Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“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?

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.”