Edge (28 page)

    "Listen up, everybody." The speaker was a Frenchman, standing on one of the concrete blocks that served as seat or sculpture. "We start the main run in twenty minutes. For now, have fun around these structures" – he crouched down to slap concrete – "and in twenty minutes, we will meet our Waterloo!"

    Two hundred people cheered, and even Josh laughed.

    Then the night exploded into brilliance as movieimage garments shone and their wearers leaped in all directions, tumbling and spinning, performing running jumps, vaulting over seats and off railings, while others skated at high speed across the flagstones, boots set to near-zero friction, and some began to spider up the theatre's external walls, using gek-gloves.

    All those moving images were an absolute–

    
Idiot.

    –golden opportunity for anyone who thought of himself as a tech-head, a warrior-geek from the Regiment's Ghost Force, who ought to know better than to feel stymied when he was surrounded by technology that was waiting to be subverted. From his pocket he took out his rolled-up touchboard, unfurled it and clipped his phone on top, the tiny current causing his touchboard to snap into useful rigidity.

    
Come on, Cumberland. You can do it.

    Well, of course he could, but the question was whether he could do it in time, because in twenty minutes – less now – these buggers would be gone, running over the buildings as well as past them. If it was hard enough to spot a missing kid now, it would be impossible when the night run was in full flow.

    The time to have had this idea was an hour ago, maybe two, when he could have dawdled over his coffee and flapjack and worked the way an old coder knew best. But his fingers were already flowing across the touchpad.

    
Here we go.

    This was the true Zen, the immersion in a task so total there was no bandwidth left for self-conscious thought. He went deep, very deep, out of necessity; so that when he finally sucked in a breath and came out of it, his task completed, there were runners all around getting ready for the off. Twenty minutes had passed. His opportunity was almost gone.

    But in his display, several panes were blinking red, code was ready to be loosed, packages anxious to be broadcast. Compiled and zipped, loaded and ready to go.

    "So, everybody" – it was the French guy standing on the same concrete block – "we count down, ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five…"

    Sound disappeared from Josh's awareness as he focused on the display, letting the code fly. Then he brought himself back.

    "…two… er, what is–? I mean, let's go!"

    Every shirt blazed the exact same shade of pink, then mutated to a sapphire blue, while in the centre of each garment, front and back, a picture of Opal (retrieved by backtracking from her avatar) appeared. Beneath it scrolled a message in scarlet:

    No one could transmit to every shirt through the web at once, but Josh's phone redfanged to those nearest, and those shirts redfanged to their neighbours, and the whole cascade took place in under a second. Now, every shirt appeared synchronised as Opal faded out, and an image of Richard appeared.

 

    There was a ripple in the pattern of light, and that was all he needed. He redfanged the abort, and every shirt resumed its normal display.

    "Everyone, come on!"

    Freerunners and gekrunners flowed into motion, tumbling and running over obstacles, some of the gekrunners ascending the theatre walls like gymnastic spiders, their shirts pulsing with light, a beautiful spectacle for anyone with time to watch, but not Josh. He broke into a run, trying to catch the eye of the storm, the centre of the rough circle of disturbance: the reaction of people near Richard or Opal. From the way that centre had moved, he thought it must be the girl: someone capable of running with the rest.

    In the gloomy dark no one paid much attention to a solitary runner wearing unlit clothes who chose to run along the ground without gymnastics. All around were vaulting, wheeling, flick-flacking urban athletes. For a moment, as he sprinted around the side of the theatre, he lost his target – light and movement, runners everywhere – and then he poured on the speed – there – and in a moment he had her.

    
Come on, run.

    Her motion matched the gait of the figure in the surveillance logs, and she appeared to be doing the same as him: running without worry about spectacular moves, in her case because she was fleeing. Pointing his phone like a gun as he ran, he redfanged the target code – got her – and immediately the back of her shirt began to pulse pink like a strobing Barbie, a beacon impossible to miss.

    Tumbling figures were all around and someone must have guessed what he was up to because – "Got him!" – there was a grip on his sleeve – no – and he slammed into the gekrunner instead of pulling away, twisting and using momentum, and then he was free – run hard – as another grabbed and Josh's kick scythed low – "Ah shit!" – taking out the knee, tipping Josh forward but he fell into a sprinting step and continued – faster – then he was pouring on the speed – push it – as his assailants fell behind.

    The concrete ramp sloped into darkness, the pedestrian underpass leading to Cardboard City, its walls alight with gekrunners in sparkling shirts. Josh looked up – move – as one of them dropped like a hunting spider, arms clamping hard around him – roll out – so he dropped forward as if falling, clasping the gekrunner to go with him, managing to hook an ankle – got it – and they went over together, a combat sambo classic, concrete-nightsky-concrete filling his vision – move on – hearing the cry and soft crunch, then he was rolling up from the prostrate body, running once more, looking for his target.

    Flashing pink, ahead.

    
Sprint now.

    Still on the downslope with the girl further below, obstacles everywhere, dodging homeless folk and gekrunners, gaining on her now because this was fellrunning of a kind, the art of accelerating where other runners would slow to avoid injury, definitely gaining – getting close – and into the underpass, tearing past cardboard-box homes, faces open or blank with confusion at the blazing, lit-up gekrunners bounding and somersaulting all around. Then he was into the circular plaza that was below ground level, open to the night sky, dominated by the cracked and blackened cylinder of the Imax Ruin.

    The girl jerked left, altering course.

    Possibly, but this area was more open, and by turning a right angle she opened up the possibility that he would follow the hypotenuse of the triangle, cutting her off, and perhaps she did not understand evasion, but she was a gekrunner and they had good instincts and – there he is – because the boy Richard was up ahead, and Opal had changed direction to draw pursuit away, but it wasn't going to work. He poured on the speed, reaching to grab the stumbling boy.

    "I'm a fr–"

    Something massive barrelled into him as he twisted, arcing back with his right elbow – a thud of impact – continuing the spin to slam a knee into the liver, then haul the head down to concrete – no, not to kill – and redirect the flow, spinning the attacker to ground as – another one coming – and the second gekrunner was fast, a woman, whipping a kick toward him – no – as he slammed his palm-heel into her spleen and spun her aside, leaping forward and hooking his hand to grab – got you – and then he had the boy, his target.

    The gekrunners were not finished because three of them were making a spectacular run sideways along the curved wall – you have to be kidding – and he got ready for their hurtling approach as a foot slipped, a gek-gauntlet struck concrete at the wrong angle, and then the gekrunner was tumbling, arms flailing, striking another, arcing through the air and trying to twist out but too late as her head struck concrete with a crack of sound, stopping everything.

    
No.

    Everything but the second gekrunner toppling, her balance thrown off, shirt pulsing pink as she dropped, hitting sideways and rolling to stillness.

    Next to Josh, the boy was frozen, not running anywhere; and the third gekrunner, a male, had halted, clinging to the wall. Beyond, on the far side of the circular atrium, a beautiful flow of light continued: the majority of the gekrunners into their night run as planned, oblivious to the chase, the tragedy splayed upon concrete.

    A dark puddle spread, slow and viscous, beneath the first gekrunner's head.

    Blood looks black at night.

    Then Josh's phone was out, and he was stabbing the emergency icon. "Ambulance, this location, now. One probable fatality, one possible. Gekrunners, made a long fall. There are others injured."

    He disabled the normal misdirection, so they could read his coordinates in clear.

    
Shit. So stupid.

    As the third gekrunner inched down to the ground, others drew closer, switching off their shirt displays, congregating around their fallen friends. All were silent. One knelt to check pulse and breathing, taking care not to shift the head. Beside Josh, Richard was trembling.

    Within minutes sirens burped and whooped. Green strobing light preceded the arrival of a paramedic motorcycle, manoeuvring with care amid the makeshift cardboard homes, rolling down to the flat ground. Overhead, more lights reflected off the Ruin, as an ambulance circled the roundabout, looking for a way in.

    Richard whispered: "Opal."

    A gurney came rattling down a ramp, pushed by the ambulance crew. Their motorcycle colleague was already snapping support-braces around Opal, and spraying fast-foam to stabilise her. Then the ambulance guys slid a thin pallet beneath her, before raising her onto the gurney. As they turned, the back of their jumpsuits revealed a cheerful bulldog symbol and the slogan "Timmy Is Your Friend". From some children's hospital.

    Richard gave a cry, then shuddered into stillness.

    
What the hell?

    Josh kept his hand on the boy's shoulder.

    The paramedics conferred. Then the ambulance guys pushed the gurney, now with Opal, back the way they had come. The motorcyclist returned to the other fallen body. After less than a minute, the siren whooped overhead as the ambulance sped into motion.

    So the other gekrunner was dead.

    Perhaps Richard made the connection, too, because he slumped, and Josh had to move fast to catch him. Then, carrying the fourteen year-old in his forearms, he backed away. Soon the police would arrive. Moving softly, he circled around the back of the Imax Ruin, took an exit ramp directly opposite the accident site, and went up to ground level, checking for spycams, his phone polling and disabling, getting him clear.

    Finally, down a narrow street behind an ornate Victorian red brick building, he put Richard down, feet first. The lad swayed then stood there, like a window mannequin.

    Josh thumbed his phone and raised it.

    "Hi," said Suzanne's image. "How are y–?"

    "I need you now."

    She might have blinked.

    "All right."

 

Big Tel's taxi came to a halt, and the nearside passenger door opened, the interior light revealing Suzanne. Josh swept Richard up and lifted him inside. Suzanne settled Richard in place, strapping him in. Tel's hands flickered across the dashboard, checking surveillance.

    "He's almost catatonic," said Suzanne. "What happened?"

    "Bad accident, one fatality, another hurt badly. She's a friend of his. He saw it happen."

    "The fatality?"

    "The injury. Could be serious."

    Suzanne's fingertips fluttered across Richard's head and neck. "He's not physically injured? You're sure?"

    "Certain."

    "Then let's get him to a–"

    "Your place."

    "What?"

    "Let's get him to your place. Please?"

    Up front, Big Tel was craning around in his seat, watching through the clear partition.

    "
Merde
," said Suzanne. "All right. My place."

    "Terry, would you–?"

    "I've got it, Josh. Hold on."

    They pulled away from the kerb with hard acceleration – Big Tel once flew armoured Vipers in Sudan – then hauled out onto the roundabout, swinging north along Waterloo Bridge. Soon they were heading along Shaftesbury Avenue, then Tottenham Court Road where the tech shops and convenience stores blazed with light despite the hour.

    "Terry?" Suzanne tapped on the partition. "Can we stop here for a moment?"

    Big Tel, in the mirror, looked at Josh.

    "Whatever she says."

    "Then I'll pull over here."

    Richard continued to stare at nothing. Suzanne slipped out, crossed the street and went into a Libyan store. In minutes she was back, with bags of shopping.

    "Supplies," she said, getting in. "That's everything."

    Big Tel swung the taxi back into traffic. Josh leaned past Richard to see what Suzanne had bought. Groceries, plus T-shirt and shorts, it looked like.
Ah.
Richard's body odour was ripe.

    Soon enough, they were stopping in front of the flats where Suzanne lived.

    "You'll be all right?" asked Big Tel.

    "Yeah. Cheers, mate."