The shrug was audible. “Hey, it’s traditional to blow up a major London landmark on Fawkes’ Night. Besides, I jus’ laid the charges. Ol’ Bobby Pilgrim set it off.”
Lugan stared at Fuller. “Our stalker trashed...” He glanced at the drones, but they paid him no attention. The crowd was thinning, now. “Our stalker jus’ trashed Robert Pilgrim?”
Fuller snorted. “World’ll be a better place if you ask me.” He nodded at the last of the walking workers. “Look at these poor bastards –”
“Not the fuckin’ point!” Over their aural link, Lugan went on, This nutter must be wanted by every security agency in – !
A cloaked figure dropped into the light.
He was small, slight, as strong as coiled steel wire. His skin and cloak were dappled a shadowy, shifting blue-grey. As he put back his cowl with one thin hand, Fuller gasped, Lugan swore softly. Neither man was a stranger to cybernetic enhancement, but they had never seen anything like this.
This couldn’t be human.
The little man’s face was savage, sharp cheeked and gleeful. His skin was the same dark mottle – it seemed to be actually part of his flesh. Across it slashed a nightmare sneer – a black-lipped, black-toothed grin. But his eyes...
Black, blacker than pits, featureless and soulless, too large for his thin face. They were inhuman, alien – reminiscent of too many horror movies. Somewhere in their depths, there was the cold, blue glitter of an optical scan.
Even as the men stared, the skin-mottle was changing. Seeping, spreading. In a moment, it had flowed to the greys and reds of the surrounding buildings, the blue flicker of the distant laser show. Camouflaged perfectly against his background, the little man was almost impossible to see. Belatedly, Lugan tried his ocular heatseeker, tried to see weaponry and cybernetics; somehow he was not surprised when the man had no visible body temperature.
“You’re the ‘Ecko’,” Fuller said.
“The ‘G’ is silent.” The sprite grin was pure malice. He was a flicker, a fragment of nightmare; his empty black eyes as cold as blades. There was no mercy in his smile. “Last night... was a little ‘illustration’ –”
“You lookin’ for attention?” Lugan said. “Or you lookin’ for bidders?”
The face turned from Lugan to Fuller and back.
“Maybe I’m lookin’ for asylum.”
“No shit.” Lugan said.
“You’re killin’ me. Look, you’re kinda infamous round here – most bad guys know to stay outta your face. Take me in – turn me in. I’m the fuckin’ phantom fireworker and y’got me cold – whatcha gonna do?”
Fuller? Profile? Lugan said.
Tamarlaine Benjamin Gabriel, aka the ‘Ecko’. Age: 32. Address: no fixed abode; suspected tunnel rat, Southwark area. No smartcard on record, no PIN. Criminal record: street-kid stuff; nothing after age 17. Collator says that, as of 19:00 hours, no one is yet wanted in connection with last night’s explosion.
But Bob fuckin’ Pilgrim, for gawdsakes! Lugan said.
Tell the Boss we’ve got Pilgrim’s nemesis – it’s a major blow to them, Lugan, big kudos.
Big risk, y’mean. If ’e gets found...
He’s just the ‘Echo’. He’s got no criminal record to speak of – he doesn’t get found!
Unless he wants to be?
Self-evident. Fuller glanced at his commander and shrugged.
Lugan pulled out a dog-end. He stuck it between his lips, paused for a moment and spat it out again. From somewhere across the river, the laser show danced on the glowering clouds.
It began to rain, drops of fat, filthy water.
“All right, all right, I’ll speak to the Boss,” Lugan said. “You, us, here, same time, tomorrow. And gimme back my lighter!”
Ecko tilted his head, his attention flicked from one man to the other and his black grin remained. “Do your research, guys. Then here. Tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you going to tell us to come alone? No tricks?” Fuller asked.
With a snort, Ecko slid his hood back into place. “You try whatever you like.” He took a pace away, two; the chrome glint of Lugan’s lighter held in his hand. “But I’m keepin’ your kit – you get it back if you play nice.” He flicked a flame, like a farewell.
As Lugan blinked to clear the rain from his eyes, the little man was gone – faded into the London night until only the fire remained.
Just an echo.
PART 1: IMPACT
1: TO BE A PILGRIM
THE BIKE LODGE AND THE BOSS’S OFFICE, LONDON
Through the single grubby window in the Bike Lodge office, the sky was a thunderous black. It was still early spring, but the London weather was close and stifling, and it was making Lugan tetchy.
On the old couch, Fuller had long since fallen asleep. Still in his habitual battered suit, he was curled round his laptop as if he couldn’t bear to let it go. He was snoring, gently and sweetly, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Both men had been working through the night, systematically digging for obscure information, but for all their spade work, they were no closer to realising a decision. Ecko had been with them for three months, his probation was nearing its end, and Lugan still didn’t know which way he was going to jump. The little bugger was invaluable, had skills that surpassed the Boss herself, but he was about as reliable as a... Oh for fuck’s sake, Lugan was getting too tired for creativity.
Wincing, the cell commander took his glasses off, laid them on the desktop and then tipped his chair back to stretch the kinks from his shoulders. Tendons crunched, and he swore.
Bloody Pilgrim, Lugan thought, all the tricks they’ve pulled in the last ten years, all the bullshit they’ve promised, the new fuckin’ world they’ve built, they could at least have done something about my vision, about the old road wounds that still gimme gyp in the cold.
Nah. Fuckers. We know what their priorities’ve been...
Searching his pockets for a dog-end, he slammed the chair back onto all fours and Fuller started awake, blinking.
“What? What? What’s the time?”
“Half one?” Lugan patted another pocket. “An’ I ain’t no closer, mate. If I’m gonna make the Boss listen, I need more than old-school biker loyalty and all that bollocks – I need facts.” He patted the pocket again. Stood up. Patted the pockets in his jeans. Turned to his battered leather, hung on the back of the chair, and patted the pockets in that, too.
He’d been working sixteen hours, and he was not in the mood for this.
“On the other ’and, I could just let her shoot the little bastard.” Sending the old desk scraping backwards with a hefty shove, Lugan slammed the office door open and bellowed, “Ecko? Ecko! Bring me back my fucking lighter or I’ll wring your fucking neck!”
Fuller groaned and sat up.
Outside the office door, the big, open floor of the Bike Lodge was silent, the roller door shut and locked down. Metal shelving and skeletal frames made odd shadows on the oil stains, the current chop-job watched them from its one lidless and lightless eye.
Half expecting Ecko’s characteristic cackle to come from somewhere in the ceiling, or from down among the bikes themselves, Lugan was disconcerted to find the shop as quiet as the proverbial grave. Over his shoulder, he said, “Get the kettle on, willya?”