it, but be said it must…they want to eat you.'
Visser was sweating. Raimundo chuckled through a thousand teeth. He was whistling
'What do you want, Shiba?'
'An apology would be nice.'
'Sorry.'
'Thank you. I appreciate your sincerity.'
Shiba nodded, and Raimundo dragged Visser out of the room.
'See yo' later, alligator,' Raimundo said.
Shiba smiled, and replied, 'after a while, crocodile.'
The saurian was surprised he knew the come-back.
'I made a study of American culture at GenTech college in Japan, Raimundo. Bill Haley, Mickey Mouse, Ernest Hemingway. I know all the greats.'
'Right onnnn, maaan!' Raimundo made a tiny fist in the air, and shuffled off, the complaining Visser in front of him.
Shiba really had no idea what to do with the Good Ole Boys. He had not yet resolved the question of how to conduct himself, to decide where his loyalties lay. Captain Marcus was confirmed in his old job, replacing Visser as security chief. He had posted guards, and was even supervising the repair of the compound fences. Together with the indentees, many of whom were already showing signs of changing, the Suitcase People were working hard. Some of the indentees had fled into the swamps, but most had stayed. They reasoned that the Suitcase People were at least better company than the Good Ole Boys had been. Shiba was touched that he had always been singled out by the workers for his fair-minded treatment of them and, just as long as he was in charge of the compound, they would elect to stay under his protection. Reuben, a full-jawed Suitcase Person, was their representative, liaising with Shiba and Marcus. The compound was being run more efficiently now that Blaikley and Visser were deposed.
There was a new factor in the area. A group had moved into the abandoned launching site at Cape Canaveral, and Marcus's people had had several clashes with them. Shiba was shown a black-clad corpse. It had been one of a party from the Cape who had ventured inland to hunt down Suitcase People. The clothes had been unusual, with pegs instead of buttons, no pockets, large stitches. Certain fundamentalist American sects favoured such clothing. Marcus had suggested fortifying the compound against a possible mass attack, and Shiba had authorized the work. He had also organized patrols and sent them out on reconnaissance sweeps through the swampland. He wanted to know the disposition of any hypothetical enemy.
Few of the scientists had survived the attack on the compound. Old scores had been bloodily settled. Shiba had interviewed a lab assistant and a specialist with a tunnel vision knowledge of recombinant DNA and an incredible ignorance about everything else. He had tried to understand Dr Blaikley's idiosyncratic experiment log, written in her own peculiar and profane shorthand, but it was beyond him. Clearly, the death of the scientist did not curtail the experiment. Shiba felt a duty to his employers and to science, not to mention the memory of Mary Louise Blaikley, to continue the collection of data. Any findings would be named after her, he had decided. The Blaikley Effect. The Mary Louise Syndrome.
He would have liked to contact Kyoto and give a full report, but the satellite link radio had been destroyed by an explosion and was beyond repair. He could have used the GenTech intelligence nets to fill him in on the Cape Canaveral situation. But the Suitcase People were on their own until Dr Zarathustra or someone noticed the compound had not been heard from. Then, Shiba would decide whether he owed loyalty to the corp or to his new race. Again, he recited his Blood Banner Oath.
He came to a decision. It would be best all round if Visser were quietly killed without ceremony.
He lashed the intercom buzzer with his tail.
'Marielle,' he said to his green-faced secretary, 'rustle me up a firing squad, would you?'
He felt hungry.
XII
Elvis felt different this morning. He had woken up with the music in his head again. It was as strong as it had been in the early days. Before Parker and Seth turned it all bad with B-movies and pep pills.
The Cajuns had listened to him play for over an hour. The words of the songs all came back as if he had sung them the day before, rather than forty years ago. 'Blue Suede Shoes,' 'I Don't Care if the Sun Don't Shine,' 'Love Me Tender,' 'Long Tall Sally,' 'Blue Moon,' 'Guitar Man,' 'Good Rockin' Tonight,' 'Baby, Let's Play House,' 'Mystery Train,' 'Remember to Forget,' 'Lawdy, Miss Clawdy,' 'Don't Be Cruel,' 'Poor Boy,' 'When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again,' 'Blueberry Hill,' 'Mean Woman Blues,' 'Jailhouse Rock,' 'Crawfish,' 'Fever,' 'Are You Lonesome Tonight?,' 'Love is Strange.'
He tried the songs he'd never sung before, just heard over the years. He approximated a few Petya Tcherkassoff numbers, strangled his voice around 'Don't Stop the Carnival'—the one Ken Dodd song he could stand—riffed jokily through Lesley Gore's 'It's My Party,' taken a shot at the Mothers of Violence's 'Tas' and wound up croaking, banging his bleeding fingers against the silver strings as he went through the other Mississippi singer's repertoire. 'Crossroads,' 'Terraplane,' 'Walking Blues,' 'Me and the Devil.'
The elation that had had the Cajuns dancing now evaporated, leaving only the chill of the encroaching night Elvis had imagined Robert Johnson himself standing outside the circle of the light, knowing the hellhound was on his trail, listening to the white boy sing his songs, too bone-weary to react.
When he sang 'Me and the Devil,' Elvis remembered Mr Seth. He had been a sharp-suited, well-spoken huckster. Now, he was an all-in-black preacher. Elder Nguyen Seth.
It was creepy. That Krokodil and he should have the same Devil. 'Ti-Mouche said he had magic and she had a demon. Something had brought them together.
They had slept in the boat, huddled together under a blanket. At least, he thought Krokodil had slept. He could never be sure.
Once, fighting a dream, he had found himself struggling with her. He had been running through the darkness, trying to keep up with Jesse Garon. She had soothed him like his Mama used to, and quieted him down.
Now, as direct sunlight woke him up, he was alone. His throat was sore, but the real pain was in his fingers. The strings had worn grooves, opened the old wounds.
A hand shot out of the water and grabbed the side of the boat. He made a grab for the Moulinex machine pistol.
A head broke the surface, and Krokodil pulled herself out, naked but not shivering. She towelled herself on the blanket, getting the algae out of her hair.
'You can swim in that muck?'
'1 wouldn't advise it for everybody.'
'Ain't that the truth.'
Dry, she dressed herself. Again, Elvis looked at her body. She looked real. Marie Walton had looked like a cyborg. But Krokodil seemed like a real woman.
'We've got to be on our way. We've waited too long.'
Elvis took a hit from the canteen, and swilled the distilled water around his mouth, licking his teeth clean. His tongue was still burned.
Krokodil was checking their weapons. She paused in her task.
'Elvis?'
'Yes?'
She looked at him. 'I just wanted to say you sing very well.'
'Thank you, ma'am.'
'No, I mean it. Your old records don't do you justice. You could have made something of yourself.'
'Maybe, maybe not'
