Vickers got slowly to his feet. When the shooting had started he'd been too shocked to do anything but follow the order to do nothing. On immediate reflection, the best policy seemed to be to go on doing nothing. It was hardly the time to start picking sides. He didn't see how "do nothing" could mean stand around and get shot and he'd dropped to his knees. Beside him, Debbie jacked a fresh clip into her frag gun. She slowly walked forward toward Mossman's tracked wheelchair. Carmen Rainer, Eight-Man and Eggy all did the same. Mossman rolled backward toward the elevator. He'd only travelled a few feet though, before he stopped again as if realizing the futility. The killers were lazily converging on him. Eight-Man shot out the chair's power unit so he couldn't roll again if he wanted to. Inside the bubble his face was sweating. His fat pink lips were working but no sound could be heard. Eight-Man's shot had also taken out the speakers through which Mossman communicated with the outside world.
Carmen Rainer aimed a frag blast straight into Mossman's bloated, blue-swathed body. The effect was like a wave in a waterbed. The material stopped the slivers of metal but it couldn't absorb the close-up blast. Debbie and Eggy also fired. Mossman was being pulped inside his own, bulletproof suit. Blood spurted up into the helmet with each burst and then subsided again. The material simply wouldn't split.
Mossman was so plainly dead that the four assassins lowered their guns. For long seconds they stared at the grotesque corpse. Eight-Man shook his head, turned and started walking to where the living were waiting. The other three followed. The woman had stopped screaming, the ambient sound had been turned off, even the showgirl had stopped her sobbing. It was a terrible silence. Even the normal background groans and rumbles, the enclosed sounds of the bunker, seemed to have been stilled. Then a flock of birds erupted from a tree with a clatter of wings. Everyone flinched.
Vickers lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. Again he couldn't sleep. It was all becoming too dangerously confusing. What had always been thought of as impossible had been achieved. The president of Global Leisure had been slain and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. Why had Mossman come to the bunker? What had induced him to change a ten-year habit and leave the stronghold of his Las Vegas penthouse domes? The thoughts went round and round in his head and kept coming back without acceptable answers, back to the same single imponderable. What the hell was going to happen next? How did Lloyd-Ransom expect to hold the bunker after this? They'd surely send in an army to get him. The corporations would forget their differences until they had his head on a spike. Unfortunately the entire security group, everyone who'd been there, would finish up with their heads on slightly lower poles. Even the bunker wasn't enough of a hiding place for the killers of Herbie Mossman. Vickers began to sweat. He wanted a drink. He wanted a cigarette but somehow he couldn't move. Most of all he wanted out. He couldn't believe that he'd walked into this mess of his own free will. He didn't even understand what was going on. What did Lloyd-Ransom, even dressed up like Hermann Goering, expect to gain by killing Herbie Mossman? Again he was asking why and getting no answers.
A thought occurred to him. There was one way that he might walk out of here. If he already had Lloyd-Ransom's head-and Lutesinger's as well-when the forces of retribution arrived, he'd be the automatic good guy. It might be his only chance. Now the question had become: how?
There was a commotion in the group's common room. Eggy was bellowing and there were other voices. Vickers sat bolt upright. What the hell was going on? A cold fear wrenched his gut. Had they come to cover their tracks? Was this the point of the whole charade? Had they been brought here only to finalize Mossman and now they were going to be greased themselves? The door of his cubicle was kicked open. A soldier with red and yellow tabs on his uniform and a Neanderthal expression on his face pointed a machine pistol at him.
"All right you! Out! Out! Move it!"
He had one of those hysterical, robot voices that are so favored by the military. Vickers hadn't seen the red and yellow tabs before. What were they supposed to mean? The best thing was to do what he was told. There really wasn't any viable alternative. He couldn't quite believe that he'd come all this way just to be concluded as a track-covering afterthought, but he still had to fight down a gagging fear. There were guns all over the common room, more of the mushroom uniforms with the red and yellow tabs. Each brandished a machine pistol. The others of the group had been herded to one end of the common room. Eggy simply smouldered but Fenton, Debbie and Parkwood all had a strained, wide-eyed look that seemed to indicate they too had considered the possibility that this unasked-for night visit might end in an execution. Vickers tried a piece of token bravado.
"What about a drink?"
It didn't do him any good. It didn't even make him feel better. The soldier who'd dragged him out of his cubicle grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved.
"Over with the others."
The shove sent him stumbling into Fenton. Side by side, the five of them eyed the soldiers and the guns that they were pointing at them. Eggy's breathing was noisily audible. It sounded like he was stewing from within. Fenton shook his head.
"I really don't want to think about this."
There was a commotion of stamping boots outside the door and a general stiffening of the soldiers in the room. The ones nearest quickly backed away as a dog handler was pulled into the room by three Dobermans. The sudden arrival of Lloyd-Ransom's dogs put a different emphasis on what was happening. Was he coming here to watch the execution or had they totally misread the situation? While they were still wondering, Anthony Lloyd-Ransom himself strolled through the door of their unit with one hand in the pocket of his immaculate uniform jodphurs. He was a picture of studied casualness as he paused to light a cigarette. He surveyed the five with a half smile.
"My chaps seem to have scared you people shitless."
Vickers realized that he couldn't hear Eggy breathing any more. He was quite surprised when Parkwood spoke up.
"It looked uncannily like an execution for a few moments just now."
Vickers had to hand it to him. Parkwood's voice was calm and even. He'd almost managed to sound unconcerned. Lloyd-Ransom seemed quite delighted.
"What on earth gave you the idea that I'd have you executed? I've put in a lot of time, trouble and expense to put this team together. It would hardly be rational."
It was Vickers' turn.
"Didn't things get a little irrational earlier?"
Lloyd-Ransom looked round at him with an expression of pleasant surprise. It was as though he was enjoying the spirit his hired guns were exhibiting.
"I'm sorry, what did you mean by that?"
Vickers began to get angry. It was as if Lloyd-Ransom placed them on the same level as his damned Dobermans.
"The murder of Herbie Mossman."
"You didn't find it rational?"
"The logic of it escapes me."
"Maybe you don't know all the facts."
"That's quite usual round here."
"In any case, you went along with it."
Vickers grimaced.
"That's all I did. I never fired a shot."
Lloyd-Ransom loosed a short, clipped laugh.
"That's just as well for you. The first round in your clip was an explosive charge. If you'd fired your gun, it would have cut you into two very messy halves."
Vickers was incredulous.
"What?"
"Just a little loyalty test. Technically, you're still under contract to Global."