The machine extracted what looked like a very thick rug about a metre wide from an armoured compartment under its carapace, wrapped the rug clumsily round the titanium column using its one functioning heavy arm, then sent the light pulse triggering the pre-patterned close-cutter; the charge blasted four microscopically thin crevices through the metal, and a metre of the titanium sleeve fell apart to reveal the undamaged crystal dome within holding the Crownstar Addendum, like a seed cluster within a halved fruit.
The Module loosed its most delicate arm from a slot on its side and reached towards the crystal dome, a hypersonic cutter humming on the end of the spindly arm. It made an incision round the base of the thick crystal dome, lifted it carefully off and placed it to one side, then reached in for the Addendum, lying on a neck-shaped slope of plain black cloth.
The three multi-jointed digits closed in on the necklace, swivelling and adjusting as they neared, as if uncertain how to pick it up.
Then they slowed, and stopped.
The Module made a gasping, grinding noise and seemed to collapse on its tracks. The arm reaching for the Addendum sagged, lopsided, its metal and plastic fingers still a couple of
centimetres away from its goal. The fingers trembled, flexed for one last time, then drooped.
Smoke leaked from the carapace of the Module, joining the gas and the fumes and smoke already filling the chamber. A noise like a groan came from the battered machine.
It was quarter of an hour before the emergency motors were able to grind and force the vault round so that its door and the magazine sleeve door were aligned, and before the central chamber was cool and gas-free enough for Lebmellin, the security chief and the other guards to enter.
They wore gas-masks; they stepped in, over pieces of wreckage still glowing, and found the Module where it had stopped, its thin metallic arm stretched out grasping for the Addendum. The guards eyed it warily; their chief looked round the wrecked chamber with a look of disbelieving fury.
Lebmellin stepped gingerly over a lump of sliced titanium, holding his robes up off the debris-scattered deck. ‘Perhaps we ought to rename the ship the Devastated, eh, chief?’ he said, and chuckled behind his mask.
The security chief gave him a bleak smile.
Lebmellin went to the necklace, staring intently at it without touching it.
‘Best be careful, sir,’ the security chief said, his voice muffled by the mask. ‘We don’t know that thing’s really dead yet.’
‘Hmm,’ Lebmellin said. He looked round, then nodded at the security chief, who motioned the guards out of the chamber.
The two men went to a metal fire-hose cabinet on the wan and each inserted a small key into what looked like an ordinary, non-locking handle. The dented mild steel cabinet swung open and Lebmellin reached in under the remains of the ancient canvas hose for a thin package wrapped in clean rags.
Lebmellin peeled back the rags to reveal the real Crownstar Addendum, which of course was far too valuable to leave the vault or ever be left exactly where people thought it was. The two men took magnifiers from their pockets and stared at the necklace. They both sighed at the same time.
‘Well, chief,’ Lebmellin said. He reached inside his robe with the hand not holding the Addendum and rubbed his chest. ‘It’s here, but we are going to have to fill out an awful lot of forms, and probably in triplicate.’
At exactly that point, the Module made a noise like a shot, and moved briefly on its tracks before falling silent again. The security chief spun round, eyes wide, a cry starting in his throat. After a moment he turned back. ‘Probably just cooling,’ he said, smiling shamefacedly.
The Vice-Invigilator looked unimpressed. ‘Yes, chief.’ He covered the necklace in his hand with the rags and put it back in the fire-hose cupboard; they locked it together.
Lebmellin nodded at the machine. ‘Have the men force that thing back out the way it came,’ he said. ‘Let the units under the ship take it away; we don’t want it doing anything awkward like self-destructing now, do we?’
‘No, sir,’ the security chief looked pained. ‘Of course it may do just that if we try to move it.’
Lebmellin looked meaningfully at the fire-hose cupboard. ‘Only the Chief Invigilator and five members of the City Board may move what’s in there; for tonight, we have no choice. Dump that damned thing down the hole it came through, and make sure this place is extremely well guarded.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now do let’s leave; there’s a terribly regrettable smell in here, even with this mask, and my hair is going to stink for absolutely days. Call the guards back in.’
‘Sir.’
They supervised the removal of the necklace the Module had been about to grasp; Lebmellin went with the fifty fully armed Marines who escorted two nervous-looking bank vice-presidents to the Jam’s second most secure vault, in the Log-Jam branch of the First International Bank, on a purpose-built concrete barge modelled on an ancient oil-production platform.
Lebmellin left the bank on his official ACV with his aides. The security chief called from the Devastator. The Module had been levered and hoisted back down through the ship without incident and was now being dragged away from beneath the hull by a Marine crawler.
‘Very good,’ Lebmellin said, staring up through the cockpit canopy at the junklit clouds above. He smiled at his comm aide and official secretary, wondering which one was in Kuma’s employ. Possibly both.
He took a deep breath, holding one hand over his chest as he did so, as though breathless. He smiled beatifically. ‘I believe
Mister Kuma was throwing a party after the reception; let’s see what’s left of it, shall we? You needn’t stay; you may all then depart for some well-earned sleep.’
‘Sir.’
Miz Gattse Kuma’s parry on the old mixed-traffic ferry was just starting to lose momentum. The upper car-deck of the ferry held a dance floor; the lower train-deck held half a dozen train carriages fitted out with snug bars. The ferry was a recent acquisition moored on the outer fringe of the Log-Jam, facing out to the lagoon sandbar and the sea beyond and only attached to the rest of the city by ordinary gangplanks. Using its stabilisers the ship was able to rock itself from side to side and so simulate a moderate ocean swell, which all but the most sensitively constituted party-goers had thought highly amusing.
Lebmellin climbed to the bridge of the old ferry, ignoring the dispersing parry and nodding to the burly men who made up Kuma’s security team. His mouth was dry and he found that he was trembling, partly in delayed response to the theft of the Addendum itself, and partly in anticipation of what was going to happen now.
The wide, red-lit bridge was almost empty; much of the ferry’s instrumentation had been removed. They were there; the noblewoman, Kuma and the Franck man. They all wore street clothes. The aristocrat carried a small shoulder satchel. He nodded to Kuma - relaxed and holding a drink - and moved to a pool of light over a chart table where a drinks tray sat, crystal goblets glittering.
‘You have the piece, Mister Lebmellin?’ Kuma said.
‘Here,’ he said, taking it out of his robe. He laid it on the chart table, opening the cloth. The three clustered around, staring at it.
He watched them while they gaped at the jewel. He tried to see what was different about them, how this SNB virus, this ancient piece of scientific wizardry had changed them, infected them with each other somehow, made them - at times, the rumour went - better able to anticipate one another’s reactions than identical twins. He had done his homework on Mister Kuma; he knew his past, and how this viral drug had altered him - and these others - forever. But how did it show itself? Could you see it? Could you detect it in their voices? Were they reacting similarly now? Did they think the same things all the time? He frowned at them, trying to see something he knew could not be seen.
Whatever, he thought, suppressing a smile; for all their fabled powers, they were no more immune to the spell-casting attractions of the necklace than anybody else.
The Crownstar Addendum did not disappoint. It lay there gleaming, light sliding off its conventionally impossible mercury loops as though it was creating its own pure, clean brilliance; as though it was part of something even more fabulous from a finer plane of existence which had intruded into the mundane universe by accident.
Lebmellin looked round them, smirking. Even the aristocrat had deigned to be impressed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement at the far end of the bridge, and thought he heard a muffled thump from above. The Franck man, the one who looked like a bodyguard, looked up.
‘It is beautiful,’ Sharrow said, her voice soft.
‘But you might find these a little easier to spend,’ Kuma said, dropping a little hide bag onto the table beside the necklace. He drew the string, opening the bag and revealing a dozen medium-sized emeralds.
`Quite,’ Lebmellin said. He lifted the bag up and smiled at the green stones.
‘This calls for a drink,’ Kuma said, lifting one of the crystal decanters. He poured some gold-flecked Speyr-spirit for Lebmellin.
‘Let me show you a salute from Yadayeypon, Mister Kuma,’ Lebmellin said, putting the bag of emeralds in his robe. He took the other man’s glass, poured its contents into his own glass-the flakes of gold leaf swirling in the light-blue liquid-then reversed the process and finally poured half back into his own glass again. He handed the tolerantly smiling Kuma his glass back.
`What’s the toast?’ Kuma inquired. ‘Absent poisoners?’
`Indeed,’ Lebmellin smiled.
The windows at either end of the bridge shattered and broke, just as the door to the bridge slammed open; suddenly the bridge was full of black-fatigued men holding unlikely-looking guns. Dloan Franck had started to go for his own pistol, but then stopped. He put his hands up slowly.
Lebmellin had his own gun out by then. Kuma turned to him, still holding his drink and looking slightly annoyed. ‘Lebmellin,’ he said. ‘Have you lost your fucking mind?’
‘No, Mister Kuma,’ Lebmellin said, taking the Addendum up and putting it back in his robes while his men relieved the three of their hand weapons. ‘Though you might be in danger of losing more than that.’
One of the black-dressed men handed Lebmellin a crescent-shaped device like a tiara; Lebmellin put it on his head. The other men were doing likewise. Dloan Franck stared, frowning mightily, at the gun the man nearest to him was holding. A little red light winked on top of the gun’s night scope.
‘Lebmellin, old son,’ Kuma said, with what sounded like weary sorrow, ‘unless you’ve got an army out there, this could all end very messily indeed. Why don’t you just put the piece back down on the table and we’ll forget this ever happened?’
Lebmellin smiled; he nodded to another of the black-dressed men, who held a plain metal cube, about thirty centimetres to a side. He set the box on the chart table; there was a big red button on its top.
‘This,’ Lebmellin said, ‘is a Mind Bomb.’
They didn’t look very impressed. The aristocrat and Kuma both looked at Dloan Franck, who shrugged.
‘This,’ Lebmellin went on, ‘will cause anybody within a fifty-metre radius to lose consciousness for half an hour; unless they are wearing one of these.’ Lebmellin tapped his tiara.
Kuma stared at Lebmellin, seemingly aghast. Dloan looked at Sharrow and shook his head slightly.
`Unpleasant dreams, my friends, Lebmellin said. He pushed the red button down hard.
Sharrow cleared her throat. Miz Gattse Kuma sniggered.
Dloan Franck was still looking at the gun Lebmellin’s man held. The little red light on the sight had just gone off. The man was looking at the gun, too. He gulped.
Lebmellin stared at the three still-standing people round the chart table, then stepped forward and slammed the red button down again as hard as he could.
As though it was a signal, the woman and two men burst away from the table at the same instant, whirling round to respectively punch, kick and head-butt the three men nearest them; Dloan and Sharrow overpowered the two men who’d taken their guns while they were still trying to get their own rifles to work. Miz made a grab for Lebmellin, but he had pushed himself away from the table and fell back, stumbling across the deck of the red-lit bridge.
Four black-clothed bodies lay on the floor round the chart table; everybody else seemed to be fighting; another man fell to the deck; the aristocrat followed him down, straddling him and punching him and tearing something from his clothing. Lebmellin saw two of his men at the bridge doorway pointing their guns at the melee and shaking the rifles when they didn’t work. Sharrow fired the gun she’d taken back and one of the men at the door fell to the deck, screaming and clutching his thigh; the other threw his gun down and ran.
Lebmellin ran too; he got to the end of the bridge and hauled himself out of the shattered window. Somebody shouted behind him. He fell to the deck aft of the broken window, landing heavily.
Sharrow got up and ran after Lebmellin; she saw him hobbling along the deck outside. She jumped out of the window, landing on something small and hard lying on the metal deck, like a pebble. A big, sleek, jet-engined powerboat was idling by the hull of the ferry. She levelled the HandCannon at Lebmellin, twenty metres away. Somebody shouted a challenge from the far end of the deck; the bulky figure of the Vice-Invigilator skidded and stopped; Lebmellin glanced back at her, hesitated, then threw himself over the rail and fell through the darkness.
Sharrow watched him tumble; he hit the starboard engine nacelle of the powerboat below and bounced slackly into the black water. A second later a door gull-winged open half-way along the craft’s cabin and a figure threw itself out, also splashing into the waves.
‘What’s happening?’ Miz said from the broken bridge window.
Sharrow glanced back at him and shrugged. ‘Lots,’ she said, and looked down at the deck to see what her foot was resting on. It was the Crownstar Addendum. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Found the piece.’ She picked it up carefully.