The laugh came again. “I’m caught. Red-handed.” The voice was a rasp, savage, gleeful and absolutely fearless; a faint hint of an American accent. It came from behind them, but this time neither Fuller nor Lugan turned. “You gonna try an’ shoot me, biker-boy, or are you gonna turn me in?”
“I’ll turn you into fuckin’ chop suey, mate, if you don’t give me back my stuff.”
Still scanning the wall, Fuller said,
“So, the mighty Lugan loses his kit like a rookie. Y’know what they say, the bigger they are –”
“The harder they kick your arse. Whatever you are, you better get out where I can see you –”
“Yeah? Why don’tcha make me?”
Incredible. The rebroadcast was dumping info so fast that Lugan could barely keep pace.
The eyes were back, closer. “Y’ever heard of the Bogeyman?”
Through Fuller’s aural link, Collator’s smoothly androgynous tone said,
“Yeah,” Lugan said. “He’s the bloke you don’t boogie with.”
The laughter became a cackle. “That ‘One Percent’ tattoo your sense of humour?”
“I know the ‘Bogeyman’,” Fuller said. Tall and wiry, Fuller’s quiet presence and calm voice cut the laughter with a sharp, informative edge. “He worked towards a better world, a liberated world – a world free from pharmaceutical control. He was a crusader, fought for the people. The graphic novel was banned –”
Fuller ignored him. “It was you last night, wasn’t it? You took out Pilgrim’s new facility, the Serena Installation.”
The rasp twisted into a humourless cackle. “I’ll take any op to fuck with Pilgrim – ’til some grunt gets lucky an’ raises the alarm.” The eyes blinked once and were gone. “Didja see the bang?”
Lugan swore. “That bleedin’ buildin’ did a double backflip an’ swallow dive. You ain’t tellin’ me that was you?”
The shrug was audible. “Hey, it’s traditional to blow up a major London landmark on Fawkes’ Night. Besides, I jus’ laid the charges. Ol’ Bobby Pilgrim set it off.”
Lugan stared at Fuller. “Our stalker trashed...” He glanced at the drones, but they paid him no attention. The crowd was thinning, now. “Our stalker jus’ trashed Robert Pilgrim?”
Fuller snorted. “World’ll be a better place if you ask me.” He nodded at the last of the walking workers. “Look at these poor bastards –”
“Not the fuckin’ point!” Over their aural link, Lugan went on,
A cloaked figure dropped into the light.
He was small, slight, as strong as coiled steel wire. His skin and cloak were dappled a shadowy, shifting blue-grey. As he put back his cowl with one thin hand, Fuller gasped, Lugan swore softly. Neither man was a stranger to cybernetic enhancement, but they had never seen anything like this.
This couldn’t be human.
The little man’s face was savage, sharp cheeked and gleeful. His skin was the same dark mottle – it seemed to be actually part of his flesh. Across it slashed a nightmare sneer – a black-lipped, black-toothed grin. But his
Black, blacker than pits, featureless and soulless, too large for his thin face. They were inhuman, alien – reminiscent of too many horror movies. Somewhere in their depths, there was the cold, blue glitter of an optical scan.
Even as the men stared, the skin-mottle was changing. Seeping, spreading. In a moment, it had flowed to the greys and reds of the surrounding buildings, the blue flicker of the distant laser show. Camouflaged perfectly against his background, the little man was almost impossible to see. Belatedly, Lugan tried his ocular heatseeker, tried to see weaponry and cybernetics; somehow he was not surprised when the man had no visible body temperature.
“You’re the ‘Ecko’,” Fuller said.
“The ‘G’ is silent.” The sprite grin was pure malice. He was a flicker, a fragment of nightmare; his empty black eyes as cold as blades. There was no mercy in his smile. “Last night... was a little ‘illustration’ –”
“You lookin’ for attention?” Lugan said. “Or you lookin’ for bidders?”
The face turned from Lugan to Fuller and back.
“Maybe I’m lookin’ for asylum.”
“No shit.” Lugan said.
“You’re killin’ me. Look, you’re kinda infamous round here – most bad guys know to stay outta your face. Take me in – turn me in. I’m the fuckin’ phantom fireworker and y’got me cold – whatcha gonna do?”
Lugan pulled out a dog-end. He stuck it between his lips, paused for a moment and spat it out again. From somewhere across the river, the laser show danced on the glowering clouds.
It began to rain, drops of fat, filthy water.
“All right, all right, I’ll speak to the Boss,” Lugan said. “You, us, here, same time, tomorrow. And gimme back my lighter!”
Ecko tilted his head, his attention flicked from one man to the other and his black grin remained. “Do your research, guys. Then here. Tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you going to tell us to come alone? No tricks?” Fuller asked.
With a snort, Ecko slid his hood back into place. “You try whatever you like.” He took a pace away, two; the chrome glint of Lugan’s lighter held in his hand. “But I’m keepin’ your kit – you get it back if you play nice.” He flicked a flame, like a farewell.
As Lugan blinked to clear the rain from his eyes, the little man was gone – faded into the London night until only the fire remained.
Just an echo.
PART 1: IMPACT
1: TO BE A PILGRIM
