The Mandel Files, Volume 2: The Nano Flower

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Strangely enough, there wasn’t any pain, not at first. She couldn’t feel anything below her wrist, then a red-hot ache spread up her fingers, biting hard into her knuckles. There was bile rising in her throat. Her head began to spin alarmingly; for a moment she thought she was going to faint.

  In horror she saw Fabian on his feet, lurching towards her and the maid. She lashed out with her free arm, knocking him back. His face was a mask of desperation and agony.

  ‘Oh God no,’ she wailed, tears swelling up. He was regaining his balance, going to try again.

  ‘ENOUGH OF THIS. FABIAN, STAY WHERE YOU ARE.’ The voice was an inhuman roar, loud enough to be painful. It was coming out of the music deck speakers, she realized.

  Fabian ducked his head down in reflex, hands halfway to his ears. Even the maid was frozen.

  The flatscreens came on, each one showing the same picture of a woman’s face. Charlotte let out a choked cry as she recognized her. ‘Julia Evans,’ she gasped. It was her. Really her. Just like at the Newfields ball. That same compelling oval face.

  Julian Evans smiled thinly. ‘Hello, Charlotte. I think it’s about time you and I had a talk.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ said the maid.

  19

  Julia’s personality package was coded as a commercial intelligence summary, so the Colonel Maitland’s ’ware network-management program automatically assigned it storage space in the lightware cruncher Jason Whitehurst was using to analyse kombinate finances. Once it was loaded, the personality package immediately reformatted the command routines of the processing structure it was running in, isolating itself from the lightware’s operating program and antiviral guardians. After it had confirmed its autonomy it sent out a series of instructions to the internal databuses, arrogating their handling procedures, shutting down the data flow.

  With the lightware cruncher’s processing operations suspended, the personality package began to wipe all the programs and files it found stored in the unit’s memory. Access codes were changed. A new sequence of operating routines were loaded. The package’s highly compressed data planes expanded into the empty lightware. Julia’s reconstituted mentality came on line.

  She started to assess the airship’s ’ware architecture, spreading her presence through the datanet, burning into ancillary processor cores. The bridge’s ’ware was her first priority, gaining complete command of her new domain. New channels were opened and safeguarded, data flowed back into the lightware cruncher.

  The Colonel Maitland’s flight control systems were plugged into a broad range of sensors and cameras distributed throughout the fuselage. Radar and the satellite uplinks were useless, swamped by the tekmerc’s jammer. She studied the optical circuits, pulling their codes out of memory cores, then started to look around.

  External camera, portside fuselage. The Messerschmitt hovered level with the gondola. A laser rangefinder pulsed every second, helping it to maintain its stand-off position exactly. Eight armour-clad figures were left strung out between it and the Colonel Maitland. Each of them identical, factory moulded; left hand controlling a jockey-stick, right hand holding a Lockheed rip gun. Two wavering columns of hot compressed air streamed out of the jetpack nozzles, beind and slightly below the shoulders. As she watched, one of them disappeared through a hole in the side of the gondola.

  Internal camera, gondola lower-deck crew lounge. The lounge had been ravaged by the rip bolt, loose chairs hurled at the walls, composite walls cracked and buckled, carpet smouldering. Glass lay underfoot, the door twisted in its frame.

  Two of the armoured figures were standing inside, Lockheed rip guns raised cautiously, covering the open doorway. Helmets blank bubbles of metal.

  A third swept through the hole, jetpack efflux stirring up a mini-hurricane of wreckage as he settled on the uneven decking.

  External camera, upper tail fin. The ruined landing pad, pitiful remains of the Pegasus spewing out thin plumes of smoke. Two of the Colonel Maitland’s crew, dressed in silvery fire-suits, were surveying the scene. They kept close to the edge of the pad, giving the Pegasus a wide birth as they shuffled along, testing the deck sheeting before each step.

  Julia called up a structural schematic and systems status review from the bridge’s flight control ’ware. The central gasbag, below the landing pad, had been badly lacerated. Helium was escaping at a critical rate. The bridge crew had ordered a near-total ballast dump to compensate. Water from tanks and the swimming-pool was venting out of the gondola as fast as it could be pumped.

  The Colonel Maitland’s geodetic framework was drawn in fine blue lines, gasbag suspension rigging a jumble of green cobwebs. A large, roughly oval, area of fuselage struts around the landing pad and hangar had turned red, fringed in yellow. The landing pad itself was mostly black; a lot of the stress sensors’ optical cables had been cut in the explosions, leaving gaps in the picture. Maintenance drones were inching along the longitudinal frames, inspecting individual struts for fractures, supplementing and refining the data from the sensors, filling in the true status of the black zones.

  The damage assessment was reassuring. The basic framework was bearing up under the redistributed loading. Power to the contra-rotating fans was being reduced, relieving as much pressure as possible until the upper fuselage frames could be repaired.

  She accessed the bridge’s memory cores and discovered that the maintenance drones communicated with the flight control ’ware via laser links; the entire geodetic framework was dotted with interface keys.

  Internal camera, gondola stairwell. Greg and Suzi were moving to the upper deck. Suzi was brandishing her Browning in one hand, pulling Greg along with the other. She looked as if she was walking directly into a hurricane blast, face furrowed with concentration, teeth bared, every step an effort. Greg was moving like an unplugged junkie. Julia recognized the thousand-metre stare; his gland was active, dissolving the real universe.

  Structural schematic. A patch of the gondola’s upper-deck hull changed to red, shooting out a ripple ring of yellow. The red centre snapped to black. Another rip-gun bolt. Electrical lines were cut, fibre-optic links severed. Compensator programs assigned priorities and rerouted power and data.

  External camera, portside fuselage. One of the armoured tekmerc squad had broken away from his colleagues, charging towards the gondola much too fast. He cannoned into a cabin through the gap in the hull which the rip gun had made, arm just catching the edge.

  Internal camera, gondola upper-deck cabin. The armoured figure spinning chaotically, bouncing off walls and ceiling. Legs and arms thrashing about, splintering the composite. He wound up jammed into a corner, jetpack still firing, boots a metre off the ground. The Lockheed rip gun fell from his gauntlet. His legs began a running motion in midair, toe caps hammering deeply into the bulkhead.

  Julia brought additional processing power on line for that. Armour malfunction? Some sort of flying phobia? There was no rational explanation.

  Internal camera, gondola lower-deck crew lounge. The remaining nine members of the squad were all assembled in the lounge. Their movements were sluggish, forced, the same as Suzi.

  One of them pointed his rip gun at the mangled door. Fired. Fire alarms howled in protest throughout the gondola.

  The squad clattered out into the lower-deck central corridor, heading for the prow. A couple of the Colonel Maitland’s cabin crew were in the central corridor, a steward and a maid. Both of them listless and drowsy. They gawped at the approaching tekmerc squad.

  ‘Where is Charlotte Fielder?’ one of the squad asked. His amplified voice was loud in the confined space of the corridor, menacing.

  The steward looked about, his face white. ‘She might be with Fabian Whitehurst, in his cabin, or hers. I’m not sure.’

  There was a momentary pause.

  ‘Where is Jason Whitehurst?’

  ‘In his study.’ The steward pointed a wavering hand down the corridor towards the prow. ‘That way.’

  Four s
quad members stepped forward.

  ‘You will show these four where Fabian Whitehurst’s cabin is.’

  The steward jerked his head in terror.

  One of the squad reached out and grabbed the maid. She screamed.

  ‘Be quiet. You come with us to the study.’

  She began to snivel. The armoured figure jerked her along, nearly lifting her off the floor.

  Julia accessed the Colonel Maitland’s radio gear, letting the raw signals flow directly into the lightware cruncher. The white-noise howl of the Messerschmitt’s jammer dominated every frequency. She began to slot in filter programs. The tekmerc squad had to have some way of communicating.

  She found a string of digital pulses in the UHF band, and refined the filter programs to kill the last of the jammer interference. A decryption program was loaded into the circuit.

  Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

  Tekmerc one: ‘… know what the fuck’s happened to Chad. Those psychic freakos are beating the hell out of each other somehow. You know how it is with them.’

  Tekmerc two: ‘God, it’s like my head’s on fire. There are corridors everywhere, like a bloody maze.’

  Tekmerc one: ‘No, there aren’t. Fight it, turn up your photon-amp brightness. There’s only one corridor.’

  Tekmerc two: ‘Sure thing, Leol.’

  Julia identified Tekmerc one as Leol Reiger. Her own abridged memories contained a concise security file on him.

  She assigned the cause of the lone tekmerc’s spasming run as due to Greg’s psi effusion.

  Tekmerc three: ‘Shouldn’t we try to find Mandel and Suzi?’

  Leol Reiger: ‘Suppose you tell me where the hell to look now Chad’s weirded out.’

  Tekmerc three: ‘So how about helping Chad?’

  Leol Reiger: ‘How, you dipshit cretin?’

  Tekmerc three: ‘Sorry, Leol. Can’t think with this psychic shit screwing my mind.’

  Leol Reiger: ‘Concentrate on finding the Fielder girl. And forget about the psychics, this corridor crap won’t last much longer. They’ll burn their brains out at this rate.’

  Internal camera, study. Jason Whitehurst was sitting behind his desk cradling his head in his hands, rocking slowly back and forth, moaning, saliva bubbling from his lips. The two hard line bodyguards were covering the door with their Racal laser carbines, faces hard.

  Gondola internal camera review. Snatched images flicked into the lightware cruncher as Julia shuffled through the inputs searching for Charlotte Fielder. The bridge with its crew, faces strained, hunched over their consoles, shouting hoarsely at each other. Lower-deck corridor with the two groups of tekmercs walking away from each other, frightened blank faces of the steward and maid. Lower-deck cabins, lounges, gym, a sauna; all deserted. One cabin provisionally assigned to Fabian: a mishmash of toys and clothes sprayed about. Crew quarters at the prow, their small double cabins decorated with hologram pin-ups, a big mess room with a flatscreen showing mushy static, communal washroom, laundry. The crew members were curled up in their chairs or lying on bunks, woozy, afflicted by Greg’s psi effusion. Greg and Suzi in the upper-deck corridor, directly above the crew quarters. Upper-deck cabins, beautifully furnished staterooms, a dining-room right at the stern, a swimming-pool, the water nearly gone, a terrific whirlpool in the centre.

  Fuselage internal camera review. The cameras fixed to the geodetic framework were all black and white, providing her with pictures of the narrow dimly lit longitudinal walkways, the gasbags looming oppressively. Next came pictures of ladders and stairs pinned to the transverse frames. Cylindrical maintenance drones sliding along their rails, folded waldos at both ends, like cybernetic mandibles.

  Someone was climbing up a ladder near the stern. A woman in a maid’s dress, totally unaffected by the psi effusion. At three hundred metres she was too far away from Greg, the effect was localized, centring round the gondola.

  Julia accessed the crew records, matching the face with a file image. The maid’s name was Nia Korovilla, she had been a crew member for eight years. A Russian national, with good references from three hotels, a clean employment record.

  There was no reason for her to be where she was. Julia assigned a subroutine to keep watching her.

  Internal camera, gondola lower deck, Fabian’s cabin. The tekmercs with the steward broke in. They didn’t bother with the lock, simply punching out the door. It swung inwards, buckled by the first tekmerc’s kick. The four of them entered, rip guns held ready.

  Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

  Tekmerc four: ‘Leol, Frank here, there’s no one in the boy’s cabin.’

  Leol Reiger: ‘OK, Frank, try the girl’s. And ask the steward if there’s anywhere else they’re likely to be. Find her!’

  Tekmerc four, identified, Frank: ‘Will do.’

  Tekmerc five: ‘Hey! Hey feel that, it’s stopped.’

  Tekmerc six: ‘Christ yeah.’

  Tekmerc seven: ‘ ’Bout time.’

  Tekmerc three: ‘Hell, I can see properly again.’

  Leol Reiger: ‘Chad, Chad, check in.’

  Tekmerc six: ‘He had to win. Man, he’s got some power, turn your brain inside out from half a klick.’

  Leol Reiger: ‘Chad, answer, fuck you.’

  Tekmerc two: ‘Come on, Chad!’

  Leol Reiger: ‘Right, scratch Chad. If he couldn’t handle some fucking geriatric Army relic he’s better off out of it. Don’t make no difference to us, he was just a convenience. We go through all the cabins until we find the whore. Right out of the manual. Now let’s see some action out of you bastards.’

  Internal camera, gondola upper-deck cabin. Chad’s jetpack was still pressing him up into the corner of the cabin, helmet pushing against the ceiling. His legs had stopped running, arms hanging limply. A phone mike was picking up the jetpack noise, a strident whine. The bed’s counterpane had been caught in the efflux, blown towards the hole in the wall where it had snagged on the edge, flapping vigorously.

  Internal camera, fuselage keel. Suzi had climbed up the stairs from the gondola, her Browning pistol pointing ahead along the walkway. Greg followed, looking enervated, the skin around his eyes baggy and dark; but he was alive.

  Julia knew her flesh and blood self would be flooded with relief that he had beaten Chad.

  Logically, if Charlotte Fielder wasn’t in the gondola, and Greg and Suzi were heading up into the fuselage, then Charlotte Fielder must be in the fuselage too. Somewhere.

  Julia reviewed the airship structural schematic again. Behind the last full-sized gasbag there was an engineering bay that held the giga-conductor cells, and heat exchangers. In the centre was a disused chamber that used to hold the MHD units. It was drawing power from the main electrical bus.

  She plugged into the chamber’s fibre-optic cables.

  Internal camera, upper gondola deck cabin, provisionally assigned resident: Charlotte Fielder. The four tekmercs were inside. One of them walked through the wooden slat door to the bathroom, snapping it apart without breaking stride. Two more were ransacking cupboards and wardrobes. The fourth had his rip gun trained on the steward who was hugging his chest, jaw clenched.

  ‘Where else would she be?’ the tekmerc asked. He prodded the steward with the barrel of his rip gun. The man’s cheeks bulged out.

  ‘Pool, she used the swimming-pool a lot, or Fabian’s den. He’s always up there.’

  ‘I’ve got the pool location loaded in my suit gear, but which room is the boy’s den?’

  ‘Not in the gondola,’ the steward said. ‘It’s up in the fuselage, right back at the tail. Some sort of old engine room, he plays his music deck up there, stuff like that.’

  Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

  Frank: ‘Leol, I think we may have her. The Whitehurst boy hangs out up in the fuselage tail, he’s got some sort of den up there. We’re going up to check the pool first, then we’ll try the tail. It must be in the engineering bay.’


  Leo Reiger: ‘OK, I’m putting the squeeze on the old man. Let me know the instant you get anything.’

  Frank: ‘What if we meet the psychic? He must know where Fielder is, he and Suzi will be heading for her now.’

  Leol Reiger: ‘Snuff the psychic bloke, Mandel, but save Suzi bitch for me.’

  Frank: ‘Christ, Leol, I don’t know, that woman, she’s one major hazard. I see what she did to Nathe and Joely back at the Prezda. Two shots, that’s all it took her. Catching her, that’s maybe not such a good idea. It’s complicated, Leol. We don’t need it.’

  Leol Reiger: ‘Give the fucking verbals a rest. You got armour. You got stunshots for the Fielder whore, ain’t you? Use ’em. Triple bonus for the one that wings Suzi bitch for me.’

  Frank: ‘All right, Leol. You say.’

  Leol Reiger: ‘I do.’

  Internal camera, aft fuselage keel walkway. Greg and Suzi were approaching the tail section, moving at a steady jog. He seemed to be recovering from his gland-induced lethargy, limbs flowing in an easier, more fluid rhythm.

  Julia used a key on a nearby transverse frame to plug into Greg’s cybofax. It bleeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

  ‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ he said.

  Suzi stopped and looked at the cybofax screen.

  ‘I take it you’re trying to find Charlotte Fielder,’ Julia said.

  ‘Yeah, she’s somewhere around here. I sensed her earlier, I was just about to have another sniff round.’

  ‘I believe she is in the old MHD chamber, along with Fabian Whitehurst. It’s in the middle of the engineering bay; I worked out a route for you.’ She squirted the data into the wafer, lining the walkways and ladders they would have to use in red. ‘You’d better get a move on. There is a woman in front of you, Nia Korovilla, one of the Colonel Maitland’s maids; I don’t know what she’s doing there, but she’s closing on the chamber. And four of Leol Reiger’s tekmercs are behind you, also heading for the MHD chamber.’