Gotcha, Juliet. And I told you so. A smug ghost's chuckle.
Michael Harcourt never showed the slightest awareness of her irony. "Obviously, we will offer a zero-tax start-up incentive for the new factories which will produce this technology."
"You and every other national government."
"I have it in my brief to extend the time defined as "start up" to a period we both find mutually satisfactory; it could even be measured in decades. There would also be considerable financial assistance in the form of R&D contracts for both civil and military projects."
"You have thought this out well, I'm impressed."
"It could even help us solve our current unfortunate siting problems."
"Which are those?"
"Your new cyber-precincts."
"Ah." She experienced a feeling which was almost contentment.
"Absolutely," Michael Harcourt continued eagerly. "Wales could receive both of those precincts now. Beneficial all round, we feel."
"I don't quite see how that should be…" She affected a small puzzled frown.
"The Welsh would have the precincts, providing a great deal of badly-needed employment, and enhancing their local economy, more than they currently expect, while England receives the atomic structuring factories, which are surely the larger prize."
"I thought the New Conservatives were hesitant about seeing the cyber-precincts going to Wales?"
"Not if it were our policy to site them there, and our efforts which finalized the deal."
"But it would be dependent on Wales remaining within the union?"
"That is the best solution for everyone, don't you think? These secessionists are so short-sighted. The larger the country, the greater its prospects and security, the more attractive it is for organizations like Event Horizon to base themselves here. Welsh independence would be a disaster for both the English and the Welsh."
"North and South Italy both seem to have prospered since the split; and Germany is certainly doing well enough from devolving power to the regional governments. There are all three Californias as well. I could go on."
"Yes, but it's a question of scale, Julia; both the Italies are large entities. We no longer have Scotland and Northern Ireland; if Westminster was to lose control of Wales, where would it end? Would Cornwall declare independence, Cambridgeshire perhaps? We cannot allow any further reduction, it is simply inconceivable. Besides, these ridiculous micro-nations may not pursue the kind of market policies we in the New Conservative party believe in so strongly. Can you afford to entertain that possibility?"
Lord, this is all I need right now. Those bloody Welsh.
Smart of him to tie his go-between offer in with Wales, her grandfather said. And we do need him to find out what the other bids are. You'll not split his offer package, Juliet. He's not that stupid, this is his shot at the top slot; if it fails he won't get another.
I'm not going to be rushed or bullied into making the Welsh decision now.
You may be running out of time on that particular issue, NN core one said. I believe I've tracked down the reason for Michael Harcourt's sudden outbreak of apparent altruism.
Go on.
It's rather mundane, really. The largest single employer in his West Kent constituency is Globecast. Their European network hub is sited there. And it was Harcourt himself who was briefed on atomic structuring by Clifford Jepson, he had an appointment at eight o'clock this morning; I pulled that from the Ministry 'ware.
The bugger is Clifford Jepson's cyborg, her grandfather said bitterly.
And of course, securing Event Horizon the atomic structuring partnership with Globecast, as well as enlisting your help over the Welsh question, will effectively guarantee him the leadership of the New Conservative party, NN core two said.
Plus Clifford makes sure Event Horizon pays through the nose, Julia added. He would be in a position where he could virtually dictate whatever price he wants for the generator data.
Neat, Philip Evans conceded. Clifford's really pulling out the stops on this one. He gets you dancing to his tune, and his man in Number Ten.
The worst thing is, I don't blame him, Julia said. I'd do exactly the same. She couldn't help the cool bleakness that her world view had been correct in the final analysis. Michael Harcourt wasn't any different to the rest. Nobody acted honourably any more, everybody had to have an angle.
Why do I bother? she mused.
Somebody's got to, Juliet.
But why me?
My heritage, girl, Event Horizon gives you the power.
So it's your fault, then, Grandpa?
If you like. You could always sell it—turn it over to someone else.
To people like Michael Harcourt and Clifford Jepson, you mean? No thank you, the world is in bad enough shape already.
That's your answer then, girl.
Yeah.
She gave Michael Harcourt her ice maiden smile, enjoying the way he shrank back. Even over the phone people feared her. Stupid, but occasionally useful. "Very well, Minister, I'd be obliged if you would proceed with your unofficial liaison for me. I'll ask Peter Cavendish to contact you for the details, when to submit the bid and so on."
"Excellent, so we can expect a statement from Event Horizon on the cyber-precincts; that they will only be sited in Wales if it remains part of England?"
"Yes, as soon as it is appropriate to make such an announcement."
"I'll contact Clifford Jepson right away."
"Thank you, Minister. It's always a joy to learn exactly who I can depend on. I certainly shan't forget what you've done today."
Michael Harcourt gave a slight bow. There was no trace of his smile left. "Whatever I can, Julia, you know that. Always."
"Goodbye, Minister." She made it come out like a pronouncement. Rewarded by his flash of alarm just before his picture vanished.
She should never have allowed this situation to arise; it was her own fault; if she'd kept on top of the political scene, been decisive about Wales, the prospect of a leadership contest would never have arisen, allowing openings for people like Michael Harcourt. In fact she should never have let a Globecast puppet become Minister for Industry in the first place. Attention to detail; once she'd applied the maxim ruthlessly. But there had been so many distractions lately, worry building like a spring stormfront. Funny the NN cores hadn't caught on to Harcourt before. Could they be afflicted by Royan's absence? They reflected her thoughts after all, amplifying them a thousandfold. Did that mean the loss they felt was a thousand times the intensity of hers?
Arrange a conference with David Marchant, she said. I know we've left it late for damage limitation, but let's see what he can do. We can't have Harcourt as PM.
Who left it late? her grandfather queried drily.
Ignore him. We'll get on to it, NN core two said. Victor called while you were talking to Michael Harcourt. He's found the spaceplane and the payload facility room which handled Kiley. I'm accessing their memory cores now.
Fine. The patio's fuchsia flowers were bobbing in the light breeze, utterly beautiful, something God's own origami artist had folded together. Several bees had found them, crawling inside their ruff of petals. Julia watched them while she waited for the results of the memory core search, remembering other flowers on the bluff behind the bungalow. They were artificial, too, not gene-tailored, but placed there, organized. All of her environments were organized, Prior's Fen Atoll, Wilholm, the Mahone Bay island, resorts. She spent her time in bubbles of perfection.
A brief flash of alien flowers blossoming in Wilholm's borders. She almost had it, the impression was vivid, crystalline.
Then the idea was gone.
We've found him, NN core two said.
This time the burst of emotion was absent as Royan materialized in her mind. Adoration would have been too painful.
Hello, Snowy. I suppose It must be getting bad. Tracking down this package means I screwed up, right?
I don't know. I'm looking
for an alien starship.
His image appeared thoughtful. Do you think I can help you?
You warned me about it.
Sorry, I don't have any memory of that. It must be in my future.
When were you recorded?
June.
What have you been doing since the probe returned?
Made progress. Once I confirmed Kiley had brought back some microbes I had three more processor nodes implanted.
Oh, Royan, she said despairingly. How many times had they argued over implants? He had wanted them so badly after he was recovered and showing an interest in helping her with Event Horizon. She grudgingly paid for four, two processors, two memory stores.
I can handle it, he said calmly. I knew you'd complain about that.
I'm not going to argue with a package, she said. What happened to the microbes?
I loaded my implants with biochemistry and genetics data, and started to map their chromosomes.
The package squirted an image of the microbe's genetic structure. It looked like a Christmas tree bauble, a softly gleaming metallic-purple sphere hanging in the null-space of the node universe. As it grew larger she saw the surface was mottled with minute rings, it began to resemble a twined ball of chain.
Familiarity overwhelmed her. Dear Lord, that's the same genetic structure as the flower.
What flower, Snowy?
You sent me a flower, an alien flower. It has toroidal chromosome-equivalents stacked in concentric shells. Just like that.
I don't understand. The flower came from a starship?
I… Yes, no, something. Greg said there was something behind the flower, waiting. He must have sensed the starship. What else could it be?
And I warned you about it?
That's right. She thought furiously, summoning up a logic matrix from her processor node. The question was simple enough, trying to formulate a correlation between the microbes Kiley returned and a starship, it couldn't be coincidence. Her processor reduced the question to equations, naked digits, feeding them into the matrix's channels. The construct wasn't the kind of prismatic graphics a terminal cube projected, more an instinctive awareness of maths, the true properties of numbers. Colourless, almost without form, she needed the bioware to analogize it for her.
The equations flowed through the matrix channels, fusing, interacting, offering solutions. Could the microbes have been part of a waste dump? she asked. If an alien starship has been orbiting Jupiter for any respectable length of time, the entire ring and moon system would be contaminated by now.
No, I don't believe that's your answer, Snowy.
Why not?
I managed to identify some of the toroid sequences. I'll show you.
She watched the gleaming purple sphere turn. The chain was beginning to unwind. It was like a magician's trick, pulling a line of handkerchiefs out of one hat, a line that just kept coming. The chain spiralled round her perception point, forming a near-solid cylindrical wall, etched with a black groove.
This is just the outer shell, Snowy.
Dear Lord. The cylinder stretched out above and below her, there were no ends in sight. And you thought you could tame this?
It's all a question of processing power. Everything is solveable given time. I taught you that, remember?
So what have you solved?
Below her, the colour began to change. Fans of pale light were shining into the cylinder, as if slots had appeared in the wall of chain letting in the dawn sun. They began to build, moving up towards her. When they were level, she could see it was lengths of the chain itself that were brightening. Individual toroids in the lengths glowed, becoming translucent; in some cases there were only twenty or thirty of them strung together, in others there were over a hundred. They were filled with alphanumeric codes.
It's funny, Royan said. Only the outer shell was active.
What do you mean?
The genes which dictate the microbe's structure are all contained in the outer shell The rest, the inner shells, are inactive. It's all spacing. Waste toroids, nonsense.
They have no purpose?
The inner shells aren't part of the microbe, no. In that respect this genetic structure is similar to human DNA. Ninety per cent of our DNA is rubbish, filling up the spaces between the active genes, the ones that make us what we are, give us our hair colour and height and blood type, every characteristic. But our active genes are strung out all the way along the DNA helix. Whereas in the alien microbe, they're only on the outside. And I can't think why.
Is it important?
I'm not sure. it doesn't affect the microbe in any way.
What's the significance of the sequences you have managed to identify? Why do they show the microbe isn't part of a waste dump?
It's not impossible, Snowy, I didn't say that, just highly unlikely. You see, I've found the sequences for the mechanism which breaks down minerals in rock. The genetic mother-lode.
A lot of the glowing toroids reverted to purple, the majority of the ones that were left were situated in a broad band of the cylinder above her perception point. These ones, Royan said. It's like an osmotic process, but dry. The microbe envelope can be made porous to selected molecules, and gradually they diffuse across. And these—the glowing toroids began to blank out, others came on to replace them, scattered the whole length of the cylinder. These control its thermal absorption mechanism. The microbe becomes functional in a temperature gradient, one side hotter than the other. Perfect energy utilization for a space environment.
She observed in silence as the identified toroids flashed at her like a mad nightclub lighting stack. Royan reeling off their functions, proud and possessive.
The point is, he said, it lives in a vacuum, it's perfectly adapted for surviving interstellar transit, then multiplying on the asteroids and interplanetary dust orbiting a star. It's not a faecal parasite, Snowy. It's not something you have on board a starship.
I'll grant you that, but there has to be a connection. Could it live on the starship's hull?
Hey, yes. That might be it. On the ball, Snowy, as always.
The cylinder dissolved around her, leaving only the lustrous purple sphere.
So what was this package recorded for? she asked. What are you here to tell me?
That I've cracked it. It's all there, just like I said, Snowy. The potential. Think of it; a clump of cells you can smear on an asteroid, they'd grow, cover the whole rock in a photosynthetic membrane, and inside they'll be grazing on the ore, fruiting pods of solid minerals and metal. You could seed a hundred rocks, a thousand, turn the entire asteroid belt into a living mine. Then we'd launch a fleet of Dragonflight's cargo ships to pick up the pods, bring them back to Earth. Enough wealth for everyone to live like a king. Imagine that, Snowy.
Yeah. Imagine that.
Cancel Integrity Monitored Link to Processor Node One. Squirt Package into NN Core Two.
The patio shimmered into place around her. Matthew's damp towel was lying in a heap on the York slabs, she picked it up and hung it over his chair.
Same as last time, she told the NN core. Review the package memories; but this time I want that microbe's genetic structure compared to the flower's. They obviously come from the same planet. See if you can find out how close the relationship is.
Right.
Cancel Channel to SelfCores.
Being free of the electronic voices and pictures in her mind was like an escape from prison. She could hear the children laughing and yelling, Brutus barking. When she looked round the stone pillar at the end of the patio she saw they were playing with one of the big colourful inflatable balls on the lawn. It looked like a grand game.
Her cybofax began to shrill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Listoel had changed since the last time Greg had visited, seventeen years ago, investigating his first Event Horizon case. Now he sat behind the Titan's pilot watching their approach through the cockpit windscreen. They were due west of Ireland,
flying subsonically, descending slowly. Below him, the ocean was completely green. It was a ragged patch over a hundred kilometres wide, its shape varying according to currents and wind. Today it looked like a bloated comet, with a tail which streamed away to the south, broadening and diluting to invisibility three hundred kilometres distant.
He could see dirty-yellow specks floating at the centre of the discolouration, neatly arranged in a square formation, each one a couple of kilometres from its neighbour. That made the specks huge. Lights were twinkling on all of them as the sun sank towards the horizon.
Philip Evans had started the mid-Atlantic anchorage twenty-five years ago, a refuge for his cyber-factory ships. The old man had put together a rag-tag fleet of converted oil-tankers and ore carriers, even an ex-US Marine Corps Harrier carrier, all floating with legal impunity in international waters during the entire PSP decade. The household gear they manufactured was smuggled into England, helping to kick-start the country's black market, worsening the economy, weakening the PSP.
Kombinates had been swift to recognize the potential of the tax-free anchorage, and more cyber-factories began to arrive. Investment poured in; banks and finance houses were running scared of the political and physical turbulence on mainland Europe. For a few brief glory-years Listoel was a centre of innovation rivalling Silicon Valley and the Shanghai special economic zone.
The cyber-factory ships had been equipped with thermal generators, sucking up cool water from the bottom of the ocean trench and running it through a heat exchanger, self-powering, virtually eternal. There had been pirate miners too, Greg recalled, scooping up the ore nodules that lay on the ocean bed to supply the cyber-factories. Marine harvesters, exploiting the bloom of aquatic life which the nutrient-rich ocean-trench water fuelled. But the most memorable aspect had been the spaceport; a floating concrete runway for the hydrogen-fuelled Sanger spaceplanes which ferried 'ware chips down from orbital industry parks so they could be incorporated into the cyber-factories' gear.
At its peak, Listoel had had the industrial output of a small European nation, exporting its gear right across the globe.
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