Judas Unchained

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Not the manufacturer’s spec then?” Tarlo said.

  “Heavens no. This is intended for something that uses a phenomenal amount of electricity.”

  “Any ideas?”

  Edmund Li grinned as he shook his head. “I have absolutely no clue. That’s why I made the call to your office. I thought you should know right away.”

  “Appreciate that. So where was it heading?”

  “The address is for Palamaro Ranch in the Taliong district, that’s a long way east of Armstrong City; they say that’s where the Barsoomians are.”

  “All right. What we really need are the shipment and financial details. Who was the agent? Which bank was used? Where was the machinery packed?”

  “Yeah.” Edmund Li scratched the back of his neck, giving the muddle of machinery a doubtful look. The rain pounding on the roof grew even louder as a dense squall lashed down. “Look, I’m sure that back on Earth that kind of data is beautifully formatted and filed for instant access. Things are a little different here. For a start, some of this stuff is already missing.”

  “Missing?” Renne exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly that. Everyone knows we keep expensive goods in here overnight. Take a look around, lady. Do you see any guardbots on patrol outside? We’ve got sensors, but even if an alarm goes off, the nearest CST security agent is eight kilometers away over in the terminal, and right now they’re all real busy on crowd control. The police are farther away, and care even less.”

  “Goddamnit,” Tarlo hissed. “Did you manage to get a record of everything you found in this shipment?”

  “I’m pretty sure Urien recorded it, yes. There will be the deep-scan sensor record if nothing else. It just hasn’t been loaded in our official database yet; it’s probably in his console’s temporary store folder.”

  Renne made a strong effort to keep her growing anger in check. No good shouting at Edmund Li: they were lucky he even bothered to call them. “What about the associated datawork Tarlo asked about? Is that in a temporary folder somewhere?”

  “No. I haven’t started rounding that up yet. It shouldn’t take too long; a lot of the inventory and authorization will be filed with the station’s Far Away export control office.”

  “How’s their staffing level?” Tarlo asked bitterly.

  Edmund Li just raised an eyebrow.

  “Hogan is going to go apeshit,” Renne decided. Another setback. This case is truly jinxed.

  “Well, he needn’t try blaming us,” Tarlo said. “But I’m beginning to understand why the boss never found any decent leads here.”

  “It’s only since the attack things have gotten like this,” Edmund Li said. “It didn’t help that this operation was still being set up at the time. I can’t even complain about not having any money; it’s lack of people that is the problem.”

  “Right,” Tarlo said decisively. “Renne, there’s no point both of us staying here; you get back to Paris. I’ll stay on and run the checks on this consignment. Once we have the basic source, route, and finance information, we can start the backtrack operation from Paris.”

  Renne gave the shaded, gaping warehouse a final examination. “No argument. You’d better arrange for what’s left to be shipped back as well. Forensics can start going over it. They might be able to tell us what it’s for.”

  Tarlo put out a hand to shake. “Ten dollars they can’t.”

  “No takers.”

  ***

  It was officially called the Westminster Palace Museum of Democracy, but as always everyone just called it Big Ben after the famous clock tower that stood guard at the eastern end. Adam Elvin used his credit tattoo to pay the standard entry fee and walked in through the ornate arching stonework of StStephen’s entrance opposite the Abbey. With its lengthy halls, elongated windows, and bare stone interior, the old British Parliament building always gave him the impression of being a misappropriated cathedral. The lobby between the two main chambers had incongruous wooden furniture huddled defensively between big white statues, while gold-tinted light poured in through the vaulting stained-glass windows highlighting the carvings that stretched up each wall. Groups of chattering schoolchildren rushed about, looking around through interface goggles as the guide program described the historical significance of everything they focused on. Doors into the Commons were open, where holograms faded in and out above the chamber’s green benches, to produce images of successive politicians from the pre-electronic era right up until the last English Parliament in 2065. In the House of Lords the whole rise and fall of the British monarchy from William the Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings to King Timothy signing the act to grant the right of self-determination to his people was played out amid spectral pomp and splendor.

  Adam ignored the Victorian Gothic grandeur and the dodgy history lessons to carry on through to the terrace café along the side of the Thames. It extended for over two hundred meters, nearly the entire length of the building, and was always a popular spot for tourists and locals alike. A warm spring breeze coming off the wide river rustled the tall table parasols with their elaborate portcullis emblem. Waitresses threaded their way through the tight maze, delivering trays and taking orders. He had to suck in his stomach and slither his way awkwardly past seats, warding off annoyed glances, to reach a table that was right up against the terrace parapet itself.

  Bradley Johansson smiled up at him. “Adam, so good of you to come, old chap.”

  “Yeah right,” Adam grunted, and sat down next to Bradley.

  A young waitress dressed in a faux-Tudor boy’s costume with emerald-green tights showing off her long legs came over and smiled hopefully.

  “Another afternoon tea for my friend,” Bradley told her winningly. “With cream scones, and I think a glass of that delightful Gifford’s champagne.”

  Her smile brightened. “Yes, sir.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Adam muttered after she walked off. Everybody had to be looking at them.

  “Now don’t go all Bolshevik on me,” Bradley chided. “When in Rome and all that. Besides, it’s proper Cornish clotted cream.”

  “Woopie fucking do.”

  “Come on, Adam, they’ve turned this ancient seat of class privilege into a lovely teashop for the common man. There’s got to be a metaphor or two in that, surely? I thought you’d enjoy this.”

  Adam would never admit it, but he always experienced a slight burst of admiration for the way Bradley chose to meet him in the most outrageously public places. There was a kind of bravado about it that Adam’s dreary paranoid tradecraft would never permit.

  “Kazimir would have liked it,” Adam said. “The history on this world always amazed him. Nearly every building he went in was older than Far Away.”

  Bradley’s affable expression hardened. “What happened, Adam? That data was vital.” His hand slapped the table in fury. People did look. Bradley’s smile returned, meeting the stares apologetically.

  Adam didn’t often get to see the claws. It wasn’t nice. “We pieced it together eventually. He sneaked off to see a girl before the courier mission. Apparently, they met a long time ago back on Far Away. Turns out she was a little more important than your average tourist.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Justine Burnelli.”

  “The Senator?” Bradley blinked in surprise. “Well, bless the dreaming heavens. No wonder the navy was on to him. I thought he was smarter than that, a lot smarter.”

  “Kazimir was murdered by a Starflyer agent called Bruce McFoster. He and Kazimir grew up together.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Bradley picked up a little bone-handled silver knife and spread some cream on a scone. “Bruce never came back from a raid a few years back. Damn it, I keep telling the clans to watch for what the Starflyer can do to anyone left behind.”

  “The same thing it did to you?”

  For a split second Bradley registered enormous pain. “Quite,” he said hoarsely.

  “You know,
I don’t even question if the Starflyer is real anymore. I’ve watched young Kieran McSobel’s recording a dozen times since. Kazimir was delighted to see his friend again; and Bruce just shot him.”

  “I’m sorry, Adam.”

  “Sorry? I thought you’d be delighted at another convert.”

  “It isn’t a pleasant door to open. There is little hope behind it, mostly just darkness and pain. That’s why I founded the Guardians, to protect the human race from what lurks there. So they could carry on living their beautiful long lives in peace. In a way, you’re not my convert, you’re another of its victims.”

  “Hey, don’t worry yourself about my soul. I chose my path a long time ago. This is just another rocky patch.”

  “Oh, Adam, if only you knew how much I envy your optimism. Ah…” He smiled up again as the waitress brought a tray with Adam’s afternoon tea.

  “Do tuck in.”

  Adam picked up his knife and cut open one of the scones.

  “How good was the encryption?” Bradley asked.

  “The SI could probably break it, but apart from that it’s safe.”

  “That gives us some leeway, then. The navy ran long-range diagnostic tests on the Martian equipment, which will tell them precisely nothing. They’ll be desperate to find some subterfuge.”

  “We watched the body afterward, you know. Senator Burnelli had it taken to a New York clinic owned by her family. My little friend Paula accompanied her. From what we can gather, the navy and Senate Security don’t exactly see eye to eye over this.”

  “Humm.” Bradley held up his crystal champagne flute, studying the bubbles as they fizzed in the sunlight. “Do you think Paula has the memory crystal rather than the navy?”

  “That’s some heavy-duty speculation, but I’ll concede it is possible.”

  “I wonder if that works to our advantage?”

  “I don’t see how. You needed the data. They have it.”

  “It gives them a big bargaining chip, even though they don’t know it yet.”

  “Do we have anything they want?”

  “Yes.” Bradley took a sip of champagne. “You and I for a start.”

  “Not fucking funny.” Adam stuffed the scone into his mouth and started pouring his tea.

  “I suppose not. But I have to give some consideration to recovering the information. We need it, Adam, very badly. The whole of the planet’s revenge depends on it.”

  “I don’t see how we can get it back. I certainly don’t have any way of infiltrating navy intelligence or Senate Security. What about that old top-level source of yours?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t heard from him in a long time.”

  “So that’s it? Game over?” Somehow the idea was impossible.

  “It’s not over by any means,” Bradley said. “Just a damn sight more difficult. That Martian data would have helped us refine the control program to a point where we could use it with confidence. We can still go ahead, but now we have to depend on numerical modeling more that the project designers want to. The results will be very uncertain.”

  “Your guys will make it work, whatever it is. They all seem so dedicated.”

  “For which I give thanks to the dreaming heavens. Humans do seem to possess remarkable reserves in so many fields. No wonder Starflyer and the Primes are so unnerved by us.”

  “If the Starflyer found out about the planet’s revenge, could it prevent you from carrying it out?”

  Bradley looked out over the river, giving the tall plane trees on the opposite bank a thoughtful stare. “Stop it, no; but it would be easy to circumvent. Timing is critical. But very few of us know the entire strategy, and I remain in contact with all of them. So far we are secure.”

  “I hope you’re right. They knew Kazimir was making his courier run. Which implies they’ve penetrated the navy. So by now they must know about the observatory receiving the Martian data for twenty years. If the Starflyer knows that, can it work out what you’re planning to hit it with?”

  “Extremely unlikely. However, none of this will matter if we can’t get the remaining physical components through to Far Away. An entire shipment was intercepted by the new navy inspections on Boongate.”

  “Yeah, we’re really going to have to do something about that.” Adam dropped some rock sugar into his tea, and stirred absently. “We’ve got outlines of a blockade-busting run drawn up. I guess it’s about time to put some flesh on it. Not that it needs a lot of development. It’s an essentially crude notion to begin with.”

  “Good. That means there’s less which can go wrong.”

  “And you call me an optimist.”

  “I’m still curious how Bruce managed to get away afterward. Did you find out anything relevant about that train he jumped on?”

  “No. CST traffic control uses very high-order encryption.” He grinned. “For some reason, they’re worried about people like me hacking in. It was a freight train is all we know. We don’t know where it was going, only that it was in the right place at the right time. That kind of placement takes some doing. It impressed the hell out of me.”

  “Logically, then, it had to be organized by someone very senior in CST. I wonder who the Starflyer has corrupted in that organization?”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll find out until all this is long over and settled.”

  Bradley gave a reluctant moue. “Yes, unfortunately. But someone that highly placed can do a lot of damage. I’m assuming they’ll help the Starflyer in its arrangements to return to Far Away.”

  “You’re convinced that will happen?”

  “I am indeed. It can’t afford to be trapped in the Commonwealth, especially if the Primes do succeed in wreaking havoc. When the war is at its very worst, it will try and return to its own kind. That’s when we must strike.”

  “We’ll get the rest of your equipment through, don’t worry.”

  “I don’t, Adam, I have a lot of confidence in you and your team. I just wish I could convince the rest of the Commonwealth. Perhaps I went about this the wrong way right from the start. But nobody believed me back then. I felt as though my back was to the wall. What else could I do but lash out physically? It was such a ridiculously human reaction, one which betrays how insecure we all are, how short the distance we’ve traveled from the old animal. Forming the Guardians to attack the Institute was such an instinctive reaction. Maybe I should have tried the political route.”

  “Speaking of which, are you absolutely sure Elaine Doi is a Starflyer agent?”

  Bradley leaned forward over the table. “That wasn’t us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A very well executed fake. I have to admit, the Starflyer is becoming quite sophisticated in its campaign against us. Physically, Bruce and his kind are causing a lot of expensive damage; while disinformation like that shotgun is damaging our credibility. Just when we were starting to attract a degree of media interest, not to mention political support. Still, I blame myself, I should have anticipated such a move.”

  Adam finally sipped some of the Gifford’s champagne to help wash down a scone. “You know, that might have been a dangerous move on their part.”

  “In what way?”

  “If anyone was to investigate that shotgun properly, they might pick up some leads. The Starflyer might have exposed some of its operation to official scrutiny.”

  “Worth considering. I certainly wasn’t going to issue a disclaimer. That would make us look really stupid in the public mind. In any case, I’m abandoning the propaganda shotguns anyway. We’re too close to the end now for them to make any real difference to general opinion.”

  “Unless you can produce some absolute proof.”

  “True.” Bradley seemed very undecided. “I suppose the Doi shotgun could do with some further inquiries.”

  “I can’t spare anyone from my team, especially now you’ve recalled Stig.”

  “Sorry about that, but I needed him back on Far Away. He’s developed into a damn g
ood leader, for which I place full credit on your training.”

  “So we have no one who can dig into the shotgun, see who put it together?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  ***

  Wilson said practically nothing on the journey back to the High Angel. He was lost in his virtual vision, pulling files from the navy intelligence Paris office, and reviewing the tight green text as it scrolled through the air in front of him.

  “It went well,” Rafael said as the direct express slid out of Newark. “I expected us to take a much bigger beating than that. They are politicians, after all.”

  “Doi was surprising,” Wilson admitted, rousing himself from Hogan’s report on the killing at LA Galactic. “I didn’t expect her to be quite as forthright as that.”

  “She had to be. We need someone with balls at the top. Everybody there knew that. The Dynasties and Grand Families would have engineered a recall if she didn’t come up with positive noises. So, it looks like we’ll get the ships, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  Rafael shrugged at the lack of communication, and settled back to work through the files in his own virtual vision.

  Wilson thought the account of how the killer got away was frankly unbelievable. If that was an example of how the Paris office operated, no wonder Rafael had fired Myo.

  He looked through the spectral lines and columns and graphics to see Rafael sitting opposite him. The man was ambitious, yes, but no matter how ambitious and well connected you were, to reach his level you also had to be competent. Hogan was his placement, but Inspector Myo was renown across the Commonwealth. It didn’t seem like a move based purely on petty office politics. There was no prejudice or simple maneuvering. Myo hadn’t produced results. She had to go.

  Yet she’d immediately been recruited into Senate Security—a move engineered by the Burnellis. And Justine had clashed with Rafael.