The Mandel Files, Volume 2: The Nano Flower

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Charlotte put down her cybofax, and studied the neatly tabulated accountancy display. It was a big company, probably a kombinate, no one else had a monthly cash flow of two billion Eurofrancs. There were hundreds of subsidiaries, all tied together.

  Another flatscreen lit, showing the same sort of tiling, a third.

  ‘That’s all kombinate finance,’ she said. ‘Look at the amount of money involved.’

  Fabian flipped his hair aside and looked at her cannily. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘I can read, thank you, Fabian. And I’ve picked up enough money talk in my life.’

  He blushed. ‘Oh, yes, right.’

  She walked over to him, and slipped her arms round him, resting her chin on his shoulder. ‘I said I knew what it was, not that I could interpret it.’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s just a confidential monthly performance review, nothing breathtaking.’

  ‘You mean your father shouldn’t have them?’

  ‘Anyone can get hold of them if they really want; that much data can’t be kept hushed up. There are some commercial intelligence companies that actually produce nothing else but analyses of kombinates.’

  ‘So what’s he doing with them?’

  Fabian shrugged inside her arms, and tapped a ringer on the terminal’s cube. ‘One of our on-board lightware number crunchers is running a pattern-recognition program. I’d say he’s probably running their finances through it, looking for money being spent on accumulating a stock of specific raw material, or invested in certain facilities.’

  Charlotte ran the flat of her hands lightly across his chest. ‘Why?’

  ‘Placement. Father will have acquired some kind of rare cargo; and now he’s searching for the best market.’ He cocked his head to one side as another set of monthly performance figures began to roll down the first screen. ‘You know, Charlotte, it must be a jolly important cargo for him to go to all this trouble.’

  14

  As far as Suzi was concerned the deal was souring rapidly. Leol fucking Reiger turning up, that was serious bad news.

  She had planned on meeting Reiger again, sure, when she was in body armour, lugging some heavy-duty weapons hardware around with her. Be interesting to see how much the shit smiled then.

  He hadn’t been smiling much when he’d backed off, him and that psychic tit, Chad. She was still trying to make sense of that; it was like waking from a dream she knew had been bad, but there was no straight memory of it. The only clue was the shape lurking behind her eyes, never fully visible, some dark animal, similar to a gene-tailored sentinel panther, except this one was bigger, hard, like a gargoyle that had come to life. Freaky.

  Greg had given her a double shock, first that he could do that, second that he would. Fifteen years of fruit farming stripped away, dumping him back on Peterborough’s hot streets as if he’d never been away. One mean hardliner.

  She hadn’t been so close to psychics when they’d clashed before. And one sample of that backwash was more than enough. It was too much like black sorcery.

  She snatched a glance at Greg as the three of them walked back towards the well. He was battling against his gland headache, face sliding back into remorse again. The soft years had returned to cloud him. But the old Greg was still there, buried under all that civilization. A good thought to hold on to if events freewheeled much further downhill.

  That was what got to her, rode her hard into a micro-storm of worry, the lack of professionalism about the deal. The urgency. Bugger Julia for hustling her into it, using Royan for emotional blackmail. She was mildly surprised she could still be twisted like this, an unrealized chink in her armour-plated heart. First Andria, now old friendships; might as well walk into Leol Reiger’s bedroom stark bollock naked.

  Sharp cold sunlight fell into the well at a severe angle. Busy preoccupied faces swarmed past, a termite conveyor belt. There was something about arcology dwellers, clannish, almost cyborgs with smile circuitry. She could pick one out of a stadium rock crowd. The Prezda’s well was just their kind of turf, all the primness and carefully calculated nookishness of the small franchise shops. Hardly surprising that visitors tended to use the big domed shopping mall outside.

  Greg walked right over to the balcony rail, gripping the smooth brass with both hands, gazing across the well. She followed his line.

  ‘There are two observers left on this level now,’ Greg said. ‘One straight ahead. And I tell you, he’s getting jumpy. Male, thirty, ginger beard, wearing grey trousers, a mint-green polo shirt, sunshade band.’

  She scanned the opposite side of the balcony. ‘Got him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘OK,’ said Greg. ‘Haul him in.’

  They turned right, walking round towards the window. Malcolm headed in the other direction.

  ‘How you holding out?’ she asked Greg.

  ‘Bloody painful. I haven’t used that much neurohormone for ten years, not since we had organized poaching teams invading the peninsula.’

  ‘What, lemon rustlers?’ There was the most ridiculous image in her mind.’

  ‘No. Deer, as in does and stags. There’s a good herd of them in Armley Wood now.’

  He sounded so serious. ‘Yeah, all right, Greg, spare me the juice. Point is, are you up to drilling this observer’s brain?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t fret yourself. I’ll find out who hired him.’

  They were halfway towards the observer, walking past the window tables. The alps outside were brown wrinkled teeth, small caps of snow a gritty grey in colour. Suzi kept a surreptitious eye on the observer with the ginger beard ahead of them. He was beginning to drift towards the corridor entrance.

  She activated her cybofax. ‘Malcolm?’

  ‘Hearing you clear,’ the hardliner answered.

  ‘OK, checking.’

  ‘Christ.’ Greg blurted. He took two fast steps to the balcony rail and leant over.

  When she joined him she saw he was watching one of the glass cage lifts rising smoothly. It was on the other side of the well, a couple of floors below. An escalator interrupted her view. ‘Is it Leol?’

  ‘Yep. And there’s six others in there with him. Major hostiles.’

  The lift emerged from behind an escalator. She looked directly at Leol Reiger, who saw her at the same time. His arms moved.

  ‘Shit!’ Greg’s hand slammed into her shoulder. As she fell she saw white spiderweb cracks blooming across the glass of the lift. The distinct warble of an electromagnetic rifle cut across the well’s bustle. She landed painfully on her shoulder, Puma bag thumping into her side. Already rolling.

  A stipple sheet of orange flame erupted across the front of the delicatessen behind her. Fucking explosive-tip projectiles! Heat washed over the back of her neck. The toughened-glass windows of the delicatessen simply disintegrated, long, lethal crystalline shards raining down over the food displays and floor. Screams burst out all around the balcony, mixed with the crescendo of smashing glass. Terrified people around her diving for cover.

  Cold fury boiled up. Leol fucking Reiger, like a conditioned lab rat, see her and shoot, never mind there were hundreds of civilians about.

  A high-pitched alarm started to shrill. There was a man on his knees in front of the shattered delicatessen, hands held in front of his face, one of the shards transfixing his wrist. Blood was squirting out of the wound. Two young women in identical stewardess suits were clinging to each other, the fabric of their uniforms punctured as if they’d been peppered with buckshot, each hole the centre of a spreading red stain.

  Suzi rolled again, on to her chest, bringing her legs up, trainers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth tiles.

  ‘Corridor!’ Greg roared above the bedlam. Another volley of electromagnetic rifle fire ripped the air. The plastic sign along the top of the delicatessen’s window flared orange, then ruptured, showing the nearby section of the balcony with fragments of plastic and small chunks of smoking concrete. A fresh round of screaming br
oke out.

  ‘Tell Malcolm!’ Greg shouted. Then he was running, stooping to keep his head below the level of the rail. Moving surprisingly fast.

  ‘Malcolm,’ she yelled into the cybofax. ‘The corridor, get into the corridor!’

  Running was easier for her, she didn’t have to bend over as much as Greg. She began to catch him up. An escalator was mindlessly delivering prone bodies on to the balcony; frightened men, women and children, sobbing, holding their hands over their heads. As if that would do any good. She dodged round the outside of the logjam of petrified bodies, nearly tripping on outstretched legs.

  More electromagnetic rifle fire poured out of the lift. They were guessing where she and Greg were now. Projectiles twanged and whined off concrete and the metal of the escalators, bursting into bright fleurets.

  Twenty metres ahead of her, she saw the ginger-headed observer scurry into the corridor. Beyond him, Malcolm was pressed up against the balcony rail, the Tokarev pointing towards the lift railings. A dense ruby beam stabbed out of the pistol. She watched it strike the lift railings, just above the lift itself. There was a fan tail plume of cherry-red sparks, a squirt of white molten metal. Suzi heard a grinding metallic shriek rising above the incessant alarm. It cut off with a crunch.

  The shop windows behind Malcolm detonated into flame and scything fragments as the electromagnetic rifles opened fire on him. He hunched down low as glass daggers whirred through the air all around him. Streaks of blood appeared over his suit.

  Suzi risked a glance over the balcony rail. The cage lift was stuck three metres below the balcony. She should have done that, fucked up the mechanism. Malcolm had done all right; security people normally played by the rules, but then, Malcolm was one of Victor’s. Someone in the lift was swinging a rifle towards her. She ducked fast.

  Greg had made it to the entrance of the corridor. He was looking helplessly at Malcolm, who was lying beside the balcony rail, his face screwed up in pain.

  ‘Get him,’ Suzi yelled. She jerked the zip on her Puma bag, spilling the contents on to the floor. Saw the Browning. Grabbed it.

  Greg was edging cautiously towards Malcolm. Suzi flicked the Browning to rapid pulse, and twisted fast, hands over the railing, taking aim.

  There was no glass left in the lift. Leol Reiger’s team were climbing through the open frame, dropping on to the balcony below. Two of them had already made it. They were helping a third who was spread-eagled on the outside of the lift. The remaining four in the lift were covering the balcony with their rifles. Couldn’t see which was Leol.

  She let off three maser pulses; moving the Browning in a slow arc, the way Greg had taught her to use beam weapons in some distant age. One of the figures inside the lift fell backwards, arms windmüling. A small circle of intense flame flared on the back of the man climbing down on to the balcony. She couldn’t tell where the third pulse hit.

  Just as she dived back under cover she saw the man clinging to the outside of the lift begin to fall. She scuttled along behind the balcony rail, wincing as the electromagnetic rifle projectiles chewed at the shop fronts.

  People were moaning now, rather than screaming. Most of the wounds she could see looked superficial, clothing and skin cut by flying glass, smaller deeper fragmentation punctures.

  Greg had one arm around Malcolm, half dragging him towards the corridor. The hardliner’s feet were skating about on the tiles, as if he didn’t have full control over them.

  Suzi lifted the Browning over the balcony again. The tekmercs in the lift had hunched down in the bottom. There was no sign of the two on the balcony. She got off six pulses, holding the beam on the lift. Then she saw one of the tekmercs on the balcony raising his electromagnetic rifle above the railing. She crouched down and raced for the corridor, blazing projectiles chiselling long gouges into the wall above her.

  Greg and Malcolm collapsed on to the walkway leading down into the safety of the corridor. Suzi landed on the ribbed metal segments a couple of metres behind them. She realized how heavily she was breathing, air sucked into her lungs in fast gulps.

  ‘You OK?’ Greg shouted back at her.

  ‘Yeah.’ The walkway seemed to be crawling along, no speed at all. The corridor’s curve was too gentle, she could still see the entrance into the well. The moans and whimpers were fading, but the alarm was still howling away. ‘How’s Malcolm?’

  ‘Functional,’ the security hardliner answered with a weak grin.

  ‘Can you make out if Leol’s team are coming after us?’ she asked Greg.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Malcolm drew his cybofax out of his top pocket and muttered something to it. He studied the display. ‘There’s a SWAT squad on its way to the well, Prezda security think it’s a lone psycho burner on the loose.’

  ‘Can you break in and tell them it’s a tekmerc team?’ Suzi asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do it; if the police go out there unprepared Leol’s crazies will snuff the lot of them.’

  Malcolm spoke into the cybofax.

  ‘How bad does this Reiger hate you?’ Greg asked.

  ‘Bad enough. Sodding mutual it is, too.’

  ‘Will he leave Baronski to come after you?’

  ‘Doubt it. He’s fucking insane, but not stupid. He knows he’s got to get Baronski now, or he’s blown his deal. I’ll be around for a long time. We’ll have our little chat later.’

  Greg climbed to his feet, helping Malcolm to stand. Suzi looked back; the well was out of sight. She stood, yelling at the sharp unexpected pain in her left leg. When she looked down, the shellsuit was torn around the knee. A clump of glass needles were embedded in the flesh, blood flowing freely. Now her senses were calming down she was aware of other lacerations, arms, back, buttocks. Little tingle points, hot and sticky.

  ‘Jesus wept,’ she muttered.

  They reached the end of the walkway. A group of people were milling about, numb and white faced as zombies. Some of them had cuts and nicks from the glass fragments. They looked balefully at Suzi. She realized the Browning was still in her hand, its red LED charge light winking steadily.

  ‘Next set of lifts,’ Greg said impassively. Malcolm was leaning on him heavily, limping. The back of his jacket was sodden with blood.

  Suzi followed the pair of them through the silent group on to the next walkway. She hated the accusations in their stares. Wanting to explain, it wasn’t me. Blame Leol Reiger. No use.

  ‘What next?’ she asked. The alarm’s cry was reduced to a distant whistle now.

  Greg’s eyes were unfocused. There was blood on his face, oozing from small cuts on his cheeks, a deep one right next to his eye.

  They’d been lucky, she knew. If Leol had thought about it, planned it out instead of letting his instincts rule …

  ‘Tactical retreat,’ Greg said. ‘None of us is in any fit state to do anything. I’ve lost track of the observer. And chasing after the one back in the well is a definite no. Besides, if you’re right about Reiger, our lead over Fielder is getting narrower by the second. Bugger, but I wanted to know who else we were up against.’

  At the end of the walkway they took a lift up to the next floor, then switched. Malcolm slumped against the steel-panel wall, sucking down shallow breaths. Suzi was getting worried about the amount of blood he was losing. It was dripping steadily off his jacket, soaking the floor. He was muttering something in a slurred voice.

  Greg tugged his cybofax out as the lift doors slid shut. ‘Rachel, we’re in shaft A17, lift five. Bring the Pegasus as close to it as you can, and come and get us. It’s hit the fan, OK?’

  ‘On our way, Greg,’ Rachel’s voice said out of the wafer.

  Suzi’s cybofax bleeped. She pulled it out of her top pocket with stiff fingers, knowing who it would be.

  Leol Reiger’s face filled the little screen. His corpse flesh was actually coloured, cheeks red. She could see one of Baronski’s porno art paintings on the wall behind him.

  ‘Two of my
team, Suzi bitch. You snuffed two of them.’

  There was a woman’s scream in the background, Suzi thought it might be Iol. Leol Reiger never paid it any attention.

  ‘You fucking well brought them here, Leol. You ordered them to open fire when there were civilians around, you paranoid rat prick. They were sitting ducks in that lift. Your screw-up tactics. Your fault.’

  ‘I’ve got a deal to close right now, Suzi. But afterwards, you and I are going to say hello. First I’m gonna sprain your mind, show you a scene that’ll make you scream; then I’m gonna snap your little kiddy body in two. You read me, bitch?’

  ‘Bollocks. You’re on the wrong side of this deal, Leol. I’ve got the fucking English Army behind me.’ She savoured the momentary flash of puzzlement on his face, then said, ‘Say hi to the SWAT squad for me, Leol,’ and flipped him off. The tremble in her legs was nothing to do with the glass fragments.

  The lift opened into a passenger lounge, plastic chairs arranged in a zigzag pattern, hologram adverts of civil hypersonics slicing through clean sunny skies, departure information screens, a children’s play area. An echoic tannoy voice was announcing a flight arrival. The first thing Suzi saw when the lift doors opened was Rachel and Pearse racing towards them, Tokarevs held ready. Waiting passengers scrambled out of the way.

  Rachel’s eyes widened in surprise when she saw them. ‘Lord hellfire, anything serious?’

  ‘Malcolm’s out, can’t walk,’ Greg said.

  ‘I got him,’ Pearse said. He pulled Malcolm’s arms around over his chest, and lifted him piggyback style. Suzi didn’t notice any drop in speed as he began to jog for the lounge door.

  The Pegasus was taxiing towards the lounge as they came out into the hangar. Greg went up the belly-hatch stairs first, then Pearse, Suzi followed with Rachel bringing up the rear.

  Malcolm had been lowered into one of the chairs at the front of the cabin. A couple of wall lockers were open, aluminium first aid cases on the floor. Pearse was easing his colleague’s tattered soggy jacket off. ‘We’ll have to cut the trousers,’ he said. It was all very tight and professional, she thought.