by Eric Brown
Weiss stood, staring down at the dead men with distaste. “What now? We wait for the others to investigate, or go after them?”
Vaughan scanned. He was aware of the beacon of Denning’s thoughts, half the length of the ship away.
Javinder had stopped him. “I’m sure I heard something,” she told him.
Denning’s chest contracted with fear. “What?”
“Get onto Dean and Hernandez—”
But Denning was already lifting his handset and tapping in the heavies’ code.
He said, “Nothing. Maybe the signal’s blocked by a bulkhead?”
The necropath gave him a withering look, and Denning realised that the woman was one of the few individuals he feared, besides Gustave Scheering.
“What do we do?” Denning found himself saying, and hating himself for delegating command so easily.
“Back to where they entered the ship. I’ll go in first.”
Denning was swamped with relief as they ran back up the outside of the ship. Javinder knew how to handle such situations, he told himself. She’ll pull us through.
Vaughan told Weiss, “They’re coming back. The woman will enter first.”
Weiss nodded and crouched, laser aimed over the edge of the gallery as he awaited Javinder’s arrival.
What possible alternative to this killing was there, Vaughan asked himself as he watched Weiss. There could be no half-measures.
Denning and Javinder were five metres from the entrance, and he turned to Weiss and hissed, “Three metres, two, one...”
On cue, crouching, Javinder leapt through the gap, plastered herself against the outer skin of the ship and scuttled, like the spider she so resembled, along the wall and below the shelf of the gallery. Weiss cursed as she passed out of sight.
Denning was still outside, laser gripped ready, but fearful of following.
Weiss whispered, “Follow me,” and ran lightly towards the back of the gallery. A fracture in the decking revealed the level below. Weiss crouched, pistol aimed, waiting for Javinder to show herself.
Vaughan made the edge, peered down with mounting apprehension, his own pistol levelled.
Seconds later, Javinder came into view. How she had worked out—or guessed—that he and Weiss were above her, he never would know: but as she stepped into view she was staring up at them, rifle lofted.
She fired a fraction of a second after Weiss.
Vaughan watched, immobilised by horror, as Weiss’s pulse sliced through the Indian’s lower face, opening a gaping hole into which her brain dropped and slopped down over her chest, hanging between her breasts as she slumped into a sitting position against a bulkhead.
Reeling, Vaughan turned and saw with incredulity that Javinder’s shot had punched a hole in the radical’s stomach. Weiss fell to his knees, hands pressed to the smouldering wound, his expression comprising disbelief and appeal to Vaughan to help him.
He caught Weiss, eased him down on the deck.
“In here,” Weiss gasped, scrabbling futilely at a pocket on the chest of his thermal suit.
Vaughan ripped the pocket open, pulled out a palmCom.
Weiss whispered, “Password: Salvation. Code: 4884. Don’t get it wrong, or the file will self-corrupt. Take the crystals to...”
Vaughan was aware then of two things simultaneously. Before him, Weiss had died, and outside the ship Denning had heard the laser fire and his thoughts blazed with resolve.
The exec’s first thought was to run—his second, fuelled as much by rage as by the desire not to fail, was to fight.
Vaughan slipped the palmCom into his jacket.
Denning had entered the ship and pressed himself against the wall, slipping under the gallery and out of sight. He had seen the direction of Weiss’s last shot, and knew where the enemy was situated. He realised he was fighting for his life: it was kill or be killed, and fear sluiced through his system, alongside hatred for the radicals.
Vaughan smiled. Perhaps it would make killing Denning that bit easier, knowing what the man intended.
But he thought not. No man was purely evil. Denning was fighting for his life, following orders he thought perfectly legitimate. He didn’t know the full story; as far as he was concerned, the radicals were merciless killers.
Vaughan considered boarding the flier, leaving Denning with his life, and taking the crystals... But there was still one rack left in the ship. How vital was it to Breitenbach’s plans?
He probed. Denning was below him, staring up at the underside of the gallery’s deck, pistol aimed.
Vaughan looked across the gallery. A recess in the fallen wall revealed rungs leading down the shaft. He hurried across to it, careful to make no sound, and peered. The rungs dropped to a tubular corridor, not visible from where Denning was.
He lowered himself into the corridor, moving with exaggerated care, then found another set of rungs descending to the corridor he and Weiss had followed earlier.
He probed. Denning was perhaps ten metres from him, still in the belly of the ship, still looking up fearfully at the gallery deck.
Vaughan hurried along the corridor. He’d get the last rack, return to the flier, and leave while Denning was occupied elsewhere in the ship.
He came to the section of crushed corridor and fell to his hands and knees. Minutes later he arrived at the astrodome, and stopped. A quick probe told him that Denning had heard something, was aware that Vaughan was no longer on the gallery.
Denning’s first thought was to secure the high ground, and he looked around for a way to achieve this.
What chance had Vaughan now of getting away in the flier, if Denning climbed to the gallery?
Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he hurried through the astrodome along another corridor, and at last dropped into the chamber. He crossed to the open vault, paused on the threshold to stare in at the scintillating crystals, and wondered if their safe delivery had been worth the lives of the six people so far.
He hauled the last rack from the wall and made his way back along the length of the ship, slowed by the weight of the crystals, all the time scanning for the exec.
Denning made his move, running towards a section of the second deck, which had sheared and fallen, creating a ramp which led to the gallery where the flier was situated. Denning saw the flier, and seconds later came across Weiss. Elation flooded him at the sight of the dead radical, followed by fear at the thought that at any second he might slam into a lethal laser pulse.
Vaughan hauled the rack along the crushed corridor, then climbed a level and approached the rungs which climbed to the gallery.
He laid the rack on the deck and considered what to do now.
He probed. Denning approached the flier cautiously, facing away from the recess in the wall where Vaughan would emerge.
Vaughan climbed, holding his breath. He could see across the gallery, to where Denning was peering into the flier, pistol ready.
Vaughan eased himself onto the deck and raised the pistol.
Denning was moving around the flier, heart pumping. He planned to use the vehicle as cover and lie low for a while, allowing the enemy to make the next move.
The executive presented the perfect target. One shot now would send him to his death.
Vaughan stepped forward, raised the pistol, and aimed at Denning’s back.
He hesitated, then called out. “Move and you’re dead!”
He felt utter dread and panic surge through the executive, a despair and fear and regret which combined to rock Vaughan.
“Drop your pistol and raise your arms,” Vaughan called. “If you do as I say, you’ll live.”
Vaughan read in Denning’s frantic mind a hopeless disbelief, the sure knowledge that he was dead, and this prompted him to turn and raise the laser and fire in a great actinic sweep.
But thought preceded action, and Vaughan dived across the deck, below the arc of laser fire, aimed his own pistol and fired.
The shot blasted Den
ning in the chest, sending him sprawling across the deck. He lay on his back, staring up at the ribbed architrave of the alien starship, and his last thoughts as he lay dying were how beautiful the ribbing was, followed by sudden images of his wife, and his mind was sluiced by his love for her.
Vaughan cried out and killed his implant, and blessed silence sealed over him, sparing him the agony of the executive’s passing.
He took deep breaths, forcing himself to his feet and towards the recess, not once looking towards the dying executive. He climbed down and retrieved the rack, hauling it back to the gallery and across to the flier.
He placed it beside the others on the back seat, then moved to the trunk and opened it. He would rather not fly with Larsen’s corpse as company. He would be making his way to Mackintyre, eventually, and any random check by the military on the way... He lifted the body out and lay it on the deck.
He recalled what Weiss had said about giving Jenna a decent burial, and he wished he could give both the radicals a fitting send off. Success in delivering the crystals to Breitenbach would have to stand as their epitaph.
He climbed into the flier and pulled Weiss’s palm-Com from his jacket.
He turned it on and said, “Salvation. 4884.”
The screen flared. Vaughan stared at the map, the flashing point denoting his present position and the marked route through the mountains towards, he presumed, wherever Breitenbach was concealed.
He started the flier and lifted it from the deck. He averted his eyes from Denning’s corpse as he flew over the lip and dropped the flier into the belly of the ship.
He eased it through the rent, out into the startling sunlight of the valley. He half expected to encounter opposition, something in him wondering that his escape could be so easy. He was leaving behind him a scene of carnage, and he felt a sour, corroding sense of guilt as he fled.
Consulting the palmCom, he followed the route towards the southern mountains, passing between low, snow-covered peaks. He thought of the woman back on Bengal Station, who would in time be informed of Denning’s brave death in the line of duty.
He realised he still had the laser in the pocket of his jacket. He lowered the side-screen, took the pistol, and tossed it out into the biting wind, watching it spin end over end against the cold grey slab of the mountainside.
He looked ahead, at the layered summits of the southern mountains as they stretched towards the horizon, and thoughts of Denning’s widow turned his mind to Sukara.
* * * *
TWENTY-THREE
THE KILLER
Sukara watched Pham as she dried two cups at the sink. She was so short that she had to stand on a fruit box to reach the blower.
For the past few days, Pham had been her constant companion. Their days had soon fallen into a routine. After breakfast, taken in the kitchen while watching the boats far below, they would leave for a stroll through Himachal Park, stop for a coffee, and then go on to the market to do the day’s shopping. Occasionally, Sukara took Pham to see the sights of the Station—the voidship spaceport, the vast monotrain terminal at New Madurai, the open market on Level Two at which everything made on Earth could be bought, as well as many things from the colony worlds.
Out with Pham, the little girl’s hand in hers, Sukara experienced an odd feeling of pride. It was as if this were a foretaste of what it would be like as a mother—this feeling of not being one person, but two, as your cares were not wholly centred on yourself but on one someone else even more important.
She was getting close to Pham, she realised, and if this was what it was like to be a mother, then she awaitedreal motherhood with even more than her original eager anticipation.
Sukara taught Pham to cook, the basics first, then working up to Thai, Indian, and Burmese curries, the subtle distinction of spices between the cuisines and their respective cooking methods.
Pham was a keen pupil. She was intelligent—once told, she never forgot—and she was intuitive. Often she sensed Sukara’s sadness at Jeff’s absence, and her worry also. More than once, after an evening meal as they sat on the balcony, drinking wine and Vita-milk and staring up at the stars, Pham had said to her, “Don’t worry, Sukara, Jeff will soon be back.”
“I can’t help worrying, Pham. I sometimes wish he’d never taken the job. I sometimes think I’d be happier on Level Ten, if I knew Jeff was safe.”
Pham smiled, and came out with another of her observations that seemed wise beyond her years. “Jeff is a good person, and the world needs good people. Scheering is evil.” She shrugged. “If Jeff didn’t go to Mallory to investigate what’s happening there, who would?”
Sukara looked at the kid. “Do you know what is happening on Mallory, Pham?”
The child looked away quickly, and said non-committally, “Evil is happening there. That is why Scheering hired an assassin to kill people here.”
Sukara nodded, and not for the first time wondered if Pham was telling her everything she knew about the case.
On the day Sukara was due to take Pham to see the Tigers play the Sydney Seahawks, Pham told her that first she had to go and see a friend.
They were sitting on the balcony after breakfast, Pham absorbed in a comic book, Sukara watching a voidship phase in and slowly approach the spaceport. She was dreaming of Jeff’s return. She would go to the spaceport to welcome him back, launch herself into his arms, and never let him go away again.
Pham lowered her comic book. “Sukara, is it okay if I go out alone this morning?”
“What for?” Pham had never asked to go out alone before, and Sukara was both concerned and curious.
“I need to see a friend. Abdul. He was in hospital. I need to see how he is.”
Sukara nodded. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
Pham grinned. “I’ll be fine. The killer didn’t catch me, did he?”
There’s always a first time, Sukara found herself thinking. “You’ve got my code? Make sure you ring every hour to tell me you’re okay, okay?”
Pham nodded. “I’ll be back by one o’clock.”
“And at four we go to see the Tigers,” Sukara said, looking forward to the match. She wondered if her own daughter would be a Tigers fan.
Sukara watched the girl slip from the apartment, wondering if this was what a mother felt like when her daughter left home unsupervised.
For the next couple of hours she cooked an Indian meal for after the game tonight, then thought about Jeff’s return in a few days. She wondered how he might react to find that they had a lodger, and then wondered what he might think best for Pham’s long-term care.
The odd thing was, since Pham’s arrival here, Sukara’s premonitions of doom and tragedy had vanished. She was no longer visited by the conviction that something would soon happen to spoil her happiness. She told herself that her earlier fear had been the result of hormones. She lodged her hands on the jut of her belly and smiled.
Her thoughts of Jeff and the baby were interrupted by the chime of the door.
It was too early for Pham to get back, she thought as she crossed to the door and touched the control. But perhaps Jeff had arrived home early... Her heart leaped at the thought.
The door slid open to reveal a tall Westerner, dressed in a smart suit, standing on the threshold and smiling pleasantly at her.
“Sukara Vaughan?”
She was hesitant. “Yes?”
He hung an ID before her eyes for a second, then flipped the wallet shut before she had time to examine the card.
“I would like a word with your husband, Ms Vaughan.”
“Jeff’s away at the moment. He’ll be back in a few days.”
“Can you tell me where your husband is?” he said. He had a slow, patronising way of speaking as if he thought Sukara might not understand him otherwise.
She shook her head. “Just away. On business.”
“Ah,” the man said, and nodded. “But you see, it’s a business matter that I need to see Mr Vaughan about�
��the case he is working on at the moment.”
There was something creepy and not-to-be-trusted about the Westerner, with his pale skin and golden hair and red-rimmed eyes. Sukara said, “Then you could go and see his business partner about it. She’s Lin Kapinsky—”
“I’ve tried to contact Kapinsky. She’s away, working on another case.”
Sukara shrugged. “Then I don’t think I can help,” she said. She made to hit the close control.
The Westerner stopped the door with his foot, and the casual way in which he did this frightened Sukara. “When might your husband be back?”