Judas Unchained cs-2

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Mellanie walked over to the coffin and peered down. The gooey pink fluid magnified Paul’s scrawny ancient body in a way she could have done without; but she could see he was still alive, his chest rising and falling in a slow regular rhythm.

  A portal on one of the cabinets lit up with an image of a young man’s face. It had a lot of Paul’s features. “Hello, young Mellanie, welcome to my lair.”

  She glanced from the body to the portal. “Cool setup. Paranoid, but cool.”

  “I’m alive, aren’t I?” The image smiled.

  It was actually quite a handsome face, she thought, which disturbed her more than she wanted to acknowledge. “Have you been hurt? Is this a rejuvenation tank?”

  “Not at all. This is a maximum interface unit. My nervous system is fully wetwired into the large array here in the crypt. Every sensation I now feel is actually an artificial impulse. You have a virtual vision; I have virtual smell, taste, temperature, tactile reception, hearing, everything. What my brain interprets as walking is in reality a directional instruction to access sections of the unisphere and the arrays connected to it. My hands can manipulate programs and files to an amazing degree, and all at accelerant speed.”

  “Morty always said you were a complete webhead.”

  “How right he was.”

  “What happened here last night, Paul?”

  “It wasn’t a break-in; they were sent to kill me. I used a focused EMP on their inserts, and…nature took its course. Not to mention stupidity.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Good question. Would you like to start trading?”

  Mellanie suddenly felt as though she was slipping away from her earlier position of confidence. Her initial judgment of Paul was a woeful underestimation; and all the clues had been there if she’d bothered to think about them. An impoverished, seedy four-hundred-year-old? Come on! “You already owe me Alessandra Baron for telling you about the Starflyer.”

  “Very well. Baron was receiving and sending a great deal of encrypted traffic across the unisphere.”

  “Aha!”

  “Unfortunately, the protective monitors she uses are excellent. The person using them actually managed to backtrack my own operation. That’s quite an achievement. Outside the SI, I know of only a dozen or so webheads in the Commonwealth boasting that kind of ability. This unknown person has a level of skill equal to my own, a development which I find more disturbing than the SI’s protection of Paula Myo. Clearly Baron has something very serious to hide.”

  “I told you that. And it was probably the Starflyer who tracked you down. I need to know who else is involved.”

  “For a start: Marlon Simmonds and Roderick Deakins, the two who broke into my bungalow last night.”

  “Big help, Paul, your creepy alien pets took care of them.”

  “Show some patience, Mellanie. It is the connection which is interesting. Once I discovered their identity, I accessed their bank accounts. Both of them received a payment of five thousand Oaktier dollars yesterday. The money was transferred from a onetime account opened approximately three hours after Baron became aware of my interest.”

  “Damn!”

  “Which I backtracked to a corporate account on Earth, in the Denman Manhattan bank.”

  Mellanie gave the youthful face in the portal a startled look. “You backtracked a onetime account? I thought that was impossible.”

  “So the banks would like you to believe. It is very difficult, but it can be done. There are certain small flaws in the onetime establishment procedure which can be exploited, that even the Intersolar security services don’t know about. I know because I used to know someone who knew someone who was involved with writing the original program. Does the name Vaughan Rescorai mean anything to you?”

  “Grandpa!”

  “Your great-great-grandfather, I believe.”

  “You knew him?” she asked in surprise.

  “We mega webheads are a small, close community. Vaughan was a good man.”

  “Yes. Yes, he was.”

  “He was your way into the SI, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Thought so. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Thanks, Paul. What was the company?”

  “Bromley, Waterford, and Granku. They are a legal firm—”

  “From New York on Earth.”

  “You know of them?”

  “Yeah. Some of their associates were involved with a scam involving Dudley Bose. I think the Starflyer used them to fund the observation of the Dyson Alpha enclosure.”

  “Which resulted in the Second Chance flight, and the collapse of the barrier, and ultimately the Lost23. I see. It certainly ties in with your theory. I managed to track some of Baron’s communications before her countermeasures forced me to withdraw. Two of them were addressed to a Mr. Pomanskie at Bromley, Waterford, and Granku.”

  “Hell. He was on the board of the Cox Educational charity.”

  “I suspect Pomanskie, or some junior lieutenant, hired Simmonds and Deakins to put a stop to my electronic spying.”

  “Yeah, most likely. Can you get into Bromley, Waterford, and Granku’s accounts, see what other payments they’ve been making?”

  “I can. I would need an incentive.”

  Mellanie sighed, and tipped her head to one side. “What do you want?”

  “Information. Baron hasn’t occupied my time exclusively. There are a number of other interesting things occurring within the Commonwealth right now.”

  “Such as?”

  “Did you know several ‘lifeboat’ consortiums are being put together?”

  “No. What lifeboats?”

  “There are some Intersolar Dynasties, Grand Families, and mere ordinary billionaires who are uncertain that our shiny new Commonwealth navy can defeat the Prime aliens. They are quietly channeling funds into very large colonizer starships that have a trans-galactic range. Seventeen such vessels have already been put into production, and at least another twelve are being planned that I am aware of. Each of the Big15 is hosting at least one of the projects. The lifeboats can hold several tens of thousands of people in suspension, along with all the manufacturing cybernetics necessary to establish an advanced technological human society from scratch on a new world.”

  “Those sons of bitches,” Mellanie exclaimed. Even after all the time she’d been exposed to the ultra-rich and their political flunkies, the idea that they’d turn tail and run caught her by surprise. “They’re going to leave us to do their dirty fighting for them?”

  “Now then, Mellanie, don’t whine like some Bolshevik class warrior; it’s a perfectly sensible precaution. Exactly what I expect from that class. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t hop on board if you were presented with a berth?”

  She scowled down at Paul’s coffin. “Michelangelo offered me a gig reporting on all the people emigrating to the High Angel. They all think it’ll fly them clear if the worst happens.”

  “High Angel is a good bet, especially if you don’t have any real money, although they’ll hardly be in charge of their own destiny. Who knows where that machinecreature will take them, or what its ultimate purpose is.”

  “So what’s all this got to do with me?”

  “I want to know which lifeboat stands the highest chance of success.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Let’s just say I’ll be buying a ticket. I have a degree of confidence in our military ability, and I’ve certainly seen what kind of technological atrocities our species’ weapons scientists can produce when the need arises. But the Primes do have a phenomenal amount of resources available to use against us. Like I said: sensible precaution.”

  Mellanie shook her head; she wasn’t sure if it was in dismay or disgust. “So where do I come in?”

  “There is one rather glaring omission in the lifeboat projects. I can’t find any information that the Sheldons are building one. And I have looked, very hard.”

  “
Maybe they’re not cowards. Ever thought of that?”

  “Cowardice is not part of this equation. Nigel Sheldon is not stupid. He will be taking every precaution to safeguard himself and his Dynasty. The amount of financial resources required for such a starship is negligible in macroeconomic terms, especially for him. He will be building one, presumably away from curious eyes and inconvenient monitor programs. That means there’s only one place it can be: his private world, Cressat. In fact, I expect there will be more than one ship; after all, he does have a very large Dynasty. A fleet would guarantee success whatever part of the galaxy they wind up in.”

  “And you want me to find out? Expose the most secret project of the most powerful man in the Commonwealth?”

  “You’re an investigative reporter, aren’t you? Besides, I imagine the SI will be eager to help in this case.”

  Mellanie had to grin at the ironic sense of déjà vu. “Do I get a flying car?” she muttered.

  “If the Commonwealth falls, I’d be prepared to take you with me.”

  “What?” She’d thought she was immune to further surprise today.

  “You’re smart, attractive, young, tough, and a survivor. I would get myself rejuvenated on the voyage. It would be an enjoyable marriage, I believe.”

  “You’re proposing?”

  “Yes. Has nobody ever proposed to you before, young Mellanie?”

  She thought of the hundreds of proposals she was sent every day from her fans or simply people who’d recently accessed a copy of Murderous Seduction.

  “You’re not the first,” she admitted.

  “Was that a yes? It is difficult for me to get down on bended knee right now; even if I was out of the interface unit, my arthritis plays up something chronic.”

  “Wow, that is so romantic.”

  “Don’t let a four-century age difference prejudice you. I’ve had wives from every conceivable age group before. You’re not expecting Morton to come back from his heroic mission, are you? Think practically, Mellanie. The odds in his favor aren’t good.”

  “I know what his odds are. And the answer is still no.” That young face is handsome, though, and he’s got a devilish grin. No!

  “I understand. My offer remains open. And your answer doesn’t prejudice our deal. You should never mix business with pleasure.”

  “That, I do know. But I don’t understand how you think you can get on the Sheldon lifeboat. You’re not a member of the Dynasty.” She paused. “Are you?”

  The image chuckled. “Not by birth. But two of my wives were Sheldons, one of them fairly senior. I have five Sheldon children, two of whom are direct lineage sixth generation, and they certainly produced a goodly number of descendants. Funnily enough, that means I’ve got more chance with the Sheldon lifeboat than any of the others. I have leverage there. Once I determine what the score is, I’ll be able to make my play. So, will you try and get to Cressat for me, and see what’s going on there?”

  “I can probably go back to Michelangelo with a pitch to investigate a Sheldon lifeboat. That way I won’t be completely exposed. How’s that?”

  “Good enough. But you do realize that Baron will know it was you who put me onto her? Our Oaktier connection is inescapable. You can expect a visit from people like Simmonds and Deakins, if not a great deal worse.”

  Mellanie pushed her shoulders back. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, young Mellanie. I’m curious. Do you actually have a weapon? A gun of some description?”

  “No.”

  “May I suggest you purchase one. I can give you the name of a reliable underground supplier.”

  “I’m not a warrior, Paul. If I need physical protection, I’ll hire a security expert.”

  “As you wish. But please be careful.”

  “Sure.”

  Mellanie swapped cabs three times before she got back to the motel they were staying at in the Rightbank district. She paid cash each time. The fact that Alessandra’s webheads could backtrack Paul was a worrying development. Even with her SI inserts she certainly didn’t have his skill; that left her feeling strangely vulnerable.

  Their little chalet was on the end of the long row that curved around a grubby swimming pool. Only two others had cars parked outside. It wasn’t yet late enough for the motel’s main trade to start using the bleak, utilitarian rooms for their professional pay-by-the-hour encounters.

  The chalet was made out of cheap composite panels that had bleached under Oaktier’s strong sun. Long cracks webbed the edges, exposing the reinforcing boron fibers, which were already fraying. The faded red door creaked loudly when she pushed it open.

  All the blinds were shut, permitting only slim blades of late-afternoon sunlight to slide through the slits between them. The air-conditioning wasn’t working. It was stifling inside, with the old paneling groaning as the thermal loads shifted. Dudley was curled up on the bed, staring at the wall.

  “We have to move,” Mellanie told him. And how many times had she spoken that phrase since Randtown?

  “Why?” Dudley grumped. “Are you off to see him again?”

  She didn’t ask who he meant by him; she wasn’t about to play that game. Besides, the memory was too strong: walking out of the rec room into the main barracks. Her blouse had been torn beyond use; she’d had to borrow Morty’s dark purple sport shirt to wear. Both of them grinned like naughty schoolkids as the rest of Cat’s Claws hooted and jeered at the state of them.

  She gave him a last lingering kiss in the open doorway, with his hands squeezing her buttocks. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised.

  That had been two days ago. She wanted to go back, to feel his body pressed up against hers. The wonderful reassurance of old times, when life was simpler and so much easier.

  Dudley, of course, had embarked on a two-day sulk at the very notion of an old lover coming back into her life. She hadn’t admitted sleeping with Morton, but it was pretty obvious what they’d been up to. She’d still been wearing Morty’s shirt when she got back to the chalet.

  “No, Dudley, I’m not visiting Morton for a while. We have to go to Earth. I’m making another pitch to Michelangelo about investigating Dynasty starships.” She’d never come so close to simply walking out on him. It was guilt pure and simple that had made her come back to collect him rather than take a cab straight to the CST planetary station.

  Alessandra would find the motel, if she hadn’t already. Even cheap thugs like the ones who’d gone after Paul would blow Dudley away, and probably in a very painful fashion. Let alone what would happen if one of the Starflyer’s wetwired agents tracked him down…

  She’d got him into this, and that made him her responsibility.

  “Why can’t we just get out?” he moaned. “The two of us. Leave. We’ll go back to that resort in the forest, nobody will know about us, nobody will care anymore. If we don’t interfere with the Starflyer and the navy, then they’ll forget all about us. Why don’t we do that? Just the two of us.” He rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Mellanie. We could get married.”

  Oh, save me! “No, Dudley.” She said it fast and firm, before he had any chance to work on the idea. “Nobody should even be considering things like that, not with everything that’s going on. Life’s too uncertain right now.”

  “Then how about afterward?”

  “Dudley! Stop it.”

  He bowed his head petulantly.

  “Come on,” she said in a more considerate tone. “Let’s get packed. There are some great hotels in LA. We’ll stay in one of them.”

  ***

  It was raining again, a persistent, miserable cold drizzle that smeared windows and turned pavements to slippery ribbons awash with a dismaying amount of litter. Hoshe Finn never ceased to be surprised and depressed by how wet it was in the ancient English capital city. He’d always assumed the old jokes were simple exaggeration. Walking to the office from Charing Cross station as he did every morning, he’d learned better
. The UFN environmental commissioners who shared the vast stone government building with Senate Security must have been more successful than they admitted in reversing the global warming trend.

  He shook his raincoat out in the elevator, and held it at arm’s length as he walked down the corridor to his office. Unsurprisingly, Paula was already in, and poring over screens on her desk.

  “Morning,” he called out.

  She gave a cursory smile, not looking up.

  Hoshe hung his coat on the back of his dark wooden door and settled behind his desk. The number of files awaiting his attention was dispiriting. He’d only left at half past ten last night, and now it was barely eight. The RI had spent the night pulling out anything relevant to the queries he’d made yesterday. He started on the old Directorate report of the Cox Educational charity.

  At eleven o’clock he gave the door to Paula’s office a perfunctory knock and walked in. “You might have been right about the educational charity,” he told her.

  “What have you got?”

  “There are some anomalies between the files I requested.” He sat in front of her desk, and told his e-butler to display the data on the big holographic portal that took up one wall. “First off I started with the report that the Directorate’s Paris office put together after the attempted hack against the charity’s account in the Denman Manhattan bank. Your old colleagues were reasonably thorough; they investigated the charity for any evidence that they were a front. The report’s conclusion is that they’re not.” He waved a hand against the rows of names and figures that were scrolling down the portal.

  “This is the list of all the outgoing donations. It’s pretty comprehensive. The Cox supported over a hundred academic projects at one time or another. Recently they’ve declined considerably, although they’re still going. The Gralmond University astronomy department was just one of them. So far, so ordinary; according to the report there is nothing here to be suspicious about.”

  “So it looks,” Paula said.

  “Okay. That was my starting point, then I began checking references. There are a couple of things that are unusual to start with. Not illegal or suspicious, just odd. The charity’s funds come from a single private donation deposited thirty years ago in the Denman account. The sum was two million Earth dollars, which was transferred to the Denman bank from a onetime account. Secondly, there is no named founder. The firm of Bromley, Waterford, and Granku registered the Cox with the New York charity board, and opened an account with one dollar. The two million was transferred in a month later. It has only ever had three commissioners: Mr. Seaton, Ms. Daltra, and Mr. Pomanskie, all of whom are associates of Bromley, Waterford, and Granku. Your original Directorate investigation team never pursued that, which is something of a lapse if you ask me.”