Thirst, hunger and cold harangued them. They had nothing to collect rainwater in, nor had they any tools with which to fashion weapons, nor was there much to eat even if they had. Every morning they heard the birds calling far above in the sunshine of the canopy and occasionally they came across droppings, probably left by wild boar. That was the sum-total evidence of fauna. One of his companions started raving they were doomed to wander these woods forever. In the morning, he had vanished. Mirror-Face carried on with his remaining companion. That afternoon, they stepped out of the forest onto a wide public drain running roughly east-west. They turned east. Mirror-Face was pretty sure it was the Great West Drain. In the evening they joined a large camp. Almost all of it was surplus flow heading the other way—west—in blind hope. Through begging and doing some errands, they got water and a little to eat. Next day, they kept going east, making good progress on the open drain, despite being hungry and thirsty again by the afternoon and enduring a miserable, drizzly night in the open. The next day, Mirror-Face finally recognised a landmark called Snag Junction, a tangle of sweeping ramps where another public drain crossed over. This proved they were indeed on the Great West Drain close to the town of Reading. A good friend of his from officer training had been posted to the Reading Garrison. They decided to risk going into the town to find his friend. After crossing several miles of ruined Public Era suburbs, they arrived at an obstacle: the toll gate of a turnpike. It was defended by a squad of ultramarines with two big, black armoured cars. Like most towns of the south-east, the old core of Reading was protected from surplus flow by turnpikes, which required payment of a toll. This ensured only surplus with funds got into the town. Mirror-Face and his friend were so tired that they decided to try and wheedle their way in by offering to do some odd jobs in lieu of the toll.
That was the second stupid thing Mirror-Face did in his life. The ultras had mug-shots of foggers known to be on the run in the area. Escapes from Night and Fog were rare, since the great majority were only doing stretches of up to three years and would go back to their glory trusts afterwards. With his six-foot-four height and actor’s looks, Mirror-Face was not a challenging identification.
And so in some corner of the Ultramarine Guild, a deal was done and The Captain gained Mirror-Face for life.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself. There’s not one of us that wasn’t fucked over. That system out there—” Spiderman jutted his chin to indicate the outside world far beyond the marshes. “—just chews common people up. The sovereigns probably don’t even know half of what goes on—and they don’t care about the either half, the bastards don’t care about anything except keeping their gold.”
“Amen to that,” Lawrence said. He was thinking about how Mirror-Face has been recaptured. It was a fundamental point that escapes from Night and Fog were rare. Being on the run would be a tough life—even if he got clear of the marshes.
De Stulna led off with the soaring tones of their nyckelharpa, a beautiful instrument with chords as clean as a choirboy’s. Everybody clapped in time. Gamers linked arm in arm and swung their partners. Some of the ‘sitters’, the heterosexual value, lurched to their feet and whirled their drinking buddies around and around, colliding and flying apart to cause pile-ups of swearing bodies. Scuffles broke out. It was getting to that time of the evening when the grudges of the week started to erupt. Through the clapping hands and the flying fists, Lawrence spotted giant Zeta728, that is Pezzini, sitting with his usual poker face. Since their last brief encounter weeks ago after the display of Gnevik’s remains, Lawrence had not spoken to Pezzini. Generally, the spay kept himself to himself, ate alone and worked in silence in the gang. Several value had pestered him to get a feel of his tits and sex. In the end, Pezzini swiped them with his great hands, after which there was no more pestering. He had acquired the moniker Big Lil, after a well-endowed trapeze artiste in one of the London troupes.
Lawrence manoeuvred his way to where Pezzini was sitting at a table of spays: Sniper, Lanky, Benny, Sharply Dressed and others. Lawrence had got to know most of the spays at least a bit. They were steady types, loyal to one another and to men who treated them respectfully. He nodded and took a place on the bench beside the big eunuch. Pezzini was one of the few people Lawrence had to look up at.
He asked: “How are things, Big Lil?”
“I am fine, Zeta729.”
“You can call me Big Stak. Are you settling in? Making new friends?”
“This is not school.”
“It’s boarding school with guns and bodies.”
“Those are important differences.”
“You grew up in Brent Cross, didn’t you?”
“I left when I was twelve, after I won a scholarship in the Talent Court of Krossington,” Pezzini said.
“Do you think being spayed helped?”
“It may well have
