The Suspect Genome
( Greg Mandel )
Peter Hamilton
Here's an absorbing and intricately plotted mystery set in a troubled future England, a story that expertly and effortlessly mixes two genres to produce a hybrid worthy of the best of either: a science fiction mystery full of surprises, where nothing is as it seems to be.
THE SUSPECT GENOME
Peter F. Hamilton
THE YEAR'S BEST SCIENCE FICTION: EIGHTEENTH ANNUAL COLLECTION. Copyright © 2001 by Gardner Dozois. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
“The Suspect Genome,” by Peter F. Hamilton. Copyright © 2000 by Interzone. First published in Interzone, June 2000. Reprinted by permission of the author.
One — The Dodgy Deal
It was only quarter past nine on that particular Monday morning, but the September sun was already hot enough to soften the tarmac of Oakham's roads. The broad deep-tread tires of Richard Townsend's Mercedes were unaffected by the mildly adhesive quality of the surface, producing a sly purring sound as they crossed the spongy black surface.
Radio Rutland played as he drove. The station was still excited by the news about Byrne Tyler—the celebrity's death was the biggest thing to happen in the area all month. A newscaster was interviewing some detective about the lack of an arrest. The body had been found on Friday, and the police still had nothing.
Richard turned onto the High Street, and the road surface improved noticeably. The heart of the town was thriving again. Local shops were competing with the national brand-name stores that were muscling in on the central real estate, multiplying in the wake of the economic good times that had come to the town. Richard always regretted not having any interests in the new consumerism rush, but he'd been just too late to leap on that gravy train. Real money had been very short in the immediate aftermath of the PSP years, which was when the retail sector began its revival.
He drove into the Pillings Industrial Precinct, an area of small factories and warehouses at the outskirts of the town. Trim allotments down the right hand side of the road were planted with thick banana trees, their clumps of green fruit waving gently in the muggy breeze. The sturdy trunks came to a halt beside a sagging weed-webbed fence that sketched out a jumble of derelict land. All that remained of the factory that once stood there was a litter of shattered bricks and broken concrete footings half glimpsed among the tangle of nettles and rampant vines. A new sign had been pounded into the iron-hard ocher clay, proclaiming it to be Zone 7, and Ready For Renewal, a Rutland Council/Townsend Properties partnership.
Zone 7 was an embarrassment. It was the first site anyone saw when they entered the Pillings Precinct: a ramshackle remnant of the bad old days. The irony being Pillings was actually becoming quite a success story. Most of the original units, twentieth-century factories and builders' merchants, had been refurbished to house viable new businesses, while the contemporary zones, expanding out into the verdant cacao plantations that encircled the town, were sprouting the uniform blank sugar-cube structures of twenty-first-century construction. Seamless weather-resistant composite walls studded with mushroom-like air-conditioning vents, and jet-black solar-cell roofs. Whatever industry was conducted inside, it was securely masked by the standardized multipurpose facades. Even Richard wasn't sure what some of the companies did.
He parked the Merc outside his own offices, a small brick building recently renovated. Colm, his assistant, was already inside, going through the datapackages that had accumulated overnight on his desktop terminal.
“The architect for Zone 31 wants you to visit,” he said as Richard walked in. “There's some problem with the floor reinforcements. And a Mr. Alan O'Hagen would like to see you. He suggested 10:30 this morning.”
Richard paused. “Do I know him?”
Colm consulted his terminal. “We don't have any file on record. He said he may be interested in a zone.”
“Ah.” Richard smiled. “Fine, 10:30.”
It was a typical morning spent juggling data. Builders, suppliers, clients, accountants, local planning officials; they all expected him to clear up the mess they were making of their own jobs. He'd spent a lot of his own money over the last four years, schmoozing and paying off the county and town councillors to get his partnership with the precinct project, and it had paid off. Townsend Properties was currently involved in developing eight of the zones, with architects working on plans for another three. Having the massive Event Horizon corporation open a memox processing facility on Zone 12 a year ago had been a real triumph for the town; other smaller corporations had immediately begun to nose around, eager for sub-contracts. Quite how the council development officers managed to pull off that coup always baffled Richard. He'd never known a supposedly professional team quite as incompetent as the people who worked at Rutland Council. Every job he undertook was besieged by official delays and endless obstructionist revisions.
The man who walked in at 10:30 prompt wasn't quite what Richard had expected. He was in his late fifties, nothing like any of those eager young business types who normally came sniffing around the precinct. Alan O'Hagen wore a gray business suit with a pale purple tie. He had a sense of authority which made Richard automatically straighten up in his chair and reach to adjust his own tie. Even the man's handshake was carefully controlled, an impression of strength held in reserve.
“What can I do for you?” Richard asked as his visitor settled into the leather chair before the desk.
“My company.” Alan O'Hagen held up a silver palmtop cybofax. Its key blinked with a tiny pink light as it squirted a data package into the desktop terminal. Richard scanned the information quickly.
“Firedrake Marketing? I'm afraid I've never heard of it.”
O'Hagen smiled. “No reason you should. It's a small virtual company I own. I trade on-circuit, specializing in albums and multimedia drama games. I have some German software houses signed up, and a couple of African jazz bands who aren't well distributed in Europe. Naturally, I'd like to rectify that.”
“Uh huh.” Richard made an immediate guess about what kind of German software—the end of the PSP hadn't seen a total reversal of censorship in England. “So how does the Pillings Precinct fit in with all this?”
“I want Firedrake to become more than a virtual company. At the moment it consists of a circuit site with a few trial samples you can access, and an order form. I subcontract distribution and delivery to a mail-order company in Peterborough. After their fees, I'm not left with much in the way of profit. What I want to do is build up a distribution arm myself.”
“I see.” Richard made sure he wasn't grinning. It would appear predatory at this point. “And you'd like to build that distribution company here.”
“It's a possibility.”
“A very advantageous one for you. Event Horizon's memox plant would be next door, so there'd be no shortage of crystals, and we do have an excellent rail service to both Peterborough and Leicester. Not to mention a generous start-up tax allowance.”
“Every industrial precinct does, these days,” O'Hagen said. “Corby is offering a flat-rate construction loan for anyone starting on either of their new precincts.”
Richard blanked his irritation at the mention of Corby. He'd lost three clients to their precinct developers in the last six weeks. “You'll find us a competitive match for any other precinct, I assure you.”
“What about construction times?”
“That depends on the size
of the operation you're looking for, of course.”
“Nothing extravagant to start with, but I will require a zone with considerable potential for expansion if things take off.”
“As I'm sure they will.” Richard walked over to the precinct map pinned on the wall. “I have several zones I can offer you.”
It took another two hours of cajoling before O'Hagen left. Richard had squirted just about every brochure and data package he'd got into the businessman's cybofax. He'd hate to play the man at poker; no hint of how keen he was had leaked from that impassive face. But the good news was that O'Hagen had invited Richard for dinner that night, suggesting the Lord Nelson restaurant in the Market Square.
After lunch, Richard drove to the courthouse in the town's old castle hall. Jodie Dobson, his solicitor, was waiting for him in the car park. In her mid-thirties, a junior partner in one of the local firms, she was more than capable when it came to corporate legal matters.
“We've got plenty of time,” she said, gesturing to the ancient doors. “The land-registry clerk's only just finished his lunch.”
“Fine.” He paused. “I don't suppose you've heard of a company called Fire-drake?”
“Should I have?”
“Not really.” He waved his cybofax. “I was checking their site this lunchtime. They sell a response formulator for interactives. Once you've plugged into a drama, it'll take your character wherever you want to go inside the arena. The plotlines will reconfigure to incorporate your movements and speech into the story. They're claiming a much better reaction time than other software.”
“Sounds fairly standard to me.”
“Yes, but it's not just for flatscreens, it can handle a total VR immersion. It's fully compatible with all the major multimedia formats; you can supplement it to whatever drama you buy.”
“Why the interest?”
He shrugged and gestured her through the doorway. “I think it could be quite successful.”
The old stone hall had a vaulted ceiling, and whitewashed plaster walls hung with hundreds of horseshoes. Prior to the Warming the hall had been little more than a historical tourist attraction, used only occasionally for a magistrate's court. Then in the aftermath of the seas flooding the Lincolnshire fens, the vast influx of refugees had more than doubled Rutland's population. The hall's legal activities had expanded to become full-time. Modern partitioning had been used to break up the rear of the hall into small office cubicles. Jodie and Richard maneuverd along a narrow corridor between the transparent sound-proofed walls. The Land Registry & Claims cubicle was barely large enough to hold the two of them as well as the clerk.
Jodie had the petition already prepared, and handed over the two memox crystals detailing the case, including the original farmer's title to the land. Richard, as the claimee, had to sign a host of papers verifying the action.
“Any idea when the case will be heard?” he asked.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Townsend.” The clerk's hand fluttered over the pile of memox crystals and paper folders on his desk. “We have over eight hundred ownership cases filed in this court alone. The local PSP Land Rights allocation committee confiscated a lot of property.”
“Yes, I appreciate that, but this is land for a commercial venture which will benefit many people in the town. It'll create jobs, and bring wealth into the area. Surely that warrants some additional attention.”
“I would say yes,” the clerk murmured diplomatically. “But it's not up to me.”
“Nevertheless…I'd be grateful if you could point this out to the powers that be.”
“I'll do what I can.”
When they were back outside in the scorching sunlight Jodie frowned. “That was sailing close to the wind. You don't do backroom deals in a civic office.”
“I'll bear it in mind. And you should remember that we need that leisure complex; your partnership will scoop up a big fee for steering it through the legal stages.”
“I am aware of basic marketplace economics, thank you.”
“Good. There's a lot of new industry moving into town right now. That means wealthy educated people looking for somewhere to relax, and prepared to pay for the privilege. Rutland Water is a fabulous commercial resource, which is tragically underused. Can you believe there's only three hotels on the shore?”
Jodie nudged him softly. He looked around to see a bicycle entering the castle hall grounds. It was Andy Broady peddling heavily, his ruddy young face glistening with sweat. Richard almost laughed out loud. Even in this weather the kibbutzniks still wore their thick dark dungarees.
Andy dismounted and leaned the bike against a wall. It was an ancient contraption of black steel tubes, with a wicker basket on the front of broad handlebars. The County Museum would be proud to possess a specimen like it.
Richard gave him a pleasant nod. Andy glared back furiously. For a moment Richard thought he might stalk over and swing a punch. Eventually, he pulled a bundle of papers out of the basket and made for the hall doors.
“My relocation offer stands,” Richard said. “There's no need for either of us to go through this. It is my land.”
“My father died this morning,” Andy said. His voice was close to choking.
“I'm very sorry to hear that,” Richard said.
“Accident, my arse!”
Richard kept his voice neutral. “I don't understand.”
“Listen, you.” Andy took a pace toward them, his finger raised. “Twenty years he worked that land. He kept the faith and taught it to all of us. God rewarded our labors with enough fruit and crops to feed ourselves. It's our home! We won't give it up.”
“With all respect to your father, God didn't give you that land. The PSP did. They stole it from a family who were farming it a lot longer than twenty years, and didn't pay a penny in compensation. What kind of justice is that?”
“It's ours!” Andy was close to tears. “I've spent my life there.”
Richard nearly said, Time to move on, then, but kept his sarcasm in check. It wouldn't do to get involved in a public fracas with some half-wit farm boy. Besides, the oaf was built like a combine harvester—solid power in a huge squat body. They stared at each other for a moment, then Andy hurried inside, rubbing the crucifix stitched to the front of his dungarees.
“Filing their counter claim, no doubt,” Jodie said. “They'll appeal for post-acquisition compensation, you know. It's what I'd do in their situation.”
“Fat lot of good that'll do them. I have full title.”
“You'll have to let me see the plans for this leisure complex sometime. It must be quite something.”
“It's a work of art. Most aesthetic.”
“You mean, profitable.”
He laughed. “What else?”
Alan O'Hagen had booked a table at the back of the Lord Nelson, where they were afforded some privacy. Richard enjoyed the small restaurant; it had tasteful antique decor, efficient service, and an excellent seafood menu. His ex-wife had always badgered him to take her, but he never had the money in those days. Now she was no longer a burden to him with her absurd middle-class a-fair-day's-work for-a-fair-day's-pay ethic. Nothing worthwhile in this world came fair. The young waitress gave him a respectful smile as he came in. Success was the most succulent dish.
O'Hagen was waiting for him. Richard ordered a bottle of Australian Chardonnay from the wine list, almost the most expensive available. It was unusual for a client to buy him a meal, especially at this stage, and it made him wonder what kind of proposal O'Hagen was going to make.
“I want to take Zone 35,” O'Hagen said. “However, I may have one small problem which I was wondering if you could help me with.”
“Go on,” Richard said. This was the part he enjoyed the most—the part, different every time, which had to be settled to make it all fall into place.
“The industrial unit will cost about half a million New Sterling to build and equip,” O'Hagen said. “Firedrake is a viable concern, but I'm not going to get
the capital backing from a bank to build a whole warehouse and mailing outfit from scratch. Not with that to offer as collateral on the deal.”
“Firedrake can't be your only concern, surely?”
“It's not. But the kind of imports I've been dealing with in the past don't lend themselves to close examination. Besides, there's none of that money left.”
“I see.”
O'Hagen leaned over the table. “Look, the thing is this. At the moment Fire-drake has a turnover of about 70,000 New Sterling per year. And that's just with one poxy site and not much advertising. Once my distribution arm is up and running I can expand the product range and the advertising. That'll start to generate enough income to pay off the kind of loan I'll need to get it started. I'm this close.”
“I can see that, but…”
“Every business faces this point in the early years. It's a credibility gap, nothing more. I need the banks to take a favorable look at the proposal, that's all. England's economy is in a high boom stage right now, and it's going to last for a decade at least with this new giga-conductor Event Horizon has delivered. There's so much potential for expansion here, you know that. The banks are desperate for an excuse to invest in our companies.”
“But have you got any kind of collateral you can offer the bank? Something concrete? Like you say, they're fairly flexible.”
“I have one proposition. It's for you.” He leaned in closer. “Become my partner in Firedrake. I'll sell you half of the shares.”
“What?”
“It's simple. With your involvement, the bank is bound to approve the loan application. You're an established businessman; your development company is a success. With that kind of finance behind Firedrake, it couldn't fail.”
“I'm sorry. It's my job to sell you part of the precinct, not the other way round. I'm not a buyer, Mr. O'Hagen.”
“I'm not asking you to buy. I'm even prepared to pay you.”
The Suspect Genome (greg mandel) Page 1
