Ellie glanced at the floor-to-ceiling windows, at the beautiful sun-bathed rustic landscape below them. 'Okay.' Stuck here for the foreseeable future didn’t seem to be too bad an option right now.
As Mason had told her, The Administration were after her. They wanted her dead. No if or buts. Dead. No questions. Hiding out here for a while…hiding here in this seemingly deserted place seemed like a good idea. At least until things settled down.
‘Your assistant, Frasier, said something about a supply shuttle?’
‘Shuttle comes once a year,’ the young man replied automatically. ‘Drops off supplies, spares and sundries.’
‘Once a year?’
He nodded, still pinching his lip. ‘And takes away anyone who wants to go home.’
‘Could we leave on that?’
‘Yes,’ he nodded, letting go of his bottom lip. ‘Yes, you should.’ His eyes narrowed again and he dropped his gaze. Considering matters silently.
‘So?’ Ellie prompted. ‘Would that be ok? If we stayed until then? We won’t be a nuisance. We’ll stay well out of your way and won’t touch anythi-’
‘I better check it’s okay with Mother,’ said Shelby more to himself than to either of them. ‘Better go check with Mother.’
Jez looked at Ellie. ‘His mothe-?’
‘The computer system?’ replied Ellie quickly. ‘Remember?’
Jez nodded with a silent round-mouthed ‘oh’.
‘We don’t have guests, hmmm,’ said Shelby distractedly. ‘We never have guests. Health and safety. It’s not safe for guests. Not safe for guests’
‘Not safe? Why not?’
Shelby looked at her like she was stupid; like she was missing something patently obvious. ‘It’s not finished. WonderLand is not finished yet. It’s not ready for guests until it’s finished.’ He shook his head with incredulity that something so obvious needed to be pointed out.
‘Not safe until it’s finished,' he added one more time.
‘Okay…sorry,’ replied Ellie.
The young man's unease seemed to be getting the better of him. He shifted from foot to foot, agitated. ‘You should go now.’
He looked at the genetically engineered chimpanzee. ‘Yes, you should go now. Frasier, take them down to the guest deck. Give them some food and drink.’
‘As you wish, Shelby.’
‘Yes,’ the young man nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s an idea. That’s a good idea. I’ll…I’ll be down in a while.’
‘Hey…and then you could show us around your place, maybe?’ Jez aimed a teasing smile his way. ‘You know? Give us the ol’ three creds tour? If that’s no trouble for you, huh?’
‘Three cred tour?’ He frowned, utterly perplexed. ‘This facility isn't open for paying guests. Did I not just tell you, this facility isn't-'
'Finished, I know.' Jez nodded. 'It's just, like, a saying.'
The young man cocked his head and frowned. ‘Ah, I see.’ His pale cheeks instantly blotched with pink florets. ‘Silly, stupid me.’ He waved a hand dismissively at them. ‘I’ll…be d-down in a while. Hmmm? Down in a while.’
Frasier led them from the control deck, into the plastic bubble elevator, pressing a control pad to close the door. 'Is he all right? asked Ellie. 'Did we do something wrong?'
Frasier looked up at her. 'No. You did nothing wrong.' He turned to the patiently waiting cartoon face of Mother. 'Guest deck please, mother.'
'Of course, Frasier.'
CHAPTER 7
Deacon was sitting with the senior shipping controller in his office, studying the hovering data screens in front of them.
The manager was pale and trembling. Beads of sweat were rolling down his temple onto his ample cheeks. It was beginning to irritate Deacon that almost every low-ranking government worker he crossed paths with seemed to be rendered mute, clumsy and unable to think clearly once he presented his credentials.
Nerves, of course.
Then again, Deacon’s credentials and Administration authority level made him someone to be truly fearful of. On a whim this idiot’s career could be ended. On a whim, he could just as easily have this inept fool shot and dumped somewhere out there in the clay-red wilderness.
‘Three hundred and fourteen vessels in total, you say?’
‘Y-yesssir.’ The manager nodded his head vigorously. ‘I…I think.’ He checked a screen, running his finger down a row of numbers. ‘That’s right. We had that many d-docking requests.’
‘And each one of those requests also filed their intended onward journey itinerary with you?’
‘Uhh…yes. That’s the usual protocol, sir.’
Deacon nodded. It was the same, or should be the same with every port, whether planetside, orbital or in space. The onward itinerary would be collated and then sent onto the port authorities within the system. In return the same information would arrive at the port authorities here, updating them with information on the vessels heading their way. It was a way to head off any shipping bottlenecks, to minimise, in theory, the amount of time vessels would need to be delayed with a holding pattern until a dock vacancy could be allocated.
It was also a very useful tool for the Administration to use to keep an eye on shipping patterns. Computer systems back on Liberty constantly monitored port-to-port data packages, analysing shipping patterns for any abnormal traffic, any large spikes in movement.
‘Well then, the next step should be quite obvious,’ said Deacon. 'Or do I really need to spell it out to you?'
The manager looked anxious. It clearly wasn’t that obvious to him.
‘You need to contact the onward port authorities with the details of all of these vessels and confirm that they all stuck to the journey plans they filed here in Harvest City. I want you to send me the details of any that have detoured suspiciously, departed from their itinerary. Do you understand? I want those details sent to me as soon as you’ve got them.’
The manager nodded vigorously again. A bead of the man’s sweat landed on Deacon’s chin and he resisted a sudden urge to lash out with the edge of his hand at the man’s flabby throat. One swift chopping blow and this idiot would be on the floor gasping for air through a crushed windpipe.
Instead he dabbed discretely at his face with the cuff of his shirt. He even managed a polite smile. ‘Well then, what are you waiting for?’
‘Right, yes…yes.’
It was then that his personal communicator chimed softly. Deacon turned his wrist to look at the display screen.
Leonard.
He tapped the screen. ‘What’s the matter Leonard?’
‘Help me…H-help me…danger…’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘…d-danger…’
‘What’s happened? Where are you?’
‘I’m lost…please help…they want to kill me…’
Deacon tapped the screen and pulled up a locator. Leonard was chipped like a pet. For his own safety of course. It appeared that Leonard was no longer in the port's hotel. His signal was coming from somewhere in the myriad of small interlocked enviro-domes that made up the east side of Harvest City.
Damn.
He must have wandered out despite Deacon’s instructions to him to stay put in his room. He could have sent one of the remaining two hired guns he’d brought along with him to this godforsaken backwater planet, to go and retrieve Leonard if either of them were still here. But he’d sent one of them back to New Haven to investigate the business contacts that the shuttle pilot, Goodman, had in the city and the other man was at the Quin farm picking through the girl’s belongings for any details on associates, friends or any extended family she might now be attempting to seek refuge with.
Every possible lead, every avenue was being pursued and his limited manpower spoken for. Nothing could be ignored. That surface-to-orbit barge he’d witnessed her clambering into might just have been a ruse; a cunning attempt to wrong foot him into focusing his search offworld.
More man
power was on its way already. A colonial army frigate had been dispatched to help guard the system jump at Gateway. He could of course co-opt the law marshals on this planet. But they were all as inept as the man sweating away in front of him.
Inept and corrupt.
Deacon sighed. ‘I’m coming, Leonard. Just stay put.’
*
He knocked on the toilet cubicle door again. ‘Leonard? It’s me. Deacon. You in there?’
‘D-Deacon?’ The young man’s voice was a tremulous whisper. ‘Is that really you?’
‘Yes, of course it is.’
Deacon waited a moment. He could hear Leonard shuffling around inside the cubicle.
‘I’ll be right out here when you’re ready to come out.’
‘I…I’m scared.’
‘There’s no one out here but me.’ Deacon sniffed. The male toilet of this cruddy bar reeked of backed up excrement and stale urine.
Charming establishment.
‘They…they….said they were going to…hurt me…’
‘There’s no one out here now, Leonard. You’re quite safe.’
A lock snicked, the cubicle door opened and the young man’s narrow face appeared in the gap.
‘Gone?’
Deacon waved his hands around. ‘As you can clearly see.’
‘Some men didn’t like me.’
He wasn’t entirely surprised. Leonard was a high-functioning augment. Brilliant at pattern recognition, brilliant at sensing the ghostly outlines of structure hiding in the fog of white-noise data; capable of seeing what others couldn't, but utterly incapable of interacting with other people in a normal meaningful way. So, he attracted attention. Attracted trouble like a braying and wounded beast in a quiet forest.
Leonard emerged from the cubicle, glancing at the dark corners of the toilet. The neon ceiling light fizzed and flickered overhead. It was giving Deacon a damnable headache.
‘Come on,’ he said, placing an arm around the lad's narrow shoulders. ‘Let’s get you back to your room.’
Just then the entry door hummed electronically and rattled open on rusting castors. Three men stepped inside. They all wore the ubiquitous fashion garments of this world; puffed-out and padded jackets of eye-wateringly bright plastic. The ring leader - why is it young men seem unable to coalesce in groups of three or more without conferring authority to an Alpha Male? - stepped forward and offered Deacon a broad grin of colourful gemstone teeth.
‘Hey, the freak's come out!’ He looked at Deacon, taken aback by his old fashioned, other-century clothes. ‘Shiztix! Another offworlder. Sup?'
'I'm taking this boy back home. I'm not after any trouble.'
Gemstone Teeth cocked his head with curiosity at the offworld accent. 'You all dressed up like a guppyman. This freakboy your pretty poke?’
The others laughed.
‘I suggest you let us past,’ replied Deacon. 'You have no idea who you're messing around with.'
Gemstone teeth ignored that and nodded at Leonard. ‘Wazzup with your boy?' He nodded at Leonard. 'He a tardo?’
Leonard shrank behind Deacon.
‘No. He’s not retarded.’ Deacon shrugged. ‘I’d say he’s probably a fair few IQ points above the lot of you combined, actually. He just lacks a few social graces.’
Gemstone processed that, then frowned. ‘Saying we stoopid, guppyman?’
Deacon spread his hands. ‘You figured it out. Well done.’
‘Stoopid?’ The young man hacked out a laugh. ‘Stoopid is you’ mushin' with me an' my brones.’
Deacon curled his lips with irritation. ‘You know, I suggest we just call it a night. I’ve had a long day and I’m rather tired. We’ll leave and-‘
‘No!’ Gemstone shook his head. ‘We gonna game-on your freakboy. Then, when I say s'all good, you can make a be-gone with him.’
‘Touch him, and I will kill you.’
Gemstone giggled at that. ‘That you askin’-up for a bishbash too?’
‘God help me,’ Deacon sighed. ‘Is that even English?’
Gemstone reached into the waistband of his puffa-jacket and pulled out a large knife. He angled the tip of its wide jagged blade towards Deacon’s face. The flickering neon light in the ceiling glinted on the polished metal. ‘You fuckin’ understand this guppyman?’
Deacon regarded the tip of the blade wavering uncertainly several inches from his nose.
Surprise is the most dangerous weapon of all. Pre-emptive action is the fulcrum against which any desired result can be leveraged. Deacon smiled at Gemstone Teeth. And this fool has no idea what his next step should be.
It was all over in less than a minute; sudden, fast and precise. Deacon's slim stiletto blade slid effortlessly into Gemstone's chest, and just as easily into the soft spot beneath the jawline of the young man standing right beside him. The third one, put up a half convincing struggle before Deacon slashed horizontally at this throat.
Twenty-seven seconds was all it took to kill them. If one allowed for the time taken for the third one to flop down to his knees and then fall face down onto the tiled floor, Deacon conceded then it was just over a minute.
Deacon wiped his stiletto blade on the back of Gemstone's puffa. He stepped over the three bodies. Blood that looked almost as black as ink by the flickering strip light above, was already pooling on the dirty tiled floor and arterial splashes arced across the urinal trough.
Sensors by the door picked up Deacon’s movement and the door leading to the bar rattled noisily open. He extended a hand towards Leonard. ‘Come on, lad. Let’s go back.’
Leonard stepped over the bodies, staring down wide-eyed at them. ‘Quite a mess down there. You made a mess, Deacon.’
‘Yes, Leonard, I made a mess.’ He led the young man out through the bar. A seedy looking place constructed from several habicube modules that had been welded together and decorated inside with strings of coloured lights and framed 3D holo-prints of famous sports stars. They emerged outside into a press of people; a narrow street flanked on either side with bars almost identical to this one. A shanty town of habicubes and cobbled together corrugate plastic sheeting, fizzing lights and speakers blaring out thumping music; a deafening pounding echoing back off the low plastic domed sky above, a promise from each competing bar that inside was a great time waiting to happen.
‘I told you to stay in your room.’
Leonard nodded sheepishly. ‘I know. I…I wanted to see things.’
‘This is not the sort of place for you to go wandering off, exploring.’
Leonard was a walking target. His childlike naivety, his inability to judge the tone of any social interaction made him as innocent and vulnerable as freshly birthed lamb.
He’d made a promise to the augment programme's matron that he'd take good care of the boy (she'd also become quite attached to him). A promise he’d made with an outward appearance of sincerity. At the time, of course, he was simply viewing the boy as an extremely useful asset worth procuring. He’d told the matron he was going to tutor and care for him, be a role model, a surrogate father figure.
He'd told her what she wanted to hear.
The young man was trembling. Deacon put a protective arm around his narrow shoulders and steered him up the busy street towards the entrance to the neighbouring dome.
He shook his head. Promises he’d made to the woman that he’d never intended to keep. The boy was an asset…nothing more to him than that.
And yet look at me now.
Leonard glanced up at him. ‘I…I’m sorry, Deacon.’
‘That’s all right, Lenny.’ He patted the boy’s shoulder gently. ‘Just don’t wander off like that again. All right?’
I'm getting too old and sentimental for this job.
CHAPTER 8
‘Construction of WonderLand started decades ago. It was designed to be an exclusive luxury resort for this system’s rich, beautiful and famous people,’ said Shelby.
‘Investors decided to build it relati
vely close to Celestion because they expected most of their customers would be coming from that planet once the terraforming process was well established and stable’ He shrugged. ‘It must have seemed like a rather good idea at the time.’
Ellie nodded. She was only twelve when the disaster on Celestion happened. The planet had been one of the most promising terraforming projects within this solar system. There had been high hopes all round for that one; a large planet, rich with natural resources, ores, minerals, hydro-carbons. Nicely located in terms of orbit distance around the system’s sun, GL45 - a very tolerable mean temperature of eighty-one degrees. Also a very agreeable 1.2 gravity ratio that meant future inhabitants wouldn’t need to be engineered with an unattractively thicker bone structure to cope with the pull. (Gravity; always the first vital statistic looked at by potential émigré families. No one wanted to have children that would be engineered to end up looking like dumpy, thickset trolls.)
But commercial pressures had resulted in the terraforming contract being given to a company that had recklessly promised to optimise the planet’s atmosphere and weather system within fifty years instead of one hundred and fifty.
A fast-track terraforming program commenced that, at first, had appeared to be impressively successful. Millions of people had begun flocking to Celestion to start new lives there. But the accelerated process had quickly become unstable. With the atmosphere being rapidly flooded with trillions of cubic meters of oxygen and nitrogen, the existing natural weather systems had increased in severity, becoming an escalating positive feedback loop that had, over a number of years, magnified beyond any hope of control.
Winds of three hundred miles an hour, tsunamis a thousand feet high. There had been localised extreme temperature fluctuations that had either frozen people where they stood within mere seconds or baked them slowly to death…hundreds of thousands had been hurriedly evacuated. Hundreds of thousands more never made it off the planet.
‘They started abandoning Celestion ten years ago,’ continued Shelby, ‘but the investors behind WonderLand saw the way things were going and pulled out ten years earlier. This facility was mothballed…I believe the term is.’