“Yeah. England’s a good place to live in again, Vassili. You wouldn’t know it was the same country that suffered under the PSP.”
“Do you have the names of the Russian export companies Jason Whitehurst was trading with?”
“Sure.” Greg pulled his cybofax out, and called up the data. He handed it over to Vassili. “Mean anything to you?”
“Perhaps.” Vassili walked over to his desk and activated his terminal. Greg saw him squirt the export companies’ profiles into the key.
“I have a scrambled link with the military intelligence cores in Moscow,” Vassili said. “And through that I can access the Federal Crime Directorate memory cores. This won’t take a minute.” He sat behind the desk.
The shiny artillery shells prevented Greg from seeing what data was in the cubes. He drank some tea.
Vassili suddenly let out a contemptuous grunt.
“What?” Greg asked.
“I’m surprised at you, Gregory. Mindstar gave you intelligence data-correlation training, did they not?”
“Three months of lectures and exercises, yeah. Why?”
“Shame on you, then. Do you not recognize that you are in familiar territory with this so-called Russian dealer? Have you no sense of deja vu?”
“Familiar, how?”
“Private organizations that form a powerful national cartel, influencing government departments. Who do you know that duplicates that pattern, Gregory?”
“Shit. Julia. Do you mean we’re up against the Russian equivalent of Julia Evans?”
Vassili sighed, and switched off his terminal. “No, Gregory. Russia envies Julia Evans and Event Horizon. How could we not? A woman who devotes her wealth and power to nurturing her own country. Who does not abuse her position. An honourable person. No, Gregory, we have no equivalent of Julia Evans. Instead, this is something Russians are ashamed of. The other side of democracy’s coin.”
“What is it?”
Vassili came back to the table, and sat heavily. “Dolgoprudnensky,” he spat.
“Never heard of it. Whatever it is.”
“Bah, of that I am pleased. I would like you to have the good memories of Russia only. But they exist. They are our Mafia, our Yakuza, our Triads. Organized crime, Gregory. These fifteen export companies are all owned by known Dolgoprudnensky members. Every one of them. What was it you were always saying in Turkey? There is no such thing as coincidence.”
“Right. And this Dolgoprudnensky is powerful enough to influence your government?”
“Influence is a strong word. They would not be able to buy our parliamentary cabinet members, not outright. But then, does Julia Evans actually hand over cash to make the New Conservatives do her bidding?”
“Point taken.”
“They are everywhere, Gregory, our bureaucracy is rotten with them. It is only natural, they are the Communist Party’s successors. They grew up in the party’s shadows in the eighties and nineties. There were eight or nine of them in Moscow alone in those days, the Podolsk, Chechen, Solntsevo, others, but the Dolgoprudnensky was the largest even then. It was inevitable they would absorb the rest. Now there is only Dolgoprudnensky, stretching right across the republic. There had been criminals in the Soviet Union before them, but never so well organized, nor so brazen. Afghanistan was the start, the youths who returned from it were a breed the authorities had never dealt with before. The Afganrsi. They had no respect, no morals, no conscience. The war had burnt it out of them, they could see they were fighting for nothing, and worse, for a lie. Not all of them, of course, but enough, a hard core that turned to crime. Then the Communists fell, and the gangs began to fill the vacuum they left behind. The corruption, Gregory, the sheer misuse of power. Westerners still have little conception of how the Communists ransacked our country to maintain their personal status. Dolgoprudnensky doesn’t have their stature, but it is just as insidious, with its rackets and syntho vats, and prostitutes; its legitimate companies defrauding factories and farmers, and the bought officials sanctioning both. We fight them through the police and Justice Ministry, Gregory, fight and fight, until buildings burn and blood is spilt, but the best we can do is hold what ground we have.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“No, it is I who am shamed. It is a terrible thing to tell someone this is the land I am sworn to defend, the kind of people I will die for.”
“We all have organized crime, Vassili. The number of people involved is so small you can’t even call them a minority.”
Vassili handed Greg’s cybofax back. “But the trouble and misery they cause is vast. See what they’ve done to this old man, made him unable to look his friend in the face.”
“Can we help?” Greg asked. “Hand over what we’ve got to the Russian Justice Ministry?”
“What have you got, Gregory? Fifteen companies traded with someone whose airship you say was attacked by tekmercs. Kombinates are jockeying for advantage over a new technology. How can this help us?”
Greg toyed with his empty cup, feeling stupid. “Yeah, right.” For Victor Tyo it would’ve been enough, for a tekmerc it would’ve been enough. Circumstantial proof which condemned for all of time. How strange that illegality could accept what the law couldn’t.
“I tell you this, Gregory, if you ever meet any of the Dolgoprudnensky face to face, then you shoot. That is the best help you can give us. Shoot. Shoot them down like rabid animals.”
“Is there a name?” he asked. “A leader? I like to have a name for what I’m up against. I can form a picture that way.”
“Kirilov. Pavel Kirilov. The bastard, he lives like a merchant from the decadent imperial days, he flaunts his wealth and luxuries, he has many young girls to amuse him. But he is smart, cunning. Nothing ever holds against him in the courts, he laughs at the very best our prosecutors can do.”
Greg climbed to his feet. The sun was completely above the horizon now, casting long shadows. A thick blanket of mist had risen, glowing pink in the sunlight; it swirled gently above the cultivated land, filling Nova Kirov’s broad streets. People and horses looked like they were wading through it.
“What will you do?” Vassili asked.
“Find out where Charlotte Fielder got the flower from, then go and meet the alien.”
Vassili gripped both of his hands. “Gregory, if this alien turns out to be a threat, do not keep the knowledge to yourself. Do not become like the kombinates, and seek to gain advantage from it. It is the concern of all the peoples of this world.”
“If it’s dangerous, I’ll scream the house down, no messing. No matter what Julia Evans or Royan might say.”
“Good, for I confess, what you have told me about this alien has frightened me. This is very strange behaviour for a sentient creature. I am forced to say suspicious. Hiding like this, contacting weapons merchants before governments. Not good. You listen to me, my command network is plugged into the Chinese and Eastern Federation Co-Defence League’s Strategic Defence platforms, and I am authorized to use them. I have the codes, and I am prepared to activate the systems, Gregory, on your word.”
“That’s… quite a responsibility.”
“You are a soldier, Gregory, a true soldier. You will do what’s right, I know you will.” Vassili let go of his hands, and clapped him on the shoulder again, grinning. “Besides, since when did you go into battle without covering fire, eh? A soldier’s most important maxim. Backup, Gregory. I will be your backup, once again.” He shook his head, grin turning to a mock scowl. “Bah, listen to us. Two ageing warriors lost in the past. Portentous, are we not?”
“Very, but at least nobody else knows.”
Vassili laughed.
“One last thing,” Greg said. “Can you run another name through the Federal Crime Directorate memory core for me?”
“Surely. Whose criminal misdeeds do you wish exposed now?”
“Dmitri Baronski.”
CHAPTER 25
They told Charlotte about Baronski a
fter she woke up. It was his death which finally cancelled all her links with the past. She had relied on him so much, which she hadn’t realized up until then. But now there was nothing left for her, nothing at all; no one to call, nowhere to go.
So she made it her job to look after Fabian. The last promise made to a dead man. And Fabian needed looking after. His life had been fifteen years of luxury, of staff existing solely to run around after him, of any material possession he wanted a single phone call away. That was all he knew. He went into major sulks if his meals weren’t ready on time. And now he’d seen his home and father fall out of the sky. Burning.
She was sure the Event Horizon medics didn’t appreciate how deep it went. They had written him off as another shock case. Tranquilizers, a couple of weeks’ therapy, a few months to recover, and it would all be over. They were used to treating combat casualties, not lost, traumatized teenagers.
He wouldn’t even cry any more. They were given a room together in the platform’s little clinic. She had woken some time after midnight to see him lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He spent the rest of the night nestled in her arms, dozing off in the early hours.
After breakfast the duty nurse found her some clothes; a pair of stonewashed Levi’s, trainers, and an Organic Flux Capacity tour sweatshirt. She turned up the bottom of the Levi’s to stop them from flopping over the trainers, and asked for a belt to pinch the oversize waist. Charlotte stared at herself in the bathroom mirror and shuddered. A Grunge disciple dressing down. At least nobody I know will see me wearing this, thank heavens.
Then it was time to wait again. None of the clinic staff quite seemed to know what their status was, whether they were guests or prisoners.
Suzi had been in the next room, her knee wrapped in bioware membranes, plugged into medical ‘ware stacks with thick bundles of fibre-optic cable. Charlotte had thanked her for getting them off the Colonel Maitland, had a few words; but Suzi didn’t know what was going on either. “Greg’ll be back soon,” she said. “We’ll find out what’s going down then. And you’ll have your big moment.” The casual way she said it chilled Charlotte, like she didn’t have any choice but to tell them what they wanted to know, reducing her to a cyborg. Her life was being programmed by others. Nothing really new in that. But that didn’t make it the same.
Delivering that bloody flower. Her one spark of independence in years. She knew she shouldn’t have done it. But delivering a flower from a lover-it was just fun. Harmless fun. How could it possibly have ended like this?
Baronski would have known what to do next. In fact, he would have warned her off in the first place. If only she had confided in him.
In the end, Fabian’s blank-faced suffering had got to her. She asked to go outside for a breath of fresh air. They even had to have a hardline escort for that.
Outside was heat, noise, and the smell. They walked along one side of the platform, looking down on the two-metre generator vent pipes peeing brown water into the ocean, it stank of salt and sulphur. The bass thundering noise of the cascades made her feel queasy.
“Pure shark shit,” said Josh Bailey, the crash team member who was with them. “We have to live with it the whole time. I’m almost immune by now.”
“Lucky you.” Charlotte knew she ought to show an interest. “Establish a minimum rapport with everyone you meet,” Baronski had told her. “Try to understand where they fit into life, how they relate to you.” Except it all seemed a little pointless now.
Fabian leant on the rail and stared silently at the three waterfalls staining the green ocean. It was green, she saw, because of the minute algae flecks floating in it. Like thick soup.
She put her hand over his. “He wouldn’t have felt anything, Fabian.”
“You saw that gondola! He burnt to death. It’s a horrible way to die.”
“He would have been unconscious from the smoke long before the flames reached the study.”
His head twisted round, eyes frantic for a moment, wanting to believe. “Do you think so?”
“Whenever houses catch on fire, that’s always the reason people don’t get out; overcome by smoke.”
“Oh.” He dropped his head again to stare at the sloppy water. “I’ve never lived in a house.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Yes. I suppose…” He stiffened, speaking with brittle dignity. “I suppose you’ll be leaving me now.”
“No, not unless you want me to.”
He glanced up, too frightened to believe. “But you’re not being paid any more. And I heard them tell you Baronski is dead.”
“Fabian.” She turned him to face her, putting her hands on his cheeks so he couldn’t look away. “Your father’s money never bought you the time we spent together.”
He started crying as his mouth parted in a smile.
“Oh, Fabian.” She cuddled him to her, kissing the top of his head. His arms tightened round her with desperate strength.
“I’m frightened,” he croaked.
“So am I. But it isn’t so bad if you’ve got someone to share it with you.”
They embraced for a long time. Being that close, wordless but knowing, wasn’t something she wanted to break. And she had told him the truth, fear was easier to weather this way.
She saw the Pegasus slide out of the western sky, three sharply pointed fighter planes enclosing it in a tight formation. It was heading straight for the platform. Charlotte watched it knowingly, a little twist of tension rising.
Josh Bailey’s cybofax bleeped.
“Don’t bother,” she told him. “That’ll be for me.”
Fabian tagged along automatically behind her. It could have been a problem when they reached the conference room, Josh Bailey looked like he was about to object, but Charlotte sent him a silent plea, and he shrugged, waving them both through the door.
That was when she finally met Julia Evans, in the flesh, shaking hands, actually saying hello in a voice that quavered alarmingly. The back of her legs trembled slightly, as if she’d run a marathon. But Julia Evans only smiled weakly, murmuring a few encouraging words. Charlotte virtually fled to her seat at the table in relief. There were none of the expected allegations, no hostility. Julia Evans didn’t blame her for any of the trouble.
She watched unobtrusively as Julia Evans said something to Fabian, her finger tracing the shrinking bruise round his eye where the maid had struck him. The clinic medics had reduced the swelling to virtually nothing. Fabian just blushed and looked at the floor.
Charlotte was sitting next to Suzi who had come in ahead of them. The small hardline woman was in one of the Event Horizon security team tracksuits. There was a slight bulge in the fabric round her knee; but her stride had been natural enough.
Rick Parnell introduced himself, and promptly sat in a chair at the end of the table, just beating Greg to it. Greg seemed momentarily put out, but settled for the next chair down. Victor Tyo sat opposite her, activating the terminal in front of him.
Fabian took his chair beside her, fumbling for her hand below the table. She gave him a quick squeeze of reassurance.
The three flatscreens on the wall lit up as Julia Evans sat at the head of the table. One of them showed the face of an old man, the other two were of Julia herself, none of them had any background.
“They are synthesized images,” Julia explained. “My grandfather and I have our memories stored in neural network cores.”
Philip Evans; Charlotte remembered him, Event Horizon’s founder. She’d heard enough after dinner talk to know he had played a large part in the downfall of the PSP.
The whole concept was amazing. Julia could be in two places at once, three, four-No wonder Event Horizon worked so perfectly. Charlotte felt a smile of admiration building. It really was true, nobody could beat Julia Evans. Reality was actually greater than legend.
“That’s how you burned into the Colonel Maitland’s ‘ware,” Fabian said. He sounded impressed.
“
Yes. And I’d be obliged if you two treated the knowledge of the NN cores’ existence, and anything we discuss here today, as completely confidential, please.”
“Yes, of course,” Charlotte said. She nudged Fabian.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Good. Now then, I understand Nia Korovilla was asking you about the flower, Charlotte?”
“Yes, she wanted to know who gave it to me.”
“A lot of people do,” Greg said softly. Will you tell us?”
This was where she had planned on doing her bargaining; a trade, money, and guaranteed safety for what she knew. But she didn’t know what sort of price to ask for, and some hard little core of anger inside wanted something to be done about Baronski, wanted justice. She strongly suspected that the kind of people who killed the old man weren’t the kind who ever sat in courts to be tried. And Fabian would need protecting as well.
Julia Evans was the only person who could sort out those kind of loose ends for her. It would be for the best if she wasn’t antagonized.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “He never told me his name, just that he was a priest.”
“Describe him, please,” Greg said.
“I suppose he was at least fifty-five, probably sixty; medium height, four or five centimetres shorter than me, very pale face, flabby neck, greying hair in a pony tail. He had a great smile, I mean, you just looked at him and knew you could trust him,” she trailed off limply. It sounded silly said out loud, but his smile had been the reason she agreed to deliver the flower.
“Not Royan,” Julia said.
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Greg asked.
“Yes, absolutely,” she said. “He was wearing a dove-grey jumpsuit, an old one, but it was clean. All the Celestials were clean.”
Victor looked up from his terminal. “You mean this happened in New London?”
“Sorry, didn’t I say? Yes. It was during my holiday.”
Julia and Greg were both grinning at each other. “You went up to New London after New Zealand?” Greg asked.
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