by Danie Ware
The smell made Lugan’s belly grumble, loud in the stillness. Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t s’pose you paid for that?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Ecko grinned like a fiend.
Unable to help himself, the cell commander chuckled, half in relief, half in exasperation. Ecko might be off-the-fucking-wall annoying, but what they’d do without him... Lugan didn’t want to finish the thought. Instead, he cuffed Ecko’s shoulder, made the smaller man wince. Ecko’s ability to get in and out of local businesses was frankly astonishing – hoverdrones, cameras, recorders – the little man might as well have been invisible.
One way and another, it was sodding handy.
And not just for free food.
“Well, what the fuck have I done with it, then?” His dog-end still between his lips, Lugan made one last search of his pockets and then shrugged and reached for the arc welder, behind him on a shelf.
He shielded the cigarette with his opposite hand and then swore round the thing as the arc nearly torched his beard.
Ecko cackled. “Addict.”
“Freak.”
The welder went back on the shelf with a bang.
“Serious for a minute?” Fuller’s voice came from the office. “My newsfeed’s just gone batshit. I think –”
From outside, there came the first wail of sirens.
* * *
Half two.
The lights in the Bike Lodge were off. Outside, it was quiet; the last yowl of siren was finally fading. Inside, the curry was roiling uncomfortably in Lugan’s belly, and he still hadn’t found his lighter.
Agitated, the cell commander was pacing.
In this new age of Pilgrim’s social tranquility, sirens were rare and disturbing things. Sirens for almost an hour could well mean the fucking apocalypse.
Bollocks.
Lugan spun on his boot heel and paced the other way. The various oil-stained papers tacked to the wall – ID numbers, serial markings, notes, addresses – fluttered in his wake as though trying to escape.
On the couch, Fuller had discarded the older laptop and was glued to his tiny, secure flatscreen, trying to track and identify the night’s events. Ecko was sat next to him like some sort of urban grotesque, hunched up with his knees almost into his chest.
Lugan had never seen him look this pensive.
And it made him angry.
“What the fuck did you do? I thought you went out after dinner! Tell me you got out clean and they didn’t follow your arse back ’ere?” The commander paced back, jabbing a stained and callused finger at Ecko as he did so. A dog-end was still clamped in the corner of his mouth and reflexively his hands kept going for the lighter that wasn’t there. “I got your future to fight for, mate, an’ you better not be takin’ the piss.”
Ecko snarled back at him, “I’m doin’ your job, for chrissakes. I went out after leads, on Pilgrim, on how to take them down. Better than sittin’ on my ass in here.”
“What I don’t want is the Met on my doorstep...”
“Please.” Ecko snorted. “They couldn’t find me with Sherlock Holmes and a bloodhound.”
That much was probably true. One advantage to the little fucker being so reckless – Ecko wasn’t afraid of much, and that made him honest.
Lugan spun again. “I ’ope you’re right, you little bastard, because if they do, I’ll slit your throat myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Watch me.”
“Chrissakes, I can’t watch my own throat.”
Fuller chuckled at their double act, smothered it.
For a moment, Lugan stopped pacing and glared at the pair of them as if he was the only sane man left in the city. Then he flung himself back in his chair, swore venomously, and picked up the now-cold mug of tea.
“What says Collator?” he said to Fuller. “You trackin’?”
“Still on radio silence,” Fuller answered. “For the moment, I got nothing.”
“Fuck.”
“Easy, Luge,” Fuller said. “If the Met knew anything, they’d be here with the tear gas by now. The chaos is calming down.” He glanced round at Ecko, the light from the little screen making his eyes glitter. “Luck is on your side, it seems. Again.”
“Luck, for chrissakes.” Ecko grinned back, like the Cheshire Cat’s evil twin. “Skill.”
“I swear, one of these days you’ll give me a fucking ’eart attack.” Lugan eyed the tea and thought better of it. He smacked the mug back on the table. “Now. Quit dodging the subject. If I’m gonna defend your arse to the Boss, I need to know what you did. And ’ow much of a mess you made.”
Ecko shrugged. “I went after the pharmacist, Grey.”
As Lugan opened his mouth to answer back, Ecko cut him off.
“C’mon, Lugan, we’ve done fuck all for months. D’you wanna do this, or what?”
“Grey’s the cook, not –”
“In fact,” Fuller commented, “Grey’s another major shareholder. When Pilgrim bought out the NHS in the early tweens, he was the orchestrator. It’s his utopia we’re living in.”
Ecko said, “See? Major bad guy. I found his Secret Lair.” He grinned. “So now we can go bust his ass.”
Lugan said nothing. On the desk in front of him was an old pub ashtray, half full of roll-up remnants. Carefully, he began to shred them and collect the remaining tobacco. It was a habit he’d picked up a decade or more before, while waiting on His Majesty, and he’d never quite given it up.
Ecko was bristling with anticipation, his obsidian-black eyes flickering with a faint, red light. His impatience was infectious, and Lugan could almost hear his thoughts, C’mon, let’s go let’s go let’s go let’s...
“We can get Grey? You serious?” As the realisation sank home, Lugan was beginning to think that, aggravating or not, Ecko needed to stay on his team.
Like, big time.
Ecko’s grin spread. “You wanted leads. I know where’s he’s at. An’ we can fuckin’ get him.” He was almost bouncing on the seat. “Well, I can.”
Fuller said, “It’s tempting, Luge. Pilgrim’s utopian society is largely attributable to Doctor Grey. You know the story – every GP, every researcher, every psychologist, was given a choice by their new employer: you prescribe the drug we give you, or you lose your job. Suddenly every dissenter, student, protester, everyone who’s unemployed – they all have ADHD, or depression, or anxiety, or maybe they just can’t sleep... A decade later, we’ve got almost complete servitude. No unrest, no remonstration, no riots, no freedom. The internet’s full of happy cats, and everyone loves their job. Whatever it is. It was bloody genius.”
Lugan glanced up – Fuller rarely swore, and his flash of rancour was unusual.
The commander shot back, “We’re not all fucking brain-dead. Pilgrim ’asn’t won yet.”
“The pockets of resistance get smaller with every year,” Fuller said. “You’re an anachronism, Luge, a relic, and they know it. They’ll get bored with you one of these days, and then they’ll send the boys round. I fear our time is borrowed.”
So we’d better make the most of it.
He didn’t actually say it, but Lugan heard him anyway.
Ecko said, his rasp soft and sinister, “So let’s gettem, for chrissakes, before they get us, huh?”
Lugan rolled the shreds of collected tobacco into a new cigarette that was almost pure tar.
“All right,” he said, shoving himself to his feet. “I trust my team. You included. I dunno what kind of mess you just made, mate, but if you’ve just given us Grey, I’ll back any fucking play you make.”
“That was well timed,” Fuller said suddenly. “Collator’s back online – and we’re wanted in the office.”
* * *
“Bollocks,” Lugan said cheerfully. He leaned back in the big black chair and thumped his size fourteens on the conference table. He’d picked up a disposable lighter, and a tail of greasy smoke curled from the dog-end that was glued to his lip.
Beside him, Fuller fidgeted like a child expecting a scolding.
Around them, the Boss’s office was silent, soulless and dark. It was steel and glass and cold, VIP perfection; long black windows were silvered with skitters of rain. Outside, the harsh, halogen lights of the city were smeared to a watery blur.
The room’s only illumination came from the big flatscreen at the far end of the table – and from its image, reflected in the tabletop’s gleam.
Lugan took another drag from the dog-end.
The screen showed a familiar figure, a phantom of gleeful darkness, his skin and garments shifting with shadows, his movements framed in blood and smoke. He was terrifying, more extreme than Lugan at his worst, and utterly unhampered by conscience. He was swift as a thought and just as fucking careless. He carried no firearm, no blade, but the goons fell like a street kid’s tin cans.
Ecko.
His skill and savagery were horrifying.
Lugan blew brown smoke, and kept watching.
From impossible stealth positions, Ecko taunted his targets – they coiled in fear long before they coiled in pain. While they were still looking for him, his fists and feet broke bones, and when they fell, he burned them and they died screaming.
Lugan took another lungful of smoke.
Jesus ’Arry Christ on a fuckin’ scramble bike...
Then, with a silent snap, the screen went black.
And the Boss’s soft, Scandinavian voice said, “Well, gentlemen? Would either of you care to explain?”
Lugan and Fuller exchanged a glance, their faces now almost in darkness. Tobacco wreathed in the air. Neither of them spoke.
Instead, Lugan blew out an irritated tail of tar that made the smoke curls dance. He’d no fucking clue how the Boss had got Ecko on camera, but the devastation only made his resolve stronger – he was going to keep Ecko on his crew.
And then, they were going after Grey.
The voice said, “I’m waiting.”
Biting back his initial, blistering response, Lugan answered, “’E did the job, didn’t ’e?”
The light on the screen came up, brightening the room and returning the shine to the table. It showed a woman, blonde and in profile. She was beautiful, flawless and pale skinned, and apparently naked right down to the part of her shoulder that Lugan could see. She didn’t turn to face them – her attention was on something else, a screen within the screen, a light source that decorated her porcelain flesh in a shifting, fractal pattern of illumination.
“He left a crater.” Even speaking, the Boss didn’t turn. She gestured with one pale hand.
Lugan said, “They didn’t track ’im –”
“That really isn’t the point.” The lights teased her skin, danced over the tabletop. “If we’re to tackle Pilgrim effectively, then strategy is crucial, discipline is crucial, orders are crucial. I’m not taking chances on a loose cannon.”
Lugan’s dog-end was coming unstuck. Wetting a tarred and callused fingertip, he made an industrious effort to dampen and reroll it. Choosing his words, he said, “Just because ’e ain’t good with orders doesn’t mean ’e can’t do the job. ’E’s got ’is own ways of doing stuff.” He examined the dog-end, frowning. “An’ they work.”
The Boss ignored him. “I’ve no tolerance for chaos. I’ve dedicated my life and this organisation to taking Pilgrim down – and I don’t like surprises.”
Down by her bare shoulder, the Pilgrim logo folded onto the corner of the screen – the image of the strongly travailing worker, bent under his load. Beside it unrolled the strapline that now bound the heart and mind of every man, woman and child, the words that framed their lives, the flag that had become their only compass and motivation, and the banner against which the Boss’s organisation had pitched itself.
Valiant Be.
“Valium Be”, more like. Lugan relit the repaired dog-end and coughed tar. There’s a Fifth ’Orseman an’ his name’s “Apathy”. He flicked the little fame on the lighter, glanced at Fuller.
But Fuller shrugged, and pointedly turned his attention back to the screen.
The Boss said, cool and clear, “Quite apart from the collateral damage, Ecko killed fourteen people, one of them an approved Pilgrim medic –”
“An armed-to-the-teeth combat medic with an ’ypo fetish –”
“A trail of bodies, and a media circus. I don’t appreciate having to tidy that sort of a mess.” Her profile was perfect, pure and cold. “Unless you two have anything to add, this hearing has one conclusion.”
Fuck.
Thinking hard now, Lugan chewed stray tobacco.
Bloody Ecko. The little man was a genius – an erratic, irritating, indispensable fucking genius. He’d got a smart mouth and a ready wit, and a thing for practical jokes – in the three months he’d been with Lugan, he’d grown on the cell team like a particularly virulent form of mould.
Shit!
He wasn’t going to let her do this.
Aloud, Lugan said, “Without Ecko, we’d have fuck all. No info, no lead on Grey, a boot up our collective arse-crack.”
The Boss’s flawless face gave the faintest hint of a smile.
“Without Collator’s clean-up,” she said, “your collective arse-crack would be sitting on a cold metal bench. And that would be the fun just beginning. Ecko has a peculiar charisma, certainly, and I know you’re fond of him –”
“’E did the job.” Lugan gripped the dog-end between yellow-stained thumb and forefinger and blew a long, dirty plume of smoke. “You know I need ’im – ’e’s deniable, ’e can do the shit I can’t. My ’ands stay clean.”
“Unless they’re covered in bits of medic.” The lights on her flawless face changed, shadows flickered and cycled.
Her skin was shifting with mottle like Ecko’s. With a grin like a rusty knife, Lugan flicked the lighter’s wheel with a tiny, metallic chink. Nothin’ like takin’ a trip down Irony Lane...
“I need ’im.” Lugan blew the flame out and dropped the lighter back in the pocket of his old denim cut-down. “I want ’im on my team.”
“Do your team want him?”
“’E needs family,” Lugan said. “We –”
“He has family.” The Boss cut him short. “His mother still lives in London. The charity she founded isn’t large, but it operates. His siblings have lives and families that are easily traceable. He had a solid and loving –”
“Four bleedin’ half-sisters, an’ a storybook wicked stepdad. It’s enough to make anyone retreat into a world of comic-book ’eroics.”
“Yes, but I question his ability to come out.” Her voice hinted at a steel edge. “He’s critically damaged, socially certifiable and an unnecessary risk to my security and yours. You’re a radical.”
“I’m a businessman –”
“But Ecko’s insane.”
“Yeah.” Lugan leaned forward, he wasn’t backing down from this. “’E’s also a fuckin’ gem.” He coughed smoke, inhaled harder. “’E got a lead on Doc Grey – got a location! We can get that bastard, kick Pilgrim where it ’urts.” In an “up yours” gesture, he tapped his ash into the glass carafe on the table.
There was a tiny, defiant hiss.
“Lugan.” Almost regretfully, the Boss said, “I know why you’ve taken to Ecko so strongly. He’s the part of you that you miss, the part that Pilgrim’s new society has taken from you. You’ve learned to conform – at least as far as you have to. Ecko...” She trailed off into a pale, perfect shrug. “...Hasn’t.”
Conform, my arse. Goaded now, Lugan marshalled his assault.
“Yeah, maybe I was like that once – no fuckin’ brakes.” His tone revved like a gunned engine. “It’s why I understand ’im – I get it. But think – just think what ’e could bring down!”
“Us?” Her tinkling laugh was ice-cold; she almost turned to face them. Lugan held himself still, lungs full of oily smoke. Her chin was lifted, the lights tinged with colours, tantalising hints of s
hapes that teased her perfect, ageless skin.
She said, “Your faith in him is touching.” Light and laughter pulsed again. “But I think his presence affects your decisions. If he won’t follow orders, then I can’t use him. And neither can you.”
Lugan glowered. “We got the location of Grey’s lair. You know Ecko’s gotta do this...”
The Boss inhaled, mustering patience. “Don’t be ridiculous. If the data you’ve given me clears, then this may be one of the single most important penetrations we’ve ever attempted. Ecko’s Tech was one of the doctors that went renegade when Pilgrim took over. What she did to him has damaged his mental stability beyond repair. We can’t let him handle something like this – we send in a full team.”
“Bollocks,” Lugan said again. He dumped the dog-end in the carafe and exhaled a double lungful of oily smoke. “That’ll just be a mess. ’E can do this. In an’ out. Quick an’ clean. Recon first – full stealth. No muss, no fuss.”
The lights on the Boss’s face were moving more swiftly. “Your loyalty is impressive, but –”
“But I’ve never quit on a mate an’ I never will. That’s why I’ve got this.” From beneath his t-shirt, he produced the half-black, half-white symbol that marked him as a ranking member of the Boss’s organisation. “It says you trust me to run my ops, my way.”
“Of course I trust you. But...” She gave a tight sigh, tucked her hair behind her ear in a gesture that was oddly girlish. “This job is imperative.”
“An’ ’e can do it – better than any fucker else!” Lugan pressed the point. “Three months! He’s done his prospectin’ –”
“The days of your bike gangs are gone, Lugan.” She tapped her lips with her finger, long nail gleaming.
The days of your bike gangs...
Suddenly robbed of words, Lugan eyed the faded-blue ink that decorated his muscled forearms – a reminder of the way things had been before Pilgrim’s Fifth Horseman had doled out the pharmaceuticals and smothered the world in happy grey smog.
The days of your bike gangs...
The ink reminded him who he was – who he’d been. It was youth and fire, experience and wisdom. Not only was he Alexander David Eastermann, retired biker, he was still the Lugan he’d once been.
