Market Forces

Multi-coloured light rang in his skull. The ceiling waltzed by overhead. He reeled and fell. Something snagged his arm, he looked muzzily and saw the Minister had him, was holding him up. Comfortably.

‘Fucking piece of shit driver,’ the man was yelling in his face. ‘Come into the fucking zones with your suit, will you?’

The crowbar slammed into his ribs. He screamed like a baby and twisted. There were others around him, holding him up for the spokesman, cuffing him back and forth across the head.

‘Come into the fucking zones, will you? Hold him.’

Another blow, another rolling tide of numbness. He thought he felt a rib crack this time. He yelled, but weakly. The grip on his arm let go and he slumped into a ring of supporting grasps. He saw a fist coming, heavy with dull metal rings. It split his vision apart, sent shards of it spi

‘Show you what we think of—‘ the Minister was telling him between blows, but the rest was carried away on the roar in an opening tu

Oddly, in the bottom of it all, he heard Carla.

So! You just want to fuck me and leave me. Is that it?

Her hands on him. She was smiling. For some reason he couldn’t pin down, he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

I’m. Already sliding headlong into the dark. Not going anywhere.

But he was.

And a sound like distant thunder.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Driver Control helicopters held the sky over the vaulted highway where Chris Faulkner had slewed the Saab to its shrieking sideways halt. Bright sunlight winked off underslung camera lenses and the clustered barrels of the gatlings. At a prudent distance beyond, news crew aircraft circled like sharks waiting for something to give up and die. There were police vehicles scattered up and down the stretch, equipment set up and armed figures hurrying about. Louise Hewitt stood talking to a ranking tactical-force officer and her mobile at the same time. She looked up and shielded her face as a new, twilight-blue helicopter drifted in through the black-and-green Driver Control machines and settled to the asphalt, twenty metres away. Jack Notley climbed down from the cabin, settled his suit a little more firmly on his shoulders in the gale of the rotors and strode towards her.

‘I’ll call you back,’ she told the phone, and snapped it shut. ‘And Captain, if you could just give me a moment.’

The officer saw who was coming and stepped back. Notley reached Hewitt and stared at her. ‘Well?’

‘I expect you’ve heard.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Notley looked grim. ‘What have you got?’

Hewitt shrugged and nodded towards the crane and winch system at the edge of the Gullet. ‘We put in the tacs. Apparently they’re bringing them both up now. Not a pretty sight, is what I was told.’

Notley looked away, up and down the stretch of highway. ‘Four miles,’ he said. ‘Four miles from where Page went off. You realise that?’

‘Four?’ Hewitt frowned. ‘Oh, miles, that’s what, about six kilometres? Yeah, probably about that. And not far from where Barnes learnt to fly, come to that.’

‘Yes.’

‘Exciting stretch of road.’

The winch whined into action. Both partners turned to watch as it brought up a sheet-covered stretcher. Tactical-force corporate police swarmed around the load, swinging it in and lowering it gently to the road. The covering was white and blood had soaked through in small patches. A medic crouched, turned back the sheet and winced visibly. The winch swung back down. They watched the cable unwind.

‘Going to be a lot of questions,’ observed Hewitt when it stopped. ‘Lot of precedent to be hammered out.’

Notley grunted. ‘Good. Kind of thing that keeps us sharp.’

‘Keeps the lawyers sharp, you mean. They’re going to be arguing this one back and forth for months at our expense.’

‘While we go ahead and get on with doing things anyway.’

‘Ethics after the event.’ Hewitt offered him a crooked smile. ‘My favourite kind.’

Notley raised an eyebrow. ‘Are there any other sort?’

The winch swung up again. More activity, another stretcher settling to the asphalt. More blood stains on white.

‘Not in this world.’

‘I’m glad—‘

Amidst the weaving of the tactical-force uniforms, commotion. Uniforms milling. And Chris Faulkner, climbing off the stretcher like the living dead. Pushing his way clear. A ragged cheer floated over him like a ba

Hewitt froze.

Notley blinked.

Then the senior partner was striding rapidly towards the new arrival, a grin broadening on his face. He only faltered as he got closer and saw the damage. Chris’s face was a mask of blood and bruising. One eye swollen almost shut, ribbons of torn flesh around the mouth and both cheeks ripped, blood from a nose that looked broken. The way he moved under the abused and bloodied suit screamed cracked ribs.

‘Chris! Jesus fuck, you’re alive. I thought. You had me worried for a moment there. Congratulations!’

Chris stared at him. Stared past him, like the zombie he so closely resembled. Notley grabbed his shoulders.

‘You’ve done it, Chris. You won. You’re a partner at thirty-three years old. Fucking unprecedented. Congratulations! You know what this means?’

Chris looked sideways at him. Focused.

‘What does it mean?’ he whispered.

‘What does it mean?’ Notley was almost burbling. ‘Chris, it means you’re at the top. From here on up, there’s nothing you can’t do. Nothing. Welcome aboard.’

He thrust out his hand. Chris looked down at it as if the gesture didn’t make sense. He made a coughing noise that it took Notley a moment to realise was laughter. Then he stared up into the senior partner’s face and off past it again. The Saab. Hewitt.

‘Uh, Chris—‘

‘Excuse me.’

He pushed past Notley, pacing a steady line for Hewitt. She saw him coming and tensed. A brief nod to the tactical captain, and the man was at her shoulder. Chris came to a halt a metre away, swaying a little.

‘Louise,’ he husked.

She manufactured a small smile. ‘Hello, Chris. Well done.’

‘This is for you, Louise.’

He held it out. The Shorn Associates card, Mike Bryant’s name engraved and streaked across with new blood.

‘I don’t think now is—‘

‘No, it’s for you.’ Chris took another, sudden step in and tucked the card into Hewitt’s breast pocket. He nodded to himself, already turning away. ‘For you. Because that’s the way we do things around here, right?’

Hewitt’s smile was frozen on. ‘Right.’

‘I’ll see you on the road, Louise.’

He walked away, dipping in his pocket for keys. The door of the Saab was still wide open. Driver Control perso

‘Sorry sir, we’re not finished here ye—‘

He backed up as Chris looked at him.

‘Get. Out of my way.’

The man retreated. Chris eased himself into the seat, teeth clenching up as his hastily taped ribs grated with the move. The medics had shot him full of something warm, but the pain was still getting through in flinty little flashes. He sat for a while, breathing it under control. He thought it would probably be manageable.

He closed the door. Reached for the ignition.

The Saab fired up growling. Around him, up and down the Gullet, activity stopped at the sound. Heads turned. He saw people gesturing.

No one seemed interested in stopping him.

He moved his head, a little awkwardly. Coughed and tasted blood. Checked the rearview and cut a smooth circle in reverse, so the car was pointing southward, towards Shorn. He shifted gear, let the vehicle start to glide forward.

‘Sir, wait.’ Muffled through the seal of the closed doors and windows. A uniformed tactical hurried across and rapped on his window. He cranked it down and waited, foot light on the clutch, barely holding the Saab back. The tac hesitated.