The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  The fact that Doi’s chief political advisor was spending a weekend in Seattle barely ten days after the Vice President had announced her candidacy was a telling point to Justine. For Patricia these two days would be a major lobbying exercise. She’d brought her secretary with her, a studious young man, dressed in the kind of designer casuals an urban type always wore in the great outdoors. He stood attentively behind his chief, only ever speaking when spoken to.

  Justine was busy welcoming them when a third person emerged from the Occlat. A young girl with long blond hair, actually taller and slimmer than Justine. Her clothes were unashamedly expensive, a short skirt and shiny gold V-necked top that highlighted her figure. She glanced around the grounds with the unique bubbly exuberance that spelled first-lifer, smiling broad approval at what she saw.

  “And this is Isabella,” Patricia said. “My companion.”

  “Hi there. You have a lovely place here,” Isabella gushed. She stuck her hand out eagerly, wanting to make friends.

  “Thank you,” Justine said. “It took a while, but we’ve gotten it how we like it.” It would be so easy to shower Isabella with sarcasm and irony, the girl would never notice. But that would make her a bitch, and this weekend didn’t need any ructions. “Get me a full file on her,” Justine told her e-butler. Something about her features was familiar enough to make Justine cautious. Isabella was obviously from a Grand Family or an Intersolar Dynasty, but which …

  “Isabella Helena Halgarth,” Justine’s e-butler reported. “Aged nineteen. Second daughter of Victor and Bernadette Halgarth.” A small file printed down inside her virtual vision, detailing Isabella’s schools, academic achievements, sports, interests, charitable causes. The usual PR crap the family released on its own.

  Damnit!

  As soon as she’d shown Patricia to her lodge, Justine put a call through to Estella Fenton. “I need some information.”

  “Darling, I’m humbled and honored,” Estella said teasingly. “What on earth do I know that your family doesn’t?”

  “It’s about this girl.” Justine’s virtual finger touched an icon, sending Estella the small file on Isabella. “You’re the queen of gossip, I need to know what her true standing is in the Halgarths.”

  “If it was anyone else asking, I’d resent that,” Estella said.

  “Please! I know the status of nearly every Grand Family member, but the Halgarths are an Intersolar Dynasty.”

  “I know, darling, nouveau riche offworlders, the worst kind. I’ve got my own profile of her here, what exactly do you want to know?”

  “Is she considered important?”

  “Not really. Fifteenth generation, and Victor was only eleventh. Both father and daughter were invitrogestated children, so they’re not direct lineage, just filling the family quota. She’s got a minimal trust fund, it pays enough so she doesn’t have to work, but she can’t quite afford to live a society high-life. She finished school last year, and hasn’t yet chosen a university. In fact, word has it that when she’s rejuved she might go for a little brain resequencing. Her IQ isn’t exactly lighting the top of the Christmas tree. Had a few boyfriends, all of equally minor status, and currently sleeping with … ah: Patricia Kantil. Is this why you’re calling?”

  “Yes. I’ve got some senior Halgarths coming this weekend. I don’t know if Patricia’s secured their vote. It might be a problem if they interpret the relationship incorrectly.”

  “Rest easy, darling. You didn’t hear this from me, but EdenBurg is already lining up behind Doi. That makes six of the Big15. I don’t think Patricia and Isabella will be a factor for you.”

  “The Halgarths are backing Doi after all? Congratulations, you are better connected than me. Thanks, I really don’t need last-minute scares like this. I owe you.”

  “You certainly do. Next time I need an A-list Grandee for dinner …”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Gerhard Utreth was next, a fourth-generation member of the Braunt family that had founded the Democratic Republic of New Germany. As an attorney he’d opted out of the family’s management and financial side to work in the planetary legal office. Decades ago he’d been the DRNG’s Commonwealth senator. He’d even been married to a Burnelli at one time, resulting in two invitrogestated children. Not that Justine expected that to count for much during the weekend, but it made him a good potential ally.

  She had also invited Larry Frederick Halgarth, who was in the third generation of his dynasty. He arrived with Rafael Columbia, who was an inevitable addition to the weekend. But when the invitation was issued, Larry had also insisted on bringing Natasha Kersley, who shared the limo with the other two. When Justine ran her name through the Burnelli database she drew a blank. Natasha wasn’t a member of any major family. Nor had Justine ever heard of the Commonwealth Special Science Supervisory Directorate, of which Natasha was the chief executive. All Larry would say was: “It conducts theoretical studies of weapons. Exotic weapons.”

  There were two more senators to complete the weekend gathering. Crispin Goldreich, whose position on the Commonwealth Budget Commission gave him a great deal of influence over the start-up arrangements of the whole starflight agency project. Justine’s briefing had him down as a mild skeptic; but as she knew there was really no such political animal. He was fishing for something.

  Finally there was Ramon DB, the senator for Buta, although remarkably he didn’t belong to the Mandela family that had established that Big15 world. Instead, he was the leader of the general African caucus in the Senate, which gave him a respectable power base. He had also been Justine’s husband for twelve years. But that was eight decades ago.

  “Remember me?” she asked coyly as he got out of his car.

  He just wrapped his arms around her, hugging tightly. “Damn, you look hot when you’re this age,” he rumbled softly. He held her at arm’s length, looking her up and down. A wistful expression crossed his face. “Can we get married again?”

  It was her turn to look at him. His traditional robe had a wonderful rainbow hem of semiorganic fiber that kept swirling as if he were in a breeze. Not even that movement could entirely disguise the way it fell over his stomach. His apparent age was approaching sixty, with white hairs infiltrating his temple. Midnight-black OCtattoos ran across his cheeks, flickering in and out of visibility.

  “How much weight are you carrying under there?” she asked.

  He put his hands together in prayer, and appealed to the sky. “Once a wife, always a wife. I keep in shape.”

  “What shape? A beach ball? Rammy, you know you have trouble with your heart when you put on this much weight.”

  “It is the fate of senators to attend huge meals every day of the week. I expect you’ll be sitting us down for an eight-course dinner tonight.”

  “You are definitely not having eight courses; and I’m going to talk to the chef about your diet for the rest of the weekend. I don’t want to have to visit you in a re-life procedure ward, Rammy.”

  “Yes, yes, woman. I am due to rejuve soon. It will all be sorted out then. Stop worrying.”

  “Have they got a specific retrosequence for your condition yet?”

  He gave an impatient swish of his fly whisk. “I have rare genes. It is difficult for doctors to isolate the problem and correct it.”

  “Then have them vector in a sequence for a new heart. It’s simple enough.”

  “I am what I am. You know that. I don’t want somebody else’s heart.”

  She gathered a breath, ready to sigh at him. Before she had a chance his thick forefinger came up under her chin. “Don’t scold me, Justine. It is so good to see you again. Being a senator isn’t nearly as wonderful as everyone claims. I was hoping we could spend a little time together, you and I, this weekend.”

  “We will.” She patted his arm. “I want to talk to you about Abby, anyway.”

  “What’s up with our great-grandchild now?”

  “Later.” She read the clock in her virtu
al vision. “I have to check in with Dad and Thompson before the evening begins for real.”

  “Your father is here?” Ramon was suddenly reluctant to get closer to the house.

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “You know he never liked me.”

  “That’s your insecurity and imagination. He always accepted you.”

  “Like a lion accepts a wildebeest.”

  Justine burst out laughing. “You’re a senator of the Commonwealth, and he still intimidates you?”

  He took her arm, and walked into the entrance hall. “I will smile at him and make polite conversation for exactly three minutes. If you don’t rescue me by then, I’ll …”

  “Yes?”

  “Put you over my knee.”

  “Ah, hark the heavenly angels as they sing glad tidings: the good old days are back in town.”

  Gore Burnelli had decompressed his parallel personality into Sorbonne Wood’s large array, settling himself into the house as other humans would return to a comfortable old armchair. Unlike most humans who underwent frequent rejuvenation, he didn’t dump his memories into a secure store for nostalgia’s sake. He carried them around with him in high-density inserts, loading them into local arrays wherever he went. They were essential to him; to make the deals that gave his family a smooth ride into the future he had to have the knowledge of past deals, and the reasoning behind them, if they’d worked, what the problems were. Others, like his daughter, relied on briefings and extensive database access through an e-butler; while he had the real events immediately available thanks to the homogenized access programs that his early memories were rooted to.

  Business and positioning the family in the market were his constant now. Technology made it possible for him to be involved for most of the day. Some of the routines he’d developed for managing the process were almost autonomous, allowing him to parallel multitask. Even now, as he watched his son and daughter enter Sorbonne Wood’s big classical library, he was reviewing the deluge of data that fell between them like red digital rain. Figures and headlines briefly flared green as his virtual fingers flashed among them, rearranging them into new configurations, shunting money and information to form the new deals and purchases.

  “Everybody’s here,” Justine told him.

  He made no comment. That information had long since flowed past him; the house was now updating him on the location of the guests and their aides and staff and spouses and lovers: who was using the showers and baths, who was using heavy (and heavily encrypted) bandwidth to the unisphere, who was walking along the pergola paths to the main house ready for predinner drinks in the Magnolia lounge. Secondary information like that was now presented to his brain in the form of scent; the multitude of OCtattoos allowing him to smell where the guests were and what they were up to.

  “I think these guests provide us with a critical mass,” Thompson said. “As long as there aren’t any unforeseen problems it should go smoothly.”

  “That’s self-evident, boy,” Gore snapped. “But there are always problems. I’m relying on you two to anticipate them and massage them out of those grossly bloated egos gathering out there.”

  “The only possible glitch so far was Isabella,” Justine said. “But she won’t register on the Halgarth radar. Just another trustbabe having herself some first-life fun. I don’t think Patricia had an ulterior motive for sleeping with her.”

  Thompson dropped down in one of the winged leather armchairs in front of the big fireplace. “Not like Patricia to take any sort of risk. The girls she normally fucks are completely sanitized as far as political connections are concerned.”

  “Maybe it’s true love?” Justine said in amusement.

  “That’d be a first,” Thompson said. “Why the hell Patricia doesn’t simply get a body reassignment when she’s in rejuve I’ll never know.”

  “She can’t,” Gore said. “Most of Doi’s team are female; it’s an image she’s worked hard at for twenty-five years. Nobody’s going to screw that up now by growing a dick in the tank.”

  “Speaking of which, we haven’t officially declared for her yet,” Thompson said.

  “That can happen this weekend,” Gore said. “If the timing is right. For that I’ll require confirmation of Doi’s policy on the starflight agency start-up. Assuming she’s going to back it, and she’d be a stupid bitch if she didn’t, I want us to pay particular attention to the structure which is going to emerge. This weekend will give the family a big advantage on positioning when the agency is announced. Those details will matter.”

  “The agency is temporary,” Thompson said. “It’s the navy we need to concentrate on.”

  “I know. That’s where we come in.”

  “What if we don’t need a navy?” Justine asked.

  “We will,” Gore said firmly. “I happen to agree with Sheldon and Kime on this one. The Dyson aliens shoot first and ask questions later. That tells me all I need to know about them. Even if it’s just for deterrence value, the Commonwealth is going to need warships. Government will be spending money on procurement, a lot of money. We have to ensure the family gets a slice of that.”

  “Easy enough,” Thompson said.

  “Godfuck.” Gore closed a golden hand into a fist. “Don’t you ever fucking learn? All the other Grands are maneuvering right now. Justine was right to put this weekend together for us, if we can influence the shape our placing will be unmatched.”

  “What sort of shape do you want?”

  “The main one has got to be location. Get Sheldon to let go of that hillbilly backwood Anshun. I want the agency centered at the High Angel, where it damn well should have been all along. The family has a lot of interest in the astroengineering companies based there; a real shipbuilding program will see their stock go through the roof.”

  “We can probably make that sound logical,” Justine said.

  “It is logical. What we need is a way to make it serve their interests.”

  “I’ll work on it,” she promised.

  Gore turned back to Thompson. “The other side to the navy is going to be the planetary defenses. Don’t allow that to be overlooked this weekend. People are going to want damn great force fields guarding their cities and making them feel safe. I can see that ultimately chewing up even more cash than the starships.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep that one on the agenda,” Thompson said.

  Dinner was the kind of formal event that Justine could sleepwalk through in her official role as hostess. They held it in the main dining room, with broad churchlike arched windows looking out across gardens illuminated by thousands of twinkling white fairy stars. She made sure Campbell was at one end of the long oak table with her father, while she chatted away to Patricia at the other end. Isabella didn’t join them for dinner.

  “She finds these things a little dull, I’m afraid,” Patricia said as the band started playing some background jazz.

  “She’s young,” Justine said sympathetically. “You did well getting her to come along at all.”

  “It was the names, she’s a bit of a fame junkie,” Patricia admitted as she bit into her starter of cannelloni of smoked salmon. “Right now she’s accessing Murderous Seduction, it’s the penultimate episode.”

  “Isn’t that a biogdrama of the last Myo case?”

  “Yes. A bit melodramatic for me, but the lead character is sort of her age, and it’s a good production.”

  “I wish I had time to keep up on pop culture. I’m surprised you do, especially right now.”

  “Part of the job is coaxing various celebrity endorsements, among others.” Her smile was polite, but one hundred percent professional.

  “Our family is very supportive of the starship agency proposal. Hence this weekend.”

  “I know, and Elaine is very appreciative of that.”

  “Will she be making it part of her platform?” Justine looked down the length of the table, straight at her father’s expressionless gold face.

 
“It’s a bit radical, but then the Dyson mission has injected a few new factors into today’s politics. The agency needs to go ahead, Elaine knows that, she’s prepared to go out on a limb if that’s what it takes.”

  Gore Burnelli gave a tiny nod. “Our family will certainly do whatever we can to support her position this weekend,” Justine said.

  “I’m very grateful for that help.” Patricia couldn’t quite conceal her predatory smile as she took another mouthful of the rolled salmon.

  Justine studiously avoided any more verbal fencing with Patricia for the rest of the evening. The meal wasn’t the time for the serious negotiations to start in earnest; instead the three Burnellis made sure they talked to everyone separately at some point, preparing them for tomorrow.

  It began in earnest at breakfast. The staff had set up an extensive buffet in the conservatory on the side of the main house, and Justine came over early to join Patricia and Crispin Goldreich at a table. Crispin’s two wives, Lady Mary and Countess Sophia, were still in their lodge taking breakfast in bed, though one of his aides sat beside him, pouring tea and fetching food from the buffet. Patricia’s immaculate young man was doing the same thing for her.

  One of the house staff brought a pot of Jamaican coffee for Justine. She sat next to Crispin as he ate his eggs Benedict. It was the less confrontational position, she wanted to know the same things as Patricia, and Crispin was hugely influential. In addition to his leadership of the Budget Commission, he held a lot of authority among the bloc of European affiliate planets.

  “Thompson told me you were one of the more moderate voices on the Council meeting,” Justine said.

  “Cautious would be the more accurate word, my dear. I’ve been in this game long enough to spot an open-ended commitment. If this agency is approved by the Senate, there is no knowing how long taxpayers will be required to fund the endeavor. It won’t end with the Dyson flights, you know. If they turn out to be benign, there will be a precedent in place for government to fund exploration of other questionable unknowns.”