The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Edward Kitchener. She needs to know who killed him.”

  “The physics guy? Why?”

  “He was working on something for her.” She put her hands up in surrender. “Don’t ask me what. I don’t understand a word of it.”

  “Yeah, well, I can see why you need to rap with Son. Crap like that, right up his alley. Now don’t you go tie up all his capacity, we need him too, more’n ever right now.”

  Her lips turned down. “Teddy…”

  “No choice, gal.” He waved at the two screens covering Walton. “Fucking Party’s crawling like ants down there. Someone gotta stomp on ‘em. Don’t see no police doing it. Or this new flicking wonder government we got lumbered with. You ask Julia, you don’t believe me. Three o’ her factories hit by thermal bombs this month, not five klicks from here.”

  She nodded weakly. Trinities and Blackshirts; it was all a far more deadly version of the apparachiks and Inquisitors game, a game with no rules, nor time limit, nor physical boundary. She knew from bitter experience that it wasn’t something which could be solved by police, the due process of law; Greg’s last Event Horizon case had shown her that. In that respect the world terrified her, there was too much subterranean activity; too much hidden from public view. Dark circuitry wiring subliminal power shifts. Ignorance could be a blissful thing, almost enviable.

  He patted her gently. “Don’t you fret so, gal. You ain’t got the face for it. Now then, been too long, you gona stop by more often.”

  “You know where the farm is, Teddy. I’d like you to come and see it some time. Stay over for a few nights. You know how much Greg would love that.”

  “Turtle out of its shell, gal.” He glanced about the room, taking his time, as if he hadn’t seen it for a while, checking to see that everything was in its proper place. “Sides, won’t be here much longer.” His voice dropped to a doleful whisper. “Not long now. I can feel it coming, gal, like summer heat. Ain’t nobody got no respect for the Trinities no more. Time was, you could walk down any street in this town, and you’d get treated like a superhero. Well, that time’s over now. But we know what we gonna do ‘fore we go. Bibles in hand, AKs primed, yes sir. We ain’t gonna turn tail now. Gonna finish what we started. Gonna finish those Card Carrying Sons of bitches, gonna finish them but good.”

  “I’ll give this a miss,” Suzi said when the lift opened on the tower’s top floor.

  “There’s nothing that ultra-hush about it,” Eleanor protested.

  “Nah, ‘sall right. I’ll be downstairs when you want out.” She pressed the button for the ground floor, forcing Eleanor to hop out. The lift doors slid shut, cutting off Suzi’s wave and wolfish grin; and any chance to argue.

  Eleanor thought she knew the real reason. Julia’s Austrian clinic had been good, repairing all the physical damage both of them had suffered. But the memories of its infliction were hard to suppress. Royan could act as an all too potent reminder.

  The corridor was narrow, windowless. A long ceiling-mounted biolum strip, with an emission decaying into the green edge of the spectrum, lit her way. She stopped outside 206, and knocked.

  Qoi opened the door, a fifteen-year-old Oriental girl in a blue silk robe. She bowed deeply. “Pleasure to see you again, Miss Eleanor.” Her voice was high-pitched and scratchy.

  Eleanor followed her into the tiny hall, as always slightly uncomfortable at Royan’s combination nurse and guardian angel. The door to the lounge slid open, and Qoi ushered her through, doll-like face smiling politely.

  The air was hot, saturated with a smell of vegetation that was almost fungal, a dozen braids of flower perfume clotted together. Long plant troughs were laid out on the floor, hosting a fabulous collection of flowers, vivid primary colours shining under the glare of the ceiling’s Solaris spots. Little wheeled robots roamed among them; they looked as if they had been cobbled together out of a dozen different cyberttiy kits by someone working from a very distant memory of a cartoon-channel mechanoid. Forks, copper watering roses, and secateurs protruded with no sense of rationale.

  One wall was completely obscured by the glass bricks of ancient television screens, removed from their cases and bolted into a grid of metal struts. They were all switched on, showing a multitude of channel ‘casts and data sheets. A broad workbench was piled high with gear modules, parts of gear modules, individual components, circuit boards, pieces of mechanical junk; two big waldo arms stood silent sentry duty at each end.

  A camera on an aluminium tripod followed her cautious steps round the troughs. It acted as Royan’s eyes, fibre-optic cable plugged into the black modem balls in his eye sockets.

  He was sitting on a metallic green nineteen-fifties dentist’s chair in the centre of the room. Sitting wasn’t quite the right word: propped up, wedged in by cushions. Royan had no legs or arms; plastic cups covered the end of each stump, axon splices, trailing more fibre-optic cables to banks of ‘ware cabinets next to the bench. His torso was covered by a white T-shirt spotted with food stains down the front.

  Greg had told her Royan was a victim of the People’s Constables, a street riot years ago. He’d been there the night it happened, although he never went into details. Despite his youth and agility Royan just hadn’t been fast enough to escape the bullwhips of the Constables as they charged the protesters. He had been badly burnt, too, in the cascade of molotovs which followed.

  Every time she came, she thought she’d be immune to the sight of him, exposure building up a protective crust around her emotions. Every time he affected her just as badly as the first. Coldness flickered through her, dendritic frost fingers twisting up her stomach.

  The images and datasheets on the old television tubes vanished, replaced by metre-high green letters which moved right to left across the wall, delineation frequently interrupted by the individual screen rims.

  HI, ELEANOR, YOU LOOK LOVELY LOVELY LOVELY TODAY

  “Hello, flatterer. What have you been up to then?” She spoke fairly loud, trying not to make it obvious; slow clear words always made her think of the way people addressed the retarded. Royan was anything but. His audio nerves were about the only genuine sensory input he retained, everything else was electronic, enhanced by the modules he had gradually cocooned himself in. Gear had become his interest, his obsession, his speciality. His comprehension of ‘ware systems was probably equivalent to a degree, Greg reckoned, maybe even better. His hands-on experience was total, he had to learn simply to survive, and he had nothing else to do but learn, sit passively and absorb the bytes flowing through the country’s datanets, day after day after day. And once he had mastered his art, he returned to the fray with a vengeance, fuelled by a cold malevolent hatred whose compulsive power only Greg could fully perceive. He became Son to the other Trinities, their digital oracle, a passive presence backing up each campaign with the smartest intelligence data, tracing Blackshirt positions and strength through every memory core in the city and beyond, exposing them wherever they were hiding.

  BEEN OUT DANCING, SURFBOARDING, CYCLING. THE USUAL.

  “I brought you these,” she said, and pulled the envelope of seeds out of her jeans pocket. “They’re orchids, Ludisia discolor, they’ve got red leaves and a white flower. I think you’ll like them.”

  His lips parted to reveal a few bucked yellow teeth.

  THANKS THANKS THANKS.

  Qoi stepped forwards and took the envelope, bowing slightly.

  Greg always brought bits and pieces of gear for him, but she preferred cuttings or seeds. He went to a lot of trouble nurturing his little garden, there wasn’t an unhealthy plant anywhere.

  After Qoi disappeared into the kitchen Eleanor ducked round a hanging basket of pink begonias, and sat herself in a plain oak admiral’s chair.

  COFFEE???

  “Please.” It was part of the visit ritual.

  One of the robots trundled over, a pot of coffee resting on its flat top. She poured herself a cup. It tasted perfect.

  YOU LOOK TIRE
D.

  “I’ve been working.” More disapproval slipped into her tone than she intended.

  ON THE FARM?

  “No. Mandel Investigations got hauled out on a case.”

  JULIA JULIA JULIA. HAS TO BE. GREG WOULDNT DO IT FOR ANYONE ELSE

  “You’ve been peeping.”

  NO. I KNOW YOU ALL TOO WELL. MY FRIENDS. I WATCHED JULIA ON THE CHANNELS THIS MORNING. A BILLIONAIRESS POURING CONCRETE, FUNNY FUNNY FUNNY. I WATCH HER EVERY DAY, YOU KNOW. SHE’S NEVER OFF

  “I know. She could make another fortune if she charged the newscast programmes an appearance fee.”

  SHE’S PRETTY PRETTY PRETTY, JUST LIKE YOU. LUCKY LUCKY LUCKY ME. TWO PRETTIEST GIRLS IN THE COUNTRY ARE MY FRIENDS.

  She took another sip, surprised to find herself relaxing.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” she asked slyly.

  I KNOW WHY. HE WANTS SOMETHING, SO HE SENT YOU. HE KNOWS I’M A SUCKER SUCKER SUCKER FOR A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. I AM TOO.

  “We had to split up, actually. There’s a lot of ground to cover today.”

  WHAT’S THE CASE?

  “The Kitchener murder.” She started giving him a review of the data they’d amassed. As far as she could tell he was listening attentively, certainly the vaguely eerie lettering faded from the screens, a sure sign of contemplation. The session wasn’t turning out as emotionally arduous as she had been expecting.

  The trick was to block out the rest of his life, the daily horror of eating, crapping, peeing, the pain spasms which convulsed him every few hours. Pretend everything stopped when she wasn’t there, that all he did was meet visitors who brought him gossip and problems he could gain a measure of satisfaction from solving. It was weak of her to think like that, craven, but it was the only way she could get through. The suffering he went through was a tragedy on an epic scale.

  IF IT WASN’T THE STUDENTS, AND IT WASN’T A TEKMERC SNUFF DEAL, THEN WHO WHO WHO DUNNNNNIT?

  “Good question. I didn’t say a tekmerc definitely wasn’t involved; but they certainly didn’t drive in, and they didn’t fly in either. Of course, we’re not ruling out the possibility that someone yomped in, but Greg says he doesn’t think it’s likely.”

  IF HE SAYS IT DIDN’T HAPPEN, IT DIDN’T DIDN’T DIDN’T.

  “He says he’s not sure.”

  Royan’s rucked smile appeared again. WHAT DO YOU THINK???

  “I think it would have been absolutely impossible for anyone to walk in and out of the Chater valley that evening. It was bad enough driving our EMC Ranger in yesterday. Launde Abbey is very isolated.”

  I BELIEVE YOU. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?

  She put down the empty coffee-cup and held up her cybofax. “I’ve brought the schematics for the Abbey’s security system. I need to know if it is possible for someone to burn through, enter the Abbey, and then get out again afterwards without raising the alarm. The police forensic team say it was completely undisturbed.”

  One of the ‘ware modules on the top of the bench let out a small bleep. When she turned, blue and green LEDs were winking on the front of the scuffed grey plastic casing.

  SQUIRT THE BYTES OVER. NO NO NO PROBLEM FOR ME

  She pointed the cybofax at the module and keyed a squirt.

  GOT IT I’LL START LOOKING FOR A WAY THROUGH. SHOULD HAVE AN ANSWER BY THIS AFTERNOON.

  “Fine.” Eleanor slipped the cybofax into her back pocket. “Can you also find out if any hotrod was contracted to supply this hypothetical burn virus?”

  I’LL ASK. MIGHT NOT GET A HUNDRED %%%%%% ACCURATE ANSWER. IF IT WAS DONE, THE WRITER WON’T BE ADVERTISING.

  “Have you heard of anyone asking for a virus like this?”

  NO NO NO. CROSS HEART

  “OK, final point; Greg thinks it would be useful to know what sort of rumours are floating about. Ask around the circuit, find out what people think Kitchener was working on for Julia, whether they even knew he was working for Julia; and also, did Kitchener owe money to anyone?”

  HE WAS A MILLIONAIRE MULTI MULTI MULTI.

  “He was a regular syntho user, and so were some of the students. He had his own vat at Launde, but the basic compounds still cost money. So it probably wouldn’t be banks we’re talking about.”

  GOTCHA. KITCHENER USED SYNTHO?

  “Yes.”

  MAN LIKE THAT WOW WOW WOW.

  She gave him a sad smile. “Yes, a man like that. Funny old world, isn’t it. You wouldn’t think he’d need it, a brain like his.”

  MAYBE BECAUSE HE HAD A BRAIN LIKE THAT. NOBODY ON THIS PLANET WAS HIS EQUAL. MAYBE HE WAS LONELY LONELY LONELY.

  “Oh, no, not Kitchener, not lonely. One of the girl students is having his child.”

  There was no answer for a moment, the last LONELY remained splashed across the three right-hand screens. Then the word evaporated like morning dew. She heard the lens on the camera whirring softly, zooming in on her face.

  HE WAS OLD.

  “Sixty-seven, I think”

  ALL THAT TIME. SO MANY YEARS.

  “He accomplished an awful lot,” she said, uncertain where Royan was leading. Not true, at the back of her mind she knew exactly. She just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  DO YOU LIKE ME, ELEANOR?

  That grin didn’t have to be forced. “I keep coming back, don’t I?”

  YES YES YES. THANK YOU.

  She stood up, straightening the creases out of her sweatshirt. “Now don’t spend all your time working on the Abbey’s security system. Teddy says he needs you for Trinities work.”

  BUGGER HIM… PARDON MY FRENCH. I DECIDE MY OWN PRIORITIES. ME ME ME.

  “You’ll get me into trouble.”

  NEVER. SAY HI TO GREG. TELL HIM HE HAD BETTER SHOW UP HIMSELF NEXT TIME.

  “I will.”

  AND YOU. COME BACK. SEE ME.

  “Yes.” She gave him a last glance, non-human, shamed by the fact that she could never in a million years show so much bravery. There was no point in even asking him to come out to the farm. It could be done, physically, with stretchers and vans and plenty of advanced planning. But his inheritance tied him to Mucklands far tighter than the web of fibre-optic cables ever did. Him and Teddy, neither of them would leave; there was no point, they were Mucklands, it went with them wherever they were.

  Qoi popped up out of the kitchen without being summoned, and showed her to the door.

  CHAPTER 12

  As always, the sylphlike Julia Evans remains resolutely wedded to her fatal dress sense,” Jakki Coleman said. She was at her Mediterranean villa, lounging on a sunbed at the side of a kidney-shaped pool.

  On the far side was a white stone balustrade, guarding the steep drop down to a muzzy blue sea. The palm trees were growing out of stone barrels, fronds stirring in a gentle breeze.

  “Considering the perennial obsession which the Gothic cult has for the afterworld, this particular selection of garments worn for the Prior’s Fen footings ceremony is highly appropriate. Because, let’s face it, our poor dear Julia looks as if she’s been exhumed after a few weeks residing in a grave.”

  “BITCH!” Julia shrieked.

  Her tea cup hit the flatscreen in the centre, smashing into crescent fragments; it was the first object her searching hand could find, a big yellow and blue breakfast cup from the bedside tray. Sugary dregs began to trickle down the flat-screen, smearing the dark-haired young man who climbed out of the pool and began towelling himself off.

  Patrick raised his head from the mounds of pillows which had accumulated on his side of the bed, blinking sleep from his eyes. “What?” he grunted blearily.

  “Oh go back to sleep.” Julia fired the remote at the flatscreen, imagining it was a laser pistol, beam scorching a hole through Jakki Coleman’s head, her middle-aged head, and the shiny blue swimsuit showed her thighs were getting flabby too. She folded her arms below her breasts and glared at the blank rectangle.

  Her bedroom was decorated in a soothing montage of pink and whit
e tones, extremely feminine, with exquisite lacy frills on all the furniture, subdued lighting, a huge four-poster bed with a Romany canopy, ankle-deep pile carpet. It was the third redesign in four years; each time she edged closer to her ideal, the romantic French-château image she secretly treasured.

  And what would Jakki Coleman have to say about it? Bitch!

  “You’re upset about something,” Patrick said.

  “Oh, ten out of ten, give it a banana.”

  “Was it me?”

  “No,” she said tightly.

  “Ah, right.” He subsided back into the pillows.

  Well that ruined the morning mood, Julia thought, there would be no sex now.

  She pointed the remote at the windows. The thick imperial-purple velour curtains swept aside to show her the balcony. Wistaria vines, gene-tailored against the heat of the new seasons, were wrapped round the wrought iron railings, producing a solid wall of delicate mauve flower clusters. Wilholm’s rear lawns formed a splendid backdrop with their English country house formality, she could just see the long trout lake at the bottom, its fairytale waterfall tinged brown from the silt washed down the stream by the heavy rains.

  Not even the garden’s naturalistic perfection could break her ire. Bugger Jakki Coleman anyway. Who cared what she said?

  Although that wasn’t the half of it. She still felt guilty about asking Greg to look into the Kitchener murder. And the murder itself was a complication she could do without. Right now Morgan’s security division was stretched pretty thinly defending the company from conventional threats-industrial sabotage, industrial espionage, crooked accountants, hotrod hackers infiltrating the datanet. Why would anybody feel strongly about something as weirdly abstract as superphysics wormholes? Surely it couldn’t be an anti-Evans gesture? Not slaughtering a defenceless old man? She couldn’t believe anyone was that sick and warped; besides, there had been no announcement. If any operational PSP remnants had killed Kitchener they would have been crowing about it all across the media by now.

  At least there hadn’t been much mention of Greg on the newscasts she had caught before flicking over to the Coleman trollop. Some jerky pictures taken from a shoulder-mounted camera, the operator running after the EMC Ranger as it drove out of the police station, Eleanor’s tight-lipped anger, Greg impassive as always.