Salvation

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Shit. You’re talking a body snatch? For…? What? Ransom?”

  “A dark market brain transplant. What we’ve seen so far certainly seems to fit the idea.”

  She closed her eyes and shuddered. “Thanks. I wanted to go on believing that is urban myth. You got any evidence other than you watch too many Hong Kong drama games?”

  “A myth has to start somewhere,” he said. “And it did only start after the Olyix arrived.”

  “The Olyix are behind it?” she asked incredulously. “That’s crazy.”

  “Not behind it, no; but their Kcells make it possible.” Yuri flinched from her skeptical stare. “Supposedly.” He sighed, wishing it to be untrue. But the possibility of dark market brain transplants had become an insidious rumor, whispered between law enforcement agencies for several years now. The perfect explanation that case officers offered up to their directors whenever a major-league criminal suspect eluded them: They were walking around in a whole new body.

  Hong Kong drama game production houses loved the concept and pushed it eagerly into their mainstream crime series. The alien science of Kcells made it sound deliciously plausible.

  Until the Olyix arrived, cloning organs or using stem cell replacement tissue was expensive. But the Olyix were eager to trade, enabling them to buy the energy they needed so their arkship Salvation of Life could continue its pilgrimage voyage to the end of the universe. Their advanced biotechnology produced the polyfunction Kcell, which could be assembled in a number of ways from veins to skin, bones to muscle, and even some organs. Like the flesh they replaced, they drew energy from blood, living in perfect symbiosis with the human body, and they were also cheap.

  The versatility of Kcells was the root of the whole brain transplant story. Kcells, so the theory went, could be used to form a neural bridge between brain and spine—an ability still far beyond human medical science. And as it involved Kcells, Yuri’s office had a dedicated team to investigate and analyze possible cases to see if there was any truth in the claims. So far their conclusion was: We don’t know.

  “Let’s just see where this leads,” Yuri temporized. The idea that this might be the case that proved the dark market for brain transplants existed was thrilling. “Boris, how are we doing with those surveillance files?”

  “The memory files for the public surveillance camera on Eleanor Road were altered,” Boris said. “The hours between six and nine were replaced by a synthesized image.”

  “This is not an amateur operation,” Yuri said. “Not if they can do that. So we’re now time critical.” He closed his eyes and told Boris to spray a map of the area across his tarsus lenses. “We know the Wilton Way camera files are good. Boris, get the G7Turing to run a search on all the surrounding roads, extending out for a kilometer. Tie it in with the local traffic net records. I want to know every vehicle that drove down Eleanor Road between six and nine on Wednesday morning. No, make that five and nine.”

  “How long do you think we’ve got?” Jessika asked.

  “They’ve had Horatio at least twenty-four hours, so not much longer.”

  “There were two vehicles using Eleanor Road during the time frame you designated,” Boris told him. “A civic contractor cleaning truckez, with six ancillary brush wagons, and a builder’s merchant van.”

  “What was the builder’s merchant?”

  “Tarazzi Metropolitan Supplies. They are based in Croydon.”

  “Get into their network, find the delivery address.”

  “There is no delivery address. Error. That van is not licensed to them.”

  “Well, who is it licensed to?”

  “Tarazzi Metropolitan Supplies ADL. That is a company registered on the New Hamburg asteroid. The company was formed on Tuesday, twelve o’clock GMT, and dissolved at five o’clock GMT this morning.”

  “Smart,” Yuri conceded. “Any ownership records?”

  “There was one share issued, registered to Horton Accounting. That is also a New Hamburg company, a Turing virtual that is now inactive.”

  “Horton?” Yuri glanced out of the window again at the backs of the neat row of houses that made up Horton Road. “Someone’s having us on. Okay, what time was the van here?”

  “It turned in to Eleanor Road at six twenty-two. It left, traveling along Wilton Way, at six forty-eight.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “At six fifty-seven it entered the Hackney Commercial and Government Services Transport Hub on Amhurst Road.”

  “Track it. I want to know the destination. Jessika, we’ve got to split up. Call a cabez, follow the fake Tarazzi van to its destination, then find out what happened next. I’m going to assign you a tactical team; they’ll follow you. Use them for any face-to-face situation. You’re investigation only, understand? I don’t want you physically exposed to any member of this dark market operation. They haven’t eluded the authorities for years by being the forgiving type.”

  “Okay.” She gave him a small, wild smile. “What are you going to do?”

  “Come at it from a different angle. The more routes into this dark market we can open up, the better chance we have of getting Horatio back.”

  A cabez was pulling up outside the building by the time they walked out of the front door. Yuri watched Jessika climb in, then hurried back to the Hackney hub.

  * * *

  —

  Seven minutes later he was coming out of the hub at the eastern end of Royal Victoria Docks, buffeted by the humid air gusting off the Thames. If he looked south across the river, the Connexion tower dominated the skyline. Around him, the buildings were a strange mixture of old industrial and new residential; at one time they’d all been hotels and restaurants to serve the vast exhibition center that stretched out alongside the docks. But with the advent of Connexion making every location on Earth one step away, such overnight business hotels had become obsolescent. They’d subsequently been refurbished as apartments, though some had remained derelict for decades.

  Boris hacked the lobby lock of what had once been the classiest hotel on the block. Yuri walked across the high-ceilinged chamber and past the lifts to the stairwell. The office G7Turing was infiltrating the building’s security network—which was top-of-the-range, but hardly a match for a G7. He didn’t want to be trapped in a lift, with the doors opening at someone else’s convenience.

  The third-floor corridor ran the length of the building but only had a half dozen doors. Two men stood at the end, giving him a hard stare as he walked down the length of it toward them. Yuri ignored them and halted a couple of meters from the double doors they were guarding. He tipped his head to one side in his best condescending manner and looked at where he guessed the camera was hidden.

  “Open it,” he said in a tired voice.

  “Don’t—” one of the guards began.

  “Not you,” Yuri said, sounding even more tired.

  The door buzzed and slid open. Yuri tipped the guards a silent salute and walked in. The inside had been the hotel penthouse suite a century ago and remained an opulent apartment overlooking the docks.

  Karno Larsen looked like he’d been in residence for most of those hundred years. He was a huge man, whose sixtieth decade had been stretched out for a punishingly long time by telomere treatments, making him seem more like a mannequin than a flesh-and-blood person. He wore a burgundy silk gown embroidered with mythical creatures that barely covered his dome-like stomach. Thick bare legs waddled him forward from the outsize chair he’d been sitting in.

  One of the high walls was covered in screens, all of them playing cult shows from fifty years ago. Karno prided himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of historic trash culture. Glass-fronted cabinets displayed a huge range of incredibly detailed miniatures and limited edition merchandise from the last 150 years. It all looked like cheap tat to Yuri, though he knew it was actually
priceless.

  “Yuri, my friend, what a surprise. I never thought you would visit me here. Welcome, welcome.”

  “Really?” Yuri asked. The screens were all playing crap now, but he guessed that a minute earlier they’d been displaying a tangle of finance data. As underground accountants went, Karno Larsen was the preferred go-to for the top men of London’s underworld.

  Karno performed a humbled shrug. “A short warning would be appreciated next time.”

  “Actual human guards. I’m impressed.”

  “One has to cultivate an air of civility. Their peripherals alone cost more than they do.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “So why are you here, Yuri? You’re not good for business, you know.”

  “I need a name, and I don’t have time for bullshit.”

  “In some ways, that is almost flattering.”

  “Who’s the best matcher in East London?”

  Karno’s face locked into a rictus smile. “Matcher?”

  “Don’t,” Yuri said.

  “Yuri, please, I have a reputation to consider.”

  “The only reputation I know is of the person who sets up one-time virtual companies to use the Commercial and Government Services hubs. We talked about that misbehavior before, Karno, and we agreed you have to be useful to me in order to carry on existing. I need the name, and I need it now. I’m asking politely.”

  “Yuri, please, I don’t move in such circles. I facilitate finance, you know this.”

  “Play close attention, Karno, because either I leave with what I want or you get renditioned to a world that makes Zagreus look like a fucking holiday resort.”

  “Jesus, Yuri, there’s no need for this!” Karno’s agitation was making his flab wobble obscenely. “We are friends.”

  “Name!”

  “Conrad McGlasson.”

  “And where do I find him?”

  There was no physical address, only an access code. The G7Turing was running tracers before Yuri reached the lobby.

  He called Jessika as he went through the doors back out into the unrestrained heat of the street. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m on Althaea; some town called Bronkal. The Tarazzi van drove into the dredger docks. There’s no traffic network, so I haven’t got a final destination yet.”

  Yuri didn’t have to get Boris to gather data on Althaea. It was a gas-giant moon in the Pollux system, which after fifty years of aggressive terraforming was just about capable of supporting terrestrial life. The flip point had almost been reached, when the biosphere became stable without any more intervention. “Okay. Call in our local office.”

  “Already have. And the tactical team is with me.”

  “Good. Those frontier towns can be rough in places.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I’ve got a possible lead here. If it checks out, I should be with you in half an hour.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Boris sprayed up a file of Conrad McGlasson’s hub travel record. He traveled around London a lot, Yuri noted, which fitted the whole matcher profile. The G7Turing pulled up a lot of ancillary data: the flats he used, financial data, which was nowhere near complete; that could only mean Conrad had dark accounts.

  “What was his last hub use?” Yuri asked.

  “He left the QE-Two South Road hub seventeen minutes ago.”

  “Okay, he’s probably on the bridge; there’s a lot of footfall there. Cancel his hub access. I want to keep him there.”

  “Done.”

  “Send three hawkeye drone squadrons through to find him. And dispatch a tactical team to both ends of the bridge. They’re to remain on standby until I call for them, zero public exposure.”

  “Confirmed.”

  * * *

  —

  Yuri walked out of the QEII South Road hub two minutes later and looked up the imposing concrete road ramp that rose up to the Dartford Bridge. As part of London’s old M25 orbital motorway, the huge old suspension bridge that crossed the Thames used to carry 130,000 vehicles a day over the muddy tidal estuary. Now it was simply a monument to the obsolete past. He couldn’t imagine what it had looked like while it was in use.

  Since the last cars and lorries had driven away into history, new money and real estate opportunities had allowed the bridge to reinvent itself. Big tubs had been fixed to the carriageways and planted with trees, turning the whole edifice into a flying greenway. Lightweight buildings had colonized the edges of the bridge, glass walls giving bar, club, and restaurant customers an unrivaled view along the river, both into the city and out across the surrounding countryside. Smaller pop-up specialist fabricator stores shared the ancient tarmac with the verdant trees, completing the transformation to a funky concrete rainbow of small-trader commerce.

  Yuri began the long walk up the ramp, sticking to the shade offered by the tree canopy. Here above the river, the humidity was reaching a dismal crescendo. He slung his lightweight suit jacket over his shoulder and wished he had some kind of hat. Unseen above him, the hawkeye drones spread out and started searching for Conrad McGlasson.

  They found him sitting at an outdoor table halfway along the southern side. A beer glass was on the table in front of him as he watched the people thronging along the central greenway. Yuri approached at an unhurried pace, keeping his eyes on the target. “Boris, shut down the local internet nodes in a hundred-meter radius around him.”

  “Confirmed.”

  The man was in his forties, with short-cut hair as black as his skin. Shorts and an old orange t-shirt gave him an unremarkable air. The only unusual thing was his lack of sunglasses; everyone else on the bridge that day was wearing them like it was a compulsory dress code. Conrad’s eyes were too precious for that. He scanned the people wandering past, studying them.

  Conrad saw Yuri while he was still twenty meters away and immediately tensed up.

  He’s good, Yuri admitted to himself.

  Conrad hunted around for other potential hostiles. When he didn’t find any, he returned his gaze to Yuri.

  “I’m not going to chase you,” Yuri said as he arrived at the table.

  “Nice to know,” Conrad replied, trying to keep it cool. Small beads of sweat on his high forehead were giving away his inner anxiety.

  Yuri pulled out a chair and sat down. “My teams will do that. They’re all young and fit, and eager to show me how efficient they are. They’re armed, too. Ever been hit with a taser dart? Ours are very good, because we can’t be bothered restricting them to the legal maximum charge. Oh, and I’ve revoked your Connexion account. You’d have to run the whole way home. I imagine that would be quite exhausting in this heat. The teams will probably start a book on how far you’d get. I’d say about a hundred and fifty meters. What do you reckon?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to tell me about me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a matcher. You find specific people, ones who fit a profile. Any profile you’re given. So show me how good you are.”

  “This is bollocks. You’ve got nothing on me.”

  “I have your name, and I was told you’re the best.”

  “No proof, pal.”

  “Don’t need it. You find people—people who are vulnerable without realizing it. I know how it works; my office has to deal with plenty of cases.”

  “Your office?”

  “Yeah. All those starry-eyed graduate kids who’ve just grabbed themselves a shit job at the very bottom of a big company and think they’re going to make it to CEO one day. You see their weakness, you know them. It’s a special and rare talent you have there, Conrad. You read something in them that tells you they’ll be tempted if they’re offered some mild narcotics in the right circumstances, by their new best friend. You see one, out h
ere on the bridge, or in a pub, and you sell his name to groups who specialize in trading information. And in a month’s time that kid’ll have a serious addiction, his credit will be deep negative, he’ll do anything to get his next squirt, including handing over access to the company system. Or a girl, pretty but shy, one who can be corrupted easily. And the next thing she knows she’s met a great guy, with a great smile, who’s showing her a life she only fantasized about, one that pulls her in deeper and deeper. Bingo! Then after a time he’s not just her boyfriend, he’s her pimp. Another kid ruined. Are you getting the picture here, pal? Do you see I know you? Gotta admire the irony.”

  “You know nothing, you piece of shit! You’re blind.”

  “This isn’t personal, so don’t make that mistake. You need to do better, a lot better. Am I right? Now tell me about me.”

  Conrad McGlasson glared at him. “You’re not police.”

  “That was a fifty-fifty guess. Even I could get that one. Come on, live a little, Conrad. Impress me.”

  “Russian; the accent’s still there. Received plenty of telomere treatments, and good ones. You’re over a hundred, but hide it well. You work at that—body posture and clothes. The clothes are important; they indicate status. You don’t cling to the old comforts; you make yourself stay fashionable. You have arrogance and surety, and you found me easily, so there’s plenty of money behind you. It’s corporate, not private wealth. You’ve done your time in the ranks, but you’re now too important to be a tactical team leader, which means that if you’re taking point, I’m valuable. I know that because people around us are getting antsy now that their internet feed’s mysteriously dropped out. You did that to stop me alerting anyone you’ve found me. That takes clout, digital and political. You’re a senior officer in Connexion Security.” He picked up his beer and raised it in salute.

  “Not bad,” Yuri admitted. “A proper little Sherlock Holmes.”