The Mandel Files (131 page)

“Best you can do?” Chad asked.

“Yeah.”

“Too bad.”

“That’s why I always bring my little friend along,” Greg said, nodding at a point behind Chad.

Screams broke out in the well. People were pushing and shoving as they raced past the end of the corridor, terror in their faces. Display stands went crashing to the ground. One of the barrows was overturned, oranges and nectarines tumbling about across the tiled floor.

The beast was about the size of a lion, jet black, covered in an ice-smooth exoskeleton. Talons made skittering noises against the tiles as it padded round the corner into the corridor. Its head was a streamlined nightmare, eyes buried in deep recesses, razor fins on its crown, tapering reptilian muzzle.

Chad gaped at it, frozen in disbelief.

“Shit almighty,” Suzi squawked in panic.

Leol Reiger stumbled a step backwards, his pale face shocked. The beast screeched, a metallic keen that threatened to shatter glass. Chad threw his hands over his ears, yelling in fright. The sound cut off.

“Kill,” Greg said.

“No!” Chad wailed. He turned to run.

The beast leapt, forelimbs catching Chad’s left shoulder, extended talons slashing. Blood squirted. Chad was flung into the walkway’s handrail. He screamed at the pain as his mangled arm took the full weight of the impact. Tears squeezed out of his eyes. He doubled over, clamping his right hand over his left shoulder, blood bubbled through his fingers, staining his sleeve.

“Jesus Christ, call the fucker off.”

Leol Reiger went for his weapon, hand fumbling inside his suit jacket. Malcolm Ramkartra’s arm moved with a smooth fast piston motion, as if his body was working in accelerated time; his Tokarev pistol pressed against Leol Reiger’s neck.. “Don’t,” he whispered happily.

The beast turned, head swinging round to focus on Chad. Its long muzzle snapped shut with a crack like a rifle.

Chad whimpered, cowering, staggering backwards. “Please God, don’t let it.”

He was bowled over by the beast, his head smacking on to the tiles. The beast’s powerful muzzle opened centimetres from his face, and it let out a long undulating howl. A narrow gap in the exoskeleton between its hindlegs split open, grotesque genitalia arose.

Chad’s mouth shrieked soundlessly, and—

—reality flickered—

—and he puked.

There was no beast, no blood, no shredded arm. Chad was curled up on the floor, hands wrapped round his head, sobbing quietly. The stench of vomit and piss curled the air.

Leol Reiger was staring down at him an amazement. “What the fuck—” Amber eyes jerked up to fix Greg, betraying the wild flames of consternation that were burning in the mind.

“No expense spared, eh, Leol?” Suzi said. “You always have the best on your squad.”

“Take him away,” Greg told Leol Reiger in a dead voice. “And don’t come back.”

“Shit on you,” Leol Reiger spat. He kicked Chad. “Up, you useless bastard. Get up.”

Chad dropped his hands from his face, blinking tears from his eyes. He looked round in lost confusion. Saw Greg and flinched.

“Get up.”

Chad grasped the walkway rail, breathing heavily, and hauled himself to his feet.

Greg could feel the first twinges of the neurohormone hangover scratching away behind his temple. With the effusion level he’d used they would soon accelerate into stabs of white-hot lightning crackling round the inside of his skull.

“Bugger, but I hate eidolonics,” he muttered.

Leol Reiger and Chad turned the corner out into the well, Chad reeling like a drunk. Several shoppers watched their progress.

“I never knew you could do that,” Suzi said.

Malcolm Ramkartra was looking at him with a studied expression, respectful, and more than a little disconcerted.

“Oh yeah,” Greg said. “But it costs.”

Each of the observers had become a whirlpool of excitement. One of them began to follow Leol Reiger.

“Who was that?” he asked Suzi.

“Leol fucking Reiger, real bundle of fun. Likes to think he’s a premier-grade tekmerc, but he’s just a jumped up hardliner with an attitude problem.”

“I thought the two of you were trying to out-cool each other to death.”

Suzi’s face hardened. “Listen, he might be a prize prick, but if he’s in on this deal there’s serious trouble brewing.”

“Yeah, he’s not working with the observers for a start.”

“Oh, bollocks. A third group involved.” She sucked in air, letting it whistle through her teeth. “Greg, I don’t like this.”

“Tell you, me neither.”

Leol Reiger and Chad sank out of his perception range. They had taken one of the glass cage lifts down the side of the well.

“What now?” Suzi asked.

“I still want to talk to one of those observers. But first I think we’d better make use of the small lead we’ve got.”

“Are you going to warn Baronski?” Malcolm Ramkartra asked.

Greg thought for a moment. Leol Reiger’s mind had been screaming for vengeance as he disappeared. “No. Reiger has gone to regroup, that’s all. We’ve got a small breathing space. Baronski isn’t our concern, if we try and safeguard him, Reiger will come after us, and I don’t know what he’s loaded with.” He gave Suzi an enquiring glance.

“God knows,” she said. “But he won’t be travelling lightweight. He’ll have hardline backup, and he’ll have made sure it’s enough to get him into Baronski’s apartment.”

“So scratch Baronski, maybe the observers will protect him when they see Reiger coming back. Then, maybe not. Our advantage is we know about Whitehurst, let’s exploit that.” Greg pulled his cybofax from his top pocket, and give it Julia’s number. He squinted at the screen when she came on; she was sitting in the back seat of her Rolls. The real Julia. “How were the speeches?”

“Boring, I’ll trade places with you next time.”

“Deal. Listen, are you up to date?”

“Yes, her name’s Charlotte Fielder, and you’re going to see Baronski.”

“Seen him. Trouble is, there’s one very pissed off tekmerc here called Leol Reiger who wants to see him as well.”

“Do you need assistance?”

“No, he’s gone now. But Baronski is being watched, and not by Reiger. That means at least two other groups are on the same trail we are.”

“Dear Lord. Who, Greg?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell us.”

Julia sucked her lower lip in concern. “No, sorry. I’ll get my team on it.”

“You do that. But at least we’ve got a lead on Fielder from Baronski. He told us that she’s gone off with someone called Jason Whitehurst, a trader. Do you know him?”

“Jason? Yes, I know him, I even do business with him. He places some of my gear in Africa and the Far East; he runs some complex exchange deals, but he’s reliable. I’ve met him at a few functions... Quite a nice old boy. You’d get on well with him, Greg, he’s ex-miitary.”

“No messing? Well, that boy who left the El Harhari with Charlotte Fielder was Jason Whitehurst’s son, Fabian; so she’s definitely with Whitehurst. The thing is, Baronski can’t contact her. Apparently Whitehurst lives in an airship, and he’s not answering calls. I need its co-ordinates.”

“Jason’s son?” Julia asked.

Greg picked up on the puzzlement in her voice. “Yeah.”

“I don’t think so, Greg, Jason’s gay.”

“Christ,” Suzi muttered. “You said it, Greg, that old fart Baronski cheated you. How about we go back and find out who the kid really is?”

The neurohormone hangover was beginning to bite. He tried to concentrate. “Irrelevant; Charlotte left with that boy, and Baronski believed he was Jason Whitehurst’s son. So whatever this Fabian character really is, he and Jason are operating together. And Jason is definitely plugged in somewhere down the line; why else did he pull his vanishing act? Julia, assemble a full profile on Jason Whitehurst for us, and find out where the bloody hell that airship is.”

“OK, it’s already underway.”

“Fine, call me back when you have something.” He tucked the cybofax back into his top pocket. “Right, let’s go and lift one of those observers.”

“I wonder who’s paying Leol?” Suzi asked as they walked towards the well.

“One at a time, Suzi, please.”

CHAPTER 13

“Haunted?” Fabian’s eyes widened in delight. “How can an asteroid be haunted?”

“I’ve no idea; it was only a rumour,” Charlotte replied idly. She hugged one of the den’s cushions. It was fun doing it on the cushions, there were lots of combinations they could be used in, imagination and gravity the only limits. None of her usual patrons could have coped with her inventiveness; even with their expensive clinic treatments joints creaked, muscles soon tired. But Fabian was more than capable, and becoming increasingly proficient under her tutelage. “How does anywhere get to be haunted?”

It was gloomy in the den, Fabian had turned the biolums off, leaving just the light from the fish tanks and the flat-screens to illuminate them. A black and white videoke scene they had recorded earlier was playing on the biggest flatscreen, showing Charlotte going through one of Charlie Chaplin’s slapstick routines. Fabian had stolen a dinner jacket and trousers from his father’s wardrobe for her to wear. They were baggy enough to complete the ‘little tramp’ image, but even after five goes she couldn’t get the movements quite right. The holographic exoskeleton which choreographed her limb movements was inordinately difficult to follow. She was beginning to respect just how gymnastic Chaplin must have been.

“If something really terrible happens to a chap, like a murder or something, then his spirit is so heavy with grief that it lingers,” Fabian said. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

“Hmm, don’t think there have been any murders in New London yet. They used to say that shooting stars were the souls of emperors ascending to heaven; perhaps they all migrated into the asteroid.”

Fabian giggled. “Napoleon, Caesar, and Queen Victoria all spooking up the habitation cavern together, they’d have a right old time.”

Charlotte counted that observation as quite a victory. The Fabian who’d leered at her during the Newfields ball would have launched into a lecture about how shooting stars were actually meteorites breaking apart in the atmosphere as they were coming down. So, stupid, how could they be spirits going up?

She wanted Fabian on her side, not that she had any choice when it came to allies. However, she did have some considerable advantages. He was a fifteen-year-old sex maniac, and completely in love with her. On top of that, he was fascinated with space. And she could satisfy each desire. Got him by the heart, balls, and mind. Poor old Fabian.

“Queen Victoria?” Charlotte enquired.

“Absolutely, she was empress over the biggest empire there ever was.”

“Oh, yes. I think we’d better scrap that idea, then. She would be pretty distinctive even as a ghost. The Celestials couldn’t mistake her.”

“Celestials?” Fabian rolled over onto his belly, resting his chin on his hands. He flipped his hair aside. “Who’s that? Go on, tell me. You know you will.”

“All right. But you’re not to tell anyone else. No showing off to your party friends that you know something they don’t.”

“Promise. Really, Charlotte, I do.”

“All right. The Celestial Apostles are a group of about two hundred people who live up in New London without official clearance.”

“You mean like tekmercs?”

“No, not at all like tekmercs. Their name is a bit of a cover-all for all the illegals up there these days. But the original Celestial Apostles were founded as a religious community. From what I could understand they’re waiting for something like the Second Coming.”

“Why can’t they wait for it on Earth?”

“Revelation, chapter four, verse one: there is a door which opens into Heaven—presumably New London.”

“Oh, crikey!” Fabian whined in disgust. “All the religious nuts always quote Revelation to back up their visions. It’s pure junk, just like Nostradamus. You can read anything you want into it if you’re stupid enough.”

“I know. Convenient, isn’t it?” She flashed him a bright smile. “Anyway, chapter four goes on to say: “Come up hither, and I will show thee things which must be hereafter.” Which is why the Celestials chose to stay in New London, because that’s where they’ll see whatever it is that’s coming. It does have a kind of internal logic.”

“I suppose so.”

“What started off as a fringe religious movement attracted more people when they realized it was possible to stay up there without Event Horizon’s permission; the idealists who really believe in space, the old High Frontier dream. Construction workers mainly, ones whose contract with Event Horizon ran out after the main section of the colony was finished. A whole host of oddballs threw in with them, from research professors right down to maintenance engineers who’d been fired for negligence. All of them determined not to be flung out of what they see as the human race’s greatest hope. So the Celestial Apostles preach two kinds of salvation now. Both wings of the movement expect New London to be a fulcrum in human events. I think they may be right, too, the technological Celestials. There are another four asteroid-capture missions in progress; it’s the way the future’s going. One day there could be hundreds of inhabited asteroids in orbit around Earth, and think how that kind of industrial capacity would boost the global economy.”

“But how could these Celestials stay up there if their contracts ran out? I thought only active workers were allowed to live in New London.”

“How would you find them, Fabian? There are fifteen thousand people living and working in New London, plus another four or five thousand tourists at any one time. How can you spot two hundred illegals in that crowd? Especially as there’s only about seventy police officers, with maybe twice that many Event Horizon security staff. It would be a fulltime job for the lot of them. And the Celestials hide good, Fabian. New London’s habitat chamber, Hyde Cavern, has a surface area of twenty-three square kilometres, then there’s the tunnels, hundreds of kilometres of them, and natural caves, fissures in the rock that Event Horizon has never mapped out.”

Fabian’s expression was remote, junky eyes gazing at her. “They live in caves?”