Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

Tonight Sid couldn’t even see the Gateshead bank opposite where the Sage building dominated the Tyne. All he could make out on the black water of the river was the police boat. On the other side of the boat, just visible in the middle of the water, were two sets of pillars, which supported the deep channel guides: like rails lying flat on the water, they made sure large boats passed directly under the centre of the Millennium Bridge’s arches when they were cranked up to their highest position.

  ‘Where was the body snagged?’ Sid asked.

  ‘This side,’ Constable Mardine said. She gave the two detectives a grim smile. ‘The tide’s going out, so no telling how far it drifted downriver first.’

  Saltz finished tying off the mooring rope. Sid clambered over the railings and started down the precarious metal ladder set into the vertical side of the quay, accompanied by the endless soundless fall of snow. Two specialist agency divers helped steady him as he reached the ice-coated deck. They were dressed in top-of-the-range heated water suits with flesh helmets, perfect for keeping them toasty warm while they splashed round in freezing, filthy saltwater, all the while trying to attach a harness to an awkward semi-submerged body. The helmets were peeled open to show off cheerful expressions decidedly out of context to the situation and weather, illustrating just how effective the suits were.

  The captain at least was genuine city police: Detective Darian Foy. Sid knew him from way back.

  ‘Permission to come aboard,’ Sid said.

  Darian gave him a knowing grin. ‘Evening, Detective. Not a good find, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh?’ Something was very wrong with Darian’s response. Too formal. It made Sid realize this was an important one – for the wrong reasons. He wished he had some kind of full-comp legal insurance like Kenny Ansetal, and that a smartarse solicitor would materialize at his side to make sure everything he said was court-formal perfect. Instead he just had to focus hard on procedure. Having the last three months off didn’t help . . .

  ‘Show me,’ he said.

  Ian was helped onto the boat behind him as Darian led him round to the rear of the small cabin. The body was laid out on a recovery stretcher that the midships winch had lowered onto the decking. A plastic sheet was on top. Two lights on the cabin roof were shining down on it, producing a white spectrum blaze at odds with the sombre night.

  Darian gave him a last warning look, and pulled the plastic sheet aside.

  Sid really hoped he didn’t say the: ‘Oh fuck,’ out loud.

  It certainly echoed round inside his skull for long enough. He suspected he had, though, because directly behind him Ian murmured: ‘Aye, you can crap on that.’

  The man’s frozen-white body was naked. Which wasn’t the bad thing. The nasty and unusual deep wound just above his heart wasn’t the career-killer, either. No, the one thing that jumped out at Sid was the victim’s identity.

  He was a North.

  That meant there would have to be a trial. One that ended with an utterly solid – beyond legal and media doubt – conviction. Fast.

  Once upon a time – a hundred and thirty-one years ago to be precise – there were three brothers. They were triplets. Born to separate mothers. Perfect clones of their incredibly wealthy father, Kane North. He named them Augustine, Bartram, and Constantine.

  Although they were excellent replicas of their brother/father – who in turn had possessed all their family’s notorious drive, worship of money, and intellectual ability that all Norths inherited – they had a flaw. The genetic manipulation which produced them was a technology still in its infancy. Kane’s DNA was fixed by rudimentary germline techniques inside the embryo. It meant that Kane’s distinctive biological identity was locked in and dominant in every cell throughout the new body, including the spermatozoon. Any woman having a child by one of the brothers produced yet another copy of the original. This was the flaw in the new dynastic order: as with all forms of replication, copies of copies inevitably saw some deterioration. Errors began to creep into the DNA as it reproduced itself. 2Norths, as the next generation were called, were almost as good as their fathers – but there were subtle deficiencies now. 3Norths were of an even lower quality. 4Norths had both physiological and psychological abnormalities. 5Norths tended not to survive very long. Rumour had it that after the first 5s appeared, 4s were quietly and diplomatically sterilized by the family.

  Nonetheless, the triplets were outstanding men. It was they who embraced the new development of trans-spacial connection while it was in its formative years. They took the risk, and founded Northumberland Interstellar, which ultimately came to build the gateway to St Libra. In turn it was Northumberland Interstellar which pioneered the algaepaddies on the other side, where so much of Grande Europe’s bioil was now produced. They were the board, directing the mighty company’s direction for over fifty years until Bartram and Constantine parted to pursue their own, separate goals, leaving Augustine to lead the bioil colossus.

  But it was the 2Norths who made up the higher echelons of the company management. 2Norths who devotedly ran things for their brother-fathers. 2Norths who had cast-iron links into the very heart of Grande Europe’s political and commercial edifice. 2Norths who ruled their fiefdom of Newcastle with benign totality. 2Norths who would want to know who killed one of their brothers, and why. They’d want to know that with some considerable urgency.

  Think! Sid ordered himself as he shut his eyes to eradicate the sight of his career-killer lying bright and still under the swirling snow. Procedure. Procedure is king. Always.

  He took a breath, trying to summon up a smooth rational outlook: the unfazed take-charge man. An imaginary product of a thousand boring management courses, like a stereotyped zone media cop.

  He opened his eyes.

  The dead North clone stared sightlessly up into the undulating colours of the borealis-plagued sky. His eyes were ruined. Fish? That was an unpleasant notion. Sid gave the odd chest wound a perplexed glance – as if the death wasn’t enough, he couldn’t work out what the hell had left such a puncture pattern. Still, at least something like that slicing into the heart would mean it was a quick death. The North wouldn’t have suffered much. Karma was clearly choosing to spread that around everyone else.

  Sid held his hand over the corpse’s face, and ordered his e-i to quest a link with the dead man’s bodymesh. The smartcells embedded in the icy dead flesh didn’t care that it was dead. They should still be drawing power from the tweaked adenosine triphosphate (ATP) molecules that made up the core of their energy transfer system; an oxidative process that would continue to utilize surrounding fats and carbohydrates just like genuine cells, until the human meat finally started to decay.

  There was no response. Every link icon in Sid’s grid remained inert. The North didn’t have an active bodymesh. ‘He’s been ripped,’ Sid said. Reliving the last few moments of the North’s life – watching the killer stab him through the heart – would probably have resolved the case immediately. Sid knew it would never be that easy, but procedure . . . He bent over, staring at the corpse’s ruined eyes. It wasn’t easy in the harsh glare thrown by the boat’s spotlights, but he could just make out the tiny cuts in the eyeball’s lens, as if an insect had been nibbling away. ‘More than ripped, actually. Looks like they extracted the smartcells, too.’

  ‘Aye, man. That’ll be a pro hit, then,’ Ian said.

  ‘Yeah. Turn his hands over please,’ he asked the divers with their rubber gloves. The skin on the tip of every white frozen finger was missing. Somebody was trying to make identification difficult, which might make sense for a normal crime victim, but a North . . . ?

  ‘Okay,’ Sid said abruptly. ‘Get the examiner down here to clear and retrieve the body. I’m now officially reclassifying this case as a one-oh-one. All records to be backed up and forwarded to my case file.’ He turned to the two divers. ‘Was there anything else out there where you found the body?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Captain, once the body’s bee
n taken ashore I want this boat back out there, and the area where you found the body searched again.’

  ‘Of course,’ Darian said.

  ‘Is it worth giving the area a sonar sweep?’

  ‘It’s not the best resolution, but we can certainly check for anything unusual.’

  Both of them glanced back at the chest wound.

  ‘Please do that.’ Sid instructed his e-i to open a one-oh-one level case file. His iris smartcell grid showed the spherical green icon unfolding. Data from the log and the patrol boat began downloading.

  ‘I want the couple who reported it taken down to the station for a full debrief,’ he told Ian.

  ‘You got it, boss,’ Ian said sharply.

  ‘Okay then.’ Sid went over to the bottom of the ladder and waited until the duty examiner had come down. The man suddenly looked very nervous. ‘I want every procedure carried out in perfect file compliance,’ Sid told him.

  As he climbed back up the ladder, he told his e-i to retrieve the Chief Constable’s transnet access code. The icon appeared, a small red star glowing accusingly in front of him. Only when he got back up on the promenade and was holding the rail to make sure he didn’t slip did he tell his e-i to make the call.

  It took a minute for Royce O’Rouke to answer, which was reasonable enough, given the time. And when the icon did shift to blue it was an audio-only link, again reasonable. Sid could just picture him, half awake on the side of the bed, Mrs O’Rouke blinking in annoyance at the light switched on.

  ‘What the fuck is it, Hurst?’ Royce O’Rouke demanded. ‘You’ve only been back for six hours. For Christ’s sake, man, can you not even piss properly without someone holding your—’

  ‘Sir!’ Sid said quickly – he knew only too well the kind of language O’Rouke used at the best of times. ‘I’ve just coded a case up to one-oh-one status.’

  O’Rouke was silent as he adjusted to the implication; everything he said was part of the official case record. ‘Go ahead, Detective.’

  ‘A body has been found in the river. There’s a nasty puncture wound on the chest. I suspect smartcell extraction, too.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Sir, our preliminary identification is a North.’

  This time the silence really stretched out as grains of snow kissed Sid’s nose and cheeks.

  ‘Repeat please.’

  ‘It’s a North clone, sir. We’re at the Millennium Bridge. The examiner’s clearing the body to be brought ashore now. In addition, I have four agency constables with me on scene, two divers and Captain Foy on the boat. There are also two civilian witnesses having their statements taken.’

  ‘I want a lockdown on the area right away. Everyone on scene is to be taken up to Market Street station immediately. No external communication, understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve ordered Captain Foy to sweep the discovery area again once the body is in the examiner’s van.’

  ‘That’s good, right.’

  ‘I’m fairly certain he didn’t simply fall off the bridge. My preliminary theory is he was dumped upriver somewhere. Body looks like it’s been immersed for a while, but I’ll confirm when the examiner gets back to me. I was going to assign Detective Lanagin to accompany the coroner’s van to the city morgue. He can ensure procedure is followed.’

  ‘All right, that’s a good start. Hurst, we do not want media attention drawn to this yet – we have to have a clear field to operate the investigation in. The chain of evidence must remain clean.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Uh . . . Chief?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How do you want to handle notifying next-of-kin?’

  Pause again, shorter this time. ‘I’ll take care of that. You concentrate on securing the scene and starting the investigation properly.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d like permission and authorization to coordinate with the coast guard. I want any ships sailing on the Tyne tonight identified and searched.’

  ‘Good call. I’ll have the authorization ready for you when you get to Market Street.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Sid watched the icon flick back to purple, then vanish.

  Ian stepped off the top of the ladder, back onto the powdery snow of the promenade.

  ‘So?’ Sid asked.

  ‘Examiner doesn’t want to commit himself. Naturally,’ Ian said. ‘But best he can do with the water temperature and exposure is confirm immersion for at least an hour.’

  ‘He didn’t fall off the bridge.’

  ‘No. He didn’t fall off the bridge. Too much tidal current.’

  ‘Does our examiner want to go for time of death?’

  Ian’s mouth produced a thin smile. ‘No. That’s down to the autopsy.’

  ‘All right. I’ve spoken to the Chief. You’re going with the examiner back to the morgue. Make sure there are no glitches, procedure to be upheld at all times, no exceptions.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’m back to Market Street. The duty network staff can lock and download all the mesh surveillance memories from along the river for tonight. I need to chase ships, as well.’

  Ian pulled a dubious expression. ‘Nothing sailing tonight. Not in this.’

  ‘We can’t see more than a hundred metres, I can’t even see the Baltic Exchange on the other side. There could be a supertanker out there for all we know.’

  ‘We’d know that, man.’

  ‘Detective, we cover every possibility.’

  Ian sobered, realizing how many people – and what rank – would review tonight’s log. ‘Aye, you’re right.’ He went over to the waiting agency constables. ‘Okay, guys, we have to get the body up here. Hope you cleared your medical – it weighs something.’

  Sid watched for a moment as the examiner and divers attached ropes to the stretcher so the body could be pulled up onto the promenade. He tried to work out if he’d missed anything. The basics had definitely been covered. He was sure of it. Starting the investigation properly. O’Rouke couldn’t have been clearer. In the morning, senior detectives would be moved in to assume command of the case; no doubt aided by a dozen specialist advisers Aldred North would send along from Northumberland Interstellar’s security division. By lunchtime, Sid wouldn’t have to worry about a thing.

  Monday 14th January 2143

  The alarm clock’s sharp buzz dragged Sid awake. He groaned and reached out for the snooze button.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Jacinta reached over him and caught his roaming hand.

  He gave another groan, louder and frustrated. The alarm kept going. ‘All right, Jesus, pet.’ He swung his legs out of the bed. Only then did she agree to release his hand. He brought it down vindictively on the clock, and the wretched noise stopped. He yawned. His eyes were blurry and he felt like he’d had maybe ten minutes’ sleep. The room was cold, even with the regen aircon whirring away behind the ceiling vents.

  Jacinta was climbing out on her side of the bed. Sid picked up the clock and held it close to his face – the only way he could make out the glowing green figures.

  6:57.

  ‘Crap.’ He couldn’t stop yawning. His bodymesh had detected waking activity, and waited its preset one minute before activating displays and audio tones. The iris smartcells then unfolded a pantheon of ghosts across his sight, which was their basic icon grid.

  ‘What time did you get in?’ Jacinta asked. She was giving him a puzzled look. He managed to give her a weak grin in return, enjoying the sight of her. Jacinta was only three years younger than him, but she aged oh-so-much better. The dark hair was shorter now than when they had met back in London, but still as lush, and always wild this time in the morning. Her figure was similar to those days too, slimmer than anyone who’d had two children should reasonably expect. That was all down to determination in abundance. With fat expelled and muscles toned by solid, regular gymwork – gymwork that she was pointing out more and more would stop his recent upward weight-creep – she was enticingly fit. But it was her complexion which really belie
d her age, as she’d kept a clear skin that seemed to defy wrinkles. Fair enough, he thought, given that half her surgical nurse’s salary was spent on creams, lotions, pharmaceutical gels, and many many other products from that section of the department store where real men fear to tread.

  Sharp green eyes peered at him as the first of the hair clips went in. ‘Well?’

  ‘About three thirty,’ he admitted.

  ‘Aw, pet! Why? What happened?’ Suddenly she was all sympathy again.

  ‘I got a one-oh-one.’

  ‘No! Your first night back? That’s bad luck.’

  ‘Worse,’ he admitted. ‘Not to be shouted about at work, okay, but it was a North.’

  ‘Crap on that,’ she breathed in astonishment.

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He shrugged. ‘O’Rouke will take me off it about a minute into the morning shift.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Oh yeah. This has to be a perfect investigation.’

  ‘You can do that,’ she said immediately, and with not a little indignation.

  ‘Yes.’ That was the shame of it: he knew he really could handle the investigation, and handle it well. In fact, he rather relished the challenge, half the night having been spent formulating a case strategy ready to begin as soon as the morning shift arrived at work. That was the thing with a career-killer – done right it could be a career-maker just as easily. ‘But I’m only six hours back into the job.’

  She gave him a significant look. ‘Aye, pet, but let’s not forget why, okay? The Norths will want someone they know is good.’

  ‘Whatever . . .’

  Loud thumps from the landing, followed by an outraged shout, announced the morning struggle between William and Zara for the bathroom. Will was abruptly banging on the door, yelling at his younger sister to let him in. ‘I canna wait, you cow,’ he yelled.

  Her contemptuous response was muffled.

  ‘You’ll have to take them to school for me,’ Sid announced quickly, hoping it would get overlooked in the general morning chaos.

  ‘No bloody way!’ Jacinta exclaimed. ‘We agreed. I’ve got a full cardio replacement booked for this morning. Top-money vat-grown heart with DNA screening and everything. Her insurance pays full whack and bonus to theatre staff.’