, I’d be up that bridge like shit on wheels.’ He jabbed his cigarette in Dieterling’s direction. ‘The snake guy, right?’
Dieterling shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘That’s some cool shit; hunting snakes.’ With his cigarette hand he mimed aiming and firing a gun, doubtless drawing a bead on an imaginary hamadryad. ‘Think you can squeeze me in on your next hunting trip?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dieterling said. ‘We tend not to use live bait. But I’ll talk to the boss and see what we can arrange.’
Red Hand Vasquez flashed his pointed teeth at us. ‘Funny guy. I like you, Snake. But then again you work for Cahuella, I gotta like you. How is he anyway? I heard Cahuella got it just as badly as you did, Mirabel. In fact I’m even hearing some vicious rumours to the effect that he didn’t make it.’
Cahuella’s death wasn’t something we were planning on announcing right now; not until we had given some thought to its ramifications — but news had evidently reached Nueva Valparaiso ahead of us.
‘I did my best for him,’ I said.
Vasquez nodded slowly and wisely, as if some sacred belief of his had just been proved valid.
‘Yeah, that’s what I heard.’ He put his left hand on my shoulder, keeping his cigarette away from the coat’s pearl-coloured fabric. ‘I heard you drove halfway across the planet with a missing leg, just so you could bring Cahuella and his bitch home. That’s some heroic shit, man, even for a white-eye. You can tell me all about it over some pisco sours, and Snake can pencil me in for his next field trip. Right, Snake?’
We continued walking in the general direction of the bridge. ‘I don’t think there’s time for that,’ I said. ‘Drinks, I mean.’
‘Like I said, chill.’ Vasquez strolled ahead of us, still with one hand in his pocket. ‘I don’t get you guys. All it would take is a word from you, and Reivich wouldn’t even be a problem any more, just a stain on the floor. The offer’s still open, Mirabel.’
‘I have to finish him myself, Vasquez.’
‘Yeah. That’s what I heard. Like some kind of vendetta deal. You had something going with Cahuella’s bitch, didn’t you?’
‘Subtlety’s not your strong point, is it, Red?’
I saw Dieterling wince. We walked on in silence for a few more paces before Vasquez stopped and turned to face me.
‘What did you say?’
‘I heard they call you Red Hand Vasquez behind your back.’
‘And what the fuck business of yours would it be if they did?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. On the other hand, what business is it of yours what went on between me and Gitta?’
‘All right, Mirabel.’ He took a longer than usual drag on his cigarette. ‘I think we understand each other. There are things I don’t like people asking about, and there are things you don’t like people asking about. Maybe you were fucking Gitta, I don’t know, man.’ He watched as I bridled. ‘But like you said, it wouldn’t be my business. I won’t ask again. I won’t even think about it again. But do me a favour, right? Don’t call me Red Hand. I know that Reivich did something pretty bad to you out in the jungle. I hear it wasn’t much fun and you nearly died. But get one thing clear, all right? You’re outnumbered here. My people are watching you all the time. That means you don’t want to upset me. And if you do upset me, I can arrange for shit to happen to you that makes what Reivich did seem like a fucking teddy bears’ picnic.’
‘I think,’ Dieterling said, ‘that we should take the gentleman at his word. Right, Tanner?’
‘Let’s just say we both touched a nerve,’ I said, after a long hard silence.
‘Yeah,’ Vasquez said. ‘I like that. Me and Mirabel, we’re hair-trigger guys and we gotta have some respect for each other’s sensibilities. Copacetic. So let’s go drink some pisco sours while we wait for Reivich to make a move.’
‘I don’t want to get too far from the bridge.’
‘That won’t be a problem.’
Vasquez cleaved a path before us, pushing through the evening strollers with insouciant ease. Accordion music ground out of the lowest floor of one of the freight pod buildings, slow and stately as a dirge. There were couples out walking — locals rather than aristocrats, for the most part, but dressed as well as their means allowed: genuinely at ease, good-looking young people with smiles on their faces as they looked for somewhere to eat or gamble or listen to music. The war had probably touched their lives in some tangible way; they might have lost friends or loved ones, but Nueva Valparaiso was sufficiently far from the killing fronts that the war did not have to be uppermost in their thoughts. It was hard not to envy them; hard not to wish that Dieterling and I could walk into a bar and drink ourselves into oblivion; forgetting the clockwork gun; forgetting Reivich; forgetting the reason I had come to the bridge.
There were, of course, other people out tonight. There were soldiers on furlough, dressed in civilian clothes but instantly recognisable, with their aggressively cropped hair, galvanically boosted muscles, colour-shifting chameleoflage tattoos on their arms, and the odd asymmetric way their faces were tanned, with a patch of pale flesh around one eye where they normally peered through a helmet-mounted targeting monocle. There were soldiers from all sides in the conflict mingling more or less freely, kept out of trouble by wandering DMZ militia. The militia were the only agency allowed to carry weapons within the DMZ, and they brandished their guns in starched white gloves. They weren’t going to touch Vasquez, and even if we hadn’t been walking with him, they wouldn’t have bothered Dieterling and me. We might have looked like gorillas stuffed into suits, but it would be hard to mistake us for active soldiers. We both looked too old, for a start; both of us pushing middle age. On Sky’s Edge that meant essentially what it had meant for most of human history: two to three-score years.
Not much for half a human life.
Dieterling and I had both kept in shape, but not to the extent that would have marked us as active soldiers. Soldier musculature never looked exactly human to begin with, but it had definitely become more extreme since I was a white-eye. Back then you could just about argue that you needed boosted muscles to carry around your weapons. The equipment had improved since then, but the soldiers on the street tonight had bodies that looked as if they had been sketched in by a cartoonist with an eye for absurd exaggeration. In the field the effect would be heightened by the lightweight weapons which were now in vogue: all those muscles to carry guns a child could have held.
‘In here,’ Vasquez said.
His place was one of the structures festering around the base of the bridge itself. He steered us into a short, dark alley and then through an unmarked door flanked by snake holograms. The room inside was an industrial-scale kitchen filled with billowing steam. I squinted and wiped perspiration from my face, ducking under an array of vicious cooking utensils. I wondered if Vasquez had ever used them in any extra-culinary activities.