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Cowboy sees the shock running through Warren's face. "The deltas?" Warren
asks. "Are you going to fly the Line again?"
"Maybe." Cowboy settles back in his seat, feeling the delta as a matte-black
extension of his body, ready to soar. "Arkady likes to supervise his runs from
a plane," he says. "Flying out over Colorado and Wyoming."
He sees the comprehension grow in Warren's eyes. It dawns slow and pretty as a
sunrise.
WAREHOUSE FIRE IN ORLANDO
SEVERAL LIVES BELIEVED LOST
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Police Deny Reports of Firefight
Marc Mahomed whispers from concealed speakers, his voice a subaudible message
amid the subtle cries and rhythms of hob. Maurice looks expressionlessly at
the photographs on the wall, as absorbed as if they were a vidscreen. His
metal eyes turn toward Sarah as she enters, and a slight smile crosses his
face. "Rum and lime?" he asks.
Sarah nods, feeling the cool conditioned air of the bar chilling the sweat on
her brow.
She smiles gratefully at the Blue Silk, its familiarity easing the tension in
her.
She looks around the bar, seeing only a pair of customers she's seen before,
two sad-eyed
Russian women who, to judge by the names that punctuate their
conversation-Lenin, Stukalin, Bunin, Trotsky-are engaged in the usual
discussion of where the Soviet Union had gone wrong in its mission of
civilizing the rest of the world. The old argument, Sarah knows, being fought
by the
Russian exiles all over the world. She ignores it and takes a frosted glass
from Maurice.
"Have one yourself. On me," she says.
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Maurice nods and reaches for the White Horse with the slow, precise grace of a
mime defining an unseen object. "Haven't seen you lately, miss," he says.
Sarah sips her drink. "I've been out of town. Business. And I've been trying
to stay away from some people."
"That Orbital gentleman?"
She gives a shrug that means yes. "Don't like those people. They don't seem to
know when to let a person alone."
"They look for you here. That Cunningham fella. I tell him to get the hell
out."
Sarah gives him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Maurice."
"Every so often I see someone who might work for him, but I can't be sure." He
shakes his head. "Haven't seen anyone funny in weeks, Sarah. I think
Cunningham's gone home."
"I hope so. But I doubt it."
One of the Russians raises a hand for blue vodka, and Maurice pours it into
frosted glasses and delivers it to their table. Sarah feels the rum gently
warm her throat. The door opens behind her with a blast of September heat and
she casts a swift glance over her shoulder, seeing a wheelchair holding a
middle-aged white man with metal eyes, his legs a pair of padded stumps shorn
off above the knee. One of Maurice's old service friends, someone she's seen
before. Sarah thinks his name is James. She stares into her glass, hearing
them exchange soft-voiced greetings.
Maurice makes James a drink and puts it on his table, refusing payment over
his protests.
Sarah has the impression they've been through this before. Marc Mahomed chants
a lament for missed chances, the loss of love, of meaning. James maneuvers his
wheelchair toward the rest rooms in the back. Maurice returns to the bar, to
his endless, unblinking stare at the photos on the wall, his drink untasted in
his hand. Sarah finishes her White Horse. She signals for another.
"Maurice," she says, "you live upstairs here, right?"
"That's correct, miss."
"Do you have a spare room?"
The featureless Zeiss eyes rise to meet hers. "Why do you ask?"
"I'd like a place in Tampa," she says. "Where Cunningham and those friends of
his won't be able to find me. I'll pay you rent, Maurice. In advance."
Maurice looks at Sarah evenly, while she wonders if she's pressed his buttons,
if the mention of the Orbitals will swing it. "No dealing in my place," he
says. "Nothing against the law, no people I don't know. Don't want no trouble.
"
"No trouble, Maurice. I only want a place to sleep."
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