Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

He hurried over the band of granite chips which encircled the building, discomfort trickling into his veins, as tangible as a gland secretion. Too many of his mates from the Trinities had wound up being sent to places like Stocken in the PSP years, and not all of them had survived transit.

There was another sensor pillar outside the big glass entrance doors. Greg showed his card again. The reception hall had a semicircular desk on one side and a row of plastic chairs lined up opposite. Walls and ceiling were all composite, powder-blue in colour; the linoleum was a marble swirl of grey and cream. Biolum panels were set along the walls, below tracks of boxy service conduits. The place had the same kind of utilitarian lay-out as a warship interior.

That military image was reinforced by the two guards sitting behind the desk; they both wore crisp blue uniforms with peaked caps. One of them took Greg’s proffered card and showed it to a terminal. An ID badge burped out of a slot.

“Please wear it on your lapel at all times, sir,” he said as he handed it over along with the card.

He was fixing the badge on when one of the doors at the far end of the reception hall opened. The woman who came through was in her late thirties, dark hair cut short without much attempt at styling. Her face had pale skin, slender winged eyebrows, a long nose, and strong lips. She wore a white coat of some shiny material, there was no hint of what clothes might be worn underneath. Her shoes were sensible black leather with a small buckle, flat heels. A cybofax was gripped in her left hand.

“Mr Mandel?” She stuck out her hand.

“Greg, please.”

“I’m Stephanie Rowe, Dr MacLennan’s assistant. I’ll take you to him.”

The corridors were windowless, running through the centre of the building. They passed several warders, all in the neat navy-blue uniforms, and always walking in pairs or larger groups. On two occasions they were escorting prisoners. The men had shaven heads, wearing loose-fining yellow overalls, white plastic neural-jammer collars clamped firmly around their necks.

Greg frowned at the retreating back of the second prisoner.

“Are all the prisoners fitted with neural janimers?”

“Yes, all the ones in the Centre. We house some of the country’s most ruthless criminals here. I don’t mean the gang lords or syntho barons. These are the violence and sex orientated offenders, killers, rapists, and child molesters.”

“Right. Do many of them try and escape?”

“No. There were only two attempts in the last twelve months. The collar’s incapacitation ability is demonstrated to each inmate as they arrive. Besides, most of them are resigned when they arrive here, depressed, withdrawn. The kind of crimes they commit mean even their families have rejected them. They were loners on the outside, there is nowhere they can go, no organization which will hide and take care of them. It’s our experience that a high percentage of them actually wanted to be caught.”

“And do you think you can cure them?”

“The term we use now is behavioural reorientation. And yes, we’ve had some success. There’s a lot of work still to be done, naturally.”

“What about public acceptance?”

She grimaced in defeat. “Yes, we anticipate a major problem in that area. It would be politically difficult releasing them back into the community after the treatment is complete.”

“Was Liam Bursken one of the two who tried to escape?” Greg asked.

“No.”

“Has he ever tried?”

“Again, no. He’s kept in solitary the whole time. Even by our standards, he’s considered extremely dangerous. We cannot allow him to mix with the other inmates. It would cause too much trouble. Most of them would want to attack him simply for the kudos it would bring them.”

“No honour amongst thieves any more, eh?”

“These aren’t thieves, Greg. They are very sick people.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“A psychiatrist, yes.”

They climbed a staircase to the second floor. Greg mulled over what she had said. A professional liberal, he decided, she had too much faith in people. Maybe too much faith in her profession as well if she believed therapy could effect complete cures. It couldn’t, papering over the cracks was the best anyone could ever hope for, he knew. But then the gland did give him an advantage, allowing him to glimpse the true workings of the mind.

“So why do you want to work here?” he asked as they started off down another corridor.

She gave him a brief grin. “I didn’t know I was the one you wanted to question.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I don’t mind. I’m here because this is the cutting edge of behavioural research, Greg. And the money is good.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say that about civil service pay before.”

“I don’t work for the government. The Centre was built by the Berkeley company, they run it under licence from the Home Office. And they also fund the behavioural reorientation research project, which is my field.”

“That explains a lot. I didn’t think the Home Office had the kind of resources to pay for a place like this.”

Stephanie shrugged noncommittally, and opened the door into the director’s suite. There was a secretary in the outer office, busy with a terminal. She glanced up, and keyed an intercom.

“Go straight through,” she said.

The office was at odds with the rest of the Centre. Wall units, desk, and conference table were all customized blackwood, ancient maps and several diplomas hung on the wall, louvre blinds stretched across the picture window, blocking the view, It was definitely a senior management enclave, its occupier claiming every perk and entitlement allowed for in the corporate rule book.

Dr James MacLennan rose from behind his desk to greet Greg, a reassuring smile and a solid handshake. He was thirty-seven, shorter than Greg, with thick dark hair, heavily tanned with compact features. His Brazilian suit was a shiny grey-green.

“For the record, and before we say anything else, I’d like to state quite categorically that Liam Bursken did not slip out for a night, it simply isn’t possible,” MacLennan said.

His mannerisms were all a trifle too gushy and effusive for Greg to draw any confidence the way he was intended to. He guessed that Berkeley’s directors were none too happy at suggestions that. psychopaths like Bursken could come and go as they pleased. The method of Kitchener’s murder hadn’t been lost on the press.

“From what I’ve seen so far, I’d say the Centre looks pretty secure,” Greg said.

“Good, excellent.” MacLennan gestured at a long settee.

Greg settled back into the bouncy cushioning. “I will have to ask Bursken himself.”

“I understand completely. Stephanie will arrange your interview. Make as many checks as you like. I like to think our record is flawless.”

“Thank you, I’m sure it is.”

Stephanie leant over the desk and muttered into the intercom, then came and sat at the table next to the settee.

“Right, so how can we help?” MacLennan crossed his legs, and gave Greg his undivided attention.

“As you probably saw in the newscasts, I’m a gland psychic appointed to the Kitchener inquiry by the Home Office.”

MacLennan rolled his eyes and grunted. “God, the press. Don’t tell me about the press. I’ve had the lot of them clamouring on the door to interview Bursken, harassing the staff when they come off duty. You see them on the channel ‘casts, these packs which follow politicians and royalty around, but I just never appreciated what it was like to be on the receiving end. And that kind of microscopic attention is precisely what we didn’t want, Stocken is supposed to be a low-key operation.”