Philippe let himself be tied. Sucre looked at Hisako for a moment, rubbing the side of his neck where she'd hit him earlier. She wondered what he was going to do. Maybe he would tie her up after all.
Sucre grabbed her right ankle, pulled her towards him a half-metre or so across the carpet. 'Su — Comrade Major — Philippe began. Sucre took hold of his ankle too. He put one nylon loop round Philippe's leg and put a fully opened restrainer round Hisako's, then passed one through the other and tightened them, leaving her and Philippe hobbled to each other.
Broekman let himself be tied up without comment. 'Comrade Major, this really is unnecessary, Mandamus said. He was sweating heavily, and a tic jigged at the side of his face. 'I am no threat to you. I am not of a shape or size to crawl through portholes or engage in other acts of derring-do, and while I may not agree with all the venceristas's methods, I am broadly on your side. Please, let me ask you to —
'Shut up or I tape your mouth too, Sucre said. He secured Mandamus, then Endo, who was already sitting quietly with his hands behind his back. He left Marie Boulard with her hands free, too.
'This was stupid, Sucre told them, when he'd finished. He put his boot under the last body left on the floor and turned it over. The vencerista taking the bodies out came back into the saloon; Sucre nodded to him, and he dragged that corpse away as well, adding another smear of blood to the patterned carpet.
Sucre looked at Hisako. 'I want to know who the blond kid was. He glanced at Bleveans, but his gaze settled back on her.
She looked down at the 8-shaped nylon bands shackling her to Philippe. 'Steve Orrick, she said.
She had to repeat the name. She explained who he'd been; the others confirmed what she said when Sucre asked. He seemed to believe them.
'OK, he told them. 'This time we good to you, OK? He looked round them, as though wanting to be contradicted. 'OK. You stay like that till we go.
'Uh, what about using the heads, Comrade Major? Bleveans asked.
Sucre looked amused. 'You just have to get help, Captain.
'We weren't being allowed into the heads with anybody else, Bleveans reminded him.
Sucre shrugged. 'Too bad.
'How much longer you going to keep us here, Comrade Major? Bleveans asked.
Sucre just smiled.
The vencerista behind the bar was counting used cartridges into a series of beer glasses. The chink chink noise formed a background like the sound of coins being dropped into a till. They were allowed to talk quietly. They'd been split into more distinct groups; the officers and passengers formed one, the remaining Moroccans and Algerians the smallest, and the Koreans the largest; the rest were lumped together into another. They could talk with people in their own group, but weren't allowed to communicate with another.
'As soon as they heard the shooting, they were talking, and some started to… rise, get up, Philippe told her, when she asked what had happened. 'They must have planned for a time before, I think. It was as if they would go then, but they did not, and the man with the machine-gun shouted at them; at all of us, but then, when the firing stopped, that was when they jump up… and run towards the gun. Philippe took a long breath, closed his eyes. She put her hand to his neck, stroked him. His eyes opened and he took her hand, smiling ruefully. 'Was not very nice. They fell. He shook his head. 'Fall everywhere. Is big machine-gun, he looked towards the bar. 'Big bullets, on… a chain. So he just shoots and shoots and shoots.
His hand clenched, almost crushing hers. She tensed her own hand.
The saloon was quiet. It was late afternoon, the heat just waning. The thick atmosphere in the lounge sat like a weight on them all. The blood-matted carpet gave off a rich, iron smell. Some people were trying to sleep, propped up against seats and couches, or lying on the floor, shifting uncomfortably, trying to move their trapped arms and ease the ache in their shoulders. Mandamus's snores sounded vaguely plaintive.
'Maybe, Philippe said, looking over at the bar, 'if we all had run en masse… Maybe we take the gun. But we did not… we did not run… together. He turned to her, and Hisako had never seen him look like he did then; younger than he was; almost boyish, and somehow lost, adrift.
She had told him more details of what had happened after the call from Mr Moriya; the rest had been given only a brief account of Orrick's vain attempt to help them. Philippe had been admiring and chiding, impressed that she had dared lash out at Sucre, but concerned for her safety; they were at the mercy of these people, after all.
She'd listened to the men talk. The feeling now was that there was nothing they could do; they would just have to wait and hope that whatever the venceristas had come here to do would soon be over with. The guerrillas had shown themselves quite able to deal with both the lone commando and the mass attack; to attempt anything now, when they were keyed up after these two incidents, would be suicidal. So they had convinced themselves, breathing the air of the Nadia's lounge, with its scent of smoke and blood. Nobody talked about the planeload of congressmen, except to say that there was probably some other reason for the venceristas to want to take over the ships.
The disturbed siestas went on into the late afternoon; sunlight made bar-shapes through the blinds behind the curtains. Gordon Janney mumbled something in what might have been his sleep; it was becoming difficult to determine when he was awake and when not, as though his brain — confused into accepting any sort of stability — was trying to average out his awareness over the whole day and night, leaving the man aground on the same dozy level of semi-consciousness all the time.
The cartridges went chink chink chink.
Philippe was talking quietly to Bleveans and Broekman. Hisako sat against a chair, trying to recall each second between the time she'd first seen Orrick that morning, and her last view of him, floating face down, body jerked by bullets, the water white around him. They had heard the grenades in here, Philippe said.
'You OK? Mrs Bleveans knelt in front of Hisako. Her face looked haggard, the last traces of make-up producing an effect worse than none at all.
Hisako nodded. 'Yes. She thought more was expected of her, but she couldn't think what else to say. Her ears still weren't right.
'You sure? The American woman said, frowning a little. Hisako thought Mrs Bleveans had never looked more human. She wanted to say that, but she couldn't.
Hisako nodded again. 'Really, yes.
Mrs Bleveans patted her leg. 'You get some rest. She moved back to her husband, then went over to Marie Boulard.
Hisako listened to the ringing in her ears and the chink chink chink noise coming from the bar, like a currency of death.
Her head nodded, jerked back up. The noises around her sounded far away and somehow hollow. She wanted to move her leg but she couldn't.
There was a stairway underneath the ship; they were led down through the vessel, past holds full of plants and gardens and huge rooms full of furniture, through another hold where hundreds of cars sat, engines droning, horns sounding, drivers leaning out of the windows and doors with big red faces, shouting and cursing and waving their fists in the air. Beneath that came a dark space full of rods and levers and strange, sickly smells. She couldn't make out who she was with, or who was leading them, but that was probably because the light was bad. She thought she was probably dreaming, but dreams were real too, and sometimes what wasn't a dream was too real; too much for reality to support, too much for her to cope with. A dream could actually be more real, and that was good enough for her.