Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

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.”

“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.”