“Aren’t you afraid you’re liable to get fired?” Rosenthal prompted.
The other woman let out a derisive sniff. “From this job? Yeah, that’d be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?” She shrugged indifferently. “I can get this kind of work anywhere. Besides, this isn’t the profession I’m trained for—but you already know that, don’t you. Well, you know what teachers get paid these days? I only do this to pick up some extra money.”
Lopé offered encouragement. “Maybe we can send some more your way.” He looked around them and screwed up his face. “More than you take out of this place, anyhow.”
Hazelton’s demeanor improved somewhat. “You won’t call the blue and two?”
“For what?” The sergeant smiled amenably. “Running from a job interview?”
“What about conspiracy to commit murder?”
He shrugged. “Plenty of people have tried to kill me. They failed. You failed. So did he. No hard feelings.”
Her expression said that she was uncertain whether to believe him or not. “All right. I’ll give you the information you need to know. In return… in return, we skip opposite. Go our separate ways.”
Need to know? Not, “want to know.” Though he found the turn of phrase puzzling, Lopé saw no reason to press for an explanation—at least, not now. For the moment, he was satisfied that the woman was ready to talk. If nothing else, she seemed thoroughly resigned.
Having established that there was no other way out of the dressing room, he and Rosenthal stood back and watched as Hazelton, confirming that “modesty” wasn’t a word in her personal dictionary, used a moist chemical wipe to sweep away the luminous body paint. Donning clothes that were the antithesis of flashy, she took a deep breath and headed for the door behind them.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I know a place around the corner where we can talk quietly. Fish and chips, twenty-four seven.”
“Real fish?” Lopé was intrigued. “Real chips?”
Hazelton made a face. “If I could afford luxury goods on a teacher’s salary, I wouldn’t be working in this hole.”
Rosenthal’s expression was sympathetic. Her words were otherwise. “If you try to run, I’ll not break your other leg.”
Hazelton didn’t respond, leading them out a back door. They found themselves in a substreet alley. Narrow, constricted, the dark serviceway was the concrete equivalent of a bad sore throat. It stank of disinfectant and mutant rat urine. Discarded objects that would have sent the parents of Hazelton’s middle school students fleeing in disgust littered the uneven black pavement underfoot. Dim lights and a few desultory stripes of photoactive paint provided just enough light for Lopé and Rosenthal to see things they would have preferred not to see.
One more reason, he told himself, for leaving this world behind. Humanity had made too much of its world a toilet.
Lights and sounds appeared ahead as they neared the street. Poured concrete stairs bordered by ancient cast-iron railings were visible leading upward. Letting out a curse, Hazelton halted. Bending her right leg up behind her, she leaned against a wall as she tussled with a black faux leather boot.
“Need help?” An impatient Rosenthal took a step toward the struggling woman.
“No, I’m okay, thanks.” Pausing in mid-effort, Hazelton smiled at the two security officers. It was a strange smile to flash in that dim, dingy concrete crevice, Lopé thought. Almost beatific. The teacher-stripper looked at him, then at Rosenthal.
“I did my best,” she said. “The Prophet knows I did my best. It’s not such a bad thing to finish this way.” Her eyelids flickered. “I can’t stop the departure of the Covenant. Others may. It won’t matter to me. It won’t matter to you. You’re going to die somewhere out there. It’s inevitable. The Prophet knows. The Prophet speaks but not enough listen. They will, they will.
“Oh-tee-bee-dee.” Her hand slid down her raised boot, toward the heel.
Eyes widening, Lopé grabbed a baffled Rosenthal and all but threw her toward the stairway as he yelled.
“NAPOULE!”
A second later middle school teacher Glynis Hazelton, her face alight with the expression of an ascending angel, twisted the heel of her right boot. There was a whoom as the footwear ignited. Like a fiery genie freed from its lamp, a ball of orange flame shot upward. It scorched black the walls on both sides of the alley.
Just behind Rosenthal, Lopé felt the heat on the back of his neck and head, saw the glare through his closed eyelids. The flare was intense but over quickly. There was nothing in the alley that would burn. Nothing but a few scraps of grimy discarded plastic and other soiled materials, and three human beings.
Two of them rose shakily to their feet to regard what was left of the third. Most of Hazelton’s flesh was gone, leaving only a kneeling, flaming skeleton to stand out starkly against the dark narrow background. After a minute the bones began to crumble.
Lopé looked at Rosenthal. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The private checked herself, nodded. “Thanks. For saving my life.”
“Forget it. Time’s running down and I didn’t want to have to go through the interview process all over again.” Turning, he looked toward the top of the stairway. Having been close enough to hear the explosion or see the resultant glare, a few pedestrians on the street had gathered to peer down into the alley. No one inquired if Lopé and Rosenthal were all right.
Climbing back to the street, the two members of the Covenant’s security team soon lost themselves in the evening crowds.
“What was all that about a ‘prophet’ she was on about?” Rosenthal asked.
“Don’t know—yet.” Lopé was thinking hard. “This makes me wonder if the attempts to stop the Covenant mission have nothing to do with the corporate merger, and a lot to do with something outside the company. Outside, but making use of people who are inside.”
He looked around as ordinary people struggled to enjoy themselves in the city’s increasingly shabby entertainment district, fighting to survive on air that at times was barely breathable.
“Any ideas?” Rosenthal asked.
“You already singled it out.” Lopé’s tone was thoughtful. “We need to find ourselves a ‘prophet.’”
She eyed him uncertainly. “But a prophet of what?”
“Doom and gloom. The Covenant’s failure,” he told her. “Our deaths.” He gestured back the way they had come. “We’re all going to die ‘out there,’ she said. This ‘prophet’ says it’s inevitable. Yet if the Covenant mission is stopped, we don’t die out there, so it’s not inevitable. Kind of a confusing prophecy, I’d say.”
Her bemusement matched his. “And what the hell is ‘oh-tee-bee-dee’?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “If it’s Chinese, then the company might be right in their suspicions. Although nobody said anything to me about a ‘prophet’ before now.” Seeing that she still didn’t understand, he explained. “The leading theory is that Jutou might be behind it all.”
Her gaze narrowed. “The Jutou Combine?” When he nodded, she turned thoughtful. “I’ve had a couple of experiences with corporate warfare. Company agents will fight for an employer, and even die for them if the matter is serious enough—and so’s the pay.” She shook her head dubiously. “But this is the first time I’ve ever heard of one committing suicide.”
“Same here,” he said. “Doesn’t add up.”
They were walking briskly, and pedestrians parted before them, happy, alert, intent on having a nice evening out no matter what came their way.
They were no closer than they had been before they located Glynis Hazelton. If anything, there was more confusion, and his head hurt. The ship would be leaving soon and he didn’t have time for nonsense.
“As a rule, corporate professionals don’t kill themselves,” Rosenthal said as they walked. “Fanatics do, for a cause.”
“In that case we’ve got two things that fit together,” he concurred. “‘Fanatic’ and ‘prophet.’”
/> “How does that tie into the Jutou Combine?” she wanted to know. “From what I know about them—which admittedly isn’t a lot—they’re strictly about business. Not fanaticism.”
He nodded agreement. “Fanatics make poor businessmen. The triad running the Combine may be ruthless, but that’s a very different motivation. And I never heard of anyone involved with Jutou referred to as a prophet. I’m starting to think that Weyland-Yutani is looking for the wrong people in the wrong places.”
“So,” Rosenthal prompted him, “who or what do we look for now?”
“I don’t know.” Lopé turned a corner. They weren’t that far from Piccadilly, and he suddenly felt the need to drown himself in the lights of the buildings and the laughter of young people.
“But I know someone who might.”
XVIII
“You found the woman?”
Bevridge looked over at Lopé and his subordinate. To their left stood the antiquated Houses of Parliament, barely visible through the morning smog and gunk that hung over the city. Once open to vehicular traffic, the bridge on which the three of them now stood had long ago been converted to a pedestrian thoroughfare. It was a popular place for Londoners to catch some comparatively fresh air, as the movement of the water below tended to stir the clinging atmosphere. The trade-off was that one had to endure the occasional stink that ascended from the polluted Thames itself.
Boats and small watercraft still plied the waterway, but vantage points on land were fewer since the early roadways that had once paralleled the river had been overcome by the ever-rising barriers necessary to keep the ocean from inundating the city during high tides. Like everyone else on the bridge, the security officers that patrolled its length were dressed in civilian attire. Afraid that even his well-screened office might no longer be safe from the attention of the fanatics trying to halt the Covenant mission, the security chief had suggested they meet on the open expanse.
With the three of them surrounded by a moving, shifting mob of locals and tourists, it would be difficult even for a directional pickup to isolate their voices, especially since they conducted the conversation while facing the river.
“We did,” Lopé replied. His eyes burned slightly from the effects of whatever chemical effluvia was presently rising from below. He longed for the untrammeled sterility of the space vessel, and the presumed pristine orb that was Origae-6. “Her name was Glynis Hazelton. Schoolteacher, crew applicant, part-time stripper, full-time fanatic.”
Bevridge was impressed. “How the hell did you track her down?”
Lopé’s attention was drawn to an interesting houseboat that was part sailing craft, part hydrofoil. “Being Covenant chief of security, I have access to the world personnel database. Let’s just say, there are assets that aren’t commonly available to private corporations or even municipal police forces.” Beside him, a studious Rosenthal said nothing.
Bevridge let out a grunt and glanced behind them. Not that he expected to see anyone, but in an age of sophisticated surveillance, there remained no substitute for a good pair of eyes. As near as he could tell, they were not being watched.
“Okay, old man. So you found her,” he said. “What else did you find, besides her identity.”
Lopé nodded. Even with the stench, it was nice to be out on the bridge in the early morning, leaning on the stonework and gazing out at the old river. Nearby, the permanent holo of Big Ben chimed the hour, the original clock having been destroyed in a terrorist attack more than half a century ago.
“What she told us goes a way toward confirming what I’ve thought all along—that whoever is behind everything from the attempt to sabotage the Covenant’s cargo bay is trying to make us think it’s an internal problem. Or at worst, corporate warfare.”
Bevridge pursed his lips. “I recall from the woman’s application and interview attempt that she held valid Yutani identification.”
“Checked that myself.” Lopé nudged a chipped piece of stone off the top of the railing and watched as it tumbled into the murky water below. The stonework, like the rest of London, was crumbling. “Old credentials modified for her use. The original holder died a few years ago.”
“Did she ever mention the Jutou Combine?”
“No. Never mentioned any specific organization. She did go on, briefly, about an unnamed ‘prophet.’”
Bevridge frowned. “So then, not Jutou?”
“Not necessarily,” the sergeant replied. “Still can’t rule out them having a hand in all this. I was hoping you might be able to help fill in some of the gaps.”
“She didn’t give a name?” Bevridge pressed. “Just ‘prophet’?”
Rosenthal spoke up. “She said that if ‘we went out there,’ by which she referred to the Covenant mission, that we were all going to die. Or rather, that’s what her prophet told her. She also said that while she couldn’t stop the ship’s departure, presumably ‘others may.’”
Bevridge nodded pensively. “Because there have been multiple attempts, we already know we’re dealing with a group. Whether it involves Jutou, another company we haven’t yet identified, or a different type of organization, we just don’t know.” He looked unhappy. “‘Others may,’” he repeated, echoing Rosenthal. “That’s not good. We have to stamp out this interference as soon as possible.”
Seeing that Lopé was still looking at him he added, “I’ve never heard of anyone—any corporate officer, any founder, any current employee, of the Jutou Combine—referred to as a prophet.”
“Yuyan jia,” Lopé responded, not worrying about tones as he pronounced the words.
“What’s that, old chum?” Bevridge’s brows drew together.
“I checked. There’s nobody by that name, or even close, in those Jutou records that are accessible.” When Bevridge continued to eye him blankly, the sergeant added, “Yuyan jia is Mandarin for ‘prophet.’ I thought maybe someone traceable at the combine might have taken that name, but I couldn’t find anyone. Or anything.”
“I wish I could requisition you for my staff here.” Bevridge spoke admiringly.
The sergeant shook his head, once. “Sorry. I’m strictly a field guy. Looking forward to an atmosphere that’s not only breathable, but that smells good.” He turned to Rosenthal. “Got it? We’re looking for a real prophet, not somebody named prophet.” She nodded. He turned back to Bevridge.
“Any thoughts?” he asked. “Any local or international religious groups who might have the wherewithal and the clout to try and pull off capers like these?”
“I’ll put some people and equipment on it right now, old boy.” Bevridge was as good as his word. Pulling out his comm unit, he gave a succession of taps and set the necessary research in motion. “As you say, it could still be Jutou who’s behind all this. Or a group operating under the cover of Jutou.”
Lopé’s reply was ambivalent. “Can’t discount it, don’t lean toward it.”
Bevridge’s gaze narrowed as he regarded the sergeant. “Is there anything in particular that might cause you to lean that way?”
The sergeant shrugged. Another interesting boat came downstream in their direction. Several people were busy on the front deck. He scrutinized them for weapons, but saw nothing. Yet there always was something that might slip past. Like a stripper’s boots, for example.
“The level of fanaticism this group has displayed,” he said in reply to Bevridge’s question. “The dedication to whatever wacko cause they’ve rallied around. Sabotage I can rationalize. Blowing oneself out an airlock I can’t. You don’t drown yourself in a river as some kind of perverse penance. You don’t rig your boots to explode.”
Bevridge’s lips tightened. “I follow you, old man. Nobody likes to be interrogated, but they tend to resort to lawyers. Not, as you described to me, self-immolation.”
“It’s not only that,” Rosenthal added. “She wasn’t just performing sepukku—she was trying to take us with her. Oh, and before she lit herself up, she murmured something. It w
as the last thing she said. A short phrase, almost a chant. ‘Oh-tee-bee-dee.’”
The security chief’s expression twisted. “Means nothing to me. I’ll make sure it’s researched.” For the first time he smiled at her. “Ms. Rosenthal, isn’t it?” She nodded. “I’m told you are responsible for the good sergeant still being with us. That deserves recognition.”
“I’ve already banked the signing bonus for my relatives.” Rosenthal turned to join Lopé in contemplating the river. “If the company wants to add to it, I won’t object.”
Bevridge made another entry into his comm unit, then looked back at them. “I have a feeling the Covenant is in good hands, with you two assigned to Security.”
“And the others,” Lopé put in. “There are others already up on the ship.”
“Keeping a steady eye out for any further sabotage attempts, I’m sure. All good people, thoroughly vetted.” Bevridge nodded absently as he pocketed his device. “You needn’t trouble yourselves any further, sergeant—I’ll let you know the instant we have a lead. You and Private Rosenthal are cleared to go up to the Covenant and remain there until it departs. You didn’t sign on for this kind of work, and it’s not incumbent on you to pursue it any longer.”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to stay Earthside and keep on it as much as I can.” Lopé stepped away from the stone balustrade. “While I’m in as much of a hurry as any colonist or crew member to leave Earth and get the mission going, I’d still like to store up as many memories of the place as possible. The good ones for nostalgia’s sake, and the bad ones to remind me why I’m leaving in the first place.”
“As you wish.” Bevridge sounded pleased. “Glad you still want to participate.”
“My job is Covenant security,” Lopé replied simply. “That holds whether I’m on the ship or on the ground. I know one thing, though—when I do return to the ship, I’ll be a lot more relaxed if these extremists have been found out, rounded up, and sent off somewhere nice, quiet, and secure, where their minds and motivations can be repaired.”
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