Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘She’s human,’ Vance said, resenting how he was regressing to simple stubbornness to fund his argument.

  ‘I’m sure she is – when it’s convenient for her to be. Or maybe she doesn’t even know what she is. What if it only emerges from within when there is a reason for it to do so?’

  ‘Jay?’ Vance asked.

  ‘You know I’ve never trusted her.’

  ‘Let me ask you this,’ Antrinell said. ‘If it’s not her, then who?’

  It was a question Vance couldn’t answer. That kind of analysis and interpretation process had been the bedrock of intelligence operations for centuries, forming a large section of his basic training courses. If there was an answer it lay somewhere in the personnel files of the expedition members. He’d have to review them all carefully, looking for discrepancies, some clue of a legend.

  The notion made him stiffen in surprise. When he’d allowed Angela to help them with simple administration tasks after Mullain’s death he’d loaded some discreet monitors in the network to keep watch on her access. One of the first things she did was review the personnel files. Had she worked this all out a month ago?

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll start with the assumption that it isn’t one of us three. If the creature is here to gain access to the warheads – well, the three of us have that access.’

  Jay and Antrinell nodded grudging agreement.

  ‘Tag Angela again,’ Vance told Antrinell. ‘She’s got some clever programs that can spot an ordinary smartdust emission, so use some of our smartmicrobe bugs this time.’

  Jay grinned. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘I’m going to ask Vermekia to run our personnel records through an AI confirmation routine. If there are any anomalies, that should find it. In the meantime,’ he waved a hand at the wall pane with its vivid yellow and purple blotch of approaching cloud, ‘I want us properly prepared for the blizzard this time.’

  ‘And the evacuation?’ Antrinell asked.

  ‘I think it’s inevitable. We’ll use the blizzard downtime to start gearing up.’

  *

  Twenty minutes later, he was talking to Vermekia again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vance, but the General said no. We ran the visual you gave us through AI analysis. The creature’s proportions are human, as is the gait. Whatever Tramelo saw, it’s human. We think you’ve got a psychopath in the camp, not an alien. Presumably it really is her accomplice.’

  Vance took a moment to consider the AI’s analysis, perturbed by how many factors were converging. ‘Tramelo shot at it.’

  ‘But she didn’t hit it, did she?’

  Vance almost laughed. The kind of laughter that diverted a bellow of anger. ‘Very well, in that case I’d like you to have an AI analyse the personnel records of everyone at Wukang. Look for a legend, someone who’s been planted on us.’

  ‘That I can do.’

  ‘We’re going to put the evacuation into motion. I don’t expect the e-Rays to survive this next blizzard, but I have five emergency com rockets; they should be able to reach an altitude that’ll allow a brief relay to Abellia’s network. If I use one, it’ll be because the creature is real. So could you at least have a ski Daedalus on standby?’

  ‘I’ll call in some favours. I know one of us in tactical command. It’ll be written off as a readiness exercise.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Take care out there, Vance. I know that Jesus is testing you with this mission. I will pray for your deliverance.’

  *

  Detective Ian Lanagin was back down on the fourth floor, assigned to the city command office, helping orchestrate the police response to the gateway blockade – which was an indication of his status with O’Rouke. It was a good duty after the workload of the North case; he’d had nothing to do for the last two days. The GE Border Directorate troops were tough fellas; nobody had got through from St Libra, despite near-daily attempts to break the line. But each time the Highcastle residents were better organized, and more violent. Meanwhile the GE commissioners sat round their fine oval tables in Brussels, sipping mineral water and avoiding anything that resembled a decision about what to do with the people of St Libra. Other national leaders were starting to put pressure on, making statements about their concern over GE’s inability to accomplish anything.

  And still the bioil flowed from St Libra’s reserve tanks. Ian knew damn well that was all Brussels cared about. But it gave him time to relax and drink tea and swap gossip with his colleagues. The city command office was circular, with two rings of desks staffed by twenty detectives and specialist tactical constables, reporting to the duty sixth-grade detective in the centre. Ian had a desk on the inner ring, where he was assigned to handle the reserve placings. He’d got twenty-three big GroundKings full of agency constables parked around Dunston Hill and along the A1, ready to deploy if anything got out of hand in Last Mile. From the data flowing across his grid and the console zone links to civic meshes it wasn’t going to be the St Libra mob that would be their main problem. Newcastle was backing up with would-be refugees. Most had travelled across continents and oceans to reach the gateway; some had even made it from other worlds. Ian had never listened to them before. They were a background noise he’d grown up with, as much a part of Newcastle as the Tyne Bridge. But now, as he hunted round for something to fill his boring days, he accessed the transnet news, whose reporters were covering the gateway closure. The impoverished refugees told stories of the hardship they’d endured, how they’d spent everything they had to escape from persecution and violence and intolerance and oppressive ideology, how they’d been forced to leave everything behind, including loved ones and family in some cases. The countries and governments they named and denounced so avidly surprised Ian – he didn’t consider them especially corrupt or repressive. But then he’d never held the kinds of strong convictions that Directorates or People’s Committees or Security Agencies or Religious Police disagreed with.

  These refugees however were driven by anger and fear, determined to reach the haven of the Independencies, where their new life could begin in joyous freedom, and the past could finally be cast loose. Now, thanks to a diktat from unseen unelected bureaucrats, sunspots and weather were the excuse preventing them from joining comrades and brethren and fellow believers. They’d fought their way out of prisons or worse; they really weren’t the kind of people plastic barriers across the road were going to stop for very long. The Red Cross had set up temporary shelters for them, but resentment was building fast.

  Ian had bet thirty Eurofrancs that the first riot would kick off on Friday. Constable Merkrul who ran the Market Street book hadn’t given him good odds.

  At nine o’clock when he was already on his second cup of tea from the canteen, his e-i reported one of the monitor programs at Newcastle Station was registering activity. Ian carefully suspended his official log, and pulled the monitor data into his grid.

  Boris Attenson was catching the London express train. Ian smiled grimly at the station mesh feed showing Boris and two colleagues striding down the long curving platform to the first-class coaches at the front of the train. He hated the arrogance the besuited man demonstrated, the casual wealth in his handmade shoes and long tailored camelhair coat. Hated the braying laughter as the three of them conversed. Hated the face.

  Ian switched monitors. Today, Tallulah was wearing a pleated amethyst skirt and dark-orange blouse under a white jacket with gold buttons and a broad collar. He thought she looked good in those colours; they set her chestnut hair off nicely. She’d caught the Metro train to Gateshead at her usual time, then walked to her office on Bensham Road to arrive there just before eight thirty. He watched the image from civic meshes smeared across buildings along the street, pleased that she had a spry smile on her face when she met a co-worker for the last twenty metres, the two of them chatting away avidly.

  His surveillance ended at the building’s entrance. Accessing the interior meshes would be difficult; it could b
e done, but realtime access authority for a private building would be logged by the Market Street network; not even Elston’s phished codes could circumvent that.

  Ian didn’t mind. He’d be able to see her again at twelve forty when she took her lunch break. She usually took the Metro back down to the city centre with friends. They visited cafés and some of the smaller chain restaurants. On Monday when it had been sunny, she’d walked over the swing bridge with a whole group from her office and sat out in a pub garden near the Guild Hall overlooking the river. She’d worn a floral dress that day, with her navy-blue jacket buttoned against the lingering chill in the air blowing off the Tyne. He preferred that outfit to today’s; not that she ever wore anything that was less than swish and stylish.

  With Tallulah safe at work, and Boris racing down the east coast main line at three hundred and twenty kilometres per hour, Ian called Mitchell Rouche, a detective working for the London Metropolitan police force. They’d teamed up a couple of times on cases that encompassed their respective cities, and drunk a few beers together in the process. He and Mitchell were comfortable with each other, sharing the same opinion of the world and the people who occupied its various strata.

  ‘I may need a favour today,’ Ian said.

  ‘Okay, nothing too rich, I hope,’ Mitchell replied.

  ‘No, man, there’s someone on the train down to you. I don’t like him. And he truly believes that heat in his arse is the sun shining out of it. He needs to learn it’s my boot that’s stuck up there.’

  ‘What do you want to happen?’

  ‘Same thing for anyone who breaks the law, he should be arrested. That’s our job, man.’

  ‘How big a law does he break?’

  ‘Well there’s the beauty of this. He’ll be visiting clubs tonight, he always does. I’ve got a monitor on his secondary account. When he buys something he shouldn’t, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll have to move some shift work round, but I can cover that.’

  ‘Thanks, man, I’ll owe you.’

  ‘Certainly will.’

  *

  Which was why at eleven thirty-five that night Ian was riding Mitchell’s iris smartcell visual as the detective led a pair of agency constables into the Thames Europina hotel on the south bank. The glass cage lift took him up the outside of the building to the thirty-third floor where Boris Attenson had rented a suite for the night. Mitchell stared out at the ancient Millennium Dome half a klick away, whose third plastic roof was finally being replaced by link-chain molecule sheeting printed directly into place by large spider-like automata.

  ‘I’ve sent the payment transfer order to the Scotland Yard network,’ Ian said. ‘That’ll provide a reason for you to query his identity.’

  ‘Okay,’ Mitchell said. ‘What do you want me to do with the girl?’

  ‘Nothing. You’re just enquiring about a payment transfer, it’s part of an on-going investigation into the club and if they’re trafficking. Attenson will do the rest, especially if you don’t show due deference.’

  ‘You ever going to tell me what he’s done?’

  ‘He’s a banker.’

  ‘ ’Nuff said.’

  Mitchell activated his jacket badge as he walked along the short corridor. He told his e-i to open the suite’s door with the override provided by hotel security. His e-i sent out a general broadcast as he shouted: ‘Police, do not move, remain where you are.’

  The two constables rushed in as the room lighting came up, their tasers drawn. Mitchell followed at a slower pace. There were squeals coming from the bedroom.

  Ian grinned at the cliché scene that was revealed through Mitchell’s iris smartcell feed. The dancer from the club was sitting up in bed, silk sheet gripped tight to her neck as if it was some kind of invincible shield. A short dress of purple sequins was lying on the floor. Her scarlet thong was draped over Boris Attenson’s head. It was the only piece of clothing he wore.

  He’d tried to snatch a tox sac from the bedside cabinet and stuff it down the back of the headboard. The constables grabbed him mid-act, and pulled him onto the floor. He was on his knees, hands behind his head with a taser pressed against his chest.

  ‘Officer, really!’ he blustered. ‘There’s no need for any force to be used. You have the wrong man.’

  ‘Really?’ Mitchell asked in amusement. Boris moved a hand in an attempt to pull the thong off. A constable slapped it back. ‘So you are Mr Song Lee Hoc?’

  Boris grimaced at the mention of his secondary account name. ‘That’s not who I am. I can explain.’

  ‘I hope so. We’ve been monitoring the Pink Apricot account.’ Mitchell gave the girl a pointed glance. ‘They’re under investigation for human trafficking. Mr Song Lee Hoc made a large payment from his North Korean account to them this evening, and now here you are with a club employee.’

  ‘What? No, no. This is all a mistake. Look, Officer, please. Can we perhaps discuss this off-log?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hoc, I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m not Song Lee Hoc,’ Boris said, his face growing very flushed. ‘This is ridiculous. You damn well know what’s going on.’ He made an effort to stand. A constable whacked the back of his knees with a telescoping nightstick. Boris screamed and collapsed. ‘Fuck you fuckers! My lawyer will crucify you fascist bastards.’

  ‘Resisting arrest, and threatening a police officer,’ Mitchell said. ‘I think you’d better come down to the station.’

  ‘Oh Christ, don’t do this. No. Please. Come on. Don’t.’

  ‘Tell you what, Mr Hoc. Seeing as how I’m in a generous mood, I’ll let you put your pants on before we take you down through the lobby to the squad car.’ Mitchell pointed at the thong. ‘Are these yours?’

  *

  An hour later Tallulah Packer was woken by a call from the London Metropolitan police. Her e-i confirmed the authenticity of the call.

  ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you at this hour, ma’am,’ Detective Rouche said. ‘But we’ve taken a man into custody following an incident at the Thames Europina hotel. His bloodspec revealed that he’s bumped a lot of peptox, and there’s some confusion about his identity. The profile we’ve harvested from his e-i indicated you were an acquaintance. I was wondering if you could provide a positive visual identification for us.’

  It took a sleepy, bewildered Tallulah a moment to reply. ‘I . . . yes.’

  The image that was sent to her grid showed her fiancé on his knees beside a hotel bed with a naked hooker cowering behind him; he had a red thong on his head.

  ‘Can you tell me if this is Mr Boris Attenson?’ Detective Rouche asked.

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Thank you ma’am. Sorry, again, to disturb you.’ The call ended.

  Thursday 4th April 2143

  It was field 12-GH-B2 that made the call. Driving out of Highcastle on the north-west road towards the top of Lake Alnwick, Adrian 2North realized it could have been any of the sectors Northumberland Interstellar was cropping that called him in. Snow had finally reached the centre of Ambrose after a not inconsiderable journey of three and a half thousand kilometres from the massive continent’s southern coastline. A week of winter winds and deluges of icy rains had preceded the gentle flakes, so when they did arrive no one was surprised.

  Adrian was in the middle of his management duty week, which had been extended by the gateway restrictions. In the office tower at the centre of the city he’d spent a lot of time accessing the reports from Abellia, watching in dismay as the blizzards struck Brinkelle’s fiefdom, bringing a metre of snow in less than three days. Nothing was flying out of Abellia Airport any more, and the entire remote district was coming to terms with having to survive by itself until the sunspot outbreak lifted. There’d been some talk of flying supplies over from Eastshields using aircraft with skis, but that was mainly wishful thinking from unlicensed sites and worried Abellia workers. As Adrian had full access to Northumberland Interstellar’s level one network he
knew nobody was even looking at leasing such aircraft, let alone preparing to ship one through the gateway.

  So there he’d been, sitting on the seventh floor in the control centre with the air-con switched to its unfamiliar heating function, overseeing the staff who ran the vast pipework network, when the call came in. It had been snowing for seven hours by then, with the ground cooling enough to allow it to settle sporadically. He looked down on the outlandish mantle building up on the city’s roofs, and called down to the garage, reserving a big Range Rover Elite after making sure its service history was up to date. He sent the supervisor to get a box full of self-heating food, and a two-litre thermos of coffee. One of the few downtown clothing stores that remained open was doing a great trade in winter coats. Adrian had one printed out in his size and climbed into the Range Rover.

  With the exception of Motorway A, most of the roads beyond the city boundary soon ran out of tarmac, giving way to compacted dirt tracks. The north-west route was no different, which meant the snowfall completely wiped it from view. He couldn’t tell what was road and what was the sandy scrubland on either side. The forward radar and mesh sensors just managed to penetrate the icy cloak, displaying the twin ruts in his grid. Combined with the Range Rover’s inertial navigation system, he could steer along the track with reasonable confidence, providing he didn’t go over fifty kph. He was used to tearing down the tracks though the algaepaddies at over a hundred and fifty.

  Nothing else was moving out among the algaepaddies. Northumberland Interstellar staff had proved exceptionally loyal, sticking to their jobs while the majority of the city bundled their valuables into cars and vans, and took off for the gateway. Presumably, they believed Augustine North would make sure they were allowed back if the situation got really bad – after all most of them were registered GE citizens working on St Libra for tax-free salaries and a decent bonus. That was another issue noticeably absent from the level one network.

  The windscreen wipers were on, pushing the fluffy flakes to the side of the heated glass. Headlights on full beam cut through the fall. And the Range Rover net remained linked to Highcastle’s transnet cells. But the feeling of isolation grew with every kilometre. It wasn’t the outrageously unfamiliar snow which was the problem, but the light. Adrian simply couldn’t get used to the meagre coral glimmer illuminating the landscape.