the room, and the concealed lighting obligingly illuminated Genevieve Weiss’s studio. Compared to the rest of the house, this room was spartan: a big com array stood on a desk in the centre of a polished parquet floor and a dozen plasma graphics adorned the walls.
Vaughan crossed to the computer and seated himself before the screen. He activated the machine, accessed files, and for the next ten minutes scrolled through the portfolio of Genevieve Weiss’s collected work.
He spent a second or two with each graphic, not sure what he was looking for—some clue, some visual link to anything that had gone before.
He was almost ready to give up when he struck gold.
The girl stared out of the screen, the expression on her beautiful face caught between ecstasy and agony. She seemed to be floating, bare feet trailing, arms outstretched in the approximation of a crucifix.
Vaughan stared at her face. He commanded the computer to create a print of the graphic.
Chandra appeared beneath the arch. “I’ve just spoken to the head of the dispatch team at the ‘port. They’ve been through the ship from top to bottom.”
“And?”
“It’s empty. Apparently an outside team of hauliers came for the container an hour ago. The security guards had voice-code authority from Weiss himself, so they let the hauliers through.”
“I’ll scan the guards when I get to the ‘port,” Vaughan said, “read the hauliers’ faces. I might come up with something.”
“Weiss must have thought of that. The hauliers were Zen cultists, wearing the masks of Denied Identity—or rather they were disguised as cultists. The case could be anywhere by now, even off the Station.”
“Great.” Vaughan tore the graphic from the printer and held it up to Chandra. “It’s the girl I found in the freighter, Jimmy. Elly Jenson. She’s the subject of a Weiss graphic called The Adoration of the Chosen One.”
Chandra made a printout of the Jenson pix. Seconds later his handset chimed. He took the call and spoke rapidly in Hindi. He nodded, his expression serious, and cut the connection.
“That was forensic. They know what killed Weiss—a drug called rhapsody.” He looked at Vaughan. “Probably what killed Genevieve and her son, too.”
“The same stuff that Tiger took...” Vaughan began.
Chandra went on, “They’ve traced its point of origin, too. I’ll give you three guesses.”
“Not Verkerk’s World?”
“Right first time,” Chandra said. “How about this: quite apart from whatever Weiss was bringing shielded to Earth, he was also smuggling rhapsody?”
“It’s possible, I suppose.” Vaughan shrugged. “I wonder where the Jenson kid fits in?”
“You tell me. I’ve got alerts out for her. And we’re trying to trace dealers in rhapsody.”
When the Scene of Crime team arrived minutes later, Vaughan and Chandra left the villa and boarded the flier. The cop ferried him to an east-side downchute station, and Vaughan nodded to Chandra and climbed out. He pushed his way through the noisy crowd as the flier took off and climbed into the dawn sky. Clutching the scrolled graphic of the Chosen One, he dropped to Level Four and walked the kilometre home through the still-busy streets, the concentrated mind-noise drumming in his head like a migraine.
Fifteen minutes later he let himself into his apartment. He sat before the window without turning on the light, reached out and fumbled on the table for the vial of chora. He washed it down with a swig of stale beer from a bottle he found wedged down the cushion of the chair.
Quickly the drug took effect, reducing the mind-hum and allowing him to relax. As the sun rose on the other side of the Station, the night turned from navy to grey and pale light flooded the apartment.
He stood up and found half a dozen magnets in a storage unit. He clamped the graphic of Elly onto the wall, then
Vaughan crossed to the computer and seated himself before the screen. He activated the machine, accessed files, and for the next ten minutes scrolled through the portfolio of Genevieve Weiss’s collected work.
He spent a second or two with each graphic, not sure what he was looking for—some clue, some visual link to anything that had gone before.
He was almost ready to give up when he struck gold.
The girl stared out of the screen, the expression on her beautiful face caught between ecstasy and agony. She seemed to be floating, bare feet trailing, arms outstretched in the approximation of a crucifix.
Vaughan stared at her face. He commanded the computer to create a print of the graphic.
Chandra appeared beneath the arch. “I’ve just spoken to the head of the dispatch team at the ‘port. They’ve been through the ship from top to bottom.”
“And?”
“It’s empty. Apparently an outside team of hauliers came for the container an hour ago. The security guards had voice-code authority from Weiss himself, so they let the hauliers through.”
“I’ll scan the guards when I get to the ‘port,” Vaughan said, “read the hauliers’ faces. I might come up with something.”
“Weiss must have thought of that. The hauliers were Zen cultists, wearing the masks of Denied Identity—or rather they were disguised as cultists. The case could be anywhere by now, even off the Station.”
“Great.” Vaughan tore the graphic from the printer and held it up to Chandra. “It’s the girl I found in the freighter, Jimmy. Elly Jenson. She’s the subject of a Weiss graphic called The Adoration of the Chosen One.”
Chandra made a printout of the Jenson pix. Seconds later his handset chimed. He took the call and spoke rapidly in Hindi. He nodded, his expression serious, and cut the connection.
“That was forensic. They know what killed Weiss—a drug called rhapsody.” He looked at Vaughan. “Probably what killed Genevieve and her son, too.”
“The same stuff that Tiger took...” Vaughan began.
Chandra went on, “They’ve traced its point of origin, too. I’ll give you three guesses.”
“Not Verkerk’s World?”
“Right first time,” Chandra said. “How about this: quite apart from whatever Weiss was bringing shielded to Earth, he was also smuggling rhapsody?”
“It’s possible, I suppose.” Vaughan shrugged. “I wonder where the Jenson kid fits in?”
“You tell me. I’ve got alerts out for her. And we’re trying to trace dealers in rhapsody.”
When the Scene of Crime team arrived minutes later, Vaughan and Chandra left the villa and boarded the flier. The cop ferried him to an east-side downchute station, and Vaughan nodded to Chandra and climbed out. He pushed his way through the noisy crowd as the flier took off and climbed into the dawn sky. Clutching the scrolled graphic of the Chosen One, he dropped to Level Four and walked the kilometre home through the still-busy streets, the concentrated mind-noise drumming in his head like a migraine.
Fifteen minutes later he let himself into his apartment. He sat before the window without turning on the light, reached out and fumbled on the table for the vial of chora. He washed it down with a swig of stale beer from a bottle he found wedged down the cushion of the chair.
Quickly the drug took effect, reducing the mind-hum and allowing him to relax. As the sun rose on the other side of the Station, the night turned from navy to grey and pale light flooded the apartment.
He stood up and found half a dozen magnets in a storage unit. He clamped the graphic of Elly onto the wall, then
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