The Mandel Files (116 page)

Greg narrowed his eyes. Julia’s compulsion had always been stronger than any psychic power. And combine it with logic as well…

“Give me a name, Greg, someone better; Lord, someone your equal would do.”

“How the bloody hell would I know?” he snapped. “I left that game sixteen years ago. Victor? You must have whole memory cores full of psychics.”

“I do,” Victor said quietly. “And we reviewed them, that’s why we’re here. I’m sorry. These modern sac users are good, but they don’t have your training, your strength. Mindstar hunted out people with the highest potential. Today, anyone who has a minor flash of talent can take a themed neurohormone and think he’s some kind of warlock. In a lot of respects themed neurohormones are a step backwards; and no one ever developed one to boost intuition.”

“Jesus wept!”

“Royan’s out there, Greg,” Julia said. “Negotiating with aliens, holding them off, leading them in. Lord, I don’t know which. But I have got to find out, Greg. Please?”

He looked helplessly at Eleanor. She fumbled for his hand, and gave him a squeeze. He tightened his grip round her shoulder.

“He is a friend,” Eleanor said in a tiny voice. She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself and failing miserably.

“Yeah, he is that.”

“You’re not hardlining, Gregory,” Eleanor said firmly. “Not at your age.”

He twisted under the look in her eyes, wanting to object, or at least have it said in private. The trouble was she was quite right. At fifty-two he would be hopelessly outclassed by today’s youngsters. Logic and intuition were in concord over that, worst luck. And if there was one certainty about all of this, there was going to be trouble. Royan’s method of contact alone was evidence of that.

Nothing ever simple, nothing ever straightforward. His bloody life story.

“No problem in that direction, at all,” Victor said smoothly.

“One of Event Horizon’s security crash teams will be on permanent alert to assist you. With hypersonic transport, they can be anywhere on the globe within forty minutes. And of course you’ll have as many of my hardliners accompanying you as you want. All you have to do is ask the questions.”

“No,” Greg said. “If I’m doing this then I want someone I know watching my back. Someone who’s reliable, someone who’s good.”

“Of course,” Victor said.

“I’ll take Suzi.”

“What?” Julia sat upright in her chair.

Eleanor stiffened inside his encirding arm.

Greg resisted the impulse to smile.

“She is one of the more competent tekmercs,” Victor said grudgingly.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “She ought to be. I trained her.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “I think you’ll find she’s grown a bit since those days. Reputation-wise, that is.”

“I’m sure Event Horizon can afford her,” Greg said.

“We certainly can,” Julia agreed. “There will be one of Event Horizon’s executive jets here for you first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve already cleared your entry into Monaco.”

Eleanor’s features hardened, spiking Julia with a voodoo glare.

“Fine,” Greg said phlegmatically. Had there ever been a time when Julia didn’t get her way? “We’d better visit Suzi this afternoon.”

“You might find you need more backup than Suzi by herself,” Julia said.

Greg gave her a hard look, he was rapidly tiring of revelations. Why?”

“The girl at Newfields, or somebody else, they took a sample out of the flower as well.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. The lab pointed it out as soon as they saw it. One of the stamens had been cut off. And it was definitely a cut, not a break.”

“Would a stamen be enough for a genetic test?” Greg asked. “I mean, this unknown who took it, are they likely to know the flower is extraterrestrial?”

“Yes. Theoretically, all you need is a single cell. A stamen is more than sufficient.”

Greg rubbed a hand across his temple. “I doubt it would be the girl who took the sample.”

“Why not?” Eleanor asked.

“Purely because she is just the courier, especially if Rachel is right about her being a whore.”

“Courtesan,” Julia corrected. “Don’t fall into the mistake of thinking she’s a dumb go-between. Believe you me, at that level there’s a difference. She’ll be smart, well educated, and knowledgeable.”

“OK,” said Victor. “But smart or not, courtesans don’t own genetic labs.”

“I agree,” said Greg. “Somebody else apart from us knows about the alien. But until we know more about the girl, I couldn’t even begin to guess who.”

“Exactly,” said Julia. “So will you take some extra hardliners?”

“Maybe a couple. But they stay in the background.”

“I’ll brief them myself,” said Victor.

Eleanor rested her head well back on top of the settee’s cushioning, eyes slitted as she stared at the ceiling. “What did the government say about the alien?” she asked.

Greg watched Julia flinch at the question. He’d never seen her do that before, not in seventeen years.

“They don’t know yet,” Julia mumbled reluctantly.

“When were you planning on telling them?”

“As soon as the situation requires it.”

“You don’t think it does yet?” Eleanor asked.

“All we have is supposition, so far.”

“And the genes. They convinced you.”

“The point is, what could the government do that I can’t? Order a strategic defence network alert? I really don’t think neutral particle beam weapons and pulsed X-ray lasers are going to be an awful lot of use against the kind of technology which moved a ship between stars, and did so undetected. Besides, think of the panic.”

“All right,” Eleanor said uncertainly. “But we have to make some preparations.”

“Event Horizon is preparing,” said Victor. “We’re assembling a number of dark specialist teams, spreading them through our facilities, kitting them out with top-line equipment.”

“What use is that?” Eleanor demanded indignantly.

“Listen, I can’t believe we’re facing some kind of military action,” Julia said. “But so far these aliens have been acting in a very clandestine fashion. If push comes to shove, then Earth is going to lose. No question about it. So we roll with the punch; if we can’t fight interstellar technology, we acquire it for ourselves, and fire it right back at them.”

Greg turned to watch the sailors on the reservoir. There was something cheerfully reassuring about the brightly coloured triangles of cloth slicing across the water. A nice homely counterbalance to this vein of raw insanity which had erupted into his life.

He didn’t like the connotations interstellar technology was sparking off in his intuition. Though he had to admit Julia had the right idea. If they couldn’t be beaten with hardware, use innate human treachery against them.

And what does that say about us as a species?

CHAPTER 5

Jason Whitehurst was right, she should have paid more attention to his data profile. He did have a yacht, of sorts, the Colonel Maitland; it was an old passenger airship he had bought and converted into an airborne gin palace.

After the Newfields ball, Whitehurst’s limousine had driven the three of them halfway around the Monaco dome’s perimeter road before turning off. A covered bridge linked the dome to the city-state’s airport, a circular concrete island fifteen hundred metres east of the Prince Albert marina. They’d driven past the terminal building and across the apron to a Gulfstream-XX executive hypersonic. The plane was a small white arrowhead shape, with a central bulge running its whole length, twin fins at the back. With its streamline profile, embodying power and speed, it would have been easy to believe it was some kind of organic construct.

Charlotte ducked under the wing’s sharp leading edge and climbed the aluminium stairs through the belly hatch. The cabin was windowless, a door leading forwards into the cockpit, another at the aft bulkhead for the toilet, there were ten seats. A smiling steward in a dark purple blazer showed her how to fasten the belt. Jason sat at the front; and Fabian sat opposite her, his greedy smile blinking on and off.

And that was it. There was no passport and immigration control, no customs, no security search. Jason Whitehurst’s money simply overrode the mundane protocols of everyday existence, an intangible bow wave force clearing all before his path. Even so, she thought there should’ve been some kind of formality. But at least she didn’t see the creep with the cool eyes this time.

Charlotte had actually dozed on the short flight. She woke as the steward touched her shoulder. The back of Fabian’s head was descending through the hatch.

She glanced about in confusion as she came down the hypersonic plane’s stairs. The Gulfstream had landed on a circular VTOL pad. A stiff chilly breeze plucked at her gown. They were definitely out at sea, she could taste the freshness of the air. But all she could see past the lights ringing the pad was a band of night sky, stars twinkling with unusual clarity, there was no sign of the sea, no sound of water. A bright orange strobe light was flashing two hundred metres ahead of the Gulfstream’s nose, seemingly suspended in space. That was when she started to realize where they were.

“Welcome to my yacht, my dear,” Jason Whitehurst said with a touch of irony.

Charlotte lifted her mouth in a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

He wagged a finger.

“Jason,” she corrected.

“Good girl.”

We must be right on top of the airship, she thought. But it’s so stable, even in the breeze, it must be massive.

Fabian had disappeared through a door at the rear of the pad. Jason guided her courteously towards it.

Charlotte yawned widely, covering her mouth quickly. “Excuse me,” she apologized.

“Tired, my dear? You were out like a light on the plane.”

“I’m sorry, you must think me dreadfully rude. I’ve been on my feet for thirty-six hours. I’ve only just returned from my holiday. It’s been planes and airport lounges all day, I’m afraid.”

They went through the door into a well-lit corridor. Fabian was waiting by a lift.

“That sounds most interesting,” Jason Whitehurst said. “I shall enjoy hearing all about your travels tomorrow over lunch.”

Charlotte’s heart sank.

The lift door hummed open. Everything was made out of composite, she noted—walls, floor, ceiling.

“Fabian, I think you had better see your lady guest to one of the spare cabins for tonight,” Jason Whitehurst said. “Dear Charlotte is terribly tired. I think she needs a night’s rest. She can move into your room tomorrow.”

And that cleared up any possible ambiguities about the situation, Charlotte thought. Clever of him, reassuring his son in front of her.

Fabian’s face fell. “Yes, Father.”

She shared the lift with Fabian. He kept giving her fast glances, suddenly nervous again. She thought she’d succeeded in putting him at ease while they were dancing. “How old are you?” he asked quickly. “I mean... you don’t have to say. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I’m twenty-one, Fabian.”

“Oh.” He stared at the stainless-steel control panel beside the door. “I was fifteen a few months back, actually. Well more like nine months, really.”

According to the data profile Baronski had squirted over to her, Fabian had celebrated his fifteenth birthday barely a fortnight ago. “That’s nice.”

Fabian blushed. “Why?”

“Because people will still treat you like a kid. But you’re not. It means you can get away with murder.”

His jaw worked silently for a moment. “Ah, yes, right.”

The lift doors opened on the gondola’s upper deck. He showed her down a long corridor to her cabin. She began to wonder again about the size of the Colonel Maitland.

“Thank you, Fabian,” she said when the cabin door slid open.

“Sleep as long as you want. There’s nothing rigid about meals on board. The cooks will always get you something to eat whenever you ask them. That’s what they’re here for.” He flipped the hair from his eyes. “Would you like to come swimming with me tomorrow?”

“Swimming? In an airship? What do you do, jump into the sea?”

Just for a moment a genuine fifteen-year-old’s grin flashed over his face. “No, nothing like that. I’ll show you.”

“Sounds fun. That’s a date, then.”

She woke to the faintest of buzzing sounds, having to concentrate hard to be certain she wasn’t imagining it. It seemed to rise and fall in some strange cycle of its own. There was no accompanying vibration. She thought it might be the propellers.

Her cabin was stylish and luxuriant, vaguely reminiscent of a nineteenth-century steamship. Wooden dresser and chests, mossy sapphire carpet, biolum globes like giant opals, pictures of pre-Warming landscapes on the walls. Three sets of mulberry curtains along one wall emitted a dull glow. A remote unit was sitting on the bedside cabinet.

She found the button for the curtains, and rolled off the bed as they drew apart, revealing long rectangular windows with brass frames.

Colonel Maitland was cruising three or four kilometres above the Mediterranean. The water below shone with a rich clear blue hue, while wave-tops shimmered brightly creating a silver glare. She had never flown over the Mediterranean like this before. Hypersonics flew so high and fast that details blurred to non-existence, seas were reduced to a formless blue plane. But this view was hypnotic. She could see ships down there, trailing long V-shaped wakes; bulk cargo carriers, rusty splinters no bigger than her thumb nail.

There was a light tapping on the door. Charlotte looked round the cabin, and saw a towelling robe on the foot of the bed. She slipped into it.

“Come in.”

It was a maid, a woman in her early thirties, dressed in a plain black knee-length tunic, her mouse-brown hair wound into a neat bun. She curtsied. And she got it right, too, Charlotte noticed.

“Did madam have a pleasant rest?” The maid’s English was slightly accented. Slavonic?

“There’s no need for that nonsense in private,” Charlotte said.

“Madam?”

That hurt. Formality was the way a patron’s household staff told her they thought she was on a social stratum way below them, about equal to the family pets. Dumb, pampered, and good at tricks. “I had a very pleasant rest. Is the rest of the ship up and about?”