‘I won it in a competition,’ said Worse.
‘Lucky you. Mind if I look under the seat?’
That was considered quite a personal request among Seneca owners.
‘Sure,’ said Worse.
The other man lifted the seat and grinned.
‘You ride off?’
‘Not always. Today it felt good,’ said Worse.
‘Yeah, I bet. On this dust and gravel.’
He lowered the seat, and held out his hand.
‘The name’s Virgil Pickridge.’
‘I’m Worse. Richard Worse.’
There was immediate recognition.
‘Richard Worse? Tom’s cousin? Your name is in all our dispatches. That was quite a performance yesterday. You’ve given some of us years of work out here.’
‘Yes, well, I hope you can clean it up. They were a bad lot,’ said Worse.
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘I was getting cabin fever in the hotel.’
‘Want to come down the road and see what you’ve stirred up?’ asked Pickridge.
Worse held back to be out of the FBI dust. He was waved through a perimeter checkpoint and followed the van for about a kilometre inside the compound. They stopped next to several other vehicles inside a hangar that was open on one end. Pickridge came over to Worse.
‘Anything in particular I can show you?’
‘Regan kept her father imprisoned here somehow. I’d like to see that for myself. I’d also like a look at the coating factory and any chem labs, if that’s okay.’
‘Follow me,’ said Pickridge.
He hesitated, looking at the Seneca.
‘Say. It’s a big site. Why don’t I ride pillion and give directions?’
‘Want me to lift the seat?’
‘No way.’
They went first to a three-storeyed red brick building that housed offices and laboratories. In every room there were agents sifting through paperwork, sitting at terminals, photographing evidence, or talking into recorders. Worse had a good idea of what they were looking at—he had taken a tour from the privacy of his BHEH room.
Pickridge was surprised that his guest was more interested in looking around the storerooms, but to Worse they offered a simple key to the chemistry that was going on in the place. In one area, he found several baskets of the sort he had seen in La Ferste. He motioned to Pickridge that he would like to open one. Pickridge nodded, curious himself. A minute later, Worse’s expectation was confirmed.
‘What is that?’
‘It’s called a josephite,’ said Worse, holding it up. ‘Smuggled from the Ferendes. Don’t break one. They’ve got a liquid core and it’s toxic. On May first two years ago an employee named Leeshem was poisoned from a terencium sulphide spill in a company crusher. It was kept quiet using a toxicologist bought off by Mortiss. Regan and William gave the orders. You should add it to his indictment.’
Pickridge was taking notes. He looked up.
‘You know Regan was shot dead last night?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Worse.
‘Happened in Dante, so it’s a sheriff’s department matter at this stage. They haven’t told us a lot.’
Worse showed no interest.
‘Can I see the coating plant?’ he asked.
It was another bike ride away. As they walked to the Seneca, Worse asked if Pickridge knew anything about the electrical power provision and consumption on the site. He was told there was a big substation taking in high voltage lines from Hericho, where most other services were also sourced. Worse had seen the pylons on the satellite images. Close to the substation was a diesel generator plant for back-up supply.
The next building was more recently constructed, and large enough to take the bike through. The first section housed a sterile disassembly area. After that, they passed enormous annealing blocks and ovens that were essentially silica glazing kilns. Reassembly and module installation happened in another building. They exited at the other end.
‘That was all bad. Now I’ll show you sad,’ said Virgil.
He directed Worse to a compound fenced with security wire, enclosing a small, single-level building. It had been the site’s transformer station before the power demands of their developing annealing technology required a higher-order replacement. There were no agents working here, and as they approached, Worse was struck with a sense of the bareness of the place. The doors were wide open, with no sign of human comforts, or even recent habitation.
‘Prepare yourself for this, Richard.’
Back in his room, Worse lay on his bed. His eyes moistened as he thought about Charles Mortiss and the privations of his imprisonment. What Virgil had shown him reminded Worse, in a small and pathetically solitary way, of the great museums of atrocity that are designed to shock the inhumanity from our race, but seem never to succeed.
Regan was dead. But the company was rotten through, and had been from the start. He thought about the Seneca attack in Perth, about the Glimpse contract to kill Nicholas, about a forgotten man called Leeshem whose painful death was hidden from everyone who would care. He thought about Walter Reckles, and his cynical treatment that had brought Worse into this whole American tragedy. He thought about Charles again, father and daughter.
And he thought about the Mortiss vendetta, nearly a century-and-a-half of hatred and violence directed at the six Thomas Ms, themselves men who were dedicated to protecting the citizens of Dante.
Then he found himself wondering about Marigold.
And finally, but before everything, there was Famille Oblige. Worse got up and moved to the work desk, opened his laptop and clicked Send.
He said he would destroy Mortiss Bros, and now he had.
30 IN ARTICULO MORTISS
Worse was leaving that evening, and he took his bags down to the lobby to check out early. He preferred to sit there rather than stay in his room. Thomas had offered him a ride to the airport, and was to come by the BHEH to collect him.
As it happened, Thomas also arrived early, accompanied by a young man wearing a polo shirt bearing a school insignia. They came over to Worse, who stood up.
‘Richard, I’d like you to meet my son, Thomas M Seventh. Tom, this is our Australian cousin, Richard M.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Worse,’ said Tom, shaking hands. They chatted for a few minutes, before Tom excused himself and left by the main door. Worse guessed that his departure was prearranged to leave Thomas and him in private.
‘A very nice young man,’ said Worse. ‘Does he know what he wants to do?’
‘Not be sheriff, that seems clear. Aeronautics may be the thing. He likes math too.’
‘That ends a long tradition,’ said Worse. ‘Of course, there’s nothing contradictory about liking maths and being sheriff. Maybe time with Walter at Flight Control would help him decide.’
‘I was thinking the same, about Walter,’ said Thomas. ‘Some kind of work experience before starting college.’
They were still standing, and Worse motioned Thomas to sit down. It shifted the conversation from family to business. Worse took the Marigold note from his pocket.
‘I found this under my room door last night,’ said Worse, passing it to Thomas. ‘The guards didn’t see who put it there.’
Worse didn’t say that the security camera in the corridor also recorded no one coming to his door. Thomas read it.
‘That’s very interesting. A similar thing happened to Anna, an anonymous note raising the whole Area Pi question. I hope she’s kept it so we can compare the handwriting. What do you make of it, Richard?’
‘Well, it seems celebratory. We could read into it vindication, optimism, rejoicing, survival, perhaps a figurative returning from the dead. I suspect there has been an aggrieved party helping us somehow.’
‘Any idea who that might be?’ asked Thomas.
‘One possibility,’ said Worse. ‘There was a technician called Leeshem who was killed in an accident at Area Pi.
It was covered up. I would begin with his family, if it’s of continuing interest to you.’
‘Have you looked into that yourself, Richard? Did he have a wife or partner?’
‘He had a wife. She died some months ago.’
Thomas passed the note back.
‘Speaking of Area Pi, I had a look around this morning,’ said Worse.
He realized he should be clearer. ‘In person. On my bike. I was given a guided tour by an Agent Pickridge.’
‘Virgil? Virgil’s on the case? That’s excellent. He started with us before turning Feral, as we like to say. What did you learn?’
‘It all fits together much as we thought. I found a terencium shipment from the Ferendes.’ Worse paused. ‘The hardest part was seeing where Regan exiled her father.’
Thomas nodded. ‘I saw it too. By the way, an hour ago, the Mortiss business imploded financially. The lights literally went out in Chicago. No one’s ever seen anything like it. The Feds aren’t saying much, but from what I hear they had some type of long-term spyware buried in there for ongoing investigations, and they lost control of it. They’re kind of embarrassed.’
‘It’s called a mockingbird, Thomas,’ said Worse. ‘You should trust that it’s discriminating and will leave the good people in work while it destroys the rest.’
Thomas gave Worse his expressionless I don’t think you should tell me more expression. He spoke after a brief silence. ‘What are you planning with the Seneca?’
‘I was thinking of airfreighting it to Perth. I have a friend coming to stay who needs transport. She can use it.’
‘Give me the details and I’ll organize it for you,’ said Thomas.
‘That’s very kind. And, Thomas … this is for you.’
Worse took a parcel from the top of his backpack and passed it to Thomas.
‘Don’t open it here. But, as I say, every Worse should carry one.’
A waiter approached, and Worse ordered tea. Thomas leaned back in his chair.
‘While you were at Area Pi this morning, I spent some time with Charles Mortiss, in his hospital room. He apologized for the family—said he wished he had done more to end it for good. I told him about Regan dying and he said he already knew. He asked if he could call me Thomas, then he said, “I was trying to make things better. She was bad, you know, Thomas. I couldn’t control her,” and apologized again. He was very weak, and tearful. I found myself feeling sorry for him.’
‘Regan was bad,’ said Worse. ‘You wonder how it happens, turning that bad.’
‘She had the Uncle Rigo genes for bad. I would say that’s how.’
Worse stayed quiet. Inheritance again. Not the passing-pieces of humanity now, but genes for bad. He wasn’t so sure; he understood the modern credule theory, but he had seen the turning as well, many times, and it was rarely for the better.
He was quiet also because he needed time to settle his feelings about Regan. Whatever the circumstances of killing, whatever the imperative, his conscience was implacably enquiring. Regan was bad, but was she unredeemable? Could he have kept her talking? Did he try hard enough? Or as Sigrid might have put it: Was he amusing enough?
Thomas leaned forward again and looked at Worse. When he spoke his voice was changed, soft and almost breaking.
‘When I was there, at the hospital, his attorney showed up. I made to leave but Charles asked if I would stay. They had a testamentary deed called an abjuration drawn up. Mortiss took responsibility for the years of vendetta and declared it over. It was a covenant of peace, Richard, binding on descendants, and Charles asked me to be there for its signing.’
Worse nodded slowly, appreciating how moved Thomas was by the development. The curse of six generations was finally lifted, and he had been its witness.
‘Then there would seem to be a natural alignment of destinies about young Tom not wanting to become sheriff,’ said Worse.
Thomas was looking at the floor. He nodded, but said nothing.
They were seated in the same area where he and Thomas had been served lunch on the day that he checked in. Worse looked across the lobby to where he had first caught sight of Regan Mortiss. Those seats were now empty.
‘You know, Thomas, I would like to meet Charles,’ said Worse. ‘I feel that I owe him some form of explanation for what happened to Mortiss Bros, perhaps even to Regan.’
Worse caught an odd look from Thomas, and thought he should elaborate. ‘I’m not suggesting anything apologetic. I mean, to answer questions he might have; give him some peace, if that is possible.’
Worse was also thinking that he wanted to convey a personal revulsion at how the man had suffered at the hand of his own daughter, and to offer condolence, one human being to another. When he looked back at Thomas, this time more closely, he sensed what was coming.
‘He already has peace, cousin, and I saw him arrive at it. Charles Mortiss died at the end of his signature.’
31 MR WOTSAN
Worse entered his apartment, holding travel bags. He always looked forward to returning home, but this time it wasn’t the same. Normally, Mrs Brackedger would have collected mail, stocked the refrigerator and put out fresh flowers, perhaps leaving a welcome note with some housekeeping news. Today, the place was exactly as he left it many days before, and that was somehow saddening. He missed her.
He thought about Millie then. He would need to make the apartment more welcoming, more lived-in, for when she arrived. She would be staying in the adjoining unit, which Worse also owned, but he didn’t want his place to look cold and lifeless. He needed a new Mrs Brackedger urgently.
On the Sydney to Perth sector, Worse had thought of an experiment that he was keen to perform. He carried his bags to the bedroom and opened the backpack. In the top was the josephite acquired in La Ferste, wrapped in a dark shirt. He had persuaded its way through Australian customs by declaring his occupation to be student spiritualist, for which the crystal ball was a mandated accessory.
Worse went to his kitchen and placed the josephite on the table, finding the best rounded facet upon which it balanced stably. He sat down to contemplate it. After a while he reached out two hands and spun it like a top, as fast as he could. Then he clasped it still and instantly let go, observing intently.
Ah, physics: how it never disappointed.
Worse had not spoken to Spoiling since departing Perth. He decided to phone his friend with the news that he was safely home, and to arrange a time to report on the Mortiss case. Victor answered immediately.
‘Worse? This validity matter. It’s more difficult than I imagined. Could you—’
‘Victor! I’ve just returned from being threatened and shot at all over the world and you don’t even say hello.’
‘Oh, Worse. Yes. Hello. I’m sorry. How are you?’
‘I am well, thank you, Victor. How are you?’
‘Yes, yes. I am well. Except for—’
‘The validity matter?’ interrupted Worse again. ‘Shall I come to your office this afternoon and run through your lecture?’
‘Yes, yes. Thank you.’
‘Have you woven in the Simile of the Cave?’
‘What?’
‘Four o’clock,’ said Worse, hanging up. It was an equalizer, and he felt terrible for enjoying it.
The arrangement gave Worse time to unpack, rest, and shower. He decided that a walk from his apartment to police headquarters might restore some articular health after suffering over twenty-four hours of confinement in the air.
When he knocked on Spoiling’s door and entered, Spoiling rose from his desk and came forward to embrace him briefly.
‘I am very delighted to know you are back, Worse. I apologize for my unforgiveable distraction earlier.’
‘Not unforgiveable, Victor.’
Worse looked around the office. ‘Are you planning to use audio-visuals? Shall I sit here and listen?’
‘Yes, Worse. Thank you. Later. The lecture: already I feel better about it. First I must show
you something. Come with me.’
Spoiling walked to his desk and removed some keys from a drawer. He then led Worse through the outer offices to an elevator. They emerged in the basement car park, where Spoiling headed towards a bay half concealed behind a concrete column. When Worse caught up, he found Spoiling beaming at him, one arm outstretched sideways the way some men introduce a grandchild. He was pointing at a Seneca.
‘It’s for you, Worse. I acquired it at the police proceeds-of-crime property auction. A gift.’
Spoiling held out the keys. Worse was moved. ‘Thank you, Victor. Thank you so much.’
After listening to Spoiling’s practice delivery, Worse rode back to his apartment in the Grosvenor building, parking the bike in a spare bay next to his car. He phoned Sigrid from the elevator.
‘Richard. You’re back safely?’
‘Yes. I’ve spent some time this afternoon with Victor, debriefing about Mortiss Bros and discussing the problem of induction.’
‘Good. Detectives do have a problem with induction.’
‘Also, I’ve just acquired a motorbike.’
‘You’ve told me that already.’
‘It’s happened twice.’
‘You’re starting a collection?’
‘It seems. Of special-licence Senecas from which I’ve been shot at. I’m naming them Twicing and Marigold.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re journey names; for going and returning.’
‘Well, let’s hope there will be no further names to find.’
Worse entered his apartment, walking through to the kitchen.
‘How is the ekphrasis lecture coming along?’
‘Finished. I’m working on the credule symposium now.’
‘You know, Sigrid, you’re a logician. You could help Victor with his validity presentation.’
‘He doesn’t need help. I looked him up. He’s a philosopher. He’s impressively published.’
‘True. His lecture is excellent. It’s a crisis of humility. He’s European. Perhaps that’s more how you could help.’
Sigrid was quiet for several seconds. ‘I need to go. Dinner this Thursday?’
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