Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Two hours after leaving the office, he reached field 12-GH-B2, a cluster of twelve algaepaddies, whose crop was genetically tweaked to provide biodiesel. Gwen Besset, the district manager, was waiting for him at the end of the track, sitting in her jeep with the heater on. She was heavily pregnant, and wrapped in a thick poncho.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘Regional kept saying they couldn’t spare anyone.’

  ‘That’s okay. I think someone at my level needs to know first hand exactly what the effect is.’ Adrian had worked with Gwen for over seven years now, and trusted her judgement. If she said there was a problem, it was likely to be a big one.

  They walked up the embankment slope of the first algaepaddy to stand on the rim. Adrian stared out across the kilometre-wide circle of sludge smothering the water. Even with the bad red light he could see the mottling. Dark patches had emerged on the rumpled surface, seemingly at random. They ranged from a couple of metres across to one that was over fifty. The majority were just behind the giant boom arm which swept round and round, almost as if it was responsible for spreading them.

  ‘The dead areas started appearing this morning,’ Gwen said. ‘Hardly surprising. The algae was never designed to live in this kind of temperature. Its growth rate has been slowing all week. Output is well down.’

  ‘Yes,’ Adrian said. ‘To twelve per cent, as of last night. Augustine himself noticed that figure. But this . . . Not good.’

  They walked along the rim to the boom arm with the snow swirling round them. For once, the sweet-sulphur smell of the algae was reduced, diluted by the cold air. He watched the flakes landing on the algae where they slowly dissolved.

  ‘You will get us out, won’t you?’ Gwen asked. ‘If it gets really bad here? I mean, the farms have lost their entire crop now. They say the citrus groves can’t survive more than a couple of weeks of this weather, assuming it doesn’t get worse. Everything will have to be replanted when the sunspots end. But the supply chain doesn’t have a lot of reserve built in.’

  Adrian stopped at the bulky end of the boom, which was crawling along its concrete rail, thick roller wheels barely turning. The motors inside the drive casing were making a loud grinding noise he’d never heard before, as if their axle bearings were filled with sand. He looked at Gwen, whose hands had come to rest on her bump. ‘If it ever gets to that stage, we’ll make sure our employees get out.’

  ‘Thanks, Adrian, appreciate hearing that.’

  He pointed at the drive casing. ‘So what’s happening here?’

  ‘Resistance,’ Gwen said simply. ‘The algae is starting to frost up. That’s preventing the boom intakes from ingesting, which turns them into bulldozer blades. The system can’t cope with that kind of inertia; the stresses we’re seeing are way outside spec-tolerance.’

  ‘Crap on it,’ Adrian muttered. They went up the short metal steps to the walkway which ran the whole five hundred metres along the top of the boom. Looking down on the algae he could see the usually mushy bloom starting to frost up, becoming stiffer and sluggish, reluctant to enter the inlet nozzles. Long puckered mounds were starting to accrete across the intake meshes. That was what the boom was pushing against. ‘And they’re all the same?’ he asked.

  ‘Every one in the field: I inspected them all. Which means it’s the same for every algaepaddy on the Jarrow Plain. They’re dying and breaking down at the same time. Adrian, you’ve got to do something. The algae we can reseed when the sunspots finish. But replacing every boom arm NI owns? That’s going to cost more money than my e-i can count. Is the company even insured for that kind of disaster?’

  Adrian scowled grimly down at the dying algaepaddy. However he tried to spin it in his mind, he couldn’t deny Gwen was right. He told his e-i to call Augustine using the most secure encryption he’d got. It wasn’t a call he’d ever imagined he’d be making, and it took a lot of resolution to stick with it and go past all the security buffers. Even a 2North wasn’t entitled to instant direct access to Augustine. But eventually the call was permitted by Augustine’s e-i.

  ‘Adrian,’ Augustine acknowledged. ‘I see you’re out in the fields. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, but we need to shut down bioil production. All of it.’

  *

  At seven minutes to six the monitor program receiving the feed from meshes along Bensham Road alerted Ian that Tallulah Packer had walked out of her office. It was raining that evening, so she popped up her umbrella, called out her goodbyes to colleagues, and scurried off to the Gateshead Metro station.

  She was going straight home to the St James singletown, he knew; interception routines in the transnet had given him full access to all the calls she’d made that day. The majority had been work-related, and as hectic as expected on the day NI and the other St Libra Great Eight bioil producers announced that they were shutting down their algaepaddies. However, several had been from girlfriends urging her to come out with them that night. She’d turned them down with thanks, saying she just wasn’t ready for that kind of recovery programme yet. It was far too soon after what ‘he’ had done. Even her mother had called, full of awkward concern that the engagement was over.

  Ian’s monitors were also tight on Boris Attenson. He’d made police bail first thing that morning, and taken the express back up to Newcastle. Calls Ian had intercepted revealed how displeased his bosses at the bank were, but given the turmoil in the financial market all day his indiscretion was sliding in far below the board’s radar. Boris even put in a few hours in the office that afternoon.

  Now the monitors showed Boris entering the St James single-town on the Barrack Road entrance, and finding a table in the Travorl bar, ordering a coffee. The bar’s mesh sensor was a good one, allowing Ian to zoom in and see the light film of perspiration on Boris’s brow. A nervous, desperate man working up his courage. Sure enough, with the coffee only half drunk, Boris called the waitress over and ordered a scotch.

  That was all Ian needed. It couldn’t be better if he’d asked Boris to please go and made a complete prat of himself, that way you can completely screw up the relationship.

  Ian opened his desk’s top drawer and took out the big evidence envelope he’d collected from the Market Street vault that morning. As soon as he left the station he headed straight to Monument Station and took the Metro one stop up to St James Station.

  The St James singletown didn’t have many internal meshes in the residential zones, but because of the murder in apartment 576B Sid had ordered smartdust to be smeared on the corridor outside, linked directly to the police network. The chance that the murderer would return to the scene was practically nonexistent, but with the case having so much authority and resources, one mesh had been an easy gamble.

  Ian arrived at the St James seven minutes after Tallulah got home. He loitered in the main lobby, watching Boris in his grid. Finally, the banker got up and walked through the singletown’s commercial arcade to a bank of restricted lifts. He’d clearly kept his code, because the doors opened for him. Ian moved for the lifts in the lobby, using his police access code.

  The corridor mesh showed Boris hesitating outside apartment 576B. He couldn’t call Tallulah directly any more; after this morning’s eight excruciating calls she’d finally told her e-i to revoke his access to her address code. So Boris had to meekly press the buzzer, then, when he got no reply, he started knocking on the door like a relic from the nineteenth century. But it worked, the door opened, framing a weary-looking Tallulah whose expression fluctuated between anger and dismay. Boris immediately started pleading, practically pushing his way in. Tallulah shut the door.

  Out of sight at the other end of the corridor, Ian waited for one minute then walked to the door, and told his e-i to call Tallulah. The timing was perfect, he could hear muffled voices, angry and wretched. They both stopped.

  ‘Yes?’ Tallulah asked.

  ‘It’s Detective Lanagin. I’m returning some of the items forensics took away. The
lab has finished with them now.’

  ‘Oh . . . right.’

  The door opened. Tallulah looked so miserable, eyes red-rimmed from crying, hair lank, shoulders slumped, it was as if she’d just come back from a funeral. Ian just wanted to put his arms round her there and then.

  Boris was standing at her shoulder, a toxfiend in bad need of a fix. Desperate to push his case, yet irate at the unexpected interruption. He glared at Ian.

  ‘I thought you’d want these as soon as possible,’ Ian said, and handed the big plastic envelope over to Tallulah. He hadn’t even bothered to read the full contents list, there was clearly clothing in there, along with some small hard items.

  Tallulah gave the envelope a blank glance as she accepted it. ‘Uh, thank you.’

  ‘Everything has been cleared. And cleaned, too.’ He smiled.

  ‘Look, Officer, this really isn’t the time,’ Boris said shortly.

  Ian appeared to notice him for the first time. ‘The time, sir?’

  ‘Yes. We’re busy. It’s a private matter; you understand.’

  ‘I see.’ He peered at Tallulah who wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Are you all right, Ms Packer?’

  ‘She’s fine!’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘My fiancée is fine,’ Boris snapped. ‘Would you leave now, please. Don’t make me file a harassment report.’

  ‘You’re not my fiancé,’ Tallulah whispered. She started pulling at her diamond and ruby engagement ring, juggling with the forensics envelope.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Boris protested. ‘Darling, please, let me explain. The police were—’ He grimaced and glared at Ian.

  ‘No,’ Tallulah sobbed. ‘Just go! I don’t want you here, Boris. I don’t. Please!’

  ‘I’m not leaving until you listen to me.’

  ‘I think that’s enough,’ Ian said. ‘Sir, the homeowner has asked you to leave. Please do that.’

  A finger was thrust towards Ian’s face. Boris was turning red. ‘Stay out of this. This is all your lot’s fault in the first place.’

  Ian frowned his lack of understanding. His head tilted to one side as if he was pausing to read data from his grid. ‘Aye, the Metropolitan Police held you on a disturbance and identity theft charge this morning. I see the magistrate bound you over to keep the peace. Do you think you’re obeying your bail conditions right now, sir?’

  There was a long moment with the two staring at each other when Boris might have taken a swing at Ian; he was certainly enraged enough to be that stupid. Some deeper instinct must have cut in. Ian was younger, taller and, judging by the way his shirt was stretched over a hard-muscled chest, a great deal fitter; and he was also a policeman.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Boris said bitterly.

  Tallulah turned away, close to tears again.

  Boris reached out with one hand, but never quite had the courage to touch her. He walked out of the apartment.

  Ian hurriedly shut the door. ‘I’m really sorry, Ms Packer. That was probably the worst timing of my career.’

  ‘No. No it wasn’t. Actually, thank you for coming. I’m really glad you arrived. I don’t know what I would have done. I was stupid to let him in.’

  ‘I, er, accessed the police report. I can understand why you don’t want to see him right now.’

  ‘Ever,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to ever see him again.’

  ‘Aye, I know that feeling myself.’

  Tallulah gave him a mildly puzzled look. He shrugged. ‘I was engaged myself, two years ago,’ Ian said. ‘She broke it off. Not like this, mind. Well, I suppose it was a bit. She found someone else. Better prospects, so she said.’

  ‘Why do people do that?’ Tallulah asked bitterly. ‘You let someone in until they become your whole life, then they turn round and stab you through the heart.’

  Ian hated seeing her so despondent, and knowing he was the real reason made that worse. He could almost feel guilty, except exposing Boris was an act of kindness for her in the long run. ‘Down to timing, pet. We were always going to find out eventually. Best it happens early. Mind, there never is a good time, that’s the problem.’

  ‘It just hurts. Why does it hurt so much?’

  ‘Is there someone you can visit, or call over? A girlfriend, like? Have an evening telling each other all men are useless.’

  Tallulah almost managed a grin. ‘You’re not all like Boris.’

  ‘I just don’t want to leave you like this, pet. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll survive.’

  ‘Okay.’ It was hard, making himself walk away. But this had to be played perfectly. Tonight was about contrasts, showing her that good guys did exist, that he was one of them. ‘Listen. This is my address code. If he comes back, or causes any more trouble, I want you to call me. Any time, day or night. I mean it.’

  ‘I don’t think he will. He knows it’s over, he just doesn’t want to admit it.’

  ‘Aye, but if you do need help use my code. Please? Promise you will. I need to know you’re going to be safe and careful.’

  ‘All right.’ She smiled weakly. ‘If he turns up again, I’ll call you.’

  ‘Take care then, pet.’ Ian gave her his serious smile, and left apartment 576B. It was all he could do not to dance down the corridor.

  Monday 8th April 2143

  The Raytheon 6B-E Owl measured nine metres in length, with a seventeen-metre wingspan giving it a glider-like planform, albeit one that was a lot more manoeuvrable than the average glider. Weighing in at just over three and a half thousand kilograms at takeoff, it was designed to cruise at a modest 315km/h for a maximum endurance of forty-seven hours. However, its primary function was low-level survey. The one that had been rocket-launched that afternoon flew upwards through St Libra’s freezing aurora-dominated atmosphere, curving round and round Wukang in a long leisurely spiral, was now struggling to break through its 8,340-metre service ceiling. Ken Schmitt and his team had done their best, loading patches into the vehicle’s smartware pilot, stripping out several sensor systems, bypassing power limiters in the eDyne fuel cells and the Passau motors driving the tail-mounted coaxial fans so it produced an extra eight per cent thrust, allowing it to push on up to a greater altitude.

  But once it reached 9,300 metres the wings couldn’t generate any greater lift, nor could the fan blades bite any deeper into the thin air. Yet that still wasn’t high enough. The communication bay was sending out ping after ping without getting any transponder reply from the e-Rays. Radar couldn’t find anything solid in the sky, though it was at its extreme range limit. The smartdust mesh that covered most of the fuselage couldn’t detect any artificial electromagnetic emission points across the whole southern sky – though the aurora borealis and the hypercharged ionosphere made that a particularly difficult spectrum to scan.

  ‘It’s not the altitude,’ Ken Schmitt acknowledged after the Owl had circled at 9,300 metres for ninety minutes. ‘If there was anything up there, we would have found it. The e-Rays are down.’

  ‘Not surprising in that blizzard,’ Vance said.

  ‘We have got the emergency rockets,’ Davinia Beirne said from the other desk in the AAV shack where she was monitoring the Owl’s telemetry. ‘They should be able to punch a signal all the way over the Abellia from their apex.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Vance said. ‘But frankly, we don’t have anything to say to them yet.’

  ‘How about Norman Sliwinska was murdered?’ Davinia said scathingly. ‘Someone else other than God needs to know, surely?’

  Vance chose to ignore the barb. Norman Sliwinska had been outside during a small lull in the snowstorm on Saturday afternoon. A team had been sent out to clear snow away from the AAV shack, which was in danger of collapsing from the weight of the drifts. The wind had eased off, allowing people out, but the snow was still falling heavily, and the air was overloaded with static from the tremendous lightning storm, making bodymesh links close to impossible.

  A
n intermittent medical alarm from Sliwinska had been picked up by the camp’s hopelessly degraded network. Too little and too late to produce an accurate fix. The Legionnaires outside, ostensibly protecting the clearance team from exactly this ambush, had eventually found blood on the snow. In the three circuits they made of the domes and vehicles, the Legionnaires never found Norman Sliwinska’s body. The clearance team abandoned their efforts and returned to their domes, allowing the AAV shack to take its chances. Unlike poor Norman, it had survived the rest of the blizzard.

  There was one good aspect of the murder which Vance hadn’t shared with anyone: the smartmicrobe bug they’d tagged Angela with confirmed she had been in her dome with Paresh and the two catering staff when the monster struck. It definitely wasn’t her. Important though that was to Vance, it still didn’t rate expending a comm rocket for. He knew the knowledge wouldn’t sway Vermekia.

  ‘I don’t like that weather front,’ Ken announced.

  Vance glanced at the pane showing the Owl’s weather radar imagery. The thicker false-colour waves of yellow and purple were heading in towards Wukang at a steady rate.

  ‘How long till it hits us?’ Vance asked.

  ‘About an hour until the strongest part of the storm arrives,’ Ken said. ‘But we’re already on the edge, it’s just going to get worse. Sir, we need to think about recovery. It’ll take a good fifty minutes to get the Owl back down.’

  ‘I second that,’ Davinia said. ‘We’re going to burn out half the power train unless we ease off soon. There’s nothing out there for it to contact.’

  ‘Okay,’ Vance said. ‘Bring it down. But I want you to land it as close as possible to the camp. And take three Legionnaires with you to collect it.’