Mindstar Rising

by Peter F. Hamilton

  "Sounds good. So why do you need me?"

  Evans scowled. "Sorry, I run on. Old man's disease. By the time you accumulate the resources to accomplish something worthwhile, time's up."

  "The problem, boy, is my orbital operation up at Zanthus. Someone is running a spoiler against the company. They've turned the operators of my microgee furnaces up at Zanthus, thirty-seven per cent of my memox crystals are being deliberately ruined. That adds up to seven million Eurofrancs a month."

  Greg let out an involuntary whistle. He hadn't known Event Horizon was that big.

  "Yeah, right," Philip Evans said. "I can't sustain that kind of loss for much longer. Lucky I caught it when I did—" and there was a hint of pride at the accomplishment. Still on the ball, still the man. "The organiser circumvented some pretty elaborate security safeguards too. Means whoever they are they're smart and organised."

  "They're clever all right," Walshaw conceded. He pulled out a black wood chair opposite Greg and sat down.

  "And even the security division is under suspicion," Evans said. "Including Morgan here, which is why he's so pissed off with me."

  Greg sneaked a glance at Walshaw, meeting impenetrable urbanity. The man had not—nor ever would—sell out. Greg knew him, the type, his motivation; he'd no grand visions of his own, the perfect lieutenant. And in Event Horizon and Philip Evans he'd found an ideal liege. The old billionaire must've understood that too.

  Walshaw nodded an extremely reluctant acknowledgement. "The nature of the circumvention does imply a degree of internal complicity, certainly knowledge of the security monitor procedures was compromised."

  "He means the buggers are on the take, that's what," Evans grumbled. "And I want you to root 'em out for me, boy. You're about the nearest thing to independent in this brain-wrecked world. Trustworthy, as far as we can satisfy ourselves. So then: four hundred New Sterling a day, and all the expenses you can spend. How does that sound?"

  "Do I have to sign the contract in blood?"

  "Just don't screw me about, boy. I've spent close on twenty years fighting that shit President Armstrong and his leftie stormtroops, now he's gone I'm not going to lose by default. Event Horizon is going to be my memorial. The trailblazer of England's industrial Renaissance."

  Greg felt a twinge of admiration for the old man, he was dying yet he was still making plans, dreaming. Not many could do that. "Where do you want me to start?" he asked.

  "You and I will go down to Stanstead," Morgan Walshaw said. "Assuming I'm trustworthy."

  "Don't be so bloody sarcastic," Evans barked.

  "Stanstead is Event Horizon's main air-freight terminal in England," Walshaw explained, quietly amused. "All our flights out to Listoel originate there."

  "Listoel?" Greg asked.

  "That's the anchorage for my cyber-factory ships out in the Atlantic," Philip Evans said. "A lot of Event Horizon's domestic gear is still built out there, and it's where my spaceline, Dragonflight, is based. Anyone going up to Zanthus starts at Listoel."

  "Calling in the management personnel and memox-furnace operators who are currently on leave won't be regarded as particularly unusual," Walshaw said. "Once they arrive, you can use your gland ability to determine which of them have been turned. After that, you and a small security team will go up to Zanthus and pull whoever circumvented the security monitors, along with the guilty furnace operators working up there. We'll fly up replacements from the batch you've vetted."

  "You want me to go up to Zanthus?" Greg asked. There was a sensation in his gut, as if he'd just knocked back a few brandies in rapid-fire succession.

  "That's right, boy. Why, that a problem?"

  "No." Greg grinned. "No problem at all."

  "It's not a bloody holiday," Evans snapped. "You get your arse up there, and you stop them, Greg. Hard and fast. I've got to have something concrete to show my backing consortium. They're due for the figures in another six weeks. I've got to have something positive for them, they'll understand a spoiler, God knows enough of the kombinates are trying to throttle each other rather than do an honest day's work. What they won't stand for is me dallying about whingeing instead of stomping on it." Philip Evans subsided, resting on the powerchair's tall back. "That just leaves this evening."

  "What's happening this evening?" Greg asked.

  "I'm throwing a small dinner party—some close friends and associates, one or two glams, plus Julia's houseguests. There's a couple of people I want you to screen for me. I've invited Dr. Ranasfari. He's leading one of Event Horizon's research teams, a genuine genius. I've got him working on a project I consider absolutely crucial to my plans for the company's future. So you handle with care." Evans stopped, looking as uncomfortable as Greg had yet seen him. For a moment he thought it was the illness. But the old man's mind was flush with an emotion verging on guilt. Walshaw had turned away, Uninterested. Diplomatic.

  "The second . . ." Philip Evans nodded vaguely at the window. "That lad out there . . . Adrian, I think his name is. Julia seems quite taken with him. Leastways, she doesn't talk of hardly anything else. Don't get me wrong, I don't object to him, not if he makes her happy. Nothing I want more than to see her smiling, she's my world. It's just that I don't want her hurt. Now, I know you can't expect eternal commitment, not at that age, and he seems pleasant enough. But make sure she's not just another tick in his stud diary. Life's going to be tough enough for her, being my heir, she surely doesn't deserve bad-news boyfriends as well."

  Chapter Four

  There was a dinner jacket waiting for Greg in the guest suite after he'd finished bathing. It fitted perfectly. He put it on, feeling foolish, then went out to find his host. At least he had remembered how to do up his bow tie.

  The lights throughout the majority of Wilholm's rooms were old-fashioned electric bulbs, drawing their power from solar panels clipped over the splendid Collyweston slates. He had to admit that biolums' pink-white glow wouldn't have done the classical decor justice. Evans had obviously gone to a lot of trouble recreating the old building's original glory.

  The ageing billionaire chortled at the sight of Greg as he waited for his powerchair on the east wing's landing, flushed and fingering his starched collar. "Almost respectable-looking, boy." The powerchair stopped in front of him. Evans cocked his head, taking stock. "I hope you know which knives to use. I can hardly pass you off as my aide if you start savaging your avocado with a soup spoon, now can I?"

  Greg wasn't sure if the old man was mocking him or the marvellously doltish niceties of table etiquette, so religiously adhered to by England's upper middle classes—what was left of them. Probably both.

  "I was an officer," Greg countered. Not that he'd graduated from Sandhurst, nothing so formal. It was what the Army had called a necessity promotion, all the Mindstar candidates were captains—some obscure intelligence division commission. A week of learning how to accept salutes, and three months' solid slog of data interpretation and correlation exercises.

  "Course you were, m'boy; and a gentleman too, no doubt."

  "Well, I always took my socks off before, if that's what you mean," Greg said.

  Evans laughed approvingly. "Wish I had you on my permanent staff. So many bloody woofter yes-men—"

  The chair took off towards the main stairs at a fast walking pace. The old man looked much improved since the afternoon. Greg wondered how he'd pay for that later.

  The three teenagers were heading for the stairs from the manor's west wing. Evans waited at the top for them. The taller girl bent over and gave his cheek a soft kiss, studying his face carefully. There was genuine concern written on her features.

  "Now, you're not going to stay up late," she said primly. It wasn't a question.

  "No." Evans was trying hard to make it come out grumpy, but fell miserably short. Her presence resembled a fission reaction, kindling a fierce glow of pride in his mind. "Greg, this is Julia, that wayward grandchild I've been telling you about."

  Julia Evans nod
ded politely, but didn't offer her hand. Apparently her grandfather's employees didn't rate anything more than fleeting acknowledgement. In silent retaliation Greg tagged her as a standard-issue spoilt brat.

  Actually, he acknowledged she was quite a nice-looking girl. Tall and slender, with a modest bust, and her fine, unfashionably long hair arranged in an attractive wavy style that complemented a pleasant oval face. She wore a slim plain silver tiara on her brow, and a small gold St. Christopher dangling from a chain round her neck. He thought her choice of a strapless royal-purple silk dress was sagacious; she had the kind of confident poise necessary to carry it well, and not many her age could claim the same.

  The boys would look twice, sure enough. Because she was sparky in that way that all teenage girls were sparky. It was just that she hadn't developed any striking characteristics to lift her out of the ordinary. And right now that was her major problem. She was a satellite deep into an eclipse. Her primary, the girl she stood beside, was an absolutely dazzling seraph.

  Her name was Katerina Cawthorp, introduced as Julia's friend from their Swiss boarding school. A true golden girl, with richly tanned satin-smooth skin, and a thick mane of honey-blonde hair which cascaded over wide, strong shoulders. Her figure was an ensemble of superbly moulded curves, accentuated by a dress of some glittering bronze fabric which hugged tight. A deliciously low-cut front displayed a great deal of firm shapely cleavage, while a high tight hem did the same for long elegant legs. Her face was foxy; bee-stung lips, pert nose, and clear Nordic-blue eyes which regarded Greg with faint condescension. He'd been staring.

  Katerina must have been used to it. That sly almost-smile let the whole world know that butter would most definitely melt in her mouth.

  Julia wheeled her grandfather's chair on to a small platform which ran down a set of rails at the side of the stairs.

  "That father of yours, is he coming down?" Evans asked her sourly.

  "Now don't you two start quarrelling tonight."

  "Probably skulking in his room getting stoned."

  She slapped his wrist, quite sharply. "Behave. This is a party."

  Evans grunted irritably, and the platform began to slide down. Julia kept up with it, skipping lightly.

  Naturally, Katerina's descent was far more dignified. She glided effortlessly, an old-style film star making her grand entrance at a blockbuster premiere.

  It left Greg free to talk to the boy, Adrian Marler; he didn't have to ask anything, Adrian turned out to be one of nature's gushers. He launched into conversation by telling Greg how he'd just begun to study medicine at Cambridge, hoped to make the rugby team as a winger, complained about the New Conservative government's pitifully inadequate student grant, confided that his family was comfortably off but nowhere near as rich as the Evans dynasty.

  Adrian was six foot tall with surf-king muscles, short curly blond hair, chiselled cheekbones, and a roguish grin that would send young—and not so young—female hearts racing; he was also intelligent, humorous, and respectful. Greg felt a flash of envious dislike for a kind of adolescence he'd never had, dismissing it quickly.

  "So how did you meet Julia?" he enquired.

  "Katey introduced us," Adrian said. "Hey listen, no way was I going to turn down the chance to crash out at this palace for a few days, meet the great Philip Evans. Then there's gourmet food, as much booze as you want, clean sheets every day, valet service." He leaned over and gave Greg a significant between-us-men look, before murmuring, "And our rooms are fortuitously close together."

  "She seems a nice girl," Greg ventured.

  Adrian's eyes tracked the slow-moving, foil-wrapped backside in front of them with radar precision. "You have no idea how truly you speak." His mind was awhirl with hot elation.

  "Are we talking about Julia or Katerina?"

  Adrian broke off his admiring stare with obvious reluctance. "Katey, of course. I mean, Julia's decent enough, despite her old man being a complete arsehole. But she couldn't possibly match up to Katey, nobody could." He dropped his voice, taking Greg into his confidence. "If I had the money, I'd marry Katey straight off. I know it sounds stupid, considering her age. But her parents just don't care about her. It's a scandal; if they were poor the social services would've taken her into care. But they're rich, they sit in their Austrian tax haven and treat her as a style accessory. To their set it's fashionable to have a child, the more precocious the better. That's probably why she and Julia are such closeheads. Near-identical backgrounds; both of them ignored from an early age."

  Greg suddenly experienced a pang of sympathy, prompted by his intuition. Adrian was a regular lad, one of the boys, likeable. He deserved better than Katerina. Although he didn't know it, his infatuation was doomed to a terminal crash landing. His rugged good looks and lack of hard cash marked him down as a passing fancy. Naivety preventing him from realising that the teeny-vamp sex goddess whose footsteps he worshipped was going to chew him up then spit him out the second a tastier morsel caught her wandering, lascivious eye.

  Still, at least it meant Greg could start the evening by giving Evans one piece of news which he wanted to hear. Though whether it was good news was debatable. To Greg's mind, Julia would be hard pushed to find a better prospect for prince consort.

  Philip Evans received his guests in the manor's drawing room. Its arching windows looked out on to the immaculately mown lawns where peacocks strutted round the horticultural menagerie along the paths. Maids in black-and-white French-style uniforms circulated with silver trays of tall champagne glasses and fattening cheesy snacks. A string quartet played a soft melody in the background. Greg felt as if he'd time-warped into some Mayfair club, circa nineteen-thirty.

  The men were all dressed in immaculately tailored dinner jackets, while the women wore long gowns of subdued colours and modest cut. It made Katerina stand out from the crowd; not that she needed sartorial assistance for that. A stunning case of overkill.

  Greg saw that despite his blunt Lincolnshire-boy attitude Philip Evans made a good host. He slipped into the role easily. A lifetime immersed in PR had taught him how.

  Julia stuck by his side; officially the hostess, being the senior lady of the family. The guests treated her with a formal respect not usually directed at teenagers. They must know she was the protégée, Greg realised. She accepted her due without a hint of pretension.

  Greg hovered behind the pair of them, maintaining a lifeless professional smile as he was introduced as Philip Evans's new personal secretary. The old billionaire had assembled an impressive collection of top rankers for his party—a couple of New Conservative cabinet ministers, and the deputy prime minister; five ambassadors; financiers; a sprinkling of the aristocracy; and some flash showbiz types, presumably for Julia's benefit.

  Lady Adelaide and Lord Justin Windsor, Princess Beatrice's children, were also mingling with the guests, two tight knots of people swirling gently round them the whole time. Greg had managed to exchange a few words with Lady Adelaide; she was in her early twenties, and as politely informal as only Royalty could be given the circumstances. He gave way to the press of social mountaineers well pleased; Eleanor would love hearing the details.

  As he left, he saw Katerina moving with the tenacity of an icebreaker through the people around Lord Justin. She wriggled round an elderly matron with gymnastic agility to deliver herself in front of him, blue eyes hot with sultry promise. For one moment, watching Lord Justin's quickly hidden guilty smile, Greg allowed his cynicism to get the better of him. Could the young royal be the reason Philip Evans was unhappy about Adrian? Lord Justin was only five years older than Julia; a union between them was the kind of note an ultra-English traditionalist like Philip Evans would adore going out on. He eventually decided the thought was unworthy. Philip Evans might be devious, but he wasn't grubby.

  The new arrivals seemed endless. Greg wanted to undo his iron collar, he wasn't used to it. But all he could do was smile at the blur of faces, sticking to form. The guests wer
en't a nightstalker crowd, he realised grimly, not the ones who cruised the shebeens searching for pickups and left-handed action. This was class, the real and the posed. Their conversation revolved around currency fluctuations, investment potential, and the latest Fernando production at the National Theatre. Nobody here would be looking for a quiet moment to slip upstairs with someone else's escort. Greg steeled himself for hours of excruciating boredom.

  There was one guest for whom Julia abandoned all her decorum, rushing up and flinging her arms round an overloud American. "Uncle Horace, you came!" She smiled happily as he patted her back, collecting an overgenerous kiss. The man was in his late fifties, red-faced and fleshy, his smile seemingly permanent.

  The name enabled Greg to place him: Horace Jepson, the channel magnate. He was the president of Globecast, a satellite broadcasting company which had multiple channel franchises in nearly every country in the world; screening everything from trash soaps and rock videos to wildlife documentaries and twenty-four-hour news coverage. The PSP had refused Globecast a licence while they were in power, although the company's Pan-Europe channels could always be picked up by Event Horizon's black-market flatscreens, complete with a dedicated English-language soundband. The PSP raged about imperialist electronic piracy; Globecast calmly referred to it as footprint overspill, and kept on beaming it down. Greg had never watched anything else in the PSP decade.

  Horace Jepson gave Philip Evans a hearty greeting, while Julia clung to his side. Then she steered him adroitly away from a cluster of the celebrities who'd begun to eye him greedily, introducing him to one of the New Conservative ministers instead.