Ade O'Donal stood on the cracked ochre flagstones at the shallow end of the pool, white chef's hat drooping miserably, a wooden spatula in his hand. According to Royan's data squirt he was twenty-four, but his sandy hair was already in retreat, both cheeks were sinking, becoming gaunt, his skin was pasty white, reddening from too much sun. He wore an oversized azure cotton shirt speckled by sooty oil spots from the barbecue, and his loud fruit-pattern Bermuda shorts told Greg who had chosen the house's furniture.
O'Donal grinned gormlessly round the faces of his friends as the girls poised ready. Then his eyes met Greg's and froze.
The wooden spatula slashed downwards. "Go," O'Donal shouted. The girls began pummelling at each other, the blows from their saturated pillows sending out clouds of sparkling droplets. Partygoers began cheering again. The blonde in the lemon swimming suit was walking round the pool filling glasses, a magnum clasped in each hand.
The Indian girl clambered out of the pool, cinnamon skin glistening, and shook her long black dreadlocks. She pressed up against O'Donal, her high conical breasts leaving damp imprints on his shirt as she kissed him. He handed her his glass, which she tossed down in one smooth gulp.
O'Donal pushed her away and walked round the pool towards Greg and Gabriel.
They retreated into the lounge. O'Donal followed.
"Are you with someone?" he asked; his voice was firm, ready to deal sternly with gatecrashers.
"We're here to see you, Ade," Greg said.
"This is a private party, pal. Guests only."
"Private party. Big house. Lots of expensive friends. You're coming up in the world, Tentimes," Gabriel said.
O'Donal's jaw muscles hardened. He slid the patio door shut, muting the music and catcalls. Greg sensed the cold apprehension rising in his mind. O'Donal's eyes kept straying to the door leading to the hall.
"Sorry, Tentimes," Greg said. "Your hard case couldn't make it. It's just you and us."
"Will you quit with that handle," O'Donal hissed edgily. "These people don't know who I am."
"What do they think you are?"
"Programmer on a commission to Hansworth Logic." He brightened. "Hey, I never expected you to show in person, y'know. I mean, I don't mind you coming, no way. I just didn't think it was the way you worked. So what is it, you want me to run another burn?"
"You're sweating, Tentimes," said Gabriel. "This is all new to you, isn't it? The high life, money, girls?"
"We'd never have guessed," Greg said, looking pointedly round the lounge.
"Hey, look, what the fuck is this?" O'Donal demanded. "And what have you done to Brune?"
"Don't know, didn't stop to check," said Greg. "What does it matter? Ace hotrod like you can afford plenty more like him."
O'Donal's apprehension now blossomed into outright worry. A little muscle spasm rippled across his bony shoulders.
The pillow fight outside had degenerated into a wrestling match. One girl ripped the bikini top off the other. The spectators whooped approval.
O'Donal licked his lips. "Hey, come on, who are you people?"
"We're from Event Horizon," said Greg.
O'Donal's already pale face blanched still further. "Oh, shit." He took a half step backwards, ready to turn and bolt, then stopped at the sight of the Walther eightshot in Greg's hand.
"You're not used to this, are you, Tentimes?" Gabriel asked with silky insistence. "A solo hotrod, your combat is all mental. Well, this time the feedback is physical. You want my advice? Play ball. Don't annoy us. There are another seven who took part in the blitz. We'll just work down the list until we get some co-operation."
"I didn't have any choice!"
"Tell us about it," Greg suggested. "Downstairs."
"Down? Where?"
"Your terminals," Gabriel said.
"Shit, how…" O'Donal clamped his mouth shut as Greg flicked the Walther's nozzle towards the door.
Out in the hall O'Donal stopped and sniffed the air, then his eyes found the smear of viscous liquid on the tiles. A small pulse of anger coloured his thoughts. "Through here," he said, pointing dully at a recessed door.
"You open it," Gabriel ordered. "Seeing as how it's keyed to your palmprint. I'd hate my colleague to receive that thousand-volt charge."
O'Donal swallowed hard, almost a gulp. As he turned to the door Greg slapped the back of his head, knocking his face against the flaking varnish. The cook's hat fell off.
"Shit!" There was real fear in O'Donal's voice and mind. He looked at them to plead, a bead of blood seeping out of his left nostril. "I wasn't gonna. Honest, shit. I wouldn't have. Shit, you've gotta believe me!"
"Sure," Gabriel crooned.
Behind the hall door were fifteen steps leading down to another door made of bronze-coloured metal. It slid open at O'Donal's voice command.
"Impressive," Gabriel murmured.
The basement had been built as a wine cellar; the stain where the racks had been ripped out were still visible on the rough brick walls. A metal air-conditioning duct which had ensured the bottles were kept at a perfectly maintained temperature ran along the ceiling.
The basement was a hotrod's crypt, now smelling faintly of acetone. There were five terminals sitting on a long pine table, all different makes, each hardwired with customised augmentation modules. Hundreds of memox crystals were stacked neatly on narrow oak shelving. Four big cubes clung to the wall facing the table, two on either side of a long flatscreen which was lit up like a football stadium scoreboard. The Gracious Services circuit, detailing burns in progress, hackers on line, requests, available umpires. Greg searched, and sure enough saw Wildace's name.
"Expensive, too," Greg said. "According to the circuit you've only been solo for six months. Means you've been scoring pretty good, Tentimes. How do you do it?"
"What… what are you going to do to me?"
Greg shoved the Mulekick against the man-black surface of the Hitachi terminal on the table. There was a flat crack as the power tubes discharged. A zillion precious delicate junctions were smelted into worthless cinders. The smell of scorched plastic filled the air.
O'Donal yelped as though he'd received the jolt. "Oh, shit-fire, do you know how much that cost me?" He stared aghast at the ruined Hitachi.
"Don't know, don't care," Greg said indifferently. "Now, where's the money coming from?"
"They give me targets, pay good."
"They?"
"They, him, her, shit I don't know. We've never met."
"Got a name, a handle?"
"Wolf."
"How does Wolf get in touch, through the circuit?"
O'Donal shook his head, eyes blinking rapidly. "No, that's the sting, man. Wolf calls over the phone. Direct! God, you've no idea how bad that trip was the first time. I mean, that's the whole point of the circuit, right? It protects us as individuals, no hassle, no danger. You pay your dues, and you're covered. It's worked that way for twenty goddamn years. Then Wolf comes along and blows it right out of the water. Why me, I mean what did I do?"
"When did Wolf first contact you?" Greg asked patiently.
"'Bout ten months ago."
"But not through the circuit?"
O'Donal glanced from Greg to Gabriel, face screwing up from anger and, strangely, outrage. "It was in a pub! I was having a drink with some mates and the fucking phone goes behind the bar, asking for me by name. Wolf knew who I was, where I was, knew about my burns. That is like the most heavy-duty shit a hotrod can get, y'know."
Greg whistled, intrigued in spite of himself. It'd take good organisation to spring a net like that; money and expertise. And for what? A team of tame hotrods. Who would want that? And more to the point, why? "How does Wolf get in touch now?"
"Call box. I have to check in every three days. Dial a number, just like you do for Gracious Services. If there's a burn in the offing I get run around town for an hour until Wolf's happy I'm not pulling a backtrack."