by Neal Asher
The driver switched off the radio while the aircab hovered by drone emergency lights dotted round the sky in a three mile cylinder above Chelmsford Police Central.
‘What now? You wanna go down by the cordon?’
Jane stared at Chris with dawning horror. However, she was not distracted from taking another large bite of her burger.
‘They couldn’t have. They wouldn’t have,’ she said round a mouthful of woolly bread and unidentifiable meat.
Chris appeared thoughtful for a moment then said, ‘They didn’t. No satellite weapons have been used. Probably a bomb or that APW. We have to find out.’ He turned to the perplexed driver and said, ‘Take us down to the cordon.’
The aircab spiralled down past the drone lights and came to hover over a street filled with gawking crowds held back by electric barriers and police in riot gear. The driver surveyed the situation for a moment then took them down behind the crowds.
‘Looks like some sort of a show going on there. Probably the New Luddites again, seems their kind of action.’ When no comment was forthcoming from his passengers he fell silent until they had landed. ‘Here we are.’ Chris handed his card over for the charge, retrieved it, then he and Jane got out of the cab.
‘The man we want to see is a Detective Inspector Saphron, spelt with a ph.’
In a moment they were pushing through the crowds. Chris was very good at this. If people did not get out of the way he gently but firmly lifted them up and deposited them to one side. Shortly they stood at the edge of the crowd. Between that edge and the electric barrier there lay a respectful gap. Beyond the barrier a group of riot police stood drinking coffee and chatting, stun rifles tucked under their arms, and beyond them a heavy fire engine was heaving itself into the sky.
‘Come on,’ said Chris. He advanced to the barrier and with a crackle and sparks shorting around his feet into the ground lifted a section to one side. They stepped through. ‘It might be advisable for us to raise our arms right now.’ They did so just as the riot police caught sight of them and brought their weapons to bear.
‘On the ground! Lie down!’ shouted one of the officers.
‘That will not be necessary. We are here to see Detective Inspector Saphron. We have identification.’
There was a flash, Chris stumbled back and, Jane thought, deliberately fell over. She got down on the ground just as fast as she could and looked aside at him. He winked at her.
‘They seem a little nervous today.’
Humour; there was no doubt. The machine was a bloody comedian. She was still hungry and now she had a stinking headache.
‘Cuff them,’ said the officer who had fired the shot, and in a moment they were dragged to their feet, their hands secured behind them, and marched to Police Central. Chris, of course, was groggy and kept stumbling. He did not want to scare these poor misguided officers.
In retrospect the Toad wished he had listened to Bannerman and quarantined Jack Smith, his ship, and that load of complex ice. The sums were quite simple. The profit from that load of ice had amounted to five hundred and seventy-six million Ecu, approximately. The hunt for Jack Smith and necessary cover-ups thus far, including the destruction of a satellite weapon, had cost TCC one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six million Ecu, with a potential five hundred million yet to pay, but only if the origin of the parasite was not discovered. However, these huge amounts of money detracted not one wit from the Toad’s comfort. It was the stock holders who would feel the pinch, not him. It was a pinch of another sort he feared.
Gaol. The word filled him with an emotion he had not felt in years and which seemed well able to ruin his digestion. He had not been able to drink brandy now for two whole weeks, and his usual Stilton and prawn jacket potato brunch was out of the question. Milk and water biscuits were the staple of his diet now. It was intolerable. He had just about done all he could and still there was a strong possibility that he would be summoned to Earth. Intolerable. He peered up at the ceiling.
‘Lilly, have Stroud, Mendelssohn and Mason arrived yet?’
An impersonal woman’s voice replied, ‘Only Stroud and Mason so far, sir. I am having difficulty tracing Mendelssohn.’
‘Send them in then and inform me as soon as you have the whereabouts of Mendelssohn.’
He sat back in his chair and glanced to either side at the holocameras mounted on the walls. He did not want to miss one detail of this. He was a perfectionist and this time he wanted things to go off without a hitch. It was still a source of annoyance to him that the doctor, Bannerman, had managed to knock aside one of the holocameras during his big exit so that a whole angle of view was lost to the Toad. This time it would be right.
After a moment the doors to his office slid open and a young hard-faced man and an old woman entered.
‘My dear Rebecca, David.’
Rebecca Mason studied the Toad with deep suspicion. David Stroud nodded his head in a perfunctory but business-like manner. He had a file tucked under one arm and his businesswear was immaculate, whilst she wore a blue coverall, which was standard dress in the Bioscience departments. All she carried was a plastic walking stick, which in the Toad’s inner office she did not really need.
‘Please, be seated,’ said the Toad congenially.
They moved forwards and occupied two of the three form-following armchairs before the Toad. The armchairs altered their shapes to suit, almost engulfing the two.
‘Now, I’ve called you here because we have a little bit of a problem,’ said the Toad.
‘An understatement I think,’ said Rebecca.
The Toad glared at her in annoyance before continuing.
‘Obviously, when Bannerman informed us of this parasitic ETO we considered it of comparatively minor importance. Then,’ he egarded Rebecca pointedly, ‘it was the belief of Bioscience that Jack Smith would die without passing it on or that it would be taken as an Earth parasite, with no connection to us, which, of course, was why we only allowed him access to the shuttle going down in South America.’
‘A particularly worm-ridden place,’ interjected Rebecca, ‘we may still be able to force that issue.’
‘No, unfortunately not. It would seem that most authorities are coming to agree that it is an ETO. But allow me to continue.’ The Toad turned his attention to David Stroud. ‘World Health were informed by Bannerman of the situation. A lapse in security I find unacceptable, with a consequent cost I find unacceptable. There are few options left open to us now. Obviously, Jack Smith must be eliminated. That is of paramount importance. I have also ordered that all evidence which connects us with this imbroglio be deleted from our files, even so far as evidence that Jack Smith even worked for us. All his old associates are now on long range missions. Many of them will not come back. Others have been silenced by whatever means I deemed necessary, be that money or … otherwise.’
He paused and carefully studied the two before him as if expecting them to add something. When they said nothing he continued. ‘World Health is preparing to take us to court. As far as I can see they will have great difficulty proving anything. Some of our experts in the legal and finance departments inform me that we should be able to keep this in the courts for a very long time at not even one per cent of the cost of compensation.’
‘One per cent,’ said Stroud, and gave a low whistle. ‘What are the projected compensation costs?’
The Toad said, ‘Right now they are at over a billion Ecu, but that is only for Brazil, most of which we own. With the parasite now spreading to some of the more wealthy countries it is estimated that the figure will double every year unless a ... cure is found.’
Rebecca said, ‘As you said, limited options, what more can be done? What do you want us to do?’
‘Well there is, in fact, nothing more for you to do. As I see it, it is the incompetence of both of you that has put us in this situation.’
‘Now wait a minute–’ began Stroud, but Rebecca interrupted him.
‘
Shut up, Stroud. Do go on, Geoffrey.’ With great care she picked up her cane and put it across her lap.
‘Dear Rebecca,’ said the Toad, ‘I had that cane of yours disarmed a month ago.’ He stood up. As he did so David Stroud tried to stand as well.
‘I ... I can’t get out of my seat.’
Rebecca now tried to stand. Her face went white. She raised her cane and pointed it at the Toad, depressed a stud on its side, but nothing happened. The Toad grinned.
‘The chairs, you will have noted, have gripped you round the lower halves of your bodies. Your breathing will not be constricted. Now that you are sitting comfortably I have some films to show you. The first is of a certain Doctor Bannerman’s heroic attempts to put on a space suit. The ones that follow have a cast that include a number of Jack Smith’s colleagues and friends. It is a very unusual collection, but not, as yet, complete. The last film is to be of two people being crushed to death in hydraulic armchairs. The sound of cracking pelvises will be so realistic. The screaming will be poignant. You are honoured. You are to become art.’
The burger vendor gaped at Jack with something approaching awe as he handed over the tenth double cheeseburger and milk-shake. Jack paid and returned to his table. He wondered what that man would think if he knew that this was the third place he had been in today. He estimated that he had put on about two stones of weight and when he looked in a mirror now he noted that his face was beginning to look a bit less skeletal. That would change though. He was only over-fuelling himself in preparation, but for what? How the hell did one go about stowing away on a space shuttle? Of course he could have bought a ticket like anyone else, but he suspected that as soon as TCC security found out he was aboard the shuttle, it would have been involved in a tragic accident. There had to be another way.
As he munched into his burger he considered everything he knew about TCC operational procedures. By the time he was wiping the grease from his lips with a tissue he knew how it could be done. He needed a space suit, access to a TCC cargo, and a piece of software that could only be acquired from a professional smuggler. He stood and left the cafe.
‘So you two really are Jane Ulreas and Chris Golem?’ said Saphron, dabbing at his bloody nose.
‘Yes, we are,’ said Jane, ‘and we have identification.’
‘What?’
‘We have identification,’ said Chris in a substantially louder voice.
Saphron leant back against the ambulance and watched as two corpses were stretchered out of Police Central. His expression was all grim satisfaction. After a moment he gestured to the escort of riot police.
‘You can take their cuffs off. These two really are who they claim. I checked that out.’
The cuffs were removed and Jane rubbed at her wrists in relief.
‘What happened here?’ Chris asked, his voice still loud.
‘Poetic justice. Poetic bleeding justice,’ said Saphron. He seemed not to have heard Chris as he stepped past them and went to one of the stretchers, now ready to be loaded onto the ambulance. They followed up behind him as he pulled a sheet back. Underneath lay the corpse of a woman with medical plastiskin on her face. Another two stretchers arrived while he was studying her. He glanced round at Chris and Jane.
‘This one is a woman called Sune Jean Rhienz.’ He then pointed. ‘That is one of her associates. They both died when the cell block collapsed.’ He now pointed to the two new stretchers. ‘Those two claimed to be Professor Jane Ulreas and Chris Golem.’
‘Killed in the cell black collapse too?’ asked Jane.
‘No, Jack Smith got them before they got him. I cannot tell you how good it makes me feel to see these four here like this.’ Saphron dropped the sheet and turned fully to face Jane and Chris. ‘There are things I want you to tell me. We’ll go inside. At least the administrative section of the station is still standing.’
They entered the main entrance of Police Central through a foyer swamped two-inches deep with fire-retardant foam. Saphron led them up some stairs and, after trying a couple of doors, found an unoccupied office. There he ensconced himself behind a desk while they pulled up a couple of chairs.
‘Okay, what the Hell is going on?’ He did not bother with the shuffling of papers this time.
Jane looked to Chris. ‘I think I’ll leave it to you. I’m out of my depth.’
Chris nodded and began to speak in his smoothly modulated voice. ‘Approximately three years ago the last comet mining operation came to an end. It ended with a ship load of comet ice brought from the Planc 12 comet. The pilot of that ship was a certain Jack Smith.’
Jane sat back in her seat. This was going to be a long one, but she wanted to hear the whole thing told just as much as the Detective Inspector did. And she did hear it. What most likely had happened to Bannerman horrified her. As did what had happened to the technicians on the satellite weapon. It was a story of cruelty and indifference on a scale she found hard to credit. When Chris finished, Saphron leant back in his seat and interlaced his fingers.
‘Very interesting. I don’t disbelieve any of it, but it will be hell to prove. As I see it your only tangible evidence is this Jack Smith, and I guarantee that TCC will find a way round that. Those two killers out there, for example. Jack Smith called them stupid because they were wearing TCC businesswear, but on further investigation I could find out absolutely nothing about them. Their DNA codes are not logged, and there seems to be no other record of them at all. I tried to trace their APW as well. No luck. It is, apparently, of no recorded make. The woman’s handgun was of a type you can acquire just about anywhere.’
Jane leant forwards and looked from Saphron to Chris. ‘You mean to say that those bastards are going to get away with this unless you get hold of Jack Smith?’
‘It is not clear cut,’ said Chris.
‘This, perhaps, may be of some use,’ said Saphron, and he held up a personal unit.
‘That’s a Texas ten eighty-seven,’ said Jane.
Saphron smiled and nodded. ‘And it has a fifteen terabyte memory, more than enough to contain Jack Smith’s medscan, which is precisely what this one contains.’
Jane stared at it hungrily. Chris said, ‘It should contain his genetic code. It would be permissible evidence. No-one, as yet, has been able to forge to that level.’
‘May we see it?’ asked Jane.
Saphron smiled again and glanced towards a computer console in the corner of the room. In a moment they were all seated round the console and Jane was working the touch keys. Shortly she had the flickering image Jennifer had called up.
‘Has your system been damaged?’ she asked.
‘Not as far as I know,’ Saphron replied.
‘It shouldn’t do that. That bar code was the kind they use in a path lab. It’s the coding they put on a badly decayed corpse to allow the computer to extend its parameters.’ Her hands hesitated over the pads. She swore quietly to herself.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Saphron, puzzled.
Chris replied, ‘It means that the computer had difficulty taking on the information from the unit.’
Jane leaned back. ‘Protein engineer. If Jack Smith is the carrier it means that it’s had three years to work on him, not just a few months.’ Suddenly she leant forwards again and her hands were a blur over the keys. After a moment a new image came up on the screen. She stared at it with her mouth dropping open.
‘And what, is that?’ asked Saphron.
After a pause Jane said, ‘That, is a computer generated x-ray diffraction pattern of DNA. Only it isn’t.’
Saphron snorted in annoyance.
Chris said, ‘Human DNA has a double helix. That is a triple helix. Jack Smith no longer has human DNA.’
‘You’re saying he’s a fucking alien!’ Saphron shook his head. ‘He moved like one. Christ did he move fast. Those two TCC killers didn’t stand a chance.’
‘I am saying that he is no longer human.’
‘Great, great. How the hell yo
u going to prove he is Jack Smith? I mean he isn’t, not now, not any more. The TCC legal branch’ll take you apart.’ Saphron stared at Chris for a moment, then he smiled bleakly to himself. ‘Well, at least, the way he is, he is going to give Geoffrey Haven more trouble than he would want. Seems he takes it personally; them trying to kill him.’ He returned his attention to Jane as her hands again went to work on the touch keys.
‘Vector, vector...’ she said urgently as she called up image after image. After a minute or so she slammed her hand on the touch board and the screen blinked off. She turned to Chris. ‘He brought the parasite here. In him it has reached adulthood.’ She rubbed a finger up and down her forehead between her eyes. ‘Shit! I’ve got a headache. Now, we looked for eggs, for encysted cercaria, some sort of miracidium and it’s none of those. It’s just every damn cell of his body. We know, that thus far, everyone infected has died. We have to know why he did not. TCC can go to hell, this is somewhat more important to World Health. You see ... every cell he sheds is living and capable of surviving for a long time. Every cell is a potential parasite. How many skin cells does a human body shed every day, let alone a body stimulated to shed more? How many cells Chris?’
Chris stared at her for a moment, then dipped his head in silent contemplation.
‘Do you have a projection as to how long these cells can survive in a free state?’
Jane took out her hanky, blew her nose noisily, then turned to the computer again and shortly came back with the answer. ‘Weeks, and we don’t know for sure that they are only human specific.’
Chris was statuelike for a few moments more as Jane and Saphron turned back to study the screen. ‘I have my instructions,’ he said, at last, and turned and headed for the door.
‘Chris, where are you going. Chris. Chris!’
Jane watched Saphron step over to the door, look down the corridor, then bang his hand against the frame in frustration before turning back to her. He appeared angry, and probably wanted some sort of explanation. Jane didn’t really care about that right then. She inspected her fingertips, wondering why blood was coming out of her ears.
