Peter Hamilton - A Quantum Murder

He let go of the trigger, and Sutton collapsed into a bucking heap. To his left he saw Frankie Owen making a grab for Eleanor, his normally sulky face snarled up in an expression of wrath. A flick knife gleamed as it slid out of his fist. Eleanor was blocking the stunshot's line of fire.

A narrow line of damp air in front of Greg suddenly fluoresced a vivid green. Raindrops scintillated with an uncanny beauty as they fell through it. Laser. He was being shot at! Overstressed nerves jerked him backwards. He nearly lost his footing on the gravel as he dropped below the level of the EMC Ranger. He fought to regain balance. Judging by the angle of the beam, it was coming from the tangerine grove on the other side of the barn.

The beam swept along the farmhouse's stonework, across the door, towards the two figures thrashing about. It was too broad to be a rifle targeting-laser. Wrong colour, anyway.

Realization struck like a spike of ice directly into his spine. The paradigm imprinter. MacLennan himself was out there, trying to zombie Eleanor.

"Down!" he screamed, and launched himself at the wrestling figures just as they broke apart. Eleanor was staggering backwards. Green light stroked her torso. He caught her round the waist in a tackle which sent both of them crashing to the ground. Eleanor yelped in shock and pain as they hit the gravel. Somehow he managed to hold on to the stunshot; 'ware modules jabbed painfully into his side. Up above, the laser slashed furiously from side to side, producing a canopy of lurid green radiation between the EMC Ranger and the house, flecked with twinkling jade raindrops.

Frankie Owen groaned, his thought currents disfigured by supreme agony. Greg glanced up to see him curled up on the gravel just in front of them, hands clutching his groin, nursing crushed testicles. A mushy spurt of vomit sputtered out of his open mouth. His face was corpse white, eyes red and wet.

Eleanor did that to him. Greg felt a crazy edge of glee. My Eleanor.

Out on the brink of his espersense those remaining three joyless minds were congregating. Scattered thoughts refocusing on him.

"Are you all right?" he hissed.

"My arm's numb. Why did you pull me down?"

"Look up, that's the paradigm imprint laser."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Let's see if we can get inside."

He rolled over and rose to a crouch. Foster, Hepburn, and Kellam were moving apart again, fanning out around the EMC Ranger. It was four metres to the door, the laser painted a sharp green line two-thirds of the way up.

"I'll go first," he told her. "Start moving as soon as I reach it."

"Right."

He tensed his legs, then he was up and running. Fingers reaching for the brass bulb handle. The polished metal was slick in his palm. Turning slowly. His shoulder thudded into the wood, and he was through, skating on the hall tiles.

Eleanor was racing past him less than a second later. He shoved the door shut with a burst of frantic strength. There was a quiet whine as the lock engaged. He aimed the stunshot at it, and fired. The plastic covering melted with a flash of orange flame, droplets spraying out. The 'ware circuits inside flared briefly, sparks fountained, dying embers skittering over the cold tiles.

Someone outside smacked into the door. He saw it quiver in the frame. There was the sound of a fist hammering on the panels.

"Mandel." It was Les Hepburn's voice, but toneless, that same clipped precision Bursken used. "Come out, Mandel. You shall not escape the Lord's justice."

"Fuck off!" He grabbed Eleanor's hand. "Come on, they'll be inside in a minute." There was no light in the hall. He felt round for the photon amp band hooked on his shoulder tab, and slapped it into place. The time display and guido coordinates gleamed brightly. Walls, floor, and furniture shimmered out of nowhere, solidifying into their familiar places. He bled in the infrared. The photon amp's grey and blue world tinted into red, becoming fractionally brighter, losing some definition.

"I'll call the police," Eleanor said.

"No way," he said, leading her down to the study. "People like Keith Willet aren't going to be able to cope with a bunch of Liam Burskens, even if they believed us. In any case it would take them too long to get here."

"Greg! We need help." She was battling panic.

"I know!" He switched on the communication 'ware, and pulled his skull helmet into place. "Emergency."

"What is it, boy?" Philip Evans asked.

"We've been ambushed at the farm. MacLennan is here with five people he's loaded with Bursken's paradigm. And this time it's me they're after."

"Shit, boy; you all right?"

"For now. We need help and fast."

"I'm launching the security crash team now. They'll be there in ten minutes."

Greg opened the study door. The room was supposed to be his den, but he still hadn't got it sorted out. There was a big desk over by the window, a settee, long planks were leaning against a wall, destined to be shelves when he got round to screwing them together. The floor was cluttered with kelpboard boxes full of his accumulated junk. He could just make out the Berrybut estate through the window, pinprick glints of light from the chalets; the rain must have extinguished the bonfire hours ago, the photon amp's infrared function couldn't even pick up the dying cinders.

"Philip's launching the Event Horizon crash team," he told Eleanor.

"Right. Why are we in here?"

A dark human silhouette moved across the window, eclipsing the chalets. The head glowed brightly in grades of red, hot blood highlighting the cheeks and nose; eyes were cooler, darker. It contained the familiar thought currents of Liam Bursken.

"Shush." He gripped her hand tighter. Even with the infrared's ambiguous slant, he could recognize the features of the face pressed to the glass. Brendan Talbot, an engineer who lived in Hambleton.

Christ, how many people had MacLennan loaded the paradigm into?

Greg's free hand closed around the stock of the Heckler and Koch rifle lying on the desk. A real weapon.

Ronnie Kay appeared next to Brendan Talbot, and hurled a brick straight through the study window. Eleanor yelled in fright. A torch shone into the room with the force of a solar flare.

The photon amp filters responded immediately, reducing the glare until it was a manageable corona. Greg could see Talbot, his hand reaching through the jagged hole in the glass, scrabbling round for the catch.

"Face your judgement, Mandel," Kay shouted. "Embrace us. We will deliver you from sin."

Greg levelled the rifle at Talbot. And couldn't pull the trigger. It wasn't Talbot, only his body. Brendan had a wife, a six-year-old daughter.

"Shit!" he roared. In his army days it wouldn't have made any difference. None. See a hostile and snuff them. Nothing else had ever been allowed to interfere with that maxim. It was simple survival. Life was so fucking easy in those days. Uncomplicated.

Brendan Talbot's fingers closed around the catch.

Greg yanked the stunshot round, strap cutting into his shoulder. Aim and fire. The pulse hit the glass, and splattered, minute static tendrils writhing across the oblong pane. "Shit shit shit." Aim and fire. This time the pulse struck Talbot's hand. There was a muffled grunt, and he was flailing backwards. His wrist caught the spikes of glass around the edge of the hole, skin tearing. There was a confused splash of heat.

The torch beam wavered about as Kay tried to catch him.

"Let's go," Greg said.

Runnels of Talbot's blood were seeping down the window below the hole, glowing like radioactive sludge.

"What's happening now, boy?" Philip asked anxiously.

"Trouble. Where's the crash team?"

"They're getting into the tilt-fan now."

"Jesus!"

Eleanor gave him a frightened glance as they charged back into the hall.