Miranda's Demons

by Ian Miller

  "Yeah!" the first man sneered. "You and fifty kilos of old iron should disappear nicely in all the shit at the bottom!"

  "Where're you taking me?"

  "Manhattan, if you really wanna know."

  "But that's –"

  "Shuddup an' enjoy the sights."

  Halas was not quite sure how he was supposed to enjoy the sights while travelling through a transit tube, but he was beginning to realize that the less he said, the better. After some time, and two interchanges, the car emerged into the wastelands of Manhattan. The hulks of the twentieth century skyscrapers thrust their rusty skeletal forms into the dusk skyline. In between the rows of buildings the highly buckled roads still carried the odd vehicle. Small bands of youths roamed the kerbs, peering into the holes in doors where once glass resided. Halas noted the car in front was being pelted with missiles by one of the gangs. Suddenly a cart appeared from the left, and skidded across the road. The driver slammed on the brakes, and they skidded to a halt. A gang of youths appeared from a nearby doorway, and ran towards them, brandishing knives and clubs. The man next to Halas almost appeared to shrug. As he wound down his window, he pushed the barrel of a semiautomatic rifle through the space, and began firing. The four leading youths tumbled to the ground. The remaining youths came to a halt, then turned and ran. The rifle kept firing; youths kept falling, until, in just a matter of seconds, the street was empty.

  "Turkey shoot," the man commented, as he brought the rifle back into the car, and he quickly changed an ammunition clip.

  "Looks like you left a survivor," the driver said laconically, as he wound down his own window. He pulled out a long barrelled pistol, and drove closer to the youth, who was frantically crawling away, dragging his right leg. The driver paused, took some care with his aim, and fired one shot.

  "Get him?"

  "Gut wound," the driver shrugged, as he wound his window up, and began to drive on. "Takes longer to die that way," he added, for Halas' information.

  They drove for a few minutes before pulling up beside a very impressive entrance to one of the skyscrapers. "Out!" Halas was ordered. Halas was only too eager to obey. He slid out, and scampered across the kerb towards the large steel doors, doors that were clearly there to reflect the changed circumstances.

  The doors opened, and Halas peered across the dimly lit cavern of a foyer that was littered with debris. One of the men pointed towards the elevators, and he gave Halas a shove. Halas almost tripped over some broken furniture as he ran forward, but when he reached the open door, he froze.

  "In you get!" he was ordered harshly. "Don't worry, sunshine. It works. We've got electricity here. Our own generator."

  Halas had little choice. Up he went, and as each floor went by, memories of the reports flashed through his mind. Buildings structurally unsound; machinery often in working condition, but ill maintained; cables lack strength; plumbing and wiring unsound; drainage frequently blocked; danger to health - keep all citizens out! It had been too difficult to get sufficient area for the more modern conglomerate building, and with sea levels rising rapidly, when the old skyscrapers came towards the end of their design life, the buildings and the hopelessly decayed services were simply abandoned to the poor. The heart of New York was elsewhere; the only legitimate users of Manhattan were the tourist vehicles, and these travelled between ten and four, stopping usually at the Empire State. This building, protected by a heavily armed force, was still open to tourists provided they signed away all insurance claims and liability rights. If they wished, the tourists could climb to the top. This was a real adventure, because even in that building muggers sometimes gained entry during the night to prey upon tourists the following day. Sometimes they also preyed on tourists who, for a considerable sum on days when the more innocent tourists were kept at bay, had purchased "adventure" rights; with such rights the tourist carried an old-fashioned rifle and a promise of "no questions".

  Finally the elevator stopped, and Halas was led to a large office. Behind the desk, in an exact replica of his GenCorp office, sat Harvey Munro. As he looked up he rubbed his hand over his pale face and barely concealed a yawn. Slightly bloodshot eyes looked up at Halas, and he made a motion with one hand. Halas stared incomprehensively about the room, then a pair of large hands grabbed his arms and propelled him towards a chair.

  "Good to see you, Halas," Munro spoke, his face totally devoid of feeling. "Glad you could find time to see me."

  "Well, Mr Munro," Halas started to protest, then he stared at the face of the driver and continued in a far more subdued tone, "well . . . naturally I'm flattered you wanted to see me."

  "I thought it was about time you started to earn your keep," Munro grunted.

  "Mr Munro, I've been doing some thinking –"

  "And you think because I've set up here, I'm finished, and you don't need to worry about me, eh?"

  "No!" Halas squealed. "I never thought . . . That's not what –"

  "Believe me, I'm not finished," Munro snarled. "I've tens of thousands of men just waiting for orders, and I've got a few surprises for those who think they can replace me."

  "Well, I can see –"

  "Just think about this evening! I can get you any time I want."

  "Of course, Mr Munro. What I was going to say is, I've been thinking about how I could help you."

  "And . . ?"

  "I was thinking I could be valuable in getting the support on the Council you may need. I assume you have the support of the corporates, and you'll never get Defence, but you can't really sway the independents and some of the Commissioners, while I can. Once you have sufficient votes to isolate Defence, then –"

  "Halas, you should leave the thinking to me," Munro said icily. Halas felt a chill run down his spine, he gulped, and was about to protest that he had not had enough time to explain, but Munro put up a hand, and continued, "I want you to do one thing for me. Do it, and I'll see you well rewarded, and then we could even talk about your future. Will you do this one task?"

  "What is it?" Halas asked in a hushed tone.

  "Help me kill Reiner."

  "Why?" Then, seeing Munro's angry look, he added, "Why me? I mean, I would've thought your men could do that easily."

  "That's why you shouldn't be doing the thinking," Munro replied irritably, but, from Halas' point of view, the initial surge of anger had died. "My men can't get anywhere near him, but you can! He still has to do business, and if you can't find some mine somewhere with sufficient environmental difficulties to warrant a visit, then your people can't be doing their job. Visit him, take him to lunch, tell me, and my men will kill him. What could be more simple?"

  "But why? I thought you two were allies. I thought –"

  "I told you not to over exercise your brain cells," Munro shook his head. "Just do what I want and do it quickly."

  "Well. I've never actually killed anyone –"

  "You don't have to, damn you! Just get him out of his building! Will you do it?"

  "I'll make an appointment to see him the day after tomorrow," Halas said quickly.

  "And what's wrong with tomorrow?"

  "The Council meeting's tomorrow," Halas protested. "I thought you'd be there."

  "I'm going to give that a miss."

  "Reiner will probably attend," Halas said, "and if he comes, I can make an appointment. Anyway, it'd look bad if I didn't care about an appointment! He'd get suspicious."

  "Hmm," Munro muttered. "I suppose that makes sense."

  "I'm sure it does. Is there anything you want me to do at the Council?"

  "There's nothing to be done there."

  "Surely the Council's still of some importance?" Halas protested. "Even Kotchetkova's taking it seriously. Irrespective of what's happened, almost everybody in the Federation expects the Council to be the seat of power."

  "I never said the Council's not important," Munro said, as he sat back in his chair, folded the fingers of his hands together, and stared reflectively at the ceiling. "It
's just that if I attend, my alleged treachery will probably be a late item."

  "Unless you do something about it, you'll have to face them sooner or later," Halas pointed out.

  "So I have to do something about it," Munro shrugged.

  "Perhaps then I can help."

  "Perhaps then you can," Munro agreed.

  "Perhaps something can be done right now," Halas ventured.

  "What?"

  "You know I know who's got the evidence against you."

  "You've intimated as much to me," Munro said, without showing very much interest.

  "If you killed that person, and took the evidence –"

  "It's always 'that person'," Munro noted vaguely. "Never any one in particular."

  "And I . . ." Halas started, then paused, unable to quite finish.

  "Killing 'this person' and 'that person' tends to make one unpopular," Munro added.

  "It's . . ." Halas started.

  "Yes?" Munro was still casting his eyes towards the ceiling, and showing very little interest.

  "It's . . . Elizabeth Garrett," Halas finally burst out.

  "I know," Munro smiled, as he brought his cold eyes down on Halas. "Did you, Garrett and Kleppe really think you could fool me indefinitely?"

  "But . . how did you find out?" Halas burst out in surprise.

  "You pathetic lot. I had the money traced."

  "But I thought Kleppe moved it around so it couldn't be traced?"

  "He did," Munro replied. "I never tracked a fecu."

  "Then how?"

  "There're only half a dozen people on this planet who could lose money like that," Munro shrugged. "He did it too efficiently. Now, of those four men and two women, they had to have access to you, and they had to be able to monitor the English transmitters, or at least see the information. You couldn't get to meet the other financiers, and access to directional space signal monitoring is largely restricted to Justice and Defence. Bearing in mind the timing, it was pretty obvious."

  "Then what're you going to do?"

  "Nothing, for the time being," Munro shrugged. "Paradoxically, Garrett can't be bought. I've checked her life style, and I can assure you she hasn't touched a fecu of that money. I don't think she can be threatened, and I know she dislikes you so much you'd better stay away from her."

  "Then why don't you kill her?"

  "There're no half measures when you turn on your friends, is there?"

  "You're going to have to do something," Halas replied, as he tried not to appear embarrassed, "otherwise she'll do something to you."

  "When she does," Munro laughed harshly, "I'll be ready for her."

  "You don't want to underestimate her. She can mount some fairly potent forces!"

  "Not without my knowing about it," Munro sneered.

  "I think perhaps you're –"

  "Save your breath! If you can't get Garrett's attention for your stupid little schemes, what utter stupidity makes you think you'll get mine?"

  "What?" Halas squeaked.

  "You want to see a replay of your Comscreen call this evening?" Munro asked, as he turned and his eyes bored into Halas.

  "What? How do you know about that?"

  "You think Comscreen privacy is guaranteed by ComCorp," Harvey laughed, "don't you?"

  "Isn't it?"

  "Nominally, yes, but the shit that runs it'll do exactly what I ask. I've put in computer monitoring, so that any picture entered from anywhere in the network which correlates with a target I've chosen automatically gets recorded, classified, prioritized, and relayed here. You, Garrett, Kotchetkova, nobody who's anyone can't even send a shopping list without my men knowing."

  "But that's . . ."

  "Yes, it is, isn't it," Harvey muttered. "The amusing thing, of course, is if any of this got out, it'd be the head of ComCorp who gets tormented!"

  "But I thought . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "I thought that network was the source of ComCorp's power?"

  "God, you're stupid. You still think ComCorp made the successful corporations though its listings?"

  "Didn't it?" Halas almost squeaked.

  "The successful corporations were those that controlled ComCorp!"

  "Oh!" Halas said, in a flattened tone as suddenly his whole picture of history was turned upside down.

  "You don't get to be successful by hoping for favours," Munro said in an icy tone, is eyes boring into Halas. "You make them do you favours. After a while, people get the rhythm. ComCorp has done exactly what we've wanted for the last hundred odd years."

  "Then . . ."

  "Sure, control of ComCorp wouldn't repel an attack, but it mightn't be so easy to organize one, might it? Think of who could get included? I can send synthesized orders, good enough to fool most people, and in any case, in a crisis, who double checks?"

  "Then why do you need me to get at Reiner? Just monitor his –"

  "Because, you peabrain, Reiner almost certainly has the same edge. He'll almost certainly send all sorts of stray information, and pick up everything I'm doing. Which, of course, means you will not communicate with me via Comscreen."

  "Of course not."

  "Of course not," Munro shook his head. "Now you're finally getting to see a tiny part of the picture. Apart from Reiner, I've got the lot of you forked. I've even got Garret forked, except, unlike you, she's not scared shitless."

  "I'm not scared," Halas protested.

  "No? Then let's see you deal with Reiner. My men will take you back to your hotel. Try not to irritate them too much." He waved his hand, and in that instant all knew the interview was over. With a sign of distaste, the driver picked a sorber from his pocket, and wiped the droplets of sweat from Halas' face, then Halas was roughly dragged from the room. Halas let them pull him along without protest.

  Chapter 2

  Elizabeth Garrett pulled the Comscreen plugs from the wall: power, wire signal and aerial. What a disaster it would have been had Halas' call came later! For the fourth time she checked the drinks cabinet, the oven, the dining table, the carton of plates and cutlery. They were still there! She knew the hotel management was less than amused that she preferred to do this cooking herself when they had the finest restaurant in New York. Elizabeth occasionally enjoyed cooking but she knew she was not particularly good at it, and she did not enjoy catering. She was doing this for one reason; she wanted the personal touch to show through. She realized the finest lavish food would not make a favourable impression on her guests, but simple food just might. As might "homely" food, as might her special for the evening; what she hoped was really, as she had been assured from the British Museum, a genuine Roman treat. She retreated to the bathroom to examine herself yet again in the mirror, to once again make yet another minor adjustment to her hair, to adjust her brooch, to . . .

  The doorbell rang. She paused, took a deep breath, and marched towards the door. She opened it, she looked down the corridor in both directions, and saw nothing. She was about to go back into her room, when a voice stopped her.

  "Your invitation did say to dress up, but informally."

  "What? Where . . ?"

  "I decided to come dressed as a wall," Gaius chuckled, and stepped forwards. "You will forgive my little joke, I hope."

  "Good grief!" Elizabeth gasped. "How did you do that?" for before her Gaius stood, dressed in what appeared to be a grey tracksuit.

  "I'll show you," he smiled, and stood back against the wall, closed the flap across his face, then he seemed to blend into the wall. Elizabeth peered, and found she could just make out the outline of his body. She stepped forward and reached out to touch his shoulder. "Oh yes, I am still here," came the voice, then Gaius reappeared again. "Interesting party trick?" he asked.

  "I've never seen anything quite like it," Elizabeth shook her head.

  "I hope I haven't been in, how do you put it, bad taste?" Gaius asked.

  "Well, no, I was just a bit stunned. Please come in, Mr Claudius, if I can call you that. Someh
ow it seems . . ."

  "Out of place?" Gaius offered. "I'm afraid that's me. Out of place! Unfortunately, sooner or later I'll remind you again. Like my arrival. I guess I miscalculated. I'm sorry I –"

  "Don't apologize," Elizabeth interrupted. "It's me that should apologize. It's just that, well . . ."

  "It's just that I haven't been invited out to an evening since Pannonia," Gaius shrugged, and the impish smile returned to his face. "While many women seem to prefer older men, they find a two thousand year gap a little ridiculous."

  "Perhaps they don't get enough practice," Elizabeth countered, a smile crossing her face for the first time. "Could I get you a drink?"

  "Yes, please. What have you got?" and as Elizabeth began listing a large number of cocktails, he held up his hand. "Please stop. I'm sorry, but these names mean nothing to me. Perhaps some fruit juice?"

  "Fruit juice?" Elizabeth asked, with a touch of irritation. "I'll see what I can find." She shook her head sadly; she thought she had anticipated everything, then this had to happen. Yet she had to pull herself together. She wanted to loosen his tongue, and that had to be done before Natasha arrived. If alcohol could not do it, then charm would have to suffice. Charm did not start with a scowl! She ferretted through the refrigerator. "There's something here called nectar," she said doubtfully. "It's in a plastic container, though."

  "The drink of the Gods," Gaius offered. "Who could want more?"

  "Somehow I can't quite visualize it," Elizabeth smiled as she passed Gaius the container and a glass. "Olympus surrounded by piles of used ViFresh containers."

  "They probably would have been buried in it," Gaius agreed. "I seem to remember there were Gods for just about everything, but I can't remember one for trash."

  "Don't look at me," Elizabeth shrugged. "You're the one that's visited up there. You should be the authority."

  Gaius paused for a moment, then looked at Elizabeth. "I hope that remark wasn't born of fear," he said sincerely. "That trick at the door, say, could be considered as a threat, but honestly, I only did it for your amusement."

  "Of course," Elizabeth replied, as she tried to force a smile. "To change the subject, tell me, what are you going to do now the war's over? It is over, isn't it?"