Free Osiris by E. J. Swift Page B

men—a floating crate, a resting seabird. Shots crackled sporadically. The bird rose with a squawk of alarm. The skad who’d missed swore. It was typical of a skad to shoot birds for entertainment.
    Vikram tried not to look at the men too closely, wary of recognising or being recognised. There was a large part of him that wanted to. The part that did idiotic things. The part that followed naked impulse.
    Witnessing the execution had been more than stupid. It had stirred up old grievances that he had barely begun to control. He folded his arms, squeezing with his fingers until it hurt. He had a chance with the Council. And they had to listen—now, they had to listen.
    The man came back with the order for clearance. Frowning, the second officer, still seated in a deckchair on the jetty, beckoned him over. The two conferred. Then the second officer pointed.
    “You. Over here.”
    His target was unclear, and the five passengers looked nervously down. He beckoned.
    “You. Woman in the green scarf. Here.”
    “That’s you, gullhead.” The officer still on deck hauled the woman out of the line. “Off the boat.”
    “My papers are in order,” she protested.
    “That’s for us to say.”
    Vikram kept his eyes on the deck.
    “What’s wrong with them?”
    “Get off, bitch, and you’ll find out. Or do you want me to throw you off?”
    The woman’s face crumpled. As she climbed over the rail Vikram saw her hands were shaking. The officer followed her onto the jetty and waved the waterbus on. As he turned away, Vikram saw that his scarf was deliberately wrapped low to reveal the eye tattoo on the back of his neck.
    The driver let out a ripple of curses as soon as the boat was out of earshot, whilst the other passengers grumbled. Vikram watched the forlorn figure of the woman left behind growing smaller. She was arguing with the officer. He hoped they wouldn’t hurt her. They always had that hunger in their eyes. As the waterbus crossed over the border, he had to fight back creeping tendrils of fear. The last time he had been at the mercy of Citizens, they’d put him underwater.
    The old song came to him:

    They’ll put you underwater where the sun will never rise
    And the mud will take your tongue because you’ve told too many lies
    The mud will eat your fingers and your toes and then your face
    And then you’ll lose your head and disappear without a trace.

    He knew what it was like to disappear.
    “I’m half an hour late now,” one man said irritably. Yet again, Vikram checked his watch.
    The passengers retreated into silence. Trust was a risk: best stick to your own problems. Vikram returned to the rail. The morning’s brightness had already dissolved and a fine rain was beginning to fall, dampening his clothes. The cold burrowed deep into his gloveless hands.
    He watched a covered ferry glide past. The boat was in good repair, but passengers looked cross and miserable with their lot. Glancing up, Vikram saw the preferred highways: shuttle lines weaving from scraper to scraper, another network every twenty floors, all interlinking to form a vast, complex web. Within their translucent skeins, shuttle pods moved like beads of mercury on a string. He tried to imagine what it must be like to cross the city in one of those tubes, the feeling of enclosure, of privilege.
    Ahead, the terminus was in sight. Vikram took a second waterbus, and within minutes found himself walking up one of the ten platforms which extended from 900-East like the points of a star.
    The Eye Tower was the tallest skyscraper in Osiris and the most magnificent. Vikram had only ever seen pictures of it. Upon entering, he was thoroughly scanned and searched. Vikram showed the letter once again. Released into the building, he climbed two empty floors. It was a standard flood control device, although he saw no signs of water intrusion.
    At the lobby, he stopped.
    The riot of colour before him was giddying. Sunk into the floor was a vermilion mosaic,