Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [115]
Now a new message was coming up on the gun display.
HEL
PME
‘Okay, don’t worry, Jimmy,’ said Mancuso. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’ She began typing at the computer. ‘What do you want?’
GET
EVE
N
‘Okay.’ Mancuso turned to the Doctor. ‘Let’s assume for a moment that I buy this. In that case the people who did this to Jimmy are the same ones who shot him. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘And you know where to find them?’
‘In a place called the King Building,’ said the Doctor.
Mancuso picked up the outer casing of the gun, careful not to disturb the large control clip. She examined the bee‐and‐eye logo engraved on the metal. ‘You’re talking about the Butler Institute.’
‘The BI has been doing some very interesting work,’ said Petersen. ‘Neural networks. Artificial intelligence.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mancuso quietly. ‘But I didn’t know they were big on black magic.’
The Doctor took the gun casing away from Mancuso and set it gently back on the desk. ‘Our minds are processes that run in our brains. A mind is an electrical and chemical pattern. And patterns can be transferred and copied.’
‘The Butler Institute,’ said Ace. ‘I think I’m beginning to get this. Breen said that they use people for organ transplants. Keeping rich people alive with poor people’s bodies.’
‘They’ve been doing that for years.’ Mancuso got up from the computer. She walked across the lab, moving restlessly. She looked angry. ‘Where have you been?’
‘So if someone is found dead at the scene of a crime, like the drugstore on Fifth Avenue –’
‘The body goes to the Butler Institute,’ said Mancuso.
‘And that’s where they took Justine.’ Ace was looking at the Doctor accusingly. She was thinking about a black and yellow capsule and an old silver locket. She was thinking about a girl with beads in her hair, falling to the floor, spilling plastic mouthwash bottles. ‘I saw your face when she did it. You really did look angry. You said it wasn’t part of the plan.’
‘It wasn’t,’ said the Doctor. ‘She took that pill far too soon.’
Mancuso was back on the computer now, concentrating. She quit out of the communications software and called up a database of the city’s streetplans. In thirty seconds the blueprints of the King Building were up on the screen. ‘We have to get somebody inside there.’
‘You haven’t been listening,’ said Ace. ‘I think we already have.’
* * *
22
Justine was walking through west London streets under a cold blue sky. The houses around here were big old brick structures. Some of them had corner turrets with conical roofs and the black shingles made them look like witch hats. Justine had never noticed that before and it worried her. She felt like she might be losing her grip. She found herself beginning to sweat under the leather jacket, a familiar symptom. The condition was called stoned paranoia. It was particularly likely to hit you when you were on your way to score, as Justine was now.
But Justine knew a sure cure for stoned paranoia. She kept walking, feet clattering on the pavement, aware of her own breathing, watching the streets telescope endlessly on this unreal day. As soon as she saw a policeman, she crossed the road and went straight up to him and asked for directions, asking him the way to Portobello Market, just like a tourist.
She didn’t even bother listening to what the policeman said. She just stared attentively up into his face, her sense of control returning. The policeman was white. He wore the traditional London cop headgear and a heavy coat against the cold. He was young and tall and handsome. But his face was so pale and he had such dark rings under his eyes that he looked like he was a fever victim. There was something wrong with his skin as well: a mottling and a dampness. Justine stared at his face in fascination; you don’t expect policemen to have skin conditions. He smiled at her and his teeth were marvellously even and white.
And sharp.
* * *
‘Whatever happened to the traditional greasy