but it was decidedly sedate. Although the people all around them looked handsome and chic, a lot of the faces betrayed the unique tension that came only with centuries of longlife and youth treatments. A muted n'yesh quartet was playing slow and formal dance music on the other side of the room, and a number of couples were dancing with a notable absence of passion or enthusiasm. The only genuinely youthful energy was possessed by the clutch of very young women who were there in the company of much older men.
The Minstrel Boy nodded and swung his legs off the couch. 'Yeah, we don't belong here. This is an exhibition of embalming. A bunch of credit doesn't turn a rowdy into a patrician.'
'So why don't us old rowdies go out over to Bluecat Plaza where we belong?'
The Minstrel Boy stood up. 'Why the hell don't we?'
As they were walking out, Reave grinned at the Minstrel Boy. 'Tell me something.'
'What?'
'You think you're superior to me?'
The Minstrel Boy smiled slyly. 'Hell, I always treated you equal.'
Bluecat Plaza, just below the main core of Krystaleit, was the undisputed epicenter of the city's underworld, a haven for the uncouth, the unorthodox, and the just plain criminal. The plaza itself was an open space at the convergence of a maze of twisting lanes and alleys that wound in and out between the downward sweep of the massive power conduits running out of the core. It was named for the Bluecat Artifact, one of the mysterious remnants of the long-gone age of advanced technology. The artifact was a dark metal monolith, some forty feet high with a pair of equilateral cones projecting from the top. The cones, plus me two large, side-by-side ovoid ports like great slit eyes radiating an even, pale blue luminescence, gave the thing a resemblance to a giant stylized feline. It was not the most magnificent of the artifacts, but it was sufficiently dramatic to presideover Krystaleit's delinquent heart like the enigmatic idol of some forgotten technocat god.
Reave and the Minstrel Boy approached the less than savory section of the inner city by the steep peoplemover that ran around the outer armor that shielded the city's central biode and the primary stasis generator. They could see the blue glow of the cat's eyes while they were still two levels up. When they stepped off the moving belt, the bare, bright plaza was comparatively deserted. That did not surprise them — the majority of that area's denizens preferred the dark, enclosed labyrinth of the alleys. The main human presence was the men and women, boys and girls, who displayed themselves from the shadows at the periphery. A strange tradition had grown up among the prostitutes of the Bluecat: There were tall, shallow, depressed flutes around the energy stacks where they passed through the floor of the plaza level. Those who wished to ply their trade positioned themselves one per flute and made their pitch from there. The come-on was contained in a single word.
'Me!'
'Meeee. . meeee. .'
'Choose me.'
'See me, feel me.'
'Me.'
Reave and the Minstrel Boy crossed the plaza with the sound sighing around them like a human breeze. One of the strange unwritten rules of the plaza was that the whores must not leave the flutes unless hired by a client. An authoritarian voice snapped through the general whisper.
'You! You there! You will come over to me!'
Reave and the Minstrel Boy did not falter. They were not in the mood for transactional love games.
Their goal for the moment was to become drunk, noisy, and aggressive, in general to act like the heros they were supposed to be. They walked straight toward the mouth of Mildweedallee, the arterial lane that led into the nameless delights of the Bluecat proper.
Where the plaza was blue, the surrounding labyrinth was a deep carnal red. Scarlet banners floated on the air, and a cacophony of music and voices spilled out from the doorways of a hundred nightclubs and gin mills, houses of ill repute and less that announced their names in everything from mist optics to electricglobes. The Balrog, the Club Adolf, the King Snake, the Casa Celine, the Hive, and the Red and Black all vied for the pair's attention and credit. They passed the dark doorway of a Nulite mosque sealed with the symbol of the Explosion of the Primal Birth. The Minstrel Boy halted in front of the display glass of a retailer with a modest sign that read 'Churchill's Weapons.'
'Will you look at that?'
In the center of the window was a set of flat chromium throwing knives, individually sheathed in a black leather apron belt with silver fittings. The Minstrel Boy was transfixed.
'I want them.'
Reave nodded. The knives looked impressive. 'I was wondering what happened to your old set.'
'It's going to stretch the credit if I buy them.'
'So buy them. We'll only piss it away if you don't. Weapons are weapons.'
The Minstrel Boy went inside. Reave chuckled to himself. 'The DNA Cowboys go shopping.'
After a number of minutes bargaining, the Minstrel Boy came out of the store strapping on the knives and looking exceedingly pleased with himself. He and Reave walked on. A busker was playing a droned wanglejangle so excruciatingly badly that the Minstrel Boy, as a music lover, had an urge to go over and kick him. A wino sat in a doorway, delivering a monologue to a gray discorporate who sagged beside him. When they reached the point where the Mildweedallee crossed Creed Passage, they heard a very different kind of music: the high, spine-chilling harmonies of a chromacon that was being played by a master. The Minstrel Boy stopped again.
'I swear to God. .'
Reave was immediately alert. 'What is it?'
The Minstrel Boy listened intently. 'I know that tone.'
Reave relaxed. 'You know who's playing?'
'I think I've got a very good idea.' He cast around, trying to figure out which place was the source of the sound. 'I think it's coming from the Victory Cafe.'
Reave grinned. 'So let's go.'
The Minstrel Boy hesitated before following him. There had been a time when he had drawn crowds at the Victory Cafe, and now he did not even play. He was not sure that he wanted tosee what was going on in there. But in the instant of the thought, he knew that he was being neurotic. 'Aah. . what the hell.' The Victory Cafe was packed, and they had to forcibly push their way through to the bar. For the Bluecat district, the place was uncharacteristically well lit. It was a utilitarian barn with cheap drinks, rubyjewel dispensers along the wall, and dull stainless-steel surfaces that no doubt could be hosed down after a particularly wild night. The focal point was the stage that took up one end of the big room. It was fitted with plastic screens that protected the performers from flying mugs and pitchers, although these particular musicians did not sound as though they could ever move the crowd to the kind of fury that might end with flying missiles. They had the mass of people who romped and stomped in front of the stage eating out of their hands.
Broken statue, now you are pieces
You can no longer speak
You have fallen from your pedestal
You could have been a genuine antique.
The singer's hands danced over the pressure angles of a midnight blue Maxim chromacon, while a percussionist and taira player sweated behind him. Limp blond hair hung over his face, the top half of which was hidden by a huge pair of faceted insectspecs. A large diamond flashed on the pinkie of his left hand.
The Minstrel Boy shook his head. 'Clay Blaisdell. I never thought I'd see him again.'
Reave nodded in time to the music. 'He's real good.'
'He's the man when it comes to the chromacon.'
'Is he better than you?'
The Minstrel Boy avoided Reave's glance. 'I don't play anymore, so the question doesn't really come up.'
The Minstrel Boy clearly wanted to drop the subject, but Reave was not about to let it go. There was a wicked glint in his eye. 'So were you better than him when you did play?'
