Lifel1k3 (Lifelike #1)(54)
“I’m glad you’re with me, Lem.”
The redhead glanced at her and grinned.
“You’re my bestest. Rule Number One in the Scrap, remember?”
“Stronger together.” Eve smiled.
“Together forever,” Lemon nodded.
Hand in hand, the girls stole off into the dark.
In a skinbar aboard a rusting freighter, a dog that wasn’t a dog lifted his head.
He snuffled the air with his black snout, licked at his nose. His sister was snuffling, too, a low whine rising in the back of her throat over the pulsing, hypnotic rhythms. A dark booth. Fauxleather couches. Strobing lights and acres of skin.
The big dog barked, loud enough to be heard over the music.
A girl with a back full of tattoos stopped her swaying, dragged a long whip of black hair out of her face and scoped the man whose lap she was dancing on.
“He’s not gonna bite, is he?”
“He don’t bite, darlin’.” The man smiled. “That’s my job.”
The smaller dog barked, fluffy white jowls drawn back from little razor teeth. The man sighed like gravel. Lifting the girl with one arm, he stood slow, set her down gentle. The floor was sloping about ten degrees from the lean of the ship.
Dropping a plastic credstik on the table, he slammed back a waiting glass of ethanol. He buttoned his black shirt back up over a scarred chest. Slipped on a dusty black coat. A red glove on his right hand. And reaching down, he picked up a pristine white collar and fastened it around his neck.
The girl leaned back against the table, ran the credstik across painted lips.
“You’re not really a preacher, are you?” she smiled.
“Why? You got sins you wanna confess?”
The girl laughed, and the man grinned like a shark. He checked his rifle. His pistols. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a lump of synth tobacco and wadded it into his cheek. Taking the girl’s hand, he kissed her knuckles, pale blue eyes sparkling above that shark-tooth smile.
“Duty calls, darlin’,” he said.
The little dog barked again, insistent.
“I’m comin’, goddammit,” Preacher growled.
And pulling on his hat, he stepped out into the rusting Armada streets.
1.18
COLLISION
“I didn’t think they made sewer rats that big,” Lemon muttered.
“I didn’t think they made anything that big.” Eve nodded.
“I kept waiting for them to stand up and ask if we needed directions.” Lemon shuddered. “I swear, one of them was wearing a waistcoat.”
The trek through the crumbling Armada sewers had been torturous, the stench unholy. But at least it had been relatively brief. After an hour or so, Ezekiel had led them up a corroded service ladder, punched an old manhole cover loose and hauled them up into a blind alley somewhere in the warren of the Armada undercity.
The streets were cracked and choked with trash, walled on all sides by hulls of ships, rising into the sky. Eve realized now that it was Saturday night, and the thoroughfare beyond the alley was packed. Young turks cruising in their colors. Romper stompers eyeing off the alley gentry. Chemkids and scenekillers wandering from street bar to smoke den. Rusted logika running to and fro at their owners’ bidding through the crowd. Leather and paintstick. Neon and bloodstains. Guns and razors and knives.
A Brotherhood posse stood wrapped in their red bulletproof cassocks on a street corner, preaching about the evils of biomodification and the coming of the Lord. Eve hunched her shoulders, turned away quickly. She had no idea if word about her had spread from the Dregs chapter to the mainland, but she was in no shape or mood to find out.
The night was stinking hot, made all the worse by the filth on their clothes. Folks in the street gave them a wide berth—Ezekiel’s missing arm earned an odd look or three, but it was a testament to the roughness of the neighborhood that nobody called whatever passed for the Law. Eve supposed it was lucky they smelled the way they did. You’d need a gas mask to even consider robbing them, and there was nothing on them to make the job worthwhile.
After a quick search, Ezekiel found an old fire hydrant, still miraculously hooked into the undercity water system. Taking Excalibur from Eve, he smashed off the metal seal and was rewarded with a burst of high-pressure gray and a blaring alarm. Dirty street urchins came out in droves to dance in the spray. Eve washed as hard as she could, scrubbing at her fauxhawk before stepping aside to let Lemon and Ezekiel take a turn under the fountain.
“Come on,” the lifelike said. “Freebooters will be on their way. Destruction of city property will get us lined up against a hull and shot.”
“Lawbreaker,” Lemon smirked. “Always had a thing for the badboys.”
“Put it back in your pants, Miss Fresh,” Cricket growled.
“What good will it do me in there?”
Ezekiel hefted Kaiser, led them through the crowd, pushing and shoving off the main drag and into the warrens between the rusted hulks. Corroding ships rose all around them, plastered with solcells and repurposed wiring. Eve saw an impossible tangle of footbridges and sturdier spans interconnecting the decks above. It was like the work of a mad spider, spooling iron and steel between the wrecks.
In a side street piled high with old plastic mannequins and broken vending machines, they found a stairwell marked UNDERGROUND. Ezekiel led them down into a grubby foyer. Cracked walls were covered with faded street art, automated turnstiles leading down to a lower level. A handful of Freebooters wearing Armada bandannas over their faces lurked in the corners, keeping an eye on the evening crowd.