A Spectre in the Stream by Simon Tull

Author:Simon Tull [Tull, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781923092006
Publisher: Ultraluminal Press

Chapter

Thirty-Four

The Riven Styx was a welcome sight to Prisma, even more so than usual. She felt a sense of safety, of home, as soon as it came into view down the lit street. The incongruity of the squat, decaying brick building amongst the glass and steel of the surrounding structures eased her nerves, calmed her in a way that nothing else could.

Prisma led Goose into Bleaker’s Alley beside the bar, to a pair of dumpsters where he could conceal himself. “You wait here. I’ll only be gone for a few minutes, alright?”

He nodded at her, sliding in between the dumpsters. “How about we get some more noodles after? Or more of those egg rolls?”

“You’re hungry again? Already?”

He gave her an apologetic shrug.

“Meal has a skinner’s appetite. Were all humans this hungry?”

Upon entry, the front-door hinges cried out their familiar high-pitched welcome. Prisma’s tired muscles felt less rebellious now, but opening the door had them complaining anew, a physical reminder of the violence in the understreets.

“You’re too soft, sister. Our muscles shouldn’t go all squishy after a little stabbing.”

Styx raised his head when she entered, leaning on the bar. A lone patron was sitting at a table by himself, a full glass of moonshine clasped in one hand and an empty slake injector lying beside it. The man was sagging forwards, mouth part open, deep in a slake haze.

“Back so soon? Couldn’t get enough of my company, eh?” Despite Styx’s words, Prisma could hear a hint of concern in his tone. She felt that familiar warmth that emanated from Eo whenever Styx was near, something Eo never exhibited around anyone else.

“Why would I?”

Prisma shook her head, showing everything was alright, and the hard lines in Styx’s face relaxed a little. She slid onto a barstool, resting her elbows on the counter. “Had some questions for you, metal man.”

He raised an eyebrow and picked up a glass to polish it with his rag, something he did when he needed to think rather than out of any compulsion to actually clean. “What questions?”

“I met someone, someone who was . . . told to find something. I want to help him.”

The towel stilled against the glass, the creases in Styx’s face bunching up. “What sort of shite are you into?”

“Just a friend, Styx. Nothing to worry about. He needs a little help.”

“Underplay much, sister?”

Styx leaned back again, and the cleaning of the glass resumed, faster than before. He was thinking, and thinking hard. “He have a name, this just-a-friend?”

Prisma hesitated. Mimics would relay everything they said into the slip, where anyone could watch and listen. Worse, the Trinity could have search algorithms scouring the input for flagged words and phrases. No one would recognise the name she’d given Cal, though, so she figured that at least was safe. “His name is Goose.”

The bartender grunted. “Fitting, sounds like.” He studied her. “Why you helping him?”

Crossing her arms and resting her elbows on the counter, Prisma returned his look. “He had a message for—” She smothered the next word.

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