The Mandel Files, Volume 2

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘Freaky world,’ Suzi said above the noise.

  ‘Yeah,’ Greg called back. The endcap rose vertically for the first hundred metres, which was as high as the balconies and windows went, above that it sank into a slight depression of blank rock, with the lighting tube sprouting out of the centre. He could see another five of the exotic Coriolis waterfalls spaced round it at regular intervals.

  The train station was on the other side of the bridge, below ground. They took an escalator down to a white-walled, spotlessly clean platform. Greg asked the station ’ware for a private coach. There was a rush of dry air from the tunnel, and the bullet-nosed aluminium cylinder glided out, hovering a couple of centimetres above the single rail. They all trooped in, and Greg showed his Event Horizon card to the driver panel, requesting the Kenton station.

  The fall-surf beach was spread out along one side of a deep horseshoe-shaped cove which hugged the foot of the northern endcap. This time there was no cliff of balconies at the base, the endcap was a simple shallow hemisphere carved out of the rock. The six Coriolis waterfalls were replicated, but lacking the severe drop of their southern endcap counterparts. They flowed down channels cut in the rock, clinging to the curve. One of them emptied into the cove with a dramatic foam cloud of spray. Thin rainbows swirled inside it.

  Greg watched in amazement as a woman on a surfboard shot out of the mist, flying across the cove. Another followed her. He looked up.

  The fall-surfers were dotted at fifty-metre intervals all the way back up the waterfall. Where it jetted out of the endcap, a kilometre above him, he could just make out a small metal platform like a broad diving-board. A tiny dark figure leapt off it, descending almost vertically to start with, low gravity only just managing to provide the stability for a lazy glide. The tail of the long board barely touched the water. Then gravity took hold, building constantly as the curve of the endcap increased underneath the surfer. His speed began to pick up. By the time he reached the bottom he was travelling at a hellish velocity.

  They all heard a gleeful whoop as he exploded out of the waterfall’s foam cloud and flashed past, slicing out a long creamy wake. He had almost reached the end of the cove before he slowed to a halt and began paddling back to shore.

  ‘Now that is something else,’ Suzi muttered in admiration.

  Greg knew what she meant, his immediate reaction was: I want to try that.

  Charlotte stared up at the waterfall with a fond smile. ‘It takes a lot of nerve to kick off the first time. But after that it’s addictive.’

  ‘You’ve done it?’ Suzi asked, slightly envious.

  ‘Oh, yes. Fall-surfing is one of their greatest tourist traps. It looks wild, but actually it’s very safe.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Greg said. ‘But it isn’t on our agenda.’ He led them along the path towards the cove, Suzi grumbling behind him.

  The beach itself had a Riviera look, organized, colourful, and crowded. Bars that were little more than wooden planks under dried-palm roofs lined the bluff above the sand. Behind them was a more substantial row of restaurants. Regimental squares of sunbeds covered the top half of the beach, competing for space with netball pitches. The powder-fine sand was dazzlingly white. Waiters in white shirts and dark-green bow ties scurried between the bars and sunbeds, carrying trays of drinks.

  Greg walked along the crumbling sandy soil of the bluff. There was a steady drift of families coming up the steps from the beach, carrying their bags and towels, small children with tired-looking faces.

  Suzi stayed at his side, looking out over the bodies lying on the sunbeds. Rick and Charlotte were still together, locked at the centre of a protective triangle formed by the three hardliners. Greg was pleased with their unobtrusive professionalism.

  Teresa Farrow was a psychic, equipped with sac implants; he could discern her espersense pervading the beach and the bars, alert for hazards. She had told him she possessed an empathy similar to his, but no intuition.

  Jim Sharman was one of the crash team’s tech specialists. All of the team members had one or two fields of expertise.

  ‘Can you see him?’ he asked Charlotte.

  She was standing at the top of some stairs. ‘No, he isn’t here. Sorry.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to find him first time,’ he said, and gave her a reassuring smile.

  They walked on.

  Greg’s cybofax bleeped. It was Lloyd McDonald.

  ‘I think we’ve got something for you,’ the security chief said. ‘A couple of bobbies saw three people distributing leaflets outside the Trump Nugget casino. Two men and a girl. One of the men is in his late fifties, they say.’

  ‘Great,’ Greg said. ‘Tell the bobbies to keep watching, we’ll be right over.’

  One of the bobbies was waiting for them in the station, barely able to keep his excitement contained. His name was Gene Learmount, a boyish freckled face and ginger hair; Greg thought he was about twenty, terribly naïve.

  He told Greg how he and his partner had seen the suspected Celestial Apostles, and immediately taken a table in the casino’s beer garden where they could watch without being seen. The search for the Celestials was the biggest deal for New London’s police in months. Did it mean the Governor was finally going to do something about them?

  Greg gave a noncommittal shrug as they rode the escalator up from the station to the park.

  Victor had told him that the police were there principally for the tourists; company security handled the workers and possible tekmerc deals. He wondered how the police felt about that, but the kid seemed happy enough deferring to his Event Horizon card. It was his tradecraft, or rather lack of it, which was worrying. The Celestials must have developed some kind of watcher routine.

  The escalator brought them out under a small marble rotunda. The Trump Nugget was fifty metres away, a three-storey Disneyland fairy castle with tall circular turrets, a moat, drawbridge, and portcullis. Flags were fluttering idly at the top of turret spires. It was ringed with young apple trees in full blossom, white and pink petals coating the grass like dry snow.

  Gene Learmount muttered into his cap’s comset. ‘They’re still in the quadrangle,’ he said.

  ‘How do we go?’ Melvyn asked.

  Greg looked at the portcullis and drawbridge again, letting his espersense expand. There were a few people coming and going, it wasn’t a busy time for the casino. Too early. He caught the watcher’s steely wakefulness, completely out of phase with the passive thought currents around him. When he looked he saw a young man in scarlet shorts picking small yellow fruits from a bush above the moat.

  ‘Bugger,’ he muttered. The watcher would have seen Gene Learmount walk from the casino to the station. ‘Is there another way out of the quadrangle?’ he asked the bobby.

  ‘Yes, certainly. If you go into the castle, there’s a goods delivery subway, and a couple of footbridges over the moat.’

  ‘OK. Charlotte, Suzi, and Teresa come with me. The rest of you stay here, but be ready to move.’

  They walked out into the open. Greg kept his espersense focused on the watcher, waiting for any sign of alarm, but the man just showed a mild interest in their approach. He carried on filling his net bag with the fruit.

  ‘Tell you, we’re being watched,’ Greg said to Suzi.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she said. ‘Stud in the red shorts. I clocked him when we came up the escalator.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He turned to Charlotte who was staring at the watcher. ‘Don’t be too obvious.’

  She grimaced and looked away quickly. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘This is the way I want you to handle it,’ he said. ‘When we get into the quadrangle just look round and see if you can spot him. Take your time, make certain. If he’s there, point him out to us, and walk over to him, say hello. We’ll be with you the whole time. If he makes a run for it, don’t try and follow. Leave that to Suzi and me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Suzi muttered.

  ‘Teresa, you stick with Charlot
te the whole time.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  His cybofax bleeped when they were twenty metres from the drawbridge.

  ‘Got another one for you,’ Lloyd McDonald said.

  ‘Oh, Christ, now where?’

  ‘Sports arena. There’s a tennis exhibition tournament this week; the Jerome Merril and Lemark Pampa match. One of my people has seen a couple of Celestials talking to some spectators.’

  ‘OK, same procedure. Keep them under observation until we get there.’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  The castle really was made out of stone, one-metre cubes of a rusty-brown colour that had been quarried out of the asteroid somewhere. Greg had been expecting jazzed-up composite.

  The quadrangle had three levels. A sunken corner given over to an ornamental water garden, the main lawn with several large brass and granite freeform sculptures from the organic school, and the beer garden running along one side, overlooking the other two. Greg squashed a groan when he saw the second bobby sitting at one of the tables, diligently observing the people threading their way round the sculptures.

  Greg spotted one of the girls straight off, a smiling blonde in a halter top and long swirling skirt.

  Teresa Farrow nudged Charlotte, and nodded to a man coming up from the water garden. He was about sixty, a thick sheaf of leaflets was sticking out of an open belt pouch. Greg wrapped his espersense round him, finding a peculiar mix of alertness and satisfaction.

  ‘That’s not him,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Shit,’ Suzi said. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Greg felt something being thrust into his hand, dry and light, cylindrical. He closed his fingers round it instinctively.

  When he turned, there was a slim Oriental girl standing behind him, wearing a black string vest tucked into cutoff jeans.

  ‘Your future lies among the stars. I hope you’ll join us tomorrow,’ she said, deeply serious, then smiled and walked away.

  He followed the denim-painted backside as she walked through the archway towards the drawbridge.

  ‘Just your type, huh?’ Suzi asked. She was smirking lecherously.

  ‘Committing her to memory, that’s all.’ He looked down at what she’d given him. It was one of the leaflets, rolled up.

  Tomorrow a new dawn will rise.

  Tomorrow the road to the stars will be thrown open.

  Tomorrow man will not be made in God’s image.

  Tomorrow our suffering and fear will end.

  Tomorrow we will no longer be alone.

  Tomorrow the Earth will be cured.

  Tomorrow we shall be free.

  Tomorrow is now.

  Join us in Tomorrow.

  The Celestial Apostles will hold a Blessing.

  Ushering in the age of Redemption.

  The All Saints Church Hyde Cavern.

  Noon Tomorrow.

  All Welcome.

  Greg showed it to Suzi. ‘Yeah, very deep,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know copywriters ran away to be Celestials when they grew up.’

  ‘Tomorrow, Clifford Jepson is officially going to announce, atomic structuring to the world,’ Greg said.

  She sniffed, and read the leaflet again.

  ‘Some of those connotations are pretty strong,’ he said.

  ‘Could be,’ Suzi admitted grudgingly. ‘You want to snatch one of them and run your word-association gimmick?’

  ‘No. They’d all go to ground, and we can’t afford that if I’m wrong.’ He folded the leaflet and stuck it in his jacket pocket. ‘Come on, let’s go see the tennis match.’

  Greg rode the escalator out of the Slatebridge Park station into another of the ubiquitous rotundas. There was a police sergeant waiting for him, Bernard Kemp, whose stomach was bulging over the regulation belt holding his shorts up. Greg was glad to see him, obviously an old hand. His phlegmatic greeting made a pleasing change from his colleagues’ breathless enthusiasm.

  Slatebridge Park was the ninth sighting of the afternoon. After the casino there had been the tennis match, an orchard, a beach, shopping arcade, another beach, a gallery – Hyde Cavern seemed to be suffering from a plague of Celestial Apostles, all of them distributing the same leaflet advertising the blessing ceremony. ‘They’ve never been this blatant before,’ Lloyd McDonald said. ‘It’s almost like they don’t care about stealth any more.’ And after Slatebridge Park there were another two sightings waiting to be investigated.

  The visibility of the Celestial Apostles was worrying him. He was sure the Dolgoprudnensky would have agents up here. Would they connect the leaflet with the alien? His intuition was mercifully silent. They couldn’t have found Royan or the alien yet. But not even Royan could hide for ever. He was growing increasingly aware of how finite New London really was. And the Dolgoprudnensky had a four-day lead.

  Greg looked over Bernard Kemp’s sagging shoulders at the Globe. It was an open-air amphitheatre, cut into the side of a hillock, circled by a lonely rank of fluted Greek pillars. Tiered ranks of stone seats looked down on a simple open circular stage; the only backdrop was the long still lake at the foot of the small valley.

  About a quarter of the seats were filled. Three actors in white togas were on the stage. Greg was too far away to hear the dialogue, but guessed at Julius Caesar.

  Bernard Kemp used his police-issue cybofax to verify Greg’s card, something none of the other bobbies had done.

  ‘Company man?’ the sergeant said sourly.

  Greg recognized the mind tone, resentful and weary. Bernard Kemp wasn’t a man who enjoyed his beat being interrupted for political reasons. Greg felt a degree of sympathy. As a policeman Kemp was infinitely preferable to André Dubaud. Pity he himself was the irritant. ‘Not quite, no,’ Greg said. ‘But it’s a good enough description. So where’s our man?’

  Bernard Kemp stabbed a thumb at the Globe. ‘Annoying the audience. There’s a couple of them in there. My partner’s watching.’ The thumb moved, lining up on the pillars at the top of the seats. ‘Their look-out is skulking about up there.’

  A black woman in an Indian poncho was sitting with her back to one of the pillars, her knees drawn up to her chin. The position gave her an excellent view over the surrounding parkland.

  Bernard Kemp was the first person to spot a watcher. Greg wasn’t surprised.

  They walked up the slight incline to the amphitheatre. Greg detected the stirrings of alarm in the black woman’s mind as she saw the group of them. She climbed to her feet, brushing grass from her poncho.

  Charlotte stood on the side of the seats, looking round the audience. She blinked, leaning forwards. ‘It’s him.’ She sounded dubious. ‘Really.’

  Greg looked at the man walking up one of the aisles. Charlotte had been generous when she said he was in his late fifties, Greg put his age closer to sixty-five. Other than that he fitted her description: rotund, thinning hair drawn back into a pony-tail, albino skin. He was playing the joker, handing out the leaflets with a bow, smiling broadly, mocking himself. The technique was good, people took the leaflet without protest.

  ‘All right,’ Greg said. ‘Charlotte, you lead. Just walk over to him. Teresa, keep an eye on the watcher.’

  Charlotte started to thread her way along the seating. It wasn’t quite the surreptitious approach Greg had wanted, too many heads turned to follow Charlotte’s progress. When they were halfway towards him, the Celestial caught sight of her.

  Greg watched the emotions chase across his mind, the surprise that came from recognition, interest then concern. When he caught sight of Greg the concern tilted into agitation. Resignation was last, after he’d looked round, sizing up his chances of making a run for it. He gave a half-hearted shrug, and stuffed the leaflets back in a satchel.

  The black woman by the pillar had disappeared by the time Charlotte reached him.

  ‘Hello again, Charlotte,’ the old man said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you up here again so soon.’

  Charlotte ge
stured awkwardly, not saying anything.

  ‘Good afternoon to you,’ he said as Greg stepped into the aisle. ‘You’ll be wanting a leaflet?’

  Greg grinned. ‘Thanks, I’ve already got one.’ Charlotte had been right about the warmth of his smile.

  ‘Ah well. I’ll be going, then.’

  ‘I’ve come all the way from Earth just to see you,’ Greg said.

  ‘What, this little sack of skin and bones?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m sure you must have the wrong person.’

  ‘No.’ He was aware of the people sitting by the aisle watching him. ‘You want to go somewhere where we don’t disturb people?’ He pointed to the top of the amphitheatre.

  The old man glanced round with pointed slowness. ‘Well now, what do you say, Charlotte? Should we stop distracting these good people from this rather mediocre performance? I could never resist the wisdom of a pretty girl.’

  ‘Please,’ Charlotte said quietly.

  ‘Ah, now that’s the word to use. Please.’ He began to walk up the slope.

  Greg saw Rick, Teresa Farrow, Jim Sharman, and Bernard Kemp walking up the side of the seats to meet them at the top.

  ‘Is that a member of the constabulary I see?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Greg said.

  ‘Am I to be taken away in chains, then?’

  ‘Not unless I tell him to,’ Greg said lightly.

  The Celestial shot him a fast appraising glance, then squared his shoulders and carried on. Suzi gave an evil chuckle.

  ‘The look-out scooted,’ Teresa Farrow said when Greg reached the top of the hillock. ‘Do you want her back?’

  ‘No. Not important.’

  ‘All this effort,’ the Celestial said. ‘I’m quite flattered.’

  ‘Want to tell me your name?’ Greg asked.

  ‘I’ll show you mine if you show yours.’

  ‘Greg Mandel, Mindstar Captain, retired.’

  ‘By all that’s holy, a gland man.’

  ‘No messing.’

  ‘The name is Sinclair, for me sins. Pleased to meet you there, Captain Greg.’ He stuck out his hand.

  Greg turned to Bernard Kemp. ‘Thanks very much for your help. We’ll take him from here.’