"I do know you," she said through clenched teeth. The weight she was lifting was almost as much as he used in his own regimen. "You were at Julie's house."
"That's me," Greg said. "Nice party, wasn't it?"
"You can go now, Mark. Kendric will be out in a minute."
The bodyguard looked like he wanted to protest, but didn't quite know how. Greg flashed him a sunny smile, receiving a dark scowl for his trouble.
Despite the Ferranti glasses, Greg could tell the man's eyes were on Katerina as he shuffled off forward. It was understandable, given the circumstances. His own gaze kept switching between her fantastic legs and her abdomen, hypnotised by the hard cords of muscle flexing below her smooth tanned skin. Ever hopeful her little scrap of T-shirt would ride up just that fraction higher.
"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, finish," she gasped.
"Is it worth it?"
Her head dropped back to rest on the bench's thin padding. "Kendric likes me to be fit," she said, her voice was high, childlike and remote. "He says that anyone blessed with a body as good as mine has a duty to keep it in tip-top shape. He wouldn't enjoy me so much otherwise."
"And what Kendric says and enjoys is important, is it?"
Her eyes closed. "Yes. Very. They do things to me, you see, such wonderful things. If I can't please them in turn, they might stop. I couldn't stand that."
The passive singsong lilt she used to recite her doctrine gave him a chill. He folded his espersense around her.
Katerina's mind was strange; unruffled, as though she'd been popping tranquillisers. There was little mental activity, she was taking only the minimum notice of her surroundings; it was almost a hibernatory state. But there was no sign of any post-trauma withdrawal, nor any of the jagged rents of chemical-induced damage he had been expecting. Greg went deeper.
Beneath the sluggish currents of her surface thoughts there was a treasured core of memory, a glowing centre of delicious anticipation and joy. But for all its bright glory, it was a contaminant, tainting every thought.
"What wonderful things?" he asked softly.
Katerina's face became dreamy. "They love me," she said.
"How do they love you?"
"Sometimes gently. Sometimes so fiercely they make me cry. It doesn't matter which. It always ends wonderfully."
Greg felt his skin going slick with cold sweat. "How long has this been going on, Katerina?"
"Ever since I came here. Time doesn't really bother me now, I'm too happy. Adrian tried, of course, tried so hard, but it never came with him, not properly. I'm so lucky they took me away from him, I might never have known otherwise."
"When did they take you away?"
She looked out vacantly across the marina, her mind nearly losing the thread of thought. "At the party, Uncle Horace's party, Bil Yi was there, that's what Julie promised. So I went. Only they were there too. He was funny and kind, it was exciting." She turned back to look at Greg. An angel's face vandalised by tears. "He's so strong. And I'm afraid."
Kendric di Girolamo slid open the cabin-lounge door and stepped on to the aft-deck. Hermione followed a pace behind.
"Mr. Mandel," he took Greg's hand in a limp grip. "So nice of you to call. I trust Katerina has been entertaining you satisfactorily." He was wearing a navy-blue blazer with bright brass buttons and a spotted silk handkerchief peeping out of his breast pocket, a dark green cravat filling the top of his open white shirt. White flannel trousers and dark blue sneakers completed the nautical image.
Hermione bestowed a gracious smile. A musky breath of orchid perfume stole around Greg, caressing, starting off that certain tingle. The weeks hadn't dimmed the memory of her beauty. Skin-deep, he warned himself, camouflage. She was dressed in a cerise off-the-shoulder gypsy top and blue knee-length skirt. He was reminded of a bird of prey waiting to pounce, mesmerically deadly.
Katerina rose from the padded bench, bare feet slapping on the wooden deck as she came to stand close beside Kendric. "I've done my routine," she said, looking up adoringly at his face. "All of it, everything you said."
Greg turned away from her desperate search for Kendric's approval. Studying the New Eastfield skyline.
Kendric gently wiped her tears with his forefinger, an act which resulted in an almost electric jolt firing through Katerina's mind. His touch was awakening her. An incredibly warped version of Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming.
"Well done, my dear. I shall attend you in a little while. I have to have a few words with this gentleman first."
The desolation on her face was heart-wrenching.
"Come along, darling," Hermione said. "It's just silly man's talk. We'll go and get you ready. You're all smelly after that exercise. A nice shower is just what you need." She took Katerina's hand and led her back into the cabin.
Katerina looked back at Kendric, eyes round, imploring. "Hurry."
Kendric blew her a kiss.
The door closed. Through the blackened glass Greg could just make out Katerina pulling off her mauve T-shirt. Hermione's arm slipped possessively round the girl's narrow waist, leading her deeper into the Mirriam.
"Such an exquisite young girl," Kendric said, watching Greg's face with narrowed eyes. "I have always admired your English roses. After one has broken through that cool reserve, their adventurousness knows no bounds." There was a fragment of disappointment registering in his mind at Greg's refusal to show the slightest execration.
"I'm afraid I can't stop long, Mr. di Girolamo," Greg said. "My friends would worry about what'd happened to me."
"No," Kendric said, his thoughts were steely.
"I'm sorry?"
"No. You're not staying at all, Mandel. Katerina let you on board. My mistake; you should not have been allowed within a million kilometres of the Mirriam."
"But I was wondering if you could help me."
"I enquired about you after our first encounter. I know what you are. A gland psychic. A Mindstar veteran. You were not going to ask me anything, you were going to uncover. Event Horizon's truthfinder general, sent to pry by your whore daughter mistress."
Greg held his dismay in check. "Any answers you give would be entirely voluntary. I can't read people's thoughts."
"So you claim, and other people fervently hope. It is a particular human weakness you pry on, Mandel; we want, need, to believe we are secure against you. But I have a vast repository of confidential commercial information in my brain. I choose not to believe the word of a repulsive grotesquery, a failed laboratory experiment."
Greg let the neurohormones discharge into his brain, desperately searching round with his intuition. There was guilt here, a strong scent; Kendric and Julia were tied together, hating each other, feeding off each other. With a shock he knew she was as guilty as Kendric. Both of them wilfully stimulating the other's black obsession, a perverted symbiosis.
He was jerked out of his meditative analysis by hands like a pair of vices clamping round his upper arms. The bodyguards were standing on either side of him.
"Mark, Toby, throw him off," Kendric said.
"I'm going," Greg told them. He sensed rather than saw Mark's smirk.
"Too right," the bodyguard said.
Greg contracted his espersense, neglecting the other minds arrayed around the Mirriam, focusing on Kendric alone. "Wolf," he shouted.
There was no reaction. No guilt, fright, consternation, panic. The name hadn't registered. Instead, a band of mild puzzlement tapered through Kendric's mind. It was followed by a rising tide of wry satisfaction when he realised how shaken Greg was by the negative.
Toby and Mark frogmarched him off the aft-deck and down the side of the superstructure, Kendric's laughter chasing him all the way.
He was dropped abruptly at the top of the gangplank, stumbling. Something with the force of a runaway train slammed into his backside. He tried to curl up into the trusty old paratroop landing crouch, but it didn't seem to work very well. He saw a fast, confusing snapshot
sequence of yachts and water and sky at impossible angles, each black interstice punctuated by a new burst of pain that mercifully shut off almost as soon as it registered, leaving a patch of numbness. The bioware node spliced into his cortex which regulated his gland was also programmed to blank out nervous impulses above a predetermined pain level. Mindstar had included the limiter as an experiment to try and alleviate shock in combat injury cases, but the Army had never brought it into widespread use, there was too much danger of squaddies ignoring the damage they'd received and making it worse.
The unyielding concrete of the quay arrested his helter-skelter momentum with a sickeningly loud slap. His brain seemed to be floating at the centre of a closed insensate universe. There was harsh laughter from afar followed by running feet. Hands grasped him, hauling him upright.
"Shit. You OK? Can you walk?"
Tactile sensation eased back, the cortical node reopening enough nerve channels for him to regain control over his limbs. Bruises throbbed sharply across his legs, arms, and back. His left leg was shaking. Both hands smarted from wide slashes of grazed skin, filming over with blood. Tunnel vision showed his suede desert boots at some vast distance. He couldn't breathe through his nose, it was full of warm sticky liquid.
"Come on, lean on us." That was Suzi.
Greg did so, gratefully.
"You want those pillocks taken out?" There was a note of hope colouring her voice.
"No." He shook his head. Big mistake. The world reeled alarmingly, acid bile rose, scouring his throat.
"Green south, green south, stand down. We're bringing Thunderchild in. Gold west, cover please."
There was a small Cambridge-blue three-wheel sweeper-float ahead of him now, its front roller brushes retracted, inclined at forty-five degrees, looking like rusty felt mandibles. The name GUS'S SANITISING was written down the side in bold yellow letters.
Greg was urged on to the narrow seat in the Perspex-bubble cab, and Des climbed in behind the wheel while Suzi rode shotgun on the footplate. The two Trinities were both wearing jaunty red shirts and matching trousers, complemented with Gus's company caps, burger-bar uniforms.
Des swooped the float into a hard turn, and set off back down the quay at a good five kilometres per hour, squirting a thick spray of bubbly detergent in their wake. He fumbled with the dash switches and cut the rain of cleanliness, cursing hotly.
"I've got to go back," Greg said, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger.
"Fuck that," Des said. "We've blown cover hauling you out. I've gotta get my squad safeguarded. Standard procedure; you should know that, Mr. Military Hotshot. This operation is now over."
"What the hell do you want to go back for?" Suzi asked.
"I have to see something."
They shot out on to the promenade, and Des tilted the joystick sharp left. Pedestrians hopped out of the way, hurling abuse.
"Listen," Des said. "You wanna go back, that's fucking fine by me. I'll stop right now and you can walk. But you're on your own. We've been burning our arses off for you, and I don't see anything to show for it."
"OK, drop me here."
"Shit." Suzi and Des exchanged anxious befuddled glances. "You can't," said Suzi. "Come on, Greg, you can't hardly walk. We'll bring you back in a couple of days, when it's cooler."
"It has to be now."
"The photon amps are still in place, how about we take you back to Angelica's? You can watch from there."
Greg probed his nose tenderly, it didn't feel broken, and it'd stopped bleeding. "Not that sort of watching, not visual. I want to use my espersense on them."
"Jesus," Des spat. "You Mindstar?"
"Yeah."
"Bloody hell," Suzi muttered. "I knew there was something about you. Father never said nowt."
Greg said nothing, he had always held back from mentioning it to the Trinities. People developed funny attitudes to psychics, kids especially. Let them just think he was lucky, outfits like that put a lot in superstition.
"Jesus," Des said. "Fucking Mindstar active in Peterborough. Think on it. Party always pissed itself over you people. Look, just what is going down on that yacht?"
"If I knew for sure I wouldn't have to go back."
"Shit, just how close do you have to get?"
They compromised. Des drove into the maze of service alleys behind the promenade shops, and swapped clothes with Greg. Then he went off to organise the squad's withdrawal, leaving Suzi to drive Greg. There'd be no more retrieval posses if Toby and Mike came after them; but the snipers would remain in place until Greg had finished.
Suzi drove back out on to the promenade and deployed the brushes before moving up the quay next to the Mirriam's mooring. Seagull crap dissolved into creamy puddles, frizzy bristles whisking it away into the float's tanks.
"Stop here," Greg told her once they were opposite Kendric's yacht.
She climbed out of the little cab. "Don't be too long," she implored, and lifted the engine cowling.
Greg relaxed, sinking back into the thin cushioning of the bench, and instructed the cortical node to shut out the sharp throbs of pain his nerves were reporting loyally.
The gland: stressed, taut like a marathon runner's calf on the home straight. A sluice of neurohormones bubbled out amongst his axons.
He wanted a sensory extension that went way beyond his usual short-range emotion perception. To find it he retreated inward, ignoring his blood heat, heartbeats, breathing. The state waited for him right down at the bottom of the mental well, a fragile central pool. Gaseous shapes meandered below its surface. He slipped softly below the interface.
Greg perceived shadows, treacherous grey cobwebs congealing into misleading forms, aching empty gaps of grainy mist. The vision was silent, neither hot nor cold. Through it all, minds shone like diamond-point mirages, a flat cyclonic swirl of fireflies with himself at the tranquil storm-eye. He concentrated, seeking the opaque distortion of Mirriam, the familiar signature of one mind.
The water resolved as a sheet of black ice, a dead zone; he drifted across it, stretching out close to his absolute limit. Mirriam's hull rose above him, a cliff of insubstantial gauze. Passing through.
The three figures were cloudy alien protrusions into his lonely universe; their shape fuzzy, a pseudo-locus rippling around a solid kernel. Kendric and Hermione slid fluidly over and round Katerina, the three together a tightly knit serpentine coil.
Katerina was a soul in torment, hating herself for what she was doing, unable to refuse. She closed out the degradations Hermione performed, warm with the conviction her reward would come.
Greg observed her arousal growing as Kendric pleasured himself with her, his mind leaking distorted pictures of Julia. Fissures of intense rapture multiplied through her mind, interlacing, spreading to conquer, reducing her to animal abandon. Orgasm brought a blazing concussion of frenzied ecstasy, a neural nova.
Instinct and dusty memory fused within Greg's tarnished cranium, and at last he knew what Kendric had done to her.
The intangible universe twisted, spectral images elongating and spiralling down to a tightly wound vanishing point. The marina's sights and sounds boiled up around him, solid and loud.
"Let's go home," he said weakly. Sustaining such a vast psi-effusion was severely debilitating. Gravity seemed to have quadrupled.
"'Bout time," Suzi grumbled, slamming down the cowling and locking the catches with a vicious twist. "You look like shit, you know?"
"Thank you." The sky overhead was jaundiced, its turbidity fluctuating in time to his heartbeat.
"That gland must really take it out of you." Her foot pressed down on the accelerator pad.
"It does."
"Thought so, you were thrashing about like you were having a nightmare. Get what you want?"
"Yes."
"Hey, your nose has started bleeding again."
"It'll stop in a minute."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"Of course Kendric wouldn't k
now Wolf's name," Eleanor snapped irritably. "He's the man at the top, the one with the cleanest hands in town. He buys people who buy people who buy Wolf. That's why there was no response to the name, there'll be a whole chain of tekmercs between him and the cutting edge of the operation to get rid of Philip Evans. It's like that precaution you use in gear, what do you call it? And keep still."
"Cut-offs." Greg's voice had a throaty rasp to it.
She'd got his hands spread out on the chalet's kitchen bar, spraying his knuckles with Colman's dermal seal. From her own past experience she knew it stung, but it was the best on the market. The treacly salve fizzed over his grazes, quickly solidifying into a flexible powder-blue membrane which would enhance tissue repair, moulting after a couple of days.
Eleanor concentrated on keeping her hand steady as she moved the can back and forth, getting an even deposit. Her shoulders ached, and her back was cramped from hunching over him for three-quarters of an hour. She was getting tired, and her temperament showed it.
The lion roar of the Triumph bike trailing the Duo into the Berrybut estate had triggered some kind of premonition in her. She'd come running from the shore as Des helped Greg out of the Duo. There seemed to be blood all over him, his Stewart sweater was torn, he couldn't walk without leaning on Des.
She'd felt resentful as Suzi and Des carried him into the chalet: an invasion of her personal space. The chalet was symbolic with all that was good in life right now. They were violating that, harbingers of pain and violence. She knew she'd always associate them with disruption now, no matter how much Greg praised them.
They'd seen Greg on to the lounge sofa and departed on the Triumph, Suzi, surprisingly, as awkward as she was. Who would have thought the girl possessed that much sensitivity?
Eleanor had been thankful for her animal husbandry courses, it let her deal with his injuries without the vapours, keeping a rigid leash on her nausea. She'd frozen his nose and clotted the burst blood vessels inside, painted numb-all on his swollen left eye, immobilised his left ankle in a thick sock of quik-set medical polymer, and generally cleaned him up. The clothes would have to go, though; she'd throw them on the bonfire tonight.