She relayed Leol Reiger’s exact co-ordinates to the crash team.
Internal camera, gondola lower-deck central corridor. Dark smoke oozed along the ceiling, smothering the biolum strips. Flames fluoresced the halogen a lurid amber. She watched one of the crash team step out of Jason Whitehurst’s study into the inflamed miasmatic cyclone, plasma rifle held ready.
Leol Reiger turned with a speed she couldn’t believe. The rip-gun bolt was aimed with incredible accuracy, lancing straight into the security hardliner’s chest.
If she had a stomach, she would have been sick at that point.
Leol Reiger stood still and amid the churning halogen smog, legs slightly apart, and pointed his rip gun up at the ceiling. He blew a wide hole in the composite, and kept on firing. His suit’s jockey-stick deployed, swinging into place below his left arm. The jetpack compressor wound up.
He launched himself like an old-style space rocket, straight up.
Internal camera, gondola upper-deck central corridor. Leol Reiger came through the floor, and vanished through a hole in the ceiling.
Internal camera, fuselage keel. Rip-gun bolts had vaporized a three-metre section of the walkway, leaving the smoking ends drooping on to the gondola roof. There was a gaping rent in the spherical gasbag overhead. Leol Reiger flashed past.
That was where Julia’s coverage ended. The only sensors she had inside the gasbag were the ones to detect temperature, contamination, and pressure levels.
The Colonel Maitland’s flight control systems reported a heavy helium vent from the gasbag Leol Reiger had taken refuge in. External cameras showed her rip-gun bolts flying out of the upper fuselage, leaving long breaches in the solar cell envelope.
Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.
Leol Reiger: “Scuttle it. Shred this flicker.”
Tekmerc five: “You’re crazy, Leol.”
Leol Reiger: Laughter. “No way. They’ve blown it. The mayday beacons on board are shrieking so loud every emergency service on the planet will be picking them up. There’s no jammer now. Air-sea rescue is going to be here in minutes.”
Tekmerc eight, female: “Christ, he’s right.”
Leol Reiger: “Damn betcha, I’m right. Use your Lockheeds, blow your way into the gasbags, and deflate them. We’ll ride it down to the sea.”
Tekmerc two: “I’m with you, Leol.”
Julia watched the tekmercs in the fuselage burn their way into the gasbags. More rip-gun bolts began to tear through the solar cell envelope. They left behind a growing static charge which snapped and sizzled across the geodetic framework. It jumped the power systems’ circuit breakers and fused ‘ware processors. Julia began to lose peripheral circuits.
Are you going to order the crash team into the fuselage after them? she asked her living self.
No. Reiger was right about the coast guard, the NN cores say three search and rescue hypersonics are already on their way from Nigeria. He’s a dreadful annoyance, and he’s certainly going to have to be dealt with at some stage. But our first priority is Charlotte Fielder. I’ll let Victor Tyo sort him out later.
Charlotte knew she was dreaming. Her life wasn’t like this-pain, horror, darkness, fear. Death. That tough little hardliner woman had killed the maid. Didn’t say anything, didn’t ask what was going on, just walked in to the den and shot her.
Was that part of the dream? It was all so vivid.
She rested numbly in the hard metal embrace of the machine-man, whizzing through bright blue space. The cold gnawed at her bare skin. There were lightning flashes and thunder grumbles behind her.
She was walking down long, deserted London streets again, cold from the rain, scared of the lightning forks that danced above the grey rooftops. Small, and hungry, and lost. Perhaps all of her life had been a dream? The finery, the wine, the laughter and bright, bright colours. Just figments spinning through her mind.
She wanted it back, that life.
The big plane hissed venomously at her as she swooped into the open end, above the ramp. She was coming to a halt inside a fat metalloceramic tube with yellow nylon webbing seats along the walls. Two biolum strips ran the length of the bare ceiling. Thick wires and composite reinforced tubes snaked over the floor, ending in bulky sockets clipped on to the wall by each seat.
A group of people in white jumpsuits were standing just inside the ramp, their arms waving like traffic policemen. The metal arms let go of her, and she was dumped into waiting hands. These hands were soft, made of skin and bone.
Hot urgent voices raged around her, firing off rapid questions. All she could do was stare back blankly. A silver shawl was wrapped round her shoulders, and she was eased into one of the webbing seats.
Plastic boxes were pressed against her arms and neck and belly, tiny coloured lights winking. A small rube that gave her a bee sting on her neck, swiftly turning to an ice spot, then evaporating altogether. The world really did lose all cohesion then, receding to a distant spot of silent frosty light.
She hung back from it for some time, letting her thoughts slowly come together. Then the light expanded again, bringing with it sounds and feeling, mainly of icy skin. She was light headed, which she knew came from the trank.
Jerpacks whined savagely as the crash team landed on the plane’s ramp two at a time. There were liquid rumbles coming from the dark bulk of the Colonel Maitland a kilometre away.
“You OK now?” an earnest young woman in a white jumpsuit shouted over the bedlam. Her face was pressed up close. A red cross on each arm.
Charlotte nodded. “I’m cold,” she said.
The woman smiled. “I’ll get you a thermal suit. But we’ll be closing and pressurizing in a minute. You’ll soon feel the difference.”
“Thank you.”
The man called Greg was sitting in a webbing seat opposite her, doing yoga breathing. He gave her a rueful grin.
Charlotte saw the motion long before the sound arrived. The Colonel Maitland was crumpling, prow and stern rising up, midsection splitting open. Long flames writhed out of the gondola windows.
“Father!” Fabian cried hoarsely. He was sitting next to her, she hadn’t even noticed.
The Colonel Maitland began to sink out of sight. Not falling, but a slow idle descent down to the water so far below. People were standing on the plane’s ramp, watching it go. She saw the little hardline woman among them, her fist punching the air. Smirking.
“Father!”
She put her arms round him as two of the white-clad medic team closed in. One of them was holding an infuser tube ready.
“Get away from him!” she shouted.
Fabian buried his head in her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Just get away from him.” She rocked him gently, tears filling her own eyes.
The ramp hinged up.
CHAPTER 21
The SETI office was livening up. Rick Parnell’s original staff of twelve had been complemented with twenty people from the Astronautics Institute’s astronomy department. The two teams were working together to realign Event Horizon’s radio and optical telescopes on Jupiter. The SETI people were elated at the prospect of practical hardware-orientated work at long last, the astronomers coldly angry at having their observations disrupted. Tempers were getting frayed. It didn’t help that Victor had called in Eddie Coghlan’s security programmers to prevent any possible data leakage from the new linkages being established between the observatories and the SETI office.
Victor stood in the doorway to Rick Parnell’s office, next to his bodyguard, and watched the shirtsleeved crew knuckle down. The tense hustle of activity was beginning to resemble a bank’s trading floor. It was always the same routine: one of the terminal operators would sit up straight and wave a hand in some unknown sign language, then a knot of technicians and managers would form around them, arguing hotly. Tiger teams, loaded with authority and practical knowledge-in theory. There would be data requests fired into the terminal, thick folders broken open and consulted, cybofaxes performing simple calculations. When the decision was finally made the knot would break up, and another would form around a different terminal.