The Mandel Files, Volume 1

by Peter F. Hamilton

Behind Greg the robot suddenly stopped its mad battering. There must’ve been something in the apple. Royan was visibly wilting.

  ‘You go now, please,’ Qoi said, bowing from the waist.

  The lunatic kaleidoscope shrank as the screens began to wink out one by one.

  Qoi’s small expressive eyes were filled with a sorrow that had no right inhabiting someone her age. ‘Nothing more you can do.’

  26

  A flock of black storks were flapping lazily overhead as Greg walked up the Mirriam’s gangplank. The bodyguard teleported out of nowhere to block his path, a hand holding both railings. He was wearing a red and green striped rugby shirt and coffee-coloured shorts. ‘You looking for something?’ he asked in strongly accented English.

  ‘Yes, Mr di Girolamo.’

  ‘He’s not expecting you.’

  Greg couldn’t see the bodyguard’s eyes, they were hidden behind wrapround Ferranti sunglasses. His neck was thickly muscled, displaying a vast network of protruding veins. Whatever steroids he was taking, they were playing hell with his blood pressure.

  ‘Just tell him Greg Mandel is here to see him.’ He held up the Event Horizon card.

  The bodyguard thought it over then called over his shoulder. Another bodyguard appeared at the top of the gangplank; a black bear of a man, over two metres tall, shoulders in proportion, sweat glinting on his broad forehead. The two of them exchanged a brief murmur, then the first stabbed a meaty forefinger at Greg. ‘You. Don’t move.’ He disappeared below deck, leaving his replacement to fold his arms and look Greg up and down contemptuously.

  Greg ignored the attempted intimidation. If Kendric was relying on people like this to protect him from a professional snatch posse then he was in deep trouble. They looked tough, and probably knew their combat routine, but put them up against a tekmerc hardliner team and they wouldn’t last the opening second.

  Muddy water lapped quietly against the yacht’s hull.

  Greg had deliberately waited until midday to give Kendric a chance to recover from his partying at the Blue Ball.

  ‘You’ve cracked,’ Suzi had barked when he told her he was going on board.

  ‘Tell you, I have to get near Kendric,’ he said.

  ‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Ask him questions, see how he reacts.’

  ‘Crazy.’ She crossed herself, eyes rolling. But she helped organize the back-up, positioning the Trinities around the marina. Greg couldn’t find any fault in her method, Suzi had been one who listened.

  Knowing the squad was providing covering fire gave him a degree of confidence walking into the lion’s den. The orders Suzi had were simple enough: on no account was he to be taken into the yacht itself.

  ‘OK, you can come up.’ The first bodyguard had returned. The set of his jaw radiated severe disapproval.

  Mirriam was sixty-five metres of sheer beauty. Whatever his other faults, Kendric certainly knew the difference between refined style and pretentious glitz. Mirriam was conceived as a shrine to the former. Her polished wooden decks gleamed with a rosy sheen under the desert-bright sun. Every immaculate brass fixture was mirror bright. The low-friction white paint was painful on the eyes.

  Greg was led round to the afterdeck. It had integral couches with puffy leather upholstery forming an island in the centre, several recliners dotted about. There was a clutch of chrome gym equipment on the starboard side, just outside the lounge-cabin doors.

  Katerina was lying prone on the bench press, using its leg lift, a big LCD counter notching up each pull. She was dressed in tight black neoprene sprinter shorts, green stretch-leggings, and the top of a loose mauve T-shirt that’d been slashed in half, its ragged hem barely covering her large breasts. Her mane of blonde hair was held back with a broad white elastic towelling band. She was perspiring heavily, drawing breath through her nostrils, an expression of grim concentration on her perfect chiselled features.

  ‘I do know you,’ she said through clenched teeth. The weight she was lifting was almost as much as he used in his own regimen. ‘You were at Julie’s house.’

  ‘That’s me,’ Greg said. ‘Nice party, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You can go now, Mark. Kendric will be out in a minute.’

  The bodyguard looked like he wanted to protest, but didn’t quite know how. Greg flashed him a sunny smile, receiving a dark scowl for his trouble.

  Despite the Ferranti glasses, Greg could tell the man’s eyes were on Katerina as he shuffled off forward. It was understandable, given the circumstances. His own gaze kept switching between her fantastic legs and her abdomen, hypnotized by the hard cords of muscle flexing below her smooth tanned skin. Ever hopeful her little scrap of T-shirt would ride up just that fraction higher.

  ‘Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, finish,’ she gasped.

  ‘Is it worth it?’

  Her head dropped back to rest on the bench’s thin padding. ‘Kendric likes me to be fit,’ she said, her voice was high, childlike and remote. ‘He says that anyone blessed with a body as good as mine has a duty to keep it in tip-top shape. He wouldn’t enjoy me so much otherwise.’

  ‘And what Kendric says and enjoys is important, is it?’

  Her eyes closed. ‘Yes. Very. They do things to me, you see, such wonderful things. If I can’t please them in turn, they might stop. I couldn’t stand that.’

  The passive sing-song lilt she used to recite her doctrine gave him a chill. He folded his espersense around her.

  Katerina’s mind was strange; unruffled, as though she’d been popping tranquillizers. There was little mental activity, she was taking only the minimum notice of her surroundings; it was almost a hibernatory state. But there was no sign of any posttrauma withdrawal, nor any of the jagged rents of chemical-induced damage he had been expecting. Greg went deeper.

  Beneath the sluggish currents of her surface thoughts there was a treasured core of memory, a glowing centre of delicious anticipation and joy. But for all its bright glory, it was a contaminant, tainting every thought.

  ‘What wonderful things?’ he asked softly.

  Katerina’s face became dreamy. ‘They love me,’ she said.

  ‘How do they love you?’

  ‘Sometimes gently. Sometimes so fiercely they make me cry. It doesn’t matter which. It always ends wonderfully.’

  Greg felt his skin going slick with cold sweat. ‘How long has this been going on, Katerina?’

  ‘Ever since I came here. Time doesn’t really bother me now, I’m too happy. Adrian tried, of course, tried so hard, but it never came with him, not properly. I’m so lucky they took me away from him, I might never have known otherwise.’

  ‘When did they take you away?’

  She looked out vacantly across the marina, her mind nearly losing the thread of thought. ‘At the party, Uncle Horace’s party, Bil Yi was there, that’s what Julie promised. So I went. Only they were there too. He was funny and kind, it was exciting.’ She turned back to look at Greg. An angel’s face vandalized by tears. ‘He’s so strong. And I’m afraid.’

  Kendric di Girolamo slid open the cabin-lounge door and stepped on to the aft-deck. Hermione followed a pace behind.

  ‘Mr Mandel,’ he took Greg’s hand in a limp grip. ‘So nice of you to call. I trust Katerina has been entertaining you satisfactorily.’ He was wearing a navy-blue blazer with bright brass buttons and a spotted silk handkerchief peeping out of his breast pocket, a dark green cravat filling the top of his open white shirt. White flannel trousers and dark blue sneakers completed the nautical image.

  Hermione bestowed a gracious smile. A musky breath of orchid perfume stole around Greg, caressing, starting off that certain tingle. The weeks hadn’t dimmed the memory of her beauty. Skin deep, he warned himself, camouflage. She was dressed in a cerise off-the-shoulder gypsy top and blue knee-length skirt. He was reminded of a bird of prey waiting to pounce, mesmerically deadly.

  Katerina rose from the padded bench, bare feet slapping on the w
ooden deck as she came to stand close beside Kendric. ‘I’ve done my routine,’ she said, looking up adoringly at his face. ‘All of it, everything you said.’

  Greg turned away from her desperate search for Kendric’s approval. Studying the New Eastfield skyline.

  Kendric gently wiped her tears with his forefinger, an act which resulted in an almost electric jolt firing through Katerina’s mind. His touch was awakening her. An incredibly warped version of Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming.

  ‘Well done, my dear. I shall attend you in a little while. I have to have a few words with this gentleman first.’

  The desolation on her face was heartwrenching.

  ‘Come along, darling,’ Hermione said. ‘It’s just silly man’s talk. We’ll go and get you ready. You’re all smelly after that exercise. A nice shower is just what you need.’ She took Katerina’s hand and led her back into the cabin.

  Katerina looked back at Kendric, eyes round, imploring. ‘Hurry.’

  Kendric blew her a kiss.

  The door closed. Through the blackened glass Greg could just make out Katerina pulling off her mauve T-shirt. Hermione’s arm slipped possessively round the girl’s narrow waist, leading her deeper into the Mirriam.

  ‘Such an exquisite young girl,’ Kendric said, watching Greg’s face with narrowed eyes. ‘I have always admired your English roses. After one has broken through that cool reserve, their adventurousness knows no bounds.’ There was a fragment of disappointment registering in his mind at Greg’s refusal to show the slightest execration.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t stop long, Mr di Girolamo,’ Greg said. ‘My friends would worry about what’d happened to me.’

  ‘No,’ Kendric said, his thoughts were steely.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘No. You’re not staying at all, Mandel. Katerina let you on board. My mistake; you should not have been allowed within a million kilometres of the Mirriam.’

  ‘But I was wondering if you could help me.’

  ‘I enquired about you after our first encounter. I know what you are. A gland psychic. A Mindstar veteran. You were not going to ask me anything, you were going to uncover. Event Horizon’s truthfinder general, sent to pry by your whore-daughter mistress.’

  Greg held his dismay in check. ‘Any answers you give would be entirely voluntary. I can’t read people’s thoughts.’

  ‘So you claim, and other people fervently hope. It is a particular human weakness you pry on, Mandel; we want, need, to believe we are secure against you. But I have a vast repository of confidential commercial information in my brain. I choose not to believe the word of a repulsive grotesquery, a failed laboratory experiment.’

  Greg let the neurohormones discharge into his brain, desperately searching round with his intuition. There was guilt here, a strong scent; Kendric and Julia were tied together, hating each other, feeding off each other. With a shock he knew she was as guilty as Kendric. Both of them wilfully stimulating the other’s black obsession, a perverted symbiosis.

  He was jerked out of his meditative analysis by hands like a pair of vices clamping round his upper arms. The bodyguards were standing on either side of him.

  ‘Mark, Toby, throw him off,’ Kendric said.

  ‘I’m going,’ Greg told them. He sensed rather than saw Mark’s smirk.

  ‘Too right,’ the bodyguard said.

  Greg contracted his espersense, neglecting the other minds arrayed around the Mirriam, focusing on Kendric alone. ‘Wolf,’ he shouted.

  There was no reaction. No guilt, fright, consternation, panic. The name hadn’t registered. Instead, a band of mild puzzlement tapered through Kendric’s mind. It was followed by a rising tide of wry satisfaction when he realized how shaken Greg was by the negative.

  Toby and Mark frogmarched him off the aft-deck and down the side of the superstructure, Kendric’s laughter chasing him all the way.

  He was dropped abruptly at the top of the gangplank, stumbling. Something with the force of a runaway train slammed into his backside. He tried to curl up into the trusty old paratroop landing crouch, but it didn’t seem to work very well. He saw a fast, confusing snapshot sequence of yachts and water and sky at impossible angles, each black interstice punctuated by a new burst of pain that mercifully shut off almost as soon as it registered, leaving a patch of numbness. The bioware node spliced into his cortex which regulated his gland was also programmed to blank out nervous impulses above a predetermined pain level. Mindstar had included the limiter as an experiment to try and alleviate shock in combat injury cases, but the Army had never brought it into widespread use, there was too much danger of squaddies ignoring the damage they’d received and making it worse.

  The unyielding concrete of the quay arrested his helter-skelter momentum with a sickeningly loud slap. His brain seemed to be floating at the centre of a closed insensate universe. There was harsh laughter from afar followed by running feet. Hands grasped him, hauling him upright.

  ‘Shit. You OK? Can you walk?’

  Tactile sensation eased back, the cortical node reopening enough nerve channels for him to regain control over his limbs. Bruises throbbed sharply across his legs, arms, and back. His left leg was shaking. Both hands smarted from wide slashes of grazed skin, filming over with blood. Tunnel vision showed his suede desert boots at some vast distance. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, it was full of warm sticky liquid.

  ‘Come on, lean on us.’ That was Suzi.

  Greg did so, gratefully.

  ‘You want those pillocks taken out?’ There was a note of hope colouring her voice.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. Big mistake. The world reeled alarmingly, acid bile rose, scouring his throat.

  ‘Green south, green south, stand down. We’re bringing Thunderchild in. Gold west, cover please.’

  There was a small Cambridge-blue three-wheel sweeper-float ahead of him now, its front roller brushes retracted, inclined at forty-five degrees, looking like rusty felt mandibles. The name GUS’S SANITIZING was written down the side in bold yellow letters.

  Greg was urged on to the narrow seat in the Perspex-bubble cab, and Des climbed in behind the wheel while Suzy rode shotgun on the footplate. The two Trinities were both wearing jaunty red shirts and matching trousers, complemented with Gus’s company caps, burger-bar uniforms.

  Des swooped the float into a hard turn, and set off back down the quay at a good five kilometres per hour, squirting a thick spray of bubbly detergent in their wake. He fumbled with the dash switches and cut the rain of cleanliness, cursing hotly.

  ‘I’ve got to go back,’ Greg said, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Fuck that,’ Des said. ‘We’ve blown cover hauling you out. I’ve gotta get my squad safeguarded. Standard procedure; you should know that, Mr Military Hotshot. This operation is now over.’

  ‘What the hell do you want to go back for?’ Suzi asked.

  ‘I have to see something.’

  They shot out on to the promenade, and Des tilted the joystick sharp left. Pedestrians hopped out of the way, hurling abuse.

  ‘Listen,’ Des said. ‘You wanna go back, that’s fucking fine by me. I’ll stop right now and you can walk. But you’re on your own. We’ve been burning our arses off for you, and I don’t see anything to show for it.’

  ‘OK, drop me here.’

  ‘Shit.’ Suzi and Des exchanged anxious befuddled glances. ‘You can’t,’ said Suzi. ‘Come on, Greg, you can’t hardly walk. We’ll bring you back in a couple of days, when it’s cooler.’

  ‘It has to be now.’

  ‘The photon amps are still in place, how about we take you back to Angelica’s? You can watch from there.’

  Greg probed his nose tenderly, it didn’t feel broken, and it’d stopped bleeding. ‘Not that sort of watching, not visual. I want to use my espersense on them.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Des spat. ‘You Mindstar?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Bloody hell,�
� Suzi muttered. ‘I knew there was something about you. Father never said nowt.’

  Greg said nothing, he had always held back from mentioning it to the Trinities. People developed funny attitudes to psychics, kids especially. Let them just think he was lucky, outfits like that put a lot in superstition.

  ‘Jesus,’ Des said. ‘Fucking Mindstar active in Peterborough. Think on it. Party always pissed itself over you people. Look, just what is going down on that yacht?’

  ‘If I knew for sure I wouldn’t have to go back.’

  ‘Shit, just how close do you have to get?’

  They compromised. Des drove into the maze of service alleys behind the promenade shops, and swapped clothes with Greg. Then he went off to organize the squad’s withdrawal, leaving Suzi to drive Greg. There’d be no more retrieval posses if Toby and Mike came after them; but the snipers would remain in place until Greg had finished.

  Suzi drove back out on to the promenade and deployed the brushes before moving up the quay next to the Miriam’s mooring. Seagull crap dissolved into creamy puddles, frizzy bristles whisking it away into the float’s tanks.

  ‘Stop here,’ Greg told her once they were opposite Kendric’s yacht.

  She climbed out of the little cab. ‘Don’t be too long,’ she implored, and lifted the engine cowling.

  Greg relaxed, sinking back into the thin cushioning of the bench, and instructed the cortical node to shut out the sharp throbs of pain his nerves were reporting loyally.

  The gland: stressed, taut like a marathon runner’s calf on the home straight. A sluice of neurohormones bubbled out amongst his axons.

  He wanted a sensory extension that went way beyond his usual short-range emotion perception. To find it he retreated inward, ignoring his blood heat, heartbeats, breathing. The state waited for him right down at the bottom of the mental well, a fragile central pool. Gaseous shapes meandered below its surface. He slipped softly below the interface.

  Greg perceived shadows, treacherous grey cobwebs congealing into misleading forms, aching empty gaps of grainy mist. The vision was silent, neither hot nor cold. Through it all, minds shone like diamond-point mirages, a flat cyclonic swirl of fireflies with himself at the tranquil storm-eye. He concentrated, seeking the opaque distortion of Mirriam, the familiar signature of one mind.