Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Sarvar duly cancelled all the Daedalus flights scheduled for that morning. The sheer quantity of water made it uncertain if they could even resume later. With its compacted soil, Wukang’s runway had become a long, shallow lake that was taking a long time to drain.

  At midday, Vance Elston ordered two of the camp’s three Land Rover Tropics to start scouting round, looking for paths through the jungle that the mobile biolabs could take in a few days’ time when the forward camp was up to its full complement of personnel, equipment, and fuel.

  Half the camp stood in the shelter of the big mess tent, watching the grey-green vehicles depart, lumbering over the sodden ground. It wasn’t long until they vanished from view, absorbed by the silver-grey deluge before they reached the fringe of the jungle itself.

  ‘Lieutenant Botin,’ Vance said.

  ‘Sir,’ the lieutenant snapped.

  ‘Let us find out how effective your squads are in bad weather. I want the perimeter secured and monitored. Move out.’

  ‘Yes, sir. All right, people, you heard the Commander, jump to it. Assembly point by the vehicle park in ten minutes.’

  Sitting at a long trestle table in the middle of the mess tent, Angela watched the authoritarian farce play out, and gave the squad a rueful grin as they pulled on their poncho capes and trudged out into the heavy rain. She finished her cheesecake, and walked over to the table where Elston was sitting with Jay Chomik and Forster Wardele, one of his junior administration officers.

  ‘You got any orders for me?’ she asked.

  ‘Why, would you obey them if I did?’

  ‘I was thinking, given that I can’t join the guys on patrol, maybe I could help you?’

  ‘How?’ Elston asked in a voice thick with suspicion.

  She shrugged. ‘I’m good with basic datawork, and you’re down Mullain. I know you haven’t been assigned a replacement.’

  ‘You want me to give you access to the administration network?’

  ‘For rotas and managing store inventories, sure, why not? You think I’ll use such a magnificent position of trust to steal enough raw to print out an airship and escape?’

  Elson gave her a reluctant grin, and turned to Jay. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Mullain did clear a lot of crap from the system,’ Jay said grudgingly.

  Angela pushed the advantage. ‘Fine, show me what to do, slap access restrictions on everything else, and see if I’m any good.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Elston asked.

  ‘Truthfully, I’m bored shitless. And you and I both know I’m not the bad guy here. It’s out there waiting for us.’

  ‘Okay. You get one shot.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Forster, show her the drudge work.’

  *

  The administration division in Wukang was one Qwik-Kabin. Angela found it hard to credit, but the work cubicles were even smaller than the ones back at Sarvar. Forster wedged himself in next to her and started explaining the operating system and the procedures that needed managing. Despite having semi-smart software in the network, human input and ability was still essential for an enterprise like Wukang, where any problem that crept up was unique, needing a judgement call that the software couldn’t handle because it didn’t have any experience.

  ‘In theory, it should learn everything after a week or so,’ Forster said. ‘Then we can kick back and relax.’

  ‘And in the real world?’

  ‘I’m going to be jammed in here till the day we pack up and head home.’

  She grinned, enjoying his pragmatism. Forster was mildly flirtatious the whole time, which she neither encouraged nor slapped down. He wasn’t anything like as useful as Paresh, but she wasn’t about to shut down any options at this stage.

  The software was absurdly simple, and the work mundane. She started rearranging personnel assignments for the next week, matching teams to the exploration plans that Elston and Antrinell were drawing up, allocating the kind of equipment and supplies they’d need, then loading resupply estimates to Sarvar.

  ‘That’s pretty good,’ Forster admitted as she worked her way through daily fuel-consumption estimates.

  ‘It’s not exactly gateway science.’

  Forster left her after ninety minutes, telling her to call him when she encountered a problem that stymied her. He was only a thin composite wall away, he said with a mildly hopeful smile.

  Angela knew it would be pointless trying to load any subversive programs into the camp network from the Qwik-Kabin console – Elston would have already established monitors to see what she was up to. Fortunately she didn’t have to. Reviewing personnel files was a requirement for this job. So, once she’d sorted out Friday’s assignments, taking into account the rescheduled delivery flights, and shunted maintenance shifts round for the Land Rovers, and ten other finicky variables, she called up the camp’s personnel files and began reading the summaries. Given that she was using her e-i to interface with the network and orchestrate dataflow within the console zone, it was easy to copy the files into the solid memory cache sitting unobtrusively in her utility belt. An act that Elston would need very good software to detect; and if he did, he’d know why she was doing it – or think he did.

  The only reason to copy the files was to review them in detail later on, which is what she intended. Elston would see Angela playing detective, because Mullain had found something in those same files, something important enough to get him killed. Logically, it must have been a discrepancy big enough to call someone’s entire identity into question. Someone in Wukang was operating under a legend.

  Angela knew who, of course. What had utterly defeated her over the long month since that fateful Sunday at the start of February was figuring out why. She was hoping the file might provide a clue. And she would read it properly later, along with every other file, because Elston must never know the one she was interested in.

  *

  Angela was still in her new cubicle an hour later when Elston arrived in the Qwik-Kabin. He was frowning when he opened her door.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘Have you loaded in a new schedule for today?’ he asked.

  ‘No. It looks like Saturday is going to be my first big experiment with your lives. I expect everyone will enjoy having the day off when it all grinds to a halt at breakfast.’

  ‘Are there any earlier versions of today’s schedule?’

  ‘Er . . . hang on.’ She was quite pleased at the way she retrieved data from the network, fingers flicking the icons in her keyspace, e-i shifting the larger database levels for access. ‘No, I can’t find one. What’s up?’

  Elston scowled. It was worry that puckered his flesh up, not anger. His voice dropped. ‘We don’t know where Iyel is.’

  ‘Iyel?’ She didn’t even have to call up the personnel files again. ‘He’s one of the xenobiology team, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Except they can’t find him.’

  Her fingers closed over a blue and yellow icon, spun it round and flicked a node on the side. Iyel’s Thursday itinerary expanded in her zone field. ‘He should be helping with final drive-power system checks on biolab-2. They’re supposed to drive it round for thirty minutes this afternoon, but not to go into the jungle. Should be back by now.’

  ‘Marvin hasn’t even taken the biolab out yet. They’ve been waiting for Iyel.’

  ‘And his access code isn’t active?’

  ‘We can’t establish a microlink to his bodymesh.’

  ‘So he’s got to be outside the camp network’s range. Oh, did he tag along with the Land Rovers?’

  ‘I used a relay through the e-Ray to call them. He didn’t go with the Land Rovers.’

  ‘Shit. Okay, if he was in trouble, injured or something, his bodymesh would call for help.’

  Elston glared at her. ‘Only if he’s in range.’

  ‘How would he get out of range? Wukang’s network range extends for five klicks, doesn’t it?’

&n
bsp; They stared at each other for a long moment. It was Angela who broke, shoulders slumping in dismay. ‘Oh it can’t be,’ she murmured. ‘It just can’t.’

  ‘I’m going to officially declare him a missing person.’

  ‘Look, maybe he’s not answering because he’s busy.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not being ridiculous. What if he’s sneaked off for a spot of one on one with his girlfriend or boyfriend?’

  ‘I’ve already used the emergency responder code. He can’t deactivate that, half his smartcells are HDA issue, and the response is hardwired in. He’s not out there.’

  ‘This can’t be right,’ Angela said. ‘Even if he’s dead, the smartcells will respond. So he must be over five kilometres away.’

  ‘This is classified, but the dead North they found in Newcastle had his smartcells physically removed.’

  Angela gave him a shocked look. ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I wish I was.’

  ‘Oh shit. That means there really is more than one. And they know how to disable smartcell technology.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Elston said. ‘Look, I know it isn’t you. I’ve reviewed your tag logs from this morning; you’re accounted for.’

  ‘Oh, thank-fucking-you.’

  ‘But I also know about you and Paresh, and what you get up to together. So I need to know, have you, or anyone else, found a nice convenient route out through the perimeter? Some way to get outside and have your carnal fun.’

  ‘No. It’s secure.’

  ‘Damnit.’

  ‘Elston, the squad is out there right now patrolling. Have you warned them it is out there?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  ‘You have to warn them.’

  ‘I will. I need to be certain first.’

  ‘When was the last time someone saw him?’

  ‘First thing this morning. Leaving his tent to go to the washroom.’

  ‘Hell, that’s a long time. And it was pissing down badly then. Maybe that screwed with the perimeter sensors.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  She started to follow the thought, not enjoying the route. ‘But, if Iyel was snatched and carried off, then it would have to get into the camp first.’

  ‘I know,’ he whispered.

  ‘Elston, listen. It did this before. It got inside Bartram’s mansion for fuck’s sake; and nobody is more paranoid about their personal safety than a billionaire. It walked right through the mansion’s security sensors and up to the seventh floor, like it was a ghost. Nothing spotted it, there was no alarm. Radar, infrared, pressure webs, sonics, magrez, visual. Nothing caught it!’

  ‘You did. You saw it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I did.’

  ‘Right. You keep quiet about this part, understand? Say nothing, not even to Paresh. I’m going to launch a search for Iyel now, and that’s going to twist people up badly as it is. I do not want rumour adding to low morale. Are we clear?’

  Angela nodded. ‘We’re clear.’

  Sunday 10th March 2143

  ‘We can get it.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Think so, yeah.’

  ‘Think isn’t good enough. I need definites.’

  ‘All right. Okay. I’ll make sure.’

  *

  Everybody in the GE used secondaries. It was part of the culture now; socially acceptable. There had been many attempts by the Brussels parliament to legislate against it, and the Tax Bureau certainly did its best. But of course, if a method had been found to clear up people’s finances and put them on a hundred per cent legitimate, transparent basis, it would have worked for everyone, politicians and tax officials included. The general battle had been abandoned fifty years ago. But the technology and software which allowed people to set up and manage their secondaries also gave the police quite an armoury to uncover such fiscal malfeasance on an individual level. As the saying went, they could always get anybody sentenced, it just depended what crime they chose to charge you with.

  Exposure of a citizen’s secondaries was one of the simpler methods available to a modern police officer, especially one who was a surveillance expert, like detective Ian Lanagin.

  The first time Jede had used a secondary e-i code to call someone, he’d been walking down Percy Street. Ian used Elston’s authority to sequestrate all the log records from the three transnet cells covering Percy Street. This kind of request was completely standard for the police – Ian’s own authority level allowed him to do it – but as always with this investigation he didn’t want anything that could be traced back to him.

  *

  ‘We have it.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Ruckby will call to arrange delivery.’

  ‘It was expensive.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We had to pay more than we were expecting.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I’ll have to charge you extra for it. Got to cover costs.’

  ‘I do hope that wasn’t a serious attempt to extort money from me. You know who I work for, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m telling you, it cost a lot to get hold of.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll find another supplier.’

  ‘You won’t. This is specialist shit, man.’

  ‘I will. Then you’ll be left with a product you can’t sell, and us looking for you. We don’t take kindly to being dicked around.’

  ‘Ten per cent. Ten per cent more. That’s all. And I still don’t make any profit.’

  ‘We pay you the agreed price, or you start drowning in shit.’

  ‘You’re killing me here, man.’

  ‘Oh please, I’d never kill you.’

  ‘That’s good man, we can talk. This is reasonable. We can sort this out. I’m thinking eight per cent.’

  ‘I’d never kill you, because if you’re dead you won’t be able to suffer.’

  ‘Fuck you, man.’

  ‘The price we agreed is the price we pay. You’ll be contacted to arrange delivery. I’d advise you follow the instructions.’

  *

  The next time Jede used the secondary e-i he was in a pub on Granger Street. Ian obtained the local cell log, and ran a comparison with the Percy Street records. There was one access code that occurred in both. They had Jede’s secondary (or at least one of them). The intercept order was loaded into the transnet management AI using Elston’s authority, and all subsequent calls Jede made were routed through the Market Street network, which skimmed them off into the classified investigation sub-section – directly into the Apple console in Ian’s flat. As well as Jede’s secondary, the AI also intercepted the calls to and from the other transnet address codes Jede had called.

  *

  ‘It’s Sunday night. Usual place.’

  ‘You don’t get it until the money is registered in my secondary.’

  ‘Remember who you’re dealing with. You don’t get sweet shit until we’ve checked it. And, kid, we have an expert.’

  ‘It’s good. This is the real thing, okay.’

  ‘I’m okay, because I don’t have anything to worry about. Eleven o’clock tomorrow. Don’t make us come look for you.’

  *

  Ten fifty-five on Sunday night: the chill rain was coming in hard from the North Sea just as it had been doing for the last two days. The deluge was slowly sluicing away the ice and snow that had accumulated across Newcastle’s buildings and streets all through winter. Overwhelmed gutters across the city were spilling cascades of freezing water directly onto pavements. Water running freely across ice made driving and walking extremely treacherous. The Accident and Emergency departments of all the city hospitals were reporting five-hour waiting times for fracture victims, so many had slipped as their familiar city roads morphed from frigid to fluid. And there Sid was, in the middle of all the wet sub-arctic misery, sitting in a car signed out from the police fleet, privately registered so no one passing by would know law enforcement officers were in there waiting should they
run a sneaky check on the licence. He was parked on the corner of Beechwood Gardens, just outside Last Mile, waiting for the exchange. Whatever the exchange was. It had never been named in the intercepts, where Jede and his unknown supplier talked in phrases they’d surely pilfered from cheap crime dramas. Ian and Eva were also loitering in a fleet car, but on Herford Road at the south end of Last Mile.

  ‘Boss, I think we’re starting,’ Eva said. ‘Ruckby’s car just turned into Kingsway.’

  Sid’s windscreen display showed the erratic grid of Last Mile’s roads, with plenty of dark areas where the macromesh had failed. A purple symbol appeared at the south end of the Kingsway road that cut straight through the centre of Last Mile. ‘Got him,’ Sid acknowledged. ‘Anyone with him?’ Ruckby drove a big Ford Turusse saloon, registered to a North Korean business address – matt-black paintwork, but easy enough to eyeball.

  ‘Can’t tell, but he won’t be alone. We’re following now.’

  Sid pulled away from the kerb. He drove into Last Mile, level with the gateway, and started cruising up the sharp neon glow and hazy hologram sparkles that besieged the air down Kingsway’s length. With all the adverts reflecting off the rain-slicked tarmac, it was like driving through a wriggling tunnel of light. Even at this time of night there was still traffic about. Big HDA lorries rumbled towards the gateway, still faithfully carrying equipment and supplies for the expedition, though there weren’t so many of them now. Company trucks with their iconic logos nestled up to store loading bays. Decade-old vans with scratched and dinted bodywork made the nightly resupply run to small independent shops and outlets. Scooters with panniers big enough to carry a body. Even bicycles were towing carts. A big shiny new Toyota six-wheel J-Cruise headed down towards the gateway, piled high with St Libra survivalist goodies. Sid was mildly surprised to see the migrants hadn’t abandoned their dream despite the expedition, a reminder that outside Newcastle and his investigation the great community of trans-stellar worlds and nations was carrying on as normal. He watched a little group of the poor sods trudging along, pulling ancient supermarket trolleys loaded with their possessions, hunched against the freezing rain, their coats slick with water as they drew closer to the gateway and the promised Independencies beyond. A quick check on the windscreen display showed him closing on the purple symbol. When he looked up, he caught Ruckby’s big dark Turusse turning off just ahead of him.