‘I thought you hated all this operational security stuff.’
‘I do. Stops me from finding out all sorts of things. You don’t though. Were you trying to blow their op before she gets started?’
‘Are you coming in?’ I asked. Mudge spun into the doorway. He had a pair of expensive-looking designer sunglasses over his camera eyes and a bottle of tequila in one hand.
‘You hear everything?’
‘I didn’t listen to you have sex. Much.’
‘That’s weird, man.’
Mudge dragged a chair over and sat down, putting both his cowboy boots up on the bed.
‘Give me a drink,’ I demanded.
Mudge shook his head and took a swig from the bottle, grinned at me and then lit up a cigarette.
‘Fag?’ he asked. I was sorely tempted.
‘Just give me a drink. Stop being selfish.’ He threw the bottle to me. I took the top off, ignored the glowing worm and took a long swig of the foul-tasting stuff.
‘Mudge.’ I examined the bottle. ‘You basically go around being obnoxious to people yet they still talk to you. I try not to be obnoxious and always end up pissing people off.’
He gave this some thought. ‘I think you’re more hurtful than I am,’ he finally said.
‘I don’t mean to be. Besides, you say hurtful things.’
‘Could you sound any gayer? I manage people’s expectations. They expect me to be obnoxious so when I tell the truth they’re less surprised. So what’s next? Gonna alienate me?’
‘May as well. You going as well?’
‘Fuck that. It’s a mug’s game. Look, I got a rush driving around in landies, or flying around in gunships, shooting stuff and blowing shit up, but you’re right. They don’t know what they’re getting into. They’ve got the training, or rather Rannu has, but he’s never had to put it into action. It’s an insurgency and they’ll have to be criminals, terrorists…’
‘We’ve done that.’
‘Not like this. Look, God love you, Jakob, but your big plan to deal with the Cabal and not kill any more people – and, you know, good for you, as much as I disapprove of this new pacifist you – was to get some big guns and go on system-wide TV. I mean, I get it. I loved it, but fucking subtle we are not. There’s just too much we don’t know, and without any way to communicate or feed back intelligence it’s a waste of time. Actions like this are part of a big plan; if they’re completely isolated then it’s a waste of time.’
I was taken aback by Mudge’s understanding. ‘So I’m right?’
‘You sound surprised. Yes, you’re right.’
‘But they’re not stupid. Did you tell them this?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Its funnier when they all hate you.’ I glared at him. ‘Besides, I’m not sure I liked the look in their eyes.’
‘Mudge, none of them have real eyes.’
He just smiled at me and took another drag on his cigarette.
‘What are you going to do then?’ I asked after taking another disgusting swig.
‘Can I get you some lime and salt? No? Well we’re fucking celebrities now.’
I wasn’t sure about this. Fortunately I’d been dying of radiation sickness at the time so now that I was a healthy alien/human hybrid I looked different, but I’d still been recognised several times. Reactions were different. Some were supportive, enthusiastic, got what we’d done and why we’d done it. Many were downright hostile, blaming us for the war and their new near-total lack of privacy. Most were just suspicious. I’d punched the first guy who’d asked me for an autograph. I hadn’t meant to; he’d just come up to me a little too quickly.
‘I’ve been offered a number of jobs,’ Mudge continued. ‘Mainly in journalism but some in presenting. I intend to take the most prestigious and well paid first and then work my way down as I get fired for doing the most outrageous thing I can think of.’
‘I think you’ll like that. Good luck.’
‘You?’
He was regarding me carefully. I think he knew that this was a question I was dreading. I didn’t want to go and die in some shitty colony but I didn’t know what I was going to do. I didn’t have any cash. There was no way I was ever going to be psychologically capable of cashing in on my notoriety. I’d seen ex-special forces in the world of entertainment – it always made me cringe. Also I was well enough known and the results of our actions were still suitably up in the air for my notoriety to work both ways. Was I really just going to go back to pit fighting, scheme racing, ripping off people weaker than me, and the booths? If I was, then I still had to get back to Dundee.
Why would I want to go back to Dundee? The only reason I could think of was my bike.
‘I don’t know,’ I finally said. ‘I guess I’m staying around here and looking for work. Then who knows?’
‘Is that in case you see her?’
‘No, it’s because I’m fucking skint.’ And far too proud to ask if she still had any of the money that Vicar had given us.
‘I got you covered.’
This pissed me off. Mudge could be like this sometimes. He came from a reasonably well-off family and his job paid a lot more than being in the SAS had. He’d often offer to pay for things. It was patronising. I didn’t need charity. Okay, maybe I needed charity but still, I had my pride and a bottle of tequila. Admittedly it was Mudge’s tequila.
‘Look, Mudge, I’ve told you about-’
‘Relax. I’m not about to further abuse your fragile Celtic pride. I made some investments on everyone’s behalf.’ He looked quite smug.
‘What gave you the right-’
‘Okay, let me put it another way. I capitalised on all our suffering.’
A file was blinking away in the corner of my IVD. Mudge had just sent it to me. I opened it up and saw what he was talking about. He’d sold the story, including the download and broadcast rights to an edited version of all the stuff that had happened.
‘You should have asked us about this.’
‘Jake, you get that I’m a journalist, don’t you? Don’t let my cameo as a revolutionary fool you – this is my job. It’s the one thing I take seriously.’ All flippancy was gone now.
I remember just after I’d first met Mudge he’d quoted some pre-FHC writer who’d said that a journalist’s job was to charm and betray. They needed to get to know who they were writing about so they could reveal – not all, but what needed to be revealed for the story. Suddenly that struck me as a very lonely existence.
On the other hand, if these figures were right he’d made a fucking fortune.
‘Merchandising?’ I demanded.
Mudge started laughing.
‘You’ll love it, man. They’ve even got these cute little animatronic action figures. The one of you has really realistic sores from the rad sickness, but you get likeness rights on every one sold. Mind you, if we’re inadvertently responsible for starting the war that wipes Earth out or if the Cabal win we might not sell very many. Also I think you’re the ugliest. Balor, Gregor and Morag all tested well, as did I of course. Best of all, we make money off the figures of the villains.’
‘Rolleston and Josephine?’ I asked incredulously. Mudge was grinning. ‘They’re going to castrate you and dip the wound in biting insects when they get hold of you.’
I tried to imagine how angry the pair of them would be when they found out. As pissed off as I was by the idea of little action figures of me, if the figures were correct then I was not just looking at a sum of money but an income. It was like some kind of financial sorcery. How could I be earning this much money if I wasn’t actually doing anything?
I continued reviewing the information that Mudge had sent me. He’d done well. It looked to me like he’d squeezed as much money out of this as possible. Everything had been divided equally, though arguably he’d done all the work. It wasn’t just Morag, Rannu, Pagan, Mudge and me. He’d set up trusts in Buck, Gibby and Balor’s names. He told me he was going to see if they had any of what he called ‘genuine’ family to hand the money over to. What
