Vickers (Corp.s.e.)

by Mick Farren

  The whole party halted at the start of the incline. The security teams became a part of the front row. Again everybody waited. There was a good deal of brittle conversation that Vickers did his best to ignore. Then a light came on beside the brass doors. An elevator was coming. There was a series of metallic clicks, a thump and a drawn-out hiss. The doors slowly slid open. The cavernous interior of the elevator was lit by a line of overhead spots. Some fifteen figures were crowded around a squat, dark object that seemed to be mounted on some kind of tracks or rollers.

  A half-dozen men detached themselves from the main group. They came out of the elevator fast. They were dressed in the double-breasted suits and black shirts that were traditional among the inner circle of Global Leisure security. They carried snub-nosed Whooper machine guns. They quickly secured the area in front of the elevator. The waiting soldiers came to rigid attention and the security teams stiffened. The main party began to move forward. As soon as it came out into the brighter light, it was plain to see that the dark object on rollers was in fact not an object at all. It was a person. There was no mistaking the chrome tank treads.

  "Herbie Mossman! What the fuck is Herbie Mossman doing here?"

  Vickers glanced around to see if anyone had heard his quiet exclamation. Everyone else seemed to be intently watching the emergence from the elevator. Herbie Mossman appeared to feel the need to go travelling in what looked like a bulletproof spacesuit. His bulk was swathed in a tent of a glossy dark blue, seemingly rubberized material that looked to be easily an inch thick. It was gathered at a locking ring round his neck that in turn sealed it to a plexiglass bubble helmet. The bulletproof suit was obvious, but why the helmet? Was Mossman afraid of a gas attack or did he suffer from a Howard Hughes germ phobia? These, however, were the least of the questions that buzzed across Vickers' mind as Mossman started slowly up the long incline. He was flanked on each side by two lines of young men in neat haircuts and dark ivy league suits, who were most likely Mormons. The Utah/Nevada connection want back to at least the 1960s. They were probably clones although the Brigham Young Corporation denied that they had the technology. Mormon bodyguards were efficient to the point of suicide. Assured of a place in the hereafter, they wouldn't hesitate to take a bullet. When they hired out as mercenaries, they were hotly sought after. Two top-class Vegas showgirls who, in their own way, were probably equally sought after, walked demurely behind Mossman's chair. Had he come for a protracted stay?

  Vickers didn't have much time to ponder the problem. Four of Lloyd-Ransom's officers moved forward to greet Mossman. The soldiers beside the elevator doors snapped off a deft present arms. Surprisingly, Lloyd-Ransom himself didn't move. He simply stood his ground surrounded by his dogs, guards and courtiers. It had to be a serious breach of protocol. Herbie Mossman was, after all, the president of a major corporation while Lloyd-Ransom, whatever his delusions, was only the commander of a bunker. Mossman seemed to have the same thought. His wheelchair stopped. He appeared to hesitate as though unsure or even suspicious. If indeed he was suspicious he was more than justified. Within five seconds all hell had broken loose.

  The soldiers dropped from parade ground to combat stance. Their weapons came down and there was an explosion of gunfire. Simultaneously, the security people at the top of the incline who were armed with frag guns also opened up. Mossman's people never had a chance. The attack was too fast even for the Mormons. Two got their guns out but neither fired a shot. One of the Global security men managed to loose off a wild burst from his Whooper. It killed one soldier and set the courtiers scattering, but then he too was cut down. After fifteen seconds the firing stopped. The only survivors were a sobbing showgirl crouching behind Mossman's chair and Mossman himself, sitting helpless, saved by his suit but probably badly bruised. The four bunker officers were also dead. They'd been among the first to be hit. They'd obviously been designated as expendable. In the quiet aftermath of the massacre, a woman courtier went on screaming. Someone was throwing up.

  Vickers got slowly to his feet. When the shooting had started he'd been too shocked to do anything but follow the order to do nothing. On immediate reflection, the best policy seemed to be to go on doing nothing. It was hardly the time to start picking sides. He didn't see how "do nothing" could mean stand around and get shot and he'd dropped to his knees. Beside him, Debbie jacked a fresh clip into her frag gun. She slowly walked forward toward Mossman's tracked wheelchair. Carmen Rainer, Eight-Man and Eggy all did the same. Mossman rolled backward toward the elevator. He'd only travelled a few feet though, before he stopped again as if realizing the futility. The killers were lazily converging on him. Eight-Man shot out the chair's power unit so he couldn't roll again if he wanted to. Inside the bubble his face was sweating. His fat pink lips were working but no sound could be heard. Eight-Man's shot had also taken out the speakers through which Mossman communicated with the outside world.

  Carmen Rainer aimed a frag blast straight into Mossman's bloated, blue-swathed body. The effect was like a wave in a waterbed. The material stopped the slivers of metal but it couldn't absorb the close-up blast. Debbie and Eggy also fired. Mossman was being pulped inside his own, bulletproof suit. Blood spurted up into the helmet with each burst and then subsided again. The material simply wouldn't split.

  Mossman was so plainly dead that the four assassins lowered their guns. For long seconds they stared at the grotesque corpse. Eight-Man shook his head, turned and started walking to where the living were waiting. The other three followed. The woman had stopped screaming, the ambient sound had been turned off, even the showgirl had stopped her sobbing. It was a terrible silence. Even the normal background groans and rumbles, the enclosed sounds of the bunker, seemed to have been stilled. Then a flock of birds erupted from a tree with a clatter of wings. Everyone flinched.

  * * *

  Vickers lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. Again he couldn't sleep. It was all becoming too dangerously confusing. What had always been thought of as impossible had been achieved. The president of Global Leisure had been slain and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. Why had Mossman come to the bunker? What had induced him to change a ten-year habit and leave the stronghold of his Las Vegas penthouse domes? The thoughts went round and round in his head and kept coming back without acceptable answers, back to the same single imponderable. What the hell was going to happen next? How did Lloyd-Ransom expect to hold the bunker after this? They'd surely send in an army to get him. The corporations would forget their differences until they had his head on a spike. Unfortunately the entire security group, everyone who'd been there, would finish up with their heads on slightly lower poles. Even the bunker wasn't enough of a hiding place for the killers of Herbie Mossman. Vickers began to sweat. He wanted a drink. He wanted a cigarette but somehow he couldn't move. Most of all he wanted out. He couldn't believe that he'd walked into this mess of his own free will. He didn't even understand what was going on. What did Lloyd-Ransom, even dressed up like Hermann Goering, expect to gain by killing Herbie Mossman? Again he was asking why and getting no answers.

  A thought occurred to him. There was one way that he might walk out of here. If he already had Lloyd-Ransom's head-and Lutesinger's as well-when the forces of retribution arrived, he'd be the automatic good guy. It might be his only chance. Now the question had become: how?

  There was a commotion in the group's common room. Eggy was bellowing and there were other voices. Vickers sat bolt upright. What the hell was going on? A cold fear wrenched his gut. Had they come to cover their tracks? Was this the point of the whole charade? Had they been brought here only to finalize Mossman and now they were going to be greased themselves? The door of his cubicle was kicked open. A soldier with red and yellow tabs on his uniform and a Neanderthal expression on his face pointed a machine pistol at him.

  "All right you! Out! Out! Move it!"

  He had one of those hysterical, robot voices that are so favored by the military. Vickers hadn't see
n the red and yellow tabs before. What were they supposed to mean? The best thing was to do what he was told. There really wasn't any viable alternative. He couldn't quite believe that he'd come all this way just to be concluded as a track-covering afterthought, but he still had to fight down a gagging fear. There were guns all over the common room, more of the mushroom uniforms with the red and yellow tabs. Each brandished a machine pistol. The others of the group had been herded to one end of the common room. Eggy simply smouldered but Fenton, Debbie and Parkwood all had a strained, wide-eyed look that seemed to indicate they too had considered the possibility that this unasked-for night visit might end in an execution. Vickers tried a piece of token bravado.

  "What about a drink?"

  It didn't do him any good. It didn't even make him feel better. The soldier who'd dragged him out of his cubicle grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved.

  "Over with the others."

  The shove sent him stumbling into Fenton. Side by side, the five of them eyed the soldiers and the guns that they were pointing at them. Eggy's breathing was noisily audible. It sounded like he was stewing from within. Fenton shook his head.

  "I really don't want to think about this."

  There was a commotion of stamping boots outside the door and a general stiffening of the soldiers in the room. The ones nearest quickly backed away as a dog handler was pulled into the room by three Dobermans. The sudden arrival of Lloyd-Ransom's dogs put a different emphasis on what was happening. Was he coming here to watch the execution or had they totally misread the situation? While they were still wondering, Anthony Lloyd-Ransom himself strolled through the door of their unit with one hand in the pocket of his immaculate uniform jodphurs. He was a picture of studied casualness as he paused to light a cigarette. He surveyed the five with a half smile.

  "My chaps seem to have scared you people shitless."

  Vickers realized that he couldn't hear Eggy breathing any more. He was quite surprised when Parkwood spoke up.

  "It looked uncannily like an execution for a few moments just now."

  Vickers had to hand it to him. Parkwood's voice was calm and even. He'd almost managed to sound unconcerned. Lloyd-Ransom seemed quite delighted.

  "What on earth gave you the idea that I'd have you executed? I've put in a lot of time, trouble and expense to put this team together. It would hardly be rational."

  It was Vickers' turn.

  "Didn't things get a little irrational earlier?"

  Lloyd-Ransom looked round at him with an expression of pleasant surprise. It was as though he was enjoying the spirit his hired guns were exhibiting.

  "I'm sorry, what did you mean by that?"

  Vickers began to get angry. It was as if Lloyd-Ransom placed them on the same level as his damned Dobermans.

  "The murder of Herbie Mossman."

  "You didn't find it rational?"

  "The logic of it escapes me."

  "Maybe you don't know all the facts."

  "That's quite usual round here."

  "In any case, you went along with it."

  Vickers grimaced.

  "That's all I did. I never fired a shot."

  Lloyd-Ransom loosed a short, clipped laugh.

  "That's just as well for you. The first round in your clip was an explosive charge. If you'd fired your gun, it would have cut you into two very messy halves."

  Vickers was incredulous.

  "What?"

  "Just a little loyalty test. Technically, you're still under contract to Global."

  "I take it I passed."

  "You're still here, aren't you?"

  "We were wondering about that a couple of moments ago."

  A brisk gesture from Lloyd-Ransom dismissed all but two soldiers and the dog handler.

  "You don't need to wonder any longer. The truth is that I'm really rather pleased with this team."

  Eggy was still glaring.

  "So why roust us in the middle of the night?"

  "This wasn't a roust."

  "You coulda fooled me."

  "Those were my personal guard. I hand picked them but they tend to get carried,away. They forget about diplomacy."

  Parkwood raised an eyebrow.

  "There could come a time when that might warrant some close watching."

  "I don't think so."

  "That's what Caligula said."

  Lloyd-Ransom treated Parkwood to a long, cold look, then abruptly his expression changed. He looked at each of the five in turn as if making some final assessment.

  "I think it's time a few things were explained to you."

  "That'd make a change."

  Eggy wasn't about to be placated. Lloyd-Ransom's eyes froze for a second time.

  "I'd advise against any more interruptions."

  There was a deviousness about Lloyd-Ransom. The facade he presented, the overdressed cynical fop tended to suck one in and lull one into forgetting how efficiently dangerous he could be. The man had spent two solid years in the bush making untrained and often unstable mercenaries do exactly what he wanted. Eggy was clearly just remembering this but he still needed a little room to save face.

  "Would you advise against me having a drink?"

  "Why don't you pour us all one?"

  If anyone else had said that it would have provoked a probably obscene retort from Eggy. In this instance he said nothing. The five relaxed. Fenton and Debbie sat down. Lloyd-Ransom settled on the arm of a chair. Eggy handed him a drink and he removed his uniform cap.

  "The first thing you need to know is that, on the outside, the situation is becoming extremely grave."

  Lloyd-Ransom waited for a new mood of attention and anxiety to settle over the room.

  "The Soviet civilian administration has completely collapsed. It's chaos. Next winter, millions will starve and there's absolutely nothing that can be done. The Red Army has split into no less than five identifiable groups and two of these are moving west, each followed by huge mobs of starving refugees. Some tank units of the leading army have already crossed the Kowalski line and are moving into West Poland. They may be hungry and disorganized and not directed by a central government, but they're still an invasion. If anything, it's worse. It's a ravenous mob spurred on by an absolute need to survive. If they aren't stopped they'll simply eat up Western Europe."

  Fenton moved his hand in a gesture that wasn't quite a request for permission to speak.

  "What about the Soviet missile system? Who's in control of that?"

  Lloyd-Ransom spread his hands. "We don't know. If the rest of the story is anything to go by, it's probably as fragmented as anything else. Different groups in different parts of the country in charge of a couple hundred missiles each."

  "And nobody has a clue if they're planning to fire them or not?"

  Lloyd-Ransom looked from face to face.

  "Sorry to say, but what the Russians may do is no longer the primary headache. Most people are now concerning themselves with what the Germans may do. If the Germans, backed up by the Poles, the British and the Dutch, can't hold the Russians on the ground with conventional weapons, and it's by no means certain that they can, the temptation will be to stop them in their tracks with a couple of low-yield airbursts." He paused. He glanced at Eggy. "I think I could use a refill."

  Eggy got up and fetched the bottle but not without a noticeable demonstration of tried patience. Lloyd-Ransom sipped his drink and continued.

  "If you think about it, it seems most unlikely that a jangled, disorganized and probably desperate Russian missile command is going to let the Red Army, whatever its condition, take nuclear hits without shooting back. Once the shooting back gets going, it's all the way in to the death. There's no power on earth that's going to stop it escalating. With Russia in the grip of total anarchy, even the communications aren't there. With no central government, there's no hotline. I hate to be the one to say it but it looks as though the world is staggering toward the end of this chapter."

  There was a lon
g and grim silence. It was Debbie who finally moved the conversation on to the other major puzzlement.

  "Where does Mossman fit in to all this? Why did he have to be killed?"

  It was a number of seconds before Lloyd-Ransom answered. Again his eyes were cold. He obviously wanted no argument.

  "Mossman also decided that the end was at hand. In the past he assisted us and it was always agreed that, if the worst came, a place here was guaranteed for him and his immediate entourage. This apparently was not enough for Herbie Moss-man. Feeling that a crisis was at hand, he decided that he'd not only move into the bunker but that he'd bring in his own people and take over total control. His intention was to use his security people and his Mormon guards to stage what would have amounted to a coup here in the bunker."

  The faces of the five indicated that they weren't rushing to buy Lloyd-Ransom's explanation. It was Debbie who put it into words.

  "He only came in with a handful of people, how could they have posed a threat?"

  "His aim was to eliminate myself, Doctor Lutesinger and most of the central command."

  Lloyd-Ransom's face dissolved slightly, his determination to convince took on a tinge of holy aura.

  "He would have destroyed the vision. Working together here over the last two years we have produced a vision of survival and rebuilding that we are prepared to defend to the death. We have to defend it; in the final analysis it may be the only hope of mankind. I'm not about to entrust that vision to an obese psychotic like Herbie Mossman."