Illegal as they are, the Bouts are always on the move, itinerant entertainments materialising like flash mobs – in old car factories, the warehouses of abandoned shipyards, in great makeshift arenas in the wilds of field and forest, somewhere out over the hills; even, she’s told, in underground military bases, sanctioned illicit R&R for the fighting boys and girls. Until tonight, for whatever reason, Squirrel’s never been picked to work one – which, since the Bouts are Denton’s domain, has generally been a relief. But still, like an insatiable hunger, curiosity has eaten away at her, forcing her back upon imagination, to scale up Fogler’s little gaming tank to gargantuan size, or pick through the dubiousness of second-hand reports, where it’s a contest as to which is taller: the tales themselves, or the mythical combatants they purport to describe – crocodile-headed behemoths, creatures whose DNA has been spliced with bison or elephant, seventy-foot Rottweiler hybrids.
She is accorded the unwanted honour of sitting up front, riding reluctant shotgun as Denton pilots the all-terrain vehicle out into the night, its fat black tyres sucking up the ill-lit byways, its engine almost as silent as these still-dark outskirts of the city. They trace a winding route up into the hills, eventually passing out from under the umbrella of the weather shield, whose generosity has begun to run out this far from the Arc. But the unfiltered night is, if not benign, at least guileless, its cloudless sky crisp, clear and cold. With each mile the flashed-past glimmers of light from the small, isolated dwellings grow more infrequent, intermittent, as the signs of life diminish, spacing out like the solitary denizens of oceanic deeps; snapshots of fractured light that, as she steals occasional glances in the rearview mirror, always catch Grocers and Barnaby ready with some obscene gurn, or sucking up lips over front teeth, hands made paw-like to proffer up tiny imaginary nibbles.
But the hills are not their destination, not this time, and somewhere out over the other side of the peninsula they begin to descend back down toward the coast. They park up where road dwindles to dirt track, and then no track at all, joining a silent community of other silhouetted vehicles. They get out and with a telltale whine a small drone manifests out of the blackness, its weak amber light like a dying firefly’s. It halts them to scan for whatever token of admittance Denton possesses, and satisfied, turns to light their path. But its light is not needed for long and soon, pushing through a thicket of fern and gorse, they emerge into a view of the bay, lit silver by a moon waxing gibbous. It is a tiny inlet, a smuggler’s paradise, its true name known only to the locals, but – the Bouts never in the same place twice – home this night to more life than it’s ever seen. More dying fireflies spangle the twin headlands, which close around the bay like the pincers of a monstrous crab, their gliding glimmers ushering others such as themselves, fellow pilgrims to whatever festival this is, to their journey’s end. Small boats pepper the ad hoc jetties, latched on like ticks, taxies disembarking their fares, or private conveyances between the shore and the vessels of varying size anchored further out, gathered in preparation like some patient invading force. But none of this was visible as they’d come over the hill, not even the boats. So how is it now?
“Doh no!” Barnaby, spying her perplexity, lisping and mumbling around a protruding tongue. “It-th all tho confuthing!”
“It’s the drones, yeah?” adds Grocers, more helpfully. “They do like a … thing?”
“Surveillance shield,” says Denton. “Nothing gets out.”
Like the baffles – but with sound and light instead of water and wind. A networked veil of misdirection that only the invited can part.
They trudge down toward the beach, descending in a curve toward the pebbled foreshore, which now hosts rows of one-night-only scaffolded seating, tramping across walkways bridging out from the surrounding dunes, and approach the arena, its perimeter peppered with 40-foot screens that will capture and replay the action, detailing real-time odds, providing commentary, profiles on mounts, league stats, the occasional jockey interview – this much she’s heard.
“Or if you’re very special,” Lily, whispering in her ear, “you get the bird’s eye.” And Squirrel’s own is drawn up, to the exclusive viewing eyries, precarious perches that limpet the surrounding cliffs. Had Lily actually been in one of those, when she was here? Must be some view. “Overrated, Squidge, if you ask me.” Phantom Lily pulls a face. “And spoiled by the company you’ve got to keep.”
Grocers and Barnaby slip off the moment they arrive, dispersing to work the crowd, which, judging by its assorted dress codes, is an eclectic mix, even more so than the markets – company man and commoner, patrician and pleb, rubbing shoulders and slapping backs, all tribal divisions set aside in the camaraderie of the anticipated spectacle; even, she suspects, Force too. The drone-net won’t be the only protection against intrusion. She goes to follow the two boys, but Denton holds her back, reaching around her neck to lay one shovel-like hand over her shoulder, where its thumb and forefinger begin to toy idly with a dangling lock of her hair.
“Quite something, little Squirrel, isn’t it?” he says.
He leans down till she can feel his hot, acrid breath on her ear, pointing with his other hand over to the two towers stationed at either end of the arena.
“That’s where the jockeys go, see?” She follows his squat, square forefinger as it moves from one tower-top to the other, looking up at the little cabins where tiny figures are already preparing, fidgeting, getting into their gaming mindsets, before following the supporting stanchions down to the base, where a tight perimeter of the heavily armed, tooled-up mechanical and spliced-up human, see that no one – and certainly no sneak thief – is going to get too close. “And this” – he blinkers his hands around her temples, manually tracking her gaze up to one of the view screens, at this moment featuring a mugshot of the long-time league leader, undefeated in his last 29 matches – “is your mark.”
Denton releases her head and she turns to face him.
“There’s no way I’m getting within interfacing distance of that.” She motions her head at the foot of the tower.
“Usually,” Denton muses, nodding, a tongue tip once more exploring a cheek, “I’d agree.” He stares out at the tower, and back at Squirrel. “But we’re not talking about interfaces, now, are we?”
Her inclusion in the party had seemed spontaneous, ad hoc, but as Denton lays out his plan she begins to see that he’s been mulling this over for some time – even, maybe, since that portentous day in the kitchen – and her presence near the showers as they were about to leave had simply triggered it. A little experiment, then, a test for his hypothesis – that she is indeed wasted as a petty thief.
He points to the foot of the nearest tower, where there is not just physical deterrent – he explains – but technological, the very same sort of suppression fields that cloak the bay here utilised to form a protective buffer, a dead space against electromagnetic intrusion. So even if she could have got in range, her interface wouldn’t have worked. But what if it has a similar effect on her other skills? And which, more to the point – if she even has them – she’s never yet consciously employed. What if she can’t even call them up? Could she claim she just can’t do it, that he’s mistaken about her? An excuse that may possess the virtue of actually being true.
And what is her goal, anyway? To get information from the jockey?
“Not information.” Denton shakes his head. “Distraction.”
And then it clicks: she’s there to throw the match, to hobble the champion – whom Denton will have bet against, and whose stake and winnings will now depend on her. She starts to feel physically sick.
On cue, Grocers arrives back, and in response to Denton’s raised eyebrows returns a grin and a wink – of his good eye, that is; his other an immobile, leering reminder of what happens when things don’t go as Denton would like.
A seismic thump sends a murmur through the crowd.
“Better get your game head on,” Denton says.
Tidelands is a weekly sci-fi & fantasy serial that publishes every Friday, emailed straight to your inbox. Part 1 is free to read, but you can keep up with the story by signing up for exclusive access, or buying ebook or paperback editions of the collected instalments as they appear.