Cromwell tapped a cigarette against its box and inserted it in his mouth. A quick pull on it had it burning and he blew a stream of smoke from his nostrils. The guard watched him warily out of the corner of his eye, his rifle braced before him and his stance rigid. Cromwell stood looking thoughtfully at the door. He flicked ash on the ground and took another drag. This was difficult. People not co-operating with him was one matter, but this one… she hardly seemed to be aware of his presence. It was as if she considered him of no importance whatsoever. She would have to be made aware. He nodded to the guard.
“Open the door,” he said.
The guard removed a key from his pocket and did as instructed. Cromwell entered the cell and stood inspecting his prisoner as the guard closed the door behind him. She was an attractive blond-haired woman in a single skin-tight coverall. She sat in a lotus position in the centre of the cold concrete floor.
“You have had time to consider my proposal,” said Cromwell.
The woman glanced up at him and nodded absently.
“Will you give me access to your ship?”
She shook her head.
“Perhaps I am not making myself clear. Perhaps you actually think you have choices in this matter. Well, in a way you do… you see, there are drugs I can use, some nasty little insects that are local to this area, pain, endless amounts of pain.”
The woman met his stare directly. Her expression showed an analytical curiosity now. “What do you want from my ship?”
Cromwell stared at her for a moment, took another drag on his cigarette.
“High tech weaponry,” he said at last.
“There is none,” she told him.
“Unfortunately I do not believe you. You can of course prove me wrong by allowing me access.”
“I think not,” said the woman.
Cromwell grinned nastily. She was not a very good liar. There were weapons aboard her ship, weapons probably powerful enough to deal with Proctors. Cromwell’s grin turned to a sneer when he thought about that. Damned Proctors. The Owner was a myth kept alive by idiots like the Chief Scientist. Only the Proctors with their stupid arbitrary restrictions were real. He winced when he thought about the money he had outlaid on the sluice from his paper mill. The sluice had led into a river in the wilder and there had been no interference until the day of the first outflow. A Proctor had walked out of the wilder and methodically smashed the sluice to pieces. Cromwell ordered his men to fire on it, but only two dared to do so. They had been brave men. He was generous in compensating their families. These thoughts in mind he stepped forward and grabbed hold of the woman’s hair.
“You’ll let me in your ship or I’ll skin you from the feet up,” he hissed. The next moment he found himself on his back on the floor, the woman standing over him.
“I do not understand you,” she said, and it sounded as if she really did not. “If you had such weaponry the Owner would never allow you to use it.”
“There is no Owner,” Cromwell spat. “I would use the weapons on the Proctors to free us from them!” The woman sat down on the floor again, staring at him all the while.
“I come from Earth,” she said. “I am here to see the Owner to tell him we are ready for his guidance now. He exists.”
Cromwell stood up, stared at her in disgust, then banged on the door of the cell. He stomped down the corridor pulling another cigarette from his packet and lighting it. At the end of the corridor he mounted a stairway that led up to his office. There he paced for a while before eventually throwing himself into his chair and flicking on the communicator.
“Owner my ass,” he said as he punched up a coded number.
The screen flicked on and the face of a young woman gazed out at him.
“Is it done?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Any problems?”
“Yes.”
Cromwell had not expected that.
“Go on,” he said carefully.
“Your son was injured.”
Cromwell sat back in his chair and stared at the woman coldly.
“How badly?”
“The board cutter had his cutting tool with him. He took a lump off your son’s arm before we killed him. We took him to Doctor Grable. He’s in a room in the nursing home.”
“Evidence?”
“We cleared as much as we could find, but it was dark… the residents were showing an interest, sir.”
“Keep him concealed. No one is to know where he is. The board cutter… he had no time to speak to anyone?”
“We got him before he reached Lumi’s house.”
“That, is not what I asked.”
“He spoke to no one.”
“Very well.” Cromwell stubbed out his cigarette as he considered his options. “If they start genetic testing we’ll have to move fast. Has there been any Proctor activity?”
“I’m told one was seen at the scene of the killing while Lumi was there.” Cromwell swallowed dryly. They should not be interested. It was not in their remit.
“Okay, keep your eyes and ears open. Anything unusual and I want to know. If they start testing I want Jamie moved to Cosburgh. Keep me informed.” He cut her off then quickly punched in another number. After a pause a bald-headed man with a walrus mustache looked out of him.
“Doctor Grable,” he said.
Lumi studied the two patterns on the screen then turned to Brown.
“It wasn’t Cromwell, but there is a close match. I would say it was a relative, perhaps his son or his brother. I suggest you check them both out. No general testing, that will alert him.”
“We’ll check all the nursing homes. If he’s badly injured Cromwell will have him in one of them,” he said.
“How about Grable’s place?”
“My men are moving in now.”
Jamie Cromwell lay on the surgical table feeling slightly sick. There was no pain with the nerve-blocker in place, but he could feel the pullings and cuttings at his shoulder as Grable installed the plastic joint. This was not the kind of adventure he liked. It had always been fun going out to ‘sort things out’ with Keela. He loved the feeling of power, loved being able to say the words, ‘Kill him’. There was nothing else that gave the same buzz.
“How long will I be laid-up?” he asked.
“Oh you’ll be up and about after this. But you won’t be able to use this arm for three weeks, and I would suggest plenty of rest,” said Grable.
Jamie considered telling him that he should save his suggestions for his other patients. He was working on Jamie Cromwell, there was a difference, but when he looked at the doctor’s bloodied surgical gloves and close work eye visor, he desisted. There was no telling what the doctor could do to harm him. Jamie did not like pain when it was his own.
“What’s that?!”
“Be still!” Grable held him down on the table as he tried to rise. The sound of gunfire had come from outside, and there was shouting now. Grable stood up and walked to the window.
“Constables,” he said, after a moment. “A large force of them.”
“I must get out of here,” said Jamie. He sat up, supporting his arm and trying not to look at the bloody mess of his shoulder. One glance had been enough: the plastic joint was in place in raw flesh and tied-off arteries, all sealed under a layer of translucent jelly. He carefully lowered his legs over the side of the table. Grable was looking at him strangely.
“I have to go,” he repeated.
“No,” said Grable. “You must not. They will catch you and question you.”
“What else is there to do then?” asked Jamie.
Grable turned from the window and went to his medical cabinet. He opened a drawer and removed an old-fashioned syringe. While Jamie watched he squeezed out the air. How would this help him to escape? Grable approached.