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Planning Committee Room One is astonishingly opulent for a spaceship meeting room. This is clearly where the major decisions are discussed and taken. About twenty people, maybe two dozen, are seated around a polished wood table in leather-backed chairs. They all break off from their individual pockets of discussion and register Eddie's entrance, as if he weren't intimidated enough.

  Gwent, at the head of the table, bellows: 'Mr Gordon. So pleased you could join us!' with exclamation-mark sarcasm, and indicates a vacant seat very close to him. Eddie tries not to feel his cheeks burning. This is very bad. Gordon dramatically undersold his role on this mission. It is becoming horribly plain that these people are, effectively, the government of this ship. And Eddie appears to be a significant member of the Cabinet.

  He sits in the proffered seat, immediately bends over his yellow legal pad and starts making inscrutable notes with the fresh pencil provided, in a creditable attempt to render himself invisible.

  Gwent destroys his effort by blasting out: 'Now we are finally a quorum...' and, pausing to single Eddie out with an accusatory stare, '... we can get down to the business at hand. And a fairly filthy business it is. People,' he leans forward, 'it seems we have an impostor in our midst.'

  12

  Almost four a.m. Afortunado is insane, now. Frenzied. Its moribund madness is peaking.

  Even here, in the dark pit of the unlit bar, where the atmosphere is normally amply intimidating to put off all but the most desperate seekers of anonymity, solitude is becoming an acutely rare commodity.

  Some unseeable revellers burst through the door, carrying their high spirits with them, undaunted by the threatening ambience. They crowd noisily on to Gordon's table, barking out drink orders, and he decides to leave. He'll be a few minutes early for his rather unpleasant appointment, and he'd have preferred to arrive bang on the hour, to reduce unnecessary apprehension time, but he can no longer stay here: the frolickers have it in mind to enlist his enthusiasm. He downs his thick, sweet liquor and gags -- it's his first drink of the night. He's been clear-headed, very clear-headed, so far, but he needs his senses dulled somewhat to face this last ordeal.

  He stands, squeezes past his uninvited table mates and steps out into the street.

  The madness here is full throttle, desperate. Shouting, songs and, screams spiral into the lunatic air.

  This is good. He's unlikely to be spotted in a crowd this dense, this crazy. Still, he keeps to the shadows in any case. No point in risking unnecessary compromise now.

  He reaches the corner of the alleyway that's been designated for the rendezvous. It backs on to a half-dozen of the least scrupulous of Afortunado's unanimously scruple-free eating establishments, and the stench of the rotting produce discounted as edible even for these low-standard haunts is, reportedly, usually sufficient to keep it deserted. He glances into its rancid dimness. He makes out a strange shape halfway down, jiggling madly. His eyes adjust. A prostitute is entertaining a client. Presumably a client with no nose.

  Gordon glances at his watch. He's seven minutes early. Surely this tawdry little jiggling enterprise will have reached its sordid conclusion long before the designated time of his forthcoming assignation.

  Sure enough, a short series of bestial grunts announces the successful conclusion of the transaction, and within seconds the client leaves the alleyway at pace, one hand clutching a handkerchief over his nose, the other tucking away his deflating jiggler. He is followed in very short order by the object of his recent affections, spraying herself vigorously with a scent which is extremely powerful, but none the less hopelessly inadequate for the achievement of its desired purpose.

  Gordon sucks in a large breath and enters the alley.

  Perhaps this was a mistake, this location, with its stench of putrefaction and decay and... death. Perhaps the whole idea is a mistake. He could back out, if he chose. Just hand over the fee; double the fee, even...

  He hears footsteps at the top of the alley.

  No. That's not the Gordon way. Changing a plan halfway through, that's dangerous. Lethal, even. It's a good plan. Stick to it.

  The footsteps click towards him. Steel tips on the shoe. For kicking people more effectively, Gordon supposes. The man is clearly a professional, which is good. He's four minutes early. Super-punctual. Also good.

  The main light source for the alley comes from a street light, which is behind the man, so Gordon can't make out his features. Even when he shields his eyes against the stark glare, Gordon can only see a long-haired haloed silhouette, which induces in him an illogical fear.

  The man speaks. 'Gordon? Charles Gordon?'

  Incompetence! Bad, at this juncture. 'No names.' Gordon shakes his head. 'I was very specific. Very.'

  'Apologies.' Politeness. Good. 'It's been a very busy night. Don't want to make any more mistakes.' Any more mistakes? Not good. That is definitely indicative of a state of non-goodness.

  Gordon takes command. 'All right. Let's steer very clear of any potential "mistakes". We can have this over with very quickly...'

  'Very quickly would be good.'

  Gordon hates interruptions. But on this occasion, he bites his lip. 'Very quickly. It has to look like an amateur beating. One blow to the face, one to the back of the head. A bruise and a lump. Nothing permanent. Minimal pain. I was assured you were that good.'

  There is an overlong, distressing pause.

  'That's the arrangement. You understand it? You are that good?'

  The man clears his throat. 'I'm the very best.'

  'That's what I was assured of. Where would you like me to stand?'

  Gordon hears what sounds awfully like a suppressed laugh. He is beginning to feel slightly spooked. The stench of putrescent fish is beginning to nauseate him.

  Then another set of footsteps, with the same metallic click of the toes. From the back of the alley. Gordon turns, alarmed. This second man is in shadows, but there is no light behind him, and so his physical details are more discernible. His hair is long, like the other's, and shiny dark. He is wearing dark glasses, presumably infra-reds. He has an expensive suit on, the effect of which is utterly undermined by his grotesque choice of socks.

  Fluorescent pink.

  He is also carrying a large bag, which he sets down on the floor. There is some equipment in the bag. Large and metal.

  Gordon turns to the first man. 'This was not the arrangement.' There is a stiff chill in his voice. Why would it take two men to simulate a short, fake beating? What's in the bag? Surely that's incidental, superfluous.

  Another overlong pause, even more distressing.

  The two men are looking at each other, but their expressions are relaxingly non-threatening. They look almost wryly amused.

  The first man, Gordon takes him to be the leader, smiles and with acceptably apologetic deference speaks again. 'I hope you don't mind, sir, if my colleague observes the... procedure. You'll appreciate this is a skilled business, and people have to be trained.'

  That makes sense to Gordon's understanding of management organization. He nods. 'That's understandable.'

  'If it's inconvenient...'

  'No, no. Let him watch.'

  'All right.' The man adopts a lecturial tone. He starts slipping a leather glove over his hand. 'We have here a subject who requires a mild beating, sufficient to convince the appropriate authorities that he has been taken by surprise by an amateur ne'er-do-well, and rendered unconscious.'

  'Can we dispense with the tutorial?' Gordon glances towards the alleyway entrance. 'I'd rather avoid attracting undue--'

  The man ignores him, cuts right across him. 'Gloves are essential for your own protection. You don't want to risk scuffing your knuckles, and leave tell-tale DNA debris on the subject.'

  'Can we get on with this?'

  'Now, in an amateur attack, you would expect a small number of inefficient attempted blows, producing minor scuffing...' He draws back his gloved hand.

  'Now, wait just one--'

  Slap. Gor
don's face is snapped aside, his cheek burning.

  'Like that.'

  Slap. A tight, open-palmed blow clips his chin, cracking the back of his head against the wall.

  'And that. And this.'

  Gordon yells 'Stop!' and raises his arm to ward off the incoming blow, but the man's a professional, and he slips through Gordon's guard easily, connecting with his ear.

  'That's enough!'

  His hired assailant stands back, flexing his wrist.

  Gordon assesses the damage. Relatively minor. His cheek is swelling slightly, there is a definite lump on the back of his head, and his ear is thrumming. 'That was unnecessary. I could have done the scuffing myself, afterwards.'

  'I'm sorry, sir, but you paid for a professional job. It would be less than efficient of me to leave these details to an untrained client.'

  Gordon touches his ear. His fingers come away bloody. 'But it hurt.' He regrets that, as soon as it whines out of his lips. He's a grown man, an acknowledged world expert in his field. He's a multi-millionaire. Three slaps to the face and he's right back in the bullied misery of the school playground.

  The man regards him for a few seconds. He seems vaguely affronted. 'Well, sir, if you're aware of a pain-free beating service, I'd advise you to take advantage of their talents.' He nods to the trainee, who picks up the bag and makes as if to leave.

  'What? What are you doing?'

  'Clearly, you are dissatisfied. I assume you'd prefer to administer the rest of the beating yourself.'

  'No, no. I want you to finish it off.' Where would he book another professional beating at such short notice? These people aren't exactly in the Yellow Pages.

  'You're sure?'

  'Certain. I'm sorry I reacted... I was surprised, I suppose.'

  'So you're quite happy to have me beat you senseless?'

  Gordon's eyes flit from the assailant to the accomplice and back. 'Well, that sounds a little brutal, but, yes. I would like you to render me unconscious. Yes.'

  The man looks over at his colleague. A strange smile passes between them. Something in that smile makes Gordon want to run. That's his inner child. He should be listening to that kid, right now. That kid knows trouble when he sees it. But Gordon ignores him. He sticks to his plan.

  The man appears to be fiddling with his hand now. Slipping something on to it, possibly. 'If you'd like to stand against the wall, with your chin slightly raised, sir.' There is a disturbing tone in the voice. Hard to place. Not quite serious?

  Gordon stands as directed, and braces himself.

  'It's best not to brace.'

  'Beg pardon?'

  'It hurts more if you're anticipating it. If your muscles are stiff'

  This is more like it. This is the kind of professionalism Gordon was hoping for. 'OK.' He shakes his head, tries to loosen up. When he feels as relaxed as he could reasonably hope to feel, he nods and says: 'Ready.'

  He closes his eyes. Tries to go to his yoga Happy Place.

  Nothing happens.

  He opens his eyes. 'There is a slight element of time pressure here.'

  He sees the fist travelling towards him. Something on it glints in the street light. Looks suspiciously like a knuckle dus...

  His nose explodes.

  It explodes.

  A bomb goes off on the bridge of his nose, and his septum ex-puh-lodes.

  All kinds of alarm bells are going off in his head. He's never had more thoughts, more signals, more messages racing around his brain simultaneously vying for attention. The winner, his first, most primitive reaction, is to go down. You're hurt. Get down, you fool. Get down! But he has no idea where down is. He might already be down, for all he can tell. He's disoriented. He's been blinded by a major nose explosion, for crying out loud. Give him a break. He might start trying to go down, and actually be going up, which would be disastrous.

  And on top of this, there's this terrible sensation, this dreadful feeling that only occurs mercifully few times in any life: a sense of loss, a deep sadness that something important in him, a significant bit of him, is busted, irretrievably broken.

  His senses start to report for duty. His hand is touching something wet. Stickily wet. The pain at the front of his face appears to be growing stronger and less bearable by the second, which is probably an illusion. The pain is probably subsiding, but his consciousness is being allowed more direct access to it. His sight peeks back, after a fashion. He can see light, and then a shadow against the light. The street noise, the demented people clamour seems to be coming closer. In his mouth, a pale hint of flavour, and more stickiness. Mucal stickiness. This is progress. That's almost all of his senses rallied now, close to intact. Just one missing. Where is it? Where is that fishy putrefaction from the bins? Where is smell?

  Unfortunately, that particular sense is gone for ever.

  He is standing at the point of the explosion. He didn't go down. Something kept him up. Something that's pressing hard against his chest. His fingers, he realizes, are searching his face, but they can't find the nose. Just a sticky mess where the nose used to be.

  Then he sees a nose! Right in front of him. It must have been there all the time. Stupid nose, hiding like that. Worrying him needlessly. But, no. That's not his nose. That's someone else's. That nose has dark glasses perching on it.

  He realizes he must be in shock. Not good. He has to snap out of it. He's probably still in danger.

  The mouth under the nose is moving. That's probably what's making the sound he can hear through the whooping siren of pain. Words.

  'I'm sorry, sir. Did you say something?'

  The mouth seems to want an answer. Gordon tries to respond 'What?', but the best he can muster is 'Buhhd?'

  'I thought you said something. When I struck you? Sounded like "Fah dah dah" or "Wha dah bid duh" but I couldn't make it out through the sound of your bones splintering. Was it important?'

  Gordon tries appealing to the mouth's better nature. He tries to say 'I'm hurt', but his upper palate is clogged up and his nose is no longer there, and it comes out as 'Ahmbird'.

  The mouth ignores him. 'Only, I'd hate to feel you had some complaint about my professionalism. Mercy me, I could be out of a job.' The mouth smiles. Somewhere behind it, another mouth is chuckling. 'Now, if you'd like me to stop the beating here and now...'

  'Ayehd! Dhop! Dhop!'

  '... all you have to do is say so, and we'll pack up and leave.'

  'Ayehd! Dhop! Dhop idh dhow. Edubh.'

  'But until you say something I can understand, I have to assume you want the job finished.'

  'Dhoh!'

  'Doh? Is that "No"?'

  Gordon feels the pressure release on his chest. His knees sag, but he stays up. He needs to get some dignity going here, and that means staying upright. He shakes his head to clear it. He spits. A foul, red-stained mess hits the paving stones with a thud and stays there. He looks up.

  His vision is clearing now. There is a good deal of swelling under his eyes, but he can force them open enough to see the two men facing him.

  'All right, Mr Gordon. The fun is over, now.' The fun? The fun is over? 'That money you won at the casino. That was an administrative error. The girl was supposed to press a little button under her counter, but she was jostled. Too many people around. That's bad luck for you.'

  Gordon speaks. Badly, but well enough. 'No. Bad luck for the casino.'

  'Oh, come on, pilgrim. You know who's running that establishment. You really think they'd let you walk away with close on fifty million? Those people?'

  'You clowns. You can't do this. Don't you know who I am?'

  The two men smile at each other. They like Gordon's cojones. Much more fun doing a guy who has cojones. 'We know exactly who you are. You are Mr Charles Perry Gordon. And the beauty part is: you're not even here!'

  The muscles in Gordon's cheeks, forced taut by the effort of keeping his eyes open, suddenly flop. This is bad.

  'I can see you're keeping up. That's righ
t. You are no longer on the planet. You're up on a spaceship. You're never coming back. That was a great plan, incidentally. You almost had us on a great goose chase up to the Project, which would not have been an easy accomplishment, let me tell you. But then you blew it. You actually delivered yourself, with a phone call. Awesome. You even paid to have us beat you up. Not two minutes ago, you all but begged me to do it. Truly, that was beautiful. I swear, it's been a hell of a night, and I don't mind admitting, I was beginning to question my calling. It was getting me down. All night long, loser after loser begging us not to hurt them. Then you come along and put the joy back into the job. Made it fun again. Honest to God, Charlie, you rejuvenated me. And in return, I promise you here and now, I fully intend to cut you all the slack it's in my remit to cut you. Now, all we need is one thing: did you move the money?'

  'Did I...?'

  'Did you move the money? Did you transfer the money to another account?'

  'No.'

  'Now, now. You're lying to me, Charlie. This will go much better if you co-operate.'

  'Honestly...'

  'It's a big part of my job, you can probably imagine, to know when people are lying to me. I can read faces. True, the faces I read usually have noses, but I can tell you're lying.'

  'It's the truth.'

  'All right. I didn't want to get graphic with you. I mean, you're hurt already. You're in shock, you need medical attention, all that. Plus the fact, you've entertained us tremendously. But you're forcing my hand, now. Here are the bald facts: we will trace the money. Even if you've been very clever, and you probably have, we will track it down, and we will hack the security password. We're a major criminal organization, don't forget that. And then we're going to need two things to get the money back. Are you on board this wagon train to reality?'

  'That's right. You'll need something. Something I have and you don't. Which is what makes you a clown. A funny, stupid moron of a clown. You can't get that money without a palm print and a retina scan. My palm print and my retina scan. And the only...'

  Gordon sees the assistant remove a sheathed samurai sword from his bag, and the terrible truth comes to him.