“Any of the Dees. Or the Ushants. The Mullers.”
“I ask. Some know maybe.” Bluetooth laid a finger on his own flat nose. “Find
they.”
“By that?”
Bluetooth reached out a tentative hand and stroked the stubble on his face. “You
face like hisa, you smell same human.”
Damon grinned, amused in spite of his depression. “Wish I did look like a hisa.
Then I could come and go. They nearly caught me this time.”
“You come here ’fraid,” Bluetooth said.
“You smell fear?”
“I see you eyes. Much pain. Smell blood, smell run hard.”
Damon turned the back of his elbow to the light, a painful scrape that had torn
through the cloth. It had bled. “Hit a door,” he said.
Bluetooth edged forward. “I make stop hurt.”
He recalled hisa treating their own hurts, shook his head. “No. But can you
remember the names I asked?”
“Dee. Ushant. Mul-ler.”
“You find them?”
“Try,” Bluetooth said. “Bring they?”
“Come bring me to them. The men-with-guns are closing the tunnels into white,
you know that?”
“Know so. We Downers, we walk in big tunnels outside. Who look at we?”
Damon drew a deep breath against the mask, stood up again on the dizzying steps,
hugged the hisa with one arm as he picked up the lamp. “Love you,” he murmured.
“Love you,” Bluetooth said, and scampered away into the dark, a slight moving, a
vibration on the metal stairs.
Damon felt his own way further, counting his turns and levels. No recklessness.
He had come close enough, trying to enter white. He had rung an alarm over in
white. He had a sickly fear it might bring investigation into the tunnels,
trouble on the Downers, on his mother, on all of them. He still felt the tremor
in his knees, although he had not hesitated to shoot when he had to; had fired
on an unarmored guard; might have killed him; had meant to.
That sickened him.
And he still hoped he had, that the alarm had not involved his name. That the
witness was dead.
He was still shaking when he reached the access to the corridor outside Ngo’s.
He entered the narrow lock, tugged down his mask, used the security-cleared card
he reserved only for extreme emergency. It opened without alarms. He hurried
down the narrow, deserted hall, used a manual key to open the back door itself.
Ngo’s wife turned from the kitchen counter and stared at him, darted out into
the main room. Damon let the door close behind him, opened the storeroom door to
toss the breather mask in. He had forgotten it in his panic, brought it through
with him. That was the measure of his wit. He went to the kitchen sink and
washed his hands, his face, tried to wash the stink of blood and fear and memory
off him.
“Damon.”
“Josh.” He turned a weary glance toward the door to the front room, dried his
face on the towel hanging there. “Trouble.” He went past Josh into the front
room, walked to the bar and leaned against it. “Bottle?” he asked of Ngo.
“You come in that door again…” Ngo hissed unhappily.
“Emergency,” Damon said. Josh caught his arm gently from the side.
“Never mind the drink for a moment,” Josh said. “Damon. Come over here. I want
to talk to you.”
He came, back into the alcove which was their territory. Josh backed him into
the corner, out of sight of the other patrons who ate in the place. There was
the clink of plates in the kitchen, where Ngo’s wife had retreated, with her
son. The room smelled of Ngo’s inevitable stew. “Listen,” Josh said when they
had sat down, “I want you to come with me across the corridor. I’ve found a
contact I think can help us.”
He heard it and still it took a moment to sink in. “Who have you been talking
to? Who do you know?”
“Not me. Someone who recognized you. Who wants your help. I don’t know the whole
story. A friend of yours. There’s an organization… stretches out among the Q
folk and Pell. A number of people who know you might have the skill to help