Mindstar Rising gm-1

by Peter Hamilton

  Nobody lived in the basin. Crabs and gastropods thrived in the nutrient-rich sludge. But no one could earn a living from catching them. An ordinary fishing boat would stick fast in the mud. Conceivably a very light sail-powered catamaran or trimaran might be able to move about. And the idea of deploying nets or pots was laughable. In fact, hovercraft were just about the only vehicles which could be used successfully on the Fens basin.

  From being the most fertile tract of land in Europe the Fens had reverted into a zone of barren desolation rivalling the Sicilian desert for inhospitableness. The sheer sameness of the quagmire was numbing Greg, bleeding away any last reserves of hope and defiance into the stifling atmosphere. Endless kilometres flowed past, compounding the sense of isolation. Gabriel had hunched up in her seat, defeated.

  His attention drifted. Analysing his predicament was suddenly futile, tiresome in the heat and moisture. His thoughts began to freefall, wondering what Eleanor was doing right now. And please don't let Kendric think she was important.

  "Greg."

  The urgency in Gabriel's voice made him look round quickly. A town was rising out of the horizon's uncompromising interface between brown and blue. It was like a mirage, its base lost in the black and silver ripples of shimmering inflamed air. Kendric's hovercraft was powering straight for it, leading them in.

  "Hey."

  The bodyguard sitting behind the pilot turned, boredom reigning. "What?"

  "Where are we?" Greg asked.

  "Wisbech. Why, does it make a difference?"

  He should've known. Wisbech was the harbinger. The self-declared Capital of the Fens was the first instance of wholesale evacuation in England. At the start of the Warming, excessive rains and record tides had sent the Nene cascading over its banks. And in those days the river ran straight through the centre of the town.

  Greg had remained glued to the flatscreen for a week while pontoons of news channel cameras chugged through the flooded streets. He remembered the pictures of drowned orchards ringing the town, the sodden refugees slumped apathetically in Royal Marine assault boats, clutching pathetically small bundles of possessions. It was something out of the Third World, not England. The novelty of such scenes had paled rapidly in the months, and then years, which followed, as town after town succumbed to the water.

  Wisbech only looked whole from a distance, close-up it was in a sorry state. The outskirts had collapsed completely, leaving a broad inverted moat of rubble, protecting the town's heart from the larger vagaries of the swelling mud tides.

  Both hovercraft slowed, manoeuvring cautiously around hummocks coated in vigorous growths of reeds. The narrow channels between them were choked with algae, so thick in some places it resembled a green clay. It was stirred up by the hovercraft's downdraught, freeing pockets of rancid gas. Gabriel and the crewmen coughed and swore, clamping their hands over their faces, Greg couldn't smell a thing; his throat began to dry, though.

  Five metal streetlamps marked one channel for them, miraculously remaining upright after all these years, The conical algal encrustations around them were actually solidifying, turning them into cartoon desert islands. From the height of the poles left above the surface Greg guessed that the street must've been about one and a half metres below the hovercraft.

  Further in, the mounds became more regular, the channels echoing the street pattern they covered. Sections of walls had survived here, triangular, cracked, and leaning at crooked angles. The brickwork was obscured by a viscid pebble-dash of gull droppings. An eerie desynchronised harmonic from the electric fans was bouncing back off them, amplifying their natural soft purr to a vociferous clattering reverberation.

  Overhead, hundreds of gulls twisted in devious helices, calling shrilly, the high-decibel feedback from the entire flock a brazen fortissimo rolling across the ruins. Greg realised it was impossible to creep up on Wisbech.

  They swept out of the mounds and into a suburb that was still standing; two-storey houses bordering a light industrial estate. The mud came halfway up the ground-floor windows.

  There was no glass left in them. Second-storey windows were shattered, crystalline shark teeth sticking out of mouldering frames. Walls bulged, roofs sagged alarmingly, shedding tiles like autumn leaves. Gutters were wadded with grass and bindweed.

  Moving on.

  The Nene's old course was a serpentine semi-liquid desert, three hundred and fifty metres wide, flat and featureless. All the embankment buildings had been pulverised by the febrile floodwater, their debris sucked away by the inexorable vortices generated by the clash between currents of salt water and fresh water. Since then the eternal mud had oozed back, a great leveller.

  Wisbech used to have a bustling port, the river lined by ugly warehouses and towering cranes. Greg had no way of telling where the iron titans had once stood.

  Both hovercraft picked up speed on the flat. The heat pressed down, magnified by still, heavy air. Even the gulls abandoned the chase.

  Greg received a pernicious impression of waiting depth. He was eager to reach the other side.

  Their destination was becoming apparent straight ahead, on the other side of the old river course. The most prominent building there was. An old brick mill tower, slightly tapering, stained almost completely black with age.

  Greg didn't understand how it could've possibly survived until they arrived at its base, riding noisily across the buckled corrugated roof of a petrol station which was elevated half a metre above the mud. The tower had been built on the summit of a raised stony mound. While chaos and ruin had boiled all around, it had remained aloof and untouched.

  Tufts of tough Bermuda grass grew around its base; there was a good two metres of hard-packed earth between the bricks and the mud. The blades in front of the door were trampled down.

  Kendric's hovercraft beached itself on the left of the door, Greg's drew up on the right. The pilot kept going until the bow was bumping the filthy brick, then killed the lift.

  The tower door opened and a man came out. He was fortyish, dressed in a fawn sweatshirt and olive-green Wranglers; his shoes were black leather, polished to a sergeant major's shine. A brown belt holster held a Browning 9mm automatic.

  Kendric and Hermione alighted from their hovercraft. Greg was hauled to his feet beside Gabriel. The man from the tower took in the fresh crimson splash down his shirt, the way he kept swaying from side to side.

  "You were told: intact," he said to Kendric. There was no deference shown. Kendric seemed to be among equals at last.

  "He can walk, he can talk," Kendric retorted indifferently, and marched off into the tower.

  "Un-cuff them," said the man, "and get them upstairs. He's waiting."

  The crewmen began deflating the hovercraft. Mark unlocked the cuffs and waved them into the tower.

  Resignation had settled in long ago. Greg stepped across the door, shuffling like one of the undead, shamed and impotent.

  The basement was bare, brick walls and concrete floor, a smack of dampness in the air, but not as much as there should've been. He spotted a bright conditioning duct disappearing into the rude wooden plank ceiling. A deflated hovercraft of the same kind they'd arrived in sat in the middle of the floor. There was a cast-iron staircase opposite the door.

  "Up," said Mark.

  Shiny black shoes were already vanishing through the hole in the ceiling.

  The first floor was also one big room, appreciably drier, used for storing crates of food. There were quite a few Harrods hampers stacked beside a small grey metal desk.

  The second floor was a living room, carpeted in a thick steel-blue soft pile. Its furniture was modern, matching timber-framed leather chairs and settee, a low ceramic coffee-table, and rose-teak executive desk with a recessed Olivetti terminal.

  Cupboards and a glass-fronted drinks cabinet were fixed to the wall, purpose-built, they fitted the shallow incline perfectly. Light shone through a single frosted glass window halfway up the wall. The brickwork had been left unc
overed, scrubbed clean.

  The dumpy woman who'd accompanied Greg on the hovercraft was waiting at the top of the stairs. Which was impossible, because she was following him up. Had to be twins.

  But that revelation was blown straight out of his mind by the next person he saw. Kendric was talking earnestly to Leopold Armstrong. And Greg knew he'd finally met the person who'd organised the blitz on Philip Evans's core.

  England's ex-president was fifty-seven, but still trim and fit; his meaty face had a few more lines than Greg remembered, his mop of neatly cut silver hair was combed back tidily. He wore a simple Shetland cardigan over an open-neck cotton shirt. So ordinary. Almost homely.

  Greg had thought he was beyond any further surprises, but he just stood and gawked until Gabriel bumped into his back, and her curse was sliced off in mid-flow as she caught sight of Armstrong.

  He looked both of them over, taking his time. The tip of his tongue moistened his lips. Greg resisted the ridiculous urge to straighten his rumpled dinner jacket.

  Mark clattered up the stairs behind them, and hustled them forward. The little living room was beginning to get crowded. Hermione had stretched out in one of the two leather chairs, feigning lethargy. In addition to the man who'd met them outside there was another obvious hardliner hovering around Armstrong, just waiting for Greg to try something.

  "Sit him down, Neville," he said. "Before he falls."

  The man who'd met them outside the tower stabbed his forefinger at the settee, and Greg collapsed into it gratefully. Gabriel joined him after a second thrust.

  His name had given Greg the key, placing the face; astonishing the trivia a mind can hold. Neville Turner: junior Home Office minister in the PSP government, second-in-command of the People's Constables, one of the many shadow figures orbiting Armstrong's periphery.

  Armstrong now held up Greg's Trinities card, a prosecuting counsel with a bloodstained, fingerprinted knife.

  "You're a Mindstar veteran," he said. "What on Earth are you doing consorting with scum like this?"

  He was setting the tone, speaking normally, no threats, no gloating dominance charades. The ex-president was concerned only with facts, reality; he didn't possess time to waste on life's inessentials.

  "Only a total paranoid would be frightened of ghosts," Greg said.

  The Trinities card was pocketed. "You mean Philip Evans?" Armstrong asked. "I admit the potential of that fancy NN core of his alarms me. He was remarkable when he only had a human brain. A giga-conductor with a transcendent Evans masterminding its marketing strategy would be a definite setback for me. He's so depressingly efficient at that sort of thing. A clever man. Pity we have opposing political viewpoints. But that's life."

  "However, the conflict between Evans and me goes much deeper than that, as I'm sure you're aware."

  Greg stared at him dumbly.

  "Good Lord, he never told you, did he? Think on it, Mr. Mandel. You've seen Event Horizon's Prowlers at work, I believe?"

  "Yes," No ultra-hush there, he wasn't giving anything away.

  "Military hardware, Mr. Mandel. Good-quality American military hardware, as provided by that vicious profiteering little arms merchant, Horace Jepson."

  Greg started. And Leopold Armstrong caught it. "Didn't you know? Oh yes, Mr. Mandel, Jepson is a US government convenience. He sells to their allies, discreetly, mark you, and in return their IRS overlooks Globecast's somewhat irregular tax returns." He shook his head. "I don't know what all the fuss about you is. You're not half as good as everyone says. But then Mindstar never did fulfil its promise, did it?"

  "You were worried enough, I remember," Greg said. "You and your People's Constables. Never had much joy catching us, though, did you?"

  Armstrong pursed his lips. "Quite. Well, now you have the facts, make the connection."

  Greg read the anger in his face, sharp-focused determination, riding him hard. Armstrong was vengeance seeking, said his native intuition, a strong clear message. "My God," he said wonderingly. "Philip Evans blew up Downing Street."

  Gabriel threw Greg a quick startled glance, then twisted sharply to look up at Armstrong.

  "Very good, Mr. Mandel," said Leopold Armstrong. "The electron-compression warhead was brought into the country by one of his Prowlers, smuggled into Downing Street by his security division's hardliners. Kendric here tells me Evans laughed when the warhead exploded, thinks of himself as a more successful version of Guy Fawkes, no doubt, très romantique. He obliterated me once, Mr. Mandel; just believing I was dead was enough for the country to march in rebellion against the PSP. But now, now that bastard has exploited his money to do it to me again, to do it to all of us. Immortality, Mr. Mandel. He has bought himself immortality, with his imperialist power, his obscene personal wealth. Another twenty years I'm good for, and a lot can be done in that time. But what is a pitiful twenty years to Evans now? He has eternity. He will see me dead again, for real this time. And do you know what the real ball-kicker of it is? He won't even care; my actual death will be of supreme indifference to him. Because to him, secure in his present incarnation, we are all less than nothing. That, Mr. Mandel, cannot be allowed to pass unchallenged. That is why I risked blowing my cover, all my preparations. Because I am not going to allow him to escape death. Death is universal, making us all equal in the end."

  "How about you, di Girolamo?" Greg asked. "You believe all this crap? You've got enough obscene personal wealth to translocate your memories like Philip Evans. You going to die when you don't have to?"

  Armstrong put on a pained expression. "Please, Mr. Mandel. Kendric and I are not going to be driven apart by your desperation. Our mutual interests are too strong."

  "I can't figure you," Greg said to Kendric. "You knew about the giga-conductor, yet you let Julia buy your family house out of the Event Horizon backing consortium. Why? You've kissed goodbye to a fortune."

  "A deal," Kendric said thinly. "In return for informing the President of Philip Evans's NN core I will be given Event Horizon on a plate; not some derisory percentage, all of it."

  "After it's been nationalised," Armstrong interjected smoothly. "Then naturally an international financier of Kendric's stature would be a perfect choice as chairman. Regretfully, his appointment would have been difficult to justify if Evans junior had exposed his earlier impropriety, which is why he agreed to sever their financial link. But she won't be in a position to issue such paranoiac ultimatums for much longer, after all, we can hardly allow a teenage girl to run a company so important to the country's economic prosperity, now can we?"

  "Julia Evans will be stripped of her wealth and power," Kendric said. He looked straight at Greg, smiling mechanically, a slim line of flawless white teeth showing. "You understand, don't you, Mr. Mandel? You know how it is between Julia and me. There was a time when it was a fun game, she was an excellent player. But unfortunately she is too young, she does not fully comprehend the rules of this world. If I do not take Event Horizon from her, she will use it to harm me, my family house. What would you do in my place?"

  "She understands the rules perfectly," Greg retorted. "You just don't like losing. Seventeen years old, and she can outsmart you from dawn till dusk. You shouldn't be worried, Kendric, you should be terrified. But then you are, aren't you,"

  Kendric's lips closed. "It is not I who will feel terror."

  "No?" Greg asked scornfully. "You even misjudged your new partner here. Armstrong isn't interested in vengeance, he's like you, he's after the giga-conductor. You're just his front man, a cheap puppet."

  "You do have tenacity, don't you, Mr. Mandel?" Armstrong said. "Perhaps that's why Event Horizon hired you. But you're wrong. The money accrued from giga-conductor licence production will be split between us. A valuable source of income to further my aspirations."

  "Aspirations," said Gabriel. "What aspirations?"

  "Ah yes, Miss Thompson, isn't it?" He affected to notice her for the first time. "My return to mainstream politics."

>   "You can't be serious. You'll never resurrect the PSP."

  "Not the old Party, no. It's a fool who doesn't learn from his mistakes. My new organisation will be structured along different lines."

  "Tentimes," Greg said. "You've been paying for Tentimes and the rest of Charles Ellis's hotrod team to screw up all those companies."

  "Indeed, and my people have been quick to point out the inevitable failings of the free-market system. There is a large groundswell of resentment building against the New Conservatives and their mismanagement of the economy. One I intend to encourage."

  "Bollocks," Gabriel snorted. "No matter how bad things get, nobody's going to vote for hard-left policies again. You don't understand just how much people hated everything you stand for."

  "Miss Thompson, if you could still see into the future you'd know that I'm not aiming for the grand slam this time. You can only ever do that once. I was very unlucky in that events beyond my control conspired to put an end to PSP rule. The energy crisis, the Warming, the Credit Crash. No government could withstand that combination. Take a look around at other countries. How many of the leaders of ten years ago remain in power today? We were the ones who were blamed. People don't like to blame their own greed and exorbitant lifestyles. They want someone to hold responsible. And government gets it in the neck every time, from outbreaks of food poisoning to hurricanes. Blame the government."

  "From protesters being whipped to death in the street to seed potatoes being dished up on the tables of Party members," Greg said.

  "Those kind of incidents were inevitable to start with. But the abuses were solvable, given time."

  "You had ten years," Greg said. "All they ever did was get worse."

  "The people who made up the PSP's local committees were unused to power. If they had been allowed to establish themselves, then we would've seen stability. But of course, Mindstar and that plague of urban predator gangs incited trouble in the cities, goading the Constables." He flexed his hands in agitation. "We were… misrepresented."