The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  He tried a few chips on the table, egged on by an excited Amanda. It was fun. The manager was surprisingly relaxed about credit.

  After two months Chris Brimley had a nibbana habit that needed three regular scores a day to satisfy, and a fifty-thousand-pound New Sterling debt with L’Amici. They couldn’t afford to go out any more, and now Amanda cried a lot in the evening, showering him with concern. Chris Brimley had actually slapped her once when she found him searching her bag for money.

  Josh Laren’s office was a dry dusty room above L’Amici, the only furniture his teak desk, three wooden chairs, and an antique metal filing cabinet. Ten cases of malt whisky, smuggled over the Scottish border, were stacked against one wall.

  Col Charnwood spent an hour going over the room with a sensor pad, sweeping for bugs. It wasn’t that Suzi mistrusted Josh Laren; in his position she would have wired it up.

  The trembling Chris Brimley who walked into that office was unrecognizable as the clean-cut lad of two months previously. Suzi even felt a stab of guilt at his condition.

  “I thought-” Chris Brimley began in confusion.

  “Sit,” Suzi told him.

  Chris Brimley lowered himself into the seat on the other side of the desk from her.

  “You came here to discuss your debt, right?” she asked.

  “Yes. But with Josh.”

  “Shut the fuck up. For a welsh this size Josh has come to me.”

  “Who-”

  Suzi split her lip in a winter grin. “You really wanna know?”

  “No,” he whispered.

  “Good, maybe you’re beginning to realize how deep you’re in, boy. Let me lay it out for you, we’re gonna get that money back, every penny. My people had a lot of practice at that, never failed yet. Why we get called in. Two ways, hard and soft. Hard: first we clean you out, flat, furniture, bank, the same with that little slut you hang out with, then we start working down your family tree. We see that Morrell gets to know, they fire you, you’re instant unemployable.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Chris Brimley covered his face with his hands, rocking back and forth in the chair.

  “Think maybe I’d better tell you the soft before you piss yourself,” Suzi said.

  Suzi halted the cockroach below a toilet downpipe. Her implant’s time function told her it was eleven thirty-eight. Ninety seconds behind schedule, not bad at all.

  Climbing up the downpipe was slow going. She had to concentrate hard, picking ridges for a secure foothold. Two metres. There was a rim where the concrete pipe slotted into a stainless-steel one.

  She stood the cockroach on its back legs, pressing it against the smooth vertical wall of stainless steel. Her perspective made it seem at least a kilometre high. Three snail-skirt buds on the cockroach’s underbelly flared out and stuck to the silvery metal. It began to slide up the featureless cliff face.

  “Pull the ionic streaming data from Morrell’s research mainframe and squirt it into your cybofax,” Suzi told an aghast Chris Brimley.

  “What? I can’t do that!”

  “Why? Codes too tough?”

  “No. You don’t understand. I can’t take a cybofax into the research block. Hell, we’re not even allowed to wear our own clothes inside; security makes us change into company overalls before we enter. We’re scanned in and out.”

  “Yeah, Morrell security’s got a real fetish about isolation. But you’ve got the use of a cybofax in the research building, aintcha?”

  “A company one,” Chris Brimley answered.

  “Good. And you can pull the data from the terminals no sweat?” Suzi persisted.

  “Yes, my access codes are grade three. My work is applicable to every component of the refiner. Loading it into a cybofax would be unusual, but nobody would question it. But I can’t bring it out.”

  “Not asking you to. Point is, you can move that data around anywhere you like within the research building.”

  Without the directional graphics providing constant guidance updates, Suzi would never have made it round the U-bend. The water confused the cockroach’s infrared vision, and there were too many curves.

  It was eleven forty when the cockroach rose out of the water, clinging to the side of the stainless-steel toilet bowl. She wondered what it must look like to Chris Brimley, a demon insect sliding up silently to bite his arse.

  The infrared cut out, leaving her at the bottom of a giant silver crater; a uniform sky of pink-white biolum light shone overhead. She saw something moving above her, dark and oblong, expanding rapidly. Brimley’s cybofax. There was a flash of red laser light way down on the borderline of visibility. An answering pulse from the Frankenstein cockroach.

  Loading Data, her implant reported; its memory clusters began to fill up.

  Suzi knew Chris Brimley was saying something, the cockroach’s pressure-sensitive cells were picking up a pattern of rapid air compression. But there was no way of telling what the words were, not without proper discrimination programs. She just hoped there was no one in the next cubicle.

  Loading Complete.

  She slackened the snail skirts’ grip on the stainless steel. There was a blurred swirl of silver and pink-white streaks as the cockroach fell back down to the bottom of the bowl. Chris Brimley pressed the flush, and the world vibrated into black.

  Initiate Internecine Procedure.

  The electroplaque cells discharged straight into the body of the Frankenstein cockroach, roasting it in a millisecond.

  Disengage Optical Lead.

  Suzi’s coccyx interface sealed. The end of the optical fibre dropped into her toilet bowl. She pressed the chrome handle for a full flush, then tugged her panties and skirt back up.

  The elapsed time was seven minutes, her bioware implant told her as she left the toilets. Outside she was Karren Naughton again, one of eight hopeful candidates for a job on Morrell’s main reception desk.

  She rejoined the other girls sitting in the personnel department waiting-room. It was in the outer ring of buildings, a low-security area where visitors came and went all day.

  It was still the tea break. Earlier on the candidates had been given assessment tests, now it was the separate interviews. Suzi wanted to skip them, plead a queasy stomach and leg it out on to the street. The stolen data seemed to gleam like a sun-lanced diamond in her brain. Everyone would be able to see it. She held her place, discipline was something Father had drilled into her all those years ago. Unless you are about to be blown, don’t ever break cover. Chris Brimley didn’t know it was her on the other end of the optical fibre, didn’t know where the Frankenstein had been infiltrated into the sewer system.

  Karren Naughton was third to be called. She sat in a glass-walled office being sincere to a woman whose big lapel badge said her name was Joanna.

  Twenty minutes later, after being told she was first-rate material Suzi walked out of the sliding glass doors and into the wall of humidity rolling off the Tyne.

  Col Charnwood picked her up, driving a navy-blue low-slung Lada Sokol with one-way glass.

  “Well, pet?” he asked after the gull-wing door hinged down.

  Suzi allowed herself a smile, breath coming out of her in a rush. “In the bag.”

  “All right.” Col Charnwood flicked the throttle and accelerated into the thick stream of traffic along the base of the river’s embankment. The huge slope was covered by the thick heart-shaped leaves of delicosa plants that had twined around the rocks.

  “I’ll squirt it down to Maurice, let him give it a once-over first,” Suzi said.

  “Ya think he’ll know if it’s kosher?”

  “Maybe not, but he’ll know if it’s connected with ionic streaming. I’m no ‘ware genius. Brimley could’ve palmed us off with the data construct of a steam engine for all I know.”

  There was a serpent of red tail-lights growing in front. Col Charnwood swore at them as he slowed. The road was contraflowed ahead, long rows of cones stretched across the thermo-hardened cellulose surface. Suzi
could see heavy yellow-painted contractors’ machinery moving slowly along the embankment. They were stripping the shell of rock and vegetation from the mound, exposing the dark blue-grey coal slag underneath.

  “Canna leave anything alone,” Col Charnwood muttered.

  Suzi didn’t say anything. She knew Col had been one of the thousands who had built the embankment over a quarter of a century ago. A third of Newcastle’s population had signed on with the city council’s labour crews as the West Antarctic ice-sheet went into slushdown, and most of the rest had contributed at some time or another. Men, women, and children using JCBs, wheelbarrows, spades, picks, sacks, anything they could lay their hands on to haul the slag out of the barges, dumping it on the fifteen-metre-high mounds along the Tyne’s banks. They rolled the rocks into place on top of the slag with ropes and pulleys, a protective crust against wave erosion. Working round the clock for a solid nine months to save their city from the rising sea level.

  “Never been anything like it,” Col Charnwood had told Suzi and the team late one night when they had tired of Amanda’s gymnastic antics. “Like something out of the Third World, it was. Bloody thousands of us, there were. Swarming like flies over the muck. Didna matter who you were, not then. We all worked ten-hour shifts. The money was the same as you’d get paid by the benefit office for being on the dole. But it was our city we were protecting. That meant something in them days, ya know?”

  Now the embankment was being refurbished, centimetre by centimetre. Tracked machinery that crunched up the rock, heated it, spun it into fibres, then laid it down over the slag mounds which had been re-profiled for improved hydrodynamic efficiency, a glassy lava flow that would hold back the Tyne for a century.

  “Cutting our heart out of it,” Col said sadly.

  Suzi looked closely at the machinery as they passed, seeing the small Event Horizon logo on each of the lumbering rock smelters, a blue concave triangle sliced with a jet-black flying V.

  “We unplugging from the deal, pet?” Col asked.

  Suzi visualized Chris Brimley, shorn of all dignity, helpless eyes pleading with her. A victim of deliberately applied psychological violence. “Not straight away, no. I want Amanda to put Brimley back together again first. The money from this will pay his debts to L’Amici. She can get him to break his habit. After that I’ll pull her out. He’ll have a chance at life again.”

  Col shot her an uncertain glance.

  “Where’s your sense of style, Col?” she asked, smiling. “We make a soft exit. This way Morrell doesn’t find out for at least another five months. Maybe never. People have a way of forgetting the worst, glossing over the nightmares. Morrell’s security psychics might not spot his guilt next time they vet him. Be nice to think.”

  “Well, you’re paying, pet.”

  “Yeah, I’m paying.” An expensive treatment to wipe the memory of that broken man with the bowed head in Josh Laren’s dim echoing office. Buying off her own guilt.

  This time it was a pub in Longthorpe, a long wood-panelled, glass-fronted room originally built to serve the Thorpe Wood golf-course as a clubhouse. Now it looked out over the Ferry Meadows estuary where the golf-course used to be. Taylor Faulkner had taken a window table, staring across the grey-chocolate mud-flats which the outgoing tide had uncovered. He was dressed in an expensive white tropical-weave suit, toying with a tall half-pint glass of lager.

  Suzi slid on to the bench opposite him. The barman had glanced at her when she came in, drawn by her size, about to object to a schoolgirl waltzing in, then he met her gaze.

  “We hadn’t heard,” Taylor Faulkner said. “It’s been very quiet in Newcastle.”

  “You want combat, find yourself a general.”

  “No offence.”

  “For seven hundred K, offend away.”

  Taylor Faulkner looked pained. He held up a platinum Zurich card, and showed it to the Amex which Suzi produced, using his thumb to authorize the transfer. She watched the Amex’s grey digits rise, and smiled tightly.

  “May I see what I’ve bought?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She scaled a palm-sized cybofax wafer across the table to him. “The code is: Goldpan. No hyphen. Anything else will crash wipe, OK?”

  “Yes.” He pocketed the cybofax.

  “Nice knowing you, Mr Faulkner.”

  He turned to the window and the gulls scratching away at the mud.

  Suzi rose and made for the door. The sight of the figure in black cotton Levi’s standing at the bar drinking German beer from a bottle made her stop. Leol Reiger, another tekmerc commander. They’d worked together on a couple of deals, hadn’t got on. Not at all. Leol fancied himself as very big time. He was into running spoilers on kombinates, burning Japanese banks. Rumour said he’d even snatched data from Event Horizon. Suzi knew that wasn’t true; he was still alive. And he hadn’t been there when she came in.

  She sat on a stool next to him, feet half a metre off the floor, putting their heads at almost the same level. Ordinarily she didn’t mind having to look up at people. But not Leol Reiger.

  “Slumming, Leol?”

  Leol Reiger lowered his bottle, amber eyes set in a pale face stared at her. He had designer stubble and a receding hairline, oiled and slicked back. “Never learn, do you, Suzi. Four months for a soft penetration, that’s four months’ worth of exposure risk.”

  “Bollocks. What the fuck do you know about it?” she asked, feeling a kick of dismay. How the hell did Leol Rieger know about her deal with Johal HF? He would never work for a company like Morrell, they were too small, too insignificant.

  “Know you checked the wrong people. You were looking down, Suzi. Then, down is where you come from. Once a Trinity, always a Trinity. Nothing more. You don’t have what it takes to make tekmerc, you never did.”

  “Lifted my data, and the target doesn’t even know it’s gone. Not like you. Your deals, all that’s left is smoking craters in the ground and bodies. Your catalogue’s getting pretty thin these days, Leol, right? Word’s around, not so many troops want in on your deals.”

  “That so?” Leol Reiger gestured with the beer bottle.

  Two men were sitting with Taylor Faulkner. Both of them hardline troops, Suzi could tell.

  Leol Reiger took another sip. “You should’ve looked up, Sun. A real tekmerc would’ve looked up. A real tekmerc would’ve seen how much that ionic streaming trick is really worth to Johal HF.”

  She looked at Taylor Faulkner again, seeing how relaxed he was, smiling wanly out of the window. With sick certainty she knew she’d been switchbacked, the knowledge was like bile.

  “You were real careful looking down,” Leol Reiger was saying. “Went through all Morrell’s personnel. But you should’ve been looking up, maybe got your hotrod to crack a few Johal HF files open. Done that, you’d have found our Faulkner here. Not a perfect specimen of humanity, our Faulkner.” Leol Reiger finished his bottle, putting it on the bar.

  Sun had to look up at him.

  “Five million New Sterling, Suzi. That’s what me and my partner are going to get from Johal HF this afternoon when we deliver the ionic streaming data. I paid you out of petty cash.” He turned to the barman. “Get the little lady a drink, whatever she wants. My treat.”

  She watched Leol Reiger walk over to Taylor Faulkner, clap him on the shoulder. The two of them laughed. Fury and helplessness rooted her to the bar stool. That shit Leol Reiger had been right, that was the real source of the pain, not the money. She should’ve checked, should’ve ripped Taylor Faulkner a-fucking-part, built a proper profile, not just a poxy ident check.

  “What’ll it be?” the barman asked.

  Suzi picked up Leol Reiger’s empty beer bottle and hurled it at the row of optics.

  CHAPTER 2

  Monaco at dusk was bathed in thick copper-red light as the dome diffused the last rays of the sun into a homogeneous glow, banishing shadows. Buildings seemed to shine of their own accord.

  Charlotte Fielder admire
d the town’s tasteful stone-fronted buildings through the window of the chauffeured Aston Martin. Monaco’s architecture was a counterfeit of the late nineteenth century, a blend of French and Spanish; hacienda mansions, apartment blocks with elegant white façades, black railings, red clay tiles, verandas festooned with scarlet-flowering geraniums growing out of pots.

  It was the kind of flawless recreation which only truly idle money could achieve. Hardly any of the town was more than twenty years old, so little had survived the razing, when the citizens of Nice had marched on the principality in search of food. Charlotte had been three years old when it happened. But she’d seen AV recordings of the aftermath at school; they reminded her of bombed-out towns from some war zone. Dunes of rubble, where a few walls and archways had endured the maddened assault to jut skywards like pagan altars, soot-blackened bricks, burnt spikes of wood, wisps of smoke twisting lazily. The heat-expanded Mediterranean sea had risen to swirl around that part of the town built on landfill sites, its filth-curdled water pushing a grisly tideline of bodies and seaweed along the crumpled streets. Even the colours had leached out of the images, fixing the scene in her mmd as grainy black and white desolation.

  The destruction had been spectacular even by the standards of a Europe which had almost collapsed into anarchy in those first few years of climatical tumult engendered by the Warming.

  Charlotte retained only vague recollections of her early childhood when the world was plunged into chaos, dream sequences of places and faces, a seemingly endless procession of days when it was too hot and there was never enough to eat. Half of her waking hours had been spent roaming London’s wide bicycle-clogged streets, scavenging food from markets and street stalls. She had lived with her aunt Mavis, a woman in her late forties, with a round haunted face, always wearing floral-print dresses and pink slippers. Aunt Mavis never had a job; by design a lifetime dole dependant, she only took Charlotte in for the extra food allocation. Charlotte never saw any of it; her ration cards were traded with the spivs for bootleg gin, which Aunt Mavis would sit and drink in front of the big flatscrecn on the lounge wall, curtains perpetually drawn.