His face moves as if there are snakes buried under the skin. ‘But you can’t…she’s pregnant! You…I’m calling security!’ Stephen goes for the phone.
She grabs him by the lapels and drags him across the desk. Throwing him to the floor. Papers go flying, the heart-warming family holo hits the floor and she stands on it. Stephen’s family goes crunch beneath her feet.
‘LOOK AT ME.‘ She hammers one-handed at the datapad’s keyboard, as he scurries backward into the bookcase, nose streaming blood down his pale face. ‘WHAT CAN THEY DO TO ME TO MAKE ME TALK? WHAT? WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOSE?‘ All spoken in that same, flat, artificial voice.
‘You can’t do this!’
‘I ALREADY HAVE.‘
‘Please…’ He struggles to his knees, hands clasped in front of him, tears streaming down his face. ‘Please, I’m begging you! Let her go, for the sake of the baby. It’s not too late-’
She would laugh if she could. ‘DO YOU REALLY THINK ONE MORE TINY DEAD BODY MAKES ANY DIFFERENCE TO ME?‘
He slumps back against the bookcase and sobs. ‘Please…give me back my wife!’
She tilts her head to one side and watches him bawl like a small child covered in cigarette burns, then gathers up her bucket and mop and makes for the door.
‘CELL DIVISION WILL BE COMPLETE IN THIRTY-TWO HOURS. MAKE SURE THERE’S A PRIVATE OPERATING THEATRE READY FOR THE TRANSPLANT.‘
‘What…’ He wipes a hand across his eyes, leaving a bloody smear. ‘What if I can’t get a theatre ready in time?’
She stops at the threshold.
‘THEN YOUR WIFE DIES AND WE MOVE ON TO YOUR CHILDREN.‘
16
The Dog and Diode squatted beneath the Western Flyover, between two of the heavy support pillars. It wasn’t the best pub in the world, but it was within easy walking distance of Network Headquarters, and some days that was all that mattered. Inside, the bar was decorated in mockwood and leatherette. Booths lined the walls, loose tables filling the remaining space. A handful of off-duty agents were celebrating someone’s promotion by getting them blootered on happy hour drinks. So Will sat on his own in the corner-away from the speakers pumping out a mixture of frosty music and old rock classics-nursing a pint of Black Douglas and a large Macallan.
Trying not to think about the Birthday Party of the Damned. And failing.
The Kilgours were still alive as their unexpected guest worked his way around the table. Cutting a hole in the back of their heads, carefully evaporating their brains in a cloud of pink-grey mist, then stitching that obscene rictus grin in place. Before moving on to the next one in line. They watched their family die, unable to do anything about it, but wait for their turn.
Will shuddered and downed the last of his whisky.
Whoever the Thrummer man was, he’d done it before: there was no way anyone became that skilled at cranial evacuation without a lot of practice. What happened to the earlier bodies-the ones before the Kilgours-was anyone’s guess. Certainly the Network had never found them.
A shadow fell across Will’s table.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ It was Brian, dripping from the downpour outside.
‘You don’t want them. Trust me.’
Brian shoogled himself into the booth and popped the console out of the tabletop. ‘Drink?’
Will clinked his empty whisky tumbler against his empty beer glass. ‘Where’s Jo?’
‘Reportin’ to Central. She’s got her Bluecoat mates runnin’ tests on the stuff we bagged and tagged at the Kilgours’.’
‘What about building security?’
Brian pulled a face. ‘Place that fancy, you’d think they wouldnae skimp on the cameras and scanners and that, but they got a cheap-arsed system. Bargain basement time. Whole bloody lot was hacked: sod all on the hard drives going back a week and a half.’ He ran his fingers over the drinks console, then struggled out of his coat while they waited for their order to arrive.
‘The missing girclass="underline" Jillian, wasn’t it?’
Brian nodded.
‘If our friend with the Thrummer wanted her dead, she’d be sitting at that bloody table with the rest of her family. He’s got something special in mind for her, something that’s going to take time and solitude.’
‘Jesus. Poor cow…’
An old man hobbled up to the table, plonked their drinks down, collected Will’s empties, and hobbled away again without saying a word.
‘Come on, put it away for the night.’ Brian helped himself to a Guinness. ‘Let the Bluecoats handle the legwork; you an’ me’ll get blootered, grab a curry or something.’
‘What about James?’
‘We’ve got an understanding. I don’t moan when he’s out with his horsey friends, and he doesn’t moan when I’m out with mine. Anyway, he knows fine you’ll keep me out of temptation.’
Which was true.
Half an hour later, George appeared, sniffing and snorting, all wrapped up in winter woollies. He had to peel himself like an onion before he could even fit into the little booth.
‘Sodding bucketing down out there.’ He blew his nose, then stared at Will. ‘What happened to you this morning? Twenty minutes I was waiting there. Felt like a right prat.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that.’ Will pointed at his bruised face. ‘Had a near-death experience in Kelvingrove Park with a couple of muggers. You’ll probably get one of them in the mortuary tomorrow…if they can scrape enough of him up.’
‘Oh thanks, just what I need: more work.’ The little pathologist ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Any chance of something medicinal? I’m dying here.’
They ordered another round, and when the old man had hobbled off with the latest set of empties, Will got George to tell Brian what he’d discovered in the brains of the bodies they’d dragged back from Sherman House.
‘You’re kiddin’ me,’ said Brian when he’d finished. ‘They’re givin’ people VR syndrome on purpose?’
George gulped at his double brandy and blue. ‘Yup. I went back to the mortuary and had another look at the bodies when Will didn’t show up; they’ve both got old injection marks at the base of their necks. At least two dozen each. Whoever it is, they’re going around manually infecting people.’
Brian said, ‘Dirty bastards…’ and Will had to agree with him.
George held up a podgy hand. ‘No, no: this is good news.’
‘What? How the hell is any of this good news?’
‘They’re still injecting people.’ He paused, obviously expecting some sort of reaction. Then sighed when he didn’t get one. ‘Look, VR syndrome is at its worst when loads of people get it at the same time, right? But this lot are still having to infect their test subjects by hand. You’d need to do a big chunk of the block simultaneously to really kick things off, and you can’t do that going round with a needle; you need to get it airborne, or in the water supply.’
Will sat back in his chair. That was all they needed: Glasgow exploding into violence all over again. People killing their friends, neighbours, family and anyone else they could get their hands on. Little cabals of madness getting bigger and bigger until there were only two kinds of people: the cannibals and the dead. ‘If they can weaponize this stuff-’