Internal camera, gondola upper-deck cabin. The armoured figure spinning chaotically, bouncing off walls and ceiling. Legs and arms thrashing about, splintering the composite. He wound up jammed into a corner, jetpack still firing, boots a metre off the ground. The Lockheed rip gun fell from his gauntlet. His legs began a running motion in midair, toe caps hammering deeply into the bulkhead.
Julia brought additional processing power on line for that. Armour malfunction? Some sort of flying phobia? There was no rational explanation.
Internal camera, gondola lower-deck crew lounge. The remaining nine members of the squad were all assembled in the lounge. Their movements were sluggish, forced, the same as Suzi.
One of them pointed his rip gun at the mangled door. Fired. Fire alarms howled in protest throughout the gondola.
The squad clattered out into the lower-deck central corridor, heading for the prow. A couple of the Colonel Maitland's cabin crew were in the central corridor, a steward and a maid. Both of them listless and drowsy. They gawped at the approaching tekmerc squad.
"Where is Charlotte Fielder?" one of the squad asked. His amplified voice was loud in the confined space of the corridor, menacing.
The steward looked about, his face white. "She might be with Fabian Whitehurst, in his cabin, or hers. I'm not sure."
There was a momentary pause.
"Where is Jason Whitehurst?"
"In his study." The steward pointed a wavering hand down the corridor towards the prow. "That way."
Four squad members stepped forward.
"You will show these four where Fabian Whitehurst's cabin is."
The steward jerked his head in terror.
One of the squad reached out and grabbed the maid. She screamed.
"Be quiet. You come with us to the study."
She began to snivel. The armoured figure jerked her along, nearly lifting her off the floor.
Julia accessed the Colonel Maitland's radio gear, letting the raw signals flow directly into the lightware cruncher. The white-noise howl of the Messerschmitt's jammer dominated every frequency. She began to slot in filter programs. The tekmerc squad had to have some way of communicating.
She found a string of digital pulses in the UHF band, and refined the filter programs to kill the last of the jammer interference. A decryption program was loaded into the circuit.
Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.
Tekmerc one: "… know what the fuck's happened to Chad. Those psychic freakos are beating the hell out of each other somehow. You know how it is with them."
Tekmerc two: "God, it's like my head's on fire. There are corridors everywhere, like a bloody maze."
Tekmerc one: "No, there aren't. Fight it, turn up your photon-amp brightness. There's only one corridor."
Tekmerc two: "Sure thing, Leol."
Julia identified Tekmerc one as Leol Reiger. Her own abridged memories contained a concise security file on him.
She assigned the cause of the lone tekmerc's spasming run as due to Greg's psi effusion.
Tekmerc three: "Shouldn't we try to find Mandel and Suzi?"
Leol Reiger: "Suppose you tell me where the hell to look now Chad's weirded out."
Tekmerc three: "So how about helping Chad?"
Leol Reiger: "How, you dipshit cretin?"
Tekmerc three: "Sorry, Leol. Can't think with this psychic shit screwing my mind."
Leol Reiger: "Concentrate on finding the Fielder girl. And forget about the psychics, this corridor crap won't last much longer. They'll burn their brains out at this rate."
Internal camera, study. Jason Whitehurst was sitting behind his desk cradling his head in his hands, rocking slowly back and forth, moaning, saliva bubbling from his lips. The two hardline bodyguards were covering the door with their Racal laser carbines, faces hard.
Gondola internal camera review. Snatched images flicked into the lightware cruncher as Julia shuffled through the inputs searching for Charlotte Fielder. The bridge with its crew, faces strained, hunched over their consoles, shouting hoarsely at each other. Lower-deck corridor with the two groups of tekmercs walking away from each other, frightened blank faces of the steward and maid. Lower-deck cabins, lounges, gym, a sauna; all deserted. One cabin provisionally assigned to Fabian: a mishmash of toys and clothes sprayed about. Crew quarters at the prow, their small double cabins decorated with hologram pin-ups, a big mess room with a flatscreen showing mushy static, communal washroom, laundry. The crew members were curled up in their chairs or lying on bunks, woozy, afflicted by Greg's psi effusion. Greg and Suzi in the upper-deck corridor, directly above the crew quarters. Upper-deck cabins, beautifully furnished staterooms, a dining-room right at the stern, a swimming-pool, the water nearly gone, a terrific whirlpool in the centre.
Fuselage internal camera review. The cameras fixed to the geodetic framework were all black and white, providing her with pictures of the narrow dimly lit longitudinal walkways, the gasbags looming oppressively. Next came pictures of ladders and stairs pinned to the transverse frames. Cylindrical maintenance drones sliding along their rails, folded waldos at both ends, like cybernetic mandibles.
Someone was climbing up a ladder near the stern. A woman in a maid's dress, totally unaffected by the psi effusion. At three hundred metres she was too far away from Greg, the effect was localized, centring round the gondola.
Julia accessed the crew records, matching the face with a file image. The maid's name was Nia Korovilla, she had been a crew member for eight years. A Russian national, with good references from three hotels, a clean employment record.
There was no reason for her to be where she was. Julia assigned a subroutine to keep watching her.
Internal camera, gondola lower deck, Fabian's cabin. The tekmercs with the steward broke in. They didn't bother with the lock, simply punching out the door. It swung inwards, buckled by the first tekmerc's kick. The four of them entered, rip guns held ready.
Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.
Tekmerc four: "Leol, Frank here, there's no one in the boy's cabin."
Leol Reiger: "OK, Frank, try the girl's. And ask the steward if there's anywhere else they're likely to be. Find her!"
Tekmerc four, identified, Frank: "Will do."
Tekmerc five: "Hey! Hey feel that, it's stopped."
Tekmerc six: "Christ yeah."
Tekmerc seven: "Bout time."
Tekmerc three: "Hell, I can see properly again."
Leol Reiger: "Chad, Chad, check in."
Tekmerc six: "He had to win. Man, he's got some power, turn your brain inside out from half a klick."
Leol Reiger: "Chad, answer, fuck you."
Tekmerc two: "Come on, Chad!"
Leol Reiger: "Right, scratch Chad. If he couldn't handle some fucking geriatric Army relic he's better off out of it. Don't make no difference to us, he was just a convenience. We go through all the cabins until we find the whore. Right out of the manual. Now let's see some action out of you bastards."
Internal camera, gondola upper-deck cabin. Chad's jetpack was still pressing him up into the corner of the cabin, helmet pushing against the ceiling. His legs had stopped running, arms hanging limply. A phone mike was picking up the jet-pack noise, a strident whine. The bed's counterpane had been caught in the efflux, blown towards the hole in the wall where it had snagged on the edge, flapping vigorously.
Internal camera, fuselage keel. Suzi had climbed up the stairs from the gondola, her Browning pistol pointing ahead along the walkway. Greg followed, looking enervated, the skin around his eyes baggy and dark, but he was alive.
Julia knew her flesh and blood self would be flooded with relief that he had beaten Chad.