Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [63]
“Hold on,” Deeba said. “Rogueday. You remember where I first met you?”
“’Course,” he said. “I was breakfast shopping.” Stealing, Deeba thought. “In the market, just up the way.”
“I’ve got a friend there who might help us.”
“There’s no us,” Hemi said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I cannot get involved.”
“But…don’t you care?” Deeba said. “It’s UnLondon…” She stopped suddenly. She’d never seen him so agitated. She realized that it wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was that he was overwhelmed. And she remembered what had happened to him in the market.
She needed his help. Deeba almost despaired. One thing that stopped her was that though Hemi kept acting as if he was about to walk away, he didn’t. She thought quickly. He obviously had to fend for himself.
“Look,” she said, thinking carefully. She took out the rest of the money she’d brought. “This is all I have. It’s yours, all of it, if you’ll help me. I can’t do this on my own.” Her voice almost caught.
Hemi eyed the cash. He hesitated. He reached for it slowly.
“Nuh-uh,” Deeba said, pulling her hand back. “Cash on delivery. Get me to the bridge—it’s all yours. Or at least to the market—we’ll work something out. Promise. Please.”
“I’m not sure about this,” Hemi muttered. “I’m really not sure about this.”
They were at the edge of Wraithtown, peering across a stretch of concrete at the market, the traders and shoppers. A wall must have stood there years before, and they were huddled behind its ghost. Deeba squinted through misty spectral bricks, past the upside-down bathtub and concrete mixer and supermarket trolleys that were growing at the plaza’s edges.
“It’ll be fine,” Deeba said.
“It will not be fine,” Hemi said. “They hate me.”
“Well, I guess now I’m here, you don’t have to come in,” Deeba said hesitantly.
“Whatever,” Hemi said vaguely. “I might as well stick it a bit longer, earn the rest of the dosh.”
“Okay,” said Deeba without looking at him.
She held on to his hand and walked through the ghost of the wall. She felt a faint resistance, and then she was through.
“And I promise,” Deeba added, “I won’t let them chat any rubbish at you. And that includes Obaday.”
Halfway to the market, Hemi stopped.
“Wait,” he said. There was terrible urgency in his voice. He pointed up.
Light was leaving the sky. Racing across the pale circle of the UnSun came black cloud, like squirted ink. It was rushing up from the streets, spreading above the roofs, tugging itself through the air, approaching the market.
People had seen it. Some were standing their ground and looking up, scared but trying to be brave. Many were running. They scattered towards the surrounding houses.
“Quick, quick, quick,” said Hemi. “We have to get under cover. It’s the Smog.”
“What about your unbrella?” he said as they ran.
“It’s not an unbrella,” Deeba said breathlessly, “it’s an umbrella…”
“Can it protect us? No? What’s the point of that?”
Hemi looked around quickly, and ran to a manhole cover in the street.
“Help me!” he said, and he and Deeba began to pry it from the ground.
Hemi’s hands moved fast. He tensed with effort, and for a moment she couldn’t see what he did with his fingers.
“Got to get the lock,” he muttered, then: “Yes!” Something clicked, and they hauled the cover from the street. “Get in, quickly.”
He followed Deeba onto the ladder in the dank hole. Hemi hauled the covering back over them, wedged it with a stone, so they could peer through the crack.
Ankles in shoes scampered around them, as well as wheels and other odder limbs. The air was darkening.
There was a clattering. The metal lid began to ring like a cymbal. Pellets ricocheted.
Some way off, Deeba could just see a woman who had been issued an unbrella standing unafraid as the onslaught began. The unbrella leapt, pulling the woman’s hand above her head, spun, blocking the Smog’s attacks, sending its missiles flying.
Chunks of carbon were slamming into the pavement, centimeters from Deeba’s face. The air was full of slugs of metal that hit hard enough to chip the pavement.
“It’s too