Mindstar Rising gm-1

by Peter Hamilton

The dormitory commander, Lewis Pelham, and Event Horizon's Zanthus security captain, Don Howarth, were waiting for him. Lewis Pelham didn't attempt to shake hands, holding on firmly to one of the hoops as the rest of the security team boiled out of the airlock. "My orders are to afford you full cooperation," he said.

  He had that same flat professionalism as Victor Tyo and Sean Francis, Greg noted. Did Philip Evans have a clone vat churning them out? "Somewhere private," he suggested, raising his voice above the din.

  Pelham smiled, big lips peeling back, a round face. "Sure."

  "It's shift change," Howarth said. "Not like this all the time, don't worry." His face was fluid-filled, too, a ruddy complexion.

  They slapped the hoops, moving off up the tunnel, skimming along effortlessly. Greg climbed after them doggedly, one hoop at a time. A few cheers and jeers pursuing his progress.

  "Five days," Howarth said, "and you'll be outflying a hummingbird." He was waiting by an open hatch. "Through here."

  It was a toroidal compartment, wrapped round the central tunnel. A space station as Greg understood it, consoles with flatscreens and cubes flashing graphics and data columns, bulky machinery bolted on to the walls, lockers with transparent doors. Five beds were staggered round what Greg thought of as the floor, assuming the entrance hatch was in the ceiling. Lewis Pelham had orientated himself the same way as Greg, holding the edge of a bed to maintain his position. The security team followed suit as they came in.

  "This is the sick bay," Pelham said. "Nobody in today. Will it do?"

  "Do you have a brig?" Greg asked.

  Pelham and Howarth exchanged a glance. "We can clear the suit-storage cabin if it's really urgent," said the security captain.

  "Good enough." His gland began its secretions. "Close the hatch, Bruce," he said.

  Bruce Parwez elevated himself, and spun the lock handle.

  Lewis Pelham regarded Greg without humour.

  Greg closed his eyes as the compartment became insubstantial. Minds crept out of the shadow veils bordering his perception, a swarm of pale translucent pearls, compositional emotions woven tautly into penumbra nuclei. He focused on the two strangers before him. "Now, to start with, do either of you know anything about the excessive memox-crystal contamination?"

  CHAPTER NINE

  Julia flung herself at the problem as she took her horse Tobias on their morning ride. There was a strong sense of urgency pushing her to find a solution now, almost one of despair. Greg Mandel had located the person who'd circumvented the security monitors, and the five guilty memox-furnace operators up at Zanthus. The replacement operators were flying up today, their Sanger bringing the security team and the prisoners down. It would be over soon, congratulations all round, and a small security office left intact to track down one of the tekmercs. A vague hope, even less of finding the team leader and through him the backers.

  Julia didn't even bother to open her eyes in the saddle. Tobias knew their route, down the edge of the manor's rear garden, past the spinney at the end of the trout lake, and into the meadows beyond. The horse's lumbering rhythm was soothing, rocking her gently back and forth on his back.

  Normally she enjoyed Wilholm's grounds. The landscape crew hadn't been given much time after the communal farmers moved out, but they'd managed to recreate quite a reasonable approximation of a traditional English country-house garden. The flat lawns were clipped low, showing broad cricket-pitch stripes, young staked trees poked up at regular intervals, moated with colourful begonia borders. There was a citrus grove in the old walled orchard where apples and pears used to grow. Long winding rose-covered walks. Ancient-seeming statues.

  Even her grandfather had been impressed. "The plants aren't the same, of course," he'd told her on their first inspection. He'd been in fine form that day, she remembered, genial and outgoing. It was a day or two after they'd moved in, a small treasured hiatus before the illness really took hold. He never spoke to anyone else as he did to her, never opened himself. "You wouldn't find any of these in Victorian gardens, not outside the conservatories. That was the zenith of the art, Juliet. But it's a damn good copy for all that, I can almost believe I'm back in my youth. I wish you'd seen England as it was, girl. We all said we hated it, the wet and the cold. Pure bollocks. You could no more hate the country than you could your own mother. Weather made Englishmen."

  The way he painted the land before the Warming had made her envious of his memories. Try as she might she just couldn't visualise Wilholm under a metre of snow.

  But he seemed reasonably content with the facsimile. And he always had the roses and honeysuckle, immortal.

  Now she ignored both varieties of the fragrant flowering plants while whirlpools of data rotated lazily in the open-ended logic matrix her augmented mind had assembled.

  It was a simulacrum of Event Horizon's Zanthus operations, a vast web of data channels incorporating every activity, programmed to review the entire previous twelve months, the first three giving her a baseline for comparison. Byte packages slid smoothly along the matrix channels, interacting at the nodes, dividing, recombining.

  The convoluted phantasm reminded her of a brass clock she'd seen in London once, sitting on a pedestal in the window of a Fulham Road antique shop. A real clock in a glass dome, every working part visible. She'd stood for ten minutes watching the little cogs clicking round, superbly balanced ratchet arms rocking fluidly, fascinated by the delicate intricacy. Then the minute hand had reached the hour, and it began to make twanging sounds, like a broken spring uncoiling; cogs on the outside of the mechanism shot out on telescoping axles gyrating wildly. The whole thing had looked like it was exploding. Julia had clapped her hands and laughed delightedly as it folded itself back together, ready for the quarter-hour strike. There was that same elegance and effortless precision in the matrix function.

  She needed the knowledge it would produce. The fact that someone could wound Event Horizon so badly had frightened her more than she liked to acknowledge. It went deeper than mere corporate damage; what little control she had over her life was being manipulated, cut away. Her future was being decided right now by how well other people could defend her and Grandpa from unseen enemies. Fighting shadows.

  It was the claustrophobic sense of not being able to do anything which was the worst. If she just knew.

  The simulacrum was intended to give her some part in the struggle, to make the reliance less than absolute. She was going to start at the beginning, the furnaces, then work right back through the company, cross-reference every connection, examine every link, however tenuous. Somewhere, in all that hellishly convoluted maze of data, there would be anomalies, a mistake, a clue to the origin of the spoiler. Nobody was perfect enough to cover their tracks entirely. She'd find it. Data was her medium, a universe where she reigned. Processing power cost nothing, there was only time challenging her now.

  New channels began to branch from the bottom of the matrix; how the microgee products were used, sales, maintenance, personnel, finance arrangements, tie-ins with other companies. The Zanthus matrix became the tip of a rapidly growing pyramid.

  Queries began to surface.

  A memox-furnace operator who'd left suddenly around the time the spoiler started. Julia plugged into Event Horizon's datanet, squirting a tracer program into the company's data cores. The woman had been four months pregnant, skipped her contraceptive in orbit. Doctors were worried about the baby's bone structure, it'd spent two months developing in free fall.

  Faulty ioniser grids in the memox furnaces three months ago had slowed production. But the batch had affected other companies as well, Boeing Marietta had paid compensation.

  There was a small but regular fluctuation in monolattice filament output, starting nine months ago. A three per cent shortfall every month, and always in one batch. According to production records the filament extrusion ratio was incorrect, each time.

  Julia cross-referenced it with the memox data. It fitted like a jigsaw. Whenever the m
onolattice filament output dipped, the memox crystal output rose to compensate, maintaining total production losses at a level thirteen point two per cent.

  She'd found it. Though what the hell it was, she hadn't got a clue.

  End HighSteal#Two. Her processor nodes sucked the data mirage back into nothingness. There was a brief impression of free fall, dropping back into the world of primary sensations. The clammy late-March heat, blouse sticking to her back, tight sweaty Levis, smell of horse breath, birds trilling, red pressure on her eyelids.

  Julia blinked, focusing slowly. A cloud of midges were orbiting the brim of her tatty boater.

  She was in what she called the crater field. Two acres of small steep-sided hummocks and hollows, like the earth had been bombed or something. Buttercups smothered the rich emerald-coloured grass all across the slopes.

  A twitch on Tobias's reins, and he plodded towards the derelict tea plantation.

  The communal farmers had tried to grow it on a PSP grant. Tea was fetching a good price after the Sri Lankan famine reduced the global harvest by a third, and England's new climate provided near-ideal conditions for cultivation. But these were gene-tailored trees, and some nameless State lab had screwed up the DNA modification. The shoots were fast-growing all right, but the leaves ruptured into bulbous cherry blisters before they were ripe enough for picking. The plantation had gone the way of most PSP initiatives, abandoned and left to rot.

  Julia dismounted, letting Tobias nuzzle round in the clover. The shire horse was becoming unfortunately flatulent in his old age. Poor dear.

  He was another legacy of the communal farm, too old for plough work any more. The labourers had left him behind for Philip Evans to knacker, a trifling expense for a multibillionaire.

  Julia had found him alone in the stables as she explored Wilholm the day they moved in. She'd fallen for the great shaggy animal at first sight. He was woefully thin, his coat caked in mud, covered in sores from the plough harness. And he'd looked at her so mournfully, as if he knew what the future held. That had been the last time anyone at Wilholm, including Grandpa, had dared to mention the knackers. She refused to ride anything else, and ignored the snickers and winks of the staff when they saw her on the back of the huge plodding beast.

  "You'll have to lose that sentiment of yours, girl," Philip Evans had scolded. "Can't run Event Horizon on sentiment."

  Except she knew damn well he would have done the same thing.

  The tea trees had been laid out in unerringly straight rows. Nearly a third of them had died, but the remainder, left untended, had spread wildly, swamping the gaps, rising up to merge overhead.

  Julia left Tobias behind, walking a little way down one of the long tunnels of black branches. Her trainers crushed the crisp dead leaves littering the ground, making sharp popping sounds. For one moment she almost believed they heralded the long-lost autumn, an end to England's eternal Indian summer, when frost would fall and pull down white-fringed leaves. She missed the snow. It had been such a long time since a flake had fallen on her outstretched palm. In Switzerland even the Alps had occasionally been denuded of their sparkling white caps.

  She sat with her back to the smooth bole of one of the living trees. The temperature had dropped appreciably in the orange-hued shade. She fanned her face with the boater and pulled out her cybofax.

  When Greg's face formed on the little screen it didn't match her memory of him. Free fall had swollen his cheeks, his eyes seemed enlarged, but even through the slightly distorted features he looked dispirited. Something she would never have imagined. She'd been a little bit afraid of him the other night. Physically he wasn't exceptionally big, the same height as Adrian, but there'd been an impression of strength; the way he moved, clean and unhurried, knowing nothing would be in his way. And he'd never smiled, not meaning it anyway. Like he was only play-acting civilised. He'd seemed a very cold fish, hard. Which, on reflection, was an interesting kind of challenge. What would make him take notice of someone, respond with kindness? And if he did, how safe that person would feel with such a guardian angel.

  "Miss Evans," he said, expectant.

  Julia wedged the cybofax into a fork on the gnarled branch in front of her, and put her boater back on. "Julia, please."

  "Julia. What can I do for you?"

  "I called about the spoiler operation."

  "You can tell your grandfather I've got all the guilty furnace operators under custody, and the person who destreamed the microgee module squirts."

  Tell Grandpa, indeed. Like she was some sort of second-rate office messenger. "Oh, yah. Is Norman Knowles under sedation yet? Mr Tyo's report said he put up quite a struggle."

  "How the bloody hell did you know that?"

  "My executive code gives me access to all the security division communications." She regretted saying it instantly, flinching inwardly at how pompous she must've sounded.

  "Oh. Well anyway, Knowles isn't going to be any more trouble. It's finished now, we're due down in another six hours."

  "It isn't finished, Greg."

  He frowned, inviting explanation.

  She began to reel off her research findings, praying he wouldn't think she was talking down to him. The girls at school always said she talked as though she was delivering a lecture. But he listened intently, not interrupting like most people.

  "You discovered this yourself?" he asked when she'd finished, and there was definitely a tone of respect in his voice.

  "Yah. The data was all there, it's just a question of running the right search program." Julia knew her cheeks would be red, but didn't care.

  "How much is the monolattice filament worth?" he asked.

  "That's what doesn't make sense," she admitted. "The total loss is only nine hundred thousand Eurofrancs."

  "And that bothers you?"

  "Yah! It's ridiculous. Why go to all that trouble? The memox spoiler works perfectly, there's no need to add the monolattice filament to it."

  Greg didn't exactly smile, but she could sense his tension easing. "Tell you," he said, "I knew something about this spoiler operation was funny. You believe in intuition?" The question was sharp, as though the answer really mattered to him.

  Julia forgot the tea plantation, the bark pressing into her back, muggy air. She felt real good talking to him like this, treated as an equal, not the patronised boss's granddaughter, not a scatty teenage rich girl. Right now she was a real person, for the first time in a long time. Maybe the moment would stretch and stretch.

  Commit GregTime. To sip and savour whenever she felt down.

  "I had to keep working on the Zanthus data," she said carefully. "Like it wouldn't let me go."

  He nodded, satisfied with her response. "It's up here. I can feel it, no messing."

  Which sounded pretty strange. Was that what he'd meant by intuition? "What's up there?"

  "The twist. We're overlooking something, Julia." He paused, eyes closed, an impression of effort. "What was the monolattice filament intended for, anything important? Are you going to get clobbered with penalty clauses for non-delivery?"

  Julia used the nodes to plug into the company datanet, remonstrating with herself, it was an obvious question. She traced the monolattice-filament contracts, running a quick analysis. "Not that I can find," she said. "But I'll have the lawyer's office double-check to be on the safe side."

  "Right. In the meantime, I'll start interviewing the monolattice-filament module people." He let out a long breath, rubbing his nose. "Lord, how many of them are there?"

  "Seven. We don't make much monolattice filament."

  "That's something. You'd better call Morgan Walshaw; bring him up to date, and have him round up those on their furlough. I'll have to vet them once I get down."

  "Right."

  "That was a terrific piece of work, Julia. Exactly the sort of proof I needed."

  Julia watched his image intently. His camouflage of emotional detachment had slipped fractionally, he was keen now, animated. He
looked much nicer this way, she decided. "What proof?"

  "That the spoiler doesn't conform."

  "But how does knowing it's odd help? That just makes it more confusing to me."

  He winked. "Have faith. Now I know, I'll keep looking. And I can look in the weirdest places."

  "Where?" she demanded eagerly.

  "Right in my own heart. Now you'll have to excuse me, I've got to get Victor Tyo organised."

  "Right, sure." Granting him a favour.

  End GregTime.

  His image winked out, what might have been a smile tantalising her. She reached out and plucked the cybofax from the tree. Grinning stupidly, feeling wonderful.

  One of Wilholm's sentinel panthers was looking at her five metres away, violet saucer eyes unblinking. She clicked her fingers and it padded over. Warm damp breath fell on her cheek.

  "Good girl." She stroked it behind pointed flattened ears. It yawned lazily at the affection, pink tongue licking its double row of shark-heritage teeth. Tobias snorted disapproval, shaking his thick neck, then went back to foraging the grass.

  Right in his own heart?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alexius McNamara dropped through the sick bay's hatch, dressed in the sky-blue flightsuit which all the microgee module workers wore. His jowls overflowed his helmet strap, fingers resembled sausages. It was the last week of his shift.

  "Grab him," Greg said simply. He'd soon learnt to speak in a half-shout, sound didn't carry far in free fall.

  Victor Tyo and Isabel Curtis were already anchored to the chamber's walls on either side of the hatch. They clamped him between them with the efficiency of a tag-wrestling team, his legs and arms immobilised. Don Howarth jabbed a shockrod into his neck.

  Greg had recognised the mental genotype as soon as he appeared: fissures of lassitude, leprous self-loathing. One of the kamikazes. He wasn't taking chances with them any more. His interview with Norman Knowles, one of the five managers, had finished badly. Greg had sensed Knowles was the one who'd circumvented the security monitors at the same time as Knowles worked out he had a gland. Unfortunately, Greg hadn't sensed Knowles was one of the kamikazes in time. Jerry Masefield had taken the brunt of the attack before he had been subdued. There was something uniquely disquieting about small globules of blood spraying about in free fall.