The Mandel Files, Volume 2

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘The odd glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.’

  Eleanor’s hand fluttered irritably. ‘Ha, you know what Greg’s like. Bloody men. One prenatal clinic, and they’re all qualified gynaecologists.’

  Julia pulled out a chair, and poured some Perrier out of the bottle. ‘Royan was the same. I suppose it’s excusable in his case. After I had him stitched back together he was very health conscious – exercise, diets, screening cream. The works.’

  ‘You miss him?’

  ‘Course I miss him.’ She rolled the glass between her palms. ‘That’s the problem, I think. The way I treated him. I made him, Eleanor, took him out of Mucklands Wood and turned him into my ideal man. So stupid.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, he had to leave Mucklands. You knew it, I knew it, Greg knew it. Royan did too, afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, but I never let him go free, did I? I had it all planned out, his role in life. We were such good friends, you see, after he saved Grandpa’s NN core from the virus. It was a dream for me. I had to go out in public and be the Julia Evans, talk contracts, deal with politicians, arrange finance with banks. Dear Lord, I was only eighteen. Then when all that company work was finished for the day, I could run away into my mind, and there he’d be, waiting for me. It was like having one of those imaginary friends children invent to keep themselves company. No one else knew he was there, no one else could see him. He was all mine; and we talked, and he sympathized with me, and I felt sorry for him. What we had was precious. I thought it would be the same after Mucklands. I wanted it to be the same.’

  ‘He did too.’

  ‘Maybe. But he never knew there could be anything else, not at first. He really was born again. A whole new and bright world. But I kept giving him things to do, hotrod for me, father children. That was it, all along, the one thing that was always in our way: I couldn’t change, not with Event Horizon to manage. So he had to fit into my life. We could never begin together.’

  Eleanor stood up, pressing her fist into her back as she straightened, and opened one of the wooden cupboards below the workbench. It was a fridge inside. She took out a bottle of white wine with a Kent label. ‘So he felt smothered,’ she said. ‘Men always do around women like you.’

  ‘Maybe. So how does Greg cope? You’re not exactly a quiet obedient little housewife.’

  Eleanor poured a glass of wine and handed it to Julia, a faint smile at distant memories playing on her lips. ‘We worked it out. The gulf wasn’t as big as you and Royan, mind.’

  ‘Yeah. Do you know what he called himself, Royan? A prince consort. Says a lot about how much consideration I gave him.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Julia, the whole world lives in your shadow. He knew that right from the start, the failure isn’t all down to you.’

  She drank some of the wine, it was nice, dry and smooth. Eleanor understood, thank God; she was one of the few people Julia could really let her hair down with. They’d known each other long enough now; Julia had been the chief bridesmaid when she married Greg. ‘He wanted to be my equal, that’s what he said.’

  Eleanor sniffed her wine and took a sip. ‘And what if he fails? Had he thought of that? What was he going to do then? Find a different alien?’

  ‘Lord knows. He’s causing enough trouble with this one. Like a child really, he never learned to accept failure. Week-long setbacks are as close as he’s ever come. Everything is solvable in the end.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They smiled, and drank some more wine.

  28

  The waves were moving in irregular patterns across the North Sea, small, high white horses clashing in fast rucks, whipped up by submerged obstacles. The North Sea Farm Company wasn’t as big as Listoel, there were only a hundred developed fields so far, but the water fruit it harvested raised a much higher price than krill. And tasted one hell of a lot better, Victor reckoned, but then what didn’t?

  Water fruit globes resembled pumpkins, a thick wrinkled yellow-brown rind enclosing an almost apple-like flesh. Victor always thought of them as tasting like salty melons. But they were protein rich, and popular throughout Europe. New varieties were introduced each year as the geneticists refined them.

  They had developed into quite an important industry. Most countries had plantations dotted around their coasts. And the shallower southern half of the North Sea, with its warmth and low salinity, provided excellent growing conditions.

  Julia had started the North Sea Farm Company twelve years earlier, assisted by a large Ministry of Fisheries grant. The division wasn’t as large as some of the food combine farms which had sprung up in the North Sea, but it was turning in a reasonable profit now.

  When the nodes squirted a profile of the Farm into his mind, he’d seen the organization was top-heavy with research personnel, and a lot of the fields were experimenting with new techniques. Julia covering her options again, he suspected.

  It would have been precisely those research facilities which attracted Royan. The station’s genetics laboratories were equipped to handle very sophisticated gene-tailoring operations.

  Victor could make out the fields below the surface as the Pegasus began its approach run. Kilometre-long walls of brick-red gene-tailored coral formed a broad chessboard of squares. New walls were growing out from the edges, a tracery of spindly lines probing the stark sand. The colours of the water fruit crops planted inside the walls ran through every shade of brown.

  There were various towers and platforms protruding from the water at regular intervals. Some he recognized as twentieth-century oil platforms. Waste not, want not. But the majority of structures were built up from the same concrete sections as the thermal-generator platforms at Listoel, mass-produced by Event Horizon’s yards on the Tyne. Cargo ships were docked with the platforms, loading up. Squat, heavily laden barges crisscrossed the fields, small bright yellow submarines were visible underwater.

  The Pegasus landed on one of the concrete platforms, and Victor trotted down the belly hatch stairs. Eliot Haydon, the Farm’s director, was waiting for him, dressed in navy-blue shorts and a baseball cap with the Event Horizon triangle and flying-V logo on the peak.

  Victor accessed his personnel profile: forty-seven years old, graduated from Norwich University with a marine biology degree, been with the company nineteen years, appointed as a divisional director five years ago, largely credited with making the Farm a profitable concern. Another of those smoothly professional Event Horizon premier-grade executives. He wondered if Julia classed him in the same category. Probably.

  Eliot Haydon shook Victor’s hand in a warm dry grip. ‘Mr Tyo, not often we get a visit from your office.’

  ‘Judy Tobandi is a good officer,’ he said. ‘The Farm’s never been a problem from a security point of view. If people have their finger on the pulse, don’t interfere, I say.’

  Eliot Haydon smiled, showing four solid gold teeth. ‘Well now, how about that? Enlightened administration, and at the highest level, too. You must have slipped through the personnel catchment net. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m chasing after Royan. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I’m afraid you’re too late if you want to talk to him, he left us three weeks ago. Didn’t you check with our management cores?’

  ‘That’s part of my problem. We did check. There’s no record of him at all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s rather complicated, but he’s covering his tracks very thoroughly. Can you tell me what he was doing here?’

  ‘Yes, he was researching coral genetics, trying to improve mineral absorption rates.’ A flicker of unease darkened Eliot Haydon’s broad sunny face. ‘Well, that’s what he said. It was a temporary posting, of course. We get quite a few scientists visiting from other Farms and national marine institutes. Now the first rush of competition is easing off, we all find co-operation helpful.’

  ‘Did you assign Royan a genetics laboratory?’

  ‘Ye
s. He wanted one for himself. It’s a bit unusual, but his authority rating entitled him. There were a few complaints when we reshuffled.’

  ‘What happened afterwards?’

  ‘After what?’

  ‘After he left. Was there any equipment he left behind? Who moved into the laboratory? What happened to his research subjects?’

  Eliot Haydon pulled his cybofax out of his shorts pocket and asked it a couple of questions. He consulted the screen, then gave Victor a thoughtful look. ‘According to our records, his lab is still unoccupied. That isn’t right at all, lab space is at a premium in the station. The management cores are programmed to reassign it as soon as it became available again.’

  Victor had been expecting something like it, resentful of the way he was being led about like a cyborg. ‘I’d like to see it, please.’

  The little cylindrical submarine had a transparent hemispherical nose. Victor sat beside Eliot Haydon in the front as the farm director piloted them away from the platform, using a steering-wheel which could have come from a car. It was designed to ferry twenty people down to the Farm’s main underwater station, but there was only him and his bodyguard on board.

  The water was surprisingly clean. Eliot Haydon explained that the water fruit itself was responsible, its matted root system holding down the sand. A variety Event Horizon’s geneticists had developed.

  Ripe globes of fruit hung a metre above the sea bed, suspended on a twisted ropy chord, like a squadron of tethered balloons. They were swinging rhythmically in the slow pulse of currents. Thirty Frankenstein dolphins, with long dextrous flippers, swam among the rows. He watched one wriggle underneath a water fruit, its powerful snout cutting clean through the cord. It gripped the globe with its flippers, and carried it to a big net bag at the end of the field, dropping it through the open neck with the accuracy and panache of a basketball player.

  The main station loomed beyond the fields, a fat yellow-painted saucer sixty metres in diameter, with portholes round the rim. It stood fifteen metres off the sea bed on three sturdy cylindrical legs. Eliot Haydon steered the sub underneath it, manoeuvring up to an airlock set in the keel. They docked with a loud clunk. Pumps started to whirr.

  ‘We keep the station’s internal pressure at one atmosphere,’ Eliot Haydon said, as he ran the powerdown program through the sub’s control ’ware. ‘That way once we’re docked, we stay docked. Opposite of spacecraft.’

  ‘What exactly goes on in this station?’ Victor asked.

  Eliot Haydon stood up and walked back down the sub to the airlock set in the ceiling. He checked the seal display before starting to turn the lock wheel. ‘Some practical work; investigating sea bed growing techniques, methods of harvesting. Several of the food combine farms use drones to pick the water fruit; we found the Frankenstein dolphins are just as efficient. But mainly it’s a genetics research facility. We improve the water fruit species, modify fish. One team is working on coral; we wanted to give the field reefs small caves, like Swiss cheese, so we could breed crustaceans in them. The pilot scheme is quite successful.’

  The circular airlock opened with a hissing sound. A small shower of water sprinkled down on Eliot Haydon’s head. He started to climb up the metal ladder.

  The laboratory was GD7, a rectangular chamber on the edge of the station. Three portholes looked out over the fields and reefs, some chemical aspect of the thick material turning them a deep blue-green. Fans of jade light poured in, dancing across the white-topped benches which ran along the wall.

  GD7 appeared to be a standard set up. The benches were crowded with specialist terminals and composite equipment modules, long crystalline glassware arrays and culture vats. A rack of empty aquariums stood along the back wall. There was a section given over to an electron microscope. All of it was clean, unused, switched off. Waiting, Victor thought.

  Kiley was resting on a pedestal in the centre. An octagonal framework two metres in diameter, half a metre high, its side panels covered in crumbling, grey thermal/particle protection foam. Thimble-sized cold gas thruster nozzles poked out above the foam, along with three sets of star-tracker sensors, a couple of slim conical omnidirectional antennas, tarnished-silver electrical umbilical sockets, and an interface key. Seven corners sprouted a square dull-copper thermal radiator fin. The eighth had a long grapple pin for the remote manipulator arm on Newton’s Apple to grab during retrieval.

  A metre-high truss structure on top had held the probe’s collection flask. It was empty now, mounting points trailing a spaghetti tangle of severed power lines and fibre optic cable. Above that was the communication dish, a gossamer-thin umbrella of silver foil, badly crumpled and torn.

  Victor looked round, and saw the collection flask on one of the benches, a titanium rugby ball, split into two halves. Empty. There was a plain white card resting against it. He picked it up.

  I’ll bet it’s you, Victor.

  The handwriting was Royan’s. He crumpled it into a tight ball. It was a superbly equipped lab. What had Royan done here?

  ‘What is this thing?’ Eliot Haydon asked, he was walking cautiously round Kiley, staring. ‘A space probe?’

  ‘Yes. A Jupiter sample return.’

  ‘Gods, what’s it doing here?’

  ‘That’s a bloody good question.’

  Open Channel to Julia Evans NN Core. I’ve found Kiley, or at least what’s left of it.

  Great. Where?

  It’s in the Farm’s main underwater station, laboratory GD7. That’s a genetics lab. But there’s nothing else left, he’s cleaned it out.

  Hang on, I’ll access that lab’s memory cores again. They’ve already been reviewed once.

  Victor thought he detected a hint of resentment in the soundless voice. ‘When Royan left, what did he take with him, can you remember?’ he asked.

  Eliot Haydon was still looking at Kiley, left hand stroking one of the thermal radiator panels. ‘Just a standard air cargo pod.’ He brought his hand away, rubbing his fingers together. ‘Oh, and a plant. Funny looking thing, like a cross between a cacti and a palm. He was carrying it when he got on the plane, that’s why I remember.’

  Victor felt a tingle of alarm. ‘Was it flowering?’

  ‘Was it …’ Eliot Haydon trailed off into uncertain bemusement.

  ‘Flowering? Did it have any flowers?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  I still can’t locate anything, Victor, NN core one said.

  He turned a full circle. The personality package had to be here. Royan would expect him to work it out, to come in and see the obvious.

  Start with the basics, he told himself. A data construct has to be stored in ’ware. And it has to be obvious. Royan wasn’t hiding anything, they were supposed to be warnings. A location proof against accidental discovery, but not obscure.

  He wanted Greg and his intuition here in the lab. Greg would have seen it straight off.

  Victor turned slowly and looked at Kiley. The tiny glass eye of the interface key stared back at him. He pulled his cybofax out of his inside jacket pocket and held it up.

  29

  The armoury was a long windowless concrete room, metal lockers along one wall and weapons racks along the other. There were ten tables running down the middle, fitted with test rigs and the various cybernetic tools the armourers used. The sight and warm oil smell of the place took Greg right back to his squaddie days. Even the pre-mission chatter of the security crash team was the same, brash with that unique brand of strained humour.

  He was sitting on a bench watching Suzi being kitted out by Alex Lahey, one of the armourers. He had found a muscle armour suit small enough for her, and now he was programming it to accept motor neurone impulses from her implant. A thick bundle of fibre-optic cables ran from the ’ware interface socket on the suit’s chest to the terminal he was operating on the table. Only the helmet had been left off, leaving Suzi’s head sticking out of the black barrel-like torso.

  ‘First there’s healt
hy paranoia,’ Greg said. ‘And then there’s obsessive psychosis. The dividing line is pretty thin.’

  ‘Bollocks. Leol got out of that hospital in Nigeria. You think he’s going to give up on Charlotte now?’

  ‘No. But how’s he going to find her?’

  Suzi gave a disparaging grunt. ‘The bastard’s good, Greg. Give him that. And he’s got Clifford Jepson’s money behind him.’

  ‘Victor’s better. And we’ve got Julia’s money.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Alex Lahey looked up from the terminal he had plugged into Suzi’s armour suit. ‘Could you raise your left arm, please.’

  She moved it up slowly until it was level with her shoulder, then it suddenly shot up to point at the ceiling. ‘Fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Alex Lahey said. He studied the terminal cube, muttering to himself.

  ‘Hey, can I lower it, or what?’

  Alex Lahey didn’t look up. ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘This personalized tank, bit over the top, isn’t it?’

  Suzi’s gauntleted left hand slapped her torso, producing a hollow thud. ‘I can face him now, Greg. No more running, no more evasion and decoy. Christ, that was fucking humiliating. You should try a suit out, gives your confidence an orgasm.’

  ‘No thanks, muscle armour was after my time. I’ll stick to what I’ve got. Good old mystic intuition. It’s kept me alive this long.’

  ‘Yeah? So what does it say about Royan?’ Suzi asked.

  ‘Tell you, he’s up there.’ He surprised himself. The words had come out without any conscious thought, he hadn’t ordered a gland secretion, either.

  ‘Huh,’ Suzi grunted.

  ‘Would you touch your toes, please,’ Alex Lahey said.

  Greg kept his amusement in check at the slightly ridiculous sight of a muscle armour suit doing callisthenics as Suzi tested each limb’s articulation. The rest of the crash team started to check out their weapons from the rack.

  Suzi’s armour suit split open down the side of the torso, and she began to wriggle her legs out. Her tracksuit fabric was heavily creased where the suit’s spongy internal lining had contracted about her.