The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Shit!” Greg’s hand slammed into her shoulder. As she fell she saw white spiderweb cracks blooming across the glass of the lift. The distinct warble of an electromagnetic rifle cut across the well’s bustle. She landed painfully on her shoulder, Puma bag thumping into her side. Already rolling.

  A stipple sheet of orange flame erupted across the front of the delicatessen behind her. Fucking explosive-tip projectiles! Heat washed over the back of her neck. The toughened-glass windows of the delicatessen simply disintegrated, long, lethal crystalline shards raining down over the food displays and floor. Screams burst out all around the balcony, mixed with the crescendo of smashing glass. Terrified people around her diving for cover.

  Cold fury boiled up. Leol fucking Reiger, like a conditioned lab rat, see her and shoot, never mind there were hundreds of civilians about.

  A high-pitched alarm started to shrill. There was a man on his knees in front of the shattered delicatessen, hands held in front of his face, one of the shards transfixing his wrist. Blood was squirting out of the wound. Two young women in identical stewardess suits were clinging to each other, the fabric of their uniforms punctured as if they’d been peppered with buckshot, each hole the centre of a spreading red stain.

  Suzi rolled again, on to her chest, bringing her legs up, trainers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth tiles.

  “Corridor!” Greg roared above the bedlam. Another volley of electromagnetic rifle fire ripped the air. The plastic sign along the top of the delicatessen’s window flared orange, then ruptured, showering the nearby section of the balcony with fragments of plastic and small chunks of smoking concrete. A fresh round of screaming broke out.

  “Tell Malcolm!” Greg shouted. Then he was running, stooping to keep his head below the level of the rail. Moving surprisingly fast.

  “Malcolm,” she yelled into the cybofax. “The corridor, get into the corridor!”

  Running was easier for her, she didn’t have to bend over as much as Greg. She began to catch him up. An escalator was mindlessly delivering prone bodies on to the balcony; frightened men, women and children, sobbing, holding their hands over their heads. As if that would do any good. She dodged round the outside of the logjam of petrified bodies, nearly tripping on outstretched legs.

  More electromagnetic rifle fire poured out of the lift. They were guessing where she and Greg were now. Projectiles twanged and whined off concrete and the metal of the escalators, bursting into bright fleurets.

  Thenty metres ahead of her, she saw the ginger-headed observer scurry into the corridor. Beyond him, Malcolm was pressed up against the balcony rail, the Tokarev pointing towards the lift railings. A dense ruby beam stabbed out of the pistol. She watched it strike the lift railings, just above the lift itself. There was a fantail plume of cherry-red sparks, a squirt of white molten metal. Suzi heard a grinding metallic shriek rising above the incessant alarm. It cut off with a crunch.

  The shop windows behind Malcolm detonated into flame and scything fragments as the electromagnetic rifles opened fire on him. He hunched down low as glass daggers whirred through the air all around him. Streaks of blood appeared over his suit.

  Suzi risked a glance over the balcony rail. The cage lift was stuck three metres below the balcony. She should have done that, flicked up the mechanism. Malcolm had done all right; security people normally played by the rules, but then, Malcolm was one of Victor’s. Someone in the lift was swinging a rifle towards her. She ducked fast.

  Greg had made it to the entrance of the corridor. He was looking helplessly at Malcolm, who was lying beside the balcony rail, his face screwed up in pain.

  “Get him,” Suzi yelled. She jerked the zip on her Puma bag, spilling the contents on to the floor. Saw the Browning. Grabbed it.

  Greg was edging cautiously towards Malcolm. Suzi flicked the Browning to rapid pulse, and twisted fast, hands over the railing, taking aim.

  There was no glass left in the lift. Leol Reiger’s team were climbing through the open frame, dropping on to the balcony below. Two of them had already made it. They were helping a third who was spread-eagled on the outside of the lift. The remaining four in the lift were covering the balcony with their rifles. Couldn’t see which was Leol.

  She let off three maser pulses; moving the Browning in a slow arc, the way Greg had taught her to use beam weapons in some distant age. One of the figures inside the lift fell backwards, arms windmilling. A small circle of intense flame flared on the back of the man climbing down on to the balcony. She couldn’t tell where the third pulse hit.

  Just as she dived back under cover she saw the man clinging to the outside of the lift begin to fall. She scuttled along behind the balcony rail, wincing as the electromagnetic rifle projectiles chewed at the shop fronts.

  People were moaning now, rather than screaming. Most of the wounds she could see looked superficial, clothing and skin cut by flying glass, smaller deeper fragmentation punctures.

  Greg had one arm around Malcolm, half dragging him towards the corridor. The hardliner’s feet were skating about on the tiles, as if he didn’t have full control over them.

  Suzi lifted the Browning over the balcony again. The tekmercs in the lift had hunched down in the bottom. There was no sign of the two on the balcony. She got off six pulses, holding the beam on the lift. Then she saw one of the tekmercs on the balcony raising his electromagnetic rifle above the railing. She crouched down and raced for the corridor, blazing projectiles chiselling long gouges into the wall above her.

  Greg and Malcolm collapsed on to the walkway leading down into the safety of the corridor. Suzi landed on the ribbed metal segments a couple of metres behind them. She realized how heavily she was breathing, air sucked into her lungs in fast gulps.

  “You OK?” Greg shouted back at her.

  “Yeah.” The walkway seemed to be crawling along, no speed at all. The corridor’s curve was too gentle, she could still see the entrance into the well. The moans and whimpers were fading, but the alarm was still howling away. “How’s Malcolm?”

  “Functional,” the security hardliner answered with a weak reply.

  “Can you make out if Leol’s team are coming after us?” she asked Greg.

  “Not yet.”

  Malcolm drew his cybofax out of his top pocket and muttered something to it. He studied the display. “There’s a SWAT squad on its way to the well, Prezda security think it’s a lone psycho burner on the loose.”

  “Can you break in and tell them it’s a tekmerc team?” Suzi asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do it; if the police go out there unprepared Leol’s crazies will snuff the lot of them.”

  Malcolm spoke into the cybofax.

  “How bad does this Reiger hate you?” Greg asked.

  “Bad enough. Sodding mutual it is, too.”

  “Will he leave Baronski to come after you?”

  “Doubt it. He’s fucking insane, but not stupid. He knows he’s got to get Baronski now, or he’s blown his deal. I’ll be around for a long time. We’ll have our little chat later.”

  Greg climbed to his feet, helping Malcolm to stand. Suzi looked back; the well was out of sight. She stood, yelling at the sharp unexpected pain in her left leg. When she looked down, the shellsuit was torn around the knee. A clump of glass needles were embedded in the flesh, blood flowing freely. Now her senses were calming down she was aware of other lacerations, arms, back, buttocks. Little tingle points, hot and sticky.

  “Jesus wept,” she muttered.

  They reached the end of the walkway. A group of people were milling about, numb and white faced as zombies. Some of them had cuts and nicks from the glass fragments. They looked balefully at Suzi. She realized the Browning was still in her hand, its red LED charge light winking steadily.

  “Next set of lifts,” Greg said impassively. Malcolm was leaning on him heavily, limping. The back of his jacket was sodden with blood.

  Suzi followed the pair of them through the silent group
on to the next walkway. She hated the accusations in their stares. Wanting to explain, it wasn’t me. Blame Leol Reiger. No use.

  “What next?” she asked. The alarm’s cry was reduced to a distant whistle now.

  Greg’s eyes were unfocused. There was blood on his face, oozing from small cuts on his cheeks, a deep one right next to his eye.

  They’d been lucky, she knew. If Leol had thought about it, planned it out instead of letting his instincts rule…

  “Tactical retreat,” Greg said. “None of us is in any fit state to do anything. I’ve lost track of the observer. And chasing after the one back in the well is a definite no. Besides, if you’re right about Reiger, our lead over Fielder is getting narrower by the second. Bugger, but I wanted to know who else we were up against.”

  At the end of the walkway they took a lift up to the next floor, then switched. Malcolm slumped against the steel-panel wall, sucking down shallow breaths. Suzi was getting worried about the amount of blood he was losing. It was dripping steadily off his jacket, soaking the floor. He was muttering something in a slurred voice.

  Greg tugged his cybofax out as the lift doors slid shut. “Rachel, we’re in shaft A1 7, lift five. Bring the Pegasus as close to it as you can, and come and get us. It’s hit the fan, OK?”

  “On our way, Greg,” Rachel’s voice said out of the wafer.

  Suzi’s cybofax bleeped. She pulled it out of her top pocket with stiff fingers, knowing who it would be.

  Leol Reiger’s face filled the little screen. His corpse flesh was actually coloured, cheeks red. She could see one of Baronski’s porno art paintings on the wall behind him.

  “Two of my team, Suzi bitch. You snuffed two of them.”

  There was a woman’s scream in the background, Suzi thought it might be Iol. Leol Reiger never paid it any attention.

  “You fucking well brought them here, Leol. You ordered them to open fire when there were civilians around, you paranoid rat prick. They were sitting ducks in that lift. Your screw-up tactics. Your fault.”

  “I’ve got a deal to close right now, Suzi. But afterwards, you and I are going to say hello. First I’m gonna sprain your mind, show you a scene that’ll make you scream; then I’m gonna snap your little kiddy body in two. You read me, bitch?”

  “Bollocks. You’re on the wrong side of this deal, Leol. I’ve got the fucking English Army behind me.” She savoured the momentary flash of puzzlement on his face, then said, “Say hi to the SWAT squad for me, Leol,” and flipped him off. The tremble in her legs was nothing to do with the glass fragments.

  The lift opened into a passenger lounge, plastic chairs arranged in a zigzag pattern, hologram adverts of civil hypersonics slicing through clean sunny skies, departure information screens, a children’s play area. An echoic tannoy voice was announcing a flight arrival. The first thing Suzi saw when the lift doors opened was Rachel and Pearse racing towards them, Tokarevs held ready. Waiting passengers scrambled out of the way.

  Rachel’s eyes widened in surprise when she saw them. “Lord hellfire, anything serious?”

  “Malcolm’s out, can’t walk,” Greg said.

  “I got him,” Pearse said. He pulled Malcolm’s arms around over his chest, and lifted him piggyback style. Suzi didn’t notice any drop in speed as he began to jog for the lounge door.

  The Pegasus was taxiing towards the lounge as they came out into the hangar. Greg went up the belly-hatch stairs first, then Pearse, Suzi followed with Rachel bringing up the rear.

  Malcolm had been lowered into one of the chairs at the front of the cabin. A couple of wall lockers were open, aluminium first aid cases on the floor. Pearse was easing his colleague’s tattered soggy jacket off. “We’ll have to cut the trousers,” he said. It was all very tight and professional, she thought.

  “Fine,” Greg muttered, raiding the first aid kits for a diagnostic sensor and antiseptic sprays. He handed Pearse an infuser tube, which the hardliner pressed against Malcolm’s neck.

  The belly hatch slid shut.

  “Where to?” Rachel asked.

  “Out,” Suzi said. “Now. We should have some co-ordinates coming from Julia in a little while. But just get us out.”

  Rachel snatched up the handset.

  Suzi started worrying about Leol Reiger’s transport. Himself, a psychic, and at least six hardliners; whatever he’d arrived in it had to be big, and probably loaded with defence hardware, knowing Leol.

  “Grab hold of something,” Rachel called.

  The flatscreen showed the Pegasus turning towards one of the lift platforms. Suzi could hear the compressors surging. With a rush of childish delight she knew what the pilot was going to do. She sank quickly into one of the chairs. Her knee was giving her hell.

  There was a push of acceleration, and the Pegasus began its run for the platform. Hangar staff rushed to get clear. She felt the drop as they shot over the edge, her belly suddenly freefalling. The grassy valley floor with its railway lines and twin autobahns filled the flatscreen. Then they were bottoming out, swooping up again above the Prezda’s dome.

  “Is this plane fitted with an ECM system?” she asked.

  Rachel looked up from the handset. “Yes.”

  “Tell the pilot to use it, and fly an evasion pattern through the mountains. We might be followed.”

  “Right.”

  “Suzi!” Greg called. “Take over from me, will you?”

  She rose from the chair, the pain in her knee more acute. Malcolm was unconscious; Pearse had got his jacket and shirt off, and was spraying the wounds with antiseptic. The clear oily liquid mixed with blood, forming runnels across Malcolm’s ribs, splashing on the chair fabric.

  Suzi checked the data the diagnostic was displaying on its screen. Her guess about the blood had been right, he was losing too much. She found a plasma bladder, and pulled out its bioware leech patch. The patch resembled a flattened snail, a hard carapace with a soft spongy underside, connected to the plasma bladder with a plastic tube. She held Malcolm’s forearm and pressed the leech pad against his skin. There was a soft sucking sound as it adhered. The pattern of yellow and green LED on the bladder’s pump changed as the leech patch inserted its needle probes into his blood vessels, then it began feeding plasma into him.

  Greg sat down gingerly in one of the chairs, and gave Victor Tyo’s number to his cybofax.

  Suzi heard the security chief say, “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

  “Tell you, we’re not the only people looking for Charlotte Fielder.” He started to fill Victor in on the events in the Prezda.

  Suzi began spraying dermal seal on Malcolm’s lacerations; the foam sizzled as it touched the skin, rapidly solidifying into a pale blue membrane. She was continually bracing herself as the plane banked and rose. Malcolm’s back had been badly slashed by the flying glass. She had to use flesh tape on the wider cuts. Pearse was working on his legs, using a small sensor pad to find any buried glass fragments.

  “Hey,” she said quietly. “He did all right, your mate. Stopped those tekmercs dead.”

  “Reason he was chosen,” Pearse grunted.

  “Yeah, right.” Suzi heard Greg rounding up, and asked Rachel to finish for her. She limped back to where Greg was sitting. A glance at the bulkhead flatscreen showed a continual blur of rock.

  “You too?” Victor asked when Greg handed her the cybofax.

  Suzi sat heavily in one of the chairs, grimacing. The hand she was holding the cybofax with was filmed in dried blood, and not all of it was Malcolm’s. “Yeah. But you should see the opposition.”

  “I know, Greg told me.”

  “Listen, Leol Reiger, I know him. He’s a prize turd, but the bastard’s good.”

  “I’m reviewing his profile now, Suzi. But I was aware of the name. Have you got any idea who employed him, any rumours?”

  “Nope, sorry. Gave me a fuck of a shock seeing him there.” She stared at Victor’s concerned young-seeming face, her instincts rebelling against confi
ding in him. Security man. But she had hardlined with him once, seventeen years ago, some weird case Greg was working on for Julia. It was just she hated opening herself to anyone. “Victor, there’s this girl. Name’s Andria Landon. She’s in my apartment at the Soreyheath condominium; not a hardliner, not even tekmerc. Means she can’t look out for herself. So if Leol Reiger wants to hit me, she’s the obvious choice. You got a safehouse she can stay at till I get back?”

  “No problem, I’m dispatching a couple of my people, they’ll have her out of there in twenty minutes.” He said it all crisp and efficient, which she figured was his way of not showing surprise.

  “They’ve got to be good, Victor.”

  He was looking at something off-screen, typing. “They will be. Call her now and tell her they’re coming: Howard Lovell, and Katie Sansom. Got the names?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Victor.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Victor came down out of the Pegasus on to Wilholm Manor’s lawn. He was greeted by a rich scent of honeysuckle in the moist air. The sprinklers had been on, drenching the lawns, keeping the grass lush and green. His shoes were swiftly coated in the artificial dew.

  The Manor in front of him was a long classical grey-stone building, three stories high. It dated back to the eighteenth century, although it had undergone considerable modernization and refurbishment over the years. The last major overhaul had come when Julia and Philip Evans bought it, right after PSP fell, ousting the communal farmers and virtually gutting the interior before returning it to an opulence of a bygone age.

  Wilholm estate was a rare enclave of gracious living, Victor always thought, out of sync with the present and all its digital bustle. A true English country house, basking in an eternal Indian summer. Birds always singing, flowers always in bloom. Time slowed down here.

  Rick Parnell trotted down the stairs out of the executive hypersonic’s belly hatch, carrying his suit jacket over his shoulder. When he was clear of the plane he turned a full circle, gawping at the grounds like an overawed tourist. “Bloody hell, you mean somebody actually lives here? It looks like a theme park.”