“You should never have left him alone, Oliver,” said the Gentleman.
Oliver Windel glared at his companion from underneath the tattered brim of his baseball cap.
“N’you nev’r shoulda brung ‘im at the firs’ place.” When he spoke his voice was deep, hoarse and raspy, as though he had something dry caught in his throat. Not like the Gentleman. The Gentleman spoke as if his words were made of silk.
“There’s really no use in arguing the point now.” The Gentleman gestured to the pelting rain. “We won’t find him in this mess, and if he’s not dead already, he will be by morning. We might as well get on to Snidel. The Magister will be in want of news.” His tone was calm, but intent.
The pair loitered on the balcony outside the derelict apartment which they had occupied for almost three wanes. One squatted close to the ground, his pale eyes searching, like an animal in a hunt. His blackened blue-jeans, worn red sneakers and old grey hood seemed to somehow fade against the filthy buildings around them so as to make it difficult to determine exactly where the city ended and Oliver began. The rain soaked through his hood, poured over the brim of his hat and streamed off the balcony toward the street far below. Close by, his companion stood poised and erect, somehow as impossibly pristine as the well manicured cane he held in one hand. After the latter spoke, his dark eyes remained fixed on the former, waiting.
“No. E’s alive. An’ close,” growled Oliver. “We stay. Till e’s foun’ or e’s dead.”
Although the Gentleman’s mustache curved in a frown, he nodded. He shifted his cane to rest on his shoulder and peered down into the darkness beyond the reach of the apartment’s balcony light. The fact that he would defer to Oliver’s expertise in this field did not need to be spoken. Oliver knew these things. Neither of them bothered to wonder how, any more. The hunt was simply what Oliver did. Still, an orphan child in Burbanc was like a piece of garbage on a trash barge. Would Oliver be up to the task?
“Down, then?” he asked Oliver, “to the streets?”
“No, Gov. Up,” came the reply. Oliver jerked his gnarled thumb over his shoulder toward the dark apartments towering over them. His brow furrowed, and he paused as though he were listening to a distant whisper. “E’s ‘fraid of the streets.” He straightened and faced the taller man. “Sa strange fing to be ‘fraid of.”
The Gentleman paused for a moment and then softly responded, “Not for him.” His eyes turned upward, toward the ominous shadow of the Jetty. It loomed high above the city, blocking out sun and sky like a monolithic parasol. Static cackled like lighting across its distant surface, briefly illuminating the cross-hatch of pockmarked, rusty beams that supported the ominous structure.
Oliver’s eyes followed the Gentleman’s gaze. “No. I s’pose not, at that,” he said. For a moment they stared, together. And then they began to climb.
. . .
Static flashed, and the boy screamed. He took haggard, sobbing gasps as the anti-ionic systems activated with a whir, once again drenching him in torrents of tainted, metallic water. The boy, Jeremy, clung desperately to the rusty stanchion and tried to get his footing. He failed, slid, and just caught himself with a tiny hand, grasping a rusty protrusion, some damage done to the edifice eras ago. The metal caught and dug, and as he struggled Jeremy felt blood running down his arm. He managed to pull himself up and wrap a tender arm through a hole in the girder. He rested his head against the grainy, orange surface and wept as he fought for breath. He had to get away. He had to get out. Desperation crowded pain to the periphery of his consciousness, and Jeremy clawed his way upward.
. . .
"I see him," said the Gentleman, peering through his compact field glasses. "He has very nearly reached the Centrifuge." The pair stood on top of the apartments, near the edge so they could view the Pillar that doubled as the structure's main support in its entirety. Construction which was structurally dependent on any part of the Jetty was technically illegal, but if the residents of the offending structures managed to seem territorial enough the Magisterium often turned a blind eye. The Gentleman could see the boy about halfway up the Pillar, almost to the platform haloed by enormous, sweeping canisters.
"How n' bloody blazes did 'e get so high so fast?" Oliver frowned upward at the darkness. "Magisterium'll 'ave 'im fer sure, n' we won't get paid." Oliver spat.
"Not likely. The Magisterium abandoned Centrifuge Seventeen years ago. Something about unsafe operating conditions. It was all very quiet, you know how the Magister likes to appear indomitable..." The Gentleman trailed off. Oliver was staring at him, intently.
"You say Seventeen?" Oliver asked.
"Well, yes, we're in Minham's Quart-" He was cut off as Oliver snatched the glasses from him and swept the darkness above them. This upset him more than he would have admitted; he had purchased the glasses to offset Oliver's naturally keen sight. Part of him felt that Oliver using them defeated their purpose. "There's no need to grab, Oliver."
"Bloody 'ell, there ain't." Oliver thrust the glasses into the Gentleman's hands and sprinted for the tower. "Come on!"
"What? I don't..." The Gentleman worked the glasses once more over the height of the Pillar. "I don't understand, what did you-?" And then he saw them. Dark shapes circling the tower as they spiraled down to alight one by one near the Centrifuge platform. From there the winged figures watched the boy's progress with ominous curiosity. "Shadowlarks," the Gentleman breathed. His heart sank in his chest and his hands suddenly felt weak.
"What're you waitin' for ya bloody pillock? Move!" shouted Oliver. "Up! Up! There's no time!"
