Chapter 19
THE DOCTOR IS IN
At this time he’d expect to see the shift change.
Nocturnal Gehirner heading to their nooks and the day shift shambling out to replace them.
A brisk trade at those places that serve coffee and food for those whose dealings have given them the extra buttons or credit to pay for it, while everyone else makes do with what their guild lays for them, drinking water and eating SLG ration bars.
It should be a quiet but industrious scene of Little Helpers doing what their makers intended.
Instead, those who hurry by do so with lowered eyes, keen not to attract attention.
There’s no casual conversation, no catching up.
Most of the kiosks are shut, and the ones that are open are operating on a not-for-profit basis because the army’s in town.
The shifting of power between the Reds and Grays has fallen on these mean streets like weather, and that breeds all kinds of trouble. And for nobody more than for Skotch.
He sees the Grays first, standing at junctions, peering suspiciously at every animal passing by, fingering their popguns.
Not actively shaking people down yet, no stop-and-search of anyone who looks like they’ve got a few buttons in their super.
But a menacing, silent presence nonetheless.
And this is the actual army, and so it shouldn’t make a difference who Skotch is, but he remembers being grabbed by them before.
Any of them could have turned mercenary for the Country Clubs, or for any of the other players.
Or maybe they just got word that Skotch is a good raccoon to have hold of, for whatever reason, and there are standing orders to snatch him if the opportunity arises.
He doesn’t need to get many searching looks from Graycoat soldiers before he starts finding alternative ways round.
And he knows these streets and the Grays don’t, so the two or three squirrels who had idly begun to trail him, they lose him fast enough.
But when you’re as big as a raccoon it can be hard to keep yourself off the army radar, and today the sons of bitches are everywhere.
And then he breaks into another street, and it’s the Reds there.
And, needless to say, their attention is mostly down the block towards the areas controlled by the Grays, and they weren’t on Szerky’s payroll, so Skotch reckons he can breathe easier for a while.
Steps out into the open, and sees how all those slightly protuberant, slightly mad-looking squirrel eyes flick to him.
And he was in their hands, and they sold him to Ratlabs.
Although given all the crap he’s gone through taking this case, he feels almost nostalgic for the hands-off approach Nimoy had to holding him prisoner.
A room lined with roach tubes seems like a nice break from the grind, honestly.
However, he doesn’t particularly want to go back.
He even sees that jingling popinjay Hansard Brass-Shirt strutting it around the place with an escort of half a dozen gun-toting Reds.
That has Skotch ducking way back into the shadows, trusting his own nocturnal heritage against the squirrels’ day-sharp eyes.
There’s quite a head of Redcoat muscle gathering up here, and he reckons that, before the day’s out, more than a few streets will have changed hands.
And this has been long in coming—almost a year of inconclusive skirmishes up top where the two armies normally have their playground.
But down here’s where a great many of the guilds are, which means richer pickings for the armies in terms of screwing protection out of them.
It was inevitable the war would come down from the treetops soon enough.
Skotch starts dodging eyes again. What should have been a quick commute to Unterroot 93 is turning into a whole lacework of skips and diversions, dodging in and out of different guilds’ territories, retracing his steps.
He has a feeling of running out the clock.
Technically, nothing should have changed since he put in that call from Uwe’s.
The only difference is inside him, where a decision’s been made.
But it feels like the whole world was eavesdropping and has adjusted its plans accordingly.
He’s going to be too late. He can feel it.
One time, he gets stopped completely. There’s a whole parcel of Reds moving through a choke point, and plenty of eyes and guns out in case the Grays try to take the opportunity.
They’ve got a handful of motorised trolleys that are supposed to belong to some guild or other to transport parts or materiel.
Now they’re transporting the army’s rations and what looks like a big version of the popguns, barrel jutting up at forty-five degrees and a fantastical array of clockwork at the friendly end so the internal mechanisms can be tensioned with as much mechanical advantage as possible.
Skotch is willing to bet that, if he got close and looked over it, he’d see a Ratlabs logo somewhere.
So the Reds have artillery, and they’re going to use it to clear the Grays out of somewhere. And, doubtless, cause a lot of damage and disruption that’ll make it hard for the actual working Gehirner to do the job that their combined existence depends on.
“That’s the army for you,” says a voice at his elbow. “Screwing up everything for everyone.”
A familiar voice. Not a particularly welcome one. He looks down at the pointed face of Eddi, the gangster rat. There’s a beat where Skotch is fully expecting the cold jab of a spiker in his side, but Eddi just leans on a root and watches the parade philosophically.
“Gonna be a week before this district picks itself up,” the rat says.
“Poor you, having to wait that long before you can start with the extortion and the beat-downs,” Skotch commiserates.
Eddi sighs. “You think we’re the bad guys.”
The Reds are still marching through, so it’s either go the very long way round or stay here chewing the fat with Eddi.
“I mean I did get that impression,” Skotch says.
“Partly from the general point that you and your Mother are crooks scalping off the working Gehirner, and partly from the bit where you grabbed me and hustled me down to your den to show me your murder-kitty. Whom I have had several run-ins with since.”
“She’s a darling,” says Eddi, with enough admiration in his voice that he’s halfway to joining the Kit Kat Cult himself. “You look down on us,” he adds. “Cos we’re rats.”
“I do not. Some of my best friends are rats. I have a problem with you cos you’re crooks.”
“And these boys are better.” Eddi jabs him and Skotch jumps, but it’s just a sharp little rat finger, not a weapon.
“These armies, they’re just gangs from up where there’s sky and space for them to get big.
A hundred squirrels gives them a seat at the respectable end of the table, does it?
And a dozen rats trying to make a living means we’re eating scraps at the bad end? ”
Skotch watches another trolley grind through the gap. This one has armour plates bolted to it, and Brass-Shirt and a couple of other decorated squirrels are riding up top, waving to the troops.
“Maybe you’ve got a point,” he admits. He’s ratcheting up the tension inside because the Redcoat rearguard is passing through now, and after that it’s his window to crash out of this conversation and run the last leg of the way to home.
“So what happens now, Eddi? Because I don’t have time to go pay respects to your Mother right now. ”
Eddi sighs. It’s such an unexpected sound Skotch forgets to be tense, just looks down at him. The rat’s looking up, head cocked, oddly sincere.
“We ain’t the bad guys, Herr Washbear,” Eddi says.
“Ain’t saying we’re the good guys, but we look after our own.
We’re the bottom of the pile. You never tried living like a rat.
You don’t know what it’s like. We got to stick together.
World’s like a foot pressing down on us, so we got to push back all the time just to keep the space we’ve got in it.
Two maus, Bandit. That’s the gelt on us.
You could kill me now, pay two maus to Mother, she’s supposed to just grin and say thank you very much.
Two maus, and that’s twice as much as you’d have to pay for that doctor you’re after. ”
“I heard the sob story the first time you kidnapped me,” Skotch growls.
“Yeah? Any of it go into that head of yours? Or you just told yourself, bad rats and didn’t give it another thought.” Eddi makes a disgusted sound. “So what happens now? You go your ways, Bandit. That’s what happens.”
“You’re telling me you’re not here with some message from Murnau?” Skotch demands.
“Everything ain’t about you,” Eddi tells him, and then the rat’s walking off. If he’d had pockets he’d have his hands in them, but as it is, he’s just a rat, and so he’s on all fours, back hunched against Skotch’s gaze as he vanishes into the low and dark places of the world.
The corpse of Fitch has long since been cleared away, of course. But there’s still a faint whiff of death on the air when Skotch gets back to his nook at Unterroot 93. The reminder that the space recently contained a dead raccoon and, that cadaver hauled away, there’s space for another.