Филип Керр - The Second Angel

The waitress came back with the drinks. Demea took the absinthe and sipped it silently. Rimmer tasted his brandy. It was cheap synthetic nano stuff, but that was all part of the authentic low-life experience; and anyway, he had bottles of real three-star cognac at home.

‘I have found that I prefer something classical, but upbeat, when I’m in at the death of someone,’ he said. ‘Something German, or Austrian, it goes without saying. Did you know that the German Nazis used to have orchestras in their death camps, to give people a bit of spring in their step on their way to the gas chambers? Clever people those Nazis. Music is the perfect accompaniment to violent death.’ Rimmer nodded appreciatively. ‘Schubert’s Symphony number five is a personal favorite. The allegro of course. And sometimes a little Strauss. I’ve always thought that there was something rather murderous about the Voices of Spring. And not forgetting Mozart. It’s the mathematical precision of Mozart that provides a nice counterpoint to the general mayhem of death. And what about you? Is there a piece of music you favor when you’re working?’

Demea frowned. She actually seemed to be thinking about an answer.

‘I do it because I have to do it,’ she said at last. ‘Not because I enjoy it.’

‘You disappoint me, Demea. I took you for a fellow hunter. Diana to my Nimrod.’

Demea looked at Rimmer with undisguised contempt. ‘We’ve nothing in common, you and I.’

‘People are always saying that to me. I’m beginning to feel quite distinguished.’

‘If I had half your advantages.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re a queer one, Rimmer.’

‘Oh, there I must take issue with you, Demea dear. As an embryo, I was screened for a predisposition to homosexuality. My hormone levels were corrected while I was still a fetus. I’m as heterosexual as the next man. Thanks to medical science there’s simply no excuse for anyone to be queer in this day and age.’

‘Oh yes,’ laughed Demea, ‘medical science has been so good to us.’

‘Well, I admit, medical science doesn’t have all the answers. There are still important discoveries to be made. Like finding a cure for P2. But...’

‘We already have the cure for P2,’ insisted Demea. ‘We’ve had it for years. The problem is that it’s only the people who don’t have the disease who can afford it.’

Rimmer shrugged. ‘A cheaper cure, then.’

‘That’s hardly in Terotech’s interests, is it?’

‘Oh I think you’re being a little unfair,’ he said. But she was right, of course. Cheap cures really weren’t in the company’s interests. They were bad for depositors — everyone who was healthy knew that. Class One blood was only precious because there was so little of it around. And a cheap cure was what all healthy people, not just companies like Terotechnology, feared most. You wouldn’t be able to give the stuff away if something like that happened. All the market analysts said as much. Just look what had happened to gold. Some fool had started to exploit the ocean’s vast reserves of gold, [39] At the beginning of the twenty-first century there were an estimated 500,000 tons of gold in the sea, ten times the amount of bullion held on reserve. The price of gold was around four hundred U.S. dollars per troy ounce. Today the sea contains less than 50,000 tons, and the price of gold is just over two hundred dollars. What happened to the gold market in the twenty-first century was exactly what happened to the amethyst market in the nineteenth century. A glut in supply effectively killed the price. and ended up flooding the market. After that, all the smart money moved into blood. No one wanted to see another financial crash like that.

‘Look here,’ he said, shifting tone. ‘Now that we’re on the subject of my interests, I do have a job for you. As you say, it’s just a job to you.’ Rimmer chuckled and sipped some more of his brandy. After the first throat-stripping swallow, it really wasn’t so bad. He laughed once more and added, ‘Forgive my amusement. I don’t know whether to take you seriously or not.’

Suddenly Demea was close to him, a blade held tightly in her hand. Rimmer remained cool even as she pressed the sharp point against his cheek. Demea’s smile was as cold as the weapon in her hand.

‘It would be a mistake not to take me seriously,’ she said, smoothing her unnaturally red hair with the flat of her other hand.

‘I can see that.’

Still smiling, Demea pressed the point of her dagger just a little harder, enough to make Rimmer wince.

‘Careful,’ he said. ‘You’ll cut me.’

Demea raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

‘That’s the whole idea.’

After a second she laughed derisively and returned the blade to the inside of her sleeve and said, ‘So what’s this job?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ But Rimmer’s eyes still lingered nervously on her sleeve.

‘Relax,’ she insisted. ‘You’re safe enough. For now.’

Rimmer smiled thinly, and wiped his forehead.

‘Your target is called — well, his name hardly matters, does it? It’s enough to say that he’s male, about my age, perhaps a little less handsome.’

‘That’s hardly you, is it, Rimmer?’

‘Well, that doesn’t matter. You will certainly recognize him. On account of these glasses.’ He handed her a pair of sunglasses and watched patiently as she put them on and shrugged dismissively.

‘Can’t see how these’ll help,’ she sneered.

‘Oh, you will. You see, they’re designed to view an infrared laser beam emitted at a very specific wavelength. Your target will be wearing a pin in his buttonhole that will identify him to you as clearly as if he had a blue, white, and red roundel painted on his chest. This pin.’

Through the glasses Demea saw Rimmer holding a small button-sized object that glowed like a hot coal. She nodded.

‘You see the man wearing this, you kill him. It’s really that simple.’

‘I get the picture.’ Demea removed the sunglasses and inspected them for a moment. ‘Where will I find him?’

‘He works for Terotechnology. But on no account are you to conclude his employment near the building.’

‘When you people take someone off the payroll, you really mean it, don’t you?’

‘He’s a creature of habit. Very conventional. On Friday nights he goes for a drink with a couple of the people in his department. There’s a hotel near the office called the Huxley. It’s a neomodern sort of place, and expensive.’

‘I know it. At least from the outside.’

‘Very expensive.’

‘Talking of my fee,’ said Demea.

Rimmer handed her a card. ‘There’s a Clean Bill of Health pass to get you into the Zone. Temporary, of course. Just twelve hours before it expires. It wouldn’t do to leave someone like you at large among decent healthy people for too long. Plus there’s a thousand credits there for you. Half activated for use now, the other half on completion of the job. Also, because I am a generous man, a little bonus. Seven nights at the Clostridium.’

‘That’s a hyperbaric hotel, [40] Hyperbaric oxygen is of value when blood transfusion cannot be carried out. Hyperbaric hotels have multiple luxury-grade chambers that are normally compressed with oilless medical-grade oxygen at 6 ATA (165 feet of seawater) or greater. These were originally pioneered by Jehovah’s Witnesses whose religious beliefs prevented them from accepting transfusions or any form of blood product. But with the advent of P2, such establishments arc now widespread. Guests at hyperbaric hotels breathe normally or through an oral/nasal mask. There have been anecdotal reports showing dramatic, if temporary, relief of P2 crises with hyperbaric oxygen, and the effect of the virus does appear to be markedly reduced under hyperbaric conditions. However, as yet, there has been no large-scale study to confirm its overall usefulness clinically. right?’