Sparrow (1/2)

[rosiphelee]

In the city of Atlantis superheroes swing the streets at night and down on the docks cloners breed assassins. A superhero is trapped by her enemies. Meanwhile, her younger sister is having strange dreams...
The prequel to Pale Sisters. All comments welcome.
These are my favourites - any comments are gladly received.

August 16 2364, Dock Four, South Atlantis

On the docks of Atlantis they sold body parts after dark. It was a cruel and illegal trade and one that could vanish into the night if a patrol car, armoured and shielded, came humming along the soft roads, or if a superhero swung overhead. The metal vats of eyeballs could be snapped shut and hidden, the hands that walked and danced of their own accord were labelled as mechanical rather than flesh, the vials of bright liquid were hidden which, sipped or swigged, would change the hues of skin and hair and eyes or grow new fingers or send the unwary buyer choking and writhing to the floor while the vendor faded away.

In the sultry heat of the summer night the whole area stank and shimmered, turning the stomach of the young woman who wandered between the stalls. Some of her colleagues would have chosen a more flamboyant disguise, she thought. They might have painted and preened until they resembled some trader of flesh, whether their own or others. But that was not her style and she feared she would betray herself if she tried it. Instead she wore black, covered from head to foot. Her brown hair was pulled back tightly from her face and her eyes were hidden by black glasses despite the dim and multi-hued lights which lit this scene. Her hands were covered by black gloves which would disguise any fingerprints and leave no DNA traces, a wise precaution in this market. In open defiance of the law, she was armed, and she walked easily despite the weight of the flashgun at her hip.

She was a small woman but many on the street gave her a wide berth. Nothing about her outfit suggested any allegiances, to the gangs or the more ominous ‘businesses’ of the docks. It wasn’t necessary. It was an old disguise and its suggestion rarely failed. She looked idly at the wares on display, memorised faces of those who offered some of the nastier products. But these were not her main concern. She could come here tomorrow with the law at her back and sweep them away and others would replace them within days. They were the edge of the rot, small and worthless to the real players.

It was the world behind them that concerned her. The streets ran back into darkness from the sea’s edge. There were places where weapons and drugs were sold, where cheap, quick sex in dank, narrow rooms was sold by those with no legal existence. And between those red-hued rooms there were places where enough money would buy a new face, new organs to replace those that failed, all bred and plucked from the vats. Beyond that, better hidden, were the slave marts, where cloned children, produced by the hundred, lacking legal status, were sold to any who desired them. They were called dolly-farms, and the woman, who had met too many of their children, thought she understood the name. To those who bought them, the vat-born were like toys.

She had said as much once, to her leader, and Tiger had laughed bitterly and said, no, it was a far more ancient pun.

Beyond the farms were the other places, places that were only rumoured of in the bright heights of the city. Places to buy an obedient child to replace an imperfect one. Places where an anonymous vendor would take your money and a sample of your enemy’s DNA and weeks later a fully-matured clone would strike, kill and suicide, leaving no evidence of who had ordered such a thing, only flesh to match the victim’s.

It was still a rare thing in Atlantis, this assassin-cloning. But Atlantis had always been peaceful and much of the world was still war-torn, despite all the dreams of peace over all the years. Too much diplomacy took place in this city, too much of the ruling of the world, for the government to ignore the growing industry.

And when the government commanded eventually someone, a long, long way down the line, acted.

“Do ya see anything which interest ya, lady?” The vendor leant towards her and whispered, “I gotta more pretty-precious things.”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and forced her mind into the speech-patterns of the street before saying, “I looka for betta than toys. Something sophistica, si?”

And she turned away, as if bored.

“I have more, lady. More, more, more. Sophistica. Tell me, lady. I get.”

“You couldna getta what my bossman want.”

That got his whole interest. An enforcer alone was one thing but spending her bossman’s money… “Wait, lady-lady,” he crooned. “Sitta here. Vodka? Bluejoy? Coca-Cola? Tell me qua te bossman want.”

She ignored the spindly chair he offered and shrugged. “Bossman sana sanus. Bossman still nombre one toughman. But bossman old in body. Bossman no like be old. Outta you league, little man.”

She could see greed and honesty war on his green-dyed face. Then he turned sly and said, “I gotta cousin, lady-lady. Big-lady, my cousin.”

Excitement curled in her gut but she sneered. “Yeah? Where she be, then?”

“Sweet as sugar-cuz, she is. Too big-grand for dock quatre. Be here tomorrow, lady-lady. Same time, same place. Meet my sugar-cuz.”

“Peut-être,” she said and prepared to move on.

He lunged across the stall at her. “Yes-no, lady. Yes-no. My cuz no here for peut-être. She too big-grand.”

That rang in her bones as truth and she fought the grin down. Unimpressed, she shrugged. “Okay, okay. Here tomorrow. But she no show you be jokerman, loserman, poorman, si?”

And she walked away.

She lingered over the other stalls a little, noting a couple of things which were new and dangerous enough to notify the standard police services. Then she wandered away into the quiet of the night. She walked through the empty streets and saw how here the lights were dim and broken. The walls around her were grey and in places the iron in the concrete mix had rusted to leave bloody streaks across the walls. She could hear the sea in the distance and the sobbing cry of the gulls. At last she opened her mind and let the night roll through her. She was alone. There were sleepers behind those grey walls, some caught in nightmare. She could hear their thoughts, lace-edges in her mind.

But they did not notice her and so she found a hidden corner and concentrated for a moment. Her black clothes stirred and constricted around her as the illusion she had placed on them rose. Now she wore patterned armour, made of plastic as soft and light as cloth but as tough and thick as steel. The black glasses over her eyes softened and reshaped themselves at her thought of command until they became a mask over her face, no longer hiding her eyes but concealing all else under feather-shaped decorations.

Smiling to herself she loped away along the street. As she ran she lifted her hand and called and a rope hissed down from a building above. She caught it and swung herself up into the air, already calling for the next. As she released the first it went hissing back to its source and she went rising and flying along the streets of Atlantis.

She did not think to check if anyone had seen her leave.

August 17, Police HQ, Central Atlantis

At noon the next day the woman was masked and costumed again. The suit was hot and though she wouldn’t sacrifice its armour and flexibility for something cooler she was very glad of the wind through the open windows. As she queued for her lunch she turned a little into the breeze and let it dry the sweat from her brow, glad for once that they never closed the canteen windows.

Someone jostled her and then muttered something she was sure was offensive. Even so, she made herself turn, smile and apologise. The whole League were under orders to appease the standard force and, inevitably, the onus of that fell on the costumed members. It had been less than a year since the League had been incorporated into the police force of Atlantis and they were still on trial.

“Dobar dan, Vrabac,” the server said, smiling at her.

“Dobar dan, Marija” she replied. Like most Atlanteans she had mixed ancestry but one of her grannies had been Croatian and she spoke enough of the language to chat to Marija. The menu choices today looked like green sludge or red sludge so she asked for curry and was relieved to receive the red sludge.

“We have ice today,” Marija told her, beaming. “Mechanic came, kicked the machine. Juice?”

The ice machine creaked and roared but managed to spit a few grimy chunks into her juice and she paid and took her tray over to the window. From here she could see the whole island-city of Atlantis spread out at her feet. It had been a dream-city in its planners’ minds, two centuries ago. A city in the middle of the ocean, free of territorial disputes, multi-cultural, multi-faith. A city built as a seat of democratic government for the whole world. There was a university, a spaceport, a copyright library, theatres, galleries, many parks and green spaces. The docks would provide industry and the shops were unrivalled, even by New York and Paris.

The woman by the window smiled grimly. She could have told them utopias never worked. It was a good dream and she gave much of her life to defending it. But almost as soon as the skyscrapers were built and the roof put on the parliament building, Sophos Hall, one of the components of the new concrete they had built from had reacted with the salt air and began to rust. By the time it was completed the richest city in the world already appeared blood-streaked.

And the richest city in the world had become a haven for the poorest and most desperate. The President might live and work in the centre but the docklands of Atlantis and the swathes of city between them and the soaring towers of the centre were poor. Atlantis never turned anyone away – it was part of its charter and she was glad of it for she would not exist if her four grandparents had not fled persecution and poverty from four different parts of the world. But the city could not find work for everyone and the inevitable problems of overcrowding were its perpetual curse.

“Penny for them.”

She jumped a little. It was very rare that anyone could approach her unobserved. Then she saw who had joined her and smiled.

“City founders,” she said and shrugged.

The young woman laughed and slid into the seat opposite. Her costume was grey as the concrete walls of Atlantis but striped with rust-red streaks. Her mask sat over her eyes and arched up to shape cat-ears, also streaked in grey and rust. Her hair was honey-blond, save for a wide streak of white, and it tumbled in generous curls over her shoulder. She looked no older than eighteen but the other woman had known her for years and no longer tried to guess at her real age.

“Bless their idealistic little hearts,” she said, her accent slightly British. “Are we first?”

The other woman nodded and said, “I didn’t see your entrance.”

“I took the stairs. I’ve just had a little chat with the commissioner.” The laughter had gone from her face. “Have you seen any news?”

“Not yet.”

“Only one of the ‘sheets has it so far but it’ll be across the city by evening. Sorcha Doukaga died last night.”

“Sorcha Doukaga? The singer? Dead?”

“Murdered. By an assassin clone.”

“****. That’s… ****. The first album I ever bought…”

“You and half the world, honey. Sparrow, have you any leads on the farms yet?”

“A maybe.”

“Good. I don’t want to put the pressure on but the commissioner is pushing and I got the strong impression that the success of our trial is dependent on us producing results on this.”

“I can’t get through the fronts. I just can’t make a contact. I can’t promise you anything, boss.”

Tiger put a hand on her wrist and thought to her, Don’t panic. We’ll find something. Have you enough time to stay and talk with me and Bear after? See what we can put together. Here they come.

And they both turned to look at the window as a rope hissed up and past and the Bear swung through the open window. He was a thick-set man whose costume was subtly sculpted to suggest brindled fur. He patrolled the segment of the city next to Sparrow’s, docks seven to twelve. He and Sparrow had worked together long before this strange trial year and she liked him. He was a very gentle man, though she had stood with him in battle. He was the oldest of those currently in costume in the League of Atlantis.

He came to join them and was soon followed by the remaining three. Azure, in blue and silver, was polite and diffident. Today he was tired and Sparrow, who knew that his other job, as a police translator, was almost as wearing, took his hand and shared as much of her strength as she could spare. Gem and Titania made their usual, flamboyant entrances and Tiger laughed and waved them over. They were both younger than Sparrow, an actress and a well-known singer under their masks.

By the time they all had food and had settled around the table they had also been joined by a suited and tired man. Ravi Singh oversaw the league support teams. They wouldn’t know until the New Year if their trial had been judged a success and so they were yet to be given office space. Ravi and his people, like their costumed colleagues, operated out of the staff canteen. Ravi’s only affectation was to refuse the eye operation which would correct his sight in favour of square glasses rimmed with black plastic.

“Right,” Tiger said. “Good news first because there’s not much of it. As of next week, there’ll be seven of us. Perseus will be taking up the north-east section between Gem and Titania…”

“Hallelujah!” Titania said. Her current section was relatively peaceful but immense and Sparrow knew how stretched she’d been of late. Gem also looked relieved but he tended not to chatter.

Their meeting was as brief as it could be – they all had other jobs and appearances to keep up. At the end of it the others went tumbling out of the window to swing back to their own lives and worlds and Tiger, Bear, Sparrow and Ravi settled to pool what little knowledge they possessed. For once none of them had commitments – Bear was working an evening shift and the small library where Sparrow worked closed at eleven on Mondays. Tiger, as far as any of them knew, was independently wealthy.

But it didn’t take them long to learn that Sparrow had the only lead. And though some part of her quailed at the thought of going down to the flesh markets again the part of her that needed adventure and absolution – the part of her that had driven her to swing the streets – was eager to act.

August 18, 4am, Rue d’Hippolyte, North Atlantis

Elaine Laurent woke screaming. Someone was holding her arms, tangling her in restraints and she was up and running before she realised it was her bedclothes. All that was pounding through her mind was the need to escape. She ran through the flat, pounding on the door until it opened and out into the corridor, still screaming. There were things: things she didn’t want to see, things she never wanted to see again, with fingers all up their arms and rows of nubbly teeth instead of hair.

It wasn’t until she was outside on the high walkway that linked the buildings in her block that she managed to stop screaming. There was no one out here and, mindless of the grime and litter, she sank to her knees, shaking. The twin beats of a hangover hit her head and gut and she ignored them. She couldn’t stop the dreams. She couldn’t stop them. This had been the worst. She’d tried so hard to stop. She’d thought drink would work; that if she couldn’t remember her evening she wouldn’t remember her dreams.

But now I’m not just messed-up. I’m a messed-up drunk. Oh, God, make it stop. I can’t bear things like that.

“Elaine?” The voice was male and concerned. She looked up to see a man standing a couple of metres away. She didn’t know him. He was tall, wide-shouldered. His hair was short and dyed blue, silver and white. He was black and his skin over his shoulders was dyed in psychedelic swirls which ran down his chest, matching the colours in his hair. She could see it all because he was only wearing a pair of faded jeans.

And with that her drink-dimmed memory stirred and she remembering coming home, spinning in her head with booze and lust and panic. She’d found him in the club. She didn’t know which club. She remembered falling through her front door with him, tearing at his clothes. She remembered the room spinning around her and she… passed out? No, she definitely remembered her stomach coming up her throat. Horrified, she closed her eyes.

You’re classy, aren’t you, Elaine Keturah. You get so wasped you jump a total stranger, bring him home with you and throw up on his shirt. Maybe you should just give up and let yourself hear the voices in your head.

But she could remember that, too. The crowded club, the lights pulsing, the heave of flesh and music. The speakers were everywhere, in the walls, the floor, the ceiling, scattered across the tables and the bar like teardrops, made of ice and dancing in glasses of lurid liquid. Everything had throbbed and bounced with the heart throb of the beat. Even the floor had moved and rocked beneath them so the only way to stay upright was to dance. The air had been thick with smells – hot sweat, the sting of alcohol, the misty, musky scents pumping through the walls. She shouldn’t have been able to hear anything but the music. She shouldn’t have been able to breathe except in time with the music.

But the voices were there, whispering in her head every time she brushed against another dancer. Lust thirst anger power the desperate desire to dance to never stop moving until death and darkness came. They had rushed through her, the feelings and individual words and phrases, names and promises. She had seen the dancefloor as if she was someone else, felt for a moment that she was no longer Elaine but the woman next to her, the man dancing opposite, the owners of the hands that linked with hers. She had seen the lights whirling over them through the eyes of someone who saw no colour. She had seen herself through another eyes, dancing as if the world was ending, her clothes soaked with sweat, clinging to her like a second skin.

She would have thought there was something in her drink but she was always so careful. Careful, clever, sensible Elaine who didn’t come to places like this. Sober Elaine, confident Elaine, promising Elaine who never went dancing alone, always went home early before the streets were filled, never drank too much. But she knew better. She wasn’t drugged. It was always like this now. Every night the voices came creeping into her head. At least when she drank she didn’t fear them.

So she gave up and let the voices come through her; let them rule her, became one with the crowd. Whatever made her what she was went fleeing to the dark, hidden places in her mind and she lost all control. She no longer knew where her body ended and others began. She let the dancefloor throw her, answered the beat beneath her feet. The others dancers moved around her and she saw how the crowd parted and swirled, moved and merged, patterns so complex and yet so simple, fractals draw in light and flesh.

And then she had seen him like the clear heart of a Mandelbrot curve, calm and silent in the heart of frenzy. He danced but he danced only for himself and she could not hear his thoughts, feel his feelings. Drawn like a moth to a flame she had let the dance carry her to him. And when she touched him the voices had fallen silent.

“Elaine?”

She jumped and looked at him. Sobriety was hitting hard and now she was scared. Who had she invited into her home? Why was she dreaming horrors? And then her stomach clenched and she knew they hadn’t been her horrors.

He came other and crouched about a metre away, careful not to touch her. He looked worried and she realised, hating herself, that she had no idea what his name was.

“It’s me,” he said, softly, gently. “Andy. Are you okay?”

“I had a bad dream,” she said and it seemed silly. But her voice, now she could hear it, was thin and scared.

“Come back inside,” he said, coaxing. “It’s not very nice out here.”

It wasn’t. Student budgets never stretched far and, though it was close to the university, the area was rough. For the moment the high walkways were empty but she knew that there was predators down below, on the ground level where there was better hunting. She shivered.

Andy stood and offered her a hand. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he said. “I promise.”

She had no reason to believe him but something fey stirred in her mind and murmured, Truth. So she took his hand and went back inside, pressing her palm once against the door to the building and then again to her own front door. Standing there, waiting for the old locks to recognise her print and roll open she began to sift through the memory of her dream, searching for meaning.

It puzzled her. She knew people who claimed to have narrative dreams but hers were usually a mess of morphing scenery and events. This nightmare, where she had been some one else, was like a film. She could have put her glasses on and ordered it to play.

The door opened and they went in. Andy released her hand and went over to the sofa. The throw from the armchair was bundled up there and the cushions were messy and she realised he had bedded down there. He rolled up the throw and then guided her over to the sofa and sat her down. Then he disappeared and she heard a click as he put the light on in the tiny kitchen.

She looked around the main room and smiled to see it so spotless and tidy. That was her doing and it wouldn’t last a day after her flatmate got back. Spider claimed that a tidy room was a sign of an untidy mind. Elaine, who couldn’t rest if a drawer was open or her clothes on the floor, wondered wryly if she was right. Suddenly she wished Spider was here. But her friend was in Europe, backpacking through the summer break with her older brother. They had been friends since they were skinny twelve year-olds. Now they were nineteen Spider was six foot two and still skinny. She’d inherited golden skin from her Greek grandmother and blue eyes and curling, white-blond hair from her Norwegian grandfather. Her nickname was a childhood legacy, bestowed by an older brother with a lifelong fascination with arachnids. Where Elaine was unfailingly polite and always cautious, Spider was eccentric, sarcastic and brilliant. Her wit was a sword to defend herself against the vacuous admirers her looks attracted and Elaine, who only came up to her friend’s shoulder, often found herself apologising as she raced along in Spider’s wake.

When Spider’s wit dropped her into trouble, Elaine pulled her out. And when Elaine worried, Spider teased her out of it or sat and listened and advised. They had competed through school and shared the top place when they graduated. They both thrived on mathematics but where Spider was intuitive, Elaine was logical. They had both opted to study Computer Science and now they were racing each other through university as they’d raced through school.

But now, when what Elaine had long dreaded was finally happening, Spider wasn’t here.

“Elaine.” Andy was back. He wrapped her hands around a cup and said, “Here. Sip it gently.”

“What is it?”

“Water. If you can hold that I’ll get you some chocolate.”

She lifted the cup and sipped. The cold water revived her a little but it made her stomach churn so she balanced it on the arm of the sofa. Andy was kneeling in front of her and she thought in wonder, It would serve you right if you’d been kidnapped, raped and murdered. But by some unholy luck you seem to have found a nice guy.

“Not entirely luck,” Andy said.

Elaine stared at him. She was sure she wasn’t thinking out loud. Perhaps she was still drunk despite the sick thump in her body.

“You’re very vulnerable in a particular way right now, Elaine,” he said. “It’s part of the promises I made to protect people like you.”

If she hadn’t felt so dreadful she would have bolted. “Who are you?” she said.

“I’m Andy,” he said, as if it was obvious. “Andreas Jones, if you want it all.”

“What are you?” she said, insistent and scared. She had assumed he was a student like her. But now she looked at him again she saw he was older than her, though not by much.

“I’m a police officer,” he said.

She stared at him and felt her mouth drop open slightly. That was the last thing she had expected. He chuckled and reached up and closed her lips with a brush of his fingers. “I’m a student, too. Post-grad. Socio-psychology. I’m investigating the reactions to the League trial among the rest of the force. Part-time, obviously.”

“The League?” she echoed. “The superheroes? Isn’t the trial nearly over?”

“Six months left. Twelve months of the eighteen gone.”

“Are they for real?” She and Spider had argued this one to death. She just didn’t believe in psychic powers or magic or whatever weirdness the League claimed to wield.

“Totally.”

She opened her mouth to deny and ask more questions but he shook his head and said gently, “Tell me about your dream, Elaine.”

“I dreamt I was my sister.” She shifted uncomfortably. “I’m always me in my dreams. I don’t want to be Kezia.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want it to happen to me.”

“Don’t want what to happen?”

“I don’t want to go mad. I don’t want to be like Kezia.”

“Tell me about Kezia.”

“She’s my older sister. I was always Kez’s sister. People knew me like that. Everyone loved her. She was top of her class. Clever. Popular. Nice too. She was always nice. And then she came to uni – University of Atlantis, just like me. And when she was the same age as I am now she went mad. Voices in her head. Just like me. She had – episodes – in public. I was with her once when she started screaming in the street – screaming and screaming and screaming and nobody could stop her.” She shivered, remembering.

Andy took her hands. “How old were you?”

“Sixteen. It was my birthday and her holidays. We’d gone shopping. And soon after that they came and took her away. To hospital. And when they let her out she wasn’t Kez any more. She’d gone quiet and polite and shy. She barely speaks to us. She wanted to change the world. Now she works in a library in the south city. She’s not even a librarian – she won’t do the diploma. She just shelves books all day. She doesn’t have fits any more. But she never laughs. I don’t want to be like that. It would break my parents’ hearts. They were so proud of us. But now it’s happening and I can’t stop it.” She was crying now and he stood up and sat beside her. He wiped her tears from her face and squeezed her hand, murmuring sympathy and reassurance. But it wasn’t personal. It was somehow professional and she thought bitterly that he must be used to it, being a policeman, that he’d be used to the hungover and hysterical.

“You’re hard on yourself,” he said gently. “Tell me about your dream, Elaine.”

She wondered why he was so insistent. “Are you really a police officer?” she said. She couldn’t believe it. She had a mental image of a policeman and it didn’t look like him.

“Really,” he said and reached into the pocket of his jeans. He handed her the thick little card and she turned it over in her hands, touching the embossed shield on one side, studying the little picture on the other. She didn’t know what a police shield was meant to look like but this looked pretty impressive. She handed it back and he shoved it into his pocket again.

“Your dream,” he said.

She looked at him and then shrugged. “I was walking down a corridor with a woman. I was wary of her and nervous but not scared. I could feel adrenaline right through me. She was scary-looking. Roughly dressed. She had some sort of gun on her hip and I knew there were other weapons hidden in her clothes. Then she went through a doorway and a glass screen came out of the floor to fill it. She turned round and laughed at me and I knew I was in deep ****. I shouted…? In my mind…? I tried to pretend to her that I wasn’t scared, that I was a very angry customer and she just laughed and laughed. And everything was misty and I couldn’t think anymore. Then I woke up – in the dream, not properly – and there were things.”

She closed her eyes so she could see it properly and wondered why it still scared her. She’d always thought telling nightmares purged them. “They were human but wrong. Some of them had too many eyes or fingers in strange places. Teeth. They picked me up and I fought but the gas was still in my system and I couldn’t focus my mind. I tried to call for help again but couldn’t reach anyone. Now I was really scared. There were too many of them to fight but I tried. I – hurt a lot of them. Badly. I think some of them were dead. Then they tied me up and threw me in a cell. It smelt bad. Salt and oil and something else. Something spicy. I don’t like it. I have to escape. I can’t let them capture me. I can’t let them know who I am. I can’t let everyone down. I try to call again. I can’t hear the others. I can’t even hear Tiger. But perhaps she can hear me.”

Something had made Andy’s hand tighten painfully on hers. Tautly, he said, “What’s happening now?”

Her mind floated loose. This was not the fever of the dancefloor or the drugged laxness she had felt in her dreams. Something called her and she answered.

Suddenly she was there again, back in the dream. They were hurting her. She couldn’t see. They’d covered her head. She could feel the knives lacing through her skin, tickling at first until they hurt. She screamed and heard a murmur in her mind, Be with her but apart from her. You are Elaine and I am with you. Trust me. Then, as she floated in her sister’s mind, she heard him as clearly as if he had spoken, Sparrow, he said, Can you hear me?

Pain lashed through her, stirred and boiled in her mind. And weakly, she heard a whisper, Elaine? Get out! Get out! You’re not safe!

“Ask her where she is?” he murmured aloud.

Where are you, Kez? she thought, let the words flow from her mind to her sister’s. Again the red flush of pain but then pictures began to rush through her mind, Atlantis as seen from above, a series of maps in ever greater detail until she could pinpoint the exact street.

The hurting stopped. Something fluttered against her neck and she realised someone was taking the hood off her head. Cold air fluttered through her hair and she could hear the shuffle and hiss of echoes in a large chamber. Something liquid was gurgling nearby. Her mask had slipped and was covering her eyes. She couldn’t adjust it because her hands were still tied. Someone, a new voice, male, said, “I want her to watch. Watch the little sisters grow, pretty maids all in a row.” And someone reached for her mask and began to pull it away.

She screamed and struck, fire flowing through her, and Elaine caught in the fear and tumult, wailed aloud. And then she was pulled away, wrapped and protected as if in a blanket.

“Elaine? Elaine?” Andy again, his voice shaking. “Talk to me.”

She didn’t dare open her mouth. Sickness was rising in her. But she opened her eyes. She saw him flick his hands in some quick gesture and he had a bowl and was shoving it into her hands.

She was sick. She was beyond embarrassment now. Worry possessed her instead. Part of her didn’t want to believe she had slipped into her sister’s mind. But if she had, Kezia was in terrible, terrible trouble and she was afraid for her. And if she had, Kezia was a superhero. Which meant she had never gone mad, despite what the doctors had said.

Again, Andy offered her the water and she sipped gratefully. She felt better, drained and shaky but not so awful.

“How are you?”

“Okay.”

“I hate to ask but if you can we need to go.”

“Go? Where?”

“HQ. They’ll be searching for her.”

“You were there with me?”

“I was. It’s real, Elaine. And your sister needs you.”

She nodded and managed to transfer the bowl to the floor. Shakily, she stood up and looked down at herself. She was still dressed in her dancing clothes, now dank and clammy. “Have we time for me to change?” she asked.

“I need to call in. Let them know what we have so far. Yeah, we’ve got time.”

She stumbled into her bedroom and thought ahead enough to find a change of clothes and pile it on her bed before she peeled the sticky, glittery top and tight trousers off. All she had to do then was sit on her bed and crawl into clean clothes. The night was still hot so she had chosen a thin, sleeveless dress. It was clean and fresh and she instantly felt a little better. She managed to work the band out of her hair and rake a brush through it lightly, though it hurt. Then she managed to plait it loosely, tie off the end. It bounced against her spine, a waist-length rope as thick as her wrist. Kezia had the same hair, brown and wavy and thick but she kept hers cut to her shoulders, bland and conservative.

Elaine had blamed the doctors for that too but now she wondered if it was actually a mask, a trick of the old, clever Kezia she’d thought she’d lost. Before she could dwell on that she made herself walk out of the room.

Andy was waiting by the sofa. As she looked she realised that he had cleaned up the bowl and now she did feel embarrassed.

“You didn’t have to clean up,” she said.

“It was no problem,” he said, turning towards her. She saw his eyes widen and then he smiled, almost shyly and said, “You look nice.”

It threw her. She’d managed to convince herself that he’d only come back with her because he was some do-gooder psychic on a knight-errant thing to rescue baby psychics from themselves and the evils of alcohol.

He snorted with laughter. “Sure I am. Little Saint Andy braving the debauchery of the Blue Pulse in search of lost souls.”

She remembered the way he had danced, like music incarnate, and laughed herself. “The Blue Pulse? I went to the Blue Pulse?” Then it hit her and she said, angry, “You heard me!”

“I can’t help it,” he said. “You’re broadcasting. I’ll teach you how to shield on the way. It’s the first lesson any of us are given.” And then, as he opened the door, shyly, “I was worried about you. But it wasn’t just… You’re very pretty. And I like the way you dance. And the way you…” He broke off, as if unsure.

“You’ll make me blush,” Elaine said, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks. “But thank you. I – I don’t do things like this. I’m sensible.”

“That’s a shame,” he said gravely.

“Why?”

He grinned at her, a brief flash of teeth. “I told you. I like the way you dance. Where’s the nearest tram halt?”

“Three along at ground level.”

“Right. Okay, you need to begin by imagining a wall…”

August 18, 4.30am, somewhere off Hokusai Row, South Atlantis

She’d killed the man who tried to take her mask off. She could still smell the smoke in the air. It had made no difference. They’d thrown their mismade creatures at her until she’d been overpowered. Then they’d ripped the mask off her anyway and beaten her until they broke her skin. They hadn’t been interested in her face or who she might be and she clung to a small hope that her family would still be safe, even if she was revealed. Then again, it probably wouldn’t matter. Her chance of surviving was lessening all the time.

They might not have cared for her face but they gathered her blood when they broke her skin. It was not until they scooped it off her skin that she realised that everybody in the room was wearing gloves.

She had expected to find organ growers, maybe even the people who grew slaves. There were experiments taking place out there which sickened her, ways of transferring consciousness from an old body to a young. To her knowledge all such experiments had failed but she had been fishing for something of that nature. One more step in, one more level up and a chance to find a link to the next group.

Instead she had stumbled across assassin cloners. She was sure now that it had been no accident. Everything from the green-faced trader had been a trap, layered to catch her. They had known what she was and set out to eliminate her. Some part of her blamed herself. She was no secret agent to work undercover. She was a street-swinger, a magic-user, a psychic. The rest of her mind gathered information. She was still too groggy with the drug to reach out and she had even lost that illusory touch that had, ludicrously, felt like her sister. But when the drug wore off she could get information through.

She was chained to the wall. It was a metal wall, paint peeling, and she thought this whole room had probably been a warehouse once. On the opposite wall was a row of large vats. Two of them were occupied by floating figures, suspended in some artificial imitation of amniotic fluid. One of the figures, a boy, was still young but as she watched she saw him mature, watched his legs lengthen slowly, his chest broaden, his genitals grow. This was part of the trade of the cloner, to accelerate natural growth to a certain point and then to remove the clone from the vat. Newborns in adult bodies, they were innocent but swift to learn. Programmes which had murmured in their minds prepared those minds for the shock of the world and taught them whatever the cloners believed needful: subliminal tapes at super speed. Some learnt languages, social graces, talents which would let them approach their targets. Others learnt sexual skills and emerged nubile and knowledgeable beyond the dreams of most debauchers. And all those who were destined for murder learnt how to kill.

The other figure was older and Sparrow thought that she was probably only a couple of hours from hatching. In all likelihood she would witness that too.

She gave up plotting escape and settled quietly to watch. The more she could learn about this vile trade the more damage her avengers could do.

It wasn’t until she saw her attackers approach the empty vats with her collected blood that she realised what they planned for her. She watched in sick horror as the woman who had met her at the docks bent over the base of the first vat. The fluid in the vat swirled and darkened.

She refused to show any horror. If they would clone her for sport, so be it. She was a hero of the League, in the service of good. She had been trained to use her mind and her powers and to fight. She could defeat a newborn, assassin-programmed or not. She would not like it, but she could do it.

Then the woman moved to the next vat. And the next. And the next.

Within minutes all eight empty vats were swirling and cloudy. And as Sparrow watched, eight tiny replicas began to grow.