The Nano Flower

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Julia's personality package was coded as a commercial intelligence summary, so the Colonel Maitland's 'ware network-management program automatically assigned it storage space in the lightware cruncher Jason Whitehurst was using to analyse kombinate finances. Once it was loaded, the personality package immediately reformatted the command routines of the processing structure it was running in, isolating itself from the lightware's operating program and antiviral guardians. After it had confirmed its autonomy it sent out a series of instructions to the internal databuses, arrogating their handling procedures, shutting down the data flow.

With the lightware cruncher's processing operations suspended, the personality package began to wipe all the programs and files it found stored in the unit's memory. Access codes were changed. A new sequence of operating routines were loaded. The package's highly compressed data planes expanded into the empty lightware. Julia's reconstituted mentality came on line.

She started to assess the airship's 'ware architecture, spreading her presence through the datanet, burning into ancillary processor cores. The bridge's 'ware was her first priority, gaining complete command of her new domain. New channels were opened and safeguarded, data flowed back into the lightware cruncher.

The Colonel Maitland's flight control systems were plugged into a broad range of sensors and cameras distributed throughout the fuselage. Radar and the satellite uplinks were useless, swamped by the tekmerc's jammer. She studied the optical circuits, pulling their codes out of memory cores, then started to look around.

External camera, portside fuselage. The Messerschmitt hovered level with the gondola. A laser rangefinder pulsed every second, helping it to maintain its stand-off position exactly. Eight armour-clad figures were left swung out between it and the Colonel Maitland. Each of them identical, factory moulded; left hand controlling a jockey-stick, right hand holding a Lockheed rip gun. Two wavering columns of hot compressed air streamed out of the jetpack nozzles, behind and slightly below the shoulders. As she watched, one of them disappeared through a hole in the side of the gondola.

Internal camera, gondola lower-deck crew lounge. The lounge had been ravaged by the rip bolt, loose chairs hurled at the walls, composite walls cracked and buckled, carpet smouldering. Glass lay underfoot, the door twisted in its frame.

Two of the armoured figures were standing inside, Lockheed rip guns raised cautiously, covering the open doorway. Helmets blank bubbles of metal. A third swept through the hole, jetpack efflux stirring up a mini-hurricane of wreckage as he settled on the uneven decking.

External camera, upper tail fin. The ruined landing pad, pitiful remains of the Pegasus spewing out thin plumes of smoke. Two of the Colonel Maitland's crew, dressed in silvery fire-suits, were surveying the scene. They kept close to the edge of the pad, giving the Pegasus a wide birth as they shuffled along, testing the deck sheeting before each step.

Julia called up a structural schematic and systems status review from the bridge's flight control 'ware. The central gasbag, below the landing pad, had been badly lacerated. Helium was escaping at a critical rate. The bridge crew had ordered a near-total ballast dump to compensate. Water from tanks and the swimming-pool was venting out of the gondola as fast as it could be pumped.

The Colonel Maitland's geodetic framework was drawn in fine blue lines, gasbag suspension rigging a jumble of green cobwebs. A large, roughly oval, area of fuselage struts around the landing pad and hangar had turned red, fringed in yellow. The landing pad itself was mostly black; a lot of the stress sensors' optical cables had been cut in the explosions, leaving gaps in the picture. Maintenance drones were inching along the longitudinal frames, inspecting individual struts for fractures, supplementing and refining the data from the sensors, filling in the true status of the black zones.

The damage assessment was reassuring. The basic framework was bearing up under the redistributed loading. Power to the contra-rotating fans was being reduced, relieving as much pressure as possible until the upper fuselage frames could be repaired.

She accessed the bridge's memory cores and discovered that the maintenance drones communicated with the flight control 'ware via laser links; the entire geodetic framework was dotted with interface keys.

Internal camera, gondola stairwell. Greg and Suzi were moving to the upper deck. Suzi was brandishing her Browning in one hand, pulling Greg along with the other. She looked as if she was walking directly into a hurricane blast, face furrowed with concentration, teeth bared, every step an effort. Greg was moving like an unplugged junkie. Julia recognized the thousand-metre stare; his gland was active, dissolving the real universe.

Structural schematic. A patch of the gondola's upper-deck hull changed to red, shooting out a ripple ring of yellow. The red centre snapped to black. Another rip-gun bolt. Electrical lines were cut, fibre-optic links severed. Compensator programs assigned priorities and rerouted power and data.

External camera, portside fuselage. One of the armoured tekmerc squad had broken away from his colleagues, charging towards the gondola much too fast. He cannoned into a cabin through the gap in the hull which the rip gun had made, arm just catching the edge.

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.

Logically, if Charlotte Fielder wasn't in the gondola, and Greg and Suzi were heading up into the fuselage, then Charlotte Fielder must be in the fuselage too. Somewhere.

Julia reviewed the airship structural schematic again.

Behind the last full-sized gasbag there was an engineering bay that held the giga-conductor cells, and heat exchangers.

In the centre was a disused chamber that used to hold the MHD units. It was drawing power from the main electrical bus.

She plugged into the chamber's fibre-optic cables.

Internal camera, upper gondola deck cabin, provisionally assigned resident: Charlotte Fielder. The four tekmercs were inside. One of them walked through the wooden slat door to the bathroom, snapping it apart without breaking stride. Three had his rip gun trained on the steward who was hugging his chest, jaw clenched.

"Where else would she be?" the tekmerc asked. He prodded the steward with the barrel of his rip gun. The man's cheeks bulged out.

"Pool, she used the swimming-pool a lot, or Fabian's den. He's always up there."

"I've got the pool location loaded in my suit gear, but which room is the boy's den?"

"Not in the gondola," the steward said. "It's up in the fuselage, right back at the tail. Some sort of old engine room, he plays his music deck-up there, stuff like that."

Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

Frank: "Leol, I think we may have her. The Whitehurst boy hangs out up in the fuselage tail, he's got some sort of den up there. We're going up to check the pool first, then we'll try the tail. It must be in the engineering bay."

Leo Reiger: "OK, I'm putting the squeeze on the old man. Let me know the instant you get anything."

Frank: "What if we meet the psychic? He must know where Fielder is, he and Suzi will be heading for her now."

Leol Reiger: "Snuff the psychic bloke, Mandel, but save Suzi bitch for me."

Frank: "Christ, Leol, I don't know, that woman, she's one major hazard. I see what she did to Nathe and Joely back at the Prezda. Two shots, that's all it took her. Catching her, that's maybe not such a good idea. It's complicated, Leol. We don't need it."

Leol Reiger: "Give the flicking verbals a rest. You got armour. You got stunshots for the Fielder whore, ain't you? Use 'em. Triple bonus for the one that wings Suzi bitch for me."

Frank: "All right, Leol. You say."

Leol Reiger: "I do."

Internal camera, aft fuselage keel walkway. Greg and Suzi were approaching the tail section, moving at a steady jog. He seemed to be recovering from his gland-induced lethargy, limbs flowing in an easier, more fluid rhythm.

Julia used a key on a nearby transverse frame to plug into Greg's cybofax. It bleeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

"I wondered where you'd got to," he said.

Suzi stopped and looked at the cybofax screen.

"I take it you're trying to find Charlotte Fielder," Julia said.

"Yeah, she's somewhere around here. I sensed her earlier, I was just about to have another sniff round."

"I believe she is in the old MHD chamber, along with Fabian Whitehurst. It's in the middle of the engineering bay; I worked out a route for you." She squirted the data into the wafer, lining the walkways and ladders they would have to use in red. "You'd better get a move on. There is a woman in front of you, Nia Korovilla, one of the Colonel Maitland's maids; I don't know what she's doing there, but she's closing on the chamber. And four of Leol Reiger's tekmercs are behind you, also heading for the MHD chamber."

"Oh, great," said Suzi.

"Once you get Fielder, I can keep you ahead of the tekmercs," Julia said. "I have them all under observation."

"Thanks, Julia," Greg said. "We're on our way."

Internal camera, study. Both of Jason Whitehurst's hardline bodyguards were dead. They lay on the floor, bodies torn open by rip-gun bolts, blood pooling around them. The maid Leol Reiger had hauled along had gone into catatonic shock, curled up against the settee in a foetal position, eyes squeezed shut.

Leol Reiger hadn't even bothered to use the door. There was a big rent in the wall, its craggy edges bent inward. He was standing in front of the desk, the four accompanying members of his squad fanned out behind him.

Jason Whitehurst still clung to an air of pride, defeated but not broken.

"Call your son, and have him tell us where Fielder is," Leol Reiger's amplified voice said. "That's all we want, Fielder. We get her, we leave. No more hazard to you and your crew."

"And the alternative?" Jason Whitehurst asked. "Aren't you going to threaten me?"

"Why? You already know the way it is. Snuff you, your crew, this ship. Your son. Especially your son."

Jason Whitehurst glared at the armoured figure. "I had agreed a price with your paymaster."

Leol Reiger took a pace forward. "I would hate to think you were stalling."

Julia decided to intervene. She plugged into the study's flatscreens, using an image-synthesizer program to reproduce her face. The camera showed five of her suddenly looking down on the scene, another face encased inside the desk.

"Jason isn't stalling," she said out of the speakers.

Rip guns came up in alarm, the tekmercs turning in jerky agitated movements.

"Jesus, that's Julia Evans," one of them stuttered.

"Oh yeah? Big deal," Leol Reiger said. He tried for contempt, but the mikes detected a quaver in his voice.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Leol Reiger," she said.

"How the hell—What is this?" He levelled his rip gun on Jason Whitehurst.

There was the glimmer of a smile on Jason Whitehurst's lips, mocking. "As I have met my match, so you have met yours."

"Charlotte Fielder belongs to me, Leol Reiger," Julia said. "My team is on its way here to collect her. If you leave now, they will not pursue you."

"Bluff," Leol Reiger said. "If they were coming you wouldn't try and make deals."

"How do you think I'm talking to you? Event Horizon technology is capable of slicing straight through the Messerschmitt's jammer, and that is premier-grade military equipment. And I'll remind you that you're talking to a woman who's got her own stockpile of electron-compression warheads. Think about that."

"Hot technology, my arse; I'll bet it's not as good as atomic structuring, I'll bet it doesn't even come close. Right?"

"Irrelevant. Atomic structuring is for the future, you are facing me now."

"I'm facing a flatscreen. We're here, you're not. Fielder's mine. So fuck off, rich bitch."

"Mistake," Jason Whitehurst said gravely. "That, my friend, was a big mistake. Nobody says that to Julia Evans."

"Yeah? Well, I ain't been zapped by a lightning bolt. So now I'll take Fielder. Where is she?"

"Jason doesn't know," Julia said. "Nor will he be able to find out. My security programmers are in full control of the Colonel Maitland's 'ware."

"Leol," one of the other tekmercs said, a woman's voice. "Maybe we oughta listen—"

"Shut it." Leol Reiger pointed his rip gun at one of the big wall screens, and fired. The flatscreen shattered, radiant pink fragments bouncing across the hard silver-white floor. Jason Whitehurst hunched down in his chair, hands over his ears. Leol Reiger swivelled to another flatscreen, fired again. Daylight shone through a hole the rip-gun bolt drilled into the gondola wall.

"You really are a complete fool, aren't you," Julia said.

Leol Reiger demolished a third screen. He turned back to Jason Whitehurst, the muzzle of the rip gun coming down on the desk with a click. "Time's up. Make your choice. Do you think the rich bitch is gonna save you, or you gonna hand Fielder over to me?"

Jason Whitehurst stood slowly, squaring his shoulders, looking directly at Leol Reiger's smooth armour helmet. The rip gun followed him up.

"Julia?" Jason Whitehurst asked.

"Still here, Jason. Tell him what you know, it doesn't make any difference. My team will get Fielder, and I don't want you hurt."

"Julia, my dear, Fabian isn't my son, he's my clone, gene-tailored. A sort of an improved version, really. Bit vain, I suppose, but then that's human nature for you. Please look after him for me, there's a dear." He smiled at Leol Reiger. "Lost all round, old chap. Your sort always do."

"You shit," Leol Reiger bellowed.

"Don't," Julia said.

Leol Reiger fired his rip gun. The muzzle was less than a metre away from Jason Whitehurst.

"I shall remember you, Leol Reiger," Julia said. "Do you hear me?"

Leol Reiger blew the last two flatscreens to shards. "Come on, out. I want every cabin searched. Fielder will've gone to ground after all this shooting." He led his squad out of the study.

The subroutine assigned to monitor Nia Korovilla reported that she had entered the MHD chamber.

Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

Julia: "Don't think you can walk out on me, Leol Reiger. Life is not that simple, believe me."

Leol Reiger: "Christ Almighty."

Julia: "Jason Whitehurst was a friend and business colleague."

Leol Reiger: "Piss off, bitch."

Tekmerc eight, female: "How can she plug into our communications like this?"

Julia: "Five million Eurofrancs for the one who kills Leol Reiger."

Leol Reiger: "You're dead, Evans. That's the only way out now. You and me, head on. The rest of you, get into these cabins. And if any of you are thinking of taking her up on that offer, you'd better make sure you get me with one shot. You're dead otherwise."

Tekmerc five: "Hey, come on, get real, Leol. No one's gonna loose off at you."

The 'ware in the redundant MHD chamber was a confusing mess to unravel—a couple of ordinary terminals with custombuilt augmentation modules, music deck, VR gamer gear—and all of it plugged together by a nonstandard web of fibre-optic cable. Julia recognized old hotrod-style programs protecting some of the 'ware cores. It took time to melt through and initiate her own command procedures.

The first coherent input she received was from the cameras. Charlotte Fielder dressed in a white cotton top and shorts being held in an armlock by Nia Korovilla. Julia watched as Nia Korovilla broke two of her fingers. Charlotte's mouth opened in a scream of pain. Unheard; Julia couldn't find the microphone circuits. Fabian Whitehurst was charging at the two women.

Julia turned all of the lightware cruncher's spare capacity to interpreting the den's 'ware. She ordered one camera to zoom in on Nia Korovilla's face; her pupils were dilated; her grip on Fielder looked effortless. The woman was taking some kind of narcotic. Memory correlation assigned the highest probability to cleardust. Korovilla would be quite capable of killing Fabian Whitehurst and Charlotte Fielder with her bare hands.

Charlotte Fielder shoved Fabian Whitehurst away. He stumbled back, swaying for balance.

The den's circuits were defined, operational codes pulled out of the 'ware cores. Julia turned on the mikes, the flatscreens, the music deck speakers.

"Oh God no," Charlotte Fielder cried.

Fabian was getting ready to charge again. There was blood running down his chin.

Julia rammed the music deck volume up full. "Enough of this. Fabian, stay where you are."

The three figures froze in surprise.

Julia activated a visual synthesizer program, plugging it into the flatscreens.

"Julia Evans," Charlotte Fielder gasped.

"Hello, Charlotte. I think it's about time you and I had a talk."

"Not a chance," said Nia Korovilla.

"Your position is not a strong one, Nia," Julia said. "There is a tekmerc squad loose in the gondola, two of my agents survived the Messerschmitt attack, and an Event Horizon security crash team is en route. Whoever you work for, they'll have to fight through all those groups to reach you."

What's happening?" Charlotte Fielder implored. Her beautiful face was screwed up in pain. "What attack?"

"The Colonel Maitland is currently under siege by tekmercs," Julia told her. "You are the target, you possess some unique information which several people would like to obtain."

"Not me, no I don't."

Julia could see the girl was near to cracking up.

"Please, Mrs. Evans," Fabian Whitehurst called. "Tell Nia to let Charlotte go. Please." There were tears trickling down his cheeks, mingling with the blood on his chin, droplets spilling onto his jacket.

Nia Korovilla's free hand moved up to clamp around the back of Charlotte Fielder's neck "That isn't an option."

Internal camera, fuselage keel. The four tekmercs under Frank's command had come up the stairwell from the gondola. They were clumping along in single file, helmets brushing the gasbags. The walkway hadn't been designed for armour suits, arms kept knocking against the hand rails, bending them. The grid mesh was creaking under their weight.

Julia sent out a string of instructions to the maintenance drones, directing them down the fuselage to the tail. They began to slide smoothly along their rails.

Internal camera, fuselage engineering bay. Greg and Suzi were stepping off the ladder on to the walkway that would take them to the MHD chamber. One side of the walkway looked out over the engineering bay, a circular lattice of girders like a metal spiderweb. Massive cylindrical heat exchangers, and chrome-silver giga-conductor cells were cocooned Within it, concentric rings of metal eggs. Cables and thick pipes wound around the girders; the air carrying a steady thrumming from the machinery. On the other side of the walkway was the featureless shallow curve of the main spherical gasbag, ringed by one of the doughnut-shaped bags.

Greg consulted his cybofax. "This is it," he said. "Straight ahead now."

"Right." Suzi's acknowledgement was strained.

Julia called them through the cybofax. "Bad news, the maid, Nia Korovilla, is some kind of hardliner."

"Jesus wept," Suzi said hotly. "Last time I ever take on an Event Horizon deal."

"I'm sorry," Julia said. "I didn't realize what was involved when we started out. The situation is becoming very fluid."

"Fluid," Suzi snorted.

"What about the maid?" Greg asked.

"She's cleardusted, and using Charlotte Fielder as a shield."

"So what do you want us to do?"

"The only viable option is to eliminate her. We cannot risk Fielder; and Korovilla has her hand round Fielder's neck, ready to snap it." Julia squirted the den's camera image into Greg's cybofax.

Suzi craned her neck to look at it. "Not good," she said. "We'll have to go straight in and sharpshoot. Korovilla won't be prepared. Even if someone does come in she won't expect them to fire right off. Everyone takes time to assess a new situation."

"All right," Greg said reluctantly.

"I do it," Suzi said flatly.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. It's what you brought me for. I can shoot straight, I'm familiar with the Browning. And you might hesitate, with her being a woman."

Greg pulled a sour face. "All right."

"OK. Julia, is she carrying?"

"No, not that I can see."

"That's something."

"I'm negotiating," Julia said. "But I can't hold her much longer. And the tekmercs are two minutes behind you. I've arranged a delay, but I can't guarantee how long that'll keep them."

"We're gone," Suzi said. She began to run lightly down the walkway towards the MHD chamber, fifty metres ahead. The camera showed a hard grey fan of light spilling out of its door.

Internal camera, MHD camera. Charlotte Fielder clamped her jaw shut as Nia Korovilla's hand tightened. The skin of her long neck was showing white around the maid's fingers.

"Be logical," Julia urged. "My company's infiltration of the Colonel Maitland's 'ware systems is total. Whatever questions Charlotte answers for you, whatever she says, wherever she is in the airship, we will hear them. There will be no advantage to your backers now. I offer you this: if you release her my security crash team will leave you alone, you may even have free passage to the destination of your choice."

Nia Korovilla gave a guttural laugh. "And I will tell you this. The whore is too valuable for anyone to risk harming her. Except for me, I'll have nothing to lose in a last resort. If anyone, you or the tekmercs, tries to interfere I will break her elegantly crafted little neck."

Julia made her voice austere. "You will not be allowed to leave with her."

"You may not have her; Nia Korovilla growled.

"Stop it!" Fabian Whitehurst wailed. "Stop it, stop it. Let her go. Just let her go." The creases down his cheeks were like an old man's.

"Don't get in anyone's way, Fabian," Charlotte Fielder said, her voice was very faint. "These people won't even notice you."

"I revise my offer," Julia said.

"I'm listening," Nia Korovilla said.

"Contact your backers, we will explain the current situation, and I'll offer them an atomic structuring manufacturing partnership with Event Horizon."

For the first time Nia Korovilla seemed uncertain.

Suzi stepped into the den. Her Browning pistol was held level with her face, one eye closed.

"If you—" Nia Korovilla began. Directly above her left ear a circle of hair one centimetre wide puffed into bright, almost invisible flame, singing the surrounding strands. She fell backwards, knees buckling.

Charlotte Fielder staggered forwards as the grip around her neck and arm was relinquished. She twisted to look at the maid's body, lying with limbs akimbo on the decking. The eyes had rolled back, leaving only the whites showing.

Charlotte Fielder groaned, looking as if she was about to be sick. Then she found Fabian Whitehurst who was staring numbly at the body. They moved into each other's arms, and locked like magnets.

Internal camera, aft fuselage access way. The four tekmercs of Frank's squad had begun to climb the transverse frame ladder up to the midsection of the engineering bay. Eighteen maintenance drones were lined up along the side of the ladder. Another two glided down their rails and stopped.

Julia organized twenty separate drone-handling subroutines inside the lightware crunchers, loaded them with instructions, and plugged each of them into a maintenance drone.

The last tekmerc started up the ladder. The first was still twenty rungs from the midsection walkway.

Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

Tekmerc three: What is it with these drones?"

Tekmerc seven: "Lacey, hey, Lacey, they're in love with you." Kissing sound.

Tekmerc three, identified, Lacey: "Go suck it cold."

Frank: "Come on, let's show some discipline here."

Tekmerc seven: "Hey, this one's moving."

Julia's primary routine initiated the attack, handing over individual drone direction to the assembled subroutines. Welding lasers fired at the muscle armour suits' photon amps. Strut-repair waldos reached out and began drilling through the armour with monolattice carbon bits, aiming for wrist, elbow, ankle, and knee joints. Riveting guns punched metal pins into the jetpacks.

Internal camera, aft fuselage access way. A scene of terrorized chaos; machine versus machine. Metallic humanoids fighting vulpine robotic insects. The tekmercs thrashed and kicked as the drills penetrated; all the while desperately clinging to the ladder. Every time an armour boot hit a drone it would crumple the casing, smashing the hardware and hydraulic systems. Violent movement dislodged the waldos, but they would reach out again instantly, monolattice stingers blurring with speed.

Blood began to seep out of the drill holes, running down the outside of the dark armour. It mingled with hydraulic fluid, slicking the ladder.

The tekmerc below the leader lost his grip, dropping down a metre. He was halted momentarily by three waldos that had punctured the armour, but the force of the jolt ripped their drills free. He fell, rebounding off the fuselage framework, arms and legs flailing madly. Then he hit a clear section of the solar cell envelope head on, tearing straight through.

External camera, aft fuselage keel. The tekmerc was a black pinwheeling doll against the calm blue ocean. Shrinking rapidly. He must have tried to activate his jetpack. Whatever damage the maintenance drones had inflicted, it was drastic. The jetpack erupted into a shower of minute slivers, dismembering the rest of the muscle armour suit.

Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

Tekmerc seven: Continuous unintelligible shout.

Frank: "Leol—the drones, the fucking drones. They've gone mad."

Leol Reiger: "What's happening?"

Frank: Screams. Shouting, "Help us for Christ's sake. It's the drones. They're killing us. Blind. They've blinded me. Can't hold. Oh God, my hands—" Screams.

Tekmerc five: "Holy shit, listen to them, it's likely they're being eaten alive."

Leol Reiger: "Shut up. Everybody, drones are hazards, shoot on sight. That goes for any other piece of mobile hardware. Ian, Keith, Denny, get up to that MHD chamber. Someone doesn't want us there. Help Frank if you can."

Tekmerc eight: "Jesus, Leol."

Leol Reiger: "Just flicking do it. Right? Snuff anything and everybody in your way, but do it. Now move."