Authors: Ian Whates
“A needler…” Bren shook her head. “Cheeky bastard – no wonder he sent me to collect this rather than Nate. I wonder why he wants it back now.”
“That, my dear Brenda, I cannot help you with,” Mokhtar said as he replaced the cloth and closed the case. “I can only suggest you ask him.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to.” Bren picked up the gun case and frowned. “Have you got a rucksack or something I can use to carry this in?”
“Why certainly! We offer an extensive range of hardy bags of every description. You’ll find them at the far end of aisle two, on the left. Feel free to buy whichever you prefer.”
Bren scowled at him.
“…at a substantial discount, of course.”
F
IFTEEN
Archer took a cab from the space port, grateful to escape de Souza’s presence for a while. The delicate balancing act he was attempting was proving to be more tiresome than he’d anticipated. The aim was to appear just competent enough to remain useful but stupid enough for the Jossyren executive to underestimate him. So far so good.
The cab carried him beyond the glitz and crowds and into the blandness of the city’s Eastside. As they ventured deeper into a district of tired tenements and seedy cafés, Archer had the driver pull over and drop him off, despite being well short of his destination. In part this was because he was in no great hurry but mostly it was a precaution, to make certain that no one was following him. For a moment he simply stood and observed the passing traffic, watching for any vehicles that threatened to slow down. He didn’t think de Souza was bothered enough to have him tailed or that Pelquin and his crew were alert enough, but it never harmed to be careful.
After a few seconds he walked on. A man loitering in the doorway opposite took casual interest and stared after him, but this was just a curious local and of no consequence.
There were a few other people about but not enough to muster a crowd – this was not the sort of district that tourists were likely to venture into let alone linger. Those folk he did pass were too wrapped up in their own concerns to pay him any mind. After several minutes’ stroll he turned left, and then left again, walking without any apparent haste. He paused to scrutinise a shop window, though he couldn’t have said afterwards what was displayed there; his attention focused more on the reflection of the street behind him. Then he strolled across the road and continued, eventually turning into a narrow alleyway of dirty brickwork and rusted fire escapes. Music reached him from somewhere – the tune muffled and leached of tone and passion by the intervening walls, so that what he heard sounded like a dirge.
He stopped before a door, its peeling paintwork indistinguishable from any of the others. The choice of unfashionable address was deliberate: all part of a front. No bell or knocker, so he simply rapped on the wood with his fist.
He couldn’t see a camera but knew that someone would be watching, so he lifted his head to ensure his face was clearly visible. The door swung open immediately and apparently of its own accord. Beyond lay a dark and empty corridor which led to a narrow stairway. So far, everything was in keeping with the squalid, run-down surroundings, an impression dispelled as soon as he reached the top of the stairs. He entered a bright and open living space of polished floorboards and remarkably little clutter.
Further observation was curtailed as a great bald-headed bear of a man engulfed him in a full-on hug, blocking out the room. “Archer! It’s been too long, brother.”
“Far too long, Max,” the banker agreed, going with the flow and suffering the hug – there was little point in trying to extricate himself until those massive arms relaxed.
Once they had, he stepped back and was able to take in the rest of his surroundings. The three other occupants – two men and a woman – were all seated and were all new to him. They were also busy and only one even deigned to look up and acknowledge his presence. Data fields flickered into life before them, to hang suspended in the air for a few seconds – figures and code scrolling across them – before winking out to be replaced by the next. The operators’ fingers wove an intricate dance on virtual controls invisible to the observer and the trio kept up steady conversation in muted tones.
“Three of the best dealers in the whole of Victoria,” Max said proudly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Archer nodded. He knew this was how the operation was funded but had never seen the dealers in action before. Long gone were the days of executives and politicians rendezvousing with shady characters on street corners to get their fix. No need for them to sully their sharp suits and designer heels by venturing into the rougher end of town these days – life was far more civilised, and chemical narcotics were as passé as dinosaurs. Every aspect of a deal now took place online, with e-hits sold in batches: data-squirts that, when triggered, delivered stimulation directly to specifically targeted areas of the brain. Swift, clean, no-nonsense transactions. And business was clearly booming.
Max ushered Archer to the far end of the room, where the murmuring voices of the dealers faded to barely audible. “We’ve been busy since you were last here,” he said.
“So I gather.”
Max waved a hand to activate dormant systems and a translucent wall flickered to life before them. Thirteen figures, first among them the unmistakeable form of Captain Cornische, commander of the
Ion Raider
and leader of the Dark Angels. As ever, the captain’s face was obscured by a privacy screen, which created a patch of ever-shifting static above the collar of his familiar blue-black uniform. This was typical of how Cornische presented himself to the world, which explained how his identity had remained hidden for so long. There were no known photographs of the man’s face and no credible witnesses. What little they did know, gleaned from detailed analysis of thousands of images, was displayed beside the figure. Height: 1.94 metres; weight: 85 – 100 kilos; hair: dark brown; and that was about it. Archer was unfailingly dismayed by just how little information existed about the man – evidence, should any be needed, of Cornische’s excessive paranoia or commendable caution, depending on your perspective. There was some conjecture, based on analysis of his posture at various times, that the captain had worn inserts in his shoes to disguise his true height, but that was uncorroborated.
Less open to debate was the variance in height of Hel N, one of the most prominent Angels. She relied on a very different method of anonymity, her skin coated from head to toe in what appeared to be a layer of silvered liquid metal, like mercury. Analysis of her height produced two distinct results, varying by about 7cm. Either two different women had been hidden beneath the Hel N identity, or she too had deliberately disguised her height for a period. As with so much else about the Angels, this was open to debate, since it was based on informed conjecture extrapolated from frustratingly little data.
Hel N’s second skin was undoubtedly the product of elder tech, and therein lay the reason for Archer and his colleagues’ interest in the Dark Angels. They called their organisation the Saflik – ‘Purity’ – and were bound by the conviction that plundering elder tech for personal gain constituted violation at a sacrilegious level. No one had abused elder tech more brazenly than Cornische and his Dark Angels. The Angels had always fiercely guarded their true identities, which presented a challenge the Saflik were determined to rise to. Their agents were dedicated to tracking down the Angels and meting out retribution.
Archer surveyed the display of figures, which represented all the Angels thought to be still alive. Thirteen.
“Unlucky for some,” he murmured. “Which are the two we’ve found?”
A pair leapt forward to take centre stage: Gabriel and Spirit, one male, one female.
“And you don’t have any doubts?”
“Nah,” and Max grinned. “They’re Angels all right. We’ve people in place, just been waiting for you to give the word; thought you’d like to be here when the termination order went out.”
Archer appreciated the sentiment. It was something he could have done from a distance, but, since fate had conspired to bring him here to Brannan’s, where Cornische was known to have operated and where the Saflik were based, it had seemed fitting to wait.
At length he nodded. “Do it!”
“All right!” Max bellowed, startling the three dealers into momentary silence and causing them to look round. Not that Max noticed. He grinned broadly. “Scratch two Angels.”
This time when Drake went down to the cargo hold it wasn’t to search for suspiciously smuggled crates, but rather to find a suit. The hold was where his trunk had ended up – the only place on board large enough to store it apart from the captain’s quarters and the galley. He rifled through the selection of clothing until he found the allsuit. At least Pelquin’s unexpected and intriguing invitation justified his decision to bring this remarkable garment along. He’d been tempted to leave it behind, but the allsuit had proved too useful on too many occasions in the past.
Most of the time between planet fall and leaving for the reception he spent scouring the Brannan’s World infonet, checking on local fashions and the degree of formality expected at the evening’s event. The event was global news and there was plenty of online gossip and speculation about which celebrity guest would be wearing which designer’s creation, enabling him to glean more than sufficient indicators from the abundant chatter. As a result, he configured the allsuit to mimic a traditional black dinner suit. No bow tie though; in fact, open-necked was the current vogue, even when wearing a tux. This wouldn’t have been his preferred choice, but who was he to argue with the dictates of fashion? Especially on Brannan’s, where celebrity was king and fashion its doting courtier.
One of his enduring memories of this place was its preoccupation with glamour, fame, and all things celeb. The two worlds of politics and the gossip columns had become strangely entwined on Brannan’s, as the politicians sought to curry favour with younger voters by courting the friendship, in effect the patronage, of celebrities. One-upmanship in terms of who could attract the biggest names to which functions had become an accepted feature of the political landscape, and the media loved it. Fortunes were spent on securing an hour’s flying visit by this prominent A-lister or that, with constant escalation; careers had been made and wrecked by such choices. Brannan’s was a decent place, all in all, but this global fixation with celebrity was one aspect of the society that had always bemused Drake, and it was clear within the first few minutes of his surfing the infonet that little had changed in that regard.
The closer the evening’s event drew the more intrigued Drake became by Pelquin’s decision to invite him. He did wonder whether this might simply be another ploy to keep him off the ship and he had even entertained the thought of crying off all together, but in the end curiosity won out. If Pelquin’s sole intent
was
to get him out of the way, the
Comet
’s captain was destined to be disappointed. It had been made abundantly clear that the evening’s invite did not extend to Mudball, which meant that the alien would be left aboard the
Comet
, perfectly placed to witness and report on any goings on.
Shortly before it was time to leave, he sought out Anna, who was going to be staying aboard the ship.
“Would you mind looking after him for me?” he asked her, holding the little alien out to her.
“Of course not; I’d love to. We’ll have lots of fun while you’re away, won’t we?” and she stroked Mudball as if he were a cat.
Be nice!
Drake warned, knowing how much the alien hated to be stroked.
I am, trust me. This
is
me being nice.
“Don’t worry,” he said out loud, “he won’t be any trouble.”
Will you!
“Of course he won’t,” she said, stroking Mudball again.
Stop fretting. I’ll be as good as gold
, the alien assured him.
Good. While you’re at it, see if you can determine why we’re here on Brannan’s.
I have been, but there’s nothing to report. Besides, I thought that’s what you were hoping to do at this swanky party.
It never hurts to tackle a problem from two directions.
“You look nice, by the way.”
“Pardon?” He’d been so caught up in his internal dialogue with Mudball that Anna’s comment caught him by surprise.
“A tux really suits you.” She reached out to lightly grip the suit’s lapel between finger and thumb, running both downward.
Was Anna
flirting
with him?
“Ehm… thank you.”
I think she fancies you,
Mudball opined.
Shut it.
Oh, go on, it’s been an age since I’ve watched you copulate with anyone.
Drake clamped down hard on his thoughts, which were anything but charitable.
Anna’s hand withdrew and she presented her customary dazzling smile.
By the time he entered the taxi and took his seat beside Pelquin, all thoughts of Anna had receded to the hinterlands of his mind. The car was electrically powered, as were all vehicles on Brannan’s by law, and its interior smelt of polish. While being far from the most luxurious chariot Drake had ever travelled in, he couldn’t fault its cleanliness.
The driver proved to be of the friendly, chatty variety, and Drake was soon wishing they operated automated cabs here on Brannan’s.
“So, you’re going to the big shindig at the Settlement Hall. Famous then, are you?” the driver asked.
“No,” Drake said quickly and not entirely honestly.
“We’re… visiting dignitaries,” Pelquin elaborated, playing equally loose and free with the truth.
The driver grunted. “Pity, but I suppose you’ll be meeting plenty of famous people, eh? I understand Laurena Cole is gonna be there,
and
Tabitha Gabon. Now there’s a couple of girls I wouldn’t mind giving a ride to, if you know what I mean!”