Mindstar Rising

by Peter F. Hamilton

  "Thanks, Bernard." She broke the connection before he could say anything else.

  There was a number for Wilholm in the terminal memory, listed as private.

  Should've done this to start with, Eleanor thought as the connection was placed. Greg always said go straight to the top for real results.

  The terminal's flatscreen dissolved into a tricolour snowstorm, red, green, and yellow specks skipping about. The speaker hissed with static.

  Eleanor stared at it uncomprehendingly, then cleared the order, ready to try again.

  ERROR, flashed the flatscreen as she punched up the menu.

  An icy dread settled on her skin, like a fast autumn-morning frost. Piercing clean into her heart. This was something to do with Greg, she knew it was. Greg, Event Horizon, Julia, Gabriel, Walshaw, Katerina, all bound together in some devil's tangle. Thoroughly spooked, she punched up the menu again.

  ERROR.

  ERROR.

  ERROR.

  The flatscreen went dead, not even that absurd will-o'-the-wisp nebula.

  Eleanor snatched up the Trinities card and ran out into the twilight. "Duncan!" People turned to look at her, pale ovals of surprise and concern. "Duncan!"

  He was abruptly standing in front of her, face rapt with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation.

  "Your terminal, I have to use your terminal!" she cried.

  Duncan seemed startled, her frantic urgency taking a moment to sink in. "Right-oh, sure."

  Eleanor wanted to grab him and shake him as he fidgeted through his cards, eventually finding the right one for his door with a shy apologetic grimace. "Is it Greg? Is he all right?"

  "Yes. No. I'm not sure, that's why I need the terminal."

  The door swung open. "Here we go." Duncan had an old Emerson terminal, the keyboard worn, some of the touch tabs completely blank. He tapped the power stud.

  Eleanor punched out the phone function with a pulse of anarchic energy, then showed her Trinities card to the key. Duncan's face went white when he saw the bold fist and thorn cross emblem, eyes widening. "I'll er . . . be outside."

  Teddy's face appeared, leaning forwards, squinting. "Hell, what's happened with you, gal?"

  She told him, barely coherent, words falling over each other in her rush to expel them. Made an effort to calm down.

  "Not good," he scowled. "Gabriel never made it home either. We wanna find out where they was headed, we gotta talk to Walshaw or that Julia Evans gal."

  "Can't. The security man said Wilholm was sealed up, that I wouldn't be able to get in."

  "And they ain't taking no calls, neither," Teddy said. "Hostile to 'em, even. Strange. Something in there they don't want no one to see. Ask me and it's something plugged into whatever the Christ is going down. Gotta be. Lay you down good money on that, gal. You know what?"

  "What?"

  "Reckon we oughta take a look-see." There was a dense gleam of excitement in his eyes, some of his tension draining away.

  "Yes, but—how?"

  "Ain't nowhere God can't reach, not if he really wants to."

  "Can you get to Wilholm tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "OK, I'll round me up a few troops, meet you outside the main entrance in an hour. How's that grab you?"

  "Great." And she was lumbered with the problem of transport.

  "Everything all right?" Duncan called as she ran down the slope to the water.

  "Fine." Lying. Curious eyes tracking her flight.

  There were three rowing boats tied up at the Berrybut estate's little wharf, one of them was Greg's. She unwound the painter from its hoop and hopped in. The floating village was three kilometres away, an impossible distance. Why oh why didn't the marine-adepts even have a cybofax between them? Isolation was fine, but not to that extreme.

  Eleanor began to row, lifting one of the oars out every ten or so strokes to slap the water three times.

  The marine-adepts had a van, an old Bedford pick-up they used to take the water-fruit down to Oakham station. They'd help, and keep silent.

  She hadn't gone a hundred metres when the dolphins surfaced around the boat, three of them; agitated, tuning in on her distress. Just in time. The surge of adrenalin that'd got her this far was fading rapidly, arms already leaden.

  Eleanor chucked the blouse and dived right into the chilly black water, shockingly aware she'd never been swimming at night before.

  The dolphins clustered round, snouts butting her gently. She brought her hands together, making a triangle then pressing her palms together: home fast. Again.

  Loud chittering, then one of the sleek grey bodies rose under her. She hung on grimly and they began to slice through the water, curving round Hambleton peninsula towards the floating village.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Cold turkey was a bitch. It was convulsive shivering, with hot flushes, cold flushes, dryness burning like vitriol in his gullet. Nothing made sense, light and darkness alternating, noise and silence cartwheeling around each other. Nightmares and nirvana trips entwining, indistinguishable.

  It was dark when his fever broke. Greg was sitting uncomfortably on a hard floor, propped up against the wrought-iron railings of the tower's stair. His hands had been pushed through the railings, and cuffed on the other side. He could slide them a metre and a half up or down, his entire range of possible movement. His bladder ached, his mouth tasted as if it'd been rinsed in copper soap. Somewhere along the line his shirt had got lost, that scratchy dinner jacket was tickling his skin.

  When he glanced round he saw he was in the tower's first-floor storage room. Biolum light shone up from the basement and down from the lounge. Murmured conversation drifted out of both holes. The smell of cooking was making his stomach growl.

  Gabriel was sitting next to him, her arms embracing the railings. She was asleep, her mouth open.

  Greg nudged her with his toe. She shook herself awake, blinking at him.

  "Christ, Greg. I was worried about you."

  "Yeah, Lord knows what was in that infusion Neville Turner gave me, bloody sight more than a relaxant, though. How come we're still alive?"

  She grimaced and shifted closer. He leant forwards as much as his tethered arms let him. They got their heads within a foot and talked in whispers.

  "They're checking out what you told them," she said. "From what I can gather, Armstrong has some kind of landline stretching over to Downham Market. He told his apparatchiks to launch another hotrod attack against Philip Evans's NN core. He reckoned that without me there to warn Evans they'd have a good chance of success this time."

  "Figures. What did I tell them?"

  Her lips depressed. "Sorry, Greg. Just about everything. Armstrong was fascinated by how you found Tentimes. Made you give him Royan's life story. That really shook them, the way the Trinities have been killing off ex-People's Constables. They thought the Trinities were an ordinary bunch of street punks. Irritants beneath contempt."

  "Shit. That'll start a bloody war, no messing. The Blackshirts will be screaming for revenge."

  "If Armstrong tells them. He probably doesn't want to draw public attention to PSP remnants right now. Besides, don't write Teddy off so quickly. The Blackshirts would take a hell of a pounding if they ever went into Mucklands Wood."

  Depression welled up. Greg felt useless, and worse, he'd betrayed his friends. A real twenty-four-carat Judas. "Did I mention Eleanor?"

  "Once or twice. But not in connection with anything important. They never showed any interest in her. She'll be all right, Greg."

  One comfort. Bloody small, though.

  "Kendric was right pissed off with Julia," Gabriel said. "The way she manoeuvred him to clear Katerina from the field so she could nab Adrian for herself. Armstrong had a laugh at that, Kendric out-thought by a randy teenager with a crush. That girl isn't stupid."

  "I told them that?" Greg was disgusted with himself.

  "Yes. They questioned you for over two hours. Don't blame yourself, Greg. Int
errogations these days are like punching out a data request in a memory core, the answers pop out quick and clean. There's no way anyone can hold out. You should know that."

  "Sure. Thanks." The only hope left now was Morgan Walshaw, and anything Ellis might've left behind. "Did I tell them that Walshaw and the Event Horizon security programmers were sifting through the files in Ellis's Crays?"

  Gabriel screwed her face up. "I think so, yes."

  "Did it kick anything loose? I mean were they worried about anything he might find?"

  "Not especially."

  "Bugger." He'd banked everything on Ellis wreaking a silent posthumous vengeance. A folly whose magnitude was now painfully obvious. Even if Ellis had been told exactly who he was working for, he wouldn't have known about this tower hideaway in Wisbech. Need-to-know was an elementary precaution, and Armstrong certainly wouldn't have overlooked anything to do with his personal security. Hindsight must surely be the most useless function of the human brain, torturing yourself over the unalterable past.

  Gabriel shifted her knees. "One item which really got them stirred up was the Merlin," she said.

  "What about it?"

  "Armstrong and Kendric weren't the ones who meddled with it."

  "Who did?"

  A smile ghosted her lips. "That's what they wanted to know. They asked you three times if you were sure there had been a rogue shutdown instruction squirted up to it."

  "I bet I was convincing."

  "You were. Armstrong ordered his people to confirm it'd happened; apparently Event Horizon haven't announced the breakdown publicly yet. He said they must make an effort to find out who it was. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, all that crap. Kendric seemed to think it could be one of the rival kombinates."

  "Kendric's probably right," Greg said. "So when does Armstrong expect the answers to his enquiries?"

  "I guess tomorrow morning, there's nothing going on right now. If there are any queries they'll have another session with you. If not it'll be straight into the mud."

  "No doubt with Toby helping me on my way after his own fashion. Where is he now?"

  Gabriel inclined her head. "Kendric's mob are camped out in the basement. Lord and Lady Muck themselves are still upstairs. Maybe Armstrong's got a guest suite."

  "Yeah. That Kendric, I'd never have figured on him being plugged into Armstrong and the PSP."

  "You think someone like him is going to let a little question of ideology stand in his way when he's been offered the kind of profits which giga-conductor licensing is going to rake in?"

  "No," Greg said. "But I'm wondering if Armstrong might just have let himself in for more than he's realised."

  "In what way?"

  "Tell you, this is all down to Kendric trying to snatch the giga-conductor patent from Julia, right? That's apart from his private psychosexual fixation on her, of course. First the memox spoiler, now feeding Armstrong information in return for a partnership when Event Horizon is nationalised. Lucifer's alliance, but which one is Old Nick? My money's on Kendric."

  "Meaning?" Gabriel asked.

  "Once Kendric's got the patent in his hands as Event Horizon's chairman I wouldn't like to sell Armstrong any life insurance. Even if his apparatchiks do begin running things again—and I think he's underrating the New Conservative inquisitors there—he can never return to public life. As he's already dead in everyone's mind there will be absolutely no comeback if Kendric has him killed for real. Hell, the bugger of it is, Kendric would even be a hero for doing it."

  "You have a devious nasty mind, Gregory. And I love you for it."

  "If I'm so smart, then why are we here?"

  "I didn't say you were perfect."

  "That's the truth, and no messing."

  Gabriel was silent for a minute, contemplative, then, "I think I've worked out why our glands aren't functioning."

  "The twins."

  "Oh, you know."

  "Process of elimination. I'm quite good at that when it's something paltry. I imagine their glands produce some kind of psi null-zone; I remember something like that being mentioned a couple of times back at the Brigade—never really paid attention. Notice that one stayed with Armstrong while we were snatched. No wonder the other Mindstar vets could never find him after the Second Restoration."

  "So they won't find us now?"

  "No. Morgan Walshaw might put it together eventually. But not by tomorrow morning. And even then, there's nothing to lead him to Wisbech."

  Gabriel rested her head on the metal railings, smiling forlornly. "Pity. I was getting quite used to having a human brain again. I could've lived without the gland. Surprising really. I suppose I associate it with childhood."

  "Armchair psychiatrist," he teased.

  "Greg."

  It was going to be bad news, no espersense required. "Yeah."

  She took a breath. "Kendric asked you if we had identified his contact in Event Horizon."

  For a moment he thought the cold-turkey fever had come back to rattle his bruised brain, "Oh Jesus," he groaned. "There was a mole."

  "Yes," she said feebly. "We didn't do very good, did we Greg?"

  "No. Shit! Who? We checked everybody. Everybody, God damn it!"

  "Wish I knew. He must've been the one who fingered us for Kendric's snatch squad. Who knew we were going to the finance office?"

  He felt like banging his head against the railing, it certainly wouldn't do any damage, there was nothing inside which bloody worked. No messing. "Julia, Walshaw, that doctor who sorted Katerina out, Victor Tyo."

  "Victor Tyo? He's a security programmer, isn't he? Convenient. And he knew you were going to visit Ellis. Somebody was bloody quick off the mark there."

  "It can't be Victor." He dived down through a clutter of memories, trying to bring back the day he boarded the Alabama Spirit, interviewing a baby-faced man: eager at the opportunity, anxious at the responsibility. "Can't be," he muttered.

  "Who then? Even you and I aren't infallible, not the whole time. Take a look around if you don't believe me."

  "I interviewed Victor one on one. Tell you, I might miss peripheral tension, like he's forgotten his girl's birthday card, but that kind of treachery I can spot straight away."

  "Whatever you say."

  He shifted his legs, trying to ease the stiff aching muscles. "Could we have missed someone?"

  "Unlikely."

  "The security headquarters staff," he said, ticking them off in his mind. "Both research teams, the manor staff; Christ, I even asked Julia and Walshaw." He felt an icy spike of fright penetrate his heart. "Oh Jesus," he whispered. "Walshaw."

  "Walshaw?" She was openly scornful.

  "No," he snapped. "Course not. But Walshaw didn't know Kendric had seduced Julia. Why not?"

  "What do you mean? Why should he know?"

  "Because Julia has a bodyguard with her twenty-four hours a day, no matter where she goes outside Wilholm. Remember, there was even one in the corridor outside Walshaw's office at the finance centre? That hardline woman. God, what was her name? Rachel. She was at Wilholm too. A bodyguard who reports directly to Walshaw, who should have told Walshaw what happened on the Mirriam."

  Gabriel bowed her head. "A bodyguard: top-rank security, close to every executive decision ever made, knew Julia was going to the finance centre. But a bodyguard isn't part of the security headquarters staff, nor on the manor's staff. Oh Greg, we are a pair of fuck ups, aren't we? She was standing next to Julia the whole time, and we never even bloody saw her."

  "Yeah," he said. Then gave a start. "Yeah, the whole time. That's strange."

  "What is?"

  "I've only ever seen the one bodyguard: Rachel. Every time I've visited Julia, it's been Rachel on duty. Doesn't that strike you as odd? There's got to be more than one."

  "Did you always let them know you were coming in advance?"

  He nodded silently. The death-chill hadn't left his heart. "Whoever he is, he is still with Julia. Tonight. Now. A hardliner
taking orders from Kendric. And Armstrong has already ordered an attack on Philip Evans's NN core."

  Gabriel stared at him with destitute eyes. "Oh, God."

  He pulled at his cuffs, slowly increasing the strength until his wrists were circles of hot pain. Forearm muscles trembled with the strain. Nothing gave, not the cuff locks, not the iron stair rail. Nothing. "Shit." He let go, graze marks livid on his skin. The futility hurt as much as the failure.

  "That's it, isn't it?" Gabriel said quietly. "End of the road. Philip Evans wiped, Julia snuffed by her own bodyguard, and you and I into the mud."

  He couldn't answer. His own death he could handle, even Gabriel's. But Julia. Her whole life had been devoid of any normality, ruined by money, by grudges and power struggles that had been going on before she was born. When he closed his eyes he could see a young oval face with the most trusting expression he'd ever known. Soft eyes regarded him with a belief that bordered on devotion.

  He should have fought the drug, should have sacrificed Gabriel's bones. Anything to give Julia a chance at life.

  "We had some good times, didn't we, Greg?" Gabriel said vacantly. "Even in this screwed-up world."

  "Yeah. Good times." They hadn't outweighed the bad, though. Not even close.

  Gabriel's eyes drooped.

  Greg leant his shoulder on the railings, as near to comfortable as he'd ever get. Muscles were cramping at the back of his neck. He knew he really ought to have been looking for a way out. Gaoler's keys dangling on a nail, within reach of an improvised hook on the end of his belt. The iron stair railing which was loose. That carelessly discarded loop of monolattice filament in amongst the food crates which he could use to saw through the iron with. Keep dreaming, he told himself.

  He did. Waking dreams. Mostly of Eleanor. Now those were good times. They must've been, they hurt.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Kats was dreaming. Julia watched her eyelids fluttering, shoulders restless below the duvet, the occasional sighs, half-formed words.

  It would probably be Kendric who filled her thoughts. She doubted the amnesia infusion could reach down into the subconscious to root him out. And that was exactly the kind of arcane universe where Kendric would lurk, his home ground.