Falling (12 page)

GenoBond does pass instructions backwards. Someone ReTraces back ten or twenty years to when they first joined, gives the message, and someone in that time-frame takes it back to when they first joined and in the end… What if someone wanted me dead so badly that they tried to get me killed before I'd even been spotted as a potential ReTracer? Before any of this ever happened, just wiping out a vast chunk of history – my history, anyway. Who has the authority to order that?

Warner. Oh yeah, I bet Mr Black Espresso can pull some pretty hefty strings within the organisation. But he's never seemed the sort to –

Schrader. Now there's a suspect. But he's just a ReTracer – kind of senior staff, gets to issue the odd order on Warner's behalf, but surely not powerful enough to…

‘Parallel universes,' Emma said suddenly, startling her, ‘have one big advantage.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Every single possibility exists somewhere within them. If we keep going long enough, eventually we find somewhere where we weren't born us.'

Something about the way Emma stepped back from the pattern, frowning stern satisfaction at the swirls and helixes, told Jude the conversation was over. She stood up, shivering in a sudden gust of wind.

She'd loved this place. Only realised it once she'd left, of course, because that was how things worked, particularly when you were young and in love and everyone else in the world just seemed to be there to spoil your fun. She'd loved the roof, and the dead-end corridors where they'd played drunken hide-and-seek with no place to hide. And the kids. All the silly, giggly kids who didn't know what they had or who they were or what lay ahead of them, except that, with the optimism of childhood, they were going to get everything they wanted from life, just as soon as they got out of here.

And now she was drawing closer to Farah with every step. Closer to the question still hanging between them, the answer she didn't want to give.

Maybe she didn't have to. Maybe there was another path for Farah, away from the complicated double-crosses and ReTracing to cover her tracks, away from the night when the gang she'd just robbed caught up with her before she'd had time to pop back and erase the trail.

‘You know what? I was always so jealous of what you did.'

Farah spared her one-time friend a frown.

‘Spotting that share option and ReTracing to tell yourself to buy some. And the day before the Act making it illegal for ReTracers to buy shares went through, too. And McGregor Software! I mean, everyone else thought computers were dead in the water. You made a real killing.'

‘Me?' Farah pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to hold in her astonishment. ‘Owning shares?'

No, my love. Not in my world. The way I remember it, it was Ahmed Saxton who did the dirty on the Stock Exchange. The training officers were livid. Threw him out, but what did he care? The deal was legit when he made it, hours short of the Act becoming law. They couldn't touch the money.

Jude grinned and winked, and found that her delight was genuine.

‘Shares,' Farah sighed, as if Jude had advised her to invest in carthorses or tea clippers. Then that infectious smile cracked her face and she threw both arms around Jude. ‘I'll miss you.'

‘I'm not going anywhere. I mean, fifteen-year-old Jude will be back in charge of this body the moment I ReTrace. That's assuming you don't break all my ribs in the meantime…'

Farah sprang back so quickly she almost fell over. ‘Sorry. Didn't – Sorry.'

The sun glittered on the metal heart she wore on a chain around her neck, on the multiple, mostly useless zips scarring her skirt. She seemed to glow from within.

Losing focus. Jude was being pulled back.

‘Farah –'

At her feet, the gravel patterns squirmed as if jolted into sentience. Their helixes entwining in an erotic parody of conception, worming into some strange new lifeform. The smeared continents of a hundred thousand infinitely repeating worlds receded from her across the rooftop, alternate worlds she could no longer tell apart.

Emma's eyes met hers as the light flared to swallow her.

‘Unless we can find a world where we weren't born us.'

Gone.

SIX

A Party…

‘– and then I said –'

An elbow jogged her arm; a mumbled pardon, a glimpse of a face punctuated by diamond studs and framed by blond curls, and the woman was gone. Jude blinked down at the champagne in her hand, her strappy high heels, the out of focus carpet below them.

‘And then she said,' Fitch finished helpfully, ‘you may well be a bishop, but I know a parson's nose when I see one!'

Laughter, fuelled more by alcohol than amusement.

Oh, this is wonderful. Major crisis in progress, life in danger, limited amount of time to save myself, etc. And what do I do? I go on a guided tour of my social life to date. Childhood, tick that off. Adolescence, yup. Big party with champagne and general decadence? Got that too.

Stepping back from the circle of sniggering faces, she tried to turn on her heel. The room tipped alarmingly to one side, righted itself. She wondered if they were on a boat.

‘Jude?'

Fitch's hand, delicate and sheathed in lace, fell on her arm. Gloves, how kitsch. How Fitch. Hey, that was pretty funny –

Stop that. Sober up. And stop swaying. People will think you're the dance act.

‘I'm fine.' One step. Another. Still upright. ‘Just need some air.'

‘Well, you won't get any going that way. Come on.'

Leaving Fitch in charge of the steering, she concentrated on the walking. It made things simpler.

Where am I? Whose party is this? Why did I drink this much of their champagne? And why am I wearing these ludicrous shoes?

Images reared from the corner of her vision to startle her. A flower vase, a splatter of red and gold against green walls. A table of shimmering glassware. A familiar face, mouthing words too fast to take in. Light and shadow, groping hands, private huddled conversations in the dark.

She pasted on a smile and tightened her grip on Fitch's hand.

‘I know,' Fitch said, as the green gave way to glass and, abruptly, to the narrow metal curve of a balcony.

‘You do?' Jude reached for the railings. Cold, wet to the touch. Air's damp too. Been raining recently. Somewhere below, green and brown blurred together, punctuated by the bright mobile sparks of dresses and suits and coats. Outdoors. Nice. Damp.

Closing her eyes, she compared the image against a million billion fragments of her past, cross-referencing in ways her conscious mind couldn't begin to comprehend.

Nothing.

‘I meant,' Fitch continued patiently, ‘that I know what's happening. I saw it in your eyes. Like you'd just woken up and didn't know where you were. You've done that going back in time thing, haven't you?'

‘Shhh. If anyone hears you, all hell's going to break loose.'

Fitch blew air through her teeth. ‘It already has. Did you see the cabaret?'

‘I'm serious. No one is supposed to know when a ReTracer is –'

‘I know that, my love. That's why I bought you out here.'

‘Oh. Good point.'

‘I never thought about that before. How scary it must be. To suddenly be somewhere else and not know where, maybe, or why.'

She opened her eyes.

The balcony looked down on some kind of concourse. Circular and about twenty metres below. A shadowy intermediate level separated them, flickering with occasional neon. Too quiet for bars. Shops, maybe, after hours?

But this wasn't any mall she'd ever set foot in. Too well kept, for a start. And then there was the fact that the concourse was mostly turf. Shrubs, flowers, and turf. People passing through, but in no hurry. Holding hands, yelling greetings. Happy people, smiley people. And none of them seemed to be carrying weapons, which was the weirdest thing of all.

She looked up. Domed roof, high enough to make her dizzy. The sky outside was that amazing blue that only appears at the moment the sun touches the horizon. As a child, she'd thought something that vivid had to be somehow solid and had climbed onto the window ledge hoping to gather handfuls of it. It was amazing, all things considered, that she'd lived this long.

When she lowered her gaze, Fitch was looking at her with the worried curiosity of someone who suspects an elderly relative is already halfway down the road to senility.

‘Since you've guessed my little secret,' she conceded, ‘I suppose you may as well tell me where we are.'

‘Willington Green,' Fitch beamed. ‘Warner's throwing a party.'

Warner? This wasn't his house. She'd been to his house; big lawn, hydrangeas. Inhabited by a grinning wife with a wine glass glued to her hand and a teenage son who seemed more than averagely sulky.

‘A party? In a mall?'

‘What… ? No. Willington Green is a Hurst.'

‘Oh God. Tell me I haven't signed anything.'

The ‘senile relative' look returned to Fitch's face, just for a moment. Then her face creased with laughter. ‘You? Sign up to live in a Hurst? You have to be kidding.'

‘That's what I sincerely hope.'

Still grinning from ear to ear, Fitch shook her head. ‘It's a party, Jude. Couple of suits are trying the hard sell, but no one's sober enough to give a damn. And you don't think I'd let you sign anything in this condition, do you?'

Crisis over, Jude leaned on the safety rail and took a couple of deep breaths.

Below, a few isolated figures were wandering, consulting maps or leaflets as if searching for something of interest. Whatever it was, she didn't think they'd find it here. The only things here were darkened branches of The Health Factory, and identical rectangles of door and window and fire exit patterning grey walls.

Then she realised the joyous squeaking of the couples below was aimed at those same identikit rectangles, and their flouncy curtains and triple security locks, and realised the salesmen were having more success than Fitch realised.

‘Actually,' Fitch said, ‘these ReTracer types are all right. Know how to throw a party. I'm surprised you haven't introduced me to them before.'

She forced a smile. ‘Wanted to keep you all for myself.'

‘Right. Like I'm going to run off with Schrodinger, or whatever his name is.'

A cold knot of anger contracted in her gut. ‘Schrader?'

‘That's the one. Big blond guy, thinks he's evolution's gift to women. Been sidling up to me all evening, muttering about wanting to talk.'

‘I'll bet.' She glanced back at the dying blue of the sky. ‘Don't trust him an inch further than you can throw him.'

‘Did I look like I was going to?'

‘No,' Jude conceded. Taking a moment to examine exactly how she did look, in that black and gold cocktail dress and those gloves. She looked beautiful. And dangerous. As always.

In fact, she looked like an ally.

‘How would you feel about helping me out?'

Fitch grinned. ‘What, in public?'

‘Keep that thought for later. Right now – how would you feel about bringing Schrader out here and having that little chat?'

Fitch scowled like a child threatened with the loss of a favourite toy. 'And if he is just after some horizontal action?'

‘Then you're quite capable of throwing him off the balcony. But something tells me that's not what's on his mind.'

‘He's involved with this, isn't he? Whatever you're trying to sort out.'

‘I'm not sure yet. But maybe.'

Fitch drew herself up to her full height. For a moment, Jude was almost tempted to pity Schrader.

‘Okay. Let's go get Mr Blond. You're going to be listening in, right?'

‘Eventually.' Jude let go of the balcony and was delighted to find that the world remained still and upright, if slightly fuzzy round the edges. ‘First, I have to go find a witness.'

The function room had stopped spinning – very considerate of someone – and the buzz of conversation had dropped to a bearable level. Lots of familiar faces, suddenly pasted onto glamorous frocks and risqué cut-away suits that reminded her of male strip troupes.

Marty the security guard had actually regened for the occasion – ten per cent swarthier and twenty per cent less muscle, by the looks of it. They'd better hope they didn't have a major security crisis before he changed back. Or maybe he was planning a change of career. The way he was handling that voluptuous sixty-something from Accounts, gigolo looked like a good bet.

God, she hated work parties. Come Monday, she was going to have to look all these people in the eye again, and forget that he'd been found in the toilets with the post-boy, or she'd ended up face first in the punch bowl.