She went to work on the store room’s central biolum panel, easing it away from its clips. He started on the Harrods hampers and found a case of three-star brandy.
He clamped the first bottle between his knees, and unscrewed the cap with his right hand. The aroma set up a satanic craving in his maltreated stomach.
After opening five bottles, Greg tiptoed around the room, soaking the kelpboard cases with the liquor. Taking care not to spill any on the floor with its wide cracks.
“The window’s behind this lot,” Gabriel whispered, poking a tall stack of cases. “It’ll take an age to shift them.”
“Forget shifting them. Our exit isn’t going to be stealthy. You got the biolum?”
“Yeah.” She’d cracked the back open, exposing the activation trigger. A finger-sized pewter cylinder with enough charge to activate the motes’ bias. There was also enough charge to spark-two, maybe three times if their luck was in.
He impaled a wad of paper on the screws of Gabriel’s club, sloshing brandy over it. She put it on the desk, eagerness animating her features, dulling the pain.
He put his shoulders to the stack of crates, tensing. Nodded.
Two idiot smiles.
A minute blue spark sizzled between the cylinder electrodes and one of the screws. The paper caught at once, a bright yellow tongue of flame that left sharp purple after-images on his retinas.
Gabriel picked up her torch and thrust it against some of the cases he’d doused. Flames bloomed wherever it touched. She carried it round in a triumphal circuit.
The room was becoming dazzlingly bright to Greg’s gloaming-acclimatized eyes; but he waited until the fire began to crackle noisily before heaving at the cases. The stack toppled with a crash which seemed deafeningly loud in the small room. Cases burst open, scattering tins of meat with Brazilian labels across the oak floorboards.
Greg jumped on to the two remaining cases below the window, kicking out the glass. It shattered into wicked ice daggers, scything off into the galactic-deep night outside.
“Out,” he yelled, and used his good hand to haul Gabriel up on to the cases. She balanced on the narrow dirt-ingrained windowledge, crouching down for the jump. There were shouts coming from the basement. The fire had really taken hold now. Greg could feel its heat on his face and his right hand,
Gabriel had already gone. And someone was pounding up the stairs. Greg flexed his knees and leapt into the cool damp air.
CHAPTER 42
Processor Node One Status: Loading Basic Management Program.
Julia’s head jerked up. She hadn’t actually been sleeping, just allowing her rattled, abused thoughts some peace.
Processor Node Two Status: Loading Basic Management Program.
“What?” asked Walshaw.
Memory Node One: File Codes Loaded.
The huge black man, Teddy, was giving her that eagle-eyed stare again, as if he was examining her soul. Finding it flawed.
Memory Node Two: File Codes Loaded.
“Lord Jesus,” she clapped her hands in excited delight. “He’s done it. Royan. He’s in the ‘ware.”
Memory Node Three: File Codes Loaded.
The fabric of the nodes’ artificial mentality rose out of nowhere to fortify and enrich her own thoughts. Dictionaries, language and technical lexicons, encyclopedias, logic matrices, all returned to their warm familiar places.
Neural Augmentation On Line.
Walshaw was leaning over his terminal, hands reaching for the keyboard. The cubes were full of crazed graphics, slowly returning to equilibrium.
Hello, Juliet.
“Grandpa!”
Her view of the study was suddenly riddled with cracks, it fragmented and whirled away. She was looking down on Earth from a great height. But the picture was wrong, there were no half-shades, the colours were all primary; an amorphous Jigsaw of emerald, crimson, turquoise, and rose-gold oil patterns, It was overlaid by regular grid lines. False-Colour Thematic Image, supplied the nodes. There was a town at the centre of the image, one which was curiously blurred around its outskirts.
Wisbech, Julia said, intuitively. There was no sound to hear, no tactile sensation present in this flat universe which had captured her, only the image itself. She could sense her grandfather’s presence by her side, They weren’t alone.
Juliet, I’d like you to meet a very smart young lad. Goes by the name of Royan.
Pleased to meet you, Miss Juliet. I’ve never met an heiress before.
Thank you for unlocking my grandpa, Royan.
It was a breeze; whoever wrote the virus was dumb.
It didn’t seem that way when I was on the receiving end.
I’m not surprised. You know, you ought to load some proper protection into your nodes. They’re terrific pieces of gear, wish I had some. But the guardian bytes you’re using leave them wide open.
I used to think I had proper protection.
I could write you some. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, you’re a friend of Greg’s. And the PSP hates you. That makes you an A-one person in my book.
I’d take him up on that, Juliet, if I were you. Royan and I have been having a long chat. Boy knows what he’s talking about.
Long? she asked.
You’re operating in ‘ware time now, Miss Juliet. Fast fast fast.
Oh. Thanks for the offer, Royan. But I think we’d better do what we can for Greg first.
Yeah, said Philip. Misjudged him in a big way. Jumping the gun. Never would’ve done that in the flesh. Really shouldn’t have done it now. But we can make amends soon enough.
Julia concentrated on the thematic image. Her grandfather was squirting a solid stream of binary pulses up to a company Earth Resources platform through Wilholm’s one remaining uplink, a hum in the background of her consciousness.
Greg’s moving, look, he said.
A diamond star had appeared on the thematic image. The magnification leapt up. Wisbech’s outskirts disappeared. The town was slashed in two by a broad meandering band of deep turquoise. Like a rain-swollen river, Julia thought, even though she knew the whole place was mudlocked. Her grandfather jumped the magnification again. Then again. The star was gleaming a few hundred metres east of the turquoise band. A small dot of crimson on the edge of the turquoise band was turning a brighter scarlet.
Something is warming up down there, Philip said.
I think I can help, said Royan.
A crude transparent map was superimposed on the thematic image.
Ordnance Survey, Royan explained. The last one before the PSP came to power. Nothing much changed between then and the start of the Warming.
The map rotated slowly clockwise until the two sets of grid lines meshed, then it swam in and out of focus, matching up the street patterns.
Close as we’ll get.
Disused mill, Julia read, The dot had become a fluorescent ruby.
Thermal emission rising sharply, said Philip. It’s on fire. And Greg’s moving away, dead slow. Means the boy’s on foot, swimming rather, in that gunk.
Escaping, said Royan.
Could well be. I wonder if Gabriel is with him.
If she’s alive, she’ll be with him, Royan censured.
Julia sensed the adoration verging on love that Royan had somehow managed to convey into their inanimate medium. His belief was unshakeable. And she knew he was right, Greg didn’t desert people to save his own skin.
Grandpa?
I know, Juliet. The strike window ends in ninety seconds-mark. Decision time.
Mr Philip told me about that, Miss Juliet. It’s a grand idea. He said it was your suggestion.
Certainly was, boy. She’s an Evans, through and through. And we don ‘t do anything by halves. No sir.
I wonder who’s in that tower, Royan asked.
Someone big, Julia said. Someone important, important enough to make Kendric visit him, not the other way round. And if you knew Kendric like I do, you’d know how few peop
le in the world would be granted that concession.
The first instance of sensation invaded their private universe, an electric tingle reminding her of far-off nerves. Julia looked down on the mill, judging it with the dispassion of some Olympian goddess.
Could it really be? Philip asked.
There was never any body, said Royan. Never any real proof. Not even Mindstar knew.
We’d have to hurry. The timing is tight, very tight.
No, Julia said, bold with conviction, The timing is perfect.
Synchronized.
Gabriel? Philip enquired.
I expect so, she said. Whatever the reason, we cannot ignore this opportunity.
I agree, said Royan.
That makes it unanimous, then. Access the Ordnance Survey’s memory core and download that mill’s co-ords, m’boy, accurate as you can get.We’ve only got the one satellite uplink left after your friends came a-knocking. I would’ve preferred to keep watching Wisbech, just in case we need to update. But we’ll simply have to make do.
You’re lucky you’ve still got that one. Father is efficient.
Julia’s awareness shifted as the thematic image faded. She was plugged directly into Wilholm’s myriad gear systems, a bright-glowing three dimensional cobweb of data channels. New strands were coming on line at a phenomenal rate as the antithesis poured through it, purging the virus.
A quick status check showed her that there were only three functional servos out of the eight which steered Wilholm’s one remaining satellite dish. Accelerated time stretched for what seemed like aeons as the dish swivelled round on its axis to point at the western horizon. Her grandfather had overridden the servos’ safety limiters, allowing them to take a double load. Temperature sensors relayed the heat from overloaded motors straight into her medulla, interpreted as scalding hands.
Sorry, Juliet.
Her pain vanished.
The dish’s rotation halted, smaller azimuth servos began tracking it across the sky.
Co-ords ready for loading, Mr Philip. Got them down to half a metre.
Anything within three hundred metres would be enough, Julia said.
Don’t brag so, girl, Philip said as he loaded the figures into an OtherEyes personality package. But a sliver of pride escaped from his thoughts.
So, that just leaves the reactivation code. Juliet, your honour.
She allowed herself one moment of supremely self-indulgent satisfaction.
Access AvengingAngel. The long string of binary digits emerged from her nodes to hang between the three of them. Her grandfather integrated it into the OtherEyes personality package. The completed data construct squirted into the dish transmitter, streaming upwards at lightspeed.
This time, you bastard, this time I’ll get you.
CHAPTER 43
In his mind the theory was perfect. They weren’t particularly high up, and the mud around the tower shouldn’t have been deep. Of course, there was no way of actually testing it in advance.
Greg hit the thin coating of surface water and kept on going, his momentum only slowing when the water reached his thighs. He let his knees bend, absorbing inertia. Thick viscous goo rose up his shins, embedding them. That was the point where his left hand thumped into the water, finally overloading his beleaguered cortical node. Greg screamed at the lancets of pain its faltering barricade let through. Brilliant starbursts of light danced across his vision.
His feet were resting on something solid. He could see guttering orange light washing across a big clump of reeds about three metres in front of him, marking the perimeter of a low mound of rubble. A gable end was sticking up in the middle of it, inclined at forty-five degrees, supported by a buttress of rafters which resembled some bizarre geometric whale skeleton.
The water had come up to the bottom of his ribcage, leaving his folded legs entirely under the mud. Greg tried to straighten his knees. It took an age before even the faintest tremble of motion began. The mud refused to let go.
Panic churned his gut. He had absolutely nothing to grip, nothing he could use to drag himself out. His legs muscles had to do all the work. And any second now Kendric’s crewmen would be storming out of the tower.
“Where are you, Greg?” Gabriel called.
“I’m coming.” Was he rising fractionally faster? The pain from his left hand had been suppressed again, making it easier to concentrate. He could feel the mud sliding down his thighs. “Get into the reeds. Go on! Move.”
His buttocks left the mud behind, and he stood up. There was water up to the top of his legs, the mud still incarcerated his knees. Greg brought his left foot out of the mud’s suction clutch, standing stork-style, then fell forwards, windmilling his arms.
The strain on his right knee was incredible, his bodyweight was trying to bend it in exactly the opposite direction to which it was designed to hinge. He grabbed at the reeds with his right hand, pulling himself along towards the cover of the mound. The mud relinquished its hold on his right leg with extreme reluctance.
A chorus of wild shouting broke out behind him. Mark’s voice rose above the others, bawling to bring some lights.
Greg grasped at another clump of reeds. His progress was a combination of swimming, slithering and crawling, all at a snail’s pace. He was completely hampered by his desperation to avoid any commotion. Thankfully, the reeds began to get thicker and higher.
He heard a long erratic stutter of muffled thuds from behind him, and guessed at food cans rupturing in the fire.
A quick glance round let him see the tower, a black phallic monolith probing a cloud-smeared night sky… The first floor’s broken window was a glaring yellow rectangle, while others glowed with biolum’s softer pink-white radiance; sketchy shadows were moving about inside. Several people were dashing about on the grass ring around the tower’s base; three were splashing through the shallows, but not venturing far. If they wanted to get across to the reeds they’d have to get down on their bellies and squirm; it was the only way. They didn’t have the motivation. A couple of intense torch beams stabbed out, scouring the reeds.
Greg rolled back on to his stomach and began his serpent wriggle again. Thirty seconds later there was hard ground under his elbows. Reeds competing with stiff blades of grass. He was using his knees as well as his elbows now, scuttling towards the gable end, and cover. He knew exactly what Kendric and Armstrong would do next. Flinty pebbles and rapier grass lacerated his skin. Somewhere over to his left another heavy body was burrowing through the vegetation.
An electromagnetic rifle opened up, warbling loudly. Bullets thudded into the mound, pinged against the brickwork, ricocheted off, whining. Greg kept going.
“Get over there.” That was Kendric’s unmistakably enraged voice. Murmurs of argument followed.
The white torchlight trimmed the tips of the reeds around Greg. Tiny reddish-brown ovate flowers glowed lambently. Midges formed a silver galaxy overhead. The light passed on. The electromagnetic rifle had fallen silent.
Greg reached the sloping brickwork. Gabriel was ahead of him, panting heavily at the end of a streaky mud trail.
“God, the smell,” she exclaimed.
“What smell?”
“Some people.”
He climbed gingerly to his feet. The island they were on was about twenty metres at its widest. Greg had cherished a half-notion that the mounds would all be connected. But the next one was a good forty metres away. Algae-curdled water sloshed like crude oil between the two. It didn’t look as though there was much of it on top of the mud.
“Clothes off,” Greg said, then flinched as the electromagnetic rifle poured another fusillade of bullets into the gable end.
“Do what?” Gabriel asked. She was cradling her left hand again. Her face was haggard, totally lethargic.
“We’ve got a lot of swimming to do. Clothes are going to drag us under.”
“Swim where?”
“Clear of the tower, remember? Kilometre at least. How long have we
got?”
Gabriel closed her eyes. “About twenty minutes, maybe less.”
“Do we survive?”
“Some of us do, some of us don’t.” She sounded completely disinterested.
Greg ducked his head round the side of the bricks, bringing it back fast. “Bugger!”
“Now what?”
“They’ve put the fire out. I was hoping it would be a beacon to the ships on the Nene. Somebody might report it.”
That brought a half-hysterical giggle from Gabriel, ending in a gurgling cough. “Don’t you worry, Greg. Lots of people are going to see your tower before tonight’s out. You betcha.”
“Oh, yeah.” He felt stupid. “Let’s go.” He started shrugging out of the dinner jacket, clenching his teeth as his left hand dragged through the arm, it’d swollen badly, skin stretched taut, pulling open the grazes. Trousers followed, and the discovery that buckles are tricky one-handed.
More shouting had broken out from the tower. Lots of conflicting orders interwound with Kendric’s repeated urgings and Armstrong’s controlled barks.
Gabriel gave him a remorseful stare before starting half-heartedly on the buttons of her blouse. Greg peeled his trousers off and helped her pull her blouse gingerly over her inflated left hand.
“Put your shoes back on,” he said.
A third burst of rifle fire lashed the bricks.
They bent double, keeping the bulk of the small pyramid between themselves and the tower as they crept down to the grey slime. The stuff was semiliquid, a thick gelatine that squelched and undulated alarmingly as Greg immersed himself. It closed around him, finding its way into every orifice. But he didn’t sink. In fact the worst of it was on the surface. A sixty-centimetre stratum of water had been sandwiched between the spongy mud and lathery algae.
Gabriel groaned as she lowered herself behind him and the cold mire enveloped her.
Greg began to move, a tortuously slow sidestroke, kicking hard with his feet. Big faecal gobs of the pulpy algae clotted his right arm, splattering over his face. He had to stop every four or five strokes and wipe it off. His eyes were stung raw. Gabriel had it easier. He was pathbreaking for her, clearing a ragged channel.
The Mandel Files Page 44
