Bad to Worse

by Edeson, Robert;

  ‘That’s grossly inconsiderate, Regan. It was disgusting. I had to send it back.’

  ‘That’s what your mother should have thought when you came along.’

  Worse was not enjoying the exchange, but Regan was taking her time and slowly passing up advantage. He guessed that if she were stirred enough, her aim would be more passionate than rational. She might go for the star rather than a centre shot. It certainly wasn’t going to be half an earlobe. He raised his right hand and inserted a thumb behind the left lapel, projecting it slightly.

  Regan had come to a realization.

  ‘So now you’re inviting me to sit down for food you think is disgusting?’

  That was a question. It shifted timing, and a little control, to him.

  ‘I’ve never been good with first dates,’ said Worse.

  Regan lowered one hand and revved the bike. It was a power play, machine roar to tin star.

  ‘You hear that, Worse? That sound will ride up and down over your corpse. They’ll be burning you decorated in tyre tracks.’

  ‘I’ve been run over before,’ lied Worse.

  She brought her hand back to the pistol.

  ‘Now listen to my idea of a first date, asshole. I’m going to make you sick with fear. Then I’m going to cause you pain. Then I’m going to make you beg. Then I’m going to get you praying. Then I’m going to shoot you fucking dead.’

  ‘You don’t see dating for its long-term prospects, I take it.’

  Worse was still moving slightly, watching her pistol.

  ‘Look, Regan. That’s one-sided. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘You’ll end up with relief from suffering. If I’m nice.’

  Worse knew that what he said next could bring on the end. That conferred a small anticipatory advantage, and he was ready.

  ‘No way that would cover expenses, Rego. I’ll take the Seneca in lieu, if that’s your preference.’

  It took a few moments for Regan’s face to signal understanding, then rage; Worse saw it as a tremor in her weapon. She raised the barrel. She tilted her head.

  Worse’s left hand pulled open his jacket and his right hand drew the pistol from his belt. In a single action he stepped to the right, turned side on, lined up the Prussica, and fired.

  The two shots were simultaneous. Regan was thrust backwards off the Seneca, over the duckboard, onto the road. A few confused tourists looked on, unsure if they were witnessing a street performance. But unlike the stuntman earlier, she didn’t rise to take a trouper’s bow. Instead she lay on Main Street under a faux gas lamp, mouth gaping in her own shadow and a black entry wound barely visible on her forehead.

  Worse was hit by broken glass. He glanced behind him at the mural. The shattered panel had been the portrait of Rigo Mortiss. Several tavern staff emerged from the building, staring at Worse. He ignored them.

  He walked back to the table and picked up his mobile to phone Thomas. Then he remembered that Sigrid was holding.

  ‘Sorry that took so long.’

  ‘Richard! I thought I heard a shot. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. Sigrid, can we talk later? There’s a mess here that I need to attend to.’

  He looked at the Seneca, still upright and idling. ‘And I’ve just acquired a motorbike.’

  28 BACK AT THE BHEH

  Worse left payment for the meal he hadn’t eaten. Three uniformed sheriff’s deputies arrived on foot, drawn by reports of a public disturbance, then more quickly by the sound of gunfire. Worse holstered his weapon as he walked over to the duckboard. He took control.

  ‘Listen everybody. This is sheriff’s business. No one is to leave before giving his or her name and address to the deputies here.’ He raised his voice as a woman attempted to merge into the darkness. ‘That means nobody, Miss.’

  Worse then addressed the deputies, who were taking in his civilian suit, the accent, and his star with evident incomprehension. ‘Get all their details. Some will have photographs or videos. Take it all. Statements now, not tomorrow. There will be witnesses inside as well. That’s Regan Mortiss.’ Worse pointed. ‘Inform the medical examiner. She came off her bike. It belongs to me now, by negotiation. Recover her firearm and cell phone. Another thing: somebody here recognized me and informed her where I was. I want to know who did that. Start with the woman who tried to slip away, but more likely it was a staff member. Check all phone records, including hers.’ Worse again pointed at Regan. ‘I want no loose ends.’

  Worse walked over to the Seneca and lifted a flap on the rider’s seat. Then he straddled the machine, giving the throttle a generous twist; that might just get to be a good sound again. He turned between the tables, stood as he jumped from the duckboard to the road, slid the rear wheel around, and without a glance at the others made accelerando for the hill, heading up to the BHEH.

  At the hotel concourse he gestured to a valet and tipped.

  ‘Clean off the bad blood. Fill the tank. Log it to room five-one-two; name of Worse.’

  Worse sat in the lobby waiting for Thomas. A drinks waiter came by and Worse ordered a bottle of a California white and two glasses.

  ‘Just pour one for now, please,’ he said, when the waiter returned with his order and an ice bucket.

  As Worse watched, he called Sigrid’s number again.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘Everything’s fine, Sigrid. I’m back at the BHEH now, waiting in the lobby to catch up with Thomas. He had to attend the clean-up at Area Pi.’

  ‘What was going on earlier?’ asked Sigrid. ‘The gunshot I heard, what was that?’

  ‘That was Regan Mortiss disturbing the peace. My peace. With a pistol.’

  ‘Goodness, Richard. Look after yourself. What happened?’

  ‘She died.’

  Just then, Worse saw Sendoff sweeping into the lobby from the concourse and heading to the lift station. He was weighed down with bags of designer-label shopping. His demeanour made it clear that he hadn’t heard the news.

  ‘Well, I’m very relieved that you are all right, Richard,’ said Sigrid.

  ‘How are you, anyway, Sigrid? How is the presentation going?’

  ‘It’s going well, I think. I was pleased we had that conversation on the ship. About Satroit.’

  ‘He was insane?’

  ‘It’s not straightforward. I’ll explain when you’re back.’

  ‘Speaking of Satroit, I need to thank you for Black Levant. I’ll explain that later, too.’

  ‘Okay. We have a poetry agenda for next Thursday. Thanks for phoning, Richard.’

  Fifty minutes later, Thomas appeared, and Worse stood up. He hadn’t touched his drink. They shook hands.

  ‘Jeez, cousin. I leave you sitting quietly in the safest, dullest place in town and all hell breaks loose, and for God’s sake, you kill off the town’s only billionaire, Arizona’s ex-pistol champion and the world’s paramount Worse threat and leave her corpse on the street while you ride off on her mount.’ He beamed. ‘That was fantastic, Senior Deputy!’

  ‘Drink?’ said Worse.

  ‘You bet.’

  Worse poured a second and handed it to Thomas. They clinked glasses.

  ‘I called by the scene on the way here. Saw what the deputies had requisitioned. Watched some videos. It was like the old days. You were mighty fast, cousin. I couldn’t see you move.’

  ‘Not that fast. She got her shot away. I was a bit disappointed about that. Came close too. Passed on the left. Ruined the fabulous mirror as well.’

  Thomas took a moment to realize Worse was not serious. He laughed loudly and settled back in his chair.

  ‘You know, you are one goddamn amazing cousin. Are you all like that in Australia?’

  ‘Most are faster on the draw. It’s still a wild place, especially out west where I come from.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘I am kidding you. Did you get to eat tonight, Thomas?’

  ‘No, I did
not.’

  ‘I couldn’t face the Hot Lead, either. Let me order you a meal here.’

  Worse called the waiter, who brought menus.

  ‘You did face the hot lead, cousin. You just didn’t stomach it. Jeez, Richard. We’re going to have to work hard to stop you becoming the new Dante gunfighter legend. They’ll be casting your personal big mirror mural starting tomorrow.’

  Worse’s face expressed his distaste. He changed the subject.

  ‘What happened out at Area Pi?’

  ‘Interesting. Interesting.’ Thomas looked down at the glass in his hand. He spoke quietly. ‘We found Mortiss senior. Regan’s father.’

  ‘Alive?’ asked Worse.

  ‘Alive, but hardly living. It seems he was kept in confinement. Regan got him out of the way by effectively imprisoning him in a domestic compound with basic needs met and no outside contact. Nearly blind, as well.’

  ‘I’m surprised she didn’t simply murder him,’ said Worse.

  ‘Yeah, well, she was doing that slowly. He was starving to death. We had him taken to Dante General for a check. When he’s cleared he’ll be interviewed. Damn it. I’ll have to tell him his daughter’s dead.’

  ‘He might be relieved. I am. What else did you find there?’

  ‘I tell you, Richard, it’s a mighty strange place. There was a building full of drones in various stages of assembly. All kinds of things. The FBI will be months pulling it apart to make sense of what was going on.’

  The meals arrived and a waiter set up a table. Worse signed the tab.

  ‘What about personnel?’ asked Worse. ‘Any intelligence from them?’

  ‘Not very forthcoming. But that will change. The Feds are establishing a big operations facility on site. They’ll bring in every specialist they need, talkists included.’

  Worse looked at Thomas sceptically.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like that. Rational argument is the new way. If that fails, irrational argument. All strictly distance learning.’

  ‘Enlightened, I’m sure,’ said Worse. ‘Whom do you think they were doing the drone work for? Where were they going to sell Sunblock? I mean, did one of your defence agencies have a part in it all?’

  ‘Too early to say, cousin. But if they did, they are staying very quiet.’

  ‘What jurisdiction do you have out there, Thomas?’

  ‘Keeping the peace. Stopping the Feds breaking their own law. Explaining Arizona language and customs like cussin’ and courtesy. No detection responsibilities now, if that’s what you’re asking. The experts are in charge from today.’

  The voice and the smile were wry. Worse looked at him.

  ‘You know, Thomas, I’m not sure that building and selling drones was the main game. I think the remit was developing and proving up the Sunblock coating. They could name their own price for that technology. And that means national security might have been in play. I may go back in for another search.’

  Thomas looked shocked.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ added Worse. ‘Not in person. Strictly virtual.’

  ‘Jeez, Richard. It’s the FBI. They’ll detect an intrusion and hunt you down,’ said Thomas.

  ‘You think so? They’ll knock on my poor farmer’s door? In Belarus?’

  Thomas placed his meal plate on the table and picked up his drink. He looked at Worse, expressionless.

  ‘Be sure to tell me if you find something of interest, Senior Deputy.’

  Seneca aficionados will recognize the specialty model (unlicensable in many countries). Under the rider’s seat is a ‘vintage switch’ that, according to biker lore, disengages everything invented after 1930. Actually, the shutdown is not that severe, being principally electronic stability, speed limiter, cruise and traction control. This allowed Worse to slide the rear through a quarter circle with the giant front discs locked. The position of the switch requires any rider having mortal misgivings to stop and dismount publicly in order to re-engage the safety functions; this offers a stark choice between injury and ignominy on manly club rides. Senior bikers insist they can tell from the exhaust sound whether or not the safety is on. Spectrum analysis disproves this, but the myth promotes toughness in the impressionable who survive.

  29 VIRGIL IN THE UNDERWORLD

  It was well after midnight when Worse went to his room on the fifth floor. Deputy Frank was on duty, and they exchanged greetings as Worse opened his door. Just inside, he saw a note on the floor and bent to pick it up. The message was handwritten on hotel stationery, folded over.

  Annulus mirabilis!

  Marigold lives!

  Worse held open his door to speak to Frank in the corridor.

  ‘There’s a note under my door. Did you see who put it there?’

  ‘No one has been near your door, Dr Worse, in all the time I’ve been on duty. And it wasn’t reported on to me by Deputy Lloyd.’

  Worse glanced down the corridor in the other direction. Outside the elevator station was a security camera pointing his way.

  ‘Thank you, Deputy. Good night.’

  Worse sat at the small writing desk positioned under a window and attended to mail. Then he logged into Mockingbird on the Mortiss server, and ran status checks. The overlay was intact, despite repeated probes from the company’s security team. He saw that a new intruder had been trying to get control, and Worse guessed it was a federal agency. He decided to pursue that the next day. Meanwhile, he uploaded a new chicane called Knightsmove to improve evasion.

  The Marigold note was on the desk beside his laptop. It was Worse’s habit whenever he checked into a hotel to hack the building security system, partly from interest but also to utilize the facility when occasions called for it. He went back in, located the fifth floor camera feeds, and fast-scanned the vision taking in his door over the hours of his absence.

  Early the next morning, he was seated at the same desk. Attacks on Mockingbird from Washington had continued through the night. Someone was clearly trying to take ownership and eliminate Worse. The security firm employed by Mortiss was trying to eliminate them both and purge the system. It was a game with three players, two moving pieces and one shifting the chessboard, and at every turn the rules were shuffled.

  Worse installed another chicane to counter the main threat. He could see they were using a classic Vogelhaus to conceal their main broach. In response, he deployed a starburst. That would saturate their probing with millions of decoys known as CPs.

  Worse was slightly puzzled that a government service would attempt such a covert and difficult entry into Mortiss, given they had the grounds to investigate by court order and subpoena all the records they wanted. He decided to follow the Washington connection and found that it wasn’t federal at all. It was coming from a desktop in the Chinese embassy. When he had the machine address, and a few milliseconds before they shut it down, he slipped in a mockingbird. Now it would be Chinese agents knocking on a farmer’s door in Belarus.

  This all took time, and it felt to Worse like he hadn’t yet started the day’s proper work. He returned to Unit Circle, and from there through Camelline to Area Pi, and eventually broke into its chemical division.

  It made fascinating reading. They had spent a year perfecting a reliable electrical coupling to the Sunblock coating, for which they needed to develop novel conduction layers. The technical challenges along the way were thoroughly documented, as were trial methodologies and details of their eventual breakthrough. It was impressive science.

  And it was criminal. When the first josephites were delivered and chemists and engineers were figuring out how to process them to extract the terencium, some kind of spill occurred in a test crushing rig and an assistant died from poisoning. Worse found correspondence with Mortiss Bros organizing a cover-up. That conspiracy was signed off by Regan.

  Area Pi didn’t construct drones. They bought them, disassembled their surface fabric, coated the components with Sunblock, and put them together with modules for power, rada
r sensing, and control systems. It wasn’t clear whether Mortiss intended to upscale Sunblock production and offer it commercially, or simply prove the technology then sell it to the highest bidder.

  Worse returned to the Chicago server and made some adjustments to Mockingbird, uploading more software. To go live, it would require an instruction code and go-command to be sent as well. Worse’s virtual finger rested over the Send button for several seconds. He decided to give the matter more consideration.

  His window overlooked the hotel concourse, and the sound of a motorbike outside made Worse restless. He needed a break, and phoned the bellboy. When he went downstairs the Seneca was waiting for him, and half an hour later, without particularly meaning to be, he was out west on 3141.

  Pleno, normally a deserted T-junction with a few ruins and an abandoned water catchment for landmarks, had been transformed overnight. This was as close to Area Pi as the public was allowed, and dozens of press vans and facility trucks were parked along the road edges. Every time a vehicle appeared from the Phoenix direction and turned north, and every time one came south from Area Pi and turned back west, a horde of reporters and television crew would mobilize, trying to make a story out of nothing but through-traffic. The FBI had promised to provide four-hourly briefings, but that left a long time in between watching dust plumes.

  Worse turned north, passed the bulk of parked vehicles, and pulled in on the right behind a large black van with tinted windows. Just beyond that was a Road Closed sign. He stood in some shade beside his bike and drank from a water bottle, watching the scene. Close by, he overheard a network reporter interviewing another reporter reporting that there was nothing to report. It reminded him of home.

  Two men approached, walking from the intersection towards the black van. When they saw Worse, one came over.

  ‘Nice bike.’

  Worse acknowledged with a nod, and gave the club wave. It was returned.

  ‘V-switch?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Worse.

  ‘You don’t see many of those around here. Where’d you get it?’