Free Terminal World by Alastair Reynolds Page B

the confrontation had taken place, including some of the rowdy businessmen. There was a great deal of enthusiastic shouting and finger-pointing. A white-whiskered man in a railway uniform began blowing a code on his whistle, the whistle-blasts echoing off the station’s high metal roof. Two men emerged from the end of the coach, supporting the barely conscious form of the guard.
    ‘That’s them!’ called one of the businessmen, singling out Meroka and Quillon. ‘They were there! I saw them! They killed that man!’
    Quillon turned around slowly, trying to look agreeably perplexed, as if he had no possible idea what he was being accused of. ‘Is something the matter ...’ he started to say, not even sounding convincing to himself.
    ‘Stop there,’ another man called, a black-bearded, uniformed figure who might have been a senior guard, stationmaster or perhaps an agent of the railway police. He began to unbuckle something from his belt, advancing steadily on Meroka and Quillon. The item turned out to be a long-nosed service revolver, which the man gripped two-handed and began to level at his targets. ‘Stop,’ he declaimed, his voice booming out in actorly fashion. ‘Stop or I will shoot!’
    ‘This isn’t going to end well,’ Meroka said. She began to reach into her coat again.
    ‘No more deaths,’ Quillon said. ‘Please.’
    The bearded man fired a warning shot, ringing high into the vaulted roof - disturbing the night’s audience of roosting bats and birds, a vast eruption of sooty wings. ‘This is your last warning!’ he called again. ‘Stop now!’
    Meroka flung something at the man. For an instant Quillon had the absurd impression that she had thrown him a candy or a glass marble. It landed near his feet and exploded, a bright concussive flash louder even than the discharge of his revolver. The grenade threw up a screen of choking blue-white smoke. Meroka tossed another into the melee for good luck, then spun around and started running. Quillon followed her, his medical bag swinging ridiculously from his left hand, drawing his right hand and the angel gun from his pocket so that he could run more freely. They exited the platform area and passed through a wide doorway into the black-and-white-tiled booking hall and waiting room, where late-night travellers were only now beginning to register the commotion outside. A station official, more alert than most, was just putting down the handset of a wall-mounted telephone. He spotted the two fugitives and dashed across to the outer door, bravely set on blocking their escape. Meroka pulled out the machine-pistol and fired off a burst from the fresh magazine she had loaded on the train, aiming not at the station official but at the tilework mosaic above the open door. Shards and chips exploded away, the official shielding his eyes as the pieces rained down on him. Quillon risked another glance over his shoulder. The bearded man with the service revolver wasn’t far behind them, stumbling slightly as if he was still dealing with the effects of the smoke grenade. He stopped for a moment, leaning over with one hand on his knee, the other still holding the gun, and then resumed his pursuit. Other officials - not to mention several passers-by - were hard on his heels.
    Just then Quillon registered one of the passengers in the waiting room. With elegant, unhurried calm, the man began folding his newspaper. He placed it down on the vacant chair next to him - no one else was sitting anywhere near him - and rose slowly to his feet. He wore a long grey coat, cinched at the waist, a low-brimmed hat and patent leather shoes. The ghoul reached a black-gloved hand into his coat pocket, as if he was searching for a cigarette lighter.
    Quillon was holding the angel gun, but he didn’t dare risk a shot now. As sparsely occupied as the waiting room was, there were still people between him and the ghoul, who was now walking slowly out of the seating area, the black slash of