‘Watch were you’re going, blud!’ the lady shouted in a voice which belied her gender. She was over two metres tall, with an unnaturally elongated face, a pair of wide flaring nostrils and huge square teeth bared in anger. Lek caught himself staring at her in disgust.
‘Yeah? What are you looking at?’ she snorted, before bending to pick up the few papers she had dropped, tossing her long unkempt hair from her face and striding away. Equinox, thought Lek: half the city must be addicted to it. He looked around – people were staring, and every face he saw was unfamiliar, unfriendly and inhuman. Everywhere he turned he saw freakish chimeras of once normal people. A man with greenish skin, licking his lips involuntarily, was gliding through the pavement grass. Outside an Urban Fashionista store, a woman of indescribable beauty was standing with perfect poise on one leg, the other tucked under the folds of her skirt. A group of chattering teenage boys, swinging on lampposts, slapping each other playfully and then running away on all fours through the traffic.
Lek rarely came down to street level anymore, at least not at this time of day, and to see the results of his own work at face value, so to speak, was often disconcerting to say the least. There were so few pure humans around these days. The pull, range and accessibility of scion-medicines and their black market counterparts was so great that virtually everybody indulged. Although under normal circumstances the effects of a single chemically-balanced scion wore off within a few hours, a day at most, overexposure to animal extracts, even synthetic replicas like those Lek’s company produced, could lead to complications. The buzz, the artificial high of scion drugs was simply too addictive for most to resist, and in spite of the warnings printed on the side of even over-the-counter extract-based medicines, people continued to overdose day after day, until irreparable damage had been done. The horse-faced woman was just one of the millions of examples walking the streets of the Capital. ‘Scion abuse can lead to permanent DNA scarring’, ‘Remember: scions CAN bind’, the warnings read. Few people took heed. Lek himself didn’t touch the stuff. He preferred those old school stimulants: cigarettes and alcohol, knowing as he did the fate of Spiro Dimitriadis who at the age at 27, eight years after his legendary performance at the Olympics and subsequent fall from grace, broke both of his legs trying to jump a fence six-feet high, and died of shock in his sleep that night.
There was a Metro station at the corner of The Cut and Blackfriars - Lek didn’t like the vibe on the streets any more and decided to take his chances underground. He took a final deep lungful of clean air before walking down the steps and into the dim eco-lights. The cracked cream ceramic tiles of the ticket office walls were slick with filthy slime, and the Terror-Guards and Metro-staff glowed in the green gloom in their bright orange bio-hazard uniforms. Anybody who wasn’t wearing a filtro-mask had tied bandanas or handkerchiefs around their faces to block out the stench of decomposition. Lek buried his own mouth and nose in the crook of his elbow and made his way to the infra-red lights of the silver security turnstiles, which seemed out of place in the stinking humidity. He was about to thumbprint his way through the gates, when paranoia got the better of him. They could be tracking my bank account, he thought, and immediately backed away from the scanner as though it were a bomb. He pushed his way out of line, much to the annoyance of a wild-eyed kid wearing face-paint behind him, who bared his fangs and hissed.
Lek fed four cred coins into the slot on the ‘cash-only’ queue and made his way through the barriers. The ticket office concourse was nothing compared to the deeper levels of London’s underground system. It truly felt like a descent into hell – the eco-lights flickered in the depths, illuminating the press of bodies struggling to get through the horrific ordeal as quickly as possible. The heat was almost unbearable and the closed-in onion stench of sweat was overpowering. Commuters freely stood or squatted to urinate against the walls, and the floor was alive with rats. At the bottom of the stairs, a man in a pink rabbit-suit, the feet of which were stained brown up to the ankles, was playing the theme from ‘The Fourth Man’ on the zither. There were flies everywhere, feeding on everything, and straggly etiolated roots hung from the ceilings, caressing the commuters’ faces and hair like dead men’s fingers. Lek felt the bile rising in his throat and moved to join a line of people vomiting on the Metro-tracks, but his stomach was empty. He peered down at the enormous squashed yellow carcass of a train-biorg and watched it sizzling on the third rail until the lights of a Stadia Line pierced the murkiness and the train roared into the platform, bringing with it a pestilential wind and a fresh swarm of insects. Only three stops, Lek thought to himself as he pushed his way into the carriage. Since there were so few still running these days, the train was heaving with people, and Lek found himself face to face with a gruff Hispano sporting a tremendous circus-strongman moustache. The lights flickered as the train left the station and then went out completely. Only three stops, Lek thought again, keeping a firm grip on the doctor’s holdall in his hand.
The cool fresh water from the fountain outside Victoria Metro Station tasted like the elixir of life itself and Lek dipped his head under the tap, hoping to wash away the reek of the underground from his skin. He breathed in the city air again and dropped a few coins into the cup of a beggar kneeling at his side, before walking up the steps into the International Station, trying to avoid making eye contact with anybody in the crowd. Sunlight poured in through the glass ceiling and Lek made his way through the palms and giant yukkas to the snaking queue at the Europatrans Counter. He hadn’t realised he had been tapping his feet and chewing his nails nervously until he noticed one of the Terror-Guards eyeing him suspiciously. Calm down, he told himself, everything is going to be just fine.
Lek stepped up to the assistant, a young round-faced girl who clearly enjoyed a touch of Tigranol in the bedroom, judging by the faint stripes of black discolouration in her otherwise red hair. She listened patiently as he explained his need to catch the next train off the island before replying,
‘I’m sorry sir, there’s nothing available’
‘Nothing available? How is that possible?’
‘All the seats are taken, sir.’
‘All the seats? All the seats? Until when?
The lady behind the Europatrans desk tapped away at her console, and replied cheerfully, ‘until 22.05 tonight.’
’Ten o clock tonight!? That’s...just... not possible. There has to be something before then?’
‘I’m afraid not sir.’
‘Nothing this afternoon?’
‘No sir.’
‘How about early evening?’
‘No sir. Shall I book you a ticket for the 22:05 train?’
‘No. Yes. No.... Go on then.’
‘Will that be a single or return sir?’
‘Single. Please’ Lek added, trying to be polite.
‘And will you be travelling alone?’
‘Uh... actually no,’ Lek was thinking on the spot. ‘I’ll take two singles. Please.’
‘Very good sir. Thumbprint here please.’
‘I’d rather pay cash…’
‘Passport security sir. Thumbprint please. And that will be 420 cred....’
Lek reluctantly pressed his thumb against the scanner, fished the money out of the doctor’s holdall and paid.
‘Thank you sir. Have a safe trip and thank you for choosing to travel with Europatrans.’
In truth, there was no choice. The only way off the UK mainland was via Europatrans train-tunnels under La Manche and The North Sea. All aircraft had been grounded in 2034 when half of Iceland exploded cataclysmically and sent immovable clouds of pyroclastic ash up into the stratosphere above France, Spain and the British Isles. The same clouds were responsible for the rapid climate change in Northern Europa, concentrating the high density of fossil fuel smog, low level ozone and ultra-violets into a permanent quasi-tropical weather system of monsoon rains, raging thunderstorms and intense heat. Lek wiped the sweat off his forehead and considered his
next move. He made his way hurriedly through the crowds at the IKEA Victoria Station to the Smarte Storage Lockers in the concourse. Surreptitiously, he took two bundles of creds – C10,000 in total - and a handful of hypos, grafts and bases and stuffed them into the pockets of his short suit. Everything else he shoved inside a locker, his documents and notepad, even the bag itself, slammed the door and fed ten one-cred coins into the slot to cover his time left in England, reckoning that if he wasn’t there to retrieve the goods in ten hours, he would already be dead. With a bang, a locker to his right suddenly clattered open - its pre-paid storage having expired – and a gang of vagabonds scrabbled to grab the contents: a pair of women’s shoes which were ripped apart in the ensuing struggle. Lek turned his back on the tragic scene, and checked the time on the station clock: 11.52. He had just over ten hours to kill before he could escape, and just under ten minutes before Pechev’s bulldogs would start the chase for him. He wouldn’t be able to face them alone. Maybe Cesar could help.
***
Across the street from the South Bank Lion, a skinny black boy in an oversized ‘Rabies Bites’ T-shirt, carrying an incongruous black briefcase, was watching a skin-headed man nervously chewing on goji berries. According to Big Ben, it was 11:52. To pass the time, Wez leaned back against the window of Credland store, closed his eyes and slipped his free hand into his underwear. Anybody watching would have assumed he was engaging in a midday moment of sexual gratification, completely lawfully of course, since the Berlusconi Act of Public Free Love was passed in 2015. In fact, Wez was still too young to have experienced the joys of masturbation, but lightly fingering the ten banknotes pressed against his scrotum was the closest thing to ecstasy he had ever known.
Big Ben sang out, ‘Noon!’ and Wez snapped back to reality.
‘Are you Delić?’ he asked the thin, pock-marked skinhead in shades, looking out across the river.
‘Who the fuck is asking?’
Wez ignored the question. ‘The Doc sent me. He asked me to give you this,’ he said, handing over the case.
Delić spat out a goji berry, red juice trailing down his chin, and fixed two clammy hands around the briefcase. He had to raise one leg against the podium of the rainbow-painted statue in order to rest the case on his knee and flick open the clasps. He took out the envelope and opened it. The clear plastic strip fluttered to the weeds at his feet. He didn’t even look at Wez when he said, ‘Now fuck off kid,’ but Wez saw the grin spreading across his red-stained lips.
Chapter 6
‘Fuck it all! I need a drink’ Lek said to nobody in particular as he bowled through Pimlico, and walked into the first bar he saw. The Spread Eagle was cool and dark, and felt like a refuge from the madness on the streets. Lek was happy to be in the company of real addicts for once – barely in the PM, and the four men leaning on the bar were already knocking back single-malts and chain smoking while they peered through their yellow eyes and down their red noses at the Racing Post. They turned and looked him up and down before returning to picking their horses. Lek didn’t feel like he could order a gin and tonic around these men, and so plumped instead for a pint of Guinness and a Jameson’s chaser. ‘The King!’ he said, as he raised his shot-glass and the fab four automatically did the same. The whisky took the edge off his paranoia instantly and he sloped off into the snug to nurse his pint and think about his next ten hours in London. His options were limited. Remember, he told himself, you have to approach the problem logically, scientifically. Without thinking, he grabbed a paper napkin from the stack on the table, whipped a pen out of his pocket and began writing initials and symbols, crossing some out now and again and connecting others with arrows and equals signs. Lek tried as best he could to express his problems as an elaborate chemical equation, balancing the elements of time, money, friends and enemies in a single coherent line, but by the time he had drained his Guinness, the only conclusion he had drawn was that there were simply too many variables to be taken into account.
He screwed up the napkin and walked out.
***
Vidmar was already seated in the corner of Pechev’s office when Delić arrived. He cast an eye over the outfit Delić was sporting: a sleeveless raincoat, tied at the waist, and street socks, and sighed. It was no joke that the Metropolitan Fashion Police patrolled London’s West End, handing out hefty on the spot fines to anybody seen wearing anything not recycled, reused, or made from natural materials, but for a hardened criminal who had done time in some of the toughest prisons in Eastern Europa, Delić clearly took these laws far too seriously. For his part and as a nod to the rigorous FP, Vidmar had his Saville Row tailor cut all of his garments into scraps of fabric before stitching them back together. The effect was striking, particularly on the otherwise immaculate gunmetal grey Argento silk suit he was wearing that day. It looked like it had been carved up by a butcher, and so the four inch scar which ran from the corner of Vidmar’s left eye to his mouth fitted perfectly with his attire. No need for conjecture here – he had tried to jump the prison canteen queue one lunchtime and an incensed Latvian named Karlov sliced his face open with a shiv made from the previous night’s rib.
Pechev waved Delić towards a chair by way of greeting and said,
‘So, the bird has flown, gentlemen. Not entirely surprising. Somewhat disappointing, yes, but not surprising.’ He paused to measure his next words. ‘I’ve had my suspicions for some time that our Doctor was - how do the Americans say? – getting rather big for his boots. Phineas suggested testing him and I was in agreement’ He pursed his lips and closed his eyes for so long, Delić thought he was nodding off.
‘We have given him too much….. latitude.’ Pechev continued, and Vidmar noticed the change from ‘I’ to ‘We’. The big man never took personal responsibility for any mistake.
‘Dr Gorski knows not only the innermost workings of our company, he is also absolutely integral to its functioning as smoothly as it always has. We have made the mistake of allowing one man to hold power over us all. So, you must find him. A little game of hide and seek. It should not be hard for men with skills like yours. You have the company technology at your disposal, of course. There is a catch, however. If you should kill him in the course of your pursuit, I will not be pleased. Gorski is carrying 100,000 in unmarked cred notes. If you find him and bring him to me alive, I shall return that money to you five-fold, gentlemen. Half a million cred.’
Delić sat up in his seat, and practically licked his thin lips. Vidmar picked at something under his fingernail and feigned indifference.
‘I want Lek Gorski in this office by the end of the day. We need to fit him for a shorter leash. That is all. Thank you gentlemen.’
Delić bolted for the door.
What a prick, thought Vidmar.
Chapter 7
Lek tapped his Dynagym membership card between his teeth as he hurried down a quiet side-street. He had a vague sense of the direction he was taking, but having never had a reason to be in this part of town, he couldn’t be certain. He passed a skypephone box and thought about calling ahead, but paranoia was gnawing at his insides again and he wanted to keep moving. Cesar will be there, he thought, that gym is his life. Cesar has to be there.
In 2029, one hundred years after the Wall Street Crash, the bottom fell out of the energy market in the UK and plunged the country into the deepest domestic recession it had ever known. Like all disasters, it began with a butterfly flapping its wings a thousand miles away. In this case, the butterfly’s name was Forsvinna Hagen and she was the fiancée of Anders Berg, the Norwegian oligarch. Berg was an unassuming man who had inherited his father’s oil and gas empire at the tender age of 28. Although he had never wanted for anything during his childhood, he was unprepared for the responsibilities of high office, not to mention the trappings of wealth and success, so that when the beautiful Forsvinna, a former Miss Norway, attached herself to him at a charity ball in Oslo, Berg, weak-chinned and balding prematurely, found himself powerless to
resist her blatant advances, regardless of their true motive.
Norolje, Berg’s company, supplied the UK with 21 percent of its total crude oil, and as such, Berg was often asked to attend corporate events, trade conferences and board meetings of the various companies he owned throughout the world. It was the success of his football team, Tranmere Rovers, however, which had once again topped the Starbucks Europa Premier League that season, that earned Berg and his fiancée an invitation to King Charles’ tenth annual Garden Party in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. Forsvinna was overjoyed at the prospect of finally meeting British royalty and spent weeks and huge sums of money visiting the finest boutiques in Norway with her retinue of personal shoppers, secretly hoping that she might be the one to catch the eye of Prince William: still Europa’s most eligible bachelor, after his on-off engagement to Kate Middleton finally imploded following the Mail’s undercover reporting of a particularly wild weekend with his brother in Monaco.
On the afternoon of the party however, the Prince was not in attendance, choosing instead to visit some backward village which had been devastated by the hydra plague in Botswana. Forsvinna was similarly devastated by the turn of events and spent the afternoon sulking and sweating in an over-the-top vintage teapot outfit designed by the late Gaga herself. Excluded by her own poor grasp of the English language, and outdone by her Russian counterpart, a nineteen year old supermodel from Smolensk, Forsvinna was forced to endure the dull company and drab conversation of a fellow countryman, Jacob Hallensen, a politician lobbying for change in the Anglo-Norwegian fishing laws, who continuously picked his nose when he thought she wasn’t looking.
It was a disaster, and Forsvinna Hagen made it her mission in the days following the party to convince Anders Berg that the British were nothing more than a bunch of two-faced barbarians who only maintained their relationship with Norwegian businessmen for the sake of the free Christmas tree they stole each year. Berg, worn down after days of her endless complaining, agreed to cut all ties with the UK with a single stroke of his pen.
The Scioneer Page 3