A Quantum Murder

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It was midnight when Greg and Eleanor reached the farm. Fog had given way to a steady rain, the darkness was total. Greg could hear the wind rustling the tops of the new saplings on either side of the driveway. The EMC Ranger's tyres splashed through long trickles of water as Eleanor let it roll slowly down the slope.

He ran a hand through his greasy hair. What he wanted was a shower, a drink, and bed. Worst of all, he wanted to go to bed to sleep. Arms and belly muscles were stiff and sore from hanging under the Westland ghost wing.

Surprisingly, given all the aches, plus a persistent post-mission edginess, he still felt easier than he had for a week. He grinned at his weak reflection in the side window. I knew Nicholas didn't do it.

"What's so funny?" Eleanor asked.

"Nothing. Tell you, I'm just glad it's over."

"Me too."

"Yeah. Thanks for understanding."

"Make the most of it. Next time, I'll stomp my foot and say no."

"Good," he said, with feeling. "You'd better go and see Mrs Beswick tomorrow, give her the good news. I expect I'll be having quite a busy day. Christ, and Vernon was upset about the murder being complicated before."

"He'll survive. Like you said, they'll get a lot of credit for wrapping this up."

"Yeah." There's justice. But at least it will make life in Oakham more tolerable for everybody.

Beyond the window's reflection, Maurice Knebel's mirage rippled unsteadily on the edge of reality. Greg knew his last memory of the ex-detective would take a long time to dissipate. Knebel had closed his eyes tightly, teeth clamping down on his lower lip, whimpering softly as Greg aimed the stun-shot at him. In the background Teddy had muttered snidely about using the Uzi instead.

Then there was the trip back to the warehouse. Walton's minacious streets crowding in on him, plaguing him with the prospect of running into some kind of hazard now the mission was over—the oldest squaddie fear in the book.

The EMC Ranger's headlight beams tracked across the side of the barn, unnaturally bright under the cloud-blocked sky. They touched the house briefly, a flash of moth-grey stone.

Greg began searching round with his hand, lifting the stun-shot from the back seat. He slung it over his shoulder. Bloody good job Langley can't see me now, he thought. He had always been dubious of Greg's real motivations, the underground politics behind his assignment to the case. Seeing him in full combat gear would confirm every black paranoid suspicion about Julia's undue influence.

Eleanor stopped the EMC Ranger in front of the door, and the porch light came on automatically. They both climbed out, shoulders hunched against the rain. Eleanor blipped the lock, pulling her navy-blue jacket tighter across her sweatshirt.

Greg heard the lynch mob first. Footsteps crunching on the wet gravel behind the EMC Ranger. His gland gave a lurch, discharging the neurohormone into his brain. He grunted in shock as the five minds trespassed on his consciousness. They were all identical, possessed with unrelenting berserker arrogance, thought currents devoid of any rationality. A teratoid insanity. Recognition was instantaneous; he had encountered that mind once before: Liam Bursken.

They walked into the splash of light thrown by the porch light, a soft dead smile on their lips—Frankie Owen, Mark Sutton, Les Hepburn, Andrew Foster, and Douglas Kellam.

Eleanor twisted round. "What—"

Mark Sutton raised a double-barrelled shotgun. Thoughts radiant with cool delight.

Greg's training took over. He fired the stunshot even as he was bringing it to bear. The pulse was dazzlingly bright to his night-acclimatized retinas. It missed Sutton, fizzling voraciously as it sliced through the rain. But it was enough.

Sutton jerked aside, complacency shattered. The shotgun went off, blowing out one of the EMC Ranger's rear windows. A lethal blast of crystalline splinters slammed into the stone wall to Greg's right. He felt stingers of pain jab down his chest where the combat jacket was open. Spots of blood bloomed on his white T-shirt.

He saw the other four men jumping back into the concealing murk of rain and darkness which cloaked the rest of the farmyard, surprise and outrage rampant on their faces. Fury that their victim should dare to fight back, resist the Lord's will. His fumbling fingers found the stunshot's fire selector catch, and flicked it to continuous. A solid stream of glaring blue-white lighting speared out of the barrel as he tugged the trigger, illuminating the entire farmyard. Its end grew ragged over by the barn, flickering spasmodically as the close-packed pulses lost cohesion.

He swung the weapon down and round, not really aiming, simply chasing Sutton as the man scrambled for cover behind the EMC Ranger. The torrent of pulses caught him on the shoulder, spinning him round as if it was a high-pressure water jet. The shotgun went flying off into the night as he whirled around, arms extended.

He let go of the trigger, and Sutton collapsed into a bucking heap. To his left he saw Frankie Owen making a grab for Eleanor, his normally sulky face snarled up in an expression of wrath. A flick knife gleamed as it slid out of his fist. Eleanor was blocking the stunshot's line of fire.

A narrow line of damp air in front of Greg suddenly fluoresced a vivid green. Raindrops scintillated with an uncanny beauty as they fell through it. Laser. He was being shot at! Overstressed nerves jerked him backwards. He nearly lost his footing on the gravel as he dropped below the level of the EMC Ranger. He fought to regain balance. Judging by the angle of the beam, it was coming from the tangerine grove on the other side of the barn.

The beam swept along the farmhouse's stonework, across the door, towards the two figures thrashing about. It was too broad to be a rifle targeting-laser. Wrong colour, anyway.

Realization struck like a spike of ice directly into his spine. The paradigm imprinter. MacLennan himself was out there, trying to zombie Eleanor.

"Down!" he screamed, and launched himself at the wrestling figures just as they broke apart. Eleanor was staggering backwards. Green light stroked her torso. He caught her round the waist in a tackle which sent both of them crashing to the ground. Eleanor yelped in shock and pain as they hit the gravel. Somehow he managed to hold on to the stunshot; 'ware modules jabbed painfully into his side. Up above, the laser slashed furiously from side to side, producing a canopy of lurid green radiation between the EMC Ranger and the house, flecked with twinkling jade raindrops.

Frankie Owen groaned, his thought currents disfigured by supreme agony. Greg glanced up to see him curled up on the gravel just in front of them, hands clutching his groin, nursing crushed testicles. A mushy spurt of vomit sputtered out of his open mouth. His face was corpse white, eyes red and wet.

Eleanor did that to him. Greg felt a crazy edge of glee. My Eleanor.

Out on the brink of his espersense those remaining three joyless minds were congregating. Scattered thoughts refocusing on him.

"Are you all right?" he hissed.

"My arm's numb. Why did you pull me down?"

"Look up, that's the paradigm imprint laser."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Let's see if we can get inside."

He rolled over and rose to a crouch. Foster, Hepburn, and Kellam were moving apart again, fanning out around the EMC Ranger. It was four metres to the door, the laser painted a sharp green line two-thirds of the way up.

"I'll go first," he told her. "Start moving as soon as I reach it."

"Right."

He tensed his legs, then he was up and running. Fingers reaching for the brass bulb handle. The polished metal was slick in his palm. Turning slowly. His shoulder thudded into the wood, and he was through, skating on the hall tiles.

Eleanor was racing past him less than a second later. He shoved the door shut with a burst of frantic strength. There was a quiet whine as the lock engaged. He aimed the stunshot at it, and fired. The plastic covering melted with a flash of orange flame, droplets spraying out. The 'ware circuits inside flared briefly, sparks fountained, dying embers skittering over the cold tiles.

Someone outside smacked into the door. He saw it quiver in the frame. There was the sound of a fist hammering on the panels.

"Mandel." It was Les Hepburn's voice, but toneless, that same clipped precision Bursken used. "Come out, Mandel. You shall not escape the Lord's justice."

"Fuck off!" He grabbed Eleanor's hand. "Come on, they'll be inside in a minute." There was no light in the hall. He felt round for the photon amp band hooked on his shoulder tab, and slapped it into place. The time display and guido coordinates gleamed brightly. Walls, floor, and furniture shimmered out of nowhere, solidifying into their familiar places. He bled in the infrared. The photon amp's grey and blue world tinted into red, becoming fractionally brighter, losing some definition.

"I'll call the police," Eleanor said.

"No way," he said, leading her down to the study. "People like Keith Willet aren't going to be able to cope with a bunch of Liam Burskens, even if they believed us. In any case it would take them too long to get here."

"Greg! We need help." She was battling panic.

"I know!" He switched on the communication 'ware, and pulled his skull helmet into place. "Emergency."

"What is it, boy?" Philip Evans asked.

"We've been ambushed at the farm. MacLennan is here with five people he's loaded with Bursken's paradigm. And this time it's me they're after."

"Shit, boy; you all right?"

"For now. We need help and fast."

"I'm launching the security crash team now. They'll be there in ten minutes."

Greg opened the study door. The room was supposed to be his den, but he still hadn't got it sorted out. There was a big desk over by the window, a settee, long planks were leaning against a wall, destined to be shelves when he got round to screwing them together. The floor was cluttered with kelpboard boxes full of his accumulated junk. He could just make out the Berrybut estate through the window, pinprick glints of light from the chalets; the rain must have extinguished the bonfire hours ago, the photon amp's infrared function couldn't even pick up the dying cinders.

"Philip's launching the Event Horizon crash team," he told Eleanor.

"Right. Why are we in here?"

A dark human silhouette moved across the window, eclipsing the chalets. The head glowed brightly in grades of red, hot blood highlighting the cheeks and nose; eyes were cooler, darker. It contained the familiar thought currents of Liam Bursken.

"Shush." He gripped her hand tighter. Even with the infrared's ambiguous slant, he could recognize the features of the face pressed to the glass. Brendan Talbot, an engineer who lived in Hambleton.

Christ, how many people had MacLennan loaded the paradigm into?

Greg's free hand closed around the stock of the Heckler and Koch rifle lying on the desk. A real weapon.

Ronnie Kay appeared next to Brendan Talbot, and hurled a brick straight through the study window. Eleanor yelled in fright. A torch shone into the room with the force of a solar flare.

The photon amp filters responded immediately, reducing the glare until it was a manageable corona. Greg could see Talbot, his hand reaching through the jagged hole in the glass, scrabbling round for the catch.

"Face your judgement, Mandel," Kay shouted. "Embrace us. We will deliver you from sin."

Greg levelled the rifle at Talbot. And couldn't pull the trigger. It wasn't Talbot, only his body. Brendan had a wife, a six-year-old daughter.

"Shit!" he roared. In his army days it wouldn't have made any difference. None. See a hostile and snuff them. Nothing else had ever been allowed to interfere with that maxim. It was simple survival. Life was so fucking easy in those days. Uncomplicated.

Brendan Talbot's fingers closed around the catch.

Greg yanked the stunshot round, strap cutting into his shoulder. Aim and fire. The pulse hit the glass, and splattered, minute static tendrils writhing across the oblong pane. "Shit shit shit." Aim and fire. This time the pulse struck Talbot's hand. There was a muffled grunt, and he was flailing backwards. His wrist caught the spikes of glass around the edge of the hole, skin tearing. There was a confused splash of heat.

The torch beam wavered about as Kay tried to catch him.

"Let's go," Greg said.

Runnels of Talbot's blood were seeping down the window below the hole, glowing like radioactive sludge.

"What's happening now, boy?" Philip asked anxiously.

"Trouble. Where's the crash team?"

"They're getting into the tilt-fan now."

"Jesus!"

Eleanor gave him a frightened glance as they charged back into the hall.

"The crash team is just taking off," he told her. "Philip, have they got stunshots with them?"

"Sure thing, boy."

"Tell them to use the stunshots wherever possible, remember these people aren't responsible for what they're doing."

"I'll tell 'em."

"Upstairs," he said to Eleanor. They started to pound up the staircase.

There was an almighty crash of breaking glass from the lounge when they were halfway up.

Knocking the whole window out by the sound of it, Greg thought. He handed Eleanor the stunshot when they reached the landing. At least if she did have to shoot she would never have the guilt of killing a complete innocent. He could always use the rifle to immobilize, If he had time, if the mêlée didn't become too confusing, if he could hang on to his scruples. They ran down the landing to the master bedroom.

"Philip, plug Royan in," Greg said.

"Right-oh, boy."

The landing's biolums came on just as they reached the bedroom door, three sets of wall globes shaped like lilies. Greg shot them out with the rifle. They disintegrated with loud popping sounds, showering the landing with radiant flakes that died as they bounced along the carpet.

From a tactical standpoint there was little improvement; biolum light shone up from the hall, casting long delusive shadows over the landing walls. He could hear people moving about below.

They went through into the bedroom. "Keep watching the stairs," Greg said. "Anyone comes up, shoot 'em."

"Right." Eleanor knelt down beside the door, peering through the crack.

The photon amp's time numerals and guido co-ordinates blurred then merged into a single wavery band of yellow light. There was a moment's pause, then the display printed: I'M HERE, GREG.

"Great. Listen, I've got about half a dozen people who think they're Liam Bursken coming at me. Now there has got to be some way to flush that paradigm out of them. We know it erases itself after a set time. Access the recording you made and look for the magic photons sequence, see if there's any way we can activate it prematurely."

GOT YOU. ACCESSING NOW.

"They're here, Greg," Eleanor called softly. She fired the stunshot, ten or twelve pulses zinged along the landing, scorching long burn marks into the wallpaper, blistering the paint on the banister rail.

He was aware of the minds on the stairs. One of them ruptured in a flurry of pain, the thought currents fragmenting into comate insensibility. "You got one."

GREG, HAVE YOU GOT A LASER WITH YOU?

"Yeah, a Heckler and Koch hunting rifle."

TOO POWERFUL. HAS IT GOT A TARGETING IMAGER?

"Yeah."

GOOD GOOD GOOD. PLUG THE IMAGER INTO YOUR SUIT 'WARE.

"Right."

"The crash team has left," Philip said. "Be with you in eight minutes."

It was going to be too long, that much was obvious. Greg tugged the rifle's targeting imager monocle out of its recess, and detached it from the fibre optic cable. The interface was standard—thank Christ. He plugged the cable into a socket on the guido 'ware module. Blue target circles hardened in front of him, angling down towards the carpet, the same line as the rifle barrel was pointing.

"Come out, Mandel," Ronnie Kay shouted up from the ball, "or we will burn you out. Fire is always the great purifier. Your wife will die with you then. Come out."

"Don't you dare," Eleanor said.

"Royan?"

I'VE DECRYPTED IT STRANGE. NOT LIKE SOFTWARE. NO SUBROUTINES. EVERYTHING STRUNG TOGETHER, SIMILAR TO PIXEL CODES, MUCH HIGHER BIT RATE THOUGH.

"Have you found the magic photons sequence?"

WORKING ON IT

Greg went over to the window, standing beside it with his back to the wall, expanding his espersense outwards. There were three minds below. He edged the rifle out past the curtains and activated the imager. The photon amp's picture of the bedroom faded away, replaced by a view of the garden below. Three men were standing on the lawn, waiting patiently. One of them held what looked like a shotgun, the other two were carrying clubs of some kind.

"Come out, Mandel."

Eleanor fired another barrage of stunshot pulses down the landing.

"We'll burn your flesh to ashes. Your last minutes will be the torment of Hell. Repent."

THINK I'VE GOT IT

"Thank Christ for that."

THERE ARE TWO SEPARATE SEQUENCES, BOTH BECOME ACTIVE AFTER A MEASURED INTERVAL FOLLOWING IMPRINT TIMED BY HEARTBEATS. CLEVER THAT THE FIRST SEQUENCE CONTAINS THE PARADIGM ITSELF AND THE INSTRUCTION TO KILL KITCHENER, ALONG WITH ADDITIONAL ORDERS TO DESTROY HIS RETROSPECTIVE NEUROHORMONE WORK. IT ACTIVATED ITSELF AFTER APPROXIMATELY NINE HOURS. THE SECOND SEQUENCE IS THE MAGIC PHOTONS, WHICH ACTIVATES TWO HOURS LATER.

Even now, Greg couldn't quite shake off his fascination with the case. Nicholas must have been hit before the storm, before the rising waters of the Chater closed the ramshackle bridge.

"Can you trigger the magic photons sequence?"

YES. I'VE ISOLATED ITS ACTIVATION CODE FROM THE PARADIGM'S TIMER SECTION.

"OK, there are three people we can try it on."

The target circles vanished as Royan took command of the rifle's 'ware. Greg watched the imager's laser sending a fan of ruby light sweeping across the lawn. The grid emerged in its wake, splitting into three sections, folding around the waiting men.

HERE GOES.

The contoured lines around the central figure began to flash.

NOW.

Greg saw a single strobe-like flicker of pink douse the man's face. His espersense showed him the man's thought currents start to seethe furiously. A loud destitute wailing penetrated the glass.

"What's happening?" Eleanor demanded.

"I'm not sure." Even as he spoke he sensed the new tide of personality usurping Bursken's resolute thought currents. His empathy was caught by the backlash of petrified bewilderment raging inside the abused brain, feedback sending a quake of dismay shuddering along his own synapses. Then the man was dropping to his knees, curling into a foetal position, mind rushing headlong into welcome oblivion.

"OK, we got him. Zap the other two, Royan."

Their grid outlines began to flash. The targeting laser fired twice.

"Flames, Mandel," Ronnie Kay shouted. "They will consume you. There will be no redemption."

Wait," Greg shouted back. "I'm coming out."

"Greg!" Eleanor pleaded.

"Those crazies will torch the place if I don't. We have to clear them out."

"Let the crash team do it."

"That bastard MacLennan is still out there. He can load Bursken's mind into them as soon as they land. Then where will we be? They are armed and armoured, Eleanor. At least the lynch mob only have shotguns."

"Come then, Mandel. Come to us."

She drew a sharp breath through her teeth. "God, you be careful, Gregory—"

He knew exactly how much that cost her to say. "No messing."

They waited in the hall at the foot of the stairs. Five of them, a tight arrowhead, with Ronnie Kay at the front. Two shotguns followed him with mechanical precision. Their mouths were curved up in the same slight, vapid smile.

His espersense flowed round them, along the hall, through the empty rooms. They were the only ones inside. Right at the back of his head was the faint thrumming of pressure, the neurohormones stressing his synapses to their limit.

He held the rifle casually at his hip as he descended.

"Take the ones with the shotguns first," he whispered.

RIGHT

The grid appeared again, peeling into five segments like cybernetic butterfly wings. Closing fluidly around their ignorant prey.

Ronnie Kay blinked, glancing distrustfully at the rifle. "Put it down, Mandel."

READY

"Now."

The laser lashed out, spiking each of them in turn. Elapsed time seven-tenths of a second.

They wilted in unison, filling the air with a grotesque catlike puling. Arms and legs were infected with a life of their own, waving and flexing at random.

"Shitfire," Greg murmured.

DID WE GET THEM?

"Oh yeah. We got 'em."

Eleanor was running along the landing, stunshot held ready, looking as if she was about to start a war.

"The crash team will be there in five minutes," Philip said.

Eleanor barged into his side, hugging him tightly. She let out a gulping sob. "I'm sorry." She wiped her eyes.

His arm went round her, holding her roughly. He kissed the top of her forehead, damp hair rasping across his lips.

They went down the last few stairs, slowly, every step a great effort.

The front door had been forced open, the lock jimmied off. A draught of clammy air swirled in.

Greg used the rifle barrel to push the lounge door open. Shards of glass were heaped on the floor below the broken window. The curtains flapped feebly.

"It's clear," Greg said. "I'll go out here, through the window. MacLennan can see the front door." Eleanor's fingers clutched at him through the combat leathers. "I've got to finish this." And this time there would be no hesitation, no reluctance. MacLennan had come hunting him, broaching the sanctity of his own home. Well, now it would be settled on those terms. One on one, zero rules.

"I know," Eleanor said.

He crouched down, and scuttled over to the window. "Royan, kill the imager's camera feed. I don't want to be on the receiving end of that paradigm — " He stopped, intuition acting like a dose of wine, stealing warmly into his brain.

The gloomy image faded out, leaving him alone with the time display and guido co-ordinates. He shoved the rifle through the shattered window.

"Give me the laser return."

The picture which built up was similar to the virtual simulation he had used to fly into Walton, photonic topology, except it was all red. The rickety fence was ten metres in front of him, saplings standing in long rows behind it, grass resolved as a fuzzy mauve mat.

"OK, Royan, there's one last piece of reprogramming I need."

He poked the rifle round the corner of the house. The laser painted in the EMC Ranger, the barn, and the wall around the farmyard. Mark Sutton was lying where he'd fallen. Frankie Owen was crawling towards the driveway. It was like watching a time-lapse puppet in motion, the picture refreshing itself every second as the laser swept back and forth.

A grid tailored itself into a perfect fit around Frankie Owen.

"I'm here," Greg called out clearly.

Frankie twisted round. When he was looking straight at Greg, the laser fired the magic photon's activation code at him. There was a muffled gurgling, then he lay still. Greg sensed Bursken's thoughts routed by Frankie's usual dull anger and general life-resentment just before consciousness dwindled.

Not much of an improvement, really.

He pointed the rifle at the tangerine grove, where he thought MacLennan had fired the paradigm laser from.

"Focus shift, one hundred and fifty metres."

The grove filled his vision field. It lacked the sharp-edged clarity of anything close by, degraded by rain, almost like static interference. These saplings had been planted over a year ago, two and a half metres high, starting to spread out at the top. They were covered with leaves and blossom, which showed up like a layer of coarse ice crystals around the core of twigs and branches.

There was a vehicle parked in the middle of the grove, almost hidden by the saplings. A jeep of some kind.

Perfect for the terrain in the Chater valley, he thought.

LASER ACQUISITION, the photon amp display printed.

"Royan?"

THAT'S YOUR ECM DETECTOR WARNING. MACLENNAN IS FIRING THE PARADIGM IMPRINTER AT YOU. ONE MOMENT.

The image fluttered then reappeared. A bright red dot was flashing ten metres to the left of the jeep.

THAT'S THE EMISSION POINT

"Right. Give me targeting mode."

The blue circles sprang up. Greg shifted the rifle until they were centred on the jeep. He pulled the trigger. Five shots into the bonnet, three into the front tyre, another five into the bodywork.

MacLennan stopped firing the paradigm laser.

Greg pumped another ten shots into the rear of the jeep. He heard the unmistakable dull thud of an explosion. The back of the jeep rippled, opening up like a flower, jagged metal petals lunging jerkily for the blank sky.

"Cancel targeting mode." He started to jog towards the jeep. No way could he run: as it was, he had to try and remember what was immediately ahead at each footfall. The wall between him and the grove seemed to lurch towards him in two-metre increments.

A nimbus had engulfed the jeep, altering in size each time the picture updated, never the same shape twice. Flames, he guessed.

He reached the wall and clambered over, moss squelching below his gloves, ignoring the erratic images as the rifle shifted about, working by touch.

LASER ACQUISITION.

He landed on the spongy grass in the grove, and automatically rolled to one side. Paratroop training. Furious flames from the jeep were making a loud crackling.

"MacLennan?" he bellowed. "It doesn't work on me, you shit!" He stood up, pointing the rifle ahead.

LASER ACQUISITION.

The red dot was flashing from behind some saplings away to his left, dancing about like a firefly caught in a hurricane. MacLennan was moving away from the jeep. Greg started to jog towards the dot, ducking under the low branches, swerving round the trunks.

"Greg?" It was Philip. "The crash team will be with you in two minutes."

"Keep them in the air until I give the all clear."

"All right, boy, it's your show."

The laser picked out MacLennan running down a row of saplings, about eighty metres ahead. A clockwork humanoid, legs and arms pumping in a fractured rhythm. Slender grid lines chased after him coiling round his limbs and torso.

DO YOU WANT TARGET MODE???

"Not yet. I have to be sure."

SURE SURE SURE? WHAT KIND OF BLOODY SURE? HE TRIED TO KILL YOU.

Greg ran out into a tractor lane, four metres wide, the branches arching overhead, not quite meeting. It made the going a lot easier; he risked increasing his pace. "Sure about Clarissa Wynne."

MacLennan vaulted over the fence at the bottom of the grove, and sprinted over the field towards Hambleton Wood.

Gotcha, Greg thought. He arrived at the fence, scaling it quickly.

MacLennan reached the boundary of the wood, and charged through the waist-high fringe of undergrowth. He suddenly fell forwards, disappearing from sight below the nettles. Greg heard a distant curse.

The grass underfoot was awkward, shifty and slippery with rain. He had to slow down again, especially as he was cutting down the slope. There was that distinctive sound of brittle wood snapping up ahead as MacLennan thrashed about in the dead hawthorn bushes.

Christ, I hope it is MacLennan after all this! But his intuition was giving him a powerful high, as if he was just going through the motions. The outcome was already decided.

MacLennan's upper torso reappeared amid the bushes. He was flinging himself desperately at the knotted tangle of vines strung between the old trees. It wouldn't do him any good, you needed either a tank or a bulldozer to break into the wood. He jerked round, right arm coming up. Red dot.

LASER ACQUISITION.

Greg slowed to a halt thirty metres from the wood, raising the rifle to his shoulder. "Give me targeting mode, and expand the magnification." He ordered his cortical node to increase the neurohormone secretion level.

ABOUT BLOODY TIME.

Blue circles clicked into place. The targeting laser sweep contracted around MacLennan. It was as though he was standing two metres in front of Greg, the warped network of red lines bright enough to give off a faint coronal hue. An oversized pistol was gripped in his right hand, nozzle blazing. His espersense encountered the mind inside the reticulated head. It was MacLennan.

Greg aimed at the pistol and fired.

MacLennan howled, convulsing, right arm hugged to his chest. His pistol tumbling away. A hot throb of pain lanced into Greg's mind. Behind it came the raw malevolence, the near-frenzied fear, and the abhorrence.

"Hold it," Greg commanded as MacLennan began to look around his feet for the imprinter, the tendrils of desperation uncoiling in his gibbering mind. He walked forward until he came to the edge of the nettles. "Why did you come here, MacLennan? Why did you set them on me?"

"Because it was you!" MacLennan bawled. "You! Mindstar freak. You found the paradigm."

"How did you know that?"

"You were from the Home Office, you burnt into the memory core. You! It was you. Freak fucker."

"Oh shit." The rush of energy which had carried him out of the house and across the grove suddenly bled away. There was no determination left in him. No pride at completing the case, only weariness. He just wanted this over. Finished.

MacLennan started sobbing.

"Shut up!" Greg yelled.

"It hurts me! It hurts. You've burnt my hand in half, you bastard. Get me to a hospital, for Christ's sake."

Every emotion reached rock bottom. Greg felt dangerously calm. "It hurts, does it, MacLennan? How did Clarissa Wynne feel do you think? When you pushed her head under the lake. Did she hurt, MacLennan?"

"Clarissa?" It came out like a whinny.

"You killed her. Didn't you? Eleven years ago, you shot her full of syntho and killed her."

"She was going to claim all the credit!"

"Even now you're lying! It was her work."

"Wasn't!"

Guilt corrupted every thought in MacLennan's head. And there was nothing left to say.

Greg took a laboured breath. "Royan, shoot it over."

The grid snapped off for an instant as the targeting laser stabbed at MacLennan's eyes.

He heard the paradigm as it came surging through the communication link, a near-ultrasonic wheee in his earpiece, a blast of photons encapsulating the essence of Liam Bursken, accompanied by a monomaniac hatred for one man.

Poetic justice, or intuitive inspiration; Greg didn't know which, only that it was right. It fitted.

He pulled the photon amp strip from his face, twin circles of skin around his eyesockets pinching as it came free. The real world rushed back in on him, dark and dank, awash with human failings. The clean simplicity of the laser return virtual graphics was almost preferable. Somewhere behind him flames were soaring up into the night from the wreck of the jeep. Rain pattered down, beating the dusky vegetation towards the muddy ground.

MacLennan's prim face was contorted with pain, hair plastered down into a straggly cap. His jaw was working silently, as though he was choking.

"Do you know who you hate, Liam?" Greg asked quietly. "Do you?"

MacLennan stared back at him with insane eyes, mouth screwing into a joyous smile. "Yes. Me. It's me. Me!"

"That's right." He took the vibration knife from his belt, switched it on, and dropped it at MacLennan's feet.

MacLennan snatched it up with his good hand. "Redemption. He has granted me redemption." He laughed rhapsodically as he shoved the blade into his stomach. Blood foamed out. He sank to his knees, teeth clenched with effort, cheeks bulging, and pulled the blade up towards his sternum. "Yes. Oh, yes. My Lord."

Greg turned and walked away. Back to the farmhouse and Eleanor, where he belonged.

High above the reservoir, the security team's tilt-fan dived out of the clouds, turbines shrieking with urgency.