The Mandel Files, Volume 2: The Nano Flower

by Peter F. Hamilton

  But then, that was the way of this new conglomeration, she thought, no room for failure. That was why she preferred to gaze at the old quarter. The mega-structures of the Atoll, with their glossy lofriction surfaces bouncing the sun like geometric crystalline mountains, were a pointer to the future. It looked like shit.

  The nineteen-sixties paranoids were right; the machines are taking over.

  She shook her head as if to clear it, and finished her tea. The knowledge of her own power did funny things inside her brain. Whatever she looked at, she knew she could change if she wanted to – give that neighbourhood better roads and services, improve the facilities at that school, stop that tower block from being built. So much she could do, and once she did it without even stopping to think. There hadn’t been so much as a tremble of hesitancy when she began Prior’s Fen Atoll. Now though, some of the old assurance was beginning to wear thin. Or maybe it was just age and cynicism creeping up on her.

  Julia returned to her desk, a big teak affair with a green leather top. Her hands slid across the intaglio edges, feeling little snicks of roughness in the deepest insets. At least someone in England still knew how to work with wood. Cybernation hadn’t engulfed everybody. She caught herself, frowning disparagingly. What a funny mood.

  She touched the intercom pad. ‘Is Troy here yet?’

  ‘Reception said he’s arrived,’ said Kirsten McAndrews, her private secretary. ‘He should be up in another five minutes. Do you want him to come straight in?’

  ‘Call me first,’ Julia said.

  ‘The Welsh delegation is still here.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten about them. How’s my schedule for this afternoon?’

  ‘Tricky. You said you wanted to be home by four.’

  ‘Yes. Well, if the last meeting doesn’t run on I’ll see them.’

  ‘OK, I’ll tell them.’

  ‘And for Heaven’s sake don’t let them know my stylist has preference. If they do see Troy come through, tell them he’s some kind of financial cartel president.’

  ‘Will do.’ There was an amused tone in Kirsten’s voice.

  Julia sank back into the chair, resignation darkening her mood further. The Welsh delegation had been laying siege to her office for over a week now; a collection of the most senior pro-independence politicians who urgently wanted to know her views on their country’s bid for secession from the New Conservative-dominated Westminster parliament’s governance. Event Horizon was currently considering sites for two new cyber-precincts, and Wales, under New Conservative rule, was one of the principal contenders. The referendum was due in another five weeks; it was a measure of their desperation that they were prepared to sit out in the lobby rather than hit the campaign trail. So far she had managed to avoid any comments, on or off the record.

  Open Channel to SelfCores, she instructed her bioware processor implant.

  Her view of the office was suddenly riddled with cracks, fracturing and spinning away. It always did that if she didn’t close her eyes in time.

  Everyone thought she ran Event Horizon with her unique sang-froid flare because of her five bioware node implants. They reasoned she simply plugged herself directly into the vast dataflows the company created to act as some kind of omnipotent technophile sovereign. Given that the nodes with their logic matrices and data storage space gave her an augmented mentality able to interpret reports in milliseconds and implement decisions instantaneously, it was an understandable mistake. Companies and kombinates gave their own premier-grade executives identical implants in the belief they could boost their own managerial control in the same fashion. None of them had ever come close to matching Event Horizon’s efficiency.

  Julia’s consciousness slipped into a dimensionless universe; the body sensorium of colours, sounds, touch, and smell simply didn’t apply here. Even her time sense was different, accelerated. She hung at the centre of three dense data shoals, like small galactic clusters, observing streams of binary pulses flash between the suns. They were bioware Neural Network cores, brains of ferredoxin protein: Event Horizon’s true directorate. Their massive processing capacity enabled them to keep track of every department, follow up every project with minute attention, directing the company along the policy lines she formulated. Her confidence in them was absolute. All she did was review their more important decisions before authorization, a human fail-safe in the circuit.

  Two of the NN cores had been grown by splicing her sequencing RNA into the ferredoxin, duplicating her neuronic structure. After that she had downloaded her memories into them. They echoed her desires, her determination, her guile, crafting Event Horizon with loving vigilance, uninterrupted by the multiple weaknesses of the body’s flesh.

  Calmness stole into her own thoughts, as if the rationality which governed this domain was seeping back through the linkage. Here, there was a subtle boost to her faith that all problems were solvable. It was just a question of correctly applied logic.

  Good morning, she said.

  You seem a bit peaky today, NN core one replied.

  Yes, last night’s Newfields’ ball was a wash-out.

  Total surprise. I don’t know why you keep going to those dos.

  To keep up appearances, I suppose, she answered.

  Who for? NN core two asked.

  There was a difference between the personalities of her two NN cores, slight but definite. Core two assumed a stricter attitude, more matriarchal. Julia always thought she must have been very up-tight the day she downloaded her memories into it.

  Self-delusion is what makes the world go round, she said.

  If other people believe everything’s all hunky-dory with you, you might even begin to believe it yourself, said NN core one.

  Something like that, yes, she admitted.

  There’s still no sign of him, then? NN core two asked.

  Sensation penetrated the closed universe, a sliver of cold dismay trickling down her back. Royan had been missing for eight months now. Her lover, confidant, partner in crime, joy-bringer, keeper of the key to her heart, dark genius, father of her two children, haunted soul. Deliberately missing, as only he could be. Eight months, and the pain was still bright enough to hurt. And now worry was its twin.

  You would know that, she said. Best of all. Their awareness was spread like a spectral web through the global data networks, alert for facts, whispers, and gossip they could use to Event Horizon’s advantage. There were patterns to the flow of information, tenuous and confused, but readable to entities like the three NN cores. Everybody in the world betrayed themselves through the generation of data; you could not move, eat, wash, or make love without it registering in a memory core somewhere. Except for Royan, whose flight left no contrail of binary digits, mocking the most sophisticated tracker programs ever constructed.

  What could someone with Royan’s brilliance build in eight months? And why keep it a secret from her?

  Shadow wings of sympathy folded round her, a sisterly embrace by two of the NN cores.

  Don’t fret yourself so, Juliet, the third NN core said gruffly. He’ll be back. Boy always was one for stunts, little bugger.

  Thank you, Grandpa, she said.

  The thought patterns of Philip Evans reflected a brisk gratification.

  He was a perfect counterbalance to her two NN cores, Julia thought, his cynicism and bluntness tempering her own gentler outlook. Together they made a truly formidable team. And one which was unlikely to be repeated. She knew of some kombinates who’d loaded a Turing managerial personality into a bioware number cruncher, hoping to recreate Event Horizon’s magic formula that way. They hadn’t met with much success. Instinct and toughness, even compassion, weren’t concepts you could incorporate into a program. Neural Networks could possess such qualities, because they weren’t running programs, they were genuine personalities. But at sixty million Eurofrancs apiece, an NN core wasn’t the kind of project to be attempted on a speculative basis. And even if one was built, there was the qu
estion of whose sequencing RNA to use as a template, whose memories to download. If the person selected didn’t have the right mindset to run the kombinate, it would be too late to change.

  Philip Evans had done it because he was dying anyway. He had nothing to lose. It worked for him because he had a lifetime’s experience of running the company in a dictatorial fashion. And it wasn’t until she’d been in the hot seat for seven years that Julia had grown her first core.

  I’m all right now, she said.

  The intangible support withdrew.

  My girl, her grandfather said proudly. At moments like this, he could be absurdly sentimental.

  Let’s get this morning’s list crunched, Julia said. She opened her mind up to the stack of data packages the three NN cores had prepared over the past forty hours. There was no conscious thought involved, no rigorous assessment; she let the questions filter through her mind, instinct providing the answers.

  They started with subcontracts; company names and products, their quality procedures, industrial relations record, financial viability, bid prices, and finally a recommendation. Julia would say yes or no, and the profile would be snatched away, to be replaced by the next. She couldn’t remember them afterwards; she didn’t want to remember them. That was the whole point. The system only involved her thought processes, not her memory, leaving her brain cells uncluttered.

  Personnel was the second category. She handled the promotions and disciplining of everyone above grade five management herself. If only divisional managers knew how closely their boss really followed their careers …

  Divisional review came next. Start-up factories’ progress, retooling, enlargement programmes, new product designs.

  Cargo fleets, land, air, rail, space, and sea.

  New London biosphere maintenance.

  New London second chamber progress.

  Microgee materials processing modules.

  Finance.

  Energy.

  Security.

  Prior’s Fen Atoll civil engineering.

  That’s the lot, said NN core one.

  Julia consulted her nodes. Over eight thousand items in six and a half minutes. She couldn’t remember one of them, although her imagination lodged an image of hard-copy sheets streaming by on a subliminal fast forward.

  Any queries? she asked.

  Only two, said her grandfather.

  Says you, NN core two rebuked. How you can think Mousanta is a problem I don’t know.

  What are they? Julia asked, forestalling any argument.

  Well, the three of us share a slight concern about Wales, NN core two said. You are going to have to make a decision about who to support some time.

  I know, she said miserably. I just don’t see how I can win.

  So choose the option which causes the least harm, said her grandfather.

  Which is?

  For my mind, the Welsh Nationalists have promised Event Horizon a bloody attractive investment package if you go ahead and build the cyber-precincts. I say see the delegation, they are bound to improve on the offer. It would be a fantastic boost for them to come out and announce they’ve swung you over. Bloody politicians, never miss a trick.

  In order for their promises to mean anything they have to win the referendum first, NN core two said patiently. They’re terrified you won’t commit to a site until after the vote, of course. People won’t vote for secession unless they’re sure it will be beneficial. Which is what the Nationalists have been promising all along. Catch twenty-two, for them anyway. If they win the referendum and can’t produce the jobs independence was supposed to bring they’ll be lynched.

  Dead politicians, her grandfather chortled. If I had a heart, it would be bleeding.

  Our civil projects development division has been getting daily calls from the New Conservatives’ central office, NN core one said. And the Ministry of Industry is pledged to Lord knows how much support funding if you build the precincts around Liverpool.

  What sort of concessions have they been offering Event Horizon if I do site the cyber-precincts in Wales?

  Almost the same support deal, her grandfather said. Officially. But Marchant has been playing his elder statesman go-between role to some effect; he’s made it clear that the offer only stands providing the Nationalists lose the referendum, and you announce a cyber-precinct for Wales after that. It’ll show the New Conservatives aren’t neglecting the area.

  Which is precisely why the Nationalists have been getting so much support in the first place, NN core one said. Because Wales hasn’t received much priority from this government.

  What would a Welsh secession do to the New Conservative majority? Julia asked.

  Reduce it to eighteen seats. Which is why they’re taking Wales so seriously for once. Chances are, with an independent Wales they’ll lose their overall majority at the next general election.

  After seventeen years, Julia mused. That would take some getting used to.

  It wouldn’t affect us much, NN core two said. Not now, Event Horizon is too well established, in this country and abroad. And it’s not as if any new government is going to introduce radically different policies. The party manifestos are virtually all variants on a theme; the only differences are in priorities. This new breed of politicians are all spin doctor bred, they don’t pursue ideologies any more, only power itself.

  Whatever you do, Juliet, it wants to be done soon.

  Yes, I suppose so.

  We recommend one cyber-precinct is sited in Wales and one somewhere else, presumably Liverpool, NN core two said. It’s a compromise which makes perfect sense, and de-emphasizes your role in the referendum.

  Fine, I’ll notify the development division.

  That just leaves the question of timing the announcement.

  She massaged her temple, wishing it would ease the strain deeper inside. Yes, OK, leave it with me, I’ll think about it. What was the second query?

  An anomaly I picked up on, Juliet.

  A data package unfolded within her mental perception. Julia studied it for a moment. It was a bid which Event Horizon had put in for a North Italy solid state research facility, the Mousanta labs in Turin. Event Horizon’s commercial intelligence office noted that the molecular interaction studies Mousanta was doing would fit in with a couple of the company’s own research programmes. The finance division had made a buy-out offer to the owners, only to be outbid by the Globecast corporation.

  Julia saw she’d turned down a request to make a higher bid. So?

  So, why, Juliet, is Globecast, a company which deals purely in trash media broadcasts, making a too high offer for a solid state research lab?

  Oh, come on, Grandpa; Clifford Jepson probably wants it to help with his arms sales. The chairman of Globecast had a profitable second occupation as an arms merchant. She knew that he handled a lot of extended credit underground sales to organizations which the US government didn’t wish to be seen showing any open support. In consideration, Globecast’s tax returns weren’t scrutinized too closely.

  Clifford is a middle-man, Juliet, not a producer.

  You think there could be more to it?

  It doesn’t ring true, that’s all.

  Yes. OK, Grandpa, get commercial intelligence to take another look at Mousanta, what makes it so valuable. Perhaps they’ve got a black defence programme going for the North Italy government?

  Could be.

  Sort the details, then.

  OK, girl. There was no mistaking his eagerness.

  Exit SelfCores.

  Julia was back in the office, grinning at her grandfather’s behaviour. He did so love the covert side of company operations. One of the reasons he and Royan had got on so well, closeheads.

  She was just refilling her teacup when the door opened and Rachel Griffith came in.

  There weren’t many people who could burst in on Julia Evans unannounced. And those that did had to have a bloody good reason, invariably troublesome.

  Juli
a took one glance at Rachel’s thin-lipped anxiety and knew it was bad. Rachel didn’t fluster easily.

  ‘What is it, Rachel?’ Julia asked uneasily.

  ‘God, I’m sorry, Julia. I just didn’t pay it a lot of attention when she gave it to me.’ Rachel Griffith held out a slim white flower-presentation box.

  Julia took it with suddenly trembling fingers. The flower inside was odd, not one she’d seen before. It was a trumpet, fifteen centimetres long, tapering back to what she assumed was a small seed pod; the colour was a delicate purple, and when she looked down the open end it was pure white inside. There was a complex array of stamens, with lemon-yellow anther lobes. The outside of the trumpet sprouted short silky hairs.

  She sent an identification request into her memory nodes’ floral encyclopaedia section.

  The envelope had already been opened; she drew out the handwritten card.

  Take care, Snowy,

  I love you always,

  Royan

  Julia’s eyes watered. It was his handwriting, and nobody else called her Snowy.

  With her eyes still on the card she asked, ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘Some girl handed it to me at the Newfields ball last night.’ Rachel sounded worried. ‘I don’t know who she was, but she knew me. Never gave her name, just shoved it in my hands and told me to pass it on to you.’

  Julia looked up. ‘What sort of girl? Pretty?’

  ‘She was a whore.’

  ‘Rachel!’

  ‘She was, I know the type. Early twenties, utterly gorgeous, impeccably dressed, manners a saint couldn’t match, and lost eyes.’

  There was no arguing, Julia knew, Rachel was good at that kind of thing, her years as a hardline bodyguard, constantly vigilant, had given her an almost psychic sense about people. Besides, Julia knew the sort of girl she was talking about, courtesans were common enough at events like the Newfields ball.

  Her nodes reported that the flower species wasn’t indexed in their files.