The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  One law for the rich, another for the poor. Nothing ever really changed, not even in the data currency age. And why was he getting so cynical all of a sudden?

  Baronski was sitting listlessly in the settee, face morbid. “Please tell me, what has Charlotte done?”

  “She hasn’t done anything herself,” Greg said. “It looks like she just got caught up in something a lot bigger. We’re not angry with her, OK? But we do need to talk to her. Urgently.”

  “Yes. I’ll tell her if she gets in touch. Thank you, Mr Mandel.”

  Greg stood up. There was a sharp twang from his intuition, an intimation that he was being sold short. He glanced sharply at Baronski, a shrunken figure lost in his own anxiety. The curse of intuition was its lack of clarity, he was never quite certain.

  “Anything you want to ask?” he asked Suzi.

  “Nah.”

  “OK. If Charlotte does get in touch with you, ask her to call us, please. It will save everyone an awful lot of trouble.”

  “I shall,” Baronski said. He put his glass down, and picked up a gold cybofax. Greg squirted his number over.

  “Well?” Suzi asked as they left the apartment.

  “Dunno. I get the impression he’s cheating us somehow.”

  “So why didn’t you ask him about it?”

  “Ask him what? Sorry, Dmitri, but what haven’t you told us? Fat lot of use that would be. You know my empathy is only good for specifics.”

  “Yeah. Skinny little fart, wasn’t he?”

  “It’s not a crime.” Greg saw Malcolm Ramkartra was still waiting by the open door of the lift. His espersense stretched out again. There were four observers in the well now, and that was just the ones within range. “I think it’s about time we found out a bit more about the opposition.”

  “Suits me.”

  Greg walked out into the centre of the corridor, and beckoned Malcolm Ramkartra.

  “What did the liaison officer say?” he asked when the hardliner reached them.

  “He didn’t know the surveillance team were here. There’s no police operation on this floor.”

  “No shit?” Suzi said.

  “OK. Malcolm, I want to talk to one of the observers. We’re going back to the well; I’ll physically identify one and we’ll work a pincer on him. You go round the balcony clockwise, Suzi and I will take anticlockwise. If he backs off down a corridor, so much the better, he’ll be isolated for a while. If you reach him first, then immobilize him, but make sure he’s still conscious. Don’t worry about visibility, tell you, this deal is important, OK?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr Tyo explained that to us.”

  “Right, and the name’s Greg.”

  Malcolm Ramkartra gave a quick smile, his thoughts tightening up. There wasn’t any worry present, a true pro. Greg realized how little he knew about him, apart from the fact that he’d be the best. This deal was so bloody rushed.

  “Let’s go.” They began to walk towards the well. “Two of them are sitting at a table in front of the window. The third is almost in the same place as the one Malcolm spotted earlier. The fourth is a woman, on the balcony above ours, hovering ten metres from the corridor on our left. So we’ll take number three.”

  “How long do you need with him?” Malcolm Ramkartra asked.

  “About a minute.”

  “Oh.” This time there was a flutter of consternation in his thought currents.

  “And no, I can’t read your mind directly.”

  Suzi gave a wicked chuckle.

  Two men stepped into the corridor from the well. The one in front had a pale face, wounded amber eyes, his ebony hair swept back and clinging to his skull. His suit was dark grey, baggy trousers and a black belt with a silver lion-head buckle. Everything about him shouted hardliner.

  The other was an oriental, his hair in braids ending in tiny ringlets. He possessed a surly confidence bordering on egomania.

  Suzi stopped dead.

  The first man gave a start, and put his hand on the arm of his partner.

  His mind was the perfect twin of Suzi’s, Greg saw. The two of them flush with loathing and alarm, ricocheting back and forth, building.

  “Suzi,” said the man in the suit. “The oddest places. Yes?”

  “Leol Reiger, still trailing way behind as per flicking usual.”

  “Depends what I’m after.”

  “Baronski,” Suzi said firmly, and turned to Greg. “Was he?”

  The initial confusion in Leol Reiger’s had mind twisted to sharp alarm at the mention of Baronski’s name.

  “Yeah, he knows Baronski.”

  Leol Reiger’s eyes never left Suzi. “Who’s your friend, Suzi?” he asked softly.

  “Never seen him before in my life.”

  “Chad,” Leol Reiger said.

  The younger oriental man grinned at Greg. “Hey, voodoo man, you do this?”

  Greg was caught by surprise at the speed with which Chad’s psi arose. Ordinary misty thought currents suddenly gleamed like chrome, rich with arrogant power. Chad’s espersense unfurled, black daemon wings taking Greg into their implacable embrace.

  The sensation was like a hot wet tongue slipping right through his temple, licking round his brain. Gone before he could harden his mind against it.

  And he’d never even bothered to take the most elementary precaution. Jumped like a total novice. Chad must be loaded with sacs; themed neurohormones stored at critical sections through the brain, lifting the psi faculty from dormant to active like throwing a switch.

  “Mr Greg Mandel is a gland psychic,” Chad said, his grin widening to mock.

  “Really?” said Leol Reiger.

  Greg could sense Suzi’s annoyance, twined with a small thread of exasperation that she should be let down like this. He increased his gland’s secretion, shame damping down as a cool anger surfaced in his thoughts; remembering the games the Brigade used to play in barracks. Squaddies’ games, the kind played after days in combat, when life and dignity had been reduced to zero. The ones the Mindstar project directors had frowned upon, too dangerous for their valuable personnel to indulge in.

  “And a Mindstar Brigade veteran as well,” Chad went on. “A real top gun in his day. Like, a century ago.”

  “So what is this?” Leol Reiger asked. “You running a pensioner’s outing, Suzi?”

  “I’d hate to think you were treading on my turf, Leol. That’d piss me off real bad,” Suzi growled back.

  Greg tried to keep track of the observers’ reactions. They were alert and interested by the confrontation. Nothing to do with Leol Reiger, then.

  “Back off, bitch,” said Leol Reiger. “And you,” he flicked a finger at Malcolm Ramkartra, “keep your hand away from that shoulder holster. I’ll chop you into fucking dogmeat, else. Got it?”

  “That’s enough,” Greg said. “You two aren’t going to see Baronski, he belongs to us now. Fuck off, the pair of you.”

  “Jesus, a geriatric control-freak,” Leol Reiger sneered. “Chad, deal with him.”

  Greg thought of a knife, bright steel shimmering, needle tip pricking the skin on the bridge of Chad’s nose.

  Chad began to laugh, his thoughts flaring as the sacs discharged again and the neurohormone dose hit his bloodstream. “Gonna crack your mind open like an eggshell, war hero.”

  Greg tensed his mind behind the imaginary blade, and -

  – reality flickered-

  – and pushed. Chad’s thoughts were too hard, too closely packed. The knife slithered across their congealed surface, denied an opening.

  “Best you can do?” Chad asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Too bad.”

  “That’s why I always bring my little friend along,” Greg said, nodding at a point behind Chad.

  Screams broke out in the well. People were pushing and shoving as they raced past the end of the corridor, terror in their faces. Display stands went crashing to the ground. One of the barrows was overturned, oranges and nectarines t
umbling about across the tiled floor.

  The beast was about the size of a lion, jet black, covered in an ice-smooth exoskeleton. Talons made skittering noises against the tiles as it padded round the corner into the corridor. Its head was a streamlined nightmare, eyes buried in deep recesses, razor fins on its crown, tapering reptilian muzzle.

  Chad gaped at it, frozen in disbelief.

  “Shit almighty,” Suzi squawked in panic.

  Leol Reiger stumbled a step backwards, his pale face shocked. The beast screeched, a metallic keen that threatened to shatter glass. Chad threw his hands over his ears, yelling in fright. The sound cut off.

  “Kill,” Greg said.

  “No!” Chad wailed. He turned to run.

  The beast leapt, forelimbs catching Chad’s left shoulder, extended talons slashing. Blood squirted. Chad was flung into the walkway’s handrail. He screamed at the pain as his mangled arm took the full weight of the impact. Tears squeezed out of his eyes. He doubled over, clamping his right hand over his left shoulder, blood bubbled through his fingers, staining his sleeve.

  “Jesus Christ, call the fucker off.”

  Leol Reiger went for his weapon, hand fumbling inside his suit jacket. Malcolm Ramkartra’s arm moved with a smooth fast piston motion, as if his body was working in accelerated time; his Tokarev pistol pressed against Leol Reiger’s neck… “Don’t,” he whispered happily.

  The beast turned, head swinging round to focus on Chad. Its long muzzle snapped shut with a crack like a rifle.

  Chad whimpered, cowering, staggering backwards. “Please God, don’t let it.”

  He was bowled over by the beast, his head smacking on to the tiles. The beast’s powerful muzzle opened centimetres from his face, and it let out a long undulating howl. A narrow gap in the exoskeleton between its hindlegs split open, grotesque genitalia arose.

  Chad’s mouth shrieked soundlessly, and-

  – reality flickered-

  – and he puked.

  There was no beast, no blood, no shredded arm. Chad was curled up on the floor, hands wrapped round his head, sobbing quietly. The stench of vomit and piss curled the air.

  Leol Reiger was staring down at him an amazement. “What the fuck-” Amber eyes jerked up to fix Greg, betraying the wild flames of consternation that were burning in the mind.

  “No expense spared, eh, Leol?” Suzi said. “You always have the best on your squad.”

  “Take him away,” Greg told Leol Reiger in a dead voice. “And don’t come back.”

  “Shit on you,” Leol Reiger spat. He kicked Chad. “Up, you useless bastard. Get up.”

  Chad dropped his hands from his face, blinking tears from his eyes. He looked round in lost confusion. Saw Greg and flinched.

  “Get up.”

  Chad grasped the walkway rail, breathing heavily, and hauled himself to his feet.

  Greg could feel the first twinges of the neurohormone hangover scratching away behind his temple. With the effusion level he’d used they would soon accelerate into stabs of white-hot lightning crackling round the inside of his skull.

  “Bugger, but I hate eidolonics,” he muttered.

  Leol Reiger and Chad turned the corner out into the well, Chad reeling like a drunk. Several shoppers watched their progress.

  “I never knew you could do that,” Suzi said.

  Malcolm Ramkartra was looking at him with a studied expression, respectful, and more than a little disconcerted.

  “Oh yeah,” Greg said. “But it costs.”

  Each of the observers had become a whirlpool of excitement. One of them began to follow Leol Reiger.

  “Who was that?” he asked Suzi.

  “Leol fucking Reiger, real bundle of fun. Likes to think he’s a premier-grade tekmerc, but he’s just a jumped up hardliner with an attitude problem.”

  “I thought the two of you were trying to out-cool each other to death.”

  Suzi’s face hardened. “Listen, he might be a prize prick, but if he’s in on this deal there’s serious trouble brewing.”

  “Yeah, he’s not working with the observers for a start.”

  “Oh, bollocks. A third group involved.” She sucked in air, letting it whistle through her teeth. “Greg, I don’t like this.”

  “Tell you, me neither.”

  Leol Reiger and Chad sank out of his perception range. They had taken one of the glass cage lifts down the side of the well.

  “What now?” Suzi asked.

  “I still want to talk to one of those observers. But first I think we’d better make use of the small lead we’ve got.”

  “Are you going to warn Baronski?” Malcolm Ramkartra asked.

  Greg thought for a moment. Leol Reiger’s mind had been screaming for vengeance as he disappeared. “No. Reiger has gone to regroup, that’s all. We’ve got a small breathing space. Baronski isn’t our concern, if we try and safeguard him, Reiger will come after us, and I don’t know what he’s loaded with.” He gave Suzi an enquiring glance.

  “God knows,” she said. “But he won’t be travelling lightweight. He’ll have hardline backup, and he’ll have made sure it’s enough to get him into Baronski’s apartment.”

  “So scratch Baronski, maybe the observers will protect him when they see Reiger coming back. Then, maybe not. Our advantage is we know about Whitehurst, let’s exploit that.” Greg pulled his cybofax from his top pocket, and give it Julia’s number. He squinted at the screen when she came on; she was sitting in the back seat of her Rolls. The real Julia. “How were the speeches?”

  “Boring, I’ll trade places with you next time.”

  “Deal. Listen, are you up to date?”

  “Yes, her name’s Charlotte Fielder, and you’re going to see Baronski.”

  “Seen him. Trouble is, there’s one very pissed off tekmerc here called Leol Reiger who wants to see him as well.”

  “Do you need assistance?”

  “No, he’s gone now. But Baronski is being watched, and not by Reiger. That means at least two other groups are on the same trail we are.”

  “Dear Lord. Who, Greg?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell us.”

  Julia sucked her lower lip in concern. “No, sorry. I’ll get my team on it.”

  “You do that. But at least we’ve got a lead on Fielder from Baronski. He told us that she’s gone off with someone called Jason Whitehurst, a trader. Do you know him?”

  “Jason? Yes, I know him, I even do business with him. He places some of my gear in Africa and the Far East; he runs some complex exchange deals, but he’s reliable. I’ve met him at a few functions… Quite a nice old boy. You’d get on well with him, Greg, he’s ex-miitary.”

  “No messing? Well, that boy who left the El Harhari with Charlotte Fielder was Jason Whitehurst’s son, Fabian; so she’s definitely with Whitehurst. The thing is, Baronski can’t contact her. Apparently Whitehurst lives in an airship, and he’s not answering calls. I need its co-ordinates.”

  “Jason’s son?” Julia asked.

  Greg picked up on the puzzlement in her voice. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think so, Greg, Jason’s gay.”

  “Christ,” Suzi muttered. “You said it, Greg, that old fart Baronski cheated you. How about we go back and find out who the kid really is?”

  The neurohormone hangover was beginning to bite. He tried to concentrate. “Irrelevant; Charlotte left with that boy, and Baronski believed he was Jason Whitehurst’s son. So whatever this Fabian character really is, he and Jason are operating together. And Jason is definitely plugged in somewhere down the line; why else did he pull his vanishing act? Julia, assemble a full profile on Jason Whitehurst for us, and find out where the bloody hell that airship is.”

  “OK, it’s already underway.”

  “Fine, call me back when you have something.” He tucked the cybofax back into his top pocket. “Right, let’s go and lift one of those observers.”

  “I wonder who’s paying Leol?” Suzi
asked as they walked towards the well.

  “One at a time, Suzi, please.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Haunted?” Fabian’s eyes widened in delight. “How can an asteroid be haunted?”

  “I’ve no idea; it was only a rumour,” Charlotte replied idly. She hugged one of the den’s cushions. It was fun doing it on the cushions, there were lots of combinations they could be used in, imagination and gravity the only limits. None of her usual patrons could have coped with her inventiveness; even with their expensive clinic treatments joints creaked, muscles soon tired. But Fabian was more than capable, and becoming increasingly proficient under her tutelage. “How does anywhere get to be haunted?”

  It was gloomy in the den, Fabian had turned the biolums off, leaving just the light from the fish tanks and the flat-screens to illuminate them. A black and white videoke scene they had recorded earlier was playing on the biggest flatscreen, showing Charlotte going through one of Charlie Chaplin’s slapstick routines. Fabian had stolen a dinner jacket and trousers from his father’s wardrobe for her to wear. They were baggy enough to complete the ‘little tramp’ image, but even after five goes she couldn’t get the movements quite right. The holographic exoskeleton which choreographed her limb movements was inordinately difficult to follow. She was beginning to respect just how gymnastic Chaplin must have been.

  “If something really terrible happens to a chap, like a murder or something, then his spirit is so heavy with grief that it lingers,” Fabian said. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

  “Hmm, don’t think there have been any murders in New London yet. They used to say that shooting stars were the souls of emperors ascending to heaven; perhaps they all migrated into the asteroid.”