Inherit the Earth - Brian Stableford [61]
Even natural islands, Damon knew, had often been personal property back in the buccaneering days of classical capitalism—but all the artificial islands had been owned by the corps or individuals who had put them in place, and probably still were. That didn’t exclude them from the Net, and hence from the global village, but it made them relatively easy to protect from spy eyes and the like. If there was anywhere on Earth that secrets could be kept in reasonable safety, this was probably one of them.
The plane came down on an airstrip even tinier than the one from which it had taken off, gantzed out of dark earth in a narrow clearing between dense tropical thickets.
When Steve Grayson came back to release Damon from the trick harness he was carrying a gun: a wide-barreled pepperbox. If it was loaded with orthodox shot it would be capable of inflicting widespread but superficial injuries, but it couldn’t be classed as a lethal weapon. Were it to go off, Damon would lose a lot of blood very quickly, and it would certainly put him out of action for a while, but his nanomachines would be able to seal off the wounds without any mortal damage being done.
“No need to worry, Mr. Hart,” the stout man said. “You’ll be safe here until the carnival’s over.”
“Safe from whom?” Damon asked as politely as he could. “What exactly is the carnival? Who’s doing all this?”
He wasn’t surprised when he received no answers to any of these questions—but the expression which flitted across Grayson’s face suggested that the pilot wasn’t just tormenting him. Damon wondered whether Grayson had any more idea than he did why he had been paid to bring his prisoner here, or what might be going on.
Damon wondered whether his streetfighting skills might be up to the task of knocking the gun out of the Australian’s hand and then kicking the shit out of his corpulent form, but he decided not to try. He didn’t know how to activate and instruct the plane’s automatic systems, let alone fly it himself, so he had no way of escaping the island even if he could disarm and disable the man.
The air outside the plane was oppressively humid. Damon allowed himself to be guided across the landing strip. A jeep, very similar to the one Karol had used to drive him to the airstrip on Molokai, was parked in the shadow of a thick clump of trees.
A man was waiting in the driving seat of the jeep. He was as short as the pilot but he was much slimmer and—if appearances could be trusted—much older. His skin was the kind of dark coffee color which most people who lived in tropical regions preferred. He didn’t have a gun in his hand, but Damon wasn’t prepared to assume that he didn’t have one at all.
“I’m truly sorry about this, Mr. Hart,” the man in the jeep said, in what seemed to Damon to be an overly punctilious English accent, “but we weren’t sure that we could persuade you to come here of your own accord and the matter is urgent. Until we can get to the people who have Arnett everyone connected with your family may be in danger.” Turning to the pilot he added: “You’d better go quickly, Mr. Grayson. Take the plane to Hilo—then make yourself scarce, just in case.”
“Who are you?” Damon demanded as the Australian obediently turned away and headed back to his cockpit.
“Get in, Mr. Hart,” the thin man said. “My name is Rajuder Singh. I’ve known your foster parents for a long time, but I doubt that any of them ever mentioned me. I’m only support staff.”
“Did Karol Kachellek arrange this?”
“It’s for your own protection. I know how you must feel about it, but it really is a necessary precaution. Please get in, Mr. Hart.”
Damon climbed into the passenger seat of the vehicle and settled himself, suppressing his reflexive urge to offer violent resistance to what was being done to him. The jeep glided into a narrow gap in the trees and was soon deep