Burr looked up. At first he looked blankly surprised. Then he looked afraid. Then he smiled. “Hello, Greta.” His leather-tight face was lit from below by the tablet screen; the smile looked like a leer. “Did you want to see the rough cut?”
He flipped the tablet around, and I could see a still shot of my own hands, strapped down and stark against the blue-grey stone. There was a streak of blood at the edge of the plastic strap, and the knuckles were white knots.
I made some kind of noise, then.
It may have been that noise that drew my friends, or perhaps Elián had seen me fall. He was there in an instant, and the others were close behind.
“Tolliver Burr,” said Da-Xia.
“Hey, look, everybody.” Elián’s voice was light but his body was shaking. “It’s plan B.” And I did not know where it had come from, but there was a knife in his hand.
I could hear Talis say it: Try murdering Tolliver Burr.
The knife was a kitchen knife, a hand-span long, with a curved edge—a knife for chopping vegetables. The wood handle was so worn that it was nearly grey. Elián’s knuckles were yellow-pale around it.
“I’ll scream,” said Burr.
“Oh,” drawled Elián. “I hope so.”
The tablet clicked to life, and the recorded hands began to move, clenching and jerking. Then a smash-cut to the face. The eyes were blown wide, the mouth as open as a camera. Elián struck out and knocked the thing from Burr’s grip. It skittered into the dark room behind him, where it continued to play, glowing like a small hatch in the floor. I could hear it, too: Tick. Tock. Clock . . .
Da-Xia took me under the shoulder—she had forgotten how that hurt me—and hauled me up. “We are here to shut off the snowstorm,” she said. “Do that for us.”
“Yes,” said Grego, fumbling after bravado. “Or else—”
Tolliver Burr had taken control of his fear. He smiled at Grego, indulgent. “Okay.” He stepped backward, deeper into the shadows of the low-ceilinged room. It was like a cobra slipping back into a cave. “Come in.”
Tick. Tock. Drop.
22
LE POINT VIERGE
The communications room was low and dim. From the hall I could see only the white of Burr’s shirt and the rectangle of smartplex on the floor that was still playing the scene of me being tortured. “We can’t go in there,” I said. “We can’t.”
But of course we had to.
It was Grego—I think compensating for the wavering note of his “or else”—who went in first.
Tolliver Burr shot him in the neck.
The bullet clipped the side of Grego’s throat. He half turned, as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder, then folded up. It was quiet, without the least fuss.
“Gregori!” shouted Da-Xia, diving for him.
Elián leapt into the darkness, toward Burr. There was a muzzle flash, and a noise as loud as if Elián had been hit by lightning. Da-Xia screamed. My knees gave way and I sat down on the deckplate.
Inches away Xie was leaning over Grego. Blood was bubbling up from his neck as if from a hot spring. He had raised a hand to it, but was not clutching at it, or not anymore. His iris implants were wide and black, and he was squinting as if curious. Da-Xia hesitated, fingers splayed and stiff. Then she pressed her hands in over his, over the wound. Dark blood welled between her fingers. Grego looked up at Da-Xia and blinked. “It’s all right, Gregori,” she said. “It’s all right.”
Elián and Burr were scuffling. The gun spun out across the floor and struck against my hip. I looked at it. I bent my elbow and pulled my right hand free of the sling. The weight of my arm pulled at my shoulder. The pain opened my mouth like a gag, but I made no noise. My hand was numb. My ears were ringing. I fumbled for the gun.
“Gregori?” Da-Xia’s voice cracked. “Grego?”
I looked at them. The cheesecloth around Grego’s throat wicked the blood up and was red as a bandanna, and more blood was black and shining around the raised grey pattern of the traction plating. It smelled like coins held too long in the hand.
And then—I could see it happen. Grego died.
His eyes changed into paintings of eyes. Into blank icons.
“Oh,” said Xie. “Oh no.”
I closed my fingers around the gun, and rose to my feet like the Lady of the Lake.
With the gun in my hand, I counted the people breathing—five. Me, Da-Xia, Elián, Burr, and the recording of me, which sounded like something being sawed in half. Not Grego. The sounds of the scuffle had mostly stopped. I squared my feet on the deckplate and felt the blood seep between my toes. It was warm.
Burr’s white shirt swam up from the darkness. Elián had overcome him. He held one of Burr’s arms twisted round his back. With his other hand Elián pressed the knife against the side of Burr’s neck. Blankly I noticed that it was the wrong way around, the dull edge against skin. Elián clearly knew as little of knife fights as I knew of guns.
But then, really: when it comes to guns, what is there to know?
Elián and Burr shuffled forward. I pointed the gun at them, though my hands couldn’t feel it. My shoulder had become a ball of some hard-rubber substance I supposed was pain.
“Greta,” gasped Burr.