Terminal World by Alastair Reynolds Read Free Book Online Page B

put the safety catch back on and slipped the gun into her coat.
    ‘Nothing to see. Let’s move.’
    ‘We’re only a few hundred spans from the exit,’ Fray said, wheezing heavily now. ‘Reckon I’d better turn around here, or I’ll be slowing you down too much. Meroka’ll take care of you the rest of the way. Send me a postcard from Fortune’s Landing. Anonymous, of course - don’t want everyone knowing you’ve skipped town.’
    In the gloom of the tunnel, Quillon shook the bigger man’s hand. ‘I’ll be sure to. And thanks for coming this far. You didn’t need to.’ He paused and remembered something he had meant to give to Fray earlier. ‘Would you shine the torch over here?’ he asked Meroka. He waited until the beam fell on his medical bag, then opened the fasteners. He took out a small package from near the top. ‘It’s not as much as usual, but our supplies haven’t been restocked for weeks. I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do until I can find another source.’
    Fray took the package of Morphax-55, crumpling the white paper in his fist. ‘You saved any for yourself, Cutter?’
    ‘Enough.’
    Fray passed the package back. ‘I’m pretty sure you’ll need this more than I do. I’m not going anywhere; you are. If you don’t make it back from the outside, I don’t know where I’d find another supplier.’
    ‘I’m sure you’d find someone,’ Quillon said. But he knew better than to press the point. He returned the antizonals to his bag, secretly grateful that Fray had turned them down.
    ‘When you two are done,’ Meroka said, ‘we got a train to make.’
    ‘Go,’ Fray said, squeezing Quillon’s hand once before releasing his grip. ‘And enjoy the scenery.’

CHAPTER THREE
    They emerged from the tunnel through a low door that led into the back room of an all-night launderette. Quillon replaced his hat and pushed his spectacles back onto his nose, even though the steam fogged them almost instantly. With its pale green walls, sacks of soiled linen and churning coin-operated machines, the launderette was a bright, steam-filled oasis. Despite the lateness of the hour two people were sitting apart on the hard benches waiting for their washing cycles to end, staring into the hypnotic vortices of their whirling clothes. In that moment he would gladly have joined them, choosing life in the launderette over the uncertainties that lay ahead beyond Spearpoint.
    Then they were outside, in the night and the rain. Quillon caught himself looking around, eyeing the surrounding streets, buildings and vehicles for a potential spy or assailant.
    ‘Try not to look like you’ve got a target on your head,’ Meroka said. They took the funicular down to the next ledge, then rode the elevated. Slot-cars and slot-cabs buzzed by in racing blue flashes. Blade, the female pop singer, winked at them from an animated neon advertisement covering the whole side of a tenement building, while she took sultry puffs from a Mariner cigarette. The few pedestrians about were stooped under umbrellas, or had their hats jammed low against the weather. Quillon felt conspicuous, wondering what explanation he would offer if anyone questioned him about his association with the scowling, illegally armed Meroka. But none of the vehicles slowed, no one in the passing slot-buses or overhead trains gave them more than a second glance, and the other pedestrians seemed much more concerned with avoiding puddles and potholes than noticing Quillon and his new accomplice.
    It was nearly ten by the time they got to the station. Quillon looked up at the cluster of golden clocks set into the stonework above the arched entranceway.
    ‘Can we still make it?’
    Meroka nodded at one of several all-night diners across the other side of the road from the station ‘Wait in there. I’ll buy the tickets.’
    ‘Shouldn’t I stay with you?’
    ‘Don’t want you hanging around in the station. Angels want you this badly, they’ll have