The Complete SF Collection

by Morgan, Richard

  He got unsteadily to his feet. One of the men stepped forward. He was near two metres tall, heavily muscled under a sleeveless T-shirt scrawled red with the legend I am the Minister for the Redistribution of Health. The lettering was splattered to make it look bloody. His face was scarred from the corner of the left eye and down the cheek. It gave him an oddly mournful look.

  ‘Finished, have you? Is he dead?’

  Chris blinked and coughed.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked harshly.

  ‘Who are we?’ Laughter rasped out, first from one throat, then building to a rattling echo off the metal roof. It died out as abruptly. The gangwit spokesman was swinging a short black-enamelled prybar softly and repeatedly into his left palm. His gaze seemed welded to Chris, playing up and down the clothes, the hair, the shotgun. He smiled and the scar tissue tugged at his face. ‘Who are we? We’re the fucking dispossessed, mate. That’s who we are.’

  There was no laughter to follow this time. The men had tautened, waiting for the leash to slip. Chris suppressed another cough and lifted the Remington as convincingly as he could manage.

  ‘That’s close enough. The police are on their way, and there’s nothing to see here.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The spokesman for the group gestured at the BMW and Mike Bryant’s corpse. ‘From what we’ve seen so far, I beg to differ. This is prime time. Mr Faulkner.’

  Chris pumped the action on the Remington.

  ‘Alright, I said that’s close enough.’

  Mistake.

  The unspent shell leapt in the air, hit the concrete and rolled towards the other man. For a moment, they both looked down at it. Then the gangwit looked back up at Chris and shook his head.

  ‘See, that’s a perfectly good round, mate. And to judge by your manner of execution back there a moment ago, I’d say—’

  Chris flung the shotgun in his face and ran.

  Back to the upturned BMW and Mike Bryant’s corpse. He heard booted feet behind him, more than one pair. The gangwit’s voice rang exasperated above the clatter.

  ‘Well don’t fucking stand there. Get him!’

  He dived and landed on Mike in a kind of embrace. Scrabbled under the jacket, felt the butt of the Nemex in his hand. Proximity sense told him the first of his pursuers was almost on him. Shadows blocked out the light. The smell of old leather and cheap aftershave swamped him. A hand grabbed at his jacket.

  He rolled free and came up with Mike’s gun almost touching the gangwit’s chest. He saw the man’s eyes widen. A pool cue smashed down on his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger.

  The Nemex thundered. The shot kicked the man off his feet and back across the concrete. He crumpled and lay still.

  ‘Toby!’ It was a howl of anguish. The gangwit spokesman. ‘Fucking zek-tiv piece of shit!’

  The second gangwit was two paces behind his fallen comrade, but the gun brought him to a dead halt. The others were converging, but now they stopped and began to back away, left and right. Chris got himself upright, grinning fiercely.

  ‘That’s right, back the fuck off.’

  Something black whipped through the air and hit him a numbing blow across the elbow. The Nemex went off, firing wide into the concrete floor. Chris clutched at his arm and tried to bring the gun to bear as the spokesman, leaping in after the hurled prybar, hit him from the right. Below the elbow, his muscles were water. He snapped off a panic shot. It went wide. The gangwit snarled a grin and grabbed the arm, twisting. Chris felt his hand spasm open. The Nemex spun away, splashing into a puddle. He threw a punch left-handed and saw his opponent ride it with a streetfighter’s impatient grunt. Desperate, he reached and grappled. The Minister for the Redistribution of Health punched him in the chest with shattering force. He collapsed backwards, fending weakly, tripping on Mike’s corpse. The gangwit let him go, let him fall against the body of the upturned BMW and turned to scoop up his prybar. Stalked forward, still grinning. Chris saw the attack coming and rolled weakly left, along the BMW’s flank. The crowbar arced down and clawed a long dint in the twilight-blue bodywork where he’d been. The metal screeched. Chris came off the car yelling, delivered a hooking left-handed punch to the Minister’s temple. The gangwit threw up a block that didn’t quite cover and staggered slightly with the impact. He grunted again, shook his head and whipped the crowbar round. Chris caught it across the side of the head.

  Multi-coloured light rang in his skull. The ceiling waltzed by overhead. He reeled and fell. Something snagged his arm, he looked muzzily and saw the Minister had him, was holding him up. Comfortably.

  ‘Fucking piece of shit driver,’ the man was yelling in his face. ‘Come into the fucking zones with your suit, will you?’

  The crowbar slammed into his ribs. He screamed like a baby and twisted. There were others around him, holding him up for the spokesman, cuffing him back and forth across the head.

  ‘Come into the fucking zones, will you? Hold him.’

  Another blow, another rolling tide of numbness. He thought he felt a rib crack this time. He yelled, but weakly. The grip on his arm let go and he slumped into a ring of supporting grasps. He saw a fist coming, heavy with dull metal rings. It split his vision apart, sent shards of it spinning away against a roaring darkness. He felt part of his face tear, felt blood streaming down into his collar.

  ‘Show you what we think of—’ the Minister was telling him between blows, but the rest was carried away on the roar in an opening tunnel of darkness.

  Oddly, in the bottom of it all, he heard Carla.

  So! You just want to fuck me and leave me. Is that it?

  Her hands on him. She was smiling. For some reason he couldn’t pin down, he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

  I’m. Already sliding headlong into the dark. Not going anywhere.

  But he was.

  And a sound like distant thunder.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Driver Control helicopters held the sky over the vaulted highway where Chris Faulkner had slewed the Saab to its shrieking sideways halt. Bright sunlight winked off underslung camera lenses and the clustered barrels of the gatlings. At a prudent distance beyond, news crew aircraft circled like sharks waiting for something to give up and die. There were police vehicles scattered up and down the stretch, equipment set up and armed figures hurrying about. Louise Hewitt stood talking to a ranking tactical-force officer and her mobile at the same time. She looked up and shielded her face as a new, twilight-blue helicopter drifted in through the black-and-green Driver Control machines and settled to the asphalt, twenty metres away. Jack Notley climbed down from the cabin, settled his suit a little more firmly on his shoulders in the gale of the rotors and strode towards her.

  ‘I’ll call you back,’ she told the phone, and snapped it shut. ‘And Captain, if you could just give me a moment.’

  The officer saw who was coming and stepped back. Notley reached Hewitt and stared at her. ‘Well?’

  ‘I expect you’ve heard.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’ Notley looked grim. ‘What have you got?’

  Hewitt shrugged and nodded towards the crane and winch system at the edge of the Gullet. ‘We put in the tacs. Apparently they’re bringing them both up now. Not a pretty sight, is what I was told.’

  Notley looked away, up and down the stretch of highway. ‘Four miles,’ he said. ‘Four miles from where Page went off. You realise that?’

  ‘Four?’ Hewitt frowned. ‘Oh, miles, that’s what, about six kilometres? Yeah, probably about that. And not far from where Barnes learnt to fly, come to that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Exciting stretch of road.’

  The winch whined into action. Both partners turned to watch as it brought up a sheet-covered stretcher. Tactical-force corporate police swarmed around the load, swinging it in and lowering it gently to the road. The covering was white and blood had soaked through in small patches. A medic crouched, turned back the sheet and winced visibly. The winch swung back do
wn. They watched the cable unwind.

  ‘Going to be a lot of questions,’ observed Hewitt when it stopped. ‘Lot of precedent to be hammered out.’

  Notley grunted. ‘Good. Kind of thing that keeps us sharp.’

  ‘Keeps the lawyers sharp, you mean. They’re going to be arguing this one back and forth for months at our expense.’

  ‘While we go ahead and get on with doing things anyway.’

  ‘Ethics after the event.’ Hewitt offered him a crooked smile. ‘My favourite kind.’

  Notley raised an eyebrow. ‘Are there any other sort?’

  The winch swung up again. More activity, another stretcher settling to the asphalt. More blood stains on white.

  ‘Not in this world.’

  ‘I’m glad—’

  Amidst the weaving of the tactical-force uniforms, commotion. Uniforms milling. And Chris Faulkner, climbing off the stretcher like the living dead. Pushing his way clear. A ragged cheer floated over him like a banner.

  Hewitt froze.

  Notley blinked.

  Then the senior partner was striding rapidly towards the new arrival, a grin broadening on his face. He only faltered as he got closer and saw the damage. Chris’s face was a mask of blood and bruising. One eye swollen almost shut, ribbons of torn flesh around the mouth and both cheeks ripped, blood from a nose that looked broken. The way he moved under the abused and bloodied suit screamed cracked ribs.

  ‘Chris! Jesus fuck, you’re alive. I thought. You had me worried for a moment there. Congratulations!’

  Chris stared at him. Stared past him, like the zombie he so closely resembled. Notley grabbed his shoulders.

  ‘You’ve done it, Chris. You won. You’re a partner at thirty-three years old. Fucking unprecedented. Congratulations! You know what this means?’

  Chris looked sideways at him. Focused.

  ‘What does it mean?’ he whispered.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Notley was almost burbling. ‘Chris, it means you’re at the top. From here on up, there’s nothing you can’t do. Nothing. Welcome aboard.’

  He thrust out his hand. Chris looked down at it as if the gesture didn’t make sense. He made a coughing noise that it took Notley a moment to realise was laughter. Then he stared up into the senior partner’s face and off past it again. The Saab. Hewitt.

  ‘Uh, Chris—’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  He pushed past Notley, pacing a steady line for Hewitt. She saw him coming and tensed. A brief nod to the tactical captain, and the man was at her shoulder. Chris came to a halt a metre away, swaying a little.

  ‘Louise,’ he husked.

  She manufactured a small smile. ‘Hello, Chris. Well done.’

  ‘This is for you, Louise.’

  He held it out. The Shorn Associates card, Mike Bryant’s name engraved and streaked across with new blood.

  ‘I don’t think now is—’

  ‘No, it’s for you.’ Chris took another, sudden step in and tucked the card into Hewitt’s breast pocket. He nodded to himself, already turning away. ‘For you. Because that’s the way we do things around here, right?’

  Hewitt’s smile was frozen on. ‘Right.’

  ‘I’ll see you on the road, Louise.’

  He walked away, dipping in his pocket for keys. The door of the Saab was still wide open. Driver Control personnel busied themselves around it, measuring and photographing. When he tried to get in behind the wheel, one of them barred his way.

  ‘Sorry sir, we’re not finished here ye—’

  He backed up as Chris looked at him.

  ‘Get. Out of my way.’

  The man retreated. Chris eased himself into the seat, teeth clenching up as his hastily taped ribs grated with the move. The medics had shot him full of something warm, but the pain was still getting through in flinty little flashes. He sat for a while, breathing it under control. He thought it would probably be manageable.

  He closed the door. Reached for the ignition.

  The Saab fired up growling. Around him, up and down the Gullet, activity stopped at the sound. Heads turned. He saw people gesturing.

  No one seemed interested in stopping him.

  He moved his head, a little awkwardly. Coughed and tasted blood. Checked the rearview and cut a smooth circle in reverse, so the car was pointing southward, towards Shorn. He shifted gear, let the vehicle start to glide forward.

  ‘Sir, wait.’ Muffled through the seal of the closed doors and windows. A uniformed tactical hurried across and rapped on his window. He cranked it down and waited, foot light on the clutch, barely holding the Saab back. The tac hesitated.

  ‘Uhm, sir, it’s just. The shooting down there. Well, we arrived sort of in the nick of time, sir, so it was a bit rushed. Just trying to get them off you, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice still wasn’t working properly. It had taken him whole minutes, lying there on the concrete, to make sense of the thunder, the screams of men dying and then the urgent voices of the tacs as they circled him. The ring of concerned faces peering down. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Yes, well, uhm. Thing is, a firefight like that, you don’t always get everyone dead centre, and now it looks like at least a couple are going to live. I, well, I assume you’re going to be pressing charges, sir.’

  ‘Yes, alright.’

  ‘Well, I’ll need a number for you, sir. For the statement. Obviously, we can get you at Shorn, but we like to provide a full personalised service in cases like this. Victim support, one-to-one interviews, we can come out to you any time. And I’m the officer assigned, so. Do you, uh, have a home number, sir?’

  Chris closed his eyes briefly. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Oh.’ The tac looked at him for a moment, puzzled. ‘Well, anyway. I’ll get you at Shorn, then.’

  ‘Yes.’ He tried to curb a flooding tide of impatience. He wanted to be gone. ‘Is that all you need?’

  ‘Oh. Yes sir. But, uh, you know, congratulations. The duel and everything. My whole family were watching it. Well done. Fantastic driving. Uh, my son’s a huge fan, sir.’

  He fought down the urge to cackle. Hid it in a cough.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘I expect you’ll be on the screen a lot the next few weeks. Probably even get an interview with that Liz Linshaw, eh?’ The tac saw the look on his face and stepped back. ‘Anyway, I’ll. Let you go, sir. Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’

  He let the Saab roll forward. People got out of the way. He moved past Louise Hewitt and then Jack Notley, gathering speed. By the time he passed the last of the uniforms and the parked police vehicles, he was closing on ninety. The Saab took the curve on a rising growl. He hit a pothole, but the suspension and the onset of the painkillers damped it out. He reached for the phone, jabbed it on. Winced only a little this time as his cracked ribs jarred. He placed a forward call to Joaquin Lopez in Panama, ten minutes ahead. Then he dialled Shorn’s priority client operator and told them to get him Francisco Echevarria immediately.

  They didn’t like it. They didn’t know if—

  ‘Tell him it’s a national emergency,’ Chris suggested.

  It took a couple of minutes, but Echevarria grabbed the call. He wasn’t pleased. Chris got the impression the ride in the last week had been bumpy.

  ‘Bryant? That you? Now fuckin’ what? What national fuckin’ emergency you talkin’ about?’

  ‘The one that’s going to put you in front of a fucking firing squad, you piece of shit. This is Chris Faulkner.’

  Strangled silence, then fury. ‘You motherfuckin’—’

  ‘Shut up and listen, Paco. I don’t know what line of shit they’ve been handing you in my absence, but things just changed for the better. Mike Bryant is dead.’

  ‘You’re lyin’.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I killed him myself. With my bare fucking hands. So I’m now junior partner at Shorn Conflict Investment, which means executive partner for the NAME account. Which means you, Paco.
And I’m telling you, I’m going to have Vicente Barranco in the streets of Bogotá by the end of this fucking month. So if I were you, I would gather up as much of your father’s stolen loot as you can get in a Lear jet, and I would fuck off out of the NAME right now, while you can still walk to the plane.’

  Echevarria lost English in the storm of his fury. Spanish washed down the line, beyond Chris’s ability to follow. He cut across it.

  ‘You’ve got forty-eight hours, Paco. That’s it. After that, I’m sending Special Air to put a bullet in your face.’

  ‘You cannot do this!’

  This time, Chris really laughed. Across the pain in his broken ribs, across all the pain. The drugs were numbing him nicely.

  ‘You still don’t get it, do you, Paco? From where I’m sitting, I can do whatever the fuck I want. Men like me, there’s nothing you can do to stop us any more. Understand? There is nothing you can do any more.’

  He killed the call.

  Fed power to the Saab and watched as his speed climbed.

  Gave himself up to the snarl of the engine, the spreading numbness of the drugs in his system, and the onrushing emptiness of the road ahead.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Market Forces has had a long and varied evolution, from nasty idea to short story, to screenplay, to the novel you now hold in your hands. Along the way, it (and its author) has incurred a few debts. In chronological order, then, so near as I can recall:

  Thanks to Simon Edkins for the original thought-provoking sneer: they think they live in a jungle, don’t they?, and to Gavin Burgess for sharing his knowledge of some of the more feral business training procedures out there. Thanks to Sarah Lane for seeing the potential in a moth-eaten unpublished short story, for pushing me into building a screenplay around it, and for all the unflagging enthusiasm and hard work she poured into the project along the way - great movie producers are made of this, or should be. Thanks also to Alan Young for substantial anecdotal inspiration over the years, and for reading the raw product with an economics consultant’s beady eye. Thanks, as always, to my agent, Carolyn Whitaker, and my editor, Simon Spanton, for excellence in the field of making me pay attention to detail. Thanks to everyone on the Gollancz team for making the fifth floor a great place to hang out. And finally, most of all, thanks to my recently acquired wife, Virginia Cottinelli, for her patience in sharing with me the contents of a Master’s programme in Development at the University of Glasgow, the getting of which was already costing her more grief than any paying student should have to put up with.