‘Visual now,’ Sid reported. ‘He went into Sixth Avenue.’
‘Okay boss,’ Ian replied. ‘The macromesh has him, too. We’re turning into Eighth Avenue; if we park on the junction with Dukesway we’ll see him when he comes out.’
‘I’ll turn round at the end of Queensway and wait.’ As he said it, Sid saw a dark-red Kovoshu Valta pass him; hologram prism stripes along the side sparkled and wiggled as it went. Boz was driving the big rock-star car, his massive profile highlighted by the brilliant façade of a farm store whose lights were shining down on a camel pen. And he was staring directly at Sid’s car.
‘Shit, shit.’
‘What’s happened?’ Eva asked.
‘I think I just got made by Boz.’
‘Ah crap on this, man,’ Ian said. ‘The macromesh just lost Ruckby.’
Ian saw the purple symbol had vanished from the windscreen’s display. ‘Crap, Boz warned him.’
‘I don’t know about that, man, the macromesh is seriously screwed around here. We’ll cut along Dukesway and try to get a visual.’
‘Right. I’ll double back,’ Ian said. He told his e-i to monitor the functioning segments of macromesh down Sixth Avenue to see if Ruckby had switched the Turusse’s licence code to avoid observation. No vehicles were registering. ‘Ruckby must have turned off.’
‘Yeah, that’s what we think,’ Eva replied.
‘Okay, Boz is going to be watching for me; you guys take a drive along Sixth Avenue.’
‘Turning in now,’ Ian said.
Sid studied the grid of Last Mile’s roads trying to work out what to do next. Any decent, legitimate surveillance operation would have back-up cars, a team of fifteen detectives, complete smartdust coverage, even a few small airborne micro-drones to track the suspect. This half-arsed campaign they’d thrown together was bordering on farce. He abruptly turned the car down Eighth Avenue, which was an ambitious term for a long gap between two stark carbon cliff walls of modified commercial blocks. The photonic deluge of adverts was muted here, reduced to a few signs flickering behind grilled-up windows. Overhead photopanels cast a dusky green-tinged light that illuminated the monotonous rain. Blocked drains had produced an overspill along both gutters which was now swelling out to cover the cracked tarmac. The car’s tyres generated a small grubby wake as he drove cautiously, sending chunks of ice bobbing about.
‘I’m not surprised the macromesh can’t find anything here,’ he muttered. The smartdust must have degraded and failed long ago under this kind of climatic abuse. He turned again, going down Princesway South. ‘Crap on it!’ He braked hard. The grid on the windscreen, data taken directly from the Newcastle civic highways department, showed Princesway South as a direct connection between Eighth and Sixth Avenues. Not in the real world. Seventy metres ahead of him was a grey composite wall, stitching together the buildings on either side. It had the etched resin web pattern of a structure fabricated by automata, a simple skin spun over a hexagonal stress frame. A long roll-up door was directly ahead, its base swallowing up the old road.
Sid twisted the joystick and reversed out of Princesway, back onto Eighth Avenue. ‘I can’t get through.’
‘We’re on Sixth now,’ Ian said. ‘No sign of him.’
‘He could have cut down to Western,’ Eva said. ‘Or gone into a warehouse. Just about every store here has a loading bay.’
Sid turned out into Dukesway. A couple of lorries rolled past, their fat tyres sending dark ripples scudding across the waterlogged road. Impenetrable shadows occluded the end of countless doors and narrow alleyways on either side of him. Only a few overhead photopanels worked. It was a gloomy, sinister road which Sid suddenly found he didn’t like being alone on. ‘This is stupid,’ he said. ‘If we drive round looking for them, they’ll spot us for certain. Get back to the station, we’re through here.’
‘Aye, man, good call,’ Ian said.
Sid accelerated as hard as he dared, sending a wash of water surfing over the pavement. He just wanted to be out of Last Mile now. The district with its unruly delight of chaos, decay, and greed had defeated them.
*
They never did find Iyel. Vance Elston kept the search going for two days. Legionnaire squads combed the surrounding land out to the edge of the jungle. The remaining camp personnel examined every tent, pallet, and vehicle. All three Land Rovers and both MTJs drove round the nearby jungle, crunching over the smaller bushes and tearing down the tangle of vines strung between every trunk. Wukang’s three Sikorsky CV-47 Swallows, light scout helicopters, spiralled further out above the lush, impenetrable tree canopy, firing constant high-power pings to try and trigger Iyel’s bodymesh responder code. They also activated their infrared scanners, hunting for any body-sized hotspots. Elston never said anything to the pilots, but he was a damn sight more eager to uncover moving alien monsters than he was a stationary cooling human corpse. It didn’t matter, the Swallows didn’t find either. A pair of Raytheon 6-EB Owls were flown along the closest rivers by the AAV team; a long-shot, in case he’d been swept away by the fast water.
After the second complete search of the camp, the personnel not flying or on foot patrol outside the perimeter went back to their normal duties. The Daedalus flights resumed and continued to build up the camp’s inventory. Iyel’s official status was moved to: missing on duty. Officially, as there was no body or evidence of foul play, he wasn’t dead.
Camp rumour had a very different view, concocting brilliant, elaborate and improbable theories about how he’d been eliminated.
It was evening when Vance finally admitted defeat and changed Iyel’s file status. The air-con in the Qwik-Kabin was straining with the load of another sweltering St Libra day, and outside the camp personnel were gathering for the Sunday night barbecue, which was fast becoming a tradition for the expedition camps. He told his e-i to establish a secure link to Vermekia. A secure connection through a six-thousand-kilometre e-Ray relay above the jungle, then an undersea cable, followed by another four-thousand-kilometre land line with dozens of civilian relays and cells was something of a joke, but the call was audio only and AIA encryption was still the best.
‘Two deaths?’ Vermekia asked.
‘One death, one missing,’ Vance said, wishing he didn’t sound so defensive.
‘So what’s happening?’
‘Mullain I can just about write off as the victim of some illegal activity he’d stumbled across. Iyel looks a lot more suspicious.’
‘Was it an alien abduction?’
‘I don’t know,’ Vance admitted, which was tough to say. ‘There’s no evidence either way.’
‘What’s your hunch?’
‘All I’ll say is that I’m pretty certain that it wasn’t Angela Tramelo. Although, I have to admit none of the other camps have had incidents like this. Not yet, anyway.’
‘There can’t be anything else going on,’ Vermekia said. ‘I won’t accept that much coincidence.’
‘I’d point out that Wukang has responsibility for the primary defence mission,’ Vance said. ‘If the aliens found out about that, they might begin with an incursion. And Iyel was on the xenobiology team.’
‘But he wasn’t part of the defence mission.’
‘I know.’
‘And how could the aliens possibly know?’
‘We don’t have any idea about their true capabilities. But we do know one of them might have been in Newcastle.’
‘So you believe they do exist?’ Vermekia asked.
‘This is starting to make me think it’s possible, yes. But of course there’s no proof, only circumstantial evidence. As always, we need something concrete. How is Detective Hurst doing?’
‘Still backtracking those stupid taxis.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Statistically, he should have found it by now. If you ask me, it’s a complete waste of time.’
Vance experienced a strange pang of sympathy for the poor detective, plunged into a nightmare investiga
tion with way too much pressure applied from everyone. ‘He’s doing the job we asked him to.’
‘Whatever. It’s you we’re looking to now to provide the answers.’
‘I understand.’
‘When will you start genetic sampling?’
‘Wukang is up to full strength now, so I’m sending the first convoy out into the jungle tomorrow.’
‘Glad to hear that. We need some results.’
Vance signed off, and spent a long minute in the confined cubicle staring at the one narrow slit of window his status had gained him. It framed the edge of the rings which were beginning to shine brightly as St Libra’s rotation carried Brogal into night. Two deaths (he was convinced Iyel had been killed) was beyond coincidence. He was sure something was out there in the jungle. It unnerved him, because he couldn’t understand the reason for the creatures staying hidden. And he was just beginning to appreciate how isolated Wukang was. The Lord’s universe was a lot bigger than the human soul was comfortable with.
Music started playing. Some guitar rock track that sounded tinny and lost inside the Qwik-Kabin. It would sound the same out in the jungle, an alien noise, absorbed and broken by the vast sprawl of vegetation, completely insignificant.
Vance sighed and tried to push his growing concerns to one side. At least for tonight. Tonight there were burgers and sausages, lettuce that had been chilled for too long, and toasted rolls with not enough ketchup. Just like all barbecues should be, a celebration of being human. He shut down his console, and went out to join in.
*
Angela enjoyed the Sunday night barbecues. Everyone seemed to relax a little – forget the reason why they were here and kick back. The food wasn’t bad, even though she was never sure the burgers were cooked properly in the middle. It didn’t matter, because for a few precious hours the smell of charcoal repelled the jungle scents, music held back the planet’s innate oppressive silence, and people banished HDA uniforms to dress in civilian clothes.
They didn’t use the mess tent. The grills had been set up in the area behind it, their charcoal glow a bright orange, contrasting with the silver ringlight. Smoke plumed up, accompanied by meat juice sizzling. The first batch of food was ready when she arrived with the squad. They lined up with plates, scooping up salad and waiting for the catering staff to dole out the meat.
‘These sausages are always too spicy,’ Mohammed Anwar complained.
‘You are such a wimp fart,’ Gillian Kowalski told him.
‘Why can’t we have two types? It’s not gateway science.’
‘Oh sure,’ Dave Guzman said. ‘Let’s just order out.’
Angela was laughing with the rest of them. She looked round at Paresh, who was grinning.
‘I’m just saying,’ Mohammed claimed with dwindling dignity.
Angela held her plate out, and thanked Lulu MacNamara for the sausages and burger that the red-cheeked girl slapped down.
‘It’s always where you are,’ a voice said, clear and loud. ‘Mullain at Sarvar, now Iyel here.’
Angela looked round. Five people down the line, Davinia Beirne was staring belligerently at her. She was one of the AAV team, an Owl technician.
‘You talking to me?’ Angela said.
‘No other camps have a serial killer in their team,’ Davinia said. ‘No other camps are having people murdered.’
‘Hey!’ DiRito stepped forward, his face all anger and outrage.
Angela put her arm out, stopping him from going any further. ‘It’s okay.’ She sensed other squad members closing round her. ‘You got a problem?’ she asked Davinia.
‘How many more of us are going to disappear like Iyel?’
‘I don’t want anyone to die. And I’ve never killed anyone. Not here now, not twenty years ago. I’m here in this shithole to help you, to stop the aliens from killing anyone else. I don’t have to be here, remember that, I could be safe back on Earth. All I am is a dumb volunteer. But when they start to come out of the jungle for you, you’re going to need me.’
Chris Fiadeiro and Mackay, from the AAV team, came up beside a sneering Davinia. Angela stared at her, watching closely for tell-tale muscle movement, ready for a sudden lunge forward. Fully expecting the squad members and the AAV team to stop Davinia from reaching her. But there had been too many prison fights for her to rely on other people.
That was when Bastian 2North arrived at the barbecue to witness the stand-off scene, with everyone silent while the chirpy steel guitar music played on. The North cocked his head to one side to look at Angela, his face impassive. She was proud she didn’t back down, didn’t turn away. The moment was painful, stretching out way too long. Then Madeleine Hoque slapped a burger down on Davinia’s plate; Davinia appeared irritated by the action that broke her aggressive concentration. Mackay pushed her slightly, and she grunted in contempt and walked away. It was over, finished. Bastian moved on to join the end of the queue.
A hand closed tightly round Angela’s forearm.
‘Let’s get you the fuck out of here,’ Leora Fawkes said.
Angela nearly tripped she was pushed along so forcefully. She didn’t complain, she went with it, her friends forming a neat circle round her.
‘You all right?’ Paresh asked as the squad sat on the grass together.
‘I don’t like being a party pooper,’ she said.
‘You’re not,’ Marty O’Riley said. ‘We know you were with us both times.’
‘Davinia’s always toxing up,’ Josh Justic said in a low voice. ‘She’s got a real problem there.’
‘You’re only saying that because she turned you down,’ Atyeo said, grinning as he munched a sausage down.
‘Oi! She did not turn me down.’
The squad laughed. They’d settled into their usual routine. Comfort and camaraderie. Angela started eating her own food, and saw Paresh was still giving her a concerned look. She mouthed: ‘I’m okay.’ And saw his relief.
A whole group of friends like this was rare, people you knew you could rely on, who were perfectly comfortable with each other, who were all equals. Angela had known that once before. In a strange way it had been the polar opposite of this barbecue. But the memory association was strong; sitting out like this, with oh-so different people, under very different stars, sent a sudden chill along her arms. She was surprised those times could still resurrect themselves so clearly in her mind; that was a past life now, belonging to a different person so very long ago.
*
The last in a long long list of exuberant parties the young Angela DeVoyal had attended was at Prince Matiff’s mansion on the 17th of January 2111, a date everybody in the trans-stellar finance industry would always remember. She’d gone with Shasta Nolif, of course. They were virtually inseparable on the New Monaco social scene. Best friends since for ever.
The DeVoyal family fortune was originally derived from Wall Street and the global finance markets before progressing smoothly to take advantage of new business during the trans-stellar expansion. They were old East Coast money, complete with aristocratic airs and cold-equation dealings with other people.
As the heir, Angela DeVoyal was as beautiful as only the germline-modified could be, along with other traits her father, Raymond, desired: tall, healthy, strong, fast, smart, a memory that resembled silicon in its perfect recall. Luci Tramelo, who gave birth to Angela, was under a simple surrogate contract, and left a week after delivery, as soon as the DeVoyal estate clinic had conducted appropriate tests on the infant Angela to confirm her DNA was everything Raymond had paid for. The other required traits – those that couldn’t be sequenced in, like the ancestral ruthlessness, cunning, and near-megalomaniac ambition – were instilled by an upbringing and education that made sure the family’s business and revenue stream would carry on in safe hands.
Shasta’s family money came from an industrial barony in India, one which her great-grandfather had astutely and ruthlessly expanded into a global giant at the start of the twenty-first c
entury, employing over a quarter of a million people across thirty-seven countries. Her grandfather had deployed that same ruthlessness to diversify into production of raw, enabling him to ride the microfacture revolution out among the new trans-stellar worlds.
For Prince Matiff’s party, Angela had chosen a deceptively simple white dress with a mermaid skirt as her arrival attire. Two seamstresses from the Italian couture house she was currently patronizing had been included in her entourage so they could finish the creation – it was so snug fitting, and the Jajescal spider silk fabric with its micro-diamond glitter grains so delicate, that they had to sew her into the dress just before she alighted. To complement it, over a hundred ruby and emerald pins were woven into her big blonde hair; and her necklace, earrings, and web-bracelet were a matching vintage Roicoutte set, costing slightly more than eight million dollars.
Angela was mildly upset that her father hadn’t accompanied her to the party, but the family AI had identified an unusual surge of bioil running though the vast European supply pipe network that ran from Newcastle to the Balkans. He suspected the source was the French world, Orleans. But he didn’t know the buyer; and with the quantity involved he should have known all about the deal. So he told her he was staying behind to watch the market. The DeVoyal finance house controlled nearly forty per cent of the GE bioil futures market, and he didn’t want to be outsmarted by a rogue deal.
Angela and Shasta had timed their departures so their hypersonic VTOL executive jets touched down on the mansion’s landing field at the same time, mid-afternoon of the first day. That way they could share one of the gold-plated horse-drawn carriages up the greenway to the white and silver splendour of the mansion, with its twin spire turrets stabbing a hundred and fifty metres into the clear violet-tinged New Monaco sky.
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