Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

And what would Jakki Coleman have to say about it? Bitch!

“You’re upset about something,” Patrick said.

“Oh, ten out of ten, give it a banana.”

“Was it me?”

“No,” she said tightly.

“Ah, right.” He subsided back into the pillows.

Well that ruined the morning mood, Julia thought, there would be no sex now.

She pointed the remote at the windows. The thick imperial-purple velour curtains swept aside to show her the balcony. Wistaria vines, gene-tailored against the heat of the new seasons, were wrapped round the wrought iron railings, producing a solid wall of delicate mauve flower clusters. Wilholm’s rear lawns formed a splendid backdrop with their English country house formality, she could just see the long trout lake at the bottom, its fairytale waterfall tinged brown from the silt washed down the stream by the heavy rains.

Not even the garden’s naturalistic perfection could break her ire. Bugger Jakki Coleman anyway. Who cared what she said?

Although that wasn’t the half of it. She still felt guilty about asking Greg to look into the Kitchener murder. And the murder itself was a complication she could do without. Right now Morgan’s security division was stretched pretty thinly defending the company from conventional threats-industrial sabotage, industrial espionage, crooked accountants, hotrod hackers infiltrating the datanet. Why would anybody feel strongly about something as weirdly abstract as superphysics wormholes? Surely it couldn’t be an anti-Evans gesture? Not slaughtering a defenceless old man? She couldn’t believe anyone was that sick and warped; besides, there had been no announcement. If any operational PSP remnants had killed Kitchener they would have been crowing about it all across the media by now.

At least there hadn’t been much mention of Greg on the newscasts she had caught before flicking over to the Coleman trollop. Some jerky pictures taken from a shoulder-mounted camera, the operator running after the EMC Ranger as it drove out of the police station, Eleanor’s tight-lipped anger, Greg impassive as always.

Patrick touched her shoulder. “You’re very tense.” His fingers slid down her arm to the elbow, then stroked her breast, circling the nipple.

She tilted her head back and sighed through clenched teeth. “No, Patrick.”

His tongue nuzzled her ear, stubble scratching her collar bone. “I can massage all that tension away. You know I can.”

It was very very tempting. There wasn’t a chime in her head Patrick couldn’t ring whenever he chose. But for all that ecstasy, he was a mechanical lover. She had begun to suspect a great deal of his excitement came from the way he controlled her body, almost a voyeur of his own performance.

“No,” she said abruptly, and shoved her feet out of the bed.

“Sorry, I’ve got a busy morning.” She picked up her neglige from the floor where he’d thrown it last night and went into the bathroom.

She sat on the side of the circular marble bath and dropped her head in her hands, staring glumly at the swan mosaic on the wall opposite. There were just so many issues clamouring insistently for her attention right now; the petty, the important, and the personal.

She made an effort to blank them out, as if her whole mind was one giant processor node she could shut down when she wanted. It didn’t work; Patrick was easy to ignore, a feat which raised its own slightly disquieting question, but she found herself returning to yesterday’s strange conversation with Karl Hildebrandt. Greg was always telling her to trust her native instinct; it’s a variant on precognition, he explained, not quite rational, but ninety per cent reliable. And right now her instincts said that conversation was desperately wrong.

The bad PR she had been picking up from leftish organizations and pressure groups had been more or less constant for two years, ever since the giga-conductor was announced to the public. In that context Greg and the Kitchener case was just one more incident. Nothing special. The way she was siting factories in marginal constituencies was far more blatant, provocative.

The PR angle was a blind, then, it had to be. Karl had wanted Greg off the case, plain and simple. From what she had heard about the strange circumstances out at the Abbey, Oakham’s CID would be very unlikely to find the murderer without Greg and Event Horizon’s resources behind them.

How would Karl benefit from that?

Wrong tack, she realized; Karl was the bank’s mouthpiece, the perfect corporate cyborg. How would Diessenburg Mercantile benefit from allowing Kitchener’s murderer to go free?

Open Channel To NN Core.

Morning, Juliet.

A wan smile crept on to her face. Good old Grandpa, he was so indefatigable.

Morning, Grandpa. Anything important happen last night?

Someone tried to break in to our Leicester music deck factory warehouse; it was a local gang, they’d even brought a lorry with them to cart away their loot. Security suspects someone on the inside was feeding them information on the shipments. There was an attempt to snatch data out of the genetics research division memory core, we think they were after the land-coral splices. The guardian programs prevented any data loss, and security are working with English Telecom to see if they can backtrack the hackers. Hopeless, of course. The pound closed three cents up on the dollar, and the FTcast index was up eight points. Market confidence is high after the spaceplane roll out. There was a lot of data traffic between our backing consortium partners right into the wee small hours. Got ‘em on the run, we have, Juliet.

Did you break any of their squirts?

No, they’re using a high-order encryption code. It could be done, but it would tie up a lot of processing capacity. Not cost-effective. They’ll agree to Prior’s Fen.

Hope so.

Everything all right, Juliet?

Yes. No.

Executive material if ever I saw it. So bloody decisive you are, my girl.

What do you think of Patrick, Grandpa?

Handsome, rich, cultured, quite clever, well mannered. Picked yourself a good one again, Juliet.

There was a shade too much emphasis on again for her mind. She glanced up at the mirror above the basin. And boy oh boy did she look melancholy. Her hair was a complete mess as well. Patrick did so enjoy seeing it tossed about. His husky voice in the dark, encouraging her, whispering how wild she was. It never seemed to matter in bed, excitement overriding everything.

Yah, she replied. So how come they never last?

I said good, I never said flawless.

Do you think he’s going to start asking me for shipping contracts?

No. Even if his family shipping line needed ‘em, he wouldn’t ask. And they don’t need ‘em, I’ve had our commercial intelligence division keeping an eye open.

My very own guardian angel. You’re wonderful, Grandpa.

You’ll find him one day, Juliet. I’ll be a great-grandfather.

Don’t hold your breath, not the way I’m going.

I watched that Coleman woman this morning.

I don’t want to talk about it! She reached for a comb and began to pull it through the knots. The face in the mirror was scowling petulantly.

I don’t like you being ridiculed like that, Juliet. Let me tell you, my girl, it would never have happened in my day. People should have more bloody respect. You ought to blacklist that channel, no adverts, and pass the word round everyone Event Horizon does business with. That frigid Coleman cow would soon get the message.

It was the second time temptation had been put in front of her that morning. She considered it, something like envy colouring every thought. No, Grandpa. If I started using my power like that, where would it end?

Use it or lose it girl. I’ve told you before.