Pelquin's Comet (16 page)

He left the window and moved further into the hotel’s spacious lobby, taking a seat at an empty table that was still in sight of the main door. After brief indecision he placed an order via the table tender; opting for a white wine – both label and grape variety were unfamiliar to him, but the menu promised a wine ‘crisp and dry with light citrus overtones’. The ‘citrus’ gave slight cause for concern – it was so often code for ‘overly acidic’ – but nothing else on offer appealed to him.

De Souza never had been the most patient of men. It was a failing, one that he recognised and had learned to accommodate in the course of his life. In fact, his tolerance of fools and their incompetence seemed to lessen with each passing year. From the moment they first met, De Souza had sensed in Archer a prime candidate for failure. So few individuals
ever
managed to live up to expectations.

However, he was willing to be proven wrong, so had given the banker the benefit of the doubt and granted him considerable leeway; a privilege that was fast disappearing. To date, Archer had shown few signs of exceeding that initial damning assessment, despite the man coming highly recommended, which just went to prove how low some people’s standards must be.

It was Archer, for example, who had brought them to Newton Four, where, contrary to his confident predictions, they had found neither hint nor rumour of the
Comet
and its crew.

The wine arrived. Another disappointment. The very first sip told him that it lacked the promised crispness and, as feared, was too acidic. He took a second taste from the delicate crystal glass – the vessel being of far higher quality than its content – which confirmed the assessment.

He placed the glass down, in no hurry to pick it up again.

On the surface, de Souza was calmness personified, but inwardly he was seething. Evidently this was the finest hotel in town, which said much about the town. He doubted this establishment would have made the top one hundred on New Sparta… or indeed the top thousand.

At that moment Archer arrived, accompanied by a gust of wind and a flurry of rain as he paused to collapse the energy shield of his umbrella. De Souza didn’t acknowledge him, not at once, watching from the corner of his eye as the banker paused to stow the stubby handle of the umbrella in his jacket pocket.

He was wearing a suit, for goodness’ sake; even on a God-forsaken planet like this and in the incessant rain. That said it all, really.

Archer spotted him and headed over. De Souza glanced across to the next table, where his bodyguard, Gant – a solid, shaven-headed powerhouse of a man – waited with two other slabs of hired muscle, and gave him a subtle nod. Gant knew Archer and probably wouldn’t have intervened, but it never hurt to be certain. De Souza didn’t get up as the banker arrived – that would have shown too much respect. Instead he simply raised his eyebrows and said, “Well?”

“They definitely haven’t been here.” Archer said. “I don’t understand it. This is the obvious choice. Newton Four is by far the most industrialised option available to them. Logic says they
had
to come here.”

De Souza dropped his gaze to avoid craning his neck. The banker’s trousers were darker at the bottom, he noted, presumably soaked through courtesy of water splashed up from puddles by hurrying feet. Shame. “Perhaps they fixed the work of your saboteur themselves and didn’t need to stop off in order to effect repairs,” he said.

“No,” and Archer shook his head. “I studied the crew files. With the mechanic, Palmer, out of the way, they don’t have anyone capable of diagnosing a drive problem let alone fixing it. They’d have to set down or risk being stranded, and Drake would never countenance a gamble of that sort.”

“Then clearly they must have gone somewhere
else
.” De Souza didn’t care how much irritation showed in his voice.

Archer nodded, apparently oblivious to any hint of criticism. “Babylon,” he said. “That’s where they’ve gone. It’s the only plausible alternative. Still doesn’t make much sense them passing over Newton Four, but it
has
to be Babylon.”

At last, an excuse to leave this inferior hotel with its pretentions of grandeur. The single night’s stay he’d been forced to endure had been more than enough for one lifetime. It reminded de Souza of how precarious a word ‘hotel’ was: never more than a single letter away from ‘hovel’.

“Babylon…” He nodded, having heard of the place but never been. “Very well, Babylon it is. Let’s hope you’re right this time.”

“I am, don’t worry.”

De Souza made no comment. It wouldn’t be a disaster if they failed to pick up the
Comet
’s trail, but he’d feel a lot happier once they managed to. If Babylon didn’t pan out, he would have to consider cutting Archer loose. A pity, since the man represented a considerable investment in time and money – cultivating an insider within First Solar Bank didn’t come cheap – but there was little point in pouring good money after bad.

Consciousness returned to Drake in stages. To begin with his head felt so fragile that moving didn’t seem a particularly good idea, but at least he managed to open his eyes and take stock, realising that he was in a room, on a bed. Not the softest of beds perhaps, but it beat the ground any day. To his right, pushed to one side as if to keep it out of the way but on hand if needed, was a bulky, cumbersome unit that might have been a Medidoc, albeit an old and outdated model. Associations tumbled into place one after the other. He was in an infirmary, on a ship, comet class:
Pelquin’s Comet
, it had to be. He felt remarkably unconcerned about how he came to be here and benefited from a general sense of well-being; nothing as strong as euphoria, but he was definitely a few steps along the road to that joyous state. Drugs, obviously. Evidently the good doctor hadn’t managed to consume
all
the supplies, retaining enough to use on a patient or two at least.

He started to sit up and his head protested; a detached, almost muffled stab of pain. His questing fingers felt the smooth tightness of a plaskin patch on his right temple, just below the hairline, and he found another on his left arm.

Welcome back
, said a familiar presence. Mudball squatted on the pillow beside an indentation that presumably marked where his head had been.

You’re lucky I didn’t squash you.

Trust me, there was no luck involved,
the diminutive alien assured him.

The pain was still there, but it remained a dull and distant thing, squatting somewhere towards the front of his head and, on the whole, perfectly manageable.

How did I get back here?

You’ve got Leesa to thank for that. She beat off the rest of the street louts and then called the ship. Doc and Bren came to fetch you.

The doc’s back from the hospital, then?

Obviously.

Drake was a little surprised that Leesa had enough foresight even to know
how
to contact the ship, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been.

What didn’t surprise him was the speed with which the good doctor appeared at his bedside, Pelquin at his heels. After all, it would have been remiss not to have some sort of monitor or alarm set up to alert them when the patient regained consciousness.

Doc fussed. “You shouldn’t be sitting up.” But the protest was at best half-hearted, spoken from a sense of duty rather than concern. Doc was the one crewmember Drake had yet to get a handle on, perhaps because this was the person he had spent the least amount of time with, but there was something very private about Ahmed Bariha. Here was a man who didn’t court attention or company. That in itself made him a rarity aboard this ship.

“How’s Monkey doing?”

The doc looked surprised at the question, presumably expecting his patient to be focused entirely on his own health. “He’ll live,” he said; good news – it might at least brighten Bren’s mood. “Though he’ll need some time to recuperate,” the doc added.

The
Comet
’s proprietor appraised the banker thoughtfully. “So, you couldn’t stay out of trouble, huh?”

“I didn’t have much say in the matter.”

“The local pols have sent a PoD over to interview you.”

Drake closed his eyes. “Really?” This was all too tedious. He’d gained the impression that gang violence was hardly a novelty in La Gossa and was surprised that a scuffle like this even warranted the assignment of a drone. Unless the incident had been reported by someone, of course, in which case he supposed they’d have to react. Surely Leesa hadn’t… No, of course not; he dismissed the thought immediately. There was no way she would risk drawing that sort of attention to herself.

“Yeah,” Pelquin said. “I guess they have to be seen to react, what with you being from off world. The thing is, if they insist on going through the motions, so must we.”

Drake could hardly argue. “Doc, can you give me something to help clear my head?” Whatever painkillers and sedatives the doc had dosed him with had left his head stuffed with the mental equivalent of cotton wool – fine for cosseting against pain but not so helpful for alert responses when questioned by the police.

“You ought to rest, give your body a chance to recover,” Doc said.

“No doubt, but it appears that’s not an option right now.”

Bariha sighed. “Very well.”

The doc produced a white hypo-pen, touched a control on its side and pressed it against Drake’s neck. “That should give you an hour or so,” he said. “After that, the effects will fade rapidly and the sedative will take over once more.”

“An hour should be fine,” Drake assured him, hoping the interview wouldn’t last that long.

“The PoD’s in the galley,” Pelquin said as Drake got up. “It was busy taking the new engineer’s statement when I left. Should be ready for you any time now, I’d reckon.”

PoDs, or Police Drones, came in all shapes and sizes, their level of sophistication equally as varied. Drake was guessing La Gossa’s law enforcers wouldn’t have top of the range models at their disposal. He’d fooled PoDs before, though not lately. Still, it was only a
little
lie he would have to tell; for the most part he could be as honest as the day was long. Assuming, that is, the PoD didn’t ask him if he had any reason to suspect the attack was anything other than random. He saw again that exchange between the two kids – the nudge and the nod; the very things he now had to forget all about.

Don’t worry, you’ll be fine
, Mudball assured him.

You can influence a PoD then?

No idea.

Great, thanks for the reassurance.

Despite sharing so much with the alien, he had never discovered the limits of Mudball’s abilities. Proximity was certainly a factor, but defining parameters was another matter entirely. Still, he was learning all the time. Did he trust Mudball? As much as he trusted anybody; but that was hardly a glowing commendation.

Leesa was just leaving the galley as he arrived. She looked a little flustered, and favoured him with a thin smile as he stood aside to let her past, as if to indicate she was glad to see him back on his feet. It was the closest to a friendly gesture he’d yet received from her. Presumably the fight had brought them closer in her eyes, even if he had spent the closing stages unconscious.

The PoD waited by one of the tables, hovering a little above the floor. A squat and irregular elongated bubble of a drone, like a giant bullet; it bore blue and silver livery to denote its allegiance to local law enforcement. If ever a machine could be said to look tired, this one did. Its shell was scratched and tarnished, showing several small dents and at least one scorch mark. Here was a unit due an overhaul.

“Ah, Mr Drake, please sit down.” At least the voice, a woman’s, sounded bright and clear.

“I should warn you that I’ve been dosed with sedatives and painkillers,” he said, “so apologies if my answers are a little… woolly.”

“Duly noted. This won’t take long.”

Nor did it. The questions were direct and few in number, dealing with factual matters without asking him to conjecture on the motive for the attack. This wasn’t an interview conducted in the hope of actually identifying any perpetrators but merely for the sake of form.

As he left the galley, Drake couldn’t help ask,
was that your doing
?

No
, Mudball replied.
I didn’t need to interfere at all. Not sure I could have done without being obvious in any case
.

Another useful titbit to be filed away. He had grown to accept the bond between Mudball and himself. At first he’d been far from comfortable with another presence inside his own head, but he soon discovered how adaptable humankind can be; a case of familiarity breeding contempt, perhaps. It meant that he never fully relaxed – never completely let his guard down. But even this was something he’d grown used to, to the extent where he began to think of the situation as ‘normal’; though, deep down, he knew it was anything but.

The most disturbing aspect of this strange symbiosis was that he didn’t really know what Mudball
was
. A leftover, the survivor of a client species that had been tasked with watching over the Elder cache where Drake first encountered him; the lingering afterthought of a long-vanished civilisation; that was how Mudball tended to explain himself. Yet there were so many topics about which the alien was unfailingly evasive: what the Elder civilisation had been like, the nature of the Elders themselves, what had become of them, even how old he was:
how the hell should I know? I’ve been sealed up in a crypt for God knows how many centuries – you really think time has any significance for me?

If life was passing you by while you were stuck in there, then yes, I’d have thought that
would
be significant.

Humans!
Mudball had become adept at conveying contempt when he wanted to.

One thing Drake did know was that he would have died in that cache if not for Mudball, which earned the little alien considerable leeway. If the chirpy little being that had just saved his life wanted to see the universe, why not? It made sense that a newly liberated intelligence would want to experience the civilisation that had sprung up in the wake of the one he’d known, and Drake sympathised with his saviour not wanting to become a test subject, a lab rat, an imprisoned zoo exhibit, which would have been Mudball’s inevitable fate if his existence became known. So Drake agreed to become his host, to hide him, pass him off as a pet, and in the process take him to see the stars.