The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

The receptionist said that someone named Mr. Krantz checked us both in, but we didn’t arrive together. I asked for a photocopy they had made of his ID, and she added that she had seen me only once recently—just before midday.

“Is Mr. Krantz okay?” she asked anxiously.

“Did he appear unwell?”

“A little. I offered to call a doctor, but he said it wasn’t necessary. Do you not remember any of this?”

“I’ve been having memory lapses. Which room am I in?”

“Jacob Z. Krantz,” I read from the copy of his ID as we took the lift to the top floor, “Laddernumber 673, based in Goliathopolis.” Anyone under a thousand was way up high in the upper echelons of the Goliath corporate structure. Last I heard of my old adversary Jack Schitt, he had entered the Goliath Top One Hundred at eighty-eight.

“Krantz is easily high enough to be involved in the Synthetic Human Project,” I murmured thoughtfully. “We’re here.”

The Formby was the largest and most luxurious suite in the hotel, right on the top floor. The room didn’t contain a large jar as Landen had suggested, but rather a human-size sarcophagus made out of Tupperware to ensure freshness. There was a large quantity of cellophane wrapping, an empty wooden crate that had once contained the sarcophagus, and several items of medical equip

ment. All the towels were sodden, and almost everything was covered with splashes of thick, fetid-smelling slime, the bathroom especially.

“This has a very military feel about it, don’t you think?” said Landen, rummaging among the bric-a-brac.

“I think even an idiot like me could bring one of these to life,” I replied, referring to a pictorial instruction card.

“If neanderthals were designed by Goliath as experimental medical-test vessels,” he said, “why not a disposable soldier? Volume trumps longevity if you’re thinking of a quick conflict.”

“It doesn’t explain what a corporate highflier like Krantz is doing in Swindon with a Synthetic,” I said. “What is Goliath up to?”

Landen said he had no idea, then opined that we shouldn’t be found here, to which I agreed. We took the elevator back to the lobby, but it was too late. The doors to the lift opened to reveal six Goliath operatives, all dressed in the signature navy suits and sunglasses of Goliath’s Internal Security Service. The one in front was holding a clipboard, and he would have been the boss.

We stopped and stared at one another. They knew who I was, that much was certain, but I think they were wondering which I was. I felt Landen’s hand move in the pocket where he kept his pistol. The man with the clipboard took off his sunglasses and looked at Landen. He’d seen him move, too. They’d all be armed. I thought the world of Landen but didn’t see how he could outshoot six highly trained Goliath security officers. I shifted my weight and might have winced. The Goliath agent looked at my stick, then smiled.

“Miss Next,” he said, “so very glad to make your acquaintance, and congratulations on your new appointment. I am Swindon’s Goliath representative: Lupton Cornball. Don’t laugh. We’ll be formally introduced tomorrow at the library, but today I’d like to talk to you about some stolen property that might make itself available to you.”

They were definitely after the Synthetic, but Goliath always spoke euphemistically, as it afforded deniability. I wasn’t going to play along.

“What sort of property?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Then how will I know when it has made itself available to me?”

He stared at me for a moment, lost for words. But it told me what I needed to know: If these guys meant to do us harm, we’d both be unconscious in the back of a van by now with flour sacks over our heads.

“We’re done,” I said as they parted to let us through. I had often bested the Goliath Corporation in the past, and because of this I had a protocol all to myself. It was numbered 451 and declared that I was not to be approached for any purpose. I had probably cost them a trillion pounds in lost revenue, and they had no desire to lose any more. I was the thorn in the side that you didn’t touch—you simply left it alone and dealt with the pain.

“I love the way you talk to them,” said Landen with a chuckle. “What’s the next step? Look for Mr. Krantz?”

“I guess.”

“I hope that’s the end of it,” he murmured. “One sarcophagus, one Synthetic.”

“Don’t be too sure,” I said, handing him some paperwork I had fished out of the waste bin. It was a Gravitube ticket all the way from the Tarbuck International, the most convenient place to depart from the island corporate city-state of Goliathopolis, situated in the middle of the Irish Sea.

“At least we’re no longer in doubt the Synthetic was from Goliath,” said Landen.

“Yes,” I replied, “but look at the luggage manifest.”

“Shit,” he muttered, once he’d examined the ticket stub.

“Right,” I replied, “five crates came by Gravitube Freight. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Synthetic Me.”