A Second Chance at Eden

by Peter F. Hamilton

  I expect you’re right. I was getting out into waters way beyond my depth. Philosophy doesn’t figure very heavily on the Hendon Police College’s training courses. I wondered what Father Cooke would have to say on the subject of Eden having a soul.

  You worked with Penny Maowkavitz? I asked.

  For many years, Wing-Tsit Chong said. As a geneticist she was peerless. So many fine ideas. So much energy and single-minded determination. Given the diversity of our respective cultural backgrounds our temperaments were not conjunctive, but even so we achieved much together. Eden alone is testament to that. I await with some eagerness to see what it is that will bloom from her grave. To experience eagerness at my age is remarkable. Only she could bring about such a thing.

  Did she confide in you at all?

  Alas no. Our union was conducted on a professional level. I was filled with sorrow at her radiation accident, and I grieve her death. To suffer so is a tragedy. But both of these incidents can only be understood in the greater nature of Kamma; our past actions create our present life.

  You mean she deserved it? I asked, surprised.

  You misunderstand; there is no cruelty involved with the law of Kamma, which is given as: knowledge of the ownership of deeds. The nearest Western interpretation of this would be controlling your own destiny. Only you are responsible for your own future. And the future is determined by the past.

  Reap as ye shall sow, I said.

  Again this is too literal, it demonstrates a Western inclination towards belief in preordained fate. You are rooted in the physical world. The determinative actions to which Kamma refer are acts of will.

  Right. I could see myself developing another headache if this went on much longer. Now that’s fate, action and reaction. So you don’t know of anyone who would wish to harm her?

  No, I regret I can shed no light on the perpetrator for you.

  What about Boston? I asked. You’re not listed as a member in the files I have been given. Do you support its aims?

  You asked to come here to learn about affinity, Hoi Yin interjected sharply. You outstay your welcome, Chief Parfitt.

  Patience. Wing-Tsit Chong held up a hand, still smiling softly. Chief Parfitt has a job to do. We will assist in any way we can, and in doing so honour the memory of Penny Maowkavitz.

  Hoi Yin slouched down further in her chair. For someone who claimed to embrace rational thought, she could be amazingly petulant.

  I have taken no active role in the Boston group’s activities, Wing-Tsit Chong said. As you see, Chief Parfitt, I am no longer as robust as I once was. I chose to devote my remaining time to Eden, Pallas, and now Ararat. They still need nurturing; intellectually they remain children. I have been asked to endorse the Boston group, of course, several times. My name, they feel, will add weight to their campaign. I declined because I do not wish the indignity of becoming a meaningless symbol. Boston conducts its campaigns in what I see as very much a materialistic arena, who owns what, who has the right to issue orders. I do not condemn economics nor their ideological pursuit of national self-determination; but these causes must be seen in the context of the greater reality. The people of Eden already build and control the industrial facilities in Jupiter orbit. What is, is. Everything else is book-keeping, the chosen field of contest for those who lead the movement. JSKP and Boston are two armies of accountants, waging war in boardrooms.

  A storm in a teacup, I said.

  Wing-Tsit Chong gave a thin laugh. You are an interesting man, Chief Parfitt. You see more than you admit. If there is any other question arising from your investigation, please do not hesitate to contact me. You have the skill to do this, now.

  I do. And again I thank you for it.

  Hoi Yin and I stood up together. She fussed round Wing-Tsit Chong for a moment, tucking his blanket under his knees, straightening his silk jacket. I looked out over the lake. There was a small waterfall at the far end, its spray acting as a cage for rippling rainbows. The swans had all vanished. When I turned back, Hoi Yin was already pushing the wheelchair through a door into the house. I just couldn’t work that girl out.

  *

  I drove the jeep halfway back towards the town, then pulled off the track and stopped. A subliminal query, and I knew that no one else was using the track, nor was there anyone walking through the surrounding parkland. I shook my head in bemusement when I realized what I’d done.

  I closed my eyes and settled back comfortably on the seat. This was something I’d known I would have to do right from the moment I got the call saying Maowkavitz had been murdered.

  Eden?

  Yes, Chief Parfitt.

  Show me your memory of Penny Maowkavitz’s death.

  It was a composite of memories, taken from the various sensitive cells around Lincoln lake – mock-rock outcrops along the shore, small polyp-sided gullies, affinity-bonded birds and field mice, even smooth stones apparently jutting from the soil at random were polyp. Eden blended the viewpoints together, making it seem as though I was an invisible ghost floating beside Penny Maowkavitz as she took her morning walk.

  Just by looking at her I knew that had we ever met we would never have got on. There was no sympathy in the way her face was set; she had a core of anger that burned far darker than Hoi Yin’s inner demon. The way she walked, legs striding on purposefully through the thick grass, belayed any impression of a casual stroll. She didn’t drink down the view on her inspections; the wild flowers and the tangled trees had no intrinsic aesthetic value, they were simply aspects of design, she was hunting for faults and flaws.

  She came to the side of the lake, and made her way along the fine shingle around the edge. Beads of sweat were appearing on her face, glinting softly in the silver glimmer of the axial light-tube. I could smell their muskiness in the air. She undid the front of her long jacket, a spasm of irritation crossing her face as her hand touched the vector regulators strapped to her belly.

  Ten metres away the servitor chimp was walking across the grass, heading at a slight angle towards the lake. It had a dark utility bag to carry its gardening implements, the fabric stained and fraying, bulging with odd shapes. Penny Maowkevitz never paid it the slightest attention.

  I focused on her face. The wig wasn’t on quite straight. Her lips were twitching, the way they do when people are lost in thought. What I’m sure was a frown had just started to crease her forehead when the chimp put its hand in the bag. Whatever problem Penny Maowkavitz was working on, its solution was eluding her. The chimp pulled out the pistol, its arm swinging round to point at her. Surprise flamed in her eyes, and her mouth started to open. Below her feet, Eden’s general observation routines registered the object in the chimp’s hand. Pattern recognition procedures were enacted immediately. Penny Maowkavitz’s first flare of alarm impinged upon the neural strata. It ended abruptly as the chimp pulled the trigger.

  Blood and brain erupted as her skull blew open.

  The chimp froze as Eden’s frantic command overrode every nerve impulse. Although even the habitat couldn’t stop its teeth from chattering in fright. Primitive emotions whirled through its simple brain: terror, regret, panic, the last remnants of its animal origin fighting for recognition.

  If I had a more developed instinct I would have seized control of the servitor chimp much sooner, Eden said sorrowfully. As it was, I took too long to identify the pistol for what it was. Penny Maowkavitz might have been alive today if I had not taken so long.

  Self-recrimination is unhealthy, I told it. Christ, nursemaid to a habitat. But its thoughts had a timbre that made me think of a knowing child. I could hardly be angry, or even sarcastic. You have learnt from the incident. That’s as much as any intelligent creature can hope for.

  You sound like Wing-Tsit Chong.

  Then I must be right.

  Instinct is a hard concept for me. So much of what I think is logical, precise.

  Finding out the world is neither kind nor well ordered is all part of growing up. Painful but
necessary.

  I wish it was different.

  Believe me, we all do. How come you can’t remember any further back? This happened more than thirty hours ago.

  I have two memory levels. The first is short term, a thirty-hour storage for every impression gathered by my sensitive cells. If something untoward occurs which I did not initially realize the importance of, such as who placed the bag with the pistol for the chimp to collect, then it can be recovered providing I am informed before the thirty hours are up. Other than that, memory is pointless. Why would I wish to memorize years of parkland in which no activity is occurring? If every sensitive cell impression were to be placed immediately into long-term memory, my total capacity would quickly be filled. So these observation memories dissipate quite naturally. Long-term memory is a conscious act, whereby I transfer over events from the short term for permanent record.

  That makes sense, I suppose. That short-term facility is like a security camera recording they use in the public areas back in the arcologies. I paused, recalling what I had reviewed. I want the memory again, but just the end section this time. After the chimp shoots her.

  The gunshot, shockingly loud to the chimp’s unsuspecting ears. Eden’s affinity orders slamming into its brain. A moment when the ether reverberated with their thoughts. Then the chimp’s mind was engulfed by the habitat’s glacial control. I could actually feel every muscle in in its body locked solid; looking through its eyes, seeing the grisly body toppling over.

  Again, please.

  But I already knew. In the instant between firing the shot and being captured, a single thought-strand of regret had slithered through the chimp’s mind. Where the hell had that come from?

  *

  Rolf was rising from his chair to greet me as soon as I walked into the incident room. ‘We had a positive result from Wallace Steinbauer over at the cyberfactory,’ he said. ‘They’ve managed to put together a Colt .45 pistol. I said we’ll come over and see for ourselves.’

  Excellent.

  The corner of his mouth lifted in sardonic acknowledgement. Welcome aboard, Chief.

  Thanks. By the way, I’ve been reviewing Eden’s memory of the murder. Has anyone noticed the chimp’s emotional outburst after it shot Maowkavitz?

  That earned me some blankly puzzled looks from around the room.

  No, sir, Rolf said cautiously.

  Another point to the good guys. Then I suggest you all review it again. The chimp experiences quite a degree of regret immediately after pulling the trigger. I’d like some ideas why that should be, please. How are we doing with the other lines of enquiry?

  Still nothing in Maowkavitz’s immediate past. No arguments, no disputes. And we’ve just about finished interviewing all the people she came into contact with. Oh, and the Governor is in the clear. We’ve more or less confirmed he didn’t leave the pistol for the chimp. His schedule’s been pretty hectic for weeks, he hasn’t had the time to put together the pistol or wander out into the parkland.

  I ignored the jeer from the back of the room. Through Eden’s sensitive cells in the polyp floor I knew it was Quinna. I wasn’t even aware I’d enquired. This was going to take some getting used to. You do surprise me. Well, that snippet isn’t to be considered confidential.

  Yes, sir.

  Shannon, how are you doing on accessing Maowkavitz’s computer files?

  Some progress, boss. She gave me a thumbs-up from behind her terminal, then ducked her head down again. I’ve recovered about twenty per cent of the files stored in her home system. It’s all been genetic work so far, beyond me. Rolf said to turn it over to Pacific Nugene for assessment. I haven’t heard anything back from them yet. Those files were fairly easy to crack. But there’s a whole series of files which use a much higher level of entry encryption techniques; stuff she didn’t leave any keys for, not even in her will. That’s real strange, because the files are quite large. They obviously contain a lot of work.

  OK, prioritize that, please, I want to know what’s in them. Today if possible.

  Her head came up again, giving me a martyred look. I’m organizing some decryption architecture now.

  Good grief, an officer with initiative. Whatever next?

  An officer with decent pay, she shot back.

  I gave up. Any luck with the bag which the pistol was left in? I asked Rolf.

  No. It’s a standard issue flight bag, made in Australia, been in production for six years. JSKP distributes them to every family which is given an assignment here, they’re automatically included with the cargo pods we’re sent to pack everything in. Ninety per cent of the habitat population have one sitting at home somewhere. Impossible to trace. The medical lab at the hospital ran some forensic tests on it for us. No fingerprints, naturally. It had been wiped with a paper tissue; they found traces of the fibre, identified as a domestic kitchen towel. They also found some hair which they confirm came from the chimp. But nothing to tell us who put it there.

  Nobody said it was going to be easy, Rolf. I made an effort not to show how worried I was becoming. Two days of solid investigation, with a fairly dedicated team putting in a lot of effort, and we were still no nearer to solving it than we were the minute Maowkavitz was killed. That wasn’t good. A worldlet where surveillance is total, an effective organization for collecting and correlating data. And nothing. Nobody was that good. There is no such thing as a professional murderer. Sure, you get assassins, snipers, contract killers; but like I told Nathaniel, I didn’t believe this was a paid hit. This was an act of vengeance, or revenge, or – remote possibilities – passion and jealousy. A one-off, planned in isolation.

  That means a mistake was made. You cannot cover everything, every angle, because at the very heart of the crime lies your reason to murder. Once the police have that, they have you, no matter how well you camouflage your tracks with regards to the method.

  And with all I knew, I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone in Eden would want to kill Penny Maowkavitz. Nobody I’d spoken to had actually admitted to liking her, but everyone respected her, it was like one of those universal constants.

  The only person left who could conceivably cast any light on the problem was Davis Caldarola. I’d held off interviewing him out of an old-fashioned sense of sympathy; according to Zimmels’s ubiquitous files he and Penny had been together for seven years, her death would have hit him hard. He had certainly looked pretty shaken up when I glimpsed him at the funeral.

  Sorry, Davis.

  *

  Rolf drove the jeep down to the southern endcap, taking one of the five equidistantly spaced roads which ran the length of the habitat. A tram monorail ran down the outside of each lane. Two of the automatic vehicles passed us, coming in the opposite direction; bullet-nosed aluminium cylinders painted a bright yellow. They had seats for forty passengers, although I only saw five or six people using them. I couldn’t work out why they’d been streamlined, either; their top speed was only forty-five kilometres an hour. Something Victorian would have been more appropriate, more pleasing to the eye as well. But that’s modern designers for you, image junkies.

  We were halfway to the cyberfactory when the Governor called me. It was like a sixth sense made real; I knew someone wanted to talk to me, swiftly followed by a subliminal image of Fasholé Nocord sitting at his desk.

  Yes, Governor?

  About time you became affinity capable, he said. His mind-tone was as grumpy as his voice. How is the investigation going?

  I sent you a progress update file last night, sir.

  Yes, I accessed it. It’s not what I’d call progress. You haven’t found shit so far.

  It’s only been two days, sir.

  Look, Harvey, I’ve got the board breathing acid fire down my neck. The newscable reporters are jamming half the uplinks from Earth demanding statements. Even the Secretary General’s office is pressing for a result; they want to show how efficient and relevant the UN’s administration of Eden is. I’ve got to have something
to tell them all.

  What can I say, enquiries are continuing.

  Damn it, Harvey, I’ve given you time without any pressure; now I want results. Have you even got a suspect yet?

  No, sir, I haven’t. Perhaps you’d care to take charge of the investigation yourself if you’re that dissatisfied with my progress.

  Don’t try pulling that smartarse routine on me, Harvey, it doesn’t work. Come on, man, you should have some kind of lead by now. Nobody can hide in Eden.

  Really? Somebody is making a pretty good job of it.

  Harvey!

  Yeah, all right. Sorry. Tell them we expect to make an arrest in the near future. Usual crap; they know it is and we know it is, but it should satisfy the press for the moment. In any case, it’s almost true; my team have eliminated quite a few possibilities, we’re narrowing the field. But we have to have more time to correlate the information we’ve acquired. Nobody ever issued a set schedule for solving murder inquiries.

  Two days. I want a positive result which I can announce in two days, Harvey. Someone under arrest or in custody. Understand?

  Yes, sir.

  The contact ended.

  Who was that? Rolf asked.

  The Governor. He’s graciously given me two days to find the murderer.

  ‘Arsehole,’ Rolf grunted. He pressed his toe down on the accelerator, and sent the jeep racing over the causeway that traversed the circumfluous lake.

  *

  Eden’s cyberfactories were installed in giant caverns inside the base of the southern endcap. Apart from the curving walls, they didn’t look any different to the industrial halls back in the Delph arcology: row after row of injection moulders, machine tools, and automated assembly bays with waldo arms moving in spider-like jerks. Small robot trolleys trundled silently down the alleys, delivering and collecting components. Flares of red and green laserlight strobed at random, casting looming shadows.