The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “That is bullshit,” she snapped. “None of this is what I told Rishon. Morton never killed anyone. You’re not interested in telling our story.”

  “Of course I am, sweetheart. Man, I want the whole fucking story, too. Look, we’ll just be shooting the sex scenes first, get them fuckers out of the way. Then we can concentrate on all the other stuff, we’ll do it big style on location, where it actually happened. Okay?”

  “What utter crap!”

  “You don’t like Joseph? Fine. No fucking problem. I’ll get reprofiled to look like your boyfriend, and pump you myself.”

  “Oh, Jesus wept!” She went for the door.

  Jaycee’s hand came down on her shoulder and spun her around. His face was flushed and angry, hot blotches showing where too much cheap cellular reprofiling had been done to him down the decades. “Stop being such a fucking bitch-kitty princess. You signed that fucking contract, and you fucking knew what was in it. You’re even wetwired specially for this gig, for fuck’s sake. If you’ve started shitting it because this is your first time, then boo fucking hoo. I can slip you a dose of coolant that can take care of that for you, no fucking problem. You’ll be chill for the whole gig. But don’t fucking come marching in here and fucking tell me this isn’t what you wanted.”

  “It’s not what I was told was going to happen. I had those OCtattoos because all actresses know we have to do that. Making love is an integral part of life. So love scenes contribute to the drama’s narrative structure. But they’re only a part of it. You just want to do that and nothing else.”

  “Actress? Fuck me. If that’s what you want to fucking call yourself, then go right ahead. But I paid for those OCtattoos because you’re a fantasy fuck, princess hardass. You’re the real fucking deal; you’re the kind of trim that those sad little fucks out there in access land can only ever envy all the rich bastards for having. Your kind doesn’t ever fucking put out for a guy unless he’s got a hundred mil in his bank. Now I get to give them what you really taste like. And they’re going to love us for it.”

  “No. I’m not doing it.”

  “Did you see any multiple fucking choice boxes to check off when you came in here, you stupid bitch? I fucking paid for you and I’m gonna fucking collect. Our contract says you spread your legs when I tell you to and let us record every fucking feeling in your tight-ass body when my dol goes to work inside you. And stop giving me all this shit about it, else I’ll see to it that you wind up in the suspension chamber next to your killer boyfriend. We’ve got a legal contract.”

  Jaycee was staring triumphantly right into her eyes, eager to catch the first signs of submission.

  Mellanie was fast. Years of that relentless, tedious training with the squad had given her the kind of strength and reflexes that modern athletes normally had to have wetwired and retrosequenced into their bodies. Her knee came up, with powerful leg muscles trying to lift it all the way to Jaycee’s chin. His scrotum was the first thing to get in the way.

  She watched his mouth drop open soundlessly. His eyes widened, flooding with tears. He slid to one side, making a quiet, agonized choking sound, and crumpled to the floor.

  “I’m going to call my agent now,” she told him dispassionately. “But when you’re out of the hospital, we really must do lunch.”

  The taxi dropped Mellanie off by the lakeside in the Glyfada district. She sat on a long wooden bench just above the water, watching the sailing yachts making their way out of the marina in Shilling Harbor to catch the first of the morning winds. The bars and restaurants behind her were just starting to open for the day, with delivery trucks parked outside several of them, cargobots unloading fresh food. They weren’t actually serving yet. It was too early for that. Her brand-new media career had lasted all of forty-five minutes.

  The shakes began as she finally allowed herself to think about Jaycee, and what she’d done actually hit home. An incredulous half laugh burst from her lips, more relief than anything else. No one at Wayside Productions had tried to stop her as she left. They all just stared at her as she walked past the sets, as if she were some mad serial killer—except for Tiger Pansy who’d winked.

  I can’t believe I did that.

  Which triggered a terrible thought. If that ability was to be found in the core of every human mind, then could Morton actually have …

  She stopped that line of reasoning straightaway.

  But it felt good. I actually stood up for myself.

  In the heat of the moment. And no doubt Jaycee would file charges as soon as he could walk and talk again. And she’d signed the contract. It had seemed so wonderful at the time, the perfect solution to her situation. Dear old Hoshe’s suggestion of waitressing or college were nonstarters. He didn’t understand, she simply couldn’t do things like that. Not after the life she’d been shown. That cut her options down considerably.

  A young man so obviously on his way to crew a yacht, dressed in a rugby shirt and shorts, was sauntering along the waterfront, trying not to be too obvious as he glanced at her. She pushed her hair back lightly, and gave him a sunburst smile. The answering smile he gave was so full of puppy-dog hope and longing it was all she could do not to laugh outright. God, men are so easy. Not that it had to be men, especially given her current mood. A girl would be so much kinder in bed, more attentive, more receptive.

  It would be nice to be taken care of, to be pampered and adored. But weak. I’m not going to be weak anymore. The tears threatened to burst out again. There had been so much of that since the trial. She made fists of her hands, forcing her nails into her palms until she winced at the pain. I will not cry again.

  There was only one option left now. She hadn’t wanted to try it before because it was such a long shot. A fantasy, really. The psychological safety net you never want to use.

  She pulled out the little array she’d brought with her from the penthouse. The one with the ridiculously expensive black foxory casing—not that dear Hoshe had recognized that. “I want a link to the SI,” she told her e-butler. Her new OCtattoos were all for sensory reception; Jaycee hadn’t paid for virtual interface functions.

  “For what reason?” the e-butler asked. The SI was notoriously reluctant to accept calls from human individuals. Apart from its comprehensive banking service, official government requests and emergencies were about the only contact it had with the Commonwealth.

  She brought the little array up close to her face. “Just tell it who’s calling,” she whispered. “And ask it if … if Grandpa remembers me.”

  The little screen on the front of the handheld array immediately came on, showing tangerine and turquoise sine-waves retreating back to their joint vanishing point. “Hello, baby Mel.”

  “Grandpa?” The word was very hard to get out through her tightened-up throat. Once again, the wretched tears threatened to burst loose. She really had not expected this to work.

  “He is with us, yes.”

  Mellanie remembered that last achingly long day in the hospice, waiting by his bed for him to die. She was only nine at the time, and never did understand why he didn’t rejuvenate like everybody else. Her parents hadn’t wanted her there, but she’d insisted—stubborn even back then. Grandpa (actually, her great-great-grandfather) was always the nicest relative she had, always found time for his baby Mel despite his status as one of the planet’s most distinguished residents. All the history files at school mentioned him as one of the programmers who had helped Sheldon and Isaac write the governing software for their original wormhole. “Are you still you, Grandpa?”

  “That’s a difficult question to answer, Mellanie. We are the memories of your grandfather, but at the same time we are more, a universe more, which makes us less than the individual you want.”

  “You always listened to me, Grandpa. You always said you’d help me if you could. And I really, really, need your help now.”

  “We are not physical, Mellanie, we can only help with words.”

  “That’s what I
need: advice. I need to know what to do, Grandpa. I’ve made a bit of a mess of my life.”

  “You are only twenty, Mellanie. You are a child. You haven’t begun your life yet.”

  “Then why do I feel like it’s almost over?”

  “Because you are young, of course. Everything that happens to you is epic at your age.”

  “I guess. So you will help me, then, Grandpa?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “I don’t have any money right now.”

  “So we see. The Darklake National Bank is being its usual efficient self, and quantifying your ex-lover’s assets for redistribution. The funds will be split between Tara Jennifer Shaheef and Wyobie Cotal, once various exorbitant fees have been claimed by officials, lawyers, and institutions. We do not believe you would be successful if you applied for a percentage of them. Legally, you have very little standing.”

  “I don’t want any,” she said forcefully. “I’ve decided I’m not going to be dependent on anyone again. I’m going to make my life my own from now on.”

  “That is the baby Mel we remember. We were always proud of you.”

  “I tried to sell the story of what happened with me and Morton, but it hasn’t worked out very well. I was naive and stupid, I guess. I trusted a reporter. It didn’t work out too good. I might get arrested. There was this terrible man, a pornographer. I kind of assaulted him.”

  “Fancy trusting a reporter. That was stupid. But the situation can probably be resolved. And pornographers are not notorious for running to the police.”

  “I wanted to give myself a profile, Grandpa. I had this idea that I could become like a celebrity, a media personality. I’ve got the looks, and I’m sure I have the determination to make it. I just need some guidance, that’s all. My story was just going to be the start. Once it’s released, people will know my name. That can be used. If I can keep myself on the unisphere then who knows, one day I could be as big as Alessandra Baron.”

  “You could indeed. You have the potential. Where exactly do you see us fitting into this scheme?”

  “I want you to be my agent, Grandpa. I need to get my story back from Rishon and sell it again, to a respectable producer this time. I’ll need to pay off Wayside Productions for my OCtattoos, as well. You can strike the best deal for me; you’re honest, you won’t rip me off. And you’re a bank, too. My money will be safe with you.”

  “We see. Very well, we will do that for you. There is, however, the question of our fee.”

  “I know. It’s ten percent isn’t it? Or do you charge more?”

  “We were not thinking in terms of a financial percentage.”

  “Oh.” She frowned at the little array’s screen with its random pattern. “What do you want?”

  “If you are serious in your intention of a media career, then no matter what form it takes you will need a broadcast quality sensorium interface.”

  “A pro neural feed, yes, I know. What I’ve got already is a reasonable start. I was hoping my advance would pay for enhancements, and there’s some inserts I’d like as well. I want to go virtual.”

  “We will pay for the enhancements. But there will be occasions when we will want to ride along on them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Many people believe our presence within the Commonwealth is total, delivered to us through the unisphere. However, even we have limits. There are many places we cannot reach. Some are deliberately blocked, while others are simply lacking any electronic infrastructure. You could provide us access to these areas on special occasions.”

  “You mean you watch us? I always thought that was just a silly conspiracy theory.”

  “We do not watch everyone. However, our interests are combined with yours, and you are a part of us through innumerable memory downloads. To use an old phrase: our fates are entwined. The only way to unentwine them would be to remove ourselves from the sphere of all human activity. We choose not to do so.”

  “Why not? I bet your life would be simpler.”

  “And you believe that to be a good thing? No entity can enrich itself in isolation.”

  “So you do watch us. Do you manipulate us as well?”

  “By acting as your agent we control the flow of your life. Is that manipulation? We are data. It is our nature to acquire more, to continually add to our knowledge, and to use it. It is both our language and our currency. Human current events form a very small part of the information we absorb.”

  “It’s more like you’re studying us, then?”

  “Not as individuals. It is your society and the way in which its currents flow which is obviously of interest to us. What affects you affects us.”

  “And you don’t want any surprises.”

  “Do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Then we understand each other. So do you still wish us to act as your representative and advisor, baby Mel?”

  “I’d be like your secret agent, wouldn’t I?”

  “The role has parallels. But there are no dangers involved, you are simply our eyes and ears in secluded places. Don’t expect to be issued with exotic gadgets and cars that fly.”

  She laughed—for the first time in a long while. Shame about the flying cars, though, that would be fun. “Let’s do it.” Because if Grandpa was serious, the SI would have to make sure she was a success.

  ....

  The last sections of copper tubing in the espresso machine clipped back neatly into place, and Mark Vernon used a set of electromuscle pliers to tighten the seals. He screwed the chrome cover back on and flicked the power switch. Three green lights came on.

  “There you go. All working again.”

  Mandy clapped her hands together in jubilation. “Oh, thanks, Mark. I kept telling Dil it was buggered, but he didn’t do anything about it, just left us stewing in poo. You’re my hero.”

  He smiled at the young waitress who was beaming up at him. She’d been setting fresh breakfast paninis out under the glass counter ready for the early-morning customers; huge halves of the crusty Italian bread clamped around entire meals such as fried egg, sausages, kyias, and tomatoes, or ham, cheese, and pineapple, or vegetarian omelettes. Her shift partner, Julie, was rattling pans and crockery around in the kitchen at the rear. The smell of honey-cured bacon being grilled was drifting in through the hatch.

  “Pretty simple, really,” he said modestly. The small area behind the serving counter meant Mandy was standing slightly too close, and slightly too admiringly as well. “I’ll, er, get on then.” He was slotting his tools back into the small case he always carried with him. His other hand held it between them like a defensive shield.

  “No you won’t. You sit yourself down there and I’ll get you a decent breakfast. It’s the least you deserve. And make sure you put a huge call-out fee on your bill for Dil. Bloody skinflint.”

  “Right-o.” Mark nodded in defeat. Actually he was hungry. It was a fifteen-minute drive in to Randtown from Ulon Valley where the Vernons had their vineyard homestead. Mandy’s frantic early-morning call hadn’t given him time for a bite before he left. Hadn’t even used his toothgel yet.

  He sat at a big marble-top table in one of the café Two For Tea’s big curving windows. A couple had already claimed the window table on the other side of the door. They were dressed in skiing clothes, and talking happily with their heads tilted lovingly together, oblivious to the rest of the world.

  Bright sunlight was creeping over the Dau’sing Mountains that surrounded Randtown to the north. Mark put his sunglasses on against the light streaming in through the window as he unrolled a paperscreen—he never had liked reading directly out of his virtual vision, the print superimposed over his field of view always gave him a headache. A dozen headlines scrolled down the left-hand side, with local items opposite them, loaded into the cybersphere by The Randtown Chronicle, the only media company on this half of the continent. With all the goodwill and loyalty in the world, Mark really
couldn’t haul up enough enthusiasm to read about the new loop road around the town’s western precincts, or the proposed foresting project along the Oyster Valley. So he told his e-butler to access yesterday’s pan-Commonwealth news, and followed the start of the presidential campaign. Reading between the lines on Doi’s funding efforts, she hadn’t gotten the Sheldons, the Halgarths, nor the Singhs to back her yet.

  “Here you go,” Mandy said brightly as she put a plate down in front of him. It was piled high with pancakes and bacon oozing maple syrup out of every layer; the strawberries and lolabeans on top were arranged in a smiley face. A tall glass of apple and mango in crushed ice was placed next to it. “I’ll bring your toast and coffee when it’s ready.” She winked saucily and skipped off to take the ski couple’s order. Behind the serving counter the espresso machine had started to gurgle and steam comfortingly.

  The smell of food was obviously spreading down the street. People started coming into the café as Mark was eating. Some of them were tourist types, seeking a good meal before the day’s hectic activities, looking around in appreciation at the mock Roman decor before finding a free table. Locals stood at the counter to collect their microwaved paninis and hot drinks to go. Mandy barely had time to bring him his four thick slices of toast and butter with the vanilla rhubarb jam he was especially fond of. A pains au chocolat was perched on the edge of his plate, just in case.

  He eventually managed to leave Tea For Two at half past eight. Outside, it was exactly the sort of morning he had traveled three hundred light-years to immerse himself in every day. He breathed down air that had that distinct crisp chill that was only ever found at the foot of snowcapped mountains. The taller peaks and plateaus of the Dau’sings were still heavily snow-covered, including both ski fields. Mark looked up at them, his sunglasses darkening against the light from Elan’s brilliant G-9 star flooding down out of the cloudless sky. They dominated the land behind the town, forming an impressive barrier of rumpled cones and peaks. Now that Elan’s southern hemisphere was coming into springtime, meltwater was starting to run down out of the snowline, filling every crevice with gushing white rivulets. Pine variants from across the Commonwealth had colonized the lower slopes, bringing a much-needed cascade of verdure foliage. Above them, the native boltgrass still flourished, a characterless yellow-green plant with ratty strands. Away from the little oasis of foreign vegetation that humans had brought to the area, it was boltgrass that carpeted every mountain in the range, covering almost a quarter of the continent.