Ecko Rising

Ma’am. Pilgrim had called her a miracle.

Like her brother, she was extremely bright, afraid of very little and strongly individualistic – unlike her brother, she was worth in excess of three hundred million eurobucks.

She was twenty-eight years of age and one of the greatest financial minds of her generation.

So they said, anyhow.

Lugan could see Ecko in the woman that paced, agitated, across the stained ferrocrete floor of his office – hints of his restlessness, his face shape, his mannerisms and speech. Ms Gabriel was not beautiful – she was a little too thin, a little too chill. But her skin was like porcelain, her hair flawless and her overlarge brown eyes hinted at a familiar fanaticism. She had poise, she was difficult to ignore.

And she was already annoying the shit out of him.

Ms Hotshot Gabriel eyed the grubby glass of the dividing wall, and the workshop beyond, with disdain.

“Beer?” Lugan asked her, not bothering to mask his sarcasm. “Cuppa tea?”

The tan coat she wore was real leather, kevlar reinforced. He had bikes worth less.

“I want my brother, Mr Eastermann.” She paused in front of the crouching, glowering desk, arms folded.

“An’ I’ve told ya, I dunno where ’e is.” Lugan leaned right back in his chair. He took a drag on his dog-end, squinting at her through the smoke. “Don’t let the door ’it you in the arse on the way out.”

Tarquinne leaned one soft and delicate hand on the desktop and smiled. “Tam vanished, Mr Eastermann. He was working for you. You either know where he is – or you need to find him. Kindly don’t try and intimidate me.”

He pushed the chair onto its back legs. It creaked.

“He’s the Ecko, vanishin’ is what ’e does best.” Smoke curled free with the words. “This isn’t your fuckin’ boardroom, luv, and I get cranky takin’ orders. Whether you’re ’is sister or you ain’t – you can get the fuck out my face.”

Close by, bike engines coughed into life, slammed down the gears as they roared away. The blue light of a hoverdrone shone briefly through the window then was gone.

Tarquinne pulled a colour-washed titanium needle from an inside pocket.

“One hundred thousand eurodollars, Mr Eastermann. Half now, half when I have my brother.”

Lugan snorted. “Fuckin’ suit. You’re lucky I don’t break both your –”

“I need you to do a job for me.” Tarquinne said. “And I ask you to bear something in mind. If you don’t find my brother, Mr Eastermann, and someone else does, I’ll hold you responsible for anything that... may fall into the wrong hands.”

It was not even a threat – the cocky little bitch was completely serious. He drew a last, hard, drag on the dog-end, then pinched it out between thumb and forefinger.

With a deft snap, she clicked the needle onto the desk.

“Like all men, you have a price – name it and it’s –” she glanced around her, pointedly “– yours.”

“Six eurobucks and a pint.” He dropped the dog-end in the pocket of his cut-down, blew smoke in her face.

She smiled, blinked. “Everyone has a price, Mr Eastermann. I want my brother. You could move to new premises, perhaps – I fear I’ve let you have the bargaining advantage over me.” Her smile grew winsome, revealing a diamond in one of her teeth. “Whatever you’d like.”

“How about the ‘mug’ tattoo removed from my forehead?” Slamming the chair back onto all fours, he resisted the urge to stand up – he was itching to slap the smirk off this smug little bint’s face. “This is bullshit – and you’re runnin’ outta welcome.”

“This is idiocy – and I’m running out of patience.” Her smile was unchanged. “I want my brother.”

“And I want ’Arley Davidson to make bicycles. Life’s tough.”

Outside the rain-spattered window, the hoverdrone had returned.

“He ran on Grey’s base –”

“You’re stalkin’ my cell, now?” Lugan enjoyed a sudden flash-vision of grabbing this little rodent by the throat and shaking her ’til her perfect teeth rattled. “You really don’t want to be doin’ that.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m only stalking my own.” She laughed at his anger, a cold, tinkling sound. “I keep a close eye on Tam. After all, if you’d invested five million in cybernetics for a top-end product, would you want to lose it?”

Product.

Realisation hit him like a scaff bar round the back of the head.

“He’s your personal hitman.” He learned back, whistled through his teeth. “Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking motor scooter – you paid that demented Tech...”

Tarquinne laughed again. “What? You think his ‘Mom’ changed him for free? Out of altruism? To break the frontiers of cybernetic science?” She flicked the needle with a perfectly polished nail and it rolled across the desk. “Two hundred thousand.”

Lugan snorted.

“Five.”

“Shove it, sister.”

“With his hatred of Pilgrim’s control, there’s no limit to what Tam is capable of. I need him back.”

His hatred of Pilgrim’s control...

“Holy fucking shit on a stick. You planted him in my fucking team.” A second smack of scaff pipe – Fawkes’ night, last year. He’d walked into it like a drunk into a fucking brick wall. “To take out your boss, to take out Grey. Because you wanna play suit-war.” Now, the twat he needed to shake was himself.

She raised her eyebrows at him, amused.

“It’s quite simple, really, when you look at it.” With a coquettish, artificial smirk, she perched her well-shaped rear on the edge of the desk. “We could be allies.”

Really annoyed now, Lugan emptied dog-ends out of his pocket and began to shred them, methodical and savage, reclaiming the baccy.

“No offence, luv, I’d sooner shag my dog.” A fresh paper, a new smoke. He lit it, pulled the tar-filled gunk deep into his lungs, considering. “If you take over Pilgrim, what’re you gonna do?”

“Get me Tam, and we’ll talk.”

“If you want him, you’ll talk now.”

She gave a short, controlled sigh.

“Very well. Simple time-motion analysis states Grey’s ultra-passive workforce is inefficient.” A second needle joined the first. “Quiescence doesn’t make for good employees – or good profits. New ideas are unforthcoming, everybody suffers. It’s all here.”

“What fuckin’ genius told you that?” He let the smoke out in a cough of dark humour.

Tarquinne chuckled. “I’ll put you in touch with the Tech – she’ll help you locate him.” She held out both needles. “I asked you to name your price.”

This time, Lugan took them. “You said five ’undred thousand. ’Alf a million eurobucks – in advance.”

“One hundred thousand now, the rest if you’re successful. And you sign a contract stating you’ll not take arms against Pilgrim again.”

“Two ’undred now, the rest whether we’re successful or not. No contract.”

Tarquinne nodded, almost approving. “Two hundred and fifty thousand in advance. A quarter of a million eurodollars, Lugan – and the same at the conclusion. You sign the contract.”

“I’m not signing shit.”

“You’re throwing away a great deal of money.”

“An’ you’re here for a reason. Why don’t you ask the Tech yourself? Why come ’ere and pay me to do something you can do yourself? You wanna keep your ’ands clean. Dontcha?” He grinned through his beard. “You need us to do this for you.”

“Very well then.” Tarquinne extended a ladylike hand and smiled, revealing the diamond. “I see your reputation is richly –”