"Why would I do that?"
"They've got power, and you haven't." Suzanne touched his arm. "Please."
"Is this another of your emotional triggers? That point on my arm?"
"Josh?" She pulled her hand back. "I'm not trying to manipulate you."
"I… Shit. I know that."
Richard was watching them, holding very still.
"Look." Suzanne tapped the phone in Josh's hand. "Whatever you try to tell the world, they'll find a way to bury it. You should know that better than me. Government disinformation, burying the truth. You've probably participated, in your time."
Josh forced a breath out.
"We call it regime engineering, when we do it abroad."
He stared at the pictures of the Barbican, the montage of knives arcing through air and fighters training, and the webviral message once more: Live from the Barbican Centre, the ultimate clash of warriors begins.
Then he remembered what Yukiko had said about right people, right place, right time, the ones who found themselves massively connected in a complex system balanced on a tipping point, ready for phase transition. It worked for tracking diseases and managing economies; it should work for other things.
Like toppling a government.
Josh smiled at Richard and Suzanne.
"Time to change things, don't you think?"
[ TWENTY-FIVE ]
Josh drove carefully along a shallow-flooded street, foam washing from the wheel arches. He was intent on the road, checking for signs that the road dipped, leading into deeper water. Behind him, Richard pointed out swimming rats, making the journey from one island of refuse bags to another.
In its dashboard slot, his phone chimed. He popped the caller's image up on the windscreen at half brightness. It was Tony.
"Hey, Josh."
"How're you doing?"
"Well, I'm clean. I walked ten metres in the rain from my car to the apartment building, so I got well and truly washed. Shoulda took shower gel."
"That's nice. Listen, I'm just driving some friends home."
"In what, a submarine? Good luck, pal."
"Cheers. If we start floating, I'll send up flares. How's the training course going?"
"Really good. I was hoping you'd chat with a couple of the newer guys, give Vikram a heads-up on some of the security modules."
"Uh… well, so long as you weren't thinking of tonight."
"Vikram's crapping himself on quantum triple entanglement, tell you the truth."
"Don't tell me, he's teaching it tomorrow. Afternoon or morning?"
"Morning."
"Jesus."
"So what time do we expect you?"
"Exactly when I get there."
"Fair enough. Out."
"Yeah."
He drove on.
"So who's Tony?" asked Suzanne. "Besides an old friend, clearly."
"Tone runs the outfit that gives me most of my work." He glanced back at Richard. "Not this kind. Corporate training."
"So where are they based?"
"Right now, the basha's in Docklands."
"Basher?"
"Basha. Base of operations. Military jargon, but it's just a corporate flat. Short-term hire, kind of thing."
"You're kidding."
"It's close to the investment bank where the programme–"
"I mean, you're kidding about driving to Docklands tonight, through this. It's going to take long enough to reach Kilburn. Assuming you are taking Richard and me home."
Up ahead, a classic internal combustion car, owned by someone rich, was stranded in water. Josh's car lacked the low exhaust that made old vehicles vulnerable; but the water looked deep, so he stopped and backed up anyway. Then he hooked a right, taking a detour.
"Your place first, then I am going to see Tony, because that message wasn't what it sounded like."
"Ah." Suzanne's tone was knowing. "I wondered why you tensed up. That's why I was curious about Tony."
"His phone and mine should be secure, but perhaps he was standing someplace where his voice could be heard. The thing is, he talked about Vikram as though he was one of the newbies, needing advice. But Vik wrote the book on quantum crypto, knows it better than me."
"What's the Barbican?" asked Richard from the back seat.
"A big jumble of buildings," said Josh. "There's a waterway, theatres, and really expensive apartment towers, all in one kind of estate. You've never walked through it?"
Richard shook his head.
"So that's where they film Knife Edge?"
Suzanne's eyebrows were raised, and she was smiling. Josh could understand that.
Phobia cure: job done.
She was amazing.
"Only the finals," he said over his shoulder. "They seal the place off and make it look like a bad urban landscape. There are running fights, some between rival teams, pairing off the fighters. Some are fighters that left the show in earlier rounds, brought back after online voting from the audience. If they've healed up, that is."
He thought about that, still driving.
"Can I take this out?" Suzanne reached for the phone. "Josh?"
"Sure."
"All right." She extracted the handset from the dashboard, and handed it over the seat-back to Richard. "Look it up, if you like. The Barbican."
"Oh, thanks."
Josh continued to mull over the logistics. As a nexus point, it would be ideal. That was why security would be massive.
"Are you OK?" asked Suzanne.
"Thinking things over."
But he kept most of his attention outside, as the car surfed across a dip, then ascended to wet but unflooded tarmac.
"It used to be owned by the City of London," said Richard. "Now the Barbican Centre is owned by… by Tyndall Industries."
Josh felt his mouth move.
Tyndall. Who'd have guessed?
"Says here," Richard went on, "that the architecture style is something called Brutalist – honestly, that's what it says – and it stands on the old ward of Cripplegate."
He sniggered, not a pretty sound.
"Good name for a knife-fight venue," said Josh.
"Yeah. Cripplegate was destroyed by German bombs during World War II, so they had a whole district to rebuild."
Complex systems change fast.
Josh glanced at Suzanne, then winked.
Including fourteen year-old boys.
Richard continued to give them commentary, saying more in a few minutes than in the previous twentyfour hours.
Here, the road was clear, allowing Josh to increase speed.
Nearly two hours after he dropped off Suzanne and Richard, Josh pulled up by the Docklands apartments. Then he called Suzanne to tell her he had arrived safely, an odd pattern to have slipped into so fast. Outside, sheet lightning whitened the sky, followed by darkness and floating purple after-images.
Tony opened the front door before he could ring.
"Hey, my friend. Right on time."
"I didn't give you a time."
"So you're not late."
There was a long hallway with bedrooms on either side. At the far end, the lounge looked empty. From one of the bedrooms, as they passed the door, soft music floated, something classical.
"Vikram?" asked Josh.
"Uh-huh. And Sheena's in that room, prepping for tomorrow."
"I'm glad someone's doing what you pay them for."
"Yeah, well, wait till you see who's in here." Tony tapped on another door. "Hey, Matt. How're you doing?"
"Good."
The man who opened up was hugely muscular and square-jawed. It took Josh a second to place him.
"You're Haresh's oppo from Epsilon Force," said Josh. "I saw you in the Bunch of Grapes."
"Right, I remember."
They shook hands. Matt held back on the tension, careful not to splinter the bones of a lesser mortal.
Tony said: "A Sabre Squadron is shipping out. Nigeria, strictly covert. Matt was supposed to go
with them."
"Depending how you regard supposed. I'm here for training and observation."
"I know how that goes," said Josh.
It was practically a spec ops tradition, visiting soldiers joining host country operations their own governments could never sanction.
"But if I go missing now," said Matt, "then the guys back home will assume that's where I've gone. Darkest Africa, out of contact, because I'm not officially deploying."
Josh looked at Tony.
"What's going on, my friend?"
It was Matt who said: "Things back home… It's getting bad. In a total breakdown kinda way."
"What does that mean?"
"President Brand," said Tony, "has taken the first regulatory steps to dissolve the triumvirate. The enemy for the coming Apocalypse isn't in Africa or Asia, it's the creeping darkness in his own continent."
"Oh, shit." Josh normally kept track of things, but this was new.
"Meaning other Americans," said Matt. "He's going to secede. Possibly he's going to declare war on CalOrWashington. Maybe the eastern seaboard, too."
"Holy fuck."
"There's talk of senior officers being shot inside the Pentagon. But exactly who, and by who, and what for, no one's saying. It's the kind of mess maintaining a unified army was supposed to prevent."
"You're talking civil war."
"Yeah, well, we only had the one so far, which makes us even with you Brits. You know us, always like to go one better."
"Actually, we had two," said Tony. "If you count the War of the Roses."
None of this explained why he wanted Josh here.
"So what are your plans, Matt?" asked Josh.
"Well, this is a message for my cousin Carol." Matt tossed over a memory flake. "If you could deliver it for me, that'd be great."
"Your cousin?"
"She's a friend of Dr Duchesne," said Tony. "Also, she's the reason that Broomhall got in contact with Geordie, which is how you got the job."
"And you" – Josh nodded to Matt – "are the reason that your cousin knew about Geordie Biggs and his amazing operatives for hire. Is that it?"
"That's about the size of it."
"So why the secret message?"
"Well, I've lodged a time-delayed resignation from the Army." Matt frowned at the ceiling, and the lights flickered, while the window's magnetic locks clicked open, then shut. "But I'm aiming to skip the surgical removal, if you know what I mean."
Epsilon Force soldiers were filled with implants. On returning to civilian life, they were supposed to leave their little extras behind, courtesy of a military hospital.
"I'll be all right if I can get to my folks back home," added Matt. "But I've got a tiny problem flying like a regular passenger."
The implants again. This was why Ghost Force didn't use them, preferring to operate covertly, often posing as civilians.
"We've got friends flying out from Norfolk in the morning. Private flight." Tony raised his eyebrows. "Since you're dragging your heels or whatever, we kinda hoped you'd help out as a chauffeur for Matt."
"What do you mean, dragging my heels?"
"Hey, just kidding. I mean, since you haven't found the boy–"
"How do you know I haven't?"
"Jesus, his old man is reported to be losing the plot." Tony pulled out his phone and turned it around. "See? Rumours of nervous breakdown, senior employees leaving his home looking worried. All sorts of shit, while his companies look about to go under."
It was the nearest that business journalists got to the soap opera dramatics of their showbiz counterparts. Was it concern for a distressed Josh Cumberland that had Tony checking those stories, or was it something else?
"You got any shares in those companies, Tone?"
"Er… No. Why?"
"Cause if you did, I'd recommend you hang onto them."
Matt suddenly laughed.
"Now I feel better. You guys are the sneakiest hard cases I've ever met, you know?"
"Thanks very much," said Josh. "It's cause we're shy."
Gone midnight, Josh pulled out into the quiet roads, only the hiss of tyres sounding. The storm had passed; the air was cool and exhilarating. For a while, he drove with his window down. In the passenger seat, Matt Klugmann sat like some animatronic figure used to advertise a muscle movie, huge even when relaxed.
Regretting the loss of storm-fresh air, Josh raised the window, so he could talk surveillance-free. "If I swing past a building complex, you think you could do an infiltration scan? Broad sweep, whatever you can manage."
"Paying my fare, is that it?"
"Actually, no." Josh turned left. "I'm taking you to Norfolk because I said I would."
"Fair enough."
"Although if you do me the favour, I'll give your cousin Carol your love, as well as the memory flake."
"Jeez, it's your loving she'll be after, good buddy. You wait till you meet her."
"Bit of a man-eater, is she?"
"The way a starving great white shark is a bit peckish."
"I'll go in armed."
Windscreen and window were lined with refractive laminae, while the chassis resonated with anti-sound generated onboard to cancel out conversation inside. It was one of the reasons that Tony had wanted Josh for the job, because the car was not just surveillance proof – it slid past watchers in a way that seemed innocuous, rather than the result of illegal mods.
Deep in the City now, Josh turned along London Wall.
"There's a whole estate." He pointed. "Those tower blocks, and inside there's a jumble of what-you-callem, promenades, and a long pond that's like a canal."
"Huh." Matt's eyelids fluttered. "That's heavy duty. Slow down."
Josh decelerated as if afraid of deep water, though the extended puddles were shallow enough. Beside him, Matt's eyes began to shimmer.
Nice.
He had heard of these: contact lenses acting as displays, eyes-only information at its purest.
"All right." Matt blinked the glow from his eyes. "I've seen what I need to."
Josh pointed the car north.
"So they're broadcasting a live event in a few days, right?" Matt continued. "Because there's a permanent, wired-in security system, multi-tiered and hardshielded. Plus, they're setting up a top-of-the-line webcast studio for the production."
"A Knifefight Challenge event," said Josh.
"Which is also the season finale of Knife Edge, right? The two teams leave the fighters' house for the last time. Man, I've been loving that show."
"Oh."
"Shame I won't be around for that. But I don't suppose it matters. It'll be morning where I am, when the evening festivities start here. I can still watch."
"I'm hoping it'll be a good one."
"Uh-huh. So who lives in those tower blocks? I mean, we're talking luxurious, like some exclusive deal in Manhattan, right?"
"The ones who are fans" – Josh glanced up at a tower, then returned his attention to the road – "get to watch from their living rooms and throw big parties. Others fasten their shutters or disappear for a few days. All of them are rich already, and they all get paid a tidy bundle for having their homes turned into a movie set."
"Nice deal. So are we talking signals or bodies, Mr Cumberland?"
"Say what?"
"Your insertion op. Are you infiltrating their software, or sneaking actual physical people inside their perimeter? Maybe with actual physical weapons for hurting other folk? That's the question, my man."
Josh hooked his lower lip behind his front teeth.
Then: "Could I possibly have both?"
"I like your style." Matt chuckled. "You sure you're not American?"
It was twenty minutes before dawn. At the edge of a wet, fresh-smelling field, Josh leaned against his unlit car, watching a black, jagged shape climb into an indigo sky, its mutable wings twisting as it arced through an improbable angle. Then its trajectory levelled off as it whispered into darkness, and was gone.
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