The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Yes, thanks, Grandpa.

  Always here for you, Juliet. And today’s company status review is still waiting here with me.

  Oh, Lord. All right, let’s get started.

  The sprinklers had risen out of Wilholm’s lawn on metre-high metal stalks, like incredibly thin mushrooms wound with a spiral of flexible hose, pumping out long white plumes of spray. Julia stood by the study’s window, listening to the faint whup whup sound of the water as it left the nozzles under high pressure. Puddles were forming in the indentations left by undercarriage bogies. Water was streaming off the wings of her Pegasus.

  Matthew was back in the pool, practising his dives under Qoi’s vigilant gaze. He could already do a forward somersault flip. Julia watched him try a back flip, landing on his side with a big splash, limbs flailing. He got out and tried again.

  Daniella was just visible in the paddock below the lake, riding her horse. Brutus trailed along after her, tail drooping in the mid-morning heat.

  They normally invited their friends round to Wilholm in the holidays. Julia enjoyed the sound of the youngsters rampaging through the manor; they seemed to wake the old place up, breezy laughter blowing out the encroachment of dutiful solemnity. And the games they played roaming around the grounds gave the security team headaches. The defence hardware and gene-tailored sentinels all had to be reprogrammed to cope. Julia wasn’t about to impose restrictions on the kids, childhood was too precious for that. And the shaggy woods and unkempt fields were a magical kingdom when you were that age.

  But they hadn’t asked anyone to visit today; or more likely Daniella had bullied Matthew into not asking his friends, mistakenly believing they’d be helping her.

  There was a knock on the door, and Peter Cavendish came in, dabbing at his forehead with a navy-blue silk handkerchief. His face was heavily flushed, pure white hair damp with perspiration.

  Julia turned away from the window and gave him a welcoming smile. If it hadn’t been for the fact he was wearing a different suit from yesterday she would have said he hadn’t been home, he certainly looked like he hadn’t slept at all. “Sit down, Peter, you look like you’ve been overdoing it to me.”

  He slipped into one of the black chairs round the table, sighing gratefully. “I don’t understand it, Julia. Negotiating with Mutizen is like wrestling fog. We’ve had our contractual team sitting up with their Mutizen counterparts for eighteen hours solid, and every time we look like we’re reaching an agreement, they throw us a blocker. I’d say they’re deliberately stalling, but that doesn’t make any sense. They came to us, remember?”

  “Yes. But I’m afraid you’re right, they are stalling. They are not in possession of the generator data, nor have they ever been in possession. The offer was purely an attempt to goad me into taking some hasty action.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m sorry. I only found out myself early this morning.”

  “Great. Hell, what now?”

  “Fall back on Clifford Jepson and Globecast. How’s that negotiation going?”

  Peter Cavendish tucked his handkerchief back into his suit pocket. “Second disaster. We’ve thrashed out a more or less satisfactory contract with Globecast’s lawyers, but it hasn’t been costed out yet. And it won’t be until we submit it officially. We were waiting for Michael Harcourt to come through with the data on the other bids, like you said.”

  “Oh, Lord… Sorry, I haven’t decided if I’m going to take Harcourt up on that yet. It turns out he’s Jepson’s cyborg, so we probably couldn’t rely on his figures anyway. But David Marchant has made a counter-bid for our co-operation, quite a good one.”

  He gave her a long look, then slipped a couple of centimetres deeper into his seat. “Hell, Julia, I’m not sure if I belong here any more. Nothing stays stable long enough to establish a picture these days. I mean, we get a perfectly ordinary contract finalized. Then it’s not just the goalposts which get moved, we’re not even playing the same game we were when we started. I’ve got to have something that doesn’t twist on me, Julia, a set of values I can depend on.”

  She returned his mournful gaze. “It’s not us, Peter. We’re not at fault.”

  “Yes, sure, in a perfect world.”

  “Something like that.”

  “But in the mean time-”

  “We do what we can.”

  “OK, Julia, you win.”

  “Just think how the other side must feel.”

  “Some comfort. You want me to go ahead with the Clifford Jepson partnership, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK, how high do you want us to bid?”

  “How high is up?” she murmured. “I’ll get the Finance Division to work out what sort of bid we can realistically afford, and commercial intelligence to provide estimates on the opposition’s bids. Then we’ll sit down this evening and decide what to offer Clifford. One piece of good news, I can have Treasury backing any time I want.” She didn’t mention the price tag which came with it; Peter didn’t need to know. Come to that, would he care about Wales?

  “Right,” he said. “At least that’s something concrete.”

  “Have you managed to bring any of the kombinates in on our side, put in a joint offer?”

  He shook his head. “Ha, no chance. There’s no alliances in this war. Everyone wants atomic structuring, and they want it exclusively. You should see the Stock Exchange this morning. There’s not a share moving. The floor’s waiting to see what’s going to happen after the bids are in.”

  “Maybe nothing will happen. I have yet to be convinced Clifford Jepson has the generator data.”

  Peter Cavendish held up his hand. “No. Don’t. I don’t want to know.” He showed her a plaintive little grin. “Win or lose, I’ll be glad when this is over.”

  “Yes.” Yet deep down in her mind there was an intuitive worry that this would never be over, that this alien was just the beginning. There were a hundred billion stars in the galaxy; each one of them waiting to pounce.

  She remembered a newscast she’d seen on one of the channels, years ago; a drought-stricken village in Africa, Ethiopia, or the Sudan, somewhere that had never broken the poverty and drought cycle even in the twentieth century. And by the time the new millennium arrived they never stood a chance. A place where the Warming had killed even the dreams that there could be an end to suffering.

  The village had been equipped with condenser mats, sucking precious drops of moisture out of the night air. They were pinned to the roof of every hut, the way European houses wore solar panels; a donation from some grandiose Bible-belt American Church charity. The inhabitants had been dying, now the flatscreen showed her healthy children, fat cattle, vegetables growing in hydroponic troughs. It was an oasis, surrounded by dead land, soil so dry it had long since crumbled to dust; the air was completely motionless, had been for years, a decade-long doldrum zone. There were bones out there beyond the huts; cattle, goats, chickens, bleached platinum-white, half buried by the slowly building dunes, they were circled by the skeletons of vultures.

  The channel crew was there because the headman had killed the Church technician who’d installed the mats. A centenarian with wrinkled leather skin, protruding bones, a ragged old loincloth; the embodiment of land wisdom. He looked directly into the camera with cloned black eyes, undaunted and contemptuous. “Why have you done this?” he asked. “First you murdered the air with your greed, now you send us machines that bring water from nothing. You have stretched our agony across time. We live on the price of your pity, coins you have cast away. Miserable beggars whose piety and distress is our only weapon. We are reduced to eternal ~ compassion victims. If you truly pity us, give us back our dependence on the weather. Bring back the rain and the wind. Then all men may be equal in our dependency again.”

  She had understood what the headman had meant, how he felt. The insulting humiliation of relying on a technology he couldn’t begin to understand, sent as a gift by people he did not kn
ow, reducing him and his relatives to little more than chattels. A primitive culture preserved by godlike science, a throw-away act of charity. He’d lost every shred of dignity, his entire existence subject to whims outside his control. Whims of a culture that had wrecked his land in the pursuit of its own comfort. Unforgivable.

  Primitive cultures were always assimilated into advanced cultures. Values supplanted, and finally ruined. A fundamental law of nature. And her own genetics laboratories had said the aliens were billions of years more advanced than humans.

  Atomic structuring was the condenser mat all over again, and now she was a peasant villager. Greg’s Russian general had the right idea, she thought, the same one as the headman.

  The Pegasus dropped smoothly on to the Hambleton peninsula’s mudfiats, finishing up at a slight angle, nose pointing up towards the Mandel farmhouse. Julia made a grab for Matthew as the belly hatch opened. “Now listen, your aunty Eleanor is pregnant, and that means you’re not going to cause the slightest trouble for her. You’ll do exactly as you’re asked, you’ll do it without complaining, and without arguing. Understood?”

  His face transformed itself into a picture of hurt innocence. “Mummy!”

  “Is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Really,” he said.

  “All right.”

  The groves were alive with activity, people and handcarts, tractors, smaller children running under the trees. Shouts and snatches of song carried down the slope to where she was climbing up the limestone chunks. Smells of cooking and cut grass mingled through the muggy air. Humidity next to the reservoir was wicked. She could see the travellers were all in hats and caps, men stripped to the waist. She was attracting quite an audience.

  Oliver and Anita came down to meet them, accompanied by five other kids. Daniella and Matthew joined them, and they all took off towards the field where the cars and vans were parked; two security hardliners in casual clothes trailing along behind.

  Three hardliners followed Julia up to the farmhouse, two of them carrying the children’s bags. There was a sixteen-wheel lorry parked in the farmyard. A couple of men were busy loading it with white kelpboard boxes full of oranges. They glanced briefly in her direction as she came through the gate.

  Christine drove a tractor in from the groves, its trailer piled high with more white boxes. She waved at Julia, but didn’t get down. Picking was a serious business, Julia reflected. The girl started to back the tractor towards the lorry, grinding through the gears.

  Julia rapped her knuckles on the kitchen’s door frame as she came in. Eleanor was sitting in the carver’s chair at the head of the long bench table, three cybofax wafers spread out before her. She glanced up. “Come in, you’re not disturbing me. Trying to get some byte shuffling done. Looks like we’ve got a good yield this year.”

  “Thanks for having the children,” Julia said. “I just hated the idea of my problems ruining their holiday.”

  “They’re no trouble.” Eleanor raised a glass to JUlia. “Help yourself. It’s only Perrier: if I can’t touch alcohol then you can suffer as well.”

  “The odd glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.”

  Eleanor’s hand fluttered irritably. “Ha, you know what Greg’s like. Bloody men. One prenatal clinic, and they’re all qualified gynaecologists.”

  Julia pulled out a chair, and poured some Perrier out of the bottle. “Royan was the same. I suppose it’s excusable in his case. After I had him stitched back together he was very health conscious-exercise, diets, screening cream. The works.”

  “You miss him?”

  “Course I miss him.” She rolled the glass between her palms. “That’s the problem, I think. The way I treated him. I made him, Eleanor, took him out of Mucklands Wood and turned him into my ideal man. So stupid.”

  “Don’t be silly, he had to leave Mucklands. You knew it, I knew it, Greg knew it. Royan did too, afterwards.”

  “Yes, but I never let him go free, did I? I had it all planned out, his role in life. We were such good friends, you see, after he saved Grandpa’s NN core from the virus. It was a dream for me. I had to go out in public and be the Julia Evans, talk contracts, deal with politicians, arrange finance with banks. Dear Lord, I was only eighteen. Then when all that company work was finished for the day, I could run away into my mind, and there he’d be, waiting for me. It was like having one of those imaginary friends children invent to keep themselves company. No one else knew he was there, no one else could see him. He was all mine; and we talked, and he sympathized with me, and I felt sorry for him. What we had was precious. I thought it would be the same after Mucklands. I wanted it to be the same.”

  “He did too.”

  “Maybe. But he never knew there could be anything else, not at first. He really was born again. A whole new and bright world. But I kept giving him things to do, hotrod for me, father children. That was it, all along, the one thing that was always in our way: I couldn’t change, not with Event Horizon to manage. So he had to fit into my life. We could never begin together.”

  Eleanor stood up, pressing her fist into her back as she straightened, and opened one of the wooden cupboards below the workbench. It was a fridge inside. She took out a bottle of white wine with a Kent label. “So he felt smothered,” she said. “Men always do around women like you.”

  “Maybe. So how does Greg cope? You’re not exactly a quiet obedient little housewife.”

  Eleanor poured a glass of wine and handed it to Julia, a faint smile at distant memories playing on her lips. “We worked it out. The gulf wasn’t as big as you and Royan, mind.”

  “Yeah. Do you know what he called himself, Royan? A prince consort. Says a lot about how much consideration I gave him.”

  “Oh, come on, Julia, the whole world lives in your shadow. He knew that right from the start, the failure isn’t all down to you.”

  She drank some of the wine, it was nice, dry and smooth. Eleanor understood, thank God; she was one of the few people Julia could really let her hair down with. They’d known each other long enough now; Julia had been the chief bridesmaid when she married Greg. “He wanted to be my equal, that’s what he said.”

  Eleanor sniffed her wine and took a sip. “And what if he fails? Had he thought of that? What was he going to do then? Find a different alien?”

  “Lord knows. He’s causing enough trouble with this one. Like a child really, he never learned to accept failure. Week-long setbacks are as close as he’s ever come. Everything is solvable in the end.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yes.”

  They smiled, and drank some more wine.

  CHAPTER 28

  The waves were moving in irregular patterns across the North Sea, small, high white horses clashing in fast flicks, whipped up by submerged obstacles. The North Sea Farm Company wasn’t as big as Listoel, there were only a hundred developed fields so far, but the water fruit it harvested raised a much higher price than krill. And tasted one hell of a lot better, Victor reckoned, but then what didn’t?

  Water fruit globes resembled pumpkins, a thick wrinkled yellow-brown rind enclosing an almost apple-like flesh. Victor always thought of them as tasting like salty melons. But they were protein rich, and popular throughout Europe.

  New varieties were introduced each year as the geneticists them.

  They had developed into quite an important industry. Most countries had plantations dotted around their coasts. And the shallower southern half of the North Sea, with it’s warmth and low salinity, provided excellent conditions.

  Julia had started the North Sea Farm Company three years earlier, assisted by a large Ministry of Fisheries grant. The division wasn’t as large as some of the food comt farms which had sprung up in the North Sea, but it was turning in a reasonable profit now.

  When the nodes squirted a profile of the Farm into his mind, he’d seen the organization was top-heavy with research personnel, and a lot of the
fields were experimenting with new techniques. Julia covering her options again, he suspected.

  It would have been precisely those research facilities that attracted Royan. The station’s genetics laboratories were equipped to handle very sophisticated gene-tailoring operations.

  Victor could make out the fields below the surface as Pegasus began its approach run. Kilometre-long walls of brick-red gene-tailored coral formed a broad chessboard of squares. New walls were growing out from the edges, a tracery of spindly lines probing the stark sand. The colours of the water fruit crops planted inside the walls ran through every shade of brown.

  There were various towers and platforms protruding from the water at regular intervals. Some he recognized as twentieth-century oil platforms. Waste not, want not. But the majority of structures were built up from the same concrete sections as the thermal-generator platforms at Listoel, mass-produced by Event Horizon’s yards on the Nene. Cargo ships were docked with the platforms, loading up. Squat, heavily laden barges crisscrossed the fields, small bright yellow submarines were visible underwater.

  The Pegasus landed on one of the concrete platforms, and Victor trotted down the belly hatch stairs. Eliot Haydon, the Farm’s director, was waiting for him, dressed in navy-blue shorts and a baseball cap with the Event Horizon triangle and flying-V logo on the peak.

  Victor accessed his personnel profile: forty-seven years old, graduated from Norwich University with a marine biology degree, been with the company nineteen years, appointed as a divisional director five years ago, largely credited with making the Farm a profitable concern. Another of those smoothly professional Event Horizon premier-grade executives. He wondered if Julia classed him in the same category. Probably.

  Eliot Haydon shook Victor’s hand in a warm dry grip. “Mr Tyo, not often we get a visit from your office.”

  “Judy Tobandi is a good officer,” he said. “The Farm’s never been a problem from a security point of view. If people have their finger on the pulse, don’t interfere, I say.”