Vesta - Painworld Page 7

  ‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘it’s all a bit confused now. Oh, I can remember the main stuff, but lots of the details are a bit hazy.’

  ‘Or you don’t want to remember them,’ Ellen suggested. She knelt down in front of her friend and peered up into her face. ‘Maybe it wasn’t quite what you were expecting?’ she prompted. Lianne pursed her lips.

  ‘Something like that,’ she admitted, grudgingly. ‘I think VESTA’s been searching some very peculiar places for backgrounds and stuff,’ she said, after a long pause. ‘Either that or Marlon - or somebody else around here - has some bloody weird fantasies; weirder than what passes for normal even in this place, at any rate.’

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’ Ellen said, very gently, placing a hand on Lianne’s knee.

  ‘Not really,’ Lianne said. ‘But seeing as I’m unlikely to get any peace around you until I do, I suppose I’d better.’

  Jurgen Koenig had little about him to suggest the archetypal German; at a little over five feet seven, he was below average height, slightly built, with stooping rounded shoulders and a shock of unruly near-black hair. He viewed the world through a pair of spectacles that could have done duty as wine bottle bottoms and, despite his best attentions, the apologetic attempt at a moustache refused to take on anything other than a poor replica of a sooty toothbrush.

  His English, however, was flawless, without the slightest trace of an accent and only his perfect grammar betrayed the fact that it was not his native language. That and his occasional idiosyncratic misuse of certain idiomatic and slang expressions.

  ‘As I have told you, on more than enough occasions, Mr Naylor,’ he said, peering hard across the desk at his current employer, ‘it has only been your inability to provide this project with sufficient funds that has prevented me from taking my research into a productive practical stage.

  ‘If our friend Vincent has actually succeeded in building a working model, no matter how advanced a stage it is now at, I can assure you that a few hours application will enable me to assume control of it, my dear bean. Allow me uninterrupted access to this brainbaby of his and I will hand it back to you, pig and poke, fully operational for whatever use you wish to make of it.’

  ‘For someone who has spent a great deal of time and a whole lot of my money,’ Naylor said, ‘you had better be right. Of course, we could always “persuade” Marlon Vincent to operate the system himself, but then that would be a risky undertaking, seeing as none of us would have the first idea what he was up to.’

  ‘Child’s games, Mr Naylor,’ Koenig said. ‘The Muirhead woman’s funding may have permitted him to progress far beyond what we have achieved, but I am as well versed in the theory as any person alive and kicking. As I say, a few hours dissecting his programming and I shall be able to guarantee complete control. I may even be able to improve on what he has done.’

  Koenig removed his thick spectacles, breathed on each of the lenses in turn and began to polish them furiously on his shirtfront.

  ‘Do we know exactly how far he has progressed?’ he asked, without looking up. Naylor sniffed.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he admitted, ‘but we are pretty sure he has constructed at least a working prototype. There have been whispers.’

  ‘And you have your ear very much to the wall,’ Koenig said. ‘Ah well, then we must get ourselves a look-say at this set-up, the sooner the better.’

  ‘That we must,’ Naylor agreed. ‘The matter is already in hand.’

  ‘It would also help,’ Koenig said, mildly, ‘if I could see any notes he has made. Every software engineer has his own little quirks and anomalies and there will be many different codes involved, put in to prevent unwanted interference.’

  ‘I had assumed that myself,’ Naylor snapped, ‘otherwise I should no longer require your services.’

  ‘That is a rash assumption to make, Mr Naylor,’ Koenig countered, totally unmoved. ‘I have spent a lifetime in this match and even I will not find this a piece of pudding, believe me. There will be several failsafes built in, for a start, and I shall need to identify these and either remove them or re-code them to recognise my instructions. If I do not, the consequences could be disastrous for you.’

  Naylor’s eyebrows rose in alarm. ‘In what way?’ he demanded.

  ‘For a start,’ Koenig replied, ‘it would be unsafe to risk a direct link with a system that could be aborted, or worse, by the use of a simple password. As I understand it, you will be hooking up yourself and several of your associates to this network, becoming a part of it as much as the subjects you intend it to control.’

  ‘True, but then you yourself told me that there will be passive links and active links. We shall all be connected via active links, thus giving us complete control.’

  ‘Except that a simple “safe” word might be used to take that control away from you,’ Koenig said, replacing his glasses once more. ‘Your “active” links could be disarmed, or even converted to passive status as simply as someone saying Jack in the Beanstalk, I promise you.’

  ‘And you’ve waited until now to tell me this?’ Naylor roared, the colour rising in his cheeks.

  Koenig tilted his head to one side. ‘Until now,’ he said, ‘the premise was that we should be using a system of my own design, not taking control of someone else’s work. Of course, I could be mistaken, but I don’t think so. If the boot were on the other shoe, I know I would build in safeguards against anyone else using my creation against me.

  ‘However, what goes down must come out, as the saying goes. Whatever Mr Vincent can put into his programming, I can trace and remove, replacing it, if necessary, with a different set of passwords.’

  ‘You’re absolutely certain of that?’

  ‘Of course. No matter how deeply he may try to bury these things, there are always trails to follow.’

  ‘You’d better be right,’ Naylor snorted. ‘Because you’re going to be connected to this contraption yourself.’ He stared across the desk, but if he expected the German to flinch, or to show any reticence, he was disappointed. Koenig simply sat back, a satisfied smile playing across his lips.

  ‘My dear Mr Naylor,’ he purred, ‘I cannot wait. Ever since your delightful companion showed me the video films of the blonde girl, Lianne, I have been more than eager to meet her in the flesh, even if that flesh is only virtual.’

  Naylor clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles loudly. ‘Get this thing to work properly,’ he said, ‘and you can have her in the flesh for real. I owe Ms Connolly a few, but I can wait a day or two longer.’

  ‘Needs must when the devil plays conkers, eh?’ Koenig chuckled, standing up, and behind the thick lenses there was a new gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Okay, so I knew none of it was real,’ Lianne finished, ‘but it seemed real enough at the time, I promise you. And I kept wondering, what if something goes wrong? Maybe I could burn in here. I tell you, that smoke seemed genuine enough and those flames were getting bloody hot by the time I was pulled out.

  ‘The only thing was,’ she went on, ‘I couldn’t smell the smoke and in the real world, if I’d been tied to a stake with a load of wood burning all around me, I’d have been coughing and spluttering and the tears would have been streaming down my face.’

  ‘Having seen your attempts at making toast when you’re pissed,’ Ellen retorted, ‘I can agree with that.’ She shuffled herself back into a more comfortable position on the deep piled bedroom carpet.

  ‘Apparently Marlon’s working on the smell part. I asked him if it needed more powerful programming, but he said no, it was a case of getting the sensors on our heads positioned more accurately, or rather adding a couple more to do that.

  ‘Originally, he said he thought the same sensors would work for taste and smell, but apparently he was wrong. Taste and smell are controlled by bits of the brain only millimetres apart, but Marlon reckons t
here are different frequencies involved. But he has made it work once, with Nadia, so he thinks it should be another of his so-called simple adjustments.’

  ‘It’s all Greek to me,’ Lianne confessed.

  Ellen snorted. ‘Hey, I never said I understood any of it,’ she said. ‘I just happen to have a good memory, so I’m only repeating what our mad boffin told me.’

  ‘Well, apart from the lack of smell and the fact the smoke wasn’t affecting my eyes,’ Lianne went on, ‘everything else was horribly realistic. Those bloody peasants had whipped me raw on the way to the stake. That executioner character put a collar round my neck, with a chain leash. And there was another leash leading back to one of his monkeys, so I couldn’t have run even if my ankles hadn’t been chained, but I could have got down that line a damn site faster if they’d let me.

  ‘Then the bastard roped me to the pole and fucked me in full view of everyone,’ Lianne continued, very affronted.

  Ellen laughed. ‘But they weren’t real people watching,’ she pointed out.

  Lianne tossed her blonde mane to one side. ‘They bloody well seemed real,’ she snapped. ‘At least, most of them did.’

  ‘So where’s your problem?’ Ellen asked. ‘You’ve screwed with Paul and with Gavin, on camera and in front of all of us.’

  ‘That’s different,’ Lianne muttered. ‘There were only a few of you and I was masked and suited and everything, not stark bollock naked, and neither was the guy fucking me leering into my face and telling me how he was going to enjoy watching my flesh frizzle and fry in his bloody fire!’

  Ellen shuddered visibly. ‘Ugh!’ she said. ‘I see what you mean. I don’t reckon I’d have been too keen myself.’

  ‘It makes me wonder just what we all think we’re doing here,’ Lianne mused. ‘This bloody box of tricks Marlon has created might well turn into some sort of Frankenstein’s monster, if we’re not careful.’

  Ellen shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘After all, Marlon did say it was early days yet, and he’s working on getting all the kinks out.’

  ‘More likely getting us kinks in,’ Lianne grinned. ‘But if he ever puts me into another witch burning scene, I’ll fry his balls for real afterwards.’

  Clarissa had been barely conscious by the time Christina and her two male assistants finally lifted her from the frame on which she had been mounted, and had scarcely felt the hands that pawed her so roughly as they dragged her away and threw her into the little cell-like room. Left alone on the thin mattress, she had fallen into a deep sleep, during which someone had removed the gag. But when she finally awoke and struggled into a sitting position it was with some considerable difficulty, for she was still locked into the restrictive clear plastic outfit.

  Getting to her feet was an act that required a great deal of effort and ingenuity, together with the support of the wall as leverage. But after several unsuccessful attempts, she finally managed to stand and take stock of her surroundings.

  Not that there was much to take stock of, for apart from the mattress, the only other furnishings in the room comprised a narrow bench, fixed to the wall just below waist height, offering somewhere to perch without actually sitting, and a stainless steel bin in the corner which, when Clarissa lifted the lid slightly, proved to be some sort of chemical toilet.

  There was a narrow window above head height, heavily barred, even though it was out of reach and far too small to permit an average sized person to get through it. But the main illumination was provided by a square fluorescent panel set into the centre of the ceiling. By its light Clarissa examined the heavy steel door, but there was nothing to encourage her there. It was clearly designed to open outwards and there was no handle, nor even any sign of a lock on this side, just a simple spy hole, covered on the outside by yet more steel.

  Moving like a marionette, arms and legs rigid inside their plastic casings, she crossed the short distance back to the bench and leaned her weight onto it, realising that its height from the floor was deliberately calculated to enable a prisoner dressed as she was to make use of it; a lower bench would have been very awkward, deprived of the ability to flex her knees as she was.

  Fighting back the urge to cry, Clarissa closed her eyes and tried to think. Obviously her present situation was connected with Marlon, the half brother she had only learned about so recently and was, from what little she had been able to gather from Christina’s conversation, to do with his work with computers. She knew very little of what was involved, only that it was extremely advanced stuff and that she, Clarissa, would probably not have understood any of it anyway.

  Not that that mattered, she realised, for all she was was a hostage. Christina and whoever it was she was involved with, intended to use her in order to put pressure on Marlon, and it was almost certainly some sort of industrial espionage. Marlon, or his employers, had something Christina and company wanted, and wanted badly enough to kidnap her and put her through a series of horrific ordeals in order to persuade her half brother to give it to them.

  On the other hand, she thought, opening her eyes and peering down at the bizarre costume, all this bondage stuff was not directly to do with the Marlon situation; they hadn’t created this costume especially for her. Nor, to judge from the cell and from Christina’s overall attitude, was this something new to her captors.

  ‘Crazy people,’ she whispered aloud. ‘Stark, staring bloody crazies.’ She closed her eyes again and felt her vaginal muscles twitch at the memory of the huge dildo that had been forced into her, and her stiff fingers moved towards her sex without apparent volition from her brain.

  ‘Bastards!’ she hissed. ‘Bloody drongos! Just you wait, you dyke, I’ll have you over for this little lot.’

  ‘VESTA will be ready for another run in the morning,’ Nadia announced, striding into the room. Lianne, Ellen and Gavin looked up from their respective seats around the television. Lianne spoke first.

  ‘No more burning witches,’ she said, firmly.

  Nadia nodded. ‘No, I’ve had a word with Marlon. Apparently the scenario was supposed to stop short of the actual stake, but his data gathering programme added on the embellishments on its own.’

  ‘That’s spooky,’ Ellen put in. ‘I’m not sure I fancy going back on that machine, not if it’s got some sort of mind of its own.’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ Nadia said. ‘Marlon just hadn’t got around to putting in the right bits and bobs in the main programme, so he told me, but he’s taken care of it now. According to him, if there’s anything you really don’t fancy just let him know and he’ll ensure it can’t happen. In any case, none of it’s real, is it?’

  ‘That’s what I tried telling myself,’ Lianne said, ‘but it didn’t seem to help. I kept wondering what if something had gone wrong? Okay, nothing physical was happening to my real body, but the body my head kept telling me I was in was starting to fry and my virtual bladder, if that’s what you’d call it, reacted the same way I reckon my real one would have done if that had happened to me in the real world.’ She looked across at Ellen, defiantly sticking out her chin. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she snapped, ‘I bloody well peed myself with fright and, when I came out of VESTA, I realised I’d also done it for real. So what would happen if something even scarier happened in there, eh? I’ve heard of people dying of fright before now.’

  Nadia held up a calming hand. ‘Nothing like that will happen again,’ she promised. ‘I had a very serious word with Marlon and explained a few things to him. Our little mad professor is a genius with his microchips and things, but he apparently didn’t quite understand exactly what we were about. To him, being whipped by a sadistic witch hunter or hangman is no different from getting a severe paddling from someone you’d quite fancy screwing afterwards.’

  ‘All I can say,’ Lianne said, ‘is that it was a good thing I couldn’t smell anything. That bastard who was fucking me would have
had appalling bad breath, to judge from the state of his teeth!’

  ‘He’s agreed to your demands,’ Jurgen Koenig announced, brandishing the sheet of paper before him as though it were a sword. ‘This is a print-out of his reply.’

  James Naylor allowed himself a satisfied smile, but the big blonde did not seem at all impressed.

  ‘Of course he’s agreed!’ she snapped. ‘I have a way of persuading people, as you must surely have realised, and the thought of abandoning his dear sister clearly would never have entered young Mr Vincent’s head. The images I sent him were clear enough.’

  ‘I saw them,’ Koenig said, letting the paper drop onto Naylor’s desk. ‘Just a trifle extreme, don’t you think?’

  Christina gave a loud, derisive snort. ‘Extreme?’ she sneered. ‘I haven’t even started with that red-headed bitch yet. And she’s a tough one, believe me. Many a girl would have been begging to be let off my little perch within minutes, let alone hours.’

  ‘That gag scarcely allowed much scope for begging,’ Koenig pointed out, reasonably enough, but Christina shrugged off the criticism.

  ‘There are ways of begging without the need for speech,’ she said. ‘I gave her several opportunities, but she refused to crack. However, give her another day or two in my hands and I’ll turn her into a perfect little lapdog. She won’t be able to please me fast enough.’

  ‘What you do with the girl is neither here nor there,’ Naylor interrupted. ‘Just so long as you keep her healthy enough to serve the purpose for which we brought her here. Once Vincent’s given us what we want, fair enough, she’s yours to amuse yourself with, for as long as you want.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll amuse myself,’ Christina assured him. ‘Most certainly I’ll amuse myself.’

  For the third time in half an hour, Marlon checked that the door to the room was really locked. Not that anyone would have dreamed of interrupting him when the door was simply closed, for it was understood that this was Marlon’s inner sanctum, this low-ceilinged, square chamber high in the roof of Nadia’s rambling mansion. It was within these four cramped walls that VESTA had gradually come into being, and although the main hardware was now housed in the largest of the cellar chambers, they still contained an access console through which Marlon could control the entire network.