images, the establishment of power.
She wondered if she should tell Roger about the ghosts. She owed him something for taking her out of New Orleans. She was still a 'denty, but now she was a 'denty in three-hundred-dollar dresses, and treated like the First Lady.
The Josephites didn't approve her. She didn't mind that, but she would have to make sure it didn't get in the way. If she paraded herself too much, even Roger couldn't protect her. She knew how small she was in whatever Grand Design was being worked out here at the Cape.
For the most part, while Roger and the mad old man were working in the bunker, she was left to her own devices.
She didn't dare wander too far. The patrols reported that there were a lot of the Suitcase People beyond the perimeter. One of the parties hadn't come back. She was fascinated by the creatures who had been captured and sacrificed. If you looked at them from certain angles, you could see only the reptile. But then, if you shifted your head, you could see the person they had been.
Her life had changed a lot since she hit on Roger in Fat Pierre's. But she was still a 'denty, still a slave.
Her great-great-great grandparents had mainly been slaves, she knew, and now she was following in the tradition. American history seemed to have hit a peak in 1930, and now it was rolling backwards. Eventually, everyone should pack up and set sail on the Mayflower for
The shift changed in the bunker, and Roger came up with the morning crew. She could tell from his face that they hadn't got the Needlepoint System working yet. She had only a vague notion about the System, but she gathered it was a way of channelling the lightning, to smite from above like God.
The black-clad Josephites trooped off in a glum bunch towards the chapel to pray for the success of the project. Roger saw her, and trotted over, trying to smile. He really was quite handsome in a foreign, whitey sort of way.
He kissed her on the lips, and she responded professionally. He used her two or three times a day, always carefully. It wasn't unpleasant.
Without telling her how the work was going, he walked her to the bungalow.
There was a stick figure, oxygen mask welded to its skull, standing by the bungalow. It waved at her, and she shuddered…
'What is it, Simone?'
She couldn't tell him. She couldn't risk being rejected just yet.
'Someone walked over my grave.'
The dead astronaut leaned against the whitewashed wall, depressed at failing to make contact. It had a bulky pack burned to its back, and thick, blackened boots. It was still smoking.
Inside the bungalow, Simone took off her dress and lay on the bed.
Roger paused. She said nothing, neither inviting nor forbidding. It was safest to remain neutral. Some of them liked to think you loved it, loved them; others needed your hatred, your resentment, your disgust. She hadn't worked Roger Duroc out yet. She probably never would. He was too cool.
He pulled off his shirt. She had never worked out how old he was, but his body was hard, tough. He had scars, but didn't appear to have any bio-implants.
He bent over her, and stuck his tongue in her tiny navel, pulling at her panties. She ran a hand through his hair, and thought of the ghosts. They were converging on the place.
There were more of them now than there had been when they arrived.
Roger was on the bed with her now, his hands kneading away, his mouth pressing on hers. She moaned ambiguously.
The Suitcase People were more active, too. Everyone knew things were coming to a head.
She gasped as they joined.
On the opposite wall was a framed religious picture. Elder Seth entering Salt Lake City at the head of his multitude. Simone loathed it, but couldn't understand why. It was something about the Elder's thin face and beetle-black glasses.
Roger was finished. They broke apart and lay still for a minute. Sweat dried on her body. She listened to the whirring of the fan, and the beating of her own heart.
Roger sprang off the bed, and walked into the bathroom. He always showered afterwards. He was as clean about himself as he was about his precious weapons.
Simone opened the wardrobe, and picked a dress she had never worn before. They had gone mad with cashplastic in the New Orleans boutiques. She chose a violent orange-and-turquoise sheath, with a matching headscarf. With barely enough material for a pillowcase, the dress had cost more than a contract killing.
The phone rang. She picked it up.
'Elder Duroc's bungalow,' she said.
'Get him,' snapped a voice. Simone recognized Sister Bethany Addams, and felt the hostility oozing over the line.
'I'll see if he's available. Roger…'
She held out the phone.
Dressing as he talked, Roger propped the phone between shoulder and cheek.
'Fine,' he said, ending the conversation.
Simone had poured out some iced tea.
'They're nearly ready for another test-run,' he said. 'Fonvielle says he's sure.'
Roger took a deep swig of his tea.
'I don't know, Simone. I think he's cracked. This is a bad business.'
She was not required to say anything.
'And the Suitcase People are swarming out there. I'm having some heavy firepower imported. We need to get those lizards flushed out.'
Simone agreed with that.
'I've got hunter-killer teams out there, but we can't divert enough personnel.'
'It's bad
He knew what she meant.
'Yes, that's it exactly.'
He set his hat on his head, and left her.
She spilled a little tea on her chest, and let the cold soak through the dress, enjoying the sensation…
Po' little 'denty, she thought.
XIV
They were making good progress. The guitar sat in the stern, and Elvis imagined it was singing at him, reprimanding him like a long-neglected lover.
Krokodil was different today. She would never be communicative, but by comparison with her previous form, she was almost chatty, almost nervous. It was nice to know that she had human parts, but also a little frightening. He conceded that there was something attractive in the idea of putting all your trust in a cyborg fighting machine while staying in the bushes and laying down cover fire. He could see the gang-girl coming through now.
She told him things in bits and pieces. She told him about her meeting with Elder Seth, and the spectacles that had changed the way she saw the world.* She told him that she had spent time wandering in the desert, living like an animal, barely clinging to her sanity. And then she had been worked over by Dr Simon Threadneedle, a world- class bio-surgeon who had made her the Frankensteinian thing she was. After that, there had been many battles, many casualties. Armies had been sent for her, and formidable assassins. She had remade herself spiritually, she said, with the help of Hawk-That-Settles and a channel had been opened up to the beyond, through which had come a powerful
