Free Angels and Exiles by Yves Meynard

medical training in implant form. He recognizes the symptoms with an almost gleeful familiarity.
    He says: “Hanley’s syndrome; ‘Azure Fever’. Late second stage.”
    Kel: “So?”
    “He needs food and warmth first. Then a course of treatment: antibiotics, targeted enzymatic flush. He’ll probably recover.”
    Ras, from the rear: “And
we
pay, of course. How much?”
    Edge Nain frowns, guesses: “About sixty thousand, more or less.”
    Ras: “Sweet Jesu’s balls, Edge, sixty!”
    The three dreamweavers look at one another in hesitation. Paying this much for the old man’s cure will dangerously deplete their balance. No matter how high your asset-slope, in Yerusalom, debt and death are more than just phonetically close. If at any moment you are unable to pay the baseline living fee, the city’s cybernetic bureaucracy will send a message through your asset-implant and terminate your abuse of the city’s precious resources. . . . They should let him lie in the alley, let his life extinguish itself; but they are committed now that they know of his plight.
    The old man has opened his eyes, stares in confusion and fright at the trio. Edge Nain crouches down, lays his hand on the old man’s shoulder.
    “It’s okay, Grandfather, my friends and I are going to take care of you. Can you stand up?”
    The old man comes to his feet, wheezing and gasping, his legs trembling so badly Edge Nain has to hold him up. Thick saliva drips down from the man’s mouth, blue-tinted. Some say that this disease, as with others that have begun to haunt humankind in recent years, comes from the Eldred, that it is one mark, perhaps the most telling, of their foulness. Others object that the biochemistries of the two species are so mutually alien it is ridiculous to suggest a cross-species illness. The first then reply that the Eldred could very well have hatched human-specific viruses in their ships’ laboratories, and the conversation thereafter degenerates into a zero-sum match of paranoia versus denial.
    The three dreamweavers lead the old man out of the alley, into Faro Street.
    Kel: “What’s your name, heh?”
    The old man: “Harold.” The name dates him more than anything else about him.
    At a public terminal node, Edge Nain checks Harold’s asset balance. It hovers precariously in the positive, with a clear downward slope. Like so many others, he sought refuge in the alleyways, stretching his assets and thus his lifespan, but also condemning himself ultimately. Edge Nain transfers a little of his assets to Harold’s account and nods as the figures alter.
    Harold: “Sweet Jesu bless you, young sir, you’re too kind. . . .”
    Ras: “Yeah, yeah. Listen, Grandpa, we’ll take you with us to a place where you can get something to eat.” He checks the timepiece embedded in his wrist, inked digits blinking beneath the skin. “We don’t have time to take him to a hospital, right now. . . .”
    Kel objects: “But we can’t just make him wait for us. That’s just as bad, isn’t it?”
    Ras: “Brothers, the performance starts in less than forty-five minutes. We have just enough time to get Harold to the nearest dispensary. Or else we can kiss that competition goodbye.”
    Edge Nain speaks in an imperative tone: “No. We take him to a full hospital, and now. If we hurry, we can make it in time. Sweet Jesu sees what we do, and He will make sure we get what we deserve.”
    Ras growls in protest; his faith clearly is not as trusting as Edge Nain’s. But he yields to his friend’s authority, and the four of them set off. Kel summons a red-class taxicab—why quibble over a few tens of units when they’re about to burn tens of thousands? They pile in, request to be taken to the nearest full-service hospital. The self-piloting vehicle weaves its way among the brightly lit streets.
    They are isolated in the cab; the three dreamweavers have silenced their soundsuits, extinguished their neon-implants. The outside