Chapter 15

XV

Chase

The court is a lofty chamber deep in Hive Central. Zzrh stands in the winding tunnel that passes by its entrance, hands in his pockets, unlit cigarette in his mouth. He watches it casually, his compound eyes receiving dim artificial light from all directions.

Zzg arrives and pulls the cigarette from his mandibles, screwing it up and shoving it in her pocket. He touches a feeler to one of hers in disinterested greeting.

A crowd is gathering at the entrance to the court, a thick huddle of winged and wingless apians and a few neurops. They brandish television cameras like standards, and when the defendants emerge they thrust out microphones and recorders like stabbing swords. A storm of camera flashes bathes the tunnel in bright, flickering light.

"No comment?" Zzrh says.

"No, they'll have a statement," Zzg says sagely.

Sure enough, one of the defendants makes a grandstanding proclamation at the entrance to the court, mercifully inaudible where Zzrh and Zzg stand.

"He's the one," Zzg says.

Zzrh taps his shoe on the ground, trying to dismiss an itch. "Are you sure? Not just a figurehead?"

"No," Zzg says, certainty growing in her voice. "He's the one."

"Right."

As the defendants start to leave, there is a brief commotion. Zee clearly attended the bail hearing with a couple of her troopers. As the two groups pass one another, the apian who made the proclamation says something under his breath. The reporters press in closer, scenting blood. Zee looks completely unconcerned. One of her troopers laughs derisively. When the troopers don't take the bait, the defendants walk on, smirking.

Zzrh slides his arms out of his jacket and hands it to Zzg. "Don't mess with my cigarettes," he tells her sternly.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Zzrh crouches down and unties his shoelaces. He pulls his shoes off one at a time, before handing both pairs to Zzg. He places each foot on the beeswax floor experimentally, testing the traction of his soles, the grip and flexibility of his digits. Freed from the confinement of his jacket, he flexes his wings slowly, checking that the slits in the back of his shirt provide sufficient freedom.

The huddle of reporters moves down the tunnel, following the progress of the CPG thugs. Zzrh follows at a distance.

Zzg walks in the opposite direction. "I'll just put these things in the car shall I, like a good little worker?"

"Yeah, thanks. Good luck to you too," Zzrh calls back.

The last thing he hears Zzg say is "Shut up and earn your salary!"

The thugs take the shortest route to the outside air, emerging onto the sloped side of Hive Central, beneath a bruised and mottled dawn sky. Lesser Sun hangs near the horizon, shining weakly. Greater Sun peeps over the balloons of Fernheath park, rising lazily, or perhaps timidly.

The beeswax here is harder and rougher beneath Zzrh's bare feet. His soles cling to it easily. Ahead, the CPG thugs crouch and start to beat their wings, faster and faster, a steady hum arising from the motion. And then they leap into the air, shooting up into the sky like a cluster of rockets, looping around and down towards the river.

Zzrh lets the wind play on his feelers for a moment, getting the feel of the air.

And then he starts to lift himself up into the sky. His wings are a blur, beating the air with a furious hum, but he is barely trying. The muscles on his back take this as a brisk walk. His soles leave contact with the ground.

Rather than going for an extravagant launch into the sky, Zzrh stays low, keeping level with the side of Hive Central, dropping in altitude to gain speed. The smooth ground shoots past below him faster and faster. The river looms ahead. Above, the small specks of the CPG thugs break up and head in different directions. But Zzrh know which one is the only one worth worrying about.

The air tugs on his feelers as it whips past, rippling his clothes violently. As he reaches the river he banks sharply to the right, following the path of his target. He is keeping pace now, perhaps getting a little too close. With a twist of his thrumming muscles, he begins to climb higher, watching Honeyjewel Place and the Nematode Quarter spreading out below him. The distance between him and the apian-shaped silhouette above starts to widen. The silhouette drops suddenly, accelerating rapidly towards the utilitarian rooftops of Squarebury. Zzrh beats his wings harder, struggling to gain altitude and speed. His wings tear a path through the air like a rusty chainsaw, the muscles on his back screaming with the effort.

The silhouette grows into a colour image, just as it drops into one of Squarebury's identical streets. Zzrh dives in after him, no time to get an idea of just what he is diving into.

A washing line whips low over his head, almost taking one of his feelers with it. Another is directly ahead. He twists awkwardly, avoiding it with a narrow margin. Ahead, the other apian weaves recklessly between more washing lines, picking up speed, occasionally batting at one maliciously, leaving a shower of underwear and pyjamas in his wake.

Zzrh dives down, swooping low over the street to get under the chaos overhead. The wingless apians in the street gasp with surprise, throwing themselves out of his way. The drop has increased his speed. He is keeping pace with his reckless target, but barrelling carelessly into groups of pedestrians himself.

Arching his back, he shoots up again, executing a tight barrel roll to avoid a pair of criss-crossed clotheslines, trying not to lose sight of the target as he approaches the end of the street. The thug takes a right at the last possible moment, executing a ninety-degree turn at high speed and surely almost ripping his wings off in the process.

Zzrh follows after him, straining even harder to pick up lost speed. The thug is clearly hoping to throw off any pursuers. Or perhaps he's just a really, really dangerous flyer. Either way, this is not going to be as easy as it could have been.

No sooner has Zzrh come to this realisation, then his quarry darts down a narrow side alley, and, writhing his wings to readjust his path, Zzrh follows after him, shooting into the cool darkness of the alley, feeling cool shadow pass over him, momentarily obscuring his vision. The instinct to slow down is almost overpowering, but, a consummate flyer, Zzrh trusts his feelers to read the flow of air, and zips ahead blindly, rounding a tight corner that he can't even see.

Ahead, a vertical crack of light signals the alley's exit. The thug darts out and takes another impossibly sharp turn. Zzrh takes the turn as fast as he can, but it takes an enormous effort. He swings close to the side of the building on the opposite side of the alley. A wingless apian below shouts a curse at the pair of interlopers buzzing through the town so negligently. Zzrh mutters something under his breath - half apology, half instructions on where she can stick it.

At the next turning, the thug loops tightly back round on himself, shooting down a street parallel to the one he has just left. He must be on amphetamines, Zzrh decides, or spend hours every day training. Perhaps Zez's Flight: A Manifesto is actually an exercise book.

Zzrh realises that he'll have to slow considerably to take the same tight turn. Instead he takes a larger loop, up and over, the world turning upside-down. The street the thug turned into pans out over the nearest row of roof tops above Zzrh's head. He rolls over, restoring the world to its more familiar orientation. The thug is nowhere to be seen in the street below.

Another narrow alleyway shoots off from it - so narrow that Zzrh almost doesn't notice it. On impulse or instinct, Zzrh banks sharply in the same direction as the alley heads off in, trying to follow its path through the peaked rooftops with his gaze and divine where it emerges. He heads for its exit in a straight line, flying low over the buildings.

His instinct for the city's geography has come through. The alley emerges onto a street exactly where he expected, all that remains to be seen is if this is the only exit, or if he has arrived before or after the thug. Tiring from the exertion, Zzrh slows his wing beats and settles on the roof on one side of the alley, looking down expectantly.

The thug bumbles out of the alleyway casually, rolling over, legs outstretched - confident, perhaps, that his aerobatics have shaken off any pursuers. Zzrh starts his aching back muscles beating his wings again, in a more leisurely blur. He dives off the rooftop, allowing himself to plummet a couple of storeys before levelling out, and follows the thug at a modest distance.

*

Zzrh sits down on the cracked concrete and sighs into his mobile. His back muscles are just emitting a dull lethargy now, but tomorrow morning it will have turned into a constricting ache that will stop him flying for a good few days. He hates taking the tube - not least because he can't smoke. Not that he seems to be actually smoking anymore, thanks to Zzg.

Zzg finally answers and Zzrh brings her up to speed, speaking into his mobile in low, clear tones.

"There seems to be a group of winged apians here," he tells her. "It's some ugly storage company. Ironically very human style of design. I think they've rented a container. Spirit knows what they're keeping in it. There's three of them, but its not the same three from the courthouse. I only recognise one of them."

Zzg sounds very satisfied. "I'm notifying Zee. Keep an eye on them and keep your head down. When Zee turns up, try not to get caught up in any violence."

"Good advice," Zzrh says.

"How was your flight?"

"Jealous?"

"Green with envy."