Zero (43 page)

“You fucking asshole,” he ground out. “All the self-righteousness, all that honour. And what are you? A liar and a coward.”

There was shouting somewhere nearby and someone was battling with the door.

Webb dropped to his knees, grabbed a handful of Hugo's hair then hissed into his ear, “This isn't over.”

Hugo tried to scramble to his feet after Webb but he couldn't get enough breath into his lungs. The next thing he knew people were clamouring around him and
he was being hauled to his feet, the rifle was wrenched from his hands and he was bundled back out into the light.

“You let him get away?” Luscombe thundered. “First you let him find everything out, then you let him loose in Tranquillity with murder in mind, and then you let him escape...
again
.”

“
He overpowered me, sir.”

“
Bullshit,” Luscombe scowled. “You let him go.”

Hugo stood holding Luscombe's gaze but not speaking.

“Find him. Now. Before someone cashes in his contract or he tries anything else.”

Hugo swallowed, heat warring with ice in his gut.

“Captain?” Luscombe hissed. “Acknowledge.”

“
Yes, sir.”

ɵ

“Anything?”

“
No, sir,” Rami said, fingers flying over keys.

More stood at her shoulder but he was watching Hugo and not Rami.
“He won't stay on the moon.”

“
He has to get off this rock somehow. Keep checking the launches.”

“
Sir,” Rami said. “We have a problem.”

“
Another one?” Hugo said, kneading his temples.

“
The Service have issued an official arrest warrant for him.”

“
What?” Hugo snapped and bent over her shoulder to blink at the warrant on the screen. “Luscombe... that bastard.”

“
Every Service member in the Lunar Strip will be looking for him,” Rami mumbled.

“
He did try and assassinate a Service Colonel,” More pointed out. “I don't think even Luscombe could have talked the Analysts out of issuing a warrant.”

“
Sir,” Rami said. “At least on the
Zero
we could keep moving and keep him hidden. But if the Service get to him first, whoever's got the link inside will find him for sure.”

“
Keep looking, Rami. He's... close to unhinged. He might make a mistake. More, come with me.”

“
Where to, sir?”

“
To see Dolgorukov.”

ɵ

The Jeep ride to the scrapyard was silent. More called Dolgorukov on his personal comm once they pulled up under the floodlights at the gate. The small man was there to meet them when they drove through.

“
Webb's not with you, then?” he said, peering in the windows of the Jeep.

“
What have you heard?” Hugo said, climbing out.

“
What haven't I heard,”
Dolgorukov said, eyes wide. “Hugo, it's all over the newsfeeds: a failed assassination at the conference welcome ball. The Service is up in arms and Cho-Jin is spitting blood.”

“
Has Webb been named?”

Dolgorukov nodded.
“They've issued an old picture, but it's definitely him. There's a contract for his detention, an
official
one. I couldn't believe it. He's been missing for over a year and now this? What in the name of holy fuck has happened?”

“
More than we can afford to tell you, Anton,” More said. “We just have to find Webb before the Service do. Have you seen him?”

Dolgorukov shook his head.
“Sorry, folks. I want to help, I do. But he's not been here.”

“
Are you sure?” Hugo said, staring at the point but his eyes were clear and the only thing showing on his face was confusion tinged with fear.

“
Positive. I'd be worried if I had, the kind of trail he'll have on him now. I don't understand,” he said, shaking his head. “This could have sparked another war. Why did he do it?”

Hugo glanced at More but the sub-lieutenant just looked straight ahead.
“Will you let us know if you see him, Anton? Trust me, it's in his best interests that we find him before anyone else does.”

Dolgorukov bit his lip, considering it then nodding.
“Okay, folks. Only because I remember him being a good kid and that this can't be the real him.”

“
Thank you, Dolgorukov,” Hugo managed. “We owe you.”

“
No you don't,” Dolgorukov said, waving his hands. “Not for this one. I'd rather associates of the suspect weren't seen to be owing me favours. Nothing personal.”

“
We understand. We'll steer clear. Please just get the
Zero
on the comm if you hear or see anything.”

Dolgorukov nodded, still looking pale. He looked from More to Hugo then looked over his shoulder but all the
yard workers were out of earshot. “Listen, Hugo... I heard something else, not so far back... something it might be worth your while to know...”

ɵ

The rage burned so strong and hot that it was like his being was carved from it. He could measure himself from his ankles to the tips of his fingers with the breadth of the heat. It swirled red-hot in his brain and he couldn't see straight.

Part of him was aware he was staggering blindly around Tranquillity and kept
him to back streets and alleys out of instinct. There were shuttle rides and perhaps even ship flights too but he never pulled himself together long enough to figure out where he was going or what he was doing.

He ached to scream and yell and cry and kick and bleed. He came to himself long enough at one point to register he was standing in front of a mirror. There was graffiti on the walls and piss on the floor. There was a knife in his hand. He was staring at himself in the glass, breathing like he'd run the length of a flagship, and his eyes were red and his skin was clam
my. There was a foul taste in his mouth.

The face in the mirror. The one staring back at him impassively. It was someone else's face.

He watched himself grab handfuls of his hair and slice it off at the roots. Seeing it fall in dark clumps into the metal sink hurled him back to the moment when they had sliced off his hair before the shot.

He snarled and covered his face with his hands, the metal handle of the knife pressing into his forehead.
That wasn't his memory. But it was there, it was burning. He saw it, felt it. He knew the smell of the rock and iron and the feel of the gravel digging into his knees and the heels of his hands and the burning blankness as the bullet went through him. He knew it all, felt it all, carried it all…everything that made up someone else and it screamed and clawed at the inside of his head.

He blinked, breathing hard and noticing pain swelling in his hand. Shards of glass lay in the sink with tufts of black hair like debris strewn across space. He kept cutting away
at what was left, desperate to make himself look less like the man he wasn't, feeling blood trickle into his collar from the cuts made by his shaking hand.

After that brief snap of clarity, reality became throbs of cogitation between pulses of confusion. At one point he was crouched between crates with the sounds of a ship in drift thrumming around him. Then he was stumbling through streets again
. The taste of the air was trying to bring him back but he shied away, resisting the pull of memories that weren't his. But it got into his lungs and in his blood and he blinked to find he was staring at a door he recognised.

Doll opened the door. Her face went white. For a minute he thought she might faint. She stared at him and all he could d
o was stare back. And then it all went black.

ɵ

“Look what they've done to me, Doll,” he said in a cracked voice he didn't recognise. He couldn’t tell how long it had taken to come back to himself but he was still shaking. “Look what they've done…” He sat at her table with his forehead pressed against the metal, head covered with his arms. He sat there, breathing into her silence for several moments. “I’ve shit you up, huh?”

“
I don't know how to talk to you.”

He raised his head and tried to smile, but from the look on her face he guessed it came out even more ghastly than it felt.
“I know everything he knew. Remember everything he’s seen. I
feel
it all. And none of it is mine. It's not real.” She stared, face grey. Guilt surged through him to swirl and mingle with the mess that was everything else. “I'm dead, aren't I? I mean, the real me.
He's
...dead?” She managed a stiff nod, lips pressing together. He lowered his head back down onto his arms. “They didn't even let me die. After everything... after
everything
... they couldn't even let me just die.”

“
What... what are you?”

Webb stared laughing, shoulders shaking.
“A clone. An experiment. A nothing.”

There was silence then. He blinked his sticky eyes in the darkness of his arms, feeling himself slide towards oblivion.

The sound of her chair scraping made him jump. He sat up and saw she'd left the room and everything ached, right to the core. He stared around, knowing exactly where to look to see the deck of cards that Hugo had played Dead Man's Candle with, knowing in which book Doll kept a hard-copy wedding photo of her and Duran McCullough and knowing that the workstation in the corner sometimes needed to be re-routed through a back-up connection to access the solarnet. He felt sick knowing he’d never actually been in this room before.

The click of a gun-hammer behind him made him turn. Doll stood at the door, hands steady around the gun but face tortured. There was wetness on her cheeks.

“I won't let them use him... I can't let them... have you,” her voice shook. “I'm sorry.”

An odd calmness settled in him as he looked at the gun.
“It's okay, Doll,” he said, feeling a more genuine smile spread across his face. “It's okay...” She stood there and kept the gun level with his face and he kept on smiling. “Do you...” his voice caught. He swallowed and tried again. “Do you want to do it outside? To avoid the mess?”

Her eyes widened then her face scrunched up and she dropped the gun then slumped against the wall, covering her face with her hands. Great sobs racked her. He wanted to go to her, to put his arms round her, to bury his head in her shoulder and sob with her. The urge was so strong he almost choked on it. But it wasn't his urge.

He got to his feet and staggered back outside, across the alley, through into the abandoned lot. The maintenance hatch in the corner was almost too heavy for him after so long with no food or sleep, but he got it open and dropped down into the dim passage. He drifted along, head spinning, eyes blurry. He knew where he was but that just made him hold his aching head in his hands and want to scream.

He stumbled round a corner and came up against a railing. The air was filled with humming and clanking and the smell of exhaust. He blinked until the pit below him came into focus. It was filled with whirring and spinning machinery: the rusted heart that pumped the sickened blood of Lunar 1.

He stared into the maw and leaned over and further over and still further. He leaned so far that his feet left the floor.

Just let go... let go and it will all be over
.

He hung there with the taste of Lunar 1 in his throat and its dust in his eyes and its wheels and giros and pumps throbbing and whirling and grinding below him for what could have been seconds or hours. Then he
staggered back and collapsed against the wall. He stared at the oil-streaked metal surrounding him and breathed through the bile rising in his throat.

The grey wash of despair was being swamped by a returning tide of anger. He kicked at the wall, swearing. They'd screwed him over, then they'd killed him then they'd brought him back just to screw him all over again. Well he wasn't giving them the satisfaction of driving him over the edge. They hadn't before and they wouldn't now.

Shakily, he got to his feet and closed his eyes. He tried to pretend the gusting air was actually the breeze off the loch. His brain did somersaults when he tried to decide whether it was a second or a first chance he had been offered, but either way it was a chance. He thought of the little hut by the water and the boat and the taste of real fish.

“
Hey,” a shout cut through the hum and clank of machinery and Webb started and blinked round. A man was coming towards him, face grimed with oil, waving a spanner. “Who are you? You shouldn't be here... hey!”

He ignored the shouts fading to nothingness behind him and wove this way and that amongst the maintenance tunnels, staggering occasionally until he found somewhere dark he could curl up in. Now he had made up his mind the pain and the anger and the confusion ebbed to a dullness in the back of his awareness, to be replaced by everything else: gnawing hunger, sore limbs and stinging from the cuts and bruises where he'd staggered into things and cut his hair and a thirst so strong it felt like he was being turned inside out.

But he could deal with all that when he had the strength to move. Right now it was enough just to be still, inside and out. He breathed more steadily and let everything go black.

ɵ

Another mouthful of the oily coffee helped Webb bring the screen into focus. The fact that the display was warped was doing nothing to help his headache. But he roped in his concentration, determined he could pull together enough fake credit to get him started without Rami recognising the pattern.