The Mandel Files, Volume 1

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘So Event Horizon only has the two cyber-factory ships left out here now?’ Greg asked.

  ‘That’s right. There used to be nine of us out here a couple of years back, but the rest have left now. They’re docked in the Wash outside Peterborough. Their cyber-systems are being stripped out and reinstalled in factories on land. All part of the Event Horizon legitimization policy. They were all gear factories, except for Kenton and Costellow, those two used to specialize in producing the actual cyber-systems themselves. Real top of the range stuff; all our own designs, too. The old man kept research teams going ashore in Austria, they provided us with the templates; good enough to match any of the Pacific Rim gear. Bloody clever that.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Don’t you see? Philip Evans has built up a capability to expand the company at an exponential rate. The cyber-systems are that sophisticated. All he needs is raw material, and financial backing. The factories will multiply like amoebas, yes?’

  ‘You sound like you’re happy with Event Horizon.’

  ‘Christ, I mean totally. Philip Evans is a genius. Event Horizon has so much potential, you know? A real crest-rider. And I’ve done my penance out here, ten years’ bloody hard graft. When Oscot docks I’m going to be in line for a divisional manager’s slot.’

  The integrated Sanger was sitting at the end of the runway, white vapour steaming gently out of vent points on both orbiter and booster, glowing pink in the fast-fading light. Greg’s intuition made itself felt as he walked down the gantry arm towards the orbiter’s hatch. It wasn’t much, a ghost’s beckoning finger, distracting rather than alarming.

  For a moment he was worried that it might be the orbiter. That’d happened before, a Mi-24 Hind G in Turkey which was going to take him and his squad on a snatch mission behind the legion lines, he’d balked as he was climbing in. It was a mindscent, the chopper smelt wrong. The Russian pilot had bitched like hell until a maintenance sergeant had noticed the gearbox temperature sensor was out. When they broke the unit open, it turned out the main transmission bearings were running so hot they’d melted the sensor.

  But this touch of uncertainty was different, there was no intimation of physical danger. He knew that feeling, clear and strong, experiencing it time and again in Turkey.

  He hesitated, getting an enquiring glance from Sean Francis.

  ‘We’ve only had eight fatalities in twelve years of operations,’ the Oscot’s captain said helpfully.

  ‘It’s not the spaceplane,’ Greg answered. Precisely how much his intuition was gland-derived was debatable, but when he did get a hunch this strong it usually squared out in the end. Even before he’d received the gland, Greg had believed in intuition. Every squaddie did to some degree, right back to Caesar’s footsoldiers. And now he had the stubborn rationale of neurohormones to back the belief, giving it near-total credibility.

  The rest of the security team were watching him. He gave them a weak grin and began walking again.

  The orbiter’s circular hatch was a metre wide, with a complicated-looking locking system around the rim. Bright orange rescue instructions were painted on to the fuselage all around it. Greg shrugged out of his coverall and put his helmet on before he was helped through by the launch crew.

  It was cramped inside, but he was expecting that, low ceiling, slightly curving walls, two biolum strips turned down to a glimmer. Another circular hatch in the centre of the rear bulkhead opened into the docking airlock.

  ‘You the first-timer?’ asked the pilot. He was twisted round in his seat, a retinal interface disk stuck over one eye, like a silver monocle. The name patch on his flightsuit said Jeff Graham.

  ‘Yes,’ Greg said as he sat in the seat directly behind the pilot. Puffy cushioning slithered under his buttocks like thick jelly.

  ‘OK, only one thing to remember. That’s your vomit lolly.’ Jeff Graham pointed to a flexible ribbed tube clipped to the forward bulkhead in front of Greg. Its nozzle was a couple of centimetres wide, a detachable plastic cylinder with REPLACE AFTER USE embossed in black. ‘You even feel a wet burp coming on, then you suck on that. Got it? The pump comes on automatically.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The rest of the security team were strapping themselves in; they were the only ones in the cabin. Greg fastened his own straps.

  Jeff Graham returned his attention to the horseshoe-shaped flight console. The hatch swung shut, making insect-clicking noises as the seal engaged.

  ‘Is there a countdown?’ Greg asked Isabel Curtis who was sitting across the aisle.

  She gave him a brief acknowledging smile. A wiry, attractive thirty-year-old woman with bobbed blonde hair. He could make out the mottled pink flesh of an old scar, beginning below her right ear and disappearing under the collar of her blue flightsuit, ‘No. You want to hear flight control, it’s channel four. Give you some idea.’

  Greg peered down at his communicator set, fathoming its unfamiliar controls, and switched it to channel four. The voices murmuring in the headset were professionally bland, reassuringly so.

  He followed the procedure: gantry-arm retracting, the switch to internal power, umbilicals disconnecting, fuel-pressure building, APU ignition. Half-remembered phrases from current-affairs programmes.

  The take-off run was a steady climb of acceleration, turbo-expander ramjets felt rather than heard, an uncomfortable juddering in his sternum. The build through the Mach numbers, night sky devoid of reference points, floor tilted up at an easy angle.

  ‘Go for staging,’ flight control said.

  The orbiter rockets lit with a low roar, vibration blurred Greg’s vision. There was a hint of white light around the edges of the windscreen. Acceleration jumped up, pushing him further down into the cushioning. The stars grew brighter, sharper.

  The Merlin was deployed a hundred and thirty minutes after take-off, on the second orbit. The Sanger was five-hundred-and-fifty kilometres above Mexico. Greg had spent the whole time staring out of the windscreen, mesmerized by the globe below, the dazzle of daylit oceans, sprinkle of light from Europe’s night-time cities, green and brown land that seemed to be in pristine condition, the muddy stain in the sea which marred every coastline. There were none of the physical symptoms he’d been told to look out for, just the strangeness of arms that waved about like seaweed; a whirling sensation, like a fairground ride, if he turned his head too fast.

  A small screen on Jeff Graham’s console showed the Sanger’s payload doors hinging open. The little probe nosed out of its cradle, umbilical lines winding back on to their spools, loose ends flapping about. It seemed to hover above the Sanger as its communication dishes unfolded.

  ‘We stick with it until Cambridge finishes the systems check,’ Jeff Graham told his passengers. ‘Never know, we might wind up taking it back.’

  But the babbling background voices confirmed the Merlin’s integrity somewhere over the Mediterranean, and Jeff Graham fired the orbital manoeuvring rockets, raising the Sanger’s orbit. The last Greg saw of the Merlin was a dwindling grey outline over pale moonwashed water.

  They caught up with Zanthus over Fiji, an orbit ten kilometres lower, closing fast. The terminator was a brilliant blue and white crescent six-hundred kilometres below, expanding rapidly as they raced towards the dawn.

  Zanthus rose out of the penumbra into direct sunlight. Greg saw a globular cluster of diamonds materialize out of nowhere. Occasional silent lightning flares stabbed out from it as the sun bounced off flat silvered surfaces.

  ‘That’s something, isn’t it?’ Jeff Graham asked.

  ‘No messing,’ Greg said hoarsely. It was the biggest of the eight space-industry parks in Earth orbit.

  The sun lifted above the Pacific, shining straight into the Sanger’s cabin. Electrochromic filters cut in, turning down the glare.

  Greg watched in silent respect as the Sanger slowly slid underneath Zanthus. Jeff Graham began to fire the Sanger’s orbital manoeuvring rockets, raising altitude, their trajectory a sl
ow arc up to the space industry park which would end in synchronized orbits.

  Zanthus began to resolve, individual light-points growing, assuming definite silhouettes. The largest was the dormitory, right at the heart. Ten cans, habitation cylinders fifty metres long, eight wide, locked together at one end of a five-hundred-metre boom; at the other end a vast array of solar panels tracked the sun. The whole arrangement was gravity-gradient stabilized, the cans pointing permanently Earthwards.

  Floating around the dormitory were the microgee modules, one hundred and fifty-six materials-processing factories arranged in five concentric spheres. The formation was a loose one, a shoal of strange geometric insects guarding their metallic queen. There was no standardization to the modules; they ranged from small boxy vapour-deposition mesh-moulds brought up by the Sangers up to the fifty-metre-long, two-hundred-tonne cylinders launched by Energia-5. All of them flaunted a collection of solar panels, thermal-dump radiators, and communication dishes, and some had large collector mirrors, silver flowers faithfully following the sun. Red and green navigation lights twinkled from every surface. Abstruse company logos bloomed across thermal blankets, as if a fastidious graffiti artist had been let loose; Greg hadn’t known so many different companies used Zanthus.

  Three assembly platforms hung on the outer edge of the cluster, rectangles of cross truss-beams, with geostationary antenna farms taking shape below long spidery robot-arms. Greg saw the Globecast logo on the side of one gossamer dish.

  Personnel commuters, manipulator pods, and cargo tugs wove around the modules, slow-gliding three-dimensional streams that curled and twisted round each other, white and orange strobes pulsing, marking out their progress. There were spaceplanes moving in the traffic flows, rendezvousing with the five servicing docks, big triple-keel structures that acted as fuel depots, maintenance stations, and cargo-storage centres. The spaceplanes unloaded their pods of raw materials, receiving the finished products from the microgee modules in exchange. Greg counted nine Sangers attached to one dock, staggered by how much their cargos would be worth. Philip Evans had mentioned how much Zanthus’s daily output came to, but the figures hadn’t registered at the time, silly money.

  Greg watched Zanthus expand around them as Jeff Graham eased the Sanger into one of the traffic lines. An errant image of his gland discharging milky fluids. Neurohormones chased around his brain, and he deliberately focused inwards, on himself, letting his mind wander where it would. It was a different state from the one he used to tease apart the strands of other people’s emotions. Introspective. He was isolated from the security team’s thoughts, alone and strangely serene.

  If that peak of intuition he’d experienced hadn’t concerned the Sanger, then, he reasoned, Zanthus itself must be the cause. He reached right down to the bottom of his mind, and found the sense of wrongness again. It was too small, too flimsy to represent any danger, but it remained. Obstinate, and ultimately unyielding.

  Frustrated, he let it go. Something wrong, but not life-threatening. The situation irked him. He knew he must be overlooking something, some part of the spoiler that wasn’t what it seemed. Yet the operation was so clear-cut.

  As if shamed by its failure, his gland dried up.

  The Sanger was creeping up to the dormitory, its big cans dominating the view through the windscreen. Event Horizon used three of them for its hundred-and-twenty-strong workforce, a third of Zanthus’s total population.

  Greg saw a Swearingen commuter back away from one of the Event Horizon cans, a windowless cylinder with spherical tanks strapped around both ends. Tiny stabs of white fire flickered from its thruster clusters.

  Jeff Graham rolled the Sanger with a drumfire burst from the RCS thrusters. A huge Event Horizon logo slid past the windscreen; the peak of the flying V was missing, patched over with a rough square of hoary thermal foam. The RCS was firing almost continually. A screen on the flight console showed an image of the payload bay, with the airlock tube extended. A matching tube jutted out of the dormitory can, the two barely half a metre apart.

  Contact was a small tremble, the whirring of electrohydrostatic actuators clamping the two airlock tubes together.

  Jerry Masefield released his belt, and drifted up out of his seat, using the ceiling handholds to crawl down to the rear bulkhead. Greg pressed his belt’s release, and cautiously pushed down with his palms. Victor Tyo and Isabel Curtis watched closely. He grinned at them and grasped one of the ceiling handholds. His legs developed a momentum all of their own, pulling his torso along until he was lying flat against the ceiling.

  Stomach muscles were the key, Greg decided, keep the body straight and rely on his arms to pull him about. He hauled himself towards the rear bulkhead, remembering to take inertia into account as he stopped.

  There was a ripple of applause. The rest of the team were swimming out of their seats. Jerry Masefield had opened the airlock hatch and disappeared inside. Greg swung slowly round the rim and followed him into the can.

  Greg couldn’t quite figure out the section of the dormitory can he’d emerged into, a tunnel with a hexagonal cross-section, three and a half metres wide, bright biolum strips every five metres, hoops protruding everywhere. Logically, it ought to have been a connecting corridor, except it was full of people. They lingered near the walls, aligned with their feet towards him, a foot or hand hooked casually round the hoops, all of them wearing flightsuits and helmets. A large proportion were eating; their food resembled pizza sandwiches, the same pale spongy dough, tacky fillings. No crumbs, Greg realized, and no need for plates and cutlery. Twenty metres away, four exercise bikes were fixed to the walls, riders pedalling away furiously. There was a sign opposite the airlock, an old London Underground station strip: Piccadilly Circus.

  It was the noise that got to him first. Conversations were shouted, air-conditioning was a steady buzz, cybofax alarm bleepers were going off continuously, the PA kept up a steady stream of directions. Then there was the air – warm, damp and stale. He began to appreciate Angie Kirkpatrick’s point of view.

  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.r />
  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?’

  9

  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.’