The Nano Flower

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The arcade was cut seventy metres directly into Hyde Cavern's southern endcap; there was no moving walkway, just a broad floor of green and red stone tiles.

Hard cavernlight shone through a rosette of stained glass above the entrance, casting a colourful dapple over the shoppers milling near by. Big shiny brass fans spun slowly above the hanging biolum globes, circulating the air. It was cool, quiet and relaxing.

The small shops reminded Charlotte of the ones she had toured in Rodeo Drive, exclusive and exquisite. If they had a fault, it was the sheer monotony of tastefulness; everything blended, colours and shapes. It would be so easy to get sucked in. Designers had built their reputations on those interiors. Some of the names were familiar. Parent companies treating New London as a prestige showcase. After all, there were a lot of their clientele who came up here for casinos and low-gravity hotels, simply for the cachet of having left Earth. But seeing a 300k.p.h. Lotus Commodore for sale in a space colony that didn't even have roads appealed to her sense of the ridiculous.

She walked past the car showroom window, almost smiling. Teresa Farrow, her bodyguard from the crash team, gave the streamlined, royal-purple sports car a fast glance, shaking her head. There was something about the hardline woman, a sort of vagueness, which convinced Charlotte she was another psychic. Her mind vigilant on some unknown level, alert for trouble.

But she hadn't objected when Charlotte said she wanted to come down to the arcade. It was practically underneath the Governor's Residence anyway.

The American Express office was halfway down the arcade on the right. Charlotte pushed the glass door open, walking straight into the reception area. It looked like the office of some ancient legal partnership, dark wood panels and shiny red leather chairs.

"You're going to think me terribly silly," she said, in her gushy voice, to the uniformed girl behind the desk. "But I left my card on Earth. I must have forgotten it when I changed into my shipsuit."

The girl smiled brightly. "That's quite all right, madam. We're here to help."

Obtaining a replacement didn't take long. A data construct to fill out. A thumbprint check, the company's memory core on Earth confirming she was who she said she was, that she had an account with them. Cancelling her original card, wherever it was by now. Being nibbled by perplexed fish, presumably.

Two minutes later she was back out in the arcade, heading for a Toska's store she had noticed earlier. It had fluffy white carpets, purple marble pillars, huge gilt-framed mirrors, a thousand choices. And best of all the assistants understood, they knew the best ranges for her age group, what suited her hair and figure.

She sat on the ashgrove chair sipping a mineral water, and watched the life-sized hologram of herself as it ran through permutations—tops, trousers, shorts, skirts. The assistants made suggestions about colours, possible accessories.

She wound up taking a body-hugging top with a modest neck line, made out of cloned snakeskin. The material was dry and thin, but stretched like rubber, its grey and cream scales had a wonderful mart shine, and it was so soft. The hologram flicked through a catalogue of skirts and shorts, and she chose a cornflower-blue mid-thigh skirt to match. It was a sportsy combination, light enough for Hyde Cavern and showing off without posing. Consummate, she decided; Baronski would have been proud, God bless him. Just looking at herself in the mirror was a heady boost. Her life righting itself again. It was a shame about having to wear tights, the skirt was great for her legs; but running round the Colonel Maitland had given her a lot of scratches and not all of the dermal seal had flaked off.

She paid with her new Amex, adding a pair of Ferranti shades as a last thought. The appalling shipsuit went into a Toska's bag, and she carried it out into the arcade, resisting the temptation to leave it behind.

Back in the arcade she looked longingly at an Arden salon, wishing she had time to do something about her hair, the cap had simply killed it dead. Tomorrow, she promised herself.

It was ten past three when Charlotte got back to her room in the Governor's Residence. Suzi's room was on one side, Rick Parnell's on the other. Thankfully there was no one about to see her. It wasn't that Greg had forbidden her from going out, but the implication was there. The sensation as the door closed behind Teresa Farrow was reminiscent of the one she used to have sneaking out of the care home, a giddy relief.

Her room had black and green walls, an elaborate jungle print; the Scandinavian furniture was cut from redwood and left unvarnished, giving it a raw feel. The paradise birds in the large white cage by the balcony doors started to shrill wildly.

Charlotte blew them a kiss and picked up her flight bag from the bed. "Just going to clean up," she told Teresa Farrow, and skipped into the bathroom.

She was in two minds whether or not to call Fabian. She felt as though she was exploiting him, deliberately abusing his grief to help her achieve her revenge. But when she had suggested they get even with the Dolgoprudnensky, the two of them alone in their room at the platform's clinic, she'd seen that insouciant spark return. The prospect of retribution had animated him. It wasn't the sort of hope she particularly wanted to see in him, but it was hope of a kind. And that number-cruncher brain of his had rapidly cooked up several possible scenarios. She'd made suggestions of her own, helping to refine and fine-tune the idea. But now the time had come to actually commit herself, doubts were rising.

No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy. More than one of her patrons had told her that; surprising how many of them were ex-military. And this wasn't something they'd ever have a second chance at. It had to work first time.

It was risky.

Charlotte raised her hand, the bioware sheath was like a two-fingered glove, flesh coloured; there was a constant warm itch underneath. No, she couldn't forget what Nia Korovilla had done, what she'd been ordered to do, and by whom.

She put the seat down on the toilet, sat on it, and unzipped her flight bag. Below the Levi's and neatly folded Organic Flux Capacity sweatshirt was her gold Amstrad cybofax. Heaven alone knew how the wafer had stayed inside her shorts pockets while she was charging around the Colonel Maitland, but there it was, the only possession she had left that was truly hers.

She entered Fabian's personal number, then ran the scrambler program. The Amstrad's screen fuzzed with static, then stabilized to show Fabian's face. He was smiling nervously.

"Crikey, Charlotte, I thought you were never going to call. Anastasia docked an hour ago."

"I've been busy."

"Any sign of the alien?"

"No, none. We're going to go out looking for my Celestial priest in quarter of an hour."

"Oh. Well, good luck."

"Thanks."

"Are we going to do it?"

"Yes, Fabian, we're doing it."

"Terrific! Switch to conference mode and call Kirilov. Have you still got the number?"

"Yes," she said with some exasperation.

She pulled the number he'd given her from the cybofax's memory, and entered it in the phone circuit. The Amstrad's screen split in two, Fabian on one side, the other remained blank.

"Yes?" a male voice asked, a heavy Slav accent.

"We want to speak with Mr. Kirilov," Fabian said.

"There is nobody of that name here."

Fabian flipped his hair aside impatiently. "Rubbish. Tell Pavel Kirilov that it's Fabian Whitehurst and Charlotte Fielder calling."

Names put a coolness in her belly, names meant there was no going back. And she was pretty sure Pavel Kirilov wouldn't be happy discovering his identity was being bandied about.

A man's face appeared on the cybofax screen. She studied him closely. There was nothing exceptional about him, late forties or early fifties, thinning hair, gaunt cheeks, in fact—she almost smiled—the man bore a more than superficial resemblance to Lenin.

Pavel Kirilov gave them a tight-lipped smile. "So, it is you, young Fabian. You've grown, I think, since we met last. And Miss Fielder, of course, I recognize you from your picture. May I say how glad I am you both survived the Colonel Maitland crash. The reports I received on the incident were most confused."

"My father's dead," Fabian said.

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. He was a valued client."

"And I inherit everything."

Pavel Kirilov inclined his head. "Indeed."

"So I want to carry on with the timber shipments, and the ship charters from Odessa. Just like before. The company agents will handle the details."

"That's very astute of you, Fabian. I'm sure we can come to some arrangement with your father's estate."

"Good."

"May I ask you how you escaped from the Colonel Maitland?"

"I have friends," Fabian said. He smirked.

Charlotte hoped Fabian's confidence wasn't going to overload his prudence. Perhaps she should've insisted on dealing with Kirilov by herself. Too late now.

"I see." Pavel Kirilov pulled at his lower lip. "Well, as long as you're safe now."

"I want to do a deal," Fabian said.

"What sort of deal, Fabian?" Pave! Kirilov asked.

"We know where the alien is."

"Which alien is this?"

"Nia Korovilla is dead as well," Charlotte said. She caught Pavel Kirilov throwing a glance at someone off-camera.

"You seem remarkably well informed, Miss Fielder."

"I've picked up a lot in the last few years I've spent working for you, Mr. Kirilov."

She was surprised when all Pavel Kirilov did was laugh. "I'm afraid that I know where the alien is as well. But I thank you for your offer."

"No, you don't," said Fabian. "You just know the contact point is New London. Only Charlotte knows exactly where the flower came from."

"I have all the information I require," Pavel Kirilov said.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Really sure? Remember, we already knew that you know the flower was handed over to me in New London. Why would we phone if that was all you needed? The fact is, you require a lot more data if you want to find the alien."

Pavel Kirilov hesitated. "This additional data, you are offering to sell it?"

"No, we're offering you a partnership."

"In what?"

"In atomic structuring technology. We secure the construction data for a nuclear force generator. You market it to a kombinate as you originally intended. And we take a percentage. Simple."

Pavel Kirilov patted his hands together in front of his face. "My God, a child and a—You really know what you're talking about, don't you?"

"You got it," Fabian said triumphantly.

"Are you interested?" Charlotte asked. She was jamming her knees together to stop her legs from shaking. "If not, we can always call Event Horizon or Clifford Jepson, offer them the generator data."

"What sort of percentage?" Pavel Kirilov asked impassively.

"Five. And as a guarantee, Fabian and I are to be named on the patent application which you and the kombinate file."

"I'm interested. No doubt you have devised a foolproof method of handover."

"Yes. We're up in New London now."

Pavel Kirilov raised his eyebrows. "You have the generator data already?"

"We'll provide it for you," she said. "But it does have to be you, in person. No one else. I don't mean come alone or anything."

"How very gratifying."

"We have our own hardliners with us. So we'll meet here, on neutral territory, and we'll explain how we want to handle the actual transfer." She held her breath.

Pavel Kirilov gave her a reluctant nod. "Baronski would be pleased to see the way you've turned out. You're a credit to him, Miss Fielder, if not to me. Where exactly in New London do you wish to meet me? Should I wear a carnation in my lapel, knot my tie in a certain fashion?"

She tried to ignore the sarcasm, but there was a lot of weight behind it; one of the largest crime lords in Europe focusing on her. Displeased.

"The more important they think themselves, the greater the disdain they feel they must show," Baronski had told her. "They can only intimidate you if you allow yourself to believe in this charade. None of it is real, they are acting. Imagine yourself as a channel critic and watch for the flaws in their performance."

Charlotte said nothing.

"Well?" Pavel Kirilov asked.

He wanted to know, he needed them. God bless you, Dmitri, she wished silently. "Phone me exactly one hour before you dock," she said. "I will tell you where to wait, you may bring up to four hardline bodyguards for your personal safety. But if you phone after you arrive, if you send someone else in your place, if there are more than four hardliners, then the deal is off."

"Very well, Miss Fielder, Fabian. I agree."

"All right!" Fabian grinned.

"But. If you are unable to provide me with the generator data, or if you try and sell the data to my rivals, then you will wish you had stayed on board the Colonel Maitland. Do I make myself clear? This is not a game. If you genuinely know what is going on, you will understand this."

"We understand," Charlotte said.

"Good. I shall make arrangements for a flight, expect me within six hours." His image disappeared from the Amstrad's screen.

Charlotte's muscles felt drained, her palms were damp and sticky.

Fabian was laughing like a mad thing. "What a team! What a team! We did it, we nailed the bastard." His face jiggled about on the screen.

"Oh, Christ," she murmured. The enormity of what she'd done was beginning to register.

"What's the matter? It's over. We did it. We won!"

"It's only just started, Fabian."

"Rubbish, stupid. He's on his way. That's all we needed. Once he's phoned you and confirmed he's docking, we'll tell Julia Evans." His lip curled up. "She'll have to act then. There's no way she'll allow Kirilov into New London, not with you and the alien and that Royan chap all up there together. And there Pavel Kirilov will be, in a spaceship, all alone. A sitting duck. I mean, do you know what kind of Strategic Defence weapons they've got up there?"

"No, Fabian, I don't."

"Hundreds and hundreds; masers, lasers, particle beams; and everyone knows Julia's got her own electron-compression warheads too. Ten megatons apiece. Scrunch! She'll dissect him."

Trust Fabian to know about heavy duty weaponry, something in the male make-up drew them to it. Small boys and shiny warplanes went hand in hand, big boys too, come to that. "And then us, I should think," she said quickly.

"Oh come on, Charlotte. We're doing her a favour. You heard her say she'd hunt Kirilov down afterwards. Well, we've gone and saved her all the trouble. We've given him to her on a plate. And she won't be able to shirk off this time. All she has to do now is give one order, and Kirilov is a cloud of hot atoms."