36. Rarefied Air #2
Dylan smiled to herself. Bring that bitch on.
Then she realised she was smiling at a group of guests heartily discussing the benefits of bringing back animal farming, for the children to learn about cows.
Her insides twisted. They must have been prompted by the painting behind them.
A Scandinavian landscape, all mountain ridges and rocky outcroppings with a few shades of grassy green.
Superimposed across the whole thing was the see-through face of a beautiful cow, black and white, one eye bloodshot.
She moved in closer as if inspecting the fine detail of the painting, the smile gone from her face.
The farming lovers kept going on about how great the advances of the Veganism Act were, but that it might be time to loop back on that now.
Each step she took in their direction sent her mind reeling off further in imagining ways to torture these people.
They had a right to an opinion, but what they were talking about had been illegal for thirty years.
We’re not going back to generalised animal mistreatment and slaughter.
“Oh, look. Someone from the younger generation. What do you think, miss?” The man addressing her sounded like someone who should be wearing a top hat, though he wasn’t wearing any hat at all.
Thinking of nothing but gutting the man to see how he felt about humane slaughter then, Dylan put on her biggest smile. “What do I think of what?”
The man was older, around his fifties. A thin frame of meat, encased in a thick, double-breasted peacoat, the texture made to look like leather. Hopefully not real leather – unless these carnists literally wore their beliefs on their sleeve. Why not go the whole way with black-market cow skin?
He waved to the people holding court with him, money-fiends waiting on his every word, ready to sup from his lips any shape of truth he dispensed. “Whether or not we are better off now, since the meat purges?”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed at him. She folded her arms. “Of course we are.” Part of her wanted to get out of there, the other part wanted to punch him in the face.
“And yet…” Peacoat’s face went dour, and a single tear dropped as if on command from his eyes.
“We’re rotting inside.” His voice broke.
It sounded fake. “Our replacement supplements aren’t enough.
We’ve never gone this long without meat as a species.
” The man took a hand to his thick salt-and-pepper beard, a desperate look on his face.
His cadre of cronies mumbled in agreement.
Dylan knew this wasn’t true, but she didn’t feel like debating him. His ability to shed tears wouldn’t convince anyone with a modicum of knowledge about humanity’s struggle through its first years.
“If not for the lack of meat,” a woman interjected, almost shouting, “I wouldn’t have to spend half my day consuming various pharmacopeia!
You should see my psychopharmacologist’s bill!
” Her eye make-up was dark enough to shut out the sun.
Dylan suspected the lack of meat wasn’t the main reason this woman needed a litany of drugs to function…
“Enjoy your evening.” Her voice was a knife.
She heard them cackle as she walked away. “Veg fucker,” one said.
“What we need is for Eltarc to come back and clean these people up!” said another.
Fuck them. They weren’t even hiding their allegiances to the defunct Second Revivalists.
She recognised a few of the more famous people roaming the room, though most of the people here were comfortably beneath the threshold of fame, representatives of more famous and/or better-paid people than anyone present.
Or simply those who preferred millionaire anonymity, like Peacoat back there.
Was everyone else here secretly an Eltarc Romly fan?
She wondered about the rumours that Eltarc hadn’t died during the revolution. Surely not…
That conversation had turned her queasy.
Why didn’t she take him down verbally like she told herself she would, when the time came to debate someone attached to the old ways?
Where were her facts and statistics, the studies and the science?
She felt like a soldier sent off to war, who became a pacifist upon landing on the beach.
No belligerence, no defence. She kicked the floor in frustration, nails digging into her bare arms.
“Don’t let old Taggart bother you too much.”
Finding herself at the corner of the room, hiding among the crowd without even realising, Dylan looked up to see a woman dressed in a black A-line dress.
“Astrid Fern-Lock,” the woman said, extending a silk-gloved hand.
Fuck.
Dylan struggled to keep her mouth from hanging open too long.
Astrid’s expression was neutral, but did she already know who Dylan was?
That she was Isaak’s friend… girlfriend?
That thought opened up a whole other world of questions in Dylan’s mind and she shut it down quick.
Focus on who’s in front of you. Arm up, shake her hand. Remember your cover story.
“Jean Morgan,” she said, giving the fake identity that got her in. She dry-swallowed. “Lovely to meet you.”
When she took her hand back, she immediately didn’t know what to do with her arms. Not wanting to cross them again, she held them behind her back like a Victorian child. Appear as disarming as possible for Astrid…
“Enchantée!”
“Are you French?” Dylan asked.
Astrid took a hand to her chest. “Oh my, no, not at all. I just love the language. Full of quite excellent sayings. ‘Vouloir, c’est pouvoir.’ Much neater than ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way’.”
Did she mean something by that?
Astrid was taller than Dylan, and she stood there and stared down at her, awkwardness growing. Dylan simply smiled, resisting the almost overwhelming inclination to curtsy to this woman.
Please, just stop talking to me.
“Did Taggart bully you with one of his meat diatribes?” Astrid looked over at Peacoat, still guffawing with his gang.
“He’s a softie really. It’s all for show.
He loves playing devil’s advocate. At his home in the country he has some hundred sheep, all well cared for and not to be eaten, I assure you.
” Her face had gone serious. There was almost a desperate need to convince Dylan.
After a moment, it relaxed again. “Tell me, Ms Morgan, what brought you to my Night of Entertainment? Are you a corporate guest or” – she paused and looked Dylan up and down – “an artist?” There was judgement behind Astrid’s eyes. It made her sick.
“Work. I’m here for work, Mrs Fern-Lock.”
“Please, it’s Ms. I haven’t been married for years now. That’s a freedom you can’t afford to lose at my age.”
Dylan smiled. “And what age is that?” Zing.
The tension grew between them like rope drawn taut.
“What outfit are you with?” Astrid asked, dodging the jab.
Dylan bubbled with an anger she could just about contain. She pictured Astrid preparing the Sleeper for Isaak, kidnapping his mind into the trapworld she’d prepared. This cunt.
It took a few seconds for Astrid’s question to sink in.
“The ChainMail,” she lied.
Astrid’s face brightened and her mouth fell open. “The Kingdom’s oldest surviving tabloid? I’m in shock. I can’t believe our night would be of interest to your propaganda machine.”
Dylan pretended to be coy, her voice a shy mumble. “I’m just a freelancer, really.”
Was Astrid probing because she already knew something? Or was this really just polite conversation?
At the back of her mind, Dylan worried that the grey shapes had reported on her, or perhaps Miss Kitty had been compromised and was really watching them for Astrid.
Might they have sent information back to the Kings, or whoever they really worked for?
She had to assume so, even if she hoped she didn’t recognise her.
“Good for you.” Astrid smiled, baring her teeth. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.” With a sharp twist of her feet, she was off, having lost interest in her prey.