The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Jesus!” Rick grunted in shock.

  A moan escaped from Julia’s lips, a sound of pure anguish and horror, forced up from deep inside her chest. Her hands came up impotently, and she took a couple of hurried steps towards the alien.

  “Do not attempt physical contact,” a voice said from the terminal on the floor. It was perfectly clear, without any inflection, a neutral synthesis.

  Julia stopped dead. “What happened?” she squealed. “Oh, darling, what…”

  “Confidence and carelessness,” Royan said, his voice coming from the terminal. “Or to put it bluntly: hubris. Good word for my life.”

  “Are you hurt?” Julia asked.

  “Only my pride.” The terminal chuckled.

  Julia swung round to face Greg. “Is that truly him talking?”

  Greg nodded silently. The mental activity matched, and the bitter spike of humour.

  “Let him out,” Julia said.

  “You are unaware of the implication inherent in that stateinent,” the bland voice said.

  “Royan?” she pleaded.

  “The Hexaëmeron is correct,” Royan said. “That’s why you were summoned.”

  Rick tilted his head on one side, frowning. “Hexaëmeron? That’s a human term, biblical, the six days it took God to make the Earth.”

  “I have no language of my own. Obviously I have to use human terms. Royan seemed to think this was appropriate.”

  “What are you?” Rick asked, his voice raised.

  “My planet’s evolutionary terminus, and progenitor,” said the Hexaëmeron.

  “And that’s the problem,” said Royan.

  “Did you come on a starship?” Rick asked.

  “No.”

  Rick let out a hiss of breath. “Then how did you get here?” it was almost a shout.

  “By my mistake,” said Royan. “Have you reviewed the personality programs I left for you, Snowy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know my original edit for the disseminator plant was a symbiotic arrangement; terrestrial landcoral and the alien microbes working in tandem.”

  “You said it was a prototype, and that geneticists could splice together a single genetic structure once you had proved the concept.”

  “Yeah. The prototype started to work out pretty good. You saw what I’ve done with the fault zone. Then something happened.”

  “Consciousness initiation,” said the Hexaëmeron.

  “Too bloody true,” Royan said. “The alien microbes achieved a rudimentary kind of sentience. I said nothing like that gene sphere could exist naturally, and I was right. It was designed, for flick’s sake, a very deliberate design. The core of the sphere doesn’t have anything to do with genetics, it’s a molecular circuit with a function similar to a neurone, but considerably more sophisticated. And there’s a threshold level; clump enough of the microbes together and they develop a processing capacity. For want of a better description, they start thinking for themselves. And of course, I grew them in their billions for the disseminator plant.”

  “Dear Lord,” Julia gazed at the alien. “This is it, the sentient microbe cluster?”

  “No, unfortunately. The thought-processing organism is only stage one. That’s where the real trouble starts. These aliens have the ability to control their own genetic heritage, they can consciously switch individual genes on and off. Christ knows where that ability comes from. Whoever heard of instant evolution?”

  “I am protean by nature,” said the Hexaëmeron. “Internal cellular modification to fulfil a specific function requirement is inherent, what I am.”

  “Yeah, right,” Royan said. “Anyway, this was the chamber where the microbes went critical. After that, the Hexaëmeron started to grow entirely new types of cells for itself, and shifted its consciousness into them. That’s what you’re looking at now, a protean entity capable of fashioning itself to operate in any environment.

  “I thought the disseminator plant was mutating at first, some kind of transgenic process with the microbes infecting the landcoral; which actually was a pretty good guess. You get that in really complex bioware sometimes; chromosome deletion or translocation, the growth pattern is distorted out of recognition. That’s why I rigged up the gamma mines, as a last resort. Christ, alien cells with an exponential growth rate, who knows what it would have ended up as. A cancer the size of an arcology eating its way down Hyde Cavern. I could just see me trying to explain that away to you, Snowy. I was trying to track down the nature of the mutation so it could be isolated when the bugger went for me.”

  “You would have destroyed me,” the Hexaëmeron said impassively.

  “Maybe,” said Royan. “But not straight away. I want to learn, to understand. Barbarians destroy without reason. We might not be as far along the evolutionary scale as you, but I’d like to think we’re above that.”

  “What do you mean, it went for you?” Greg asked.

  “Exactly what you see, Greg. Every protean cell this new consciousness had produced coagulated together like God’s own amoeba, and swallowed me whole. It was going to crush me into a pulp and digest me, use me as food for new protean cells.”

  Greg gave Julia a quick glance. She had turned pale, staring up at Royan’s shaded face. Waves of guilt and revulsion were punishing her mind. The idea was making him feel pretty queasy as well.

  “So how did you stop it?” Rick asked.

  “Hey, you’re talking to Son, you know,” Royan said with his old swagger. “I was one of the best flicking hotrods that ever plugged into the circuit back home. When the Hexaëmeron pulled its Jonah stunt, I glitched its command procedures. See, any sentient entity, however freaky, functions in the same fashion: observation, analysis, response. Intelligence is the processing of data, that means networks and routines.

  Which in turn means it can be disrupted with the right sort of disinformation. With ‘ware it’s easy, viruses have been around as long as integrated circuits. Organic brains are a little trickier to break; high-frequency light can induce epilepsy, but that’s crude; psychics use eidolonics to corrupt memories and perception directly; the military have developed a whole range of disorientation techniques. It was just a question of finding something appropriate.

  “The Hexaemeron was processing data in a homogeneous cellular array, halfway between a bioware processor and a neural network. I loaded in my glitch virus, and stopped the cells which were attacking me dead in their tracks. Then I substituted my own management routines and took control. Trouble was, I didn’t get all of the cells in time. The main Hexaëmeron consciousness saw what I was doing, and isolated all the cells I’d usurped, cut them straight out of its command procedure. So now I control the cells directly around me; I’ve organized them into a life-support mechanism, feeding me nutrients and oxygen, siphoning out piss and carbon dioxide. But the Hexaemeron retains its integrity throughout the other cells, those are the ones surrounding mine. What we’ve got here is a very delicately balanced stand-off.”

  “Which you hope we can break,” Greg said. He’d been studying the Hexaëmeron, it would be easy enough to kill with the rip guns; the trick would be extracting Royan alive. Maybe they could set the Tokarev lasers to longburn, char the outer layer of cells away. He wondered how the Hexaëmeron would react if they started doing that.

  “You have already broken our stasis,” said the Hexaëmeron. “As we intended you to.”

  “Summoned,” Julia murmured. “You said we were summoned.”

  “You and Clifford Jepson,” said the Hexaëmeron. “That is correct. Our situation outline is a simple one: Royan can still trigger the gamma mines, destroying all life in this chamber, and I retain the capacity to physically ingest the cells under his authority. Neither of us is capable of dominating the other. Mutual suicide is all we can achieve by ourselves. Clearly, this cannot be allowed to continue.”

  “Clearly,” Julia said.

  “We came to an arrangement,” Royan said. “Each of us woul
d call someone who would terminate the stand-off in our respective favour. I chose you, and used Charlotte Fielder to deliver my warning message.”

  “How did you find her?” Greg asked.

  “I’m still plugged in to New London’s datanet,” Royan said. “So I knew who was up here, and of course she’s listed in Event Horizon’s security files as one of Baronski’s girls. Simple cross-referencing gave me her name.”

  “If you’re plugged into the asteroid’s datanet, then why didn’t you just phone us, for Christ’s sake?” Greg demanded.

  “I will not permit that,” the Hexaëmeron said. “I will not allow my existence to be compromised prior to negotiations. Humans have a dangerously xenophobic nature; your leadership would find it difficult to resist public pressure concerning me. If Royan had tried to open a direct communication link with his allies, then I would have been forced to initiate my consumption routine.”

  “And if that happened, I’d have no choice but to use the gamma mines,” said Royan. “What we needed was a throw of the dice, a method of breaking the stand-off which gave us an equal chance of coming out trumps. Logically, such a stand-off had to be interrupted by an external factor. So we gave each other one opportunity to call for help. A sharp game, but the only one in town. I believed in you, Snowy, I knew you’d come hunting as soon as you received the flower. The Hexaëmeron thought Clifford Jepson would have the edge-which makes it quite a judge of human character; Victor’s file on Clifford isn’t very complimentary, a real lowlife. Talbot Lombard was given the atomic structuring data, and promised more tonight. If Jepson’s people had arrived before you, the Hexaëmeron would have made a deal with them.”

  “But you said atomic structuring technology doesn’t exist,” Greg said.

  “No, it doesn’t, not in hardware form. The equations make sense, but they’re just a thought experiment, problematical: what could be done if a strong nuclear force generator did exist. It was a lure, the mythical dragon’s hoard. Designed to be irresistible to the right sort of mind. Clifford Jepson would do anything to get the generator data, and that includes setting the Hexaëmeron free. It was love against greed. The two human fundamentals. I trusted to love, Snowy.”

  “Why not simply let it go?” Rick asked. “Are you so xenophobic?”

  “The Hexaemeron should have called for you, Rick,” Royan said. “Trusting and naïve. There’s nothing people can’t solve by sitting round a table and talking rationally. Right, Rick? I can’t let it go. There’s the third stage to consider.”

  “The flower,” Greg said automatically.

  “That’s right,” Royan said. “The Hexaëmeron can edit its own genes, decide which toroid sequences to activate. Do you understand now, Rick? Why I call it the Hexaëmeron? The reason the alien gene sphere is so large in comparison to terrestrial DNA is because the shells contain the genetic codes for over six thousand different species-plants, insects, animals, sentient creatures. Survivors of life’s endgame. The Hexaëmeron is an intermediate stage, an artificial midwife.

  “Left alone, it can engender an entire planet’s ecology. That’s its sole purpose; what it was designed for. Where would you put it, Rick? Where would you let it loose to breed? Earth? Cambridge maybe? Mars? Put it on Mars, and what happens in a thousand years’ time after the planet’s been bioformed? When the aliens have run out of expansion space? And they will, Rick. Their metabolism is orders of magnitude above ours, efficient, strong, potent. We wouldn’t stand a chance, Rick.”

  Greg didn’t like the implications rising out of his subconscious. Scare images, every third-rate channel horror show he’d ever seen. The gritty conviction in Royan’s mind acting as reinforcement to his own paranoia. When he reviewed the Hexaëmeron’s vaporous thoughts he found only detached serenity. A long time ago, when Philip Evans’s thoughts had been shifted into his NN core, Greg had tried to use his espersense on the new bioware entity. He had got the same composed aloofness then, an inability to become involved, not emotionally, anyway. Problems were an abstract. He wasn’t sure the Hexaëmeron qualified as a living thing.

  “If it came to that,” Greg said slowly, “Clifford Jepson’s people reaching you first-surely you’d use the gamma mines anyway. I mean, they’d kill you to set the Hexaëmeron free, so by using the mines you could at least take it, and some of them with you.”

  “Maybe. That’s one of the reasons I’m bloody glad it’s you and Snowy who arrived. You see, you only really need one cell, no, one complete gene sphere, and the whole thing starts over. That’s what you must understand before you make your decision.”

  “Decision?” Julia asked in a dead tone.

  “Yes, Snowy. It’s all or nothing. If you chose against the Hexaemeron, then the entire disseminator plant must be destroyed. Every cell and microbe, If not, then the Hexaëmeron will be resurrected one day. Maybe not intentionally, but it’ll happen. That’s why the gamma mines are a last resort; they wouldn’t end the problem, only the more immediate part of it. Of course, if I had triggered them, I hoped you’d question why I felt I had to. That way you’d exhibit a lot more caution with the disseminator plant cells that were left. After all, it’s only my stupidity with this oneman-band act which has put everyone in such a ridiculous situation in the first place.”

  “Yes,” Julia drawled.

  It wasn’t the answer Royan wanted, he was looking for sympathy. Greg could sense the anguish peak in his mind.

  Abruptly, he was aware of another mental voice, a cry of pain and rage, toxic with shock. Suzi.

  CHAPTER 39

  Suzi saw the rock wall lurch forward, then disintegrate into a thosusand flying chunks. The wave behind it held together until it was halfway across the village cave. She was dropping to the floor as soon as the first motion began, grabbing the mouth of the crack. Her photon amp gave her a single glimpse of the debris ploughed up by the leading edge of the wave, a line of foam, stones, muscle-armour suits, scorched saplings, and burnt remnants of the huts and their furnishings, all bearing down on her at a terrific speed.

  It hit, blinding her sensors. She was suddenly, frighteningly confined in a padded iron maiden, unable to see, unable to feel, unable to hear. Something solid cannoned into her, a very muffled thud. The suit shifted position slightly. Yellow and green graphics winked up, an outline of the suit, showing her the damage on her left side, the metalloceramic had been weakened by the impact, there was a dent, some of the chest muscle bands were inoperative. Her implant began a suit systems-status review. She clung to the details, using them to fight off the hot claustrophobic panic erupting at the back of her skull.

  A timer was counting off the seconds below the suit outlines. Five seconds so far, it couldn’t be such a short time. A minute at least.

  She could feel a movement, something giving below her arms. It developed into a full-blown slide. The rock around the mouth of the crack was giving way. She lost her hold.

  Instinct made her want to curl up, tuck her head into her chest; but the armour prevented that. She ended up bending her knees as far as the muscle bands would allow, and folding her arms across her torso.

  Her inertial guidance display showed her she was jouncing back down the crack, impacts rattled her teeth and spine. The feed from the photon amp turned a deep grey, as if she was wrapped in pre-dawn mist, then there were flashes of blue, crimson streaks as the water threw her about.

  She bounced to a halt against a sharp corner, and the water sank down around her. It was smooth and fast flowing, icy black. She struggled against the current and made it on to all fours. Water was trickling down her left leg, inside the muscle bands.

  The suit ‘ware was pushing out a fast sequence of status graphics. Suzi coughed, feeling sour creamy liquid in her gullet. Tight snaps of pain in her chest made it impossible to focus on any of the graphics. Her knee was hell; she thought the bioware sheath had torn.

  “Call in,” Melvyn said.

  There was a string of responses, names and curs
es.

  “Yeah, here, Melvyn.”

  “OK, everyone into the village cave. There were still some tekmercs left.”

  She climbed to her feet. There was very little light in the gash. Her infrared helmet beams came on, showing about five centimetres of water sloshing around her ankles. Where the hell had it all gone? It had looked like a small sea crashing into the village cave. Greg must be up to his neck in it. Wherever the fuck he was.

  The graphics were coming into focus now. Nothing seriously wrong, not with the suit; three muscle bands dead, power reserves OK, two sets of sensors on backup. The suit ‘ware was already calculating new load paths for the remaining muscle bands. She could move, she could fight.

  Her mike picked up the blast of rip gun fire.

  “Three of them,” the radio squawked. It sounded like Robbie. “Cave 3B, hostile and active.”

  “Got ‘em.”

  “Isaac, let’s have some airbusters in there.”

  “Coming up.”

  “Lilian, launch a reconnaissance disk down 4C, Isaac thought he saw a hostile in it.”

  “Could be one of ours.”

  “No answer from Harris.”

  Suzi realized her rip gun was missing. She started to walk towards the village cave. The suit responded stiffly at first, almost as if she had to carry the weight herself. Then the ‘ware finished reprogramming the muscle bands, and she began to pick up speed. It was a lot easier on her knee.

  “Dennis?”

  “No response from Dennis yet, Suzi,” Melvyn said. “Did you see him?”

  “Didn’t see shit after that wall went.”

  The wave had scoured the village cave clean. The only thing she recognized at first glance was the stone staircase. Where the wall had blown out was a pile of big boulders. It looked like half of the lake cave beyond had collapsed. Two solaris spots were intact, one of them swinging on the end of its wiring, rocking shadows across the walls. All that was left of the village was a line of burnt splintered wood and soggy reeds along the wall opposite the lake. Water was lying a couple of centimetres deep. Torn sheets of crumpled, saturated moss floated past. Fish were everywhere, jumping and flipping about.