Free River of Gods by Ian McDonald

him.
    "All in a day's work for Asthma Man."
    He walks with her toward the lights among the palms. The surf is
lifting, the trees grow agitated. The lamps on the hotel veranda
dance and glimmer behind the veil of fronds. The beach party behind
him is suddenly weary and stale. All the things that seemed valuable
and confirming before this girl now taste thin and old. Perhaps the
monsoon is coming; the wind that will blow him on again.
    "If you want, there's a technique I can teach you. I used to
suffer asthma bad when I was young; it's a breathing trick; to do
with gas exchange. It's quite easy. I haven't had an attack in twenty
years, and you can throw away those inhalers. I could show you the
basics; you could call round tomorrow."
    The girl pauses, gives it thought, then nods her head. Her tilak
catches a light from somewhere.
    "Thank you. I would value that very much."
    The way she talks; so reserved, so Victorian, such regard for the
stress of words. "Okay well, you can find me."
    "Oh, I will just ask the gods, they will show me. They know the
way to everywhere."
    Thomas Lull has no answer to that, so he sticks his hands in the
pockets of his cut-off baggies and says, "Well, gods permitting,
I'll see you tomorrow, ah?"
    "Aj." She gives her name a French pronunciation: Ah-zjh .
She looks to the hotel lights, coloured bulbs jigging in the rising
wind. "I think I will be all right from here, thank you. Until
tomorrow then, Professor Lull."

7: TAL
    Tal travels tonight in a plastic taxi. The little bubble phatphat
rattles over the pocks and pots of a rural road as the driver steers
nervously by his single headlamp. He's already narrowly missed one
wandering cow and a column of women with bundles of firewood on their
heads. Shade trees loom out of the deep, thick rural night. The
driver scans the verge for the turn-off. His instructions are taped
to the dash where he can read them by instrument light. So many kays
along this road, through this number of villages, second left after
the wall ad for Rupa underwear. He's never been out of the city
before.
    Tal's special mix plays big anokha breaks with Slav Metal death
chords, in honour of the host. Celebrity occasions demand
extra-special mixes. Tal's life can be chronicled by a series of
soundtrack files. Tal's DJ aeai wove up a set of top grooves between
drafting the wedding pavilion for the Chawla/Nadiadwala match.
There's much happening in Town and Country's actors' lives
right now.
    A sudden lurch throws Tal from the bench seat. The phatphat bounces
to a stop. Tal rearranges yts thermal scatter coat, tuts at the dust
on yts silk pants, then notices the soldiers. Six of them phase out
of rural night camouflage. A chubby Sikh officer has his hand raised.
He steps up to the taxi.
    "Didn't you see us?"
    "You are kind of hard to spot," the driver says. "No
chance of a licence, I suppose?" the jemadar asks. "None
whatever," the driver says. "My cousin."
    "Do you not know we are in a state of heightened vigilance?"
the Sikh soldier admonishes. "Awadhi slow missiles could already
be moving across our country. They are stealthy things, they can
conceal themselves in many ways."
    "Not as slow as this old crock," the driver jokes. The Sikh
suppresses a smile and bends down to glance in at the passenger. Tal
hastily shuts off the bpm. Yt sits very still, very upright, heart
betrayingly loud.
    "And you sir? Madam?"
    His soldiers titter. The Sikh has been eating onions. Tal thinks yt
might pass out from the reek and the tension. Yt opens yts evening
bag, slips out the thick, gilt-scallop-edged invitation. The Sikh
looks at it as if it could be grounds for a full body-cavity search,
then snaps it back to Tal.
    "You're lucky we're out here tonight. You missed your turn a
couple of kilometres back. You must be about the seventh or eighth.
Now, what you do is."
    Tal breathes again. As the driver turns the cab Tal can clearly hear
the soldiers' nasty laughter over the purr of the alcohol