The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  External camera, portside fuselage. One of the armoured tekmerc squad had broken away from his colleagues, charging towards the gondola much too fast. He cannoned into a cabin through the gap in the hull which the rip gun had made, arm just catching the edge.

  Internal camera, gondola upper-deck cabin. The armoured figure spinning chaotically, bouncing off walls and ceiling. Legs and arms thrashing about, splintering the composite. He wound up jammed into a corner, jetpack still firing, boots a metre off the ground. The Lockheed rip gun fell from his gauntlet. His legs began a running motion in midair, toe caps hammering deeply into the bulkhead.

  Julia brought additional processing power on line for that. Armour malfunction? Some sort of flying phobia? There was no rational explanation.

  Internal camera, gondola lower-deck crew lounge. The remaining nine members of the squad were all assembled in the lounge. Their movements were sluggish, forced, the same as Suzi.

  One of them pointed his rip gun at the mangled door. Fired. Fire alarms howled in protest throughout the gondola.

  The squad clattered out into the lower-deck central corridor, heading for the prow. A couple of the Colonel Maitland’s cabin crew were in the central corridor, a steward and a maid. Both of them listless and drowsy. They gawped at the approaching tekmerc squad.

  “Where is Charlotte Fielder?” one of the squad asked. His amplified voice was loud in the confined space of the corridor, menacing.

  The steward looked about, his face white. “She might be with Fabian Whitehurst, in his cabin, or hers. I’m not sure.”

  There was a momentary pause.

  “Where is Jason Whitehurst?”

  “In his study.” The steward pointed a wavering hand down the corridor towards the prow. “That way.”

  Four squad members stepped forward.

  “You will show these four where Fabian Whitehurst’s cabin is.”

  The steward jerked his head in terror.

  One of the squad reached out and grabbed the maid. She screamed.

  “Be quiet. You come with us to the study.”

  She began to snivel. The armoured figure jerked her along, nearly lifting her off the floor.

  Julia accessed the Colonel Maitland’s radio gear, letting the raw signals flow directly into the lightware cruncher. The white-noise howl of the Messerschmitt’s jammer dominated every frequency. She began to slot in filter programs. The tekmerc squad had to have some way of communicating.

  She found a string of digital pulses in the UHF band, and refined the filter programs to kill the last of the jammer interference. A decryption program was loaded into the circuit.

  Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

  Tekmerc one: “…know what the fuck’s happened to Chad. Those psychic freakos are beating the hell out of each other somehow. You know how it is with them.”

  Tekmerc two: “God, it’s like my head’s on fire. There are corridors everywhere, like a bloody maze.”

  Tekmerc one: “No, there aren’t. Fight it, turn up your photon-amp brightness. There’s only one corridor.”

  Tekmerc two: “Sure thing, Leol.”

  Julia identified Tekmerc one as Leol Reiger. Her own abridged memories contained a concise security file on him.

  She assigned the cause of the lone tekmerc’s spasming run as due to Greg’s psi effusion.

  Tekmerc three: “Shouldn’t we try to find Mandel and Suzi?”

  Leol Reiger: “Suppose you tell me where the hell to look now Chad’s weirded out.”

  Tekmerc three: “So how about helping Chad?”

  Leol Reiger: “How, you dipshit cretin?”

  Tekmerc three: “Sorry, Leol. Can’t think with this psychic shit screwing my mind.”

  Leol Reiger: “Concentrate on finding the Fielder girl. And forget about the psychics, this corridor crap won’t last much longer. They’ll burn their brains out at this rate.”

  Internal camera, study. Jason Whitehurst was sitting behind his desk cradling his head in his hands, rocking slowly back and forth, moaning, saliva bubbling from his lips. The two hardline bodyguards were covering the door with their Racal laser carbines, faces hard.

  Gondola internal camera review. Snatched images flicked into the lightware cruncher as Julia shuffled through the inputs searching for Charlotte Fielder. The bridge with its crew, faces strained, hunched over their consoles, shouting hoarsely at each other. Lower-deck corridor with the two groups of tekmercs walking away from each other, frightened blank faces of the steward and maid. Lower-deck cabins, lounges, gym, a sauna; all deserted. One cabin provisionally assigned to Fabian: a mishmash of toys and clothes sprayed about. Crew quarters at the prow, their small double cabins decorated with hologram pin-ups, a big mess room with a flatscreen showing mushy static, communal washroom, laundry. The crew members were curled up in their chairs or lying on bunks, woozy, afflicted by Greg’s psi effusion. Greg and Suzi in the upper-deck corridor, directly above the crew quarters. Upper-deck cabins, beautifully furnished staterooms, a dining-room right at the stern, a swimming-pool, the water nearly gone, a terrific whirlpool in the centre.

  Fuselage internal camera review. The cameras fixed to the geodetic framework were all black and white, providing her with pictures of the narrow dimly lit longitudinal walkways, the gasbags looming oppressively. Next came pictures of ladders and stairs pinned to the transverse frames. Cylindrical maintenance drones sliding along their rails, folded waldos at both ends, like cybernetic mandibles.

  Someone was climbing up a ladder near the stern. A woman in a maid’s dress, totally unaffected by the psi effusion. At three hundred metres she was too far away from Greg, the effect was localized, centring round the gondola.

  Julia accessed the crew records, matching the face with a file image. The maid’s name was Nia Korovilla, she had been a crew member for eight years. A Russian national, with good references from three hotels, a clean employment record.

  There was no reason for her to be where she was. Julia assigned a subroutine to keep watching her.

  Internal camera, gondola lower deck, Fabian’s cabin. The tekmercs with the steward broke in. They didn’t bother with the lock, simply punching out the door. It swung inwards, buckled by the first tekmerc’s kick. The four of them entered, rip guns held ready.

  Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

  Tekmerc four: “Leol, Frank here, there’s no one in the boy’s cabin.”

  Leol Reiger: “OK, Frank, try the girl’s. And ask the steward if there’s anywhere else they’re likely to be. Find her!”

  Tekmerc four, identified, Frank: “Will do.”

  Tekmerc five: “Hey! Hey feel that, it’s stopped.”

  Tekrnerc six: “Christ yeah.”

  Tekmerc seven: “Bout time.”

  Tekmerc three: “Hell, I can see properly again.”

  Leol Reiger: “Chad, Chad, check in.”

  Tekmerc six: “He had to win. Man, he’s got some power, turn your brain inside out from half a klick.”

  Leol Reiger: “Chad, answer, fuck you.”

  Tekrnerc two: “Come on, Chad!”

  Leol Reiger: “Right, scratch Chad. If he couldn’t handle some fucking geriatric Army relic he’s better off out of it. Don’t make no difference to us, he was just a convenience. We go through all the cabins until we find the whore. Right out of the manual. Now let’s see some action out of you bastards.”

  Internal camera, gondola upper-deck cabin. Chad’s jetpack was still pressing him up into the corner of the cabin, helmet pushing against the ceiling. His legs had stopped running, arms hanging limply. A phone mike was picking up the jet-pack noise, a strident whine. The bed’s counterpane had been caught in the efflux, blown towards the hole in the wall where it had snagged on the edge, flapping vigorously.

  Internal camera, fuselage keel. Suzi had climbed up the stairs from the gondola, her Browning pistol pointing ahead along the walkway. Greg followed, looking enervated, the skin around his eye
s baggy and dark, but he was alive.

  Julia knew her flesh and blood self would be flooded with relief that he had beaten Chad.

  Logically, if Charlotte Fielder wasn’t in the gondola, and Greg and Suzi were heading up into the fuselage, then Charlotte Fielder must be in the fuselage too. Somewhere.

  Julia reviewed the airship structural schematic again.

  Behind the last full-sized gasbag there was an engineering bay that held the giga-conductor cells, and heat exchangers.

  In the centre was a disused chamber that used to hold the MHD units. It was drawing power from the main electrical bus.

  She plugged into the chamber’s fibre-optic cables.

  Internal camera, upper gondola deck cabin, provisionally assigned resident: Charlotte Fielder. The four tekmercs were inside. One of them walked through the wooden slat door to the bathroom, snapping it apart without breaking stride. Three had his rip gun trained on the steward who was hugging his chest, jaw clenched.

  “Where else would she be?” the tekmerc asked. He prodded the steward with the barrel of his rip gun. The man’s cheeks bulged out.

  “Pool, she used the swimming-pool a lot, or Fabian’s den. He’s always up there.”

  “I’ve got the pool location loaded in my suit gear, but which room is the boy’s den?”

  “Not in the gondola,” the steward said. “It’s up in the fuselage, right back at the tail. Some sort of old engine room, he plays his music deck-up there, stuff like that.”

  Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

  Frank: “Leol, I think we may have her. The Whitehurst boy hangs out up in the fuselage tail, he’s got some sort of den up there. We’re going up to check the pool first, then we’ll try the tail. It must be in the engineering bay.”

  Leo Reiger: “OK, I’m putting the squeeze on the old man. Let me know the instant you get anything.”

  Frank: “What if we meet the psychic? He must know where Fielder is, he and Suzi will be heading for her now.”

  Leol Reiger: “Snuff the psychic bloke, Mandel, but save Suzi bitch for me.”

  Frank: “Christ, Leol, I don’t know, that woman, she’s one major hazard. I see what she did to Nathe and Joely back at the Prezda. Two shots, that’s all it took her. Catching her, that’s maybe not such a good idea. It’s complicated, Leol. We don’t need it.”

  Leol Reiger: “Give the flicking verbals a rest. You got armour. You got stunshots for the Fielder whore, ain’t you? Use ‘em. Triple bonus for the one that wings Suzi bitch for me.”

  Frank: “All right, Leol. You say.”

  Leol Reiger: “I do.”

  Internal camera, aft fuselage keel walkway. Greg and Suzi were approaching the tail section, moving at a steady jog. He seemed to be recovering from his gland-induced lethargy, limbs flowing in an easier, more fluid rhythm.

  Julia used a key on a nearby transverse frame to plug into Greg’s cybofax. It bleeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

  “I wondered where you’d got to,” he said.

  Suzi stopped and looked at the cybofax screen.

  “I take it you’re trying to find Charlotte Fielder,” Julia said.

  “Yeah, she’s somewhere around here. I sensed her earlier, I was just about to have another sniff round.”

  “I believe she is in the old MHD chamber, along with Fabian Whitehurst. It’s in the middle of the engineering bay; I worked out a route for you.” She squirted the data into the wafer, lining the walkways and ladders they would have to use in red. “You’d better get a move on. There is a woman in front of you, Nia Korovilla, one of the Colonel Maitland’s maids; I don’t know what she’s doing there, but she’s closing on the chamber. And four of Leol Reiger’s tekmercs are behind you, also heading for the MHD chamber.”

  “Oh, great,” said Suzi.

  “Once you get Fielder, I can keep you ahead of the tekmercs,” Julia said. “I have them all under observation.”

  “Thanks, Julia,” Greg said. “We’re on our way.”

  Internal camera, study. Both of Jason Whitehurst’s hardline bodyguards were dead. They lay on the floor, bodies torn open by rip-gun bolts, blood pooling around them. The maid Leol Reiger had hauled along had gone into catatonic shock, curled up against the settee in a foetal position, eyes squeezed shut.

  Leol Reiger hadn’t even bothered to use the door. There was a big rent in the wall, its craggy edges bent inward. He was standing in front of the desk, the four accompanying members of his squad fanned out behind him.

  Jason Whitehurst still clung to an air of pride, defeated but not broken.

  “Call your son, and have him tell us where Fielder is,” Leol Reiger’s amplified voice said. “That’s all we want, Fielder. We get her, we leave. No more hazard to you and your crew.”

  “And the alternative?” Jason Whitehurst asked. “Aren’t you going to threaten me?”

  “Why? You already know the way it is. Snuff you, your crew, this ship. Your son. Especially your son.”

  Jason Whitehurst glared at the armoured figure. “I had agreed a price with your paymaster.”

  Leol Reiger took a pace forward. “I would hate to think you were stalling.”

  Julia decided to intervene. She plugged into the study’s flatscreens, using an image-synthesizer program to reproduce her face. The camera showed five of her suddenly looking down on the scene, another face encased inside the desk.

  “Jason isn’t stalling,” she said out of the speakers.

  Rip guns came up in alarm, the tekmercs turning in jerky agitated movements.

  “Jesus, that’s Julia Evans,” one of them stuttered.

  “Oh yeah? Big deal,” Leol Reiger said. He tried for contempt, but the mikes detected a quaver in his voice.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Leol Reiger,” she said.

  “How the hell-What is this?” He levelled his rip gun on Jason Whitehurst.

  There was the glimmer of a smile on Jason Whitehurst’s lips, mocking. “As I have met my match, so you have met yours.”

  “Charlotte Fielder belongs to me, Leol Reiger,” Julia said. “My team is on its way here to collect her. If you leave now, they will not pursue you.”

  “Bluff,” Leol Reiger said. “If they were coming you wouldn’t try and make deals.”

  “How do you think I’m talking to you? Event Horizon technology is capable of slicing straight through the Messerschmitt’s jammer, and that is premier-grade military equipment. And I’ll remind you that you’re talking to a woman who’s got her own stockpile of electron-compression warheads. Think about that.”

  “Hot technology, my arse; I’ll bet it’s not as good as atomic structuring, I’ll bet it doesn’t even come close. Right?”

  “Irrelevant. Atomic structuring is for the future, you are facing me now.”

  “I’m facing a flatscreen. We’re here, you’re not. Fielder’s mine. So fuck off, rich bitch.”

  “Mistake,” Jason Whitehurst said gravely. “That, my friend, was a big mistake. Nobody says that to Julia Evans.”

  “Yeah? Well, I ain’t been zapped by a lightning bolt. So now I’ll take Fielder. Where is she?”

  “Jason doesn’t know,” Julia said. “Nor will he be able to find out. My security programmers are in full control of the Colonel Maitland’s ‘ware.”

  “Leol,” one of the other tekmercs said, a woman’s voice. “Maybe we oughta listen-”

  “Shut it.” Leol Reiger pointed his rip gun at one of the big wall screens, and fired. The flatscreen shattered, radiant pink fragments bouncing across the hard silver-white floor. Jason Whitehurst hunched down in his chair, hands over his ears. Leol Reiger swivelled to another flatscreen, fired again. Daylight shone through a hole the rip-gun bolt drilled into the gondola wall.

  “You really are a complete fool, aren’t you,” Julia said.

  Leol Reiger demolished a third screen. He turned back to Jason Whitehurst, the muzzle of the rip gun coming down on the desk with a click. “Time’s
up. Make your choice. Do you think the rich bitch is gonna save you, or you gonna hand Fielder over to me?”

  Jason Whitehurst stood slowly, squaring his shoulders, looking directly at Leol Reiger’s smooth armour helmet. The rip gun followed him up.

  “Julia?” Jason Whitehurst asked.

  “Still here, Jason. Tell him what you know, it doesn’t make any difference. My team will get Fielder, and I don’t want you hurt.”

  “Julia, my dear, Fabian isn’t my son, he’s my clone, gene-tailored. A sort of an improved version, really. Bit vain, I suppose, but then that’s human nature for you. Please look after him for me, there’s a dear.” He smiled at Leol Reiger. “Lost all round, old chap. Your sort always do.”

  “You shit,” Leol Reiger bellowed.

  “Don’t,” Julia said.

  Leol Reiger fired his rip gun. The muzzle was less than a metre away from Jason Whitehurst.

  “I shall remember you, Leol Reiger,” Julia said. “Do you hear me?”

  Leol Reiger blew the last two flatscreens to shards. “Come on, out. I want every cabin searched. Fielder will’ve gone to ground after all this shooting.” He led his squad out of the study.

  The subroutine assigned to monitor Nia Korovilla reported that she had entered the MHD chamber.

  Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

  Julia: “Don’t think you can walk out on me, Leol Reiger. Life is not that simple, believe me.”

  Leol Reiger: “Christ Almighty.”

  Julia: “Jason Whitehurst was a friend and business colleague.”

  Leol Reiger: “Piss off, bitch.”

  Tekmerc eight, female: “How can she plug into our communications like this?”

  Julia: “Five million Eurofrancs for the one who kills Leol Reiger.”

  Leol Reiger: “You’re dead, Evans. That’s the only way out now. You and me, head on. The rest of you, get into these cabins. And if any of you are thinking of taking her up on that offer, you’d better make sure you get me with one shot. You’re dead otherwise.”