The Mandel Files, Volume 1

by Peter F. Hamilton

  I suppose so, girl. You’ve got to remember all this nonsense about actually building flying saucers sounds pretty bloody impossible to a relic like me. Listen, when I was a lad the Daleks were the wildest piece of imagination ever to hit England. I was terrified of them. One time when the Doctor was caught in some caves by …

  Yah. If you could get that data correlated in time for the conference this afternoon I’d be grateful.

  Bloody hell, Juliet, you’ve got a heart of ice. Black ice.

  I wonder who I inherited that from?

  All right, I’ll get on to it.

  Thanks, Grandpa. I really am jolly busy this morning. I’ve got a video bite opportunity with the national swimming squad; then there’s the Nottingham councillors’ delegation, and the meeting for the Home Counties region managerial report.

  You should complain to the union steward, they’re working you too hard.

  If I ever get the chance, I’ll tell him.

  Cancel Channel To NN Core.

  She called Adelia on the housephone and asked her to be ready in half an hour. There was just time for a quick bath, wash off last night’s tussle.

  Hot water gushed out of the wide tap nozzle, kicking up clouds of steam. She stood in the middle of the bath as it twisted round her, reviewing what clothes to wear for meeting the swimming team. Event Horizon sponsored the England squad, so it was mainly a PR event, but she took a genuine interest in the team’s performance. Swimming had been her sport at school.

  She sat down when the water reached her knees, and switched on the spa. Water jets and bubbles pummelled her skin, easing the tension out of her muscles.

  It was no good, she couldn’t think what to wear.

  Access Dictionary File. Define: Fallal.

  Fallal, the memory node reported. Gaudy or vulgar, in reference to jewellery, or clothing, or ornament, etc.

  Bitch!

  13

  The original buildings of HMP Stocken Hall were still virtually intact, a regimented complex of stolid cell blocks squatting behind the five-metre perimeter fence topped with razor wire. Solar panels had been added to the south-facing walls, although they only came up to the bottom of the second-storey windows, leaving a band of ginger brickwork free. The tall concrete-segment chimney of the old utility building was swathed in dark ivy, abandoned now, the machinery it served rusted beyond repair. Solar water-heaters had been set up on the flat roofs, like giant silver flowers with long tubular midnight-black stamens.

  Greg could see work parties tending the vegetable plots inside the fence, men in grey one-piece uniforms lethargically scratching at the waterlogged soil with rakes and hoes. Prisons were officially responsible for producing fifty per cent of their own foodstuff, though the actual figure was often much higher. Grow it, or go hungry. A concept which the PSP had introduced, and the New Conservatives saw no need to alter. Dismay at the idea of prisoners sitting unproductively in their cells for twenty-two hours a day was something both sides of the political divide shared, especially when Treasury funds were scarce.

  He drove past the first set of large gates in the fence. The land around was rumpled with low rolling hillocks and gentle dells, meadows, and beanfields cluttered with the spindly grey sentries of dead trees which marked the line of old hedgerows. A couple of largish woods to the north had that verdant shine which betrayed the new vine species establishing themselves on the bones of the past.

  Stocken Hall itself straddled a rise east of the A1 just north of Stretton village, a fifteen-minute drive from Hambleton. He had taken the Jaguar; the car had been a present from Julia two Christmases ago. It was a powerful streamlined vehicle which looked as if it had been milled from a single block of olive-green metal. He always felt incredibly self-conscious driving it, and Eleanor was no better, which was why it stayed in the barn eleven months of the year. But he had to admit in this instance the image of professional respectability it fostered was probably going to be useful.

  The second gate was the one he wanted; two red and white pole barriers, with metal one-way flaps in the concrete. There was a big steel-blue sign outside which read:

  HMP Stocken Hall

  Clinical Detention Centre

  He stopped in front of the barrier, lowering the window to show his card to the white sensor pillar at the side of the road.

  ‘Entry authorization confirmed, Mr Mandel,’ the pillar’s construct voice said. ‘Please park in slot seven. Thank you.’ The barrier in front of him lifted.

  If anything, Stocken’s new annexe was even drabber than its older counterparts. The building was a three-storey hexagon, fifty metres to a side, with a broad central well; a metal skeleton overlaid with gunmetal-grey composite panels, three rings of silvered glass spaced equidistantly up its frontage. Modular, factory-built, easy to assemble, cheap, and twice as strong as the traditional brick and cement structures.

  He hadn’t been expecting such a sophisticated set-up; like most government ministries the Home Office, and therefore its subsidiary the prison service, was currently cash starved. And even in pre-Warming times, improving prison conditions had never rated highly in MPs’ priority lists. Constituents didn’t appreciate their tax money being spent on giving criminals a cushy number.

  As he drove round to the car park outside the Centre’s main entrance he saw another prison party at work in the dead forest at the back of the perimeter fence. Trunks were being felled, then trimmed before they were hauled off to a sawmill set up under a green canvas awning. It was hard work, rain had turned the ground to a quagmire, but even so he was surprised the inmates were allowed chain saws. Stocken was a category A prison.

  He hurried over the band of granite chips which encircled the building, discomfort trickling into his veins, as tangible as a gland secretion. Too many of his mates from the Trinities had wound up being sent to places like Stocken in the PSP years, and not all of them had survived transit.

  There was another sensor pillar outside the big glass entrance doors. Greg showed his card again. The reception hall had a semicircular desk on one side and a row of plastic chairs lined up opposite. Walls and ceiling were all composite, powder-blue in colour; the linoleum was a marble swirl of grey and cream. Biolum panels were set along the walls, below tracks of boxy service conduits. The place had the same kind of utilitarian layout as a warship interior.

  That military image was reinforced by the two guards sitting behind the desk; they both wore crisp blue uniforms with peaked caps. One of them took Greg’s proffered card and showed it to a terminal. An ID badge burped out of a slot.

  ‘Please wear it on your lapel at all times, sir,’ he said as he handed it over along with the card.

  He was fixing the badge on when one of the doors at the far end of the reception hall opened. The woman who came through was in her late thirties, dark hair cut short without much attempt at styling. Her face had pale skin, slender winged eyebrows, a long nose, and strong lips. She wore a white coat of some shiny material, there was no hint of what clothes might be worn underneath. Her shoes were sensible black leather with a small buckle, flat heels. A cybofax was gripped in her left hand.

  ‘Mr Mandel?’ She stuck out her hand.

  ‘Greg, please.’

  ‘I’m Stephanie Rowe, Dr MacLennan’s assistant. I’ll take you to him.’

  The corridors were windowless, running through the centre of the building. They passed several warders, all in the neat navy-blue uniforms, and always walking in pairs or larger groups. On two occasions they were escorting prisoners. The men had shaven heads, wearing loose-fitting yellow overalls, white plastic neural-jammer collars clamped firmly around their necks.

  Greg frowned at the retreating back of the second prisoner. ‘Are all the prisoners fitted with neural jammers?’

  ‘Yes, all the ones in the Centre. We house some of the country’s most ruthless criminals here. I don’t mean the gang lords or syntho barons. These are the violence and sex orientated offenders, killers, r
apists, and child molesters.’

  ‘Right. Do many of them try and escape?’

  ‘No. There were only two attempts in the last twelve months. The collar’s incapacitation ability is demonstrated to each inmate as they arrive. Besides, most of them are resigned when they arrive here, depressed, withdrawn. The kind of crimes they commit mean even their families have rejected them. They were loners on the outside, there is nowhere they can go, no organization which will hide and take care of them. It’s our experience that a high percentage of them actually wanted to be caught.’

  ‘And do you think you can cure them?’

  ‘The term we use now is behavioural reorientation. And yes, we’ve had some success. There’s a lot of work still to be done, naturally.’

  ‘What about public acceptance?’

  She grimaced in defeat. ‘Yes, we anticipate a major problem in that area. It would be politically difficult releasing them back into the community after the treatment is complete.’

  ‘Was Liam Bursken one of the two who tried to escape?’ Greg asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has he ever tried?’

  ‘Again, no. He’s kept in solitary the whole time. Even by our standards, he’s considered extremely dangerous. We cannot allow him to mix with the other inmates. It would cause too much trouble. Most of them would want to attack him simply for the kudos it would bring them.’

  ‘No honour amongst thieves any more, eh?’

  ‘These aren’t thieves, Greg. They are very sick people.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘A psychiatrist, yes.’

  They climbed a staircase to the second floor. Greg mulled over what she had said. A professional liberal, he decided, she had too much faith in people. Maybe too much faith in her profession as well if she believed therapy could effect complete cures. It couldn’t, papering over the cracks was the best anyone could ever hope for, he knew. But then the gland did give him an advantage, allowing him to glimpse the true workings of the mind.

  ‘So why do you want to work here?’ he asked as they started off down another corridor.

  She gave him a brief grin. ‘I didn’t know I was the one you wanted to question.’

  ‘You don’t have to answer.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I’m here because this is the cutting edge of behavioural research, Greg. And the money is good.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anyone say that about civil service pay before.’

  ‘I don’t work for the government. The Centre was built by the Berkeley company, they run it under licence from the Home Office. And they also fund the behavioural reorientation research project, which is my field.’

  ‘That explains a lot. I didn’t think the Home Office had the kind of resources to pay for a place like this.’

  Stephanie shrugged noncommittally, and opened the door into the director’s suite. There was a secretary in the outer office, busy with a terminal. She glanced up, and keyed an intercom.

  ‘Go straight through,’ she said.

  The office was at odds with the rest of the Centre. Wall units, desk, and conference table were all customized blackwood, ancient maps and several diplomas hung on the wall, louvre blinds stretched across the picture window, blocking the view. It was definitely a senior management enclave, its occupier claiming every perk and entitlement allowed for in the corporate rule book.

  Dr James MacLennan rose from behind his desk to greet Greg, a reassuring smile and a solid handshake. He was thirty-seven, shorter than Greg, with thick dark hair, heavily tanned with compact features. His Brazilian suit was a shiny grey-green.

  ‘For the record, and before we say anything else, I’d like to state quite categorically that Liam Bursken did not slip out for a night, it simply isn’t possible,’ MacLennan said.

  His mannerisms were all a trifle too gushy and effusive for Greg to draw any confidence the way he was intended to. He guessed that Berkeley’s directors were none too happy at suggestions that psychopaths like Bursken could come and go as they pleased. The method of Kitchener’s murder hadn’t been lost on the press.

  ‘From what I’ve seen so far, I’d say the Centre looks pretty secure,’ Greg said.

  ‘Good, excellent.’ MacLennan gestured at a long settee.

  Greg settled back into the bouncy cushioning. ‘I will have to ask Bursken himself.’

  ‘I understand completely. Stephanie will arrange your interview. Make as many checks as you like. I like to think our record is flawless.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m sure it is.’

  Stephanie leant over the desk and muttered into the intercom, then came and sat at the table next to the settee.

  ‘Right, so how can we help?’ MacLennan crossed his legs, and gave Greg his undivided attention.

  ‘As you probably saw in the newscasts, I’m a gland psychic appointed to the Kitchener inquiry by the Home Office.’

  MacLennan rolled his eyes and grunted. ‘God, the press. Don’t tell me about the press. I’ve had the lot of them clamouring on the door to interview Bursken, harassing the staff when they come off duty. You see them on the channel ’casts, these packs which follow politicians and royalty around, but I just never appreciated what it was like to be on the receiving end. And that kind of microscopic attention is precisely what we didn’t want, Stocken is supposed to be a low-key operation.’

  ‘Suppose you fill me in on some background. What exactly is this behavioural reorientation work you’re doing here?’

  ‘You know what kind of inmates we hold here?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s why I’m so interested in meeting Liam Bursken. I saw the holograms of Kitchener in situ. Tell you, it was plain butchery. I’ve seen atrocities in battle, and not just committed by the other side. But the kind of mind which perpetrated that was way outside my experience. I want to know what it looks like.’

  MacLennan nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, the motivation behind their crimes are basically psychological, in all cases deep-rooted. None of the serial killers sell drugs, or steal, or commit fraud, any of the normal range of criminal activities. That sort of everyday crime is mostly a result of sociological conditioning; broadly speaking, solvable if they were given better housing, improved education, a good job, stable home environment, etc. – it’s a process for social workers and parole officers – whereas the Centre’s inmates probably had those advantages before they came in. They do tend to have reasonable IQs, steady jobs, sometimes even families.’

  ‘Do any of them have exceptional IQs?’ Greg asked.

  MacLennan flicked an enquiring glance at Stephanie Rowe. ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Kitchener’s students are all very bright people.’

  ‘Ah, I see, yes.’

  ‘No one here has anything above average intelligence,’ Stephanie announced; she was studying her cybofax. ‘Certainly we have no geniuses resident. Do you want me to request past case histories?’

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ Greg said.

  ‘What we are trying to do at Stocken,’ MacLennan said, ‘is alter their psychological profiles, eradicate that part of their nature which extracts gratification from performing these barbaric acts.’

  ‘Brainwashing?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘It sounds like it.’

  MacLennan gave him a narrow smile. ‘What you refer to as brainwashing is simply conditioned response. An example: strap your subject in a chair and show him a picture of an object, say a particular brand of whisky. Each time the whisky appears you give him an electric shock. Repeated enough times the subject will become averse to that brand. I have grossly over simplified, of course. But that is the principle, installing a visually triggered compulsion. What you are doing in such cases is ingraining a new response to replace the one already in place. But it can only produce results on the most simplistic level. You cannot turn criminals into law-abiding citizens by aversion therapy, because criminality is their nature,
derived subconsciously, not a single yes/no choice. And what we are dealing with in Stocken’s inmates is a behaviour pattern often formed in childhood. It has to be erased and then replaced.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Have you heard of educational laser paradigms?’

  ‘No,’ Greg said drily.

  ‘It’s an idea which goes back several decades. It was the subject of my doctoral thesis. I started off in high-density data-handling techniques, but got sidetracked. Educational paradigms were so much more interesting. They are the biological equivalent of computer programs. You can literally load subject matter into the human brain as though you were squirting bytes into a memory core. Once perfected, there will be no need for schools or universities. You will be given all the knowledge you require in a single burst of light, sending the information through the optic nerve to imprint directly on the brain.’ MacLennan shrugged affably. ‘That’s the theory, anyway. We are still a long way off achieving those kind of results.’

  ‘It sounds impressive,’ Greg said. ‘And you can use it to install new behaviour patterns as well?’

  ‘Behaviour is rooted in memory, Mr Mandel. Conditioning again. You fall into a pool when you are a young child, nearly drowning; and in adult life you are wary of water, a poor swimmer, nor do you have any enthusiasm to improve. It is these countless cumulative small events and incidents in your formative years which decide the composition of your psyche. You are a soldier, I believe, Mr Mandel?’

  ‘Was a soldier. I’m retired now.’

  ‘You volunteered for the army?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And were you any good as a soldier?’

  Greg shifted his weight on the settee’s amorphous cushioning, conscious of Stephanie’s stare. ‘I was mentioned in dispatches once or twice.’

  ‘And yet thousands, hundreds of thousands, of men your age were totally unsuitable for the military life you excelled in. Physically no different, but mentally, in outlook, your exact opposite. The respective attitudes both determined in the period between your fourth and sixteenth birthdays. We are what we are because of that time, the child being the father of the man. And that is the time we must alter in order to eradicate real-time psychoses. My aim is to substitute false paradigmatic memories for real recollections, thus effecting a radical change of temperament.’