“A space station,” Rik said. Most of them aimed for about one-third G. It was what most spacers considered comfortable.
“Give the man a coconut,” the muscle grumbled.
“A rock and roller, right?” All the latest stations were of this type now, tethered to an asteroid on a long lead, and rotating around their common centre of gravity. Dragging big rocks in from the asteroid belt, to use for stations in Earth orbit, had become one of Cordell's fastest growing business sectors. Maybe The Phenomenon of Man had lifted them from low Earth orbit to one of the geosynchronous stations at thirty-six thousand kilometres. That was a long haul, but it would only have taken a few hours. Rik felt that much more time had passed than that.
With his headache receding and the crippling two-G deceleration now over, his brain was slowly rebooting itself. It occurred to him that he could call Freymann and check up on her. If he could have slapped his forehead, he would have done. What kind of idiot wouldn't have thought of using the phone? But when he tried, his cogplus gave him the 'no signal' message. In frustration, he turned to the muscle.
“Why am I here?” he demanded. “What the hell do you think you're doing, kidnapping me like this?”
His companion was already unstrapped and heading for the door. He looked back at Rik briefly and smiled. “You'll see.”
The next person to walk into the room was Rivers Valdinger, looking fresh and perky and very pleased with herself. Rik watched her carefully, wishing his arms weren't strapped down.
“What did you do with the woman I was with?” he asked.
“What do you care? She was obviously CIA, or whatever.” She came up close to him and bent down towards him, her face close, her head tilted and her black, featureless eyes looking into his. “Or did you have the hots for the little G-girl?”
Rik fought down his anger. “Just tell me what you did with her.”
Rivers straightened up and walked away. “I'd have thought you'd be more interested in what's about to happen to you, Rik.”
He glowered at her. “What, we're on first-name terms now, are we?”
She turned and smiled. Rik had known a few uploads in his time. Not many, but enough to understand that their robotic bodies were animated by a human personality, that their gestures, their body language, reflected the person that lived within. Rivers must have been a very young woman, he guessed, and an attractive one, before she died. This creature of carved obsidian moved with the self-confident grace of a high-school cheerleader. For an instant he could see her as she might have been, lissom and athletic, as careless of her beauty as she was of other people's lives.
She seemed to be studying him, too. What she made of him, he had no interest in finding out. He just wanted her to tell him Freymann was OK and get out of his face. But neither wish stood much chance of being fulfilled.
She untied him quickly and took his arm, dragging him to his feet and leading him in silence out of the ship. They passed through the airlock, which was standing open, and into the biggest docking bay he had ever seen outside of a space bridge terminal. He asked again where he was, and again he got no answer.
She took him across the dock and into a corridor that wound between offices and meeting rooms. They entered one, and she laid him on a gurney. She tied him down once more with chest, leg and arm straps, and fitted him with a VR helmet and gauntlets.
“What is all this?” he complained, but didn't really expect an answer. The spinal clamp at the back of the helmet pressed against the back of his neck, and his visor turned opaque.
“Maybe I'll see you inside,” Rivers said.
And then he was in Hell.
Chapter 18
Fariba Freymann's idea of Hell was sitting hour after hour in an interview room in the FBI Field Office Headquarters, on Wilshire Boulevard. Her jaw ached from the dental work she'd just undergone, to repair the damage Rivers Valdinger's rock-hard fist had done. Her section head was en route from the UK to co-ordinate her release, which made her cringe with embarrassment every time she remembered it.
It was a plain room, and Freymann knew every scratch on every wall-panel, every dent in the plastic-laminated table to which her hands were cuffed, and the exact on-off-on-off frequency of the little red light on the video camera that stared at her with steady gaze.
“You didn't have to cuff me, you bastard,” she shouted at the camera, directing her words at the agent she knew would be watching. “You're a small-minded, spiteful, prissy little man.” She had plenty of anger left, but even she was getting bored with insulting her gaoler. Still, he deserved one last effort. “Haven't you ever heard of extending professional courtesy, you stunted, bald-headed...” She amused herself for a while plumbing the depths of her New York linguistic heritage for suitable epithets.
It had been three days since they found her, unconscious and surrounded by guns, in the back of a stolen car with false registration, parked illegally at an airport terminal. For the Special Agent in charge, it seemed like Christmas had come early. Until that point, he'd been facing some very awkward questions about the attack at Cedars-Sinai: specifically, how the perpetrator seemed to have driven away from the scene while his troops were busy tripping over their own feet. Now he had a live one for questioning.
Special Agent Sly Kowalski had champed at the bit while they fixed up Freymann's jaw – including an injection of stem cells to regrow three teeth that had gone missing – and then he had pounced: only to find his suspect was a secret service agent of a friendly government. Admittedly, she was working undercover on American soil, without the sanction of the U.S. Government, but that was pretty small potatoes in the scheme of things. He had been forbidden to question her and forbidden to treat her as a terrorist suspect. Negotiations were underway well above his pay-scale. But no-one had said anything about not cuffing her to a table while he waited.
Two guys from the CIA had turned up and spent four hours with her, keeping Kowalski out of the room and turning off all his recording gear. Freymann had enjoyed the fury on the man's face as the CIA guys almost pushed him out of the room. They debriefed her professionally and thoroughly. According to her standing orders for situations of this type, she co-operated fully.
Kowalski had also denied her any information whatsoever about what had happened to Rik, or even Blake and Brie Bonomi, no matter how many times she demanded to know.
Freymann could only hope she'd have the chance to knee the little jerk in the groin before they let her go.
“Fariba, how nice to see you looking so well.” Her boss stepped into the room as if he were inspecting an abattoir. The look of distaste on his face only intensified as his gaze met hers. “Been taking good care of you, have they?”
Special Agent Kowalski, her own personal demon, stood behind her boss. From his sour expression, he disliked the sight of her as much as she disliked the sight of him. A minion hurried around the table and unlocked her cuffs.
“It's good to see you, sir,” she said, standing and rubbing her wrists pointedly.
“The paperwork is all complete,” he said. “You're now under my cognisance, as they say, until we have you safely in the air and on your way back home. Shall we be off?”
She knew better than to say anything about how she had been treated. She also knew better than to garrotte Kowalski as she passed him. The MI6 debriefing would start on the plane, she supposed. And as for Kowalski, just being himself would have to be punishment enough. All the same, she gave him a bright smile as she left.
Chapter 19
The sky hung low, an oppressive mass of heavy red and black clouds. A plain of cracked rock ran for miles, and volcanoes towered on the horizon. The world shimmered in its own heat haze. Sulphurous fumes made Rik gag, and the scalding air seared his lungs. And his skin. All of it. Rik found he was stark naked.
The woman walking towards him through the fire and brimstone wore a red vinyl catsuit and spiked heels. The outfit seemed to have been spray-painted onto the most
incredibly curvaceous body Rik had ever seen outside of a comic book. A long, red tail lashed in her wake, and her perfectly beautiful face was marred only by the two small horns growing from her forehead.
She looked Rik up and down as she approached, smiling to herself. “Very nice,” she said, her voice a low, sensual purr. “But not quite perfect.” She came up close and stroked his chest with gloved fingers. He felt himself grow enormously, embarrassingly aroused, and gasped at the sudden flood of sensation. The woman's smile broadened. She glanced down at his crotch.
“Now you're perfect,” she said.
“What the hell is this?” He growled. He put his hands over his crotch in a vain attempt to preserve some dignity, but the feel of his own erection against his palms and fingers had the exact opposite effect. He removed them quickly and stood up straight, hoping a furious glare would do to cover his discomposure.
“Don't be shy, big boy. You've got nothing to be ashamed of.” She walked behind him to complete her survey.
“Look, you just dragged me millions of kilometres across space, and for what? Sex games?”
She walked around in front of him, her tail twining briefly around his rigid member as she passed. He almost cried out in surprise and, despite himself, pleasure.
“Hmmm,” she murmured. “Games might be fun. What did you have in mind?”
He was finding it hard not to let his mind wander onto such matters. “OK. I get it. You're the Devil and you're here to tempt me. Nice job. Now, can we cut all this crap and get to the point of why I'm here?”
The woman just kept prowling around him, smiling to herself, touching him, sniffing his sweat. “When I'm ready. Now don't spoil my fun by being petulant. Cutting pieces out of you would be almost as much fun for me as what I have planned, but I don't think you'd like it half so much.”
He'd never thought about how to fend off someone who looked like Wonder Woman's hotter, evil sister, and who had a remote control for his hormones. The longer he watched her slinking about in that catsuit, the more he wondered if he really wanted to fend her off at all. It made Rik feel helpless and vulnerable; two feelings that were guaranteed to get him mad. But how do you fight your way out of a virtual reality controlled by a crazy woman?
“Thank you, Celestina. I'll take it from here.”
The speaker was a tall, well-made man in his mid thirties. He wore a beautifully tailored business suit and spoke with a suave confidence that immediately put Rik on edge. Despite the heat, the newcomer seemed perfectly comfortable.
Celestina looked at the man as if she'd like to eat him – in a good way or a bad way, Rik couldn't quite tell. There was obviously some friction between them, a power struggle of some sort, but to Rik's surprise, the guy in the suit seemed to have the upper hand.
“I was just getting acquainted with your little human, darling,” Celestina drawled. “Why don't you let me play with him for a while longer? He'll be ever so much more biddable afterwards, I promise you.”
The businessman looked at Rik's erection and raised an eyebrow. “What's this place supposed to be?” he asked. He clearly thought such games were beneath contempt.
Celestina seemed irked. She held up her long-fingered hands and clapped once in a melodramatic gesture. Everything changed in an instant. They were in a large, oak-panelled office with a huge mahogany desk and plush carpets. Framed certificates and group photos of men in suits lined the walls. A wide picture window looked out onto a Manhattan skyline from the late twentieth century. Celestina perched on the edge of the desk wearing a calf-length pencil skirt and a fitted white blouse. Her hair was tied up in a bun and she carried a dictation pad and pen. Rik found himself kneeling on the carpet at her feet, wearing only an unbuttoned white shirt and jockey shorts. Celestina's stockinged foot, clad in a high-heeled pump, was in his hand. He dropped it immediately.
“There,” she said to the stranger. “Is that more to your taste?”
The suited man was completely unruffled. “Thank you for finding him, Celestina. I knew I could rely on you.”
Again, the scene changed. Rik was glad he had been kneeling down at that point, because he felt so disoriented that he would probably have fallen over, otherwise. He and the businessman were alone in a large, comfortable drawing room. The chairs were softest calfskin, and the marble floor was strewn with deep rugs. There was a huge hearth in which logs too heavy to lift crackled and blazed. A row of bookshelves along one wall contained a library's worth of old books. Classical music drifted through the air.
“That's better,” the man in the suit said. Rik looked around to check that Celestina was nowhere to be seen and got to his feet. He was wearing the ship's jumpsuit again, and his hormone levels had fallen to normal. He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling himself subsiding.
“My colleague, whom you just met, has been working with me to try to retrieve a certain package which recently came into your possession.” The man spoke in a precise, neutral voice. He had an educated East Coast accent which must have cost his parents plenty. Although there was a relaxed sociability to the man's tone, there was also an underlying hint of prissiness that suggested an obsessive-compulsive personality. “I'm sorry if some of her tactics have been a little rough, but more depends on this than you can possibly imagine.”
Rik regarded the man steadily for a moment, then said, “Who the fuck are you, where the fuck am I, and what the fuck is going on?”
The man blinked, his air of control and assurance briefly disturbed. “I'm sorry. I assumed...” He took a breath, ready to start again.
“Tell it from the beginning,” Rik said, interrupting. “Tell it slow, and make sure you include the part where my friend gets shot by your thugs.”
“Your friend? I – I didn't know anybody had been shot. I left all the details of the operation to Celestina.”
“That would be the deranged bitch I just met in the other fantasy world? That's who you left all the details to?”
“Look, I want to–”
But Rik was just warming up. “And the upload that's been hunting me and shooting cops like they've just come into season? I suppose you didn't know about that little detail, either.”
“Shooting cops?”
“Among others. And then there's the Chicago Mob tie-in. What kind of crazy game are you playing, mister?”
The mention of Celestina's organisation seemed to bring the stranger back to somewhere more solid. A flicker of irritation passed across the man's face and he straightened himself.
“Please sit down, Mr. Drew.”
“Not 'til I get some answers.”
“Sit down, Mr. Drew, and I'll explain everything.”
Rik found himself sitting in a chair by the fire. He sprang to his feet, and was immediately back in his chair. He tried it one more time with the same effect.
“While you're in here, Mr. Drew, I have absolute control over you. Do you understand?” Rik understood, all right. “Even when you're out in the 'real' world, I still have considerable influence. Now please be quiet and listen.”
Rik tried to argue, but his mouth wouldn't work. He thought about trying to get up and deck the guy, but what good would it do for one virtual reality construct to take a swing at another one? He gritted his virtual teeth and tried to relax.
“Since you seem to know nothing at all, let me fill you in. I am Martin Lanham and this is my home, Omega Point. The woman you met earlier goes by the name of Celestina. She's the upload of Danny 'Mad Dog' Moretti, and–” Lanham paused, apparently curious about the expression on Rik's face, and let him speak.
“She's – I mean, he's – a man?” Rik burst out.
Lanham waved it aside. “That kind of thing doesn't matter so much here.”
Remembering his lustful feelings, Rik thought it mattered a great deal.
Lanham went on. “Celestina's the Mafia connection you mentioned. I don't know much about the embodied upload you say has been shooting people. Just someone Celestina hired.�
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Rik tried to explain just what he thought of someone who would send the Mafia after him and his friends, but Lanham had shut him down again.
“You were asked to pick up a package for Newton Cordell,” Lanham said. “I want that package. Give it to me and I will call off my 'Mad Dog', or my mad bitch, as you more accurately called her.”
Rik's voice was working again. “I haven't got your damned package. It's gone. I lost it. God, I wish I'd never seen it! Who else have you hurt, you deranged freak? How many more of my family and friends are being targeted?”
“You need to calm down Mr. Drew, and try to think clearly. The only way to stop all this is to give me the package. The longer you wait, the more danger your loved ones may be in.”
Rik could see the sense in this, and would normally have been happy to comply. The only problem was that he didn't have the package, and didn't have a clue where it might be.
“Tell me why it's so damned important,” he said, stalling.
“It's important because I want it,” Lanham said.
It occurred to Rik that his host didn't just want the package; he wanted the package very, very much. Not just wanted it, but desperately needed it. He remembered hearing that Omega Point was at one of the Lagrange points – a journey of a hundred and fifty million kilometres. You didn't just haul people that far on a whim, even if you had all the money in the Solar System. It gave Rik some leverage.
“Not good enough, Lanham,” he said. “Tell me why I should give it to you rather than Cordell. Persuade me.”
Now, Rik thought, the guy will either take the risk that I'm willing to be persuaded, or he'll start torturing me, just to be on the safe side.
Lanham went very quiet. He stared at Rik with calculating eyes set in a poker face. When he spoke, his voice was calm and level. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Drew?”
Rik felt a wave of relief that the upload hadn't gone for the torture option. “No, not really,” he said. “Ask me again on my deathbed.”
The Credulity Nexus Page 11
