“Tenth of November.” She didn’t have to query the nodes, the date was ingrained. The last time she’d seen Grandpa really happy.
He sat slowly on an old monk’s bench, thinking hard. She hovered, agitated. Wanting to know what he was mulling over, unwilling to interrupt. The hall’s silence amplified every sound as she fidgeted.
“Half-way through the memox spoiler,” Greg mused. “So it had already been working for a few months. The thing is, if the mole, or whoever, had already breached the security cordon around Ranasfari, then it’s odds on that it was Kendric, or Kendric got word of it. Pirate data traffic is his speciality, after all. Tell me, would he have known in advance that Ranasfari was going to crack the giga-conductor? What I mean is, was the breakthrough sudden?”
“Not really. Ranasfari has been working on the project for a decade, he was confident of a positive result for almost a year beforehand. Then he produced a cryogenic giga-conductor last May. A room-temperature version was only a matter of time after that; a lightware cruncher problem, solving the chemical make-up, rather than any revelation in fundamental physics.”
“Yeah, I figured something along those lines. You see, ten years is a hell of a long time to keep something hushed up. If the mole informed Kendric about the cryogenic prototype, then he would have had time to organize the memox crystal Spoiler. The dates certainly fit.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“Not sure.”
“Why?”
“If Kendric knew about the giga-conductor, why did he authorize your buyout of the di Girolamo house?”
“I told you, I blackmailed him.”
“A couple of billion Eurofrancs each year, that’s what your grandfather said the giga-conductor royalty licence bring in, is that right?”
“Yah, in fact it’s a conservative estimate.”
“So answer me this: with an eight per cent stake in Event Horizon, which you could never legally make him give up, why should Kendric worry about his family house being dragged through the mud? In fact, you would’ve looked pretty bloody silly if he hadn’t knuckled under; exposing one of your own financial backers as a shark, then still having to cut them in on a share of your giga-conductor profits.”
The nodes turned the problem into neat packages of equations for her. Greg and the hall slipped away as she pushed them through a logic matrix. They began to develop a life of their own, the channels unable to confine them, twisting out of alignment. The instability began to absorb more and more of the nodes’ processing power. She scrambled to maintain cohesion, loosening the parameters, adding additional channels. But her mind originated nothing ingenious enough to halt the imminent collapse. She observed helplessly as the channels wound in on themselves, constricting in ever-tighter curves, sealing the data packages in closed loops.
The bioware-generated edifice crumpled beyond salvation. Her imagination invested the scene with sound. From a vast distance she could hear a cathedral of glass slowly toppling over.
“Kendric couldn’t have known about the giga-conductor,” she said finally.
“You reckon?”
“Yah. No. Not really. It’s a paradox, you see, he must’ve known, yet he couldn’t have.”
“That’s the way I see it.” He seemed ridiculously cheerful. “Know what we’re going to do about it, Julia?”
“What?”
“Put Kendric at the top of the suspect list, then forget about him. Concentrate on tracking down the source of the leaks. When I’ve done that I’ll see where they lead. Then we might begin to understand the game he’s playing.”
She wasn’t certain any more. Problems should be logical, solutions readily available. The pride she’d possessed in her own ability was dented: the nodes had always been a bulwark in her defence against other people, elevating her soul. No matter appearances and social awkwardness, she knew she was superior. Now this. Unable to provide her with an answer for the first time. And it was an answer which was utterly critical.
But Greg didn’t seem unduly bothered, which gave her a certain degree of confidence. The guilt that this might have been all her fault was dissipating. What more had she been expecting from him?
He rose from the black-polished bench. “Couple of days, week at the most, and it’ll all be over, no messing. You can look back and laugh.”
“Thank you, Greg.”
“You haven’t seen the bill yet. Walk me to the car? I might get lost otherwise; normally when I’m in buildings this size there are hordes of other people queuing to catch their trains.”
She laughed. A joke. He was joking with her. Then her father came into the hall, and the sudden bud of joy was crushed as though it’d never been.
Dillan Evans was wearing jeans and a baggy brown sweater which was fraying at the end of the sleeves. He was walking with a drunkard’s hesitancy, taking care that his feet only trod on the black tiles.
“Hello, Daddy,” Julia said quietly.
He nodded absently at her, and looked Greg up and down with bleary eyes.
Julia felt like weeping. It was bad enough witnessing her father’s state in private, having it exposed like this only exacerbated the pain.
She watched in dismay as he straightened up ponderously. “Bit old for her, aren’t you?” he said to Greg.
“Daddy, don’t, please,” her voice had become high, Strained. She caught Greg’s eye, a tiny motion of her head telling him to say nothing. Please. He inclined his head discreetly, thank God.
Dillan grunted roughly. “Out of the way, don’t embarrass us, keep out of sight, keep your mouth shut, never know what might come out. Want me to shut up, Julie? Is that it? Want your father to keep his dirty mouth closed. Afraid of what the old fool will say? I’m only looking after your welfare. I’ve got a right to meet my little girl’s men friends.”
“Greg is not a boyfriend, Daddy. He’s someone who works for us.”
“Work, eh?” A crafty expression twisted’ his vacant face. “Been up to see the old bastard, have you?”
“What?” Julia blurted, alarmed.
“The old bastard. Up there in the study.”
“Grandpa’s dead, Daddy. You watched the funeral on the channel,” she enunciated with slow deliberation, as though she was explaining a particularly difficult fact to a small child.
“Oh, Julie, Julie. How you hate me, a disgrace, a failure as a father. Beneath contempt. Written off. Well I’m an Evans, too, don’t forget. A mighty Evans. I see things, I listen to what’s going on. I know,” He started up the stairs, clinging tightly to the banister rail. His foot slipped, nearly sending him tumbling. He looked round at her mute face staring up at him. “I could have done it. If he’d given me the chance, I could’ve run the company. Bastard never gave me the chance. He did this to me, his own son! Not you, though, Julie; everybody loves you. He does, I do. Everybody does.” The words spluttered into incoherence. He glanced round nervously, suddenly confused as to where he was, what he’d been saying. His hand pulled hard at the banister, starting himself off on the climb again. He began muttering fractured words as he went.
Julia buried her face in her hands. After a while she felt Greg’s arm round her shoulder. Misery compounded as she found she was quivering silently.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, lowering her hands to wipe at her eyes. Absolutely refusing to cry. Then the implications of what her father had said penetrated. “Oh, God, do you think he was the one?”
“Not deliberately, if that’s what you mean,” said Greg. “Maybe he let something slip. But it wouldn’t do any good asking him. I doubt he’d remember. And I couldn’t tell whether or not he was telling the truth.”
She considered that, if Greg couldn’t make sense of her father with his ability-”His mind has gone, hasn’t it? I mean, really gone, destroyed.”
“Julia.” He held her firmly, a hand on each shoulder. “Isn’t it about time you booked him into a clinic?”
“He’s my father,” she insisted
plaintively. “He needs me.”
“He’s hurting you, Julia. Far too much. You can’t hide that from me, remember? A clinic will care for him properly. You can visit. Hell, you can afford to build a clinic. Put it in a house like this one, he won’t even realize the difference.”
She studied something away to the side of his head, swallowing hard. “Maybe,” she whispered.
“You should get out,” he expanded blithely, changing tone, breaking the mood. “A girl like you ought to be beating off the boys with a stick. Stay up till the wee hours at disreputable parties. That sort of thing. Do you the world of good. Wilholm is grand to look at, but it isn’t exactly jumping and jiving, now is it?”
“No,” she smiled meekly. “I’m going away next weekend, actually. A book launch.”
“A what?”
“A book launch. It’s a big PR event, lasts for two days, truly swish. Naturally the Evans heir was invited.”
“Good. It’s a start. Now, what about a boy?”
“I know someone,” she said defensively. And the thought lit that idyllic warming core of delight.
They walked out into the furnace heat of a cloudless day. The sun’s glare yellowed half of the sky.
“Goodbye, Greg, and thanks again.” She stood very close as he blipped the Duo’s lock. Would he kiss her?
He tugged the Duo’s door open and smiled affectionately, like a doting uncle. “Any time.”
Oh well.
She waved at the car until the curve of the drive took it from view.
End GregTime#Three.
She’d have to edit her father out, though.
CHAPTER 16
Scorching April sunlight metamorphosed the A1 into a bubbling ribbon of tar, for once reversing the rampant greenery’s encroachment. Nettles and grass were sucked below the surface by sluggish eddies, consumed and fossilized within the black brimstone.
The Duo moved along the northbound carriageway with one continuous ripping sound. Greg drove automatically, trying to make sense of the case. He hadn’t admitted it to Julia, but Kendric di Girolamo had him badly worried. A paradox, she’d said. And she was right. Intuition convinced him Kendric was involved with the blitz attack somewhere along the line, no faint tickle either. But why had the man allowed her to buy him out? Maybe Gabriel would know.
He drove straight through Edith Weston, on to Manton, and turned right, freewheeling down the hill towards Oakham, saving the batteries. A dense strip of rhododendron bushes planted along the side of the railway line running parallel to the road was in full bloom, tissue-thin scarlet flowers throwing off a pink haze as they basked in the rich sunlight. Greg barely registered them; he was worried by the idea of a high-placed mole hidden somewhere among Event Horizon’s staff. The last thing he needed was an opposition that was being fed his own progress reports. Maybe it would be best not to keep Walshaw a hundred per cent up to date. More subterfuge, more complexity.
Dillan Evans disturbed him, as well. Not so much his state, but the fact that he could piece together his father’s particular bid for immortality from the snippets of conversation he’d picked up around the manor. If Dillan Evans could, anyone could. That definitely meant interviewing all of Wilholm’s staff. Another neurohormone hangover to anticipate. Or had Dillan Evans realized because he knew exactly how avaricious and egotistic his father was? That, given that the bioware’s capability existed, he would inevitably spend a fortune bringing it to fruition and constructing an NN core. Either way, it left Dillan as a real monster of a loose end. No messing.
Greg had been surprised how bravely Julia handled her father. Her mind’s peppy sparkle had dimmed severely in his presence, but her outward composure had been beautifully maintained. He admired that kind of dignity.
He even felt a degree of pity for Dillan. It would’ve been so easy to condemn him, but he couldn’t find the scorn. He deserved compassion more than anything; a lost ruined man, cowering in the double shadow of his parent and child.
His sorry state made Julia all the more remarkable-or perhaps not, the best roses grew out of manure heaps. And despite being the end product of a decidedly screwed-up family, she shone like the sun. Embarrassingly so in his presence.
Sighing resignedly at the memory, he drove into Oakham, reducing speed as the cycle traffic built up around him. When Greg was a teenager it’d been a sleepy rural market town, home to nine thousand people. Then the Warming melted the Antarctic ice, and Oakham received a spate of refugees from the drowned Fens. Its population rose to well over the fifteen thousand mark, and all without a single new house being authorized by the PSP county committee. The town became a microcosm of English life, compressed, confined, and frantically scrabbling to adapt to the environmental and social revolutions of the new century.
Greg slowed to a crawl by the library at the end of the High Street. People were dismounting from their bicycles, wheeling them forward into the dense crowd ahead. The High Street was packed with market stalls, but there was just enough space left for the Duo between them and the waist-high piles of slowly degenerating kelpboard boxes which swamped the pavement. Greg grated into the gap with a broadside of horn blasts, and followed a shepherd driving his small flock of rotund beasts, gene-tailored for meat heaviness. The Duo’s wheels squelched softly on the carpet of grey-brown turds they laid on the pitted tarmac.
The buildings on this side of the street were mostly old estate agents and building societies. They’d all closed down in the Credit Crash, and the PSP had requisitioned the empty premises under the one-home law, converting them into accommodation modules. Even now there was little improvement in the housing pressure; council and government were locked in a squabble over funds for a new estate on the southern edge of the town. Entire families had crammed into the makeshift facilities behind the shops’ broad plate-glass windows, the oldest relatives sitting amongst the bleached displays like flesh-sculpture buddhas watching the world go by.
Not all of the old retail businesses had gone under: there was still a hotel, a couple of butchers, a recently de-nationalized bank, and a century-old family gear business that had survived; but most of the town’s trade had been usurped by the thriving High Street market. The stalls were crude wooden trestle affairs, keeping the sun at bay with awnings of heavy cloth, patterned in brightly coloured stripes or loud checks. Animals bleated mournfully in their pens, birds squawked inside cramped wicker cages. Pyramid mounds of fruit were stacked high, every colour of the rainbow. Ranks of skinned rabbits hung from poles, stall owners languidly flicking leafy switches at them to keep the flies off. There were clothing stalls, cobblers, tinkers, gear repairers, distillers with an astonishing array of liqueurs, carpenters, potters, the whole repertoire of manual crafts clamouring for attention.
Three hundred metres and ten minutes later Greg cleared the market and turned right into Church Street, parking outside a little bakery shop.
On the other side of the road was a head-high stone wall, rapidly disappearing under an avalanche of dark waxy-leafed ivy. There was a raised garden behind it, enclosed by buildings on two sides and a chapel on the third. He went through the open wooden gate and took the steps two at a time.
The garden and buildings used to be part of the Oakham School campus, but private education hadn’t lasted six months after the PSP came to power, swept away in the card carriers’ Equalization crusade. And after that the refugees had hit town demanding somewhere to live. The campus was requisitioned as fast as the shops, playing fields given over to allotments.
The school’s Round House was a plain circular building sitting on the south side of the raised garden, three storeys high, and built from pale Stamford brick, Its door was closed and locked. Greg stood in front of it, motionless, waiting. It was a game he and Gabriel played. After half a minute he admitted defeat once again and turned to the small touchpanel set into the brick. He started pecking out the six-digit code for room seventeen.
“Come on up,” Gabriel’s voice chim
ed out of the intercom before he’d finished. The lock buzzed like an enraged hornet.
Gabriel Thompson had been a major in the Mindstar Brigade, possessed of the most reliable precognition faculty ever recorded. She was thirty-nine; only two years older than Greg, but judging from physical appearance alone he would’ve said it was closer to twenty. Her fair hair had already faded to a maidenly pearl-white, flab was accumulating all over her body. She wore a fawn-coloured woollen cardigan and tweed skirt, making her broad and shapeless, a half-hearted attempt to disguise her physical deterioration.
It pained him to see her this way, a prematurely middle-aged spinster. Especially as his mind insisted on remembering her as that neat, efficient young officer in Turkey. A fine-looking woman in her day, idolized like an elder sister.
He was given a moody stare as he entered her room on the second floor; it was one of thirty in the Round House, originally intended to sleep two girl boarders. As a permanent bedsit it was terribly cramped.
“Typical,” she said. “Only ever visit when you want something.” Badly applied dabs of make-up made her face shine in the golden afternoon sunlight filtering through the net curtain.
“Not true. Oh, Eleanor says hello.”
“I doubt it.” Gabriel began pouring tea from a silver pot into two bone china cups, all neatly laid out ready.
Rock music from one of the other rooms thumped out a soft bass rhythm in the background, echoing down the stairwell.
“So what have you come for this time?” she asked.
“Philip Evans.”
“He’s dead,” She paused for a moment, then her eyes widened in surprise. “Christ!”
All she needed was a word, a phrase; extrapolating the future from there. Events closest to her came across strongest. There would be no point in him asking her what was going to happen to someone on the other side of the world, she wouldn’t be able to see them.
She’d described the probabilities to him once, explaining her limits after he’d asked her for some impossible piece of intelligence information when they were fighting the Jihad legion.
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