The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  The data in the console’s cubes froze, Victor saw a dark green sphere suspended inside one of them, a honeycomb tracery of minute folds furrowing its surface. It winked out. The console shut down. Irving Diwan swore softly, and shook his head.

  “Did Royan say where he was taking it?” Victor asked.

  “No, but the container was from the North Sea Farm company, its logo was on the side. You know, that daft one with the seahorse. That’s why I remember it. I thought it was pretty odd, sending a space probe to a sea farm.”

  “Yeah,” Victor said. A blank container would have been the obvious choice. So Royan had wanted it to be noticed. Laying a trail in bright flashing red neon. It was all a game, even something as momentous as alien microbes, a game, new and fascinating. He felt real anger then. Royan was risking everything Julia had built, and at the end, win or lose, he wouldn’t particularly care. He’d just move on to whatever proved bright and glittery enough to capture his attention next, leaving everyone else to shovel up the shit.

  His cybofax shrilled loudly. Emergency code. Victor pulled the wafer out of his jacket pocket, and scanned the security division status display rushing down the little screen. The crash teams had launched to rescue Greg and Suzi.

  “Come on!” he called to Rick, and took the metal stairs out of the cabin three at a time.

  CHAPTER 22

  Julia’s nodes closed the channel to Victor after he finished briefing her on the SETI office’s progress. Wilholm’s patio sprang back into her perception; a broad rectangle of yellow-grey York slabs laid outside the library’s French windows. There was a heavily tinted glass roof overhead, supported by thick stone pillars that were choked by the ropy branches of climbing fuchsias. Big orange and white puffball flowers shone like Chinese lanterns as they caught the bright afternoon sun.

  Matthew was drinking his lemon juice from a tall frosted glass, looking at her in exasperation. “You were talking to someone,” he accused.

  “Fraid so.” She took a sip of tea from her cup. It had seemed like a good idea, tea on the patio with the children. Hot afternoon, cold drinks, excited chatter, and chocolate cake.

  Deep down she knew she was grabbing the opportunity for herself. Charlotte Fielder would be brought to Peterborough this evening; there would have to be a decision over who to align herself with in the bidding war for atomic structuring; and Victor would soon find the spaceplane that had recovered Kiley. There weren’t going to be many spare hours in the next few days. “Bit of a flap on right now, you see.” Although when isn’t there?

  “Is that why Victor was here earlier?” Daniella asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I like Victor.”

  “Me too,” Matthew said.

  “That makes three of us, then.”

  “Is it about Daddy?” Matthew asked.

  “Matthew!” Daniella scolded. “You said you wouldn’t.”

  He scowled rebelliously.

  Julia patted her daughter’s hand. “It’s all right. Yes, it is about Daddy. I’ve got a lot of people looking for him.”

  “Uncle Greg will find him,” Matthew declared stubbornly.

  “My word, nothing much escapes you two, does it?”

  Daniella gave an awkward shrug. “Christine said he was going to do a tracking job. He hasn’t done that for years.”

  “Daddy and Uncle Greg fought together in the war, you see,” Matthew said eagerly. “People who do that will do anything for each other afterwards.”

  Julia sighed. “It wasn’t exactly a war, dear.”

  “What then?”

  “A very sad time. Things got out of hand after the Warming, chaotic and unpleasant. It was just a very few people at the top who caused a lot of trouble for everybody else.”

  “Daddy always said-”

  “Can we drop the subject, please.”

  “There, see,” Daniella said triumphantly.

  Matthew slurped his lemon noisily.

  “Uncle Greg will find him, won’t he?” Daniella asked, her self-confidence suddenly collapsing.

  “Your Uncle Greg is the best,” Julia said. She wanted to say yes, of course; but then she would have to produce Royan. She wondered if she was really doing them any favours sheltering them like this. When news of the alien hit the channel newscasts-and it would-there’d be temper tantrums and sulks because she hadn’t told them about it. But in the mean time they could have a few more days running riot in Wilholm’s grounds, a few more days of the childhood she never had, plenty of friends and no cares.

  Her cybofax bleeped, and she sagged back into the chair. Was half an hour with the children so much to ask?

  “Go on, Mummy,” Daniella said. “Answer it. The only people who have your number are ultra-important. It’s probably the King.”

  “I don’t think even William could help much with this one,” she mumbled half to herself as she took out the wafer. Open Channel to SelfCores. Who is this?

  Michael Harcourt, NN core one answered. It’s an official call in his capacity as Minister for Industry, so we told Kirsten to let it through. The government has finally decided to contact you about atomic structuring. Apparently the inner cabinet has been in crisis session for most of the morning, ever since the Ministiy of Defence briefed the PM on atomic structuring.

  Really. Stay on line, please, I may need some data interpretation.

  Of course.

  “Is it the King?” Matthew asked, trying to look serious.

  Julia laughed. “No. How about you two finishing your tea in the summer-house while I take the call?”

  Matthew lunged for the chocolate cake, lifting its plate with both hands. Daniella picked up the tray with the jug of juice and the glasses.

  “We don’t mind, Mummy, not really,” she said.

  Julia forced a smile through the guilt, disturbed by just how hard it was. “And don’t give any cake to Brutus,” she called after them.

  Michael Harcourt was a New Conservative central office clone; all the party’s cabinet ministers seemed to have been bred in a vat somewhere, she thought. The same vat, bloody nearly the same chromosomes. He was fifty-something, old enough to inspire confidence but nowhere near past it, immaculately groomed, not too expensive suit, silver-grey hair, authoritative face, voice coached into classless inflection. Capped teeth smiled at her from the cybofax’s little screen. “Ms Evans, I’m very grateful to you for taking my call at such short notice.”

  Smooth bastard, she thought; the channel current affairs casts had been hinting at a leadership contest recently: the New Conservative backbenchers were unhappy at Joshua Wheaton’s handling of the Welsh problem. Michael Harcourt was a major contender to replace him. Something else she should have kept up with; the NN cores would know.

  “My office coded your call as a priority,” Julia said.

  “We consider it so, absolutely. The thing is this, Julia; this morning the government was informed of a rather valuable new technology being hawked round the market.”

  “Yes, atomic structuring.”

  “Ah.” Michael Harcourt’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “You do know about it. Excellent. The Ministry of Defence was contacted by both the Greater European Defence Alliance and the Globecast company, to tell them this atomic structuring was being offered for development. According to our analysis, and these are absolutely top-rate people I’ve got working on it, Julia, it’s going to cause quite a bit of a stir. In fact, the word revolutionary has been bandied about, not altogether in jest.”

  “My people say the same thing,” she replied.

  “Good, I’m glad to hear an independent confirmation, always a relief. Can I take it then, Event Horizon will be putting in a strong bid for a partnership with Clifford Jepson?”

  “Of course we’ll put in a bid.”

  Michael Harcourt’s news bite smile dimmed slightly. “Ah, well, that’s a point of some contention in the Cabinet, Julia. You see, Event Horizon has such a prominent position in English industry,
we really feel it’s essential that you put in the winning bid.”

  “If you know of a way to guarantee mine is the winner, Minister, I’d be delighted to hear it.”

  “Well, obviously, Julia, I’d do anything in my power to ensure that Event Horizon wins. We really can’t afford to have you fall behind on this one.”

  “We?”

  “The nation, Julia. As you know, the New Conservatives have always supported you. Event Horizon is an inspiration and example to industrialists everywhere. You epitomize our policies and the success to be gained by following them. We want to make sure that continues.”

  “Mr Minister?”

  “Yes, Julia?”

  Would you mind leaving out the BQ and get to the point.”

  Michael Harcourt frowned. “BQ?”

  “Bullshit quota.”

  That’s my girl; always keep politicians in their place. And that place is down.

  Either contribute constructively, or be quiet, Grandpa.

  “Ah, yes, well, to be perfectly blunt, then, Julia, I’d like to offer my services as a negotiator between Event Horizon and Clifford Jepson. I might not have much weight in corporate circles, but for what it’s worth, I’d like you to consider it at your disposal.”

  It wasn’t what Julia had been expecting. She took a sip of tea to cover her lapse, and embarrassment. Betrayed by her own cynicism. Of course all politicians were self-advancing autocrats.

  “That’s a very kind offer, Michael,” she said. “Have you spoken to Clifford Jepson about it?”

  “Certainly, I wouldn’t wish to waste your time on impractical solutions.”

  “How did you see the deal working?” she asked.

  “I would act as a strictly unofficial conduit. Clifford Jepson has indicated he will allow me to see the other bids as they come in. I make a simple phone call, and you would be in a position to put in the highest bid. Their best offer plus whatever percentage you think would clinch it.”

  “That sounds… workable,” she admitted. And if all else failed, she really did have to obtain that generator data from Clifford. Strange that Michael Harcourt hadn’t mentioned Mutizen, though.

  “I’m delighted to hear it. It’s always gratifying to know one can be of service.”

  “Quite.”

  “And of course, the government will be keen to back you up once you establish a partnership with Globecast. My department has a long tradition of encouraging new technologies, and a strong relationship in that respect with Event Horizon. I would want that to continue.”

  “Indeed? Exactly how did you foresee this happy union progressing?” This sounds like it’s turning into favour trading. Run an immediate check on him for me, find what his angle is.

  Gotcha, Juliet. And I told you so. A smug ghost’s chuckle.

  Michael Harcourt never showed the slightest awareness of her irony. “Obviously, we will offer a zero-tax start-up incentive for the new factories which will produce this technology.”

  “You and every other national government.”

  “I have it in my brief to extend the time defined as “start up” to a period we both find mutually satisfactory; it could even be measured in decades. There would also be considerable financial assistance in the form of R &D contracts for both civil and military projects.”

  “You have thought this out well, I’m impressed.”

  “It could even help us solve our current unfortunate siting problems.”

  “Which are those?”

  “Your new cyber-precincts.”

  “Ah.” She experienced a feeling which was almost contentment.

  “Absolutely,” Michael Harcourt continued eagerly. Wales could receive both of those precincts now. Beneficial all round, we feel.”

  “I don’t quite see how that should be…” She affected a small puzzled frown.

  “The Welsh would have the precincts, providing a great deal of badly-needed employment, and enhancing their local economy, more than they currently expect, while England receives the atomic structuring factories, which are surely the larger prize.”

  “I thought the New Conservatives were hesitant about seeing the cyber-precincts going to Wales?”

  “Not if it were our policy to site them there, and our efforts which finalized the deal.”

  “But it would be dependent on Wales remaining within the union?”

  “That is the best solution for everyone, don’t you think? These secessionists are so short-sighted. The larger the country, the greater its prospects and security, the more attractive it is for organizations like Event Horizon to base themselves here. Welsh independence would be a disaster for both the English and the Welsh.”

  “North and South Italy both seem to have prospered since the split; and Germany is certainly doing well enough from devolving power to the regional governments. There are all three Californias as well. I could go on.”

  “Yes, but it’s a question of scale, Julia; both the Italies are large entities. We no longer have Scotland and Northern Ireland; if Westminster was to lose control of Wales, where would it end? Would Cornwall declare independence, Cambridgeshire perhaps? We cannot allow any further reduction, it is simply inconceivable. Besides, these ridiculous micro-nations may not pursue the kind of market policies we in the New Conservative party believe in so strongly. Can you afford to entertain that possibility?”

  Lord, this is all I need right now. Those bloody Welsh.

  Smart of him to tie his go-between offer in with Wales, her grandfather said. And we do need him to find out what the other bids are. You’ll not split his offer package, Juliet. He’s not that stupid, this is his shot at the top slot; if it fails he won’t get another.

  I’m not going to be rushed or bullied into making the Welsh decision now.

  You may be running out of time on that particular issue, NN core one said. I believe I’ve tracked down the reason for Michael Harcourt’s sudden outbreak of apparent altruism.

  Go on.

  It’s rather mundane, really. The largest single employer in his West Kent constituency is Globecast. Their European network hub is sited there. And it was Harcourt himself who was briefed on atomic structuring by Clifford Jepson, he had an appointment at eight o’clock this morning; I pulled that from the Ministry ‘ware.

  The bugger is Clifford Jepson’s cyborg, her grandfather said bitterly.

  And of course, securing Event Horizon the atomic structuring partnership with Globecast, as well as enlisting your help over the Welsh question, will effectively guarantee him the leadership of the New Conseriative party NN core two said.

  Plus Clifford makes sure Event Horizon pays through the nose, Julia added. He would be in a position where he could virtually dictate whatever price he wants for the generator data.

  Neat, Philip Evans conceded. Clifford’s really pulling out the stops on this one. He gets you dancing to his tune, and his man in Number Ten.

  The worst thing is, I don’t blame him, Julia said. I’d do exactly the same. She couldn’t help the cool bleakness that her world view had been correct in the final analysis. Michael Harcourt wasn’t any different to the rest. Nobody acted honourably any more, everybody had to have an angle.

  Why do I bother? she mused.

  Somebody’s got to, Juliet.

  But why me?

  My heritage, girl, Event Horizon gives you the power.

  So it’s your fault, then, Grandpa?

  If you like. You could always sell it-turn it over to someone else.

  To people like Michael Harcourt and Clifford Jepson, you mean? No thank you, the world is in bad enough shape already.

  That’s your answer then, girl.

  Yeah.

  She gave Michael Harcourt her ice maiden smile, enjoying the way he shrank back. Even over the phone people feared her. Stupid, but occasionally useful. “Very well, Minister, I’d be obliged if you would proceed with your unofficial liaison for me. I’ll ask Peter Cavendish to contact you for the de
tails, when to submit the bid and so on.”

  “Excellent, so we can expect a statement from Event Horizon on the cyber-precincts; that they will only be sited in Wales if it remains part of England?”

  “Yes, as soon as it is appropriate to make such an announcement.”

  “I’ll contact Clifford Jepson right away.”

  “Thank you, Minister. It’s always a joy to learn exactly who I can depend on. I certainly shan’t forget what you’ve done today.”

  Michael Harcourt gave a slight bow. There was no trace of his smile left. “Whatever I can, Julia, you know that. Always.”

  “Goodbye, Minister.” She made it come out like a pronouncement. Rewarded by his flash of alarm just before his picture vanished.

  She should never have allowed this situation to arise; it was her own fault; if she’d kept on top of the political scene, been decisive about Wales, the prospect of a leadership contest would never have arisen, allowing openings for people like Michael Harcourt. In fact she should never have let a Globecast puppet become Minister for Industry in the first place. Attention to detail; once she’d applied the maxim ruthlessly. But there had been so many distractions lately, worry building like a spring stormfront. Funny the NN cores hadn’t caught on to Harcourt before. Could they be afflicted by Royan’s absence? They reflected her thoughts after all, amplifying them a thousandfold. Did that mean the loss they felt was a thousand times the intensity of hers?

  Arrange a conference with David Marchant, she said. I know we’ve left it late for damage limitation, but let’s see what he can do. We can’t have Harcourt as PM.

  Who left it late? her grandfather queried drily.

  Ignore him. We’ll get on to it, NN core two said. Victor called while you were talking to Michael Harcourt. He’s found the spaceplane and the payload facility room which handled Kiley. I’m accessing their memory cores now.