The car leapt forward, then stalled. Mollen slumped. The instant of stunned silence lasted just long enough for him to shout, "Capsule; here!"
The woman across from him moved; her hand dropped the flowers and went to her waist and a fold in the robe. He punched her in the jaw, sending her head cracking back against the still intact part of the glass screen behind her. He swivelled, crouched near the door, as the woman slid unconscious to the floor beside him and the flowers spilled across the footwell. He looked back at Beychae and Shiol. Both their mouths were open. "Change of plan," he said, taking off the dark glasses and throwing them onto the floor.
He dragged them both out. Shiol was screaming. He threw her against the rear of the car.
Beychae found his voice; "Zakalwe, what the hell do you…"
"She had this, Tsoldrin!" he yelled back, flourishing the gun.
Ubrel Shiol used the second or so that the gun wasn't pointing at her to stab a kick at his head. He dodged it, let the woman spin, then cracked her, open handed, across the neck. She crumpled. The flowers he had given her rolled under the car.
"Ubrel!" Beychae shrieked, falling to the woman's side. "Zakalwe! What have you done to…"
"Tsoldrin…" he began. The driver's door burst open and Mollen launched himself at him. They tumbled across the road into the gutter; the gun went spinning.
He found himself wedged against the kerb, Mollen above him, bunching his lapels in one hand, the other arm swinging up, the voice machine swinging out on a lanyard as the huge, scarred fist plunged downwards.
He feinted, then flung himself in the other direction. He jumped up as Mollen's fist hit the kerb stones.
"Hello," said Mollen's voice box as it clattered into the road surface.
He tried to steady, aiming a kick at Mollen's head, but he was off-balance. Mollen caught his foot with his good hand. He wriggled out of the grip, but only by turning away.
"Pleased to meet you," the box said, swinging again as Mollen rose, shaking his head.
He aimed another kick at Mollen's head. "What do you require?" The machine said, as Mollen dodged the kick and threw himself forwards. He dived, skidded across the concrete road surface, rolled and stood.
Mollen faced him; his neck was bloody. He staggered, then seemed to remember something, and dug inside his tunic.
"I am here to help you," said the voice box.
He flung himself forward, smashing a fist into Mollen's head as the big man turned, loosing a small gun from his tunic. He was too far away to grab it, so he pivoted and swung one foot, connecting with the gun in the man's fist and forcing his hand up. The grey-haired man staggered back, looking pained and rubbing his wrist.
"My name is Mollen. I cannot speak."
He'd hoped the kick might have dislodged the gun from Mollen's grip but it didn't. Then he realised that directly behind him were Beychae and the unconscious Shiol; he stood for a second while Mollen aimed the gun at him, waggling his body one way then the other, so that Mollen, shaking his head again, let his hand waver on the gun.
"Pleased to meet you."
He dived at Mollen's legs. Collided satisfactorily.
"No, thank you." They crashed into the kerb-side. "Excuse me…"
He brought his fist up, tried to whack the man across the head again.
"Could you tell me where this is?"
But Mollen rolled. His punch sailed through air. Mollen shifted and almost head-butted him. He had to duck, hitting his head against the kerb-stones.
"Yes, please."
He splayed his fingers as his head rang with light, flung them out where he thought Mollen's eyes ought to be, and felt something connect liquidly. Mollen screamed.
"I cannot reply to that."
He bounced up using hands and feet, kicking out at Mollen as he did so.
"Thank you." His foot slammed into Mollen's head. "Would you repeat that, please?"
Mollen rolled slowly into the gutter and lay still. "What time is it?" What time is it? What time is it?"
He stood up shakily on the sidewalk.
"My name is Mollen. Can I help you? You are not allowed in here. This is private property. Where do you think you are going? Stop or I shoot. Money is no object. We have powerful friends. Could you direct me to the nearest telephone? I'll fuck you harder all right, bitch; feel this."
He smashed Mollen's voice machine with one boot.
"Graap! No user-serviceable components ins —»
Another stamp silenced it.
He looked up at Beychae, who was crouched by the side of the car, Ubrel Shiol's head cradled in his lap.
"Zakalwe! You madman!" Beychae screeched.
He dusted himself down, looked back in the direction of the hotel. "Tsoldrin," he said calmly. "This is an emergency."
"What have you done?" Beychae — eyes wide, face aghast — screamed at him, glancing from Shiol's inert form to Mollen's, then taking a detour via the slumped feet of the woman lying unconscious in the car, flowers scattered around her feet, before returning to Shiol's already bruised neck.
He looked to the sky. He saw a speck. Relieved, he turned back to Beychae. "They were about to kill you," he told him. "I was sent to stop them. We have about…"
There was a noise beyond the buildings shielding the river and the Flower Market; a bang and a whoosh. They both looked to the sky; the enlarging speck that was the capsule blossomed with light on a stalk that led back behind the buildings towards the Flower Market. The capsule sailed through the resulting incandescent bloom, seemed to shake itself, then a lance of light darted from it back down the same line, as though in reply.
The sky above the Flower Market flared; the road underneath them bounced, and a terrific crack of sound burst over the roadway and rolled back from cliffs further up the slope city.
"We had about a minute," he said, breathless, "before we had to leave." The capsule swooped from the sky, a four-metre cylinder of darkness impacting on the road surface. Its hatches opened. He went to it and took out a very large gun. He touched a couple of controls. "Now we have no time."
"Zakalwe!" Beychae said, voice suddenly controlled. "Are you insane?"
A tearing, screaming noise came above the city, from up-canyon. They both looked up at a slim shape streaking towards them, bellying down through the air.
He spat into the gutter. He raised the plasma rifle, sighted at the fast approaching dot, and fired.
A bolt of light leapt from gun to sky; the aircraft burst smoke, and veered away on a helix of debris, crashing somewhere down-canyon in a scream that became thunder, echoes rolling back from all over the city.
He looked back at the old man.
"What was the question again?"
V
The black fabric of the tent roof was above him and yet he could see through it to the sky, which was the shaded blue of day, and bright, but black as well because he could see through that easy blueness, and beyond was a darkness more profound than that inside the tent, a darkness where the scattered suns burned, tiny firefly lights in the cold black empty deserts of the night.
A dark crop of stars reached out towards him, picked him up softly between vast fingers like some delicate ripe fruit. In that immense enfolding he felt deliriously sane, and understood then that in an instant — any instant, and with only the most minute of efforts — he might understand everything, but did not desire to. He felt as though some awesome galaxy-quaking machinery, always hidden under the surface of the universe, had somehow connected itself to him, and dusted him with its power.