Mindstar Rising

  "For sure, tore it apart, bastards. They had to drop the charges after that." He sniggered at the memory. "My mates went and visited her for me. Straightened her out but good. She didn't want to talk to no one after that, least of all the pigs."

  "Were you into gear then?"

  "Yeah, a bit. Nothing serious though, not then."

  "And where were you living?"

  "Steve Biko tower."

  Gabriel smiled acute satisfaction. "Your turn," she said to Greg, as if it was some kind of channel quiz show.

  "I'd like a list of all the burns you've done for Wolf," he said.

  O'Donal scowled sourly, but began typing on the Mizzi terminal.

  "Carefully," Gabriel warned. "Make sure the code is the right one. We don't want any mistakes like a call for help, or anything equally tiresome. And believe me, I'll know if it isn't the right one."

  The truth finally dawned. "Shit. You two, you're psychic, right?"

  "Got it in one," Greg said. "How else did you think we found you?"

  O'Donal's subconscious discharged a heavy rancorous stream of revulsion and dread, contaminating his conscious thoughts.

  Greg showed his cybofax to the Mizzi, and O'Donal squirted the list of his burns over.

  "How much do you get paid for a burn?" Greg asked.

  "Depends, normally around five grand."

  "And for the Event Horizon burn?"

  "That was a real big deal, I got fifteen for that."

  "No messing. So which half were you in on?"

  "I don't follow you, man. What halves?"

  "The attack was twofold, remember? The priority data-squirt blitz against the core, and the shutdown instructions beamed up to the Merlin. Which were you in on?"

  "I don't know nothing about no Merlin shutdown. All Wolf told me to do was hack into the Event Horizon datanet and fire off a squirt at some bioware cruncher core. Man, you've never seen anything like that blitz memox, custom job." He lifted a glittering black sphere the size of a tennis ball from the table, multi-faceted like an insect eye. "The multiplex compression in this lover is absolute genius. Hell, I can't even retro the bytes. Sure wish I could. I'd love to be able to write my own like this someday."

  "Did this Wolf tell you what the core was?" Greg asked.

  "Sure, it's some kind of fancy Turing personality-responses program they've whizzed up to manage the company."

  "Have you ever thought of backtracking the money transfers from Wolf? Find out who he is? Hit back, perhaps."

  "Yeah. Big zero."

  "How come?"

  "I ain't up to that, man," O'Donal muttered quietly.

  "Not up to much, are you, Tentimes?" Greg plucked one of the memox crystals from the shelves, reading the handwritten label. "This a core-code melt virus?"

  "Yeah."

  "Wolf supplied it, right? How many of them come from Wolf?"

  "Some, 'bout half. I write my own, too, man!" O'Donal was stuffed with righteous indignation. "I see what you're getting at, I'm no cyborg, man. I've got my own scene outside that arsehole. I'd have made solo without Wolf. I would!"

  "Give me your bank account number, the one your Event Horizon burn money was paid into."

  O'Donal clutched at his hair with both hands, pulling hard. "Shit, no way man, I've got everything stashed in there. I only burnt your fucking company once."

  Greg jammed the Mulekick down on O'Donal's Akai terminal. Blue-white static tapeworms writhed across the heat-dump fins, snapping and popping like arid matchwood.

  "All right!" O'Donal shouted. "Jesus." He looked down hopelessly at the tiny wisp of smoke rising from the back of the Akai.

  The restraint of fear was wearing thin, anger was predominating again. Greg knew he'd have to do something about that. Soon.

  O'Donal's fingers trembled softly as he squirted the information from the Mizzi to Greg's cybofax. "Hey, listen, you ain't going to like do anything to me, are you? I co-operated man, really I did. You know it all now. God's honest truth, every last byte."

  "That's right," Greg said, and straight-armed O'Donal with the Mulekick, punching the electrode deep into his small flaccid beer gut.

  O'Donal's cheeks inflated, eyes bulging. Alcohol-toxic breath rushed out of him, and he curled up, collapsing backwards on to the terminals. Memox crystals went glissading over the cold brick floor.

  "Did you enjoy that?" Gabriel asked.

  "No. Come on, time for us to make our exit."

  Greg sneaked a peek through the lounge door on the way out. The pool was filling up; people fully clothed, people half-clothed, naked people; empty magnums and sodden burger baps were bobbing about among them. A cloud of thick blue-black smoke was mushrooming up from the barbecue grill, the steaks and sausages were burning fiercely. Led Zep was crashing out 'Whole Lotta Love'. Hell of a party.

  Greg tugged the Duo away from the kerb in a tight U-turn, ignoring the shrill clamour of incensed bicycle bells, and headed back towards Oakham.

  Gabriel hunched down in the passenger seat and devoured the information O'Donal had squirted into his cybofax.

  "Make any sense to you?" Greg asked.

  "Nothing obvious leaps out. The targets are companies and finance houses. Most of the time Wolf wanted logic bombs crashed into their data cores; though there are some data snatches too, mainly high-tech research."

  "Doesn't tell us much. I'll squirt it over to Morgan Walshaw, get his economic intelligence team to run an analysis on it, see who benefits most."

  "But you've got a pretty good guess. I know you. You're almost happy about finding this list."

  "Yeah. What odds will you give me that our friend Kendric di Girolamo comes up top of the beneficiaries?"

  "You really have got it in for him, haven't you?"

  "Yep, logic and instinct both. All I need is proof, and darling Julia's avenging angel will take it from there."

  "I'm not so sure," Gabriel said. "That entrapment gig this Wolf character snared O'Donal with, it's very long-term. Find a gear-crazy kid who's growing up in exactly the right sort of environment that'll turn him to hotrodding, then tap his phone for seven years just to get the evidence to nail him with. Why? I mean what's he doing for Wolf that he wouldn't have done ordinarily on the Gracious Services circuit?"

  "Let's see. How many burns are on that list?"

  "Thirty-two, including the one against Event Horizon."

  Greg slowed the Duo and turned on to the B6047 heading for Tilton. It was a terrible road, so overgrown in places that the tarmac had vanished under grass and thistles. He steered into the ruts left by the farm wagons to get some decent traction, hoping nothing was coming the other way.

  "Thirty-two is one hell of a lot of burns for a ten-month period," he said. "And Wolf has a team of at least eight hackers running these burns for him. Gracious Services is normally pretty independent, but even their umpires might begin to wonder what was going down. They're smart, if there is a pattern to the burns they'd spot it. Wolf isn't the type to leave his flank exposed like that."

  "Hence the need for privacy. Yes, I can buy that. Well, we'll just have to see what Walshaw's people come up with. By the way, what did you want O'Donal's account number for?"

  "Wolf chose O'Donal because he isn't a true hotrod, not yet. He's a greenhouse product, force-grown; given viruses on a plate instead of developing his own talent to write them. That way he can't stray from Wolf's carefully ordained path. O'Donal doesn't have the ability to backtrack the credit transfers, but Royan sure as hell does."

  "That still doesn't explain away the police complicity in O'Donal's entrapment."

  "Kendric has more than enough money to bribe a squad or two of underpaid bobbies."

  Gabriel groaned in dismay. "Christ, and Eleanor thinks I'm neurotic."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Julia closed the heavy panelled door behind her, stepping into the understated elegance of the Princess of Wales suite. The room made her uncomfortably aware of just how uncouth her
own bedroom was. Here, she was surrounded by temperate shades and smooth curves, the brocade-covered furniture seemed to flow into the walls. Several antique pieces were dotted around, and instead of clashing with the modern setting they complemented it to perfection. Part of their appeal was in their placing, she'd decided. She was continually afraid she'd bump into one of the little Pope chairs and ruin the whole effect. She'd never be able to put it back in the exact spot.

  Several huge bouquets of fresh flowers filled the air with their perfume. She breathed down the scent and headed for the bathroom. The evening had been an utter delight so far, she was determined not to lose the theme now.

  "See you in a couple of months," was her grandfather's parting shot as she'd left Wilholm. He was paring down the sarcasm now, but couldn't resist one last dig.

  She'd brought eight suitcases with her to the Marlston Hotel for the book launch. Actually, it was the gala relaunch of the Alaka publishing company. They'd decided to promote their new catalogue in grand style, no expense spared. A three-day junket for celebrities, financiers, aristocrats, and the media, even some of their authors were there. Three days, and more importantly, three nights.

  Julia hadn't been quite sure what level the event was going to be pitched at, so she'd made some meticulous preparations. The first night dinner-dance had turned out to be a formal occasion; so, after much deliberation, and consulting Adela, she'd chosen a twelve-thousand-pound Salito gown. It was midnight-black, because it was hard to look bad in black; scarlet and gold moire patterns skipped across the fabric at every movement; the back was low, and the skintight front uplifting. For once she'd abandoned her St. Christopher and worn a single diamond choker. Her hair had taken Adela and the hotel's in-house crimper three-quarters of an hour to arrange; they'd made it seem slightly ruffled, as though it wasn't styled at all. The most difficult thing to do with hair the length of hers.

  And it'd worked a dream. A miracle. Walking slowly down the stairs to the reception with Adrian on her arm she'd felt like a queen on her way to her coronation. Every head in the hall had turned to watch her progress, seven channel cameras had focused on her.

  Serene, the nodes had yelled into her mind; grinning or giving a thumbs-up like some crass ingénue would've wrecked everything. But she'd kept her composure, and Adrian had walked tall beside her.

  Alaka's chairman had hurried to the bottom of the stair to receive his guest of honour. The band had struck up, and she'd been offered champagne by a liveried waiter. All on camera.

  She grinned oafishly at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, dignity gone, clapping her hands in celebration. The Salito split down its invisible seam and she wriggled out of it, kicking off her shoes. Choker and panties joined them on the mossy purple carpet.

  Two minutes. The time since Adrian had said goodnight. A soft kiss that had lasted far longer than politeness dictated. His room was two doors down the corridor.

  He'd stayed with her all evening, turning down offers to dance with anyone else. And there'd been a lot of good-looking girls who'd asked him. Most of them were the daughters of the rich and famous that Alaka had invited. Julia had enjoyed their company, girls her own age who weren't so self-conscious and hung up about money as most people. There had even been a couple of them she wouldn't mind meeting again, potential friends.

  Yes, it had been the best evening for quite some time.

  Three minutes. Naked, she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Not totally displeased. Her figure was lanky, but elfin rather than skinny. Her breasts were nicely rounded, even if she didn't have Kats' milk-beast size, and they didn't sag at all. Reasonably broad feminine-looking hips, too. And an all-over tan that'd taken two days on her balcony to perfect.

  An uncomfortable sensation of emptiness was plaguing her stomach. What had Adrian seen when he looked at her? Her figure or her money and name? She couldn't forget that Bil Yi Somanzer hadn't even noticed her before Uncle Horace told him who she was.

  Four minutes. Her bedtime lingerie was laid out ready. Adela hadn't been consulted in that department, not at all. Julia had bullied herself into making the decision. Kats wouldn't have had any second thoughts.

  She drew a deep breath and pulled on the French knickers; they were sheer silk, a pale peach colour, inset with lace. Her robe was white silk, ankle-length. The combination was simple, sensual.

  Impact was the most important thing. Overwhelm him, get him off-balance and push. She studied the mirror critically, then retied the belt. It still wasn't right. Five more goes and the front of the robe was open to her navel, showing a long V of deeply tanned skin, and a more than generous slice of breast.

  Seven minutes. Julia went back out into the bedroom, dimming the biolums to a faint rose-tinted glow.

  Rachel was on duty outside. When they'd arrived, Julia had told her that Adrian was to be allowed in At Any Time. Rachel's face had never flickered, the woman must be a cyborg.

  How long to wait? That was the real twister. Give him say twenty minutes—no, fifteen ought to be enough. All he had to do was take off his dinner jacket.

  Nine minutes. She stood by the bed. An antique four-poster. So romantic.

  If he wasn't here after fifteen minutes then she'd damn well go to his room. If she could find the nerve. What if his door was locked? What if he said no? What if one of those link vixens from the party was with him?

  God, don't even think about it.

  Ten minutes.

  There was a light rap on the door.

  "Come in," she said, furious at the sudden quaver afflicting her voice. She almost let out a whimper of relief when she saw it was Adrian. He was wrapped in his burgundy towelling robe. Bare feet, no pyjamas.

  She blipped the lock. Sealing him in.

  "Julia!" There was a note of surprised admiration in his voice; and desire lighting his eyes as he drank down the sight of her.

  She couldn't stand it anymore, and ran at him. Swept up in strong warm arms. Spinning round and round. Both of them laughing jubilantly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  On Saturday morning Greg parked the Duo in a side street just outside New Eastfield, and handed over a fiver to the local teeny-bopper extortionists before walking out into the plush precinct's tranquil boulevards. He'd used the Event Horizon card to splash out on new light-grey slacks, blue canvas sneakers, and a jade-green pure wool Stewart sweater. His usual jeans and T-shirt would've aggrieved the private police squad which New Eastfield's residents employed.

  One major contributory factor to Peterborough's post-Warming prosperity had been its burgeoning maritime links. The Nene allowed cargo ships to sail right into the heart of the city. They docked at a new port and warehouse complex which had sprung up in the place of the old shopping precinct and Queensgate mall.

  In addition to the commercial shipping, an armada of nearly seven thousand small boats had set out from the Norfolk Broads as the Antarctic ice melted, converging on the city. They'd anchored around the island suburb of Stanground; their moorings evolving into a hugely complicated maze of jetties built out of timber scavenged from the roofs and floors of deluged buildings out in the Fens. The boats at the centre were trapped there now, ten years' worth of rubbish clogging the water around them, embedding them in an artificial bog. He'd heard that around ten thousand people lived in the sprawling boat-town. The actual figure was uncertain, Stanground's inherent chaos made council hall governance nigh on impossible. An aspect which the residents took full advantage of. The narrow twisting channels were Peterborough's main haven for smugglers, pumping hard currency Eurofrancs into the city's economy.

  Finally, there was an impressive squadron of pleasure craft. The potential of the city's industrial vigour, coupled with the kind of seedy spice endemic to monstrous overcrowding, proved a powerful attraction to Europe's ship-borne rich. People who ran their mini-empires of financial trusts and venture projects from floating gin palaces. They were a flock in eternal migration, never in one port long
enough to qualify for the taxman's attention.

  They had their own marina in New Eastfield, north of the Nene's main course. The quays were concrete, substantial, immaculately clean. Every requirement was catered for, from stores supplying five-star food and maritime gear to a not-so-small dry dock capable of providing complete refits.

  Greg hit the marina itself around eleven; a whole community of clubs, sports complexes, shops, restaurants, and pubs along the waterfront, open to permit holders only. Royan had loaded his ID into the membership computer. The promenade was a kilometre long, built from huge granite cubes. Five quays stabbed out into the deep harbour that'd been dredged for the yachts of the mega-rich.

  A gauzy layer of cumulus cloud diffused the sun into sourceless light overhead. The humidity this close to the Fen basin approached steam-bath levels.

  He found Angelica's, a single-storey flat-roofed emporium opposite the centre quay where the Mirriam was berthed. It was a food hall selling wholesale quantities of nouveau delicacies he didn't even know how to pronounce.

  Greg walked down the cul-de-sac side alley and found the delivery bay's metal roller-door at the rear. Beside it, embedded in the bricks, was a series of metal rungs. He started to climb.

  The uniformity of the solar-collector roof was broken by two satellite-dish weather domes and three big conditional stacks, their fans spinning silently. Dead centre was a box structure of slatted wooden panels which housed Angelica's water tanks. Greg crouched down and scuttled over to it. One of the slat panels was hanging loose. He pulled it aside and slipped in.

  The panel opened into a narrow gap between two big water tanks, one and a half metres wide, three long. There wasn't enough headroom to stand up, and he had to hunch down with his hands brushing the floor. What space there was had nearly been used up.

  At the far end, various photon-amp lenses were poking through the slats, their cables feeding a jumble of compact gear modules. Weird little halos of coloured light cloaked five miniature flatscreens which flickered with the image of the good ship Mirriam, half covered with red digital read-outs.