Reality 36: A Richards & Klein Novel

by Guy Haley

"Prepare! Prepare! Combat configuration initiated," shouted Tarquinius. Mirrored plates dropped down to cover his eyes, a shield of the same material rising from his back to protect his rider. Missile racks rose from his flanks. A perforated gorget swung out and up from under his chin over his mouth. Atop the saddle, a panel slid back to reveal a tactical display, reticules darting about. "Fire!" he roared. A salvo of missiles streaked towards the insect-things, blowing three apart in a welter of gore. Tarquinius galloped faster, gathering in his legs to hurl himself into the swarm. The insects' wings whined as horribly as meatsaws as Tarquinius swatted them from the sky. Jag's sabre glowed with blue fire, the creatures he destroyed dissipating like broken television pictures on the breeze.

  The woman had fallen in the mud and could not rise. One of the downed insects dragged itself toward her. She pointed her gun at it and pulled the trigger. The weapon clicked, empty. She shouted in frustration and threw it aside.

  A huge metal paw descended on the creature with a final squelch.

  "All destroyed, Jagadith."

  "Jolly good. Now," said Jagadith, turning to Veronique Valdaire lying prone in the swamp. "My dear goddess," said Jagadith "Pray be telling us who you are and what you are doing within the confines of the Thirty-sixth Realm. This place is as forbidden to you as it is to the god who did this." He gestured delicately at the ruined insects. "Explain yourself."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm lost," stammered Veronique. "I came up from Blandorray by zeppelin three weeks ago, those horrible things…"

  She was somewhat attractive, noted Jag, her skin a lustrous ebony under its smears of mud. The lion glared at her. Tarquinius had no time for the percentiles of beauty.

  Jagadith held up a perfect, if dirty, hand.

  "Please! Be sparing us your falsehood, madam goddess. We are not to be bamboozled, is this not correct?"

  "Right," agreed the lion. "No bamboozling. We know what you are."

  "And, we did save your life. And you are carrying a representation of a Hechler series nine electrically activated automatic assault rifle, which, as we are both aware, is not something any of the natives hereabouts would even dream of, being unfamiliar with firearms beyond rifled muskets. An illegal game add-on, is it not, from the old days? So, even if you are thinking to mislead us, it would be most discourteous in light of your rescue, and foolish when taken in consideration of this evidence." He refreshed his smile. "Now, please tell us who you are."

  "Dammit!" said Veronique, slapping the mud. Jagadith wrinkled his nose; he did not approve of women swearing. "Dammit dammit dammit! OK, OK. My name's Veronique Valdaire. I'm an AI systems analyst working on a digital anthropology project out of UCLA under Zhang Qifang."

  "Ah yes, we are familiar with this project, and the good professor. Qifang gave you your codes? They should not permit full access."

  "I had my near-I modify them, ran myself out through relays via a defunct experimental satellite. It's how I got in."

  "You are talented, then." Jagadith looked around at the dead insects. "Even without this ungodly commotion going on, we would have been alerted to your presence eventually. And perhaps, under different circumstances, you would not have been so happy to see us. There have been fatalities from our encounters with interlopers in the past."

  "Those are my preferred outcomes," growled Tarquinius, shifting his weight.

  "Your choice to enter the Realms makes you a criminal, I am afraid. You are not the first researcher who was tempted to break the seals, and no doubt you will not be the last."

  "Let's expel her now," said Tarquinius.

  "Why are you here? To study us up close and personal, as you might say? Find your own world of marvellous wonders tiresome? Or did you just fancy a little game of god?" Jagadith's face became hard.

  "No, of course not. I am not a hacker. I came here because of Professor Qifang. There's something odd happening in the dead space outside of the extant Realms. He found it, but he disappeared. He sent me a message to meet him here, and so here I am."

  "This is most irregular," said Jagadith.

  "Indeed," said Tarquinius. "Could it be that Qifang is the god we seek? That is a sorry prospect."

  "Betrayal is a possibility we must consider," said Jagadith sadly.

  "I came here to help. I want to help," said Veronique. "I need to find out what he uncovered. He left me data – someone's being manipulating the dataflows across the whole of the Realms. It wasn't him. Betraying his principles is not the way Qifang is. If he says he has discovered something, then he has."

  "A something left conveniently undescribed. He is old, is he not?" said Jagadith.

  "A hundred and twenty-seven."

  "There you have it, my dear. Impending mortality affects us all, shaking even the most deeply held principle. I am very sorry for being so abrupt, but your actions are a trifle fishy to me. And also terribly foolish," said Jagadith. He wobbled his head.

  "I have done nothing but study the Realms. I would never do anything to harm them," said Veronique.

  "Your very presence belies that," said Jagadith curtly. "Still, we cannot expel you as of yet. The disruption to this Realm is too extreme. De-interfacing your mind could kill you."

  "I say do it anyway," said Tarquinius.

  "Pay no heed to him," sighed the paladin. "We are duty bound to safeguard human life, as far as is possible. We are the paladins of this Realm. I am Sir Jagadith Veyadeep, Vedic templar of the Order of Silken Lights. This, your divinity, is my mount and friend, Tarquinius."

  "Good day," rumbled the lion.

  "Madam goddess, by directly connecting with our reality you have placed yourself in an inordinate amount of danger. I must be asking you to accompany us until we can expel you safely."

  Jag reached out his hand. Veronique looked doubtfully at it.

  "Goddess one minute, expulsion the next. I've had some mixed messages from men in the past." She grasped the paladin's grimed hand. He pulled her up on to the saddle behind him. "If I can help, I will. I was in the USNAPC for six years…"

  Jagadith raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  "United States of North America Peace Corps," she explained.

  "A charming modern euphemism for 'army'?" said Jag. "You were a soldier then?"

  "Yes, not frontline, cyberwarfare division. I also have degrees in AI psychology and virtual ecology, I'm not helpless. I know this Realm, I can fight."

  "Madam goddess, you could have a doctorate in the structure and manifestation of our kingdom, and your studies would never prepare you for the confrontation we must attend to. An old man your professor may be in your world, but not here. Here he is a god," Jagadith said sternly. "Now, this must go." Veronique's gun disappeared. "And do not be using any of your privileges to interfere with the good working of this universe again. If you would sit and be quiet, my friend and I have terrible peril to be dealing with. Tarquinius," he said to the lion, "I believe the worst of the swamp is behind us now."

  Tarquinius padded through the mire, surreptitiously watching the digital anthropologist. The look on her face made him smile as only the king of the beasts can.

  Chapter 11

  Quaid

  The police cruiser bobbed on the Medway swell, the navigation lights of the Aurora Viva lost then found in the folds of night half a mile out. An amber necklace of exclusion beacons about the yacht slid up and down the water, the hull they encircled a stepped shadow punctuated by the eggwhisk silhouettes of rotary sails.

  Lights blinked far off on the windmills of the North Sea arc, tracing the northern shore of Boris Island. Beyond ships glittered like the table decorations of maharajahs. The double spires of the Channel carbon sequestration plants soared as gaudy as Christmas trees on the horizon. Inland, the swamps of Essex were blacker than the sea, towns hinted at by the muted glow on the undersides of clouds.

  The sky was an unbroken murk, but there were stars in the water, luminescent algae moving with the waves. A pair of police l
aunches cast them into swirls as they prowled back and forth in long sweeps within the cordon, sonar scanning the seabed, while a million candle searchlights darted out to stab at one whitetop then another, retreating in disappointment at every foray. From below the mournful sea-monster eyes of autonomous submersibles shone.

  Otto dialled his magnification back to normal. Richards sat on the deck, legs out before him like a child, fiddling with his dicopter box.

  "I'm going to need to fab some more of these, I'm down to my last half dozen," he grumbled. He scrabbled around a bit and discovered a group of short-range relay ants, the size of old one-euro coins, five legs arranged round the rim. They scuttled out of the way of Richards' finger when he poked at them, their chirruping on the edge of human hearing. "What are these doing in here? Little beggars get everywhere!" Otto grunted by way of reply. He didn't like the sea, it made him queasy. They'd never found a cure for motion sickness. He tried not to look at the ocean surface, fearing he would pitch forward into a wet infinity of tiny green suns.

  "This'll do." Richards slid one of the drawers of the box shut with a click. He opened his hand. On his synthetic palm sat a synthetic fly. He stood up carefully, hand flat. His sheath's softgel covering glowing white with reflected light, painting him as some manic waterborne pierrot against the dark. "There we go," he said. The artificial fly jumped into the air, and buzzed out across the water.

  "I don't see why we just don't go on board now. We have a warrant from Hughie," said Otto.

  "I want to get a look at them before they know we're coming," Richards said. "I know you get seasick but these things are really fragile. If I'd have sent it out from the shore it'd have been blown away." Richards stood on tiptoe as his sheath unconsciously followed the movements of the tiny machine he was guiding toward the Aurora Viva.

  "Hmm," said Otto. A hot breeze was blowing from the southeast, unusual at the beginning of September. The rains would probably be late. The Londons were going to cook a few weeks longer. "I can taste it from when Tufa hit me with that cattle prod." He spat over the side.

  "Just hold on," said Richards.

  A minute passed. Otto concentrated on the horizon where blue-black sky met truly black sea in an uncertain line. Then Richards' sheath relaxed, a change of poise as his attention returned from the dicopter.

  "OK. That's got it. I lodged it up in the rigging. We can go home now, watch this from the comfort of the office, unless you want to duck out? I'm happy to do this myself. You took a big old beating yesterday. You should take it easy."

  "I am fine," said Otto. "Do we still have the Lagavulin?" Otto and Richards shared a taste for good whisky.

  "Yep."

  "I will come then. I have no other business tonight. I need a drink."

  "Tell you what" – he patted Otto's arm – "you get some sleep for an hour. Let me do a preliminary sweep, OK? I can do it faster that way anyway. I can put it on the files, then you can read them and catch up."

  Otto considered the offer. His sleep had not been as restful as it should have been recently. "OK."

  They got into their car on the port side landing pad of the cruiser and took off, red and blues flashing. They had no reason to make the crew of the Aurora Viva think they were anything other than another cop aircar, said Richards.

  Four hours later, Otto sat rubbing his eyes in the briefing room of Richards & Klein, Inc, Security Consultants. While Otto had slept, Richards had changed his outfit; for a machine he was picky about what he wore. The current number was an expensive polychromatic weave from Ryuko Cigliani, colours keyed into his pseudo-emotional state. In the dimly lit office, illuminated by the flicker of the holo files, the suit was a swirling blue, peaks of the creases in the cloth picked out in maroon.

  "You could read the files once in a while," said Richards. "I go to a lot of trouble to keep them up to date."

  "I could," said Otto, "and you could just tell me what is going on." He yawned.

  Richards shook his head. "OK, fine. This guy's Thornton Quaid," Richards gestured up to the holo hanging over the table, an awkward angle bent wide by the dicopter's wraparound eyes. At its centre sat a man on an expensive sofa built into the curve of the yacht's hull; real leather. Quaid was corn-fed pornstar pretty. His skin was overly taut and had an orange tan, he had teeth so white they were blue, and his hair was buoyant with unnatural waves.

  "The boat's owner," said Richards. Quaid, made huge by the dicopter's fish-eye cameras, gestured wildly, arguing with a uniformed cop. The cop was all placating hand motions, while Quaid was angry, but the sound was muted, at least for Otto. Richards had several parts of himself examining every statement and hand wave as they spoke.

  "Eugene?"

  "You can tell?" Richards said wryly.

  "Nobody but a eugene would name their children Thornton, or make them tan orange." said Otto.

  "He's a second generation, his parents were among the first. Ignore the Fanta glow and the gene bling. His IQ's off the chart, as you'd expect. This is an important guy."

  "Angry too," said Otto.

  "Yeah, they go for all that alpha male aggression bullshit to make their kids more competitive. It worked for Quaid. He made his first fortune in the North American rewilding, hasn't stopped since. He's still got a large stake in the Buffalo Commons."

  "The big money there was done thirty years ago," said Otto.

  "He was in on it nearly from the start. He's sixty-eight. He's worth trillions now."

  Otto made a disapproving noise. Quaid looked about thirty. "Right."

  "Right as much as you like Otto, that guy's one of the preeminent restorative ecologists on the planet. This is the guy," he pointed, "behind the North American neo-mammoth, the whole hairy elephant ecology, from grasses up. That's serious brainpower."

  "Fine. So if I go to Wyoming for my holidays and I get dragged out of my bed in the middle of the night by a lion, I know who to sue. His motive for the murder?"

  "None yet."

  They watched as the cop left. Thornton went to rage in the face of a short South Asian man.

  "Maybe he just lost his temper," said Otto.

  "He's unhappy right now," agreed Richards. "This boat is a pleasure enterprise for him. The fee he charges his passengers is nominal, at least as far as he's concerned – his psych profile suggests he does not like giving anything away for free, you can blame his parents again for that. He gets his guests on for their entertainment value."

  "So what does he care? If he is innocent, he can wait all this out."

  "He's got a big meeting with the People's Dynasty government next Tuesday," explained Richards. "He's in on their Yellow River rebirth project, it's worth billions to him, but Hughie's not going to let him go anywhere until this is done, and by the book, though he'd do that to piss the Chinese off more than anything, knowing Hughie, which I do."

  The screen tilted vertiginously as the dicopter buzzed away from Quaid, then back towards him and over his head, on past the Asian man who was backing slowly into a corner as he tried to appease his boss. "Our other suspects then: Rambriksh Mistry, ship's steward and our man Quaid's confidant." The walls of the yacht's narrow corridors blurred as the dicopter flew jerkily on, out up the corridor to the deck, where a leggy beauty with vacant eyes stood smoking a cigarette. "Next: Jolanda Garcia, Andorran/Belgian heiress and the only other passenger. And then the crew." Five Twos in faceless, bandy-legged sheaths ornately tooled from brass loomed out of the night one after the other, attending to tasks nautical. "Finally we have three cook staff, all human." The dicopter zipped into an open hatch, up plushly carpeted corridors, then down a ventilation pipe and out into the ship's galley, where a fat-faced white man waved at it irritably with a teatowel. "Zbigniew Lodziak, Armand Fleur and Tora Hakim," said Richards as it passed them one at a time.

  Otto leant forward and cupped his glass. "This is very interesting."

  "There was a murder here, Otto, pay attention."

  "I was not being
sarcastic, it is interesting. It is like something from your Agatha Christie."

  "She's not 'mine', Otto. Learn English."

  Otto shrugged and took a drink.

  The dicopter banked, flew out the kitchen and up plain steel stairs, then made its way back into the guest accommodation, between two heavy gun drones that filled the passage and through the red EuPol flatribbon guarding Qifang's cabin. Blood covered everything, great sprays across the tastefully decorated walls in brown arcs. Text up the side of the holo showed a match to Qifang, but Richards wasn't concerned with that.

  The fake insect buzzed circuits round the cabin. Richards' face was intent. "Aha, there it is!" Richards looked over his shoulder at Otto, dour-faced at the other end of the conference table, nursing his whisky like it might escape. "I thought I'd lost it for a moment there. Now this is interesting." The dicopter alighted on the ceiling, the 270-degree view its eyes gave inverted. Feet brushed over its face as the sophisticated machine brought samples up to its analysis unit from the surface it stood on. A string of chemical formulae ran up the side of the holo. "There," he said triumphantly. "Traces of burning silicon lubricant and carbon plastics."