Inherit the Earth - Brian Stableford [23]
He abandoned the train of thought. This affair seemed to be feeding an unhealthy tendency to melodrama. He reminded himself of what he’d told Diana about the porn tape. By the time the doctor had finished with the recordings there’d be nothing of Lenny left at all; there’d only be the actions and the reactions, dissected out and purified as a marketable commodity. The fighter on the tape might have Lenny’s face and Lenny’s pain, but it wouldn’t be him. It would be an artifact, less than a shadow and nothing like a soul.
The whole thing was in rank bad taste, of course, but it was a living for all concerned. For the first few months after he had quit fighting, it had been his own living, and it had been based in talents that were entirely and exclusively his own, using nothing that Conrad Helier had left to him—in his will, at least.
Damon had wanted then, and he wanted still, to be his own man.
Madoc Tamlin had moved forward to help the stricken street-fighter, not because he was overly concerned for the boy’s health but because he wanted to make certain that the equipment was still in good order. Not until the silvery web had been stripped away were the two fighters handed over to the amateur ambulance drivers waiting nearby. Brady got in under his own steam but Lenny Garon had to be carried.
The crowd drifted away, evaporating into the concrete wilderness.
Damon waited patiently until Madoc’s gear was all packed up and the produce of the day had been handed on to the next phase of its development.
“Your place or mine?” Madoc said, waving his hand in a lazy arc which took in both their cars. Damon led the way to his own vehicle and the older man followed. Damon waited until both doors had closed before starting to set out his proposition.
“If this thing turns out to be serious,” Damon said, stressing the if, “I’d be willing to lay out serious credit to pursue it.”
“How serious?” Madoc asked, for form’s sake.
“I’ve got some put away,” Damon said, knowing that his friend would understand exactly what he meant. He fished a smartcard out of his pocket and held it out. “I’ll call the bank in the morning and authorize it for cash withdrawals,” he said. “Everything’s aboveboard—there’s no need to hide the transactions. I’ll fix it so that you can draw ten thousand with no questions asked. If you need more, call me—but it had better be worth paying for.”
“What am I looking for?” Madoc asked mildly. “Apart from Operator one-oh-one, that is.”
“Silas was with a girl named Catherine Praill when he was snatched. The police don’t think she was involved, but you’d better check her out. Interpol also mentioned the name of another biotechnologist by the name of Surinder Nahal, recently resident in San Diego. That might also be irrelevant, but it has to be checked. If you can find Silas, or identify the people who took him, I’ll pay a suitable finder’s fee.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Madoc said equably. “Are you going to tell me what Operator one-oh-one has posted, or do I have to go trawling through the Eliminators’ favorite netboards?”
“He posted a message saying that Conrad Helier is still alive and calling him an enemy of mankind. He also sent me a personal message, which Interpol might not know about.”
Damon took the piece of paper from his suitskin’s inner pocket and handed it to Madoc Tamlin. Madoc read it and gave it back. “Could be from anybody,” he observed.
“Could be,” admitted Damon, “but whoever carried it up to the thirteenth floor took the trouble to crash Building Security. A playful move—but sometimes playful is serious in disguise. Somebody’s trying to jerk my strings, and I’d like to know who—and why.”
Madoc nodded, carefully furrowing his remarkable eyebrows. “Hywood’s another of your foster parents, right?”
“Right. Eveline Hywood. Currently resident in Lagrange-Five, allegedly very busy with important experiments of an unspecified nature. I doubt that she’ll