Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“Would you like me to wait?” Gabriel enquired, oozing salaciousness.

“We have to stay in character.”

“Nice for some. Let’s get this over with.”

“How do you want to play it?”

Gabriel stared thoughtfully out at the party. “Sucker him in here, first. Then arm-twist him into taking us to his gear cache. We’ll apply the real pressure there.”

“Is that here in the house?”

“Yes. In the basement. Quite a set-up. Our Tentimes is an ambitious lad.”

They went out through the patio door into heat, noise, and a smell of charring meat. None of the guests paid them any attention, they were all concentrating on the pool.

Somebody had rigged a pole across the water. Two naked girls were sitting astride it, facing each other; one was white with sunburnt shoulders, the second was Indian. They were whacking each other with big orange pillows. The crowd roared its approval as the white girl began to slip. She fell in slow motion, abandoning the pillow and gripping frantically at the pole, sliding inexorably towards the horizontal. A flurry of blows from the Indian girl speeding her progress, aided and abetted by wild shouts of encouragement from the side of the pool. At the last minute she let go of the pole and grabbed the Indian girl. They both shrieked as they hit the water. The white flowerbloom of spray closed over them sending up a plume which soaked some of the spectators.

Groans and cheers went up. The girls surfaced giggling and spluttering. Furious little knots of partygoers formed, passing money back and forth.

“Jenna next,” someone called.

“And Carrie.”

“Two to one on Carrie.”

“Bollocks, evens.”

“I’ll take that.”

The two new girls began to edge towards each other along the pole.

Ade O’Donal stood on the cracked ochre flagstones at the shallow end of the pool, white chef’s hat drooping miserably, a wooden spatula in his hand. According to Royan’s data squirt he was twenty-four, but his sandy hair was already in retreat, both cheeks were sinking, becoming gaunt, his skin was pasty white, reddening from too much sun. He wore an oversized azure cotton shirt speckled by sooty oil spots from the barbecue, and his loud fruit-pattern Bermuda shorts told Greg who had chosen the house’s furniture.

O’Donal grinned gormlessly round the faces of his friends as the girls poised ready. Then his eyes met Greg’s and froze.

The wooden spatula slashed downwards. “Go,” O’Donal shouted. The girls began pummelling at each other, the blows from their saturated pillows sending out clouds of sparkling droplets. Partygoers began cheering again. The blonde in the lemon swimming suit was walking round the pool filling glasses, a magnum clasped in each hand.

The Indian girl clambered out of the pool, cinnamon skin glistening, and shook her long black dreadlocks. She pressed up against O’Donal, her high conical breasts leaving damp imprints on his shirt as she kissed him. He handed her his glass, which she tossed down in one smooth gulp.

O’Donal pushed her away and walked round the pool towards Greg and Gabriel.

They retreated into the lounge. O’Donal followed.

“Are you with someone?” he asked; his voice was firm, ready to deal sternly with gatecrashers.

“We’re here to see you, Ade,” Greg said.

“This is a private party, pal. Guests only.”

“Private party. Big house. Lots of expensive friends. You’re coming up in the world, Tentimes,” Gabriel said.

O’Donal’s jaw muscles hardened. He slid the patio door shut, muting the music and catcalls. Greg sensed the cold apprehension rising in his mind. O’Donal’s eyes kept straying to the door leading to the hall.

“Sorry, Tentimes,” Greg said. “Your hard case couldn’t make it. It’s just you and us.”

“Will you quit with that handle,” O’Donal hissed edgily. “These people don’t know who I am.”

“What do they think you are?”

“Programmer on a commission to Hansworth Logic.” He brightened. “Hey, I never expected you to show in person, y’know. I mean, I don’t mind you coming, no way. I just didn’t think it was the way you worked. So what is it, you want me to run another burn?”

“You’re sweating, Tentimes,” said Gabriel. “This is all new to you, isn’t it? The high life, money, girls?”

“We’d never have guessed,” Greg said, looking pointedly round the lounge.

“Hey, look, what the fuck is this?” O’Donal demanded. “And what have you done to Brune?”

“Don’t know, didn’t stop to check,” said Greg. “What does it matter? Ace hotrod like you can afford plenty more like him.”

O’Donal’s apprehension now blossomed into outright worry. A little muscle spasm rippled across his bony shoulders.

The pillow fight outside had degenerated into a wrestling match. One girl ripped the bikini top off the other. The spectators whooped approval.

O’Donal licked his lips. “Hey, come on, who are you people?”

“We’re from Event Horizon,” said Greg.

O’Donal’s already pale face blanched still further. “Oh, shit.” He took a half step backwards, ready to turn and bolt, then stopped at the sight of the Walther eightshot in Greg’s hand.

“You’re not used to this, are you, Tentimes?” Gabriel asked with silky insistence. “A solo hotrod, your combat is all mental. Well, this time the feedback is physical. You want my advice? Play ball. Don’t annoy us. There are another seven who took part in the blitz. We’ll just work down the list until we get some co-operation.”

“I didn’t have any choice!”

“Tell us about it,” Greg suggested. “Downstairs.”

“Down? Where?”

“Your terminals,” Gabriel said.

“Shit, how…” O’Donal clamped his mouth shut as Greg flicked the Walther’s nozzle towards the door.

Out in the hall O’Donal stopped and sniffed the air, then his eyes found the smear of viscous liquid on the tiles. A small pulse of anger coloured his thoughts. “Through here,” he said, pointing dully at a recessed door.

“You open it,” Gabriel ordered. “Seeing as how it’s keyed to your palmprint. I’d hate my colleague to receive that thousand-volt charge.”

O’Donal swallowed hard, almost a gulp. As he turned to the door Greg slapped the back of his head, knocking his face against the flaking varnish. The cook’s hat fell off.

“Shit!” There was real fear in O’Donal’s voice and mind. He looked at them to plead, a bead of blood seeping out of his left nostril. “I wasn’t gonna. Honest, shit. I wouldn’t have. Shit, you’ve gotta believe me!”

“Sure,” Gabriel crooned.

Behind the hall door were fifteen steps leading down to another door made of bronze-coloured metal. It slid open at O’Donal’s voice command.

“Impressive,” Gabriel murmured.

The basement had been built as a wine cellar; the stain where the racks had been ripped out were still visible on the rough brick walls. A metal air-conditioning duct which had ensured the bottles were kept at a perfectly maintained temperature ran along the ceiling.

The basement was a hotrod’s crypt, now smelling faintly of acetone. There were five terminals sitting on a long pine table, all different makes, each hardwired with customized augmentation modules. Hundreds of memox crystals were stacked neatly on narrow oak shelving. Four big cubes clung to the wall facing the table, two on either side of a long flatscreen which was lit up like a football stadium Scoreboard, The Gracious Services circuit, detailing burns in progress, hackers on line, requests, available umpires. Greg searched, and sure enough saw Wildace’s name.

“Expensive, too,” Greg said. “According to the circuit you’ve only been solo for six months. Means you’ve been scoring pretty good, Tentimes. How do you do it?