Greg was dumped into the darkness again. The laser impact abated, and he saw a smattering of stars through the shredded gauze of cirrus clouds. He could hear the ripping sounds of the hovercraft riding roughshod over fences.
Greg felt his nerves cooling, heartbeat slowing, tension abating. Going with the flow.
He sensed the hovercraft racing down the gardens, heading back the way it'd come.
A final visual check on Gabriel showed him a forlorn figure bumbling through the mire. His espersense showed her mind was operating with cyborg simplicity, completely absorbed by the mechanics of walking.
He lowered himself into the algae.
The hovercraft had reached the end of the gardens now, rounding the last house in the row. Greg caught a glimpse of its insect-eye array of lights sliding into view as he dropped below the surface.
Espersense revealed all he needed, real and hypersense universes entwining smoothly. Toby leaning against the prow, fists clenched, eyes bugging, slipstream plucking at hint. The merciless lights finding Gabriel. Her legs buckling, sending her toppling forwards. Toby's howl of revenge consummation.
Greg could hear a throbbing sound transmitted through the filthy water, getting louder.
Toby's mind was a lurid spew-point of animus thoughts zooming towards him.
Greg pressed his feet down hard as the hovercraft rumbled directly overhead. He broke surface, bringing a cloying cone of algae with him. A blast of desert-air wind escaping from beneath the hovercraft skirt ablated the mucus from his face. He kept rising like a shabby tenth-rate Neptune, galvanised spear in his hand, already drawn back for the throw. Aiming. The pole steady. And fling.
It shot through the wide mesh of the protective carbon fibre grille at the rear of the hovercraft, hitting the spinning propeller full on. The trajectory bent then as the tip was chopped by the blade's leading edge, tugging it down and round. That, by itself, wasn't disastrous, the blade edge was designed to handle bird impacts. But the length of the pole meant it was deflected right into the mounting. The propeller's axle-bearing sheared off instantly under the terrible impact stress. And a two-metre-diameter five-hundred-R.P.M. buzz-saw exploded out of the grille to digest the rear of the pneumatic hovercraft.
There was a thunderclap blow-out, and the prow of the hovercraft bucked up into the air, losing rigidity, light beams strafing the sky. Three bodies and pieces of loose equipment were catapulted in a short arc. A tremendous spume of water jetted up as the propeller hit the algae, chewing through. One of the bodies fell into its base. The shredded hovercraft hull flopped back down. The lights went out, and the spume died.
It began to rain gobs of mud and algae, pattering down over a wide area.
One mind had survived, the body which housed it writhing feebly. Another body was facedown in the water, Toby. Of the third there was no sign.
Greg waded forward. It was easy going. A vast patch of the street had been stripped of its covering of algae.
Gabriel was floating on her back, half submerged. Greg got his hand under her head and lifted her. She coughed weakly. "I did it, didn't I, Greg? Just like you wanted."
"Sure did, and no messing."
"Did you get 'em?"
"Yeah, they aren't going to hazard anyone again."
Four light beams pinioned him. Kendric's hovercraft was turning down into the street. He froze into place. Too exhausted to run. Besides, he could never have left Gabriel.
The hovercraft approached at a cautious unhurried pace. Greg shielded his eyes against the glare. Kendric was standing in the prow, in front of the Perspex windscreen. The epitome of the great white hunter, electromagnetic rifle cradled in a light grip, one foot on the gunwale.
Greg saw it coming, reading it straight from Gabriel's mind. Genuine telepathy. His mouth gaped, and he pointed high into the western sky.
Kendric's mind registered sublime contempt that Greg would try such a pathetic stunt. Then vacillation set in, precisely because it was so unlikely. He looked round to follow the direction of Greg's accusing finger, just in time to see a frigid saffron dawn expand across the sky above Wisbech.
The light source was directly above them, a cold dazzling star which crawled through the genuine constellations at an infinitesimal pace. Its radiance was throwing shadows as sharp-edged as daylight. Greg could see wisps of fluffy cloud gusting high overhead, they must've been kilometres away.
Gabriel began to laugh.
The false star was as intense as noonday sunlight, then brighter. It began to elongate. Brick walls glared scarlet. Dew-mottled algae sparkled like a diamanté ice floe.
Intuition whispered into Greg's brain. He knew. The Merlin. Then his far-flung espersense delivered the final shock, a single band of incendiary thought originating from the spaceprobe's bioware nodes: Philip Evans's unholy vengeance glee as he hurtled inexorably towards Leopold Armstrong.
The Merlin descended at orbital velocity, boring a vacuum-tunnel through the lower atmosphere. A purple-white plasma comet with a rigid incandescent tail of superionised air, stabbing down like some monstrously overpowered strategic defence laser.
Greg flung his arms desperately over his face, trying to save his eyes. There was carmine blood-light, then sable blackness.
The blast wave was a white-noise tsunami. It plucked Greg out of the mire and sent him spinning through space. He could see the street's houses disintegrating, slates taking flight, bricks avalanching. The air had become a blizzard of giant splinters and powdery fragments.
He saw the tower. Rather, where the tower had been: a thick column of fusion-hot air fountaining up into the darkening sky. Its flickering vermilion fluorescence was sheathed by ragged braids of ebony soot-clouds. Garish blue-green static webs discharged around its mushrooming crown.
For a liquid, the water was incredibly hard.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Greg woke to peace, body and mind. Blissful. He could feel his entire body except for his left hand, and nothing hurt, nothing felt abused. There was just warmth and softness.
Makes a bloody change.
He opened his eyes. Even the light was gentle, pale pearl.
Rapid blinking resolved the blurred shapes around him.
He was lying on his back looking up at an ivory-coloured ceiling with inset biolum strips. A young man in a white medical-style coat was removing an electrode hoop from his forehead.
"Welcome back, Mr. Mandel," he said.
That humourless tone, his intent professionalism. He had to belong to Event Horizon.
"There is no need to worry," the doctor assured Greg. "You are a patient in Event Horizon's Liezen clinic—that's in Austria."
"Who's worrying?"
The doctor nodded earnestly. "Ah, good. Sometimes there is disorientation following a prolonged somnolence induction."
"What do you call prolonged?"
"Eight days. In addition to your physical injuries you were suffering from advanced cerebral stress due to an overdose of neurohormones. I've loaded a prohibition order into your cortical node preventing any gland secretions. Come back in three months, and I'll wipe the order; or you might consider having the gland itself extracted." His nose twitched. "I don't approve of them, personally."
"Thank you, Doctor." Julia's cut-crystal voice chopped off any further admonishments. "That will be all."
The doctor sighed resignedly, and backed away.
Greg turned his head, He was in a small tidy room with plenty of medical gear modules stacked beside the bed. A picture window looked out over sunny parkland dotted with grazing llamas.
The bed was elevating him smoothly into a sitting position. His arms lay outside the ochre blankets. A chalky-coloured bioware bladder had been inflated around his left hand, trailing scores of fine fibre-optic cables to the gear modules, its nutrient fluid veins pulsing rhythmically. Just as well, he didn't particularly fancy looking at the hand.