Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“Of course-” Matthew began fiercely.

Julia and Eleanor silenced them before the argument got out of hand. Julia put her arm round her son, and gave him a hug. He resembled his father so closely, a constant raw-nerve reminder of all she was missing.

Eleanor took another look at her Rolex. “They’ll be in Monaco now.”

“I didn’t want to ask Greg to do this, you know.”

“I know,” Eleanor said wearily. She put her hand on her belly and shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

Julia felt even more guilt crystallizing around her, it was like a prison cell she had to carry round.

The bishop sat down to a sharp burst of applause. The headmaster rose and began his introduction to the prizes. Julia gave Daniella a final check over to make sure her uniform was tidy. Daniella had won her year’s history prize. Julia was secretly thankful it wasn’t the economics prize; that would’ve been too much like Daniella bursting a gut for the subject she believed her mother wanted her to excel in. Not that she would be unhappy if Daniella showed a natural inclination towards the qualities necessary for a career in Event Horizon, she just didn’t want the girl to feel constrained.

Julia leaned in towards Eleanor. “It’s foolish of me, in a way. I’m relying on Royan as a psychological crutch. Find him, and the world is going to be at rights again. Fat chance. Find him, and we find the flower’s origin. Our problems will only just be beginning.”

“There’s no going back now,” Eleanor said. “Like it or not, the human race isn’t alone any more.”

“Yes, but why all this secrecy? Why not just land on the White House lawn like they do in the channel shows?”

“The eco-warriors would laser them dead for bringing a million gruesome new varieties of bugs to the planet.”

“That’s something,” Julia said thoughtfully. “Suppose we never can meet in the flesh, that the risk of bacteriological contamination is too high. All we’ll ever be able to do is trade information.”

“That’s one answer for you, then,” Eleanor said. “They aren’t here to trade, they’re listening, tapping our datanets and taking the information. The cosmic equivalent of data pirates.”

And who better to help them than Royan, Julia thought. “Yeah, could be. Let’s hope it is something that simple.”

The marquee was full of parents and pupils, standing with drinks in their hands, talking with animated voices. The sixth formers who were leaving were busy swapping addresses, promising faithfully to stay in touch. They had that slightly apprehensive air about them. Julia could remember the feeling herself: the day her grandfather had died, his body at least, and she was the sole legal owner of Event Horizon. The future was loaded with promise, but it was still totally uncharted, dark country. Scary at that age.

Eleanor’s crack about contamination kept running through her mind. Surely there must be some risk from unknown germs? Yet Royan had sent her a freshly cut flower. He couldn’t have been worried.

She took a sip of mineral water from her glass, and pretended to study one of the paintings lined up along the back of the marquee, a hummingbird in flight, wings blurred as if in motion. It was part of the school art department’s exhibition of work by the pupils.

Open Channel to SelfCores, What did the genetics lab report say about humans picking up a possible infection from the flower?

Virtually zero, NN core one answered. In fact the problem is reversed. There was no equivalent to our bacteria in the flower. Appendix fifteen suggested that symbiotic bacteria, such as the terrestrial nitrogen-fixing rhizobia, have been incorporated into the parent plant’s genetic code; and the natural resistance to parasites has evolved and strengthened to such a point where the parasites died off.

Wouldn’t the parasites evolve in tandem? she asked.

If they had, then the laboratory should have found some on the flower. There were none, ergo they have died off.

So we are a bacteriological threat to the aliens?

Possibly. There are three options. One, that contact with us would be extremely dangerous for them, that they will have no immunity to our primitive diseases. Two, their immune systems are so advanced that our germs and bacteria will be no threat at all. Three, that our respective biochemistry is so different that there can be no cross-infection. However, given that the flower’s cell composition was so similar to terrestrial cells, for example the inclusion of cellulose and lignin in the cell membrane, the third option is the least likely.

So even if full contact is established, we may not be able to meet?

Insufficient data, you know that, NN core two chided.

Yes. Sony, I just hate this floundering around in the dark.

We know, remember?

Two of you do, she countered, teasing.

They know, Juliet, but I care.

Thank you, Grandpa.

We have some good news for you, NN core two said.

Please, I could do with some.

Greg has discovered the name of the courier, a Charlotte Diane Fielder. She is one of Dmitri Baronski’s girls.

Baronski? Julia knew the name, his operation, but he was very second-rate. Or rather, he made sure he stayed second-rate. Always targeting the idle rich and society figures. Never doing anything that would bring a kombinate security division down on him. A man who’d found his niche, feeding off parasites. This is slightly out of his league, isn’t it?

Yes, if he is involved. Charlotte Fielder has been lifted from Monaco, and it was a very professional deal. Greg suggested that the same people who took a sample of the flower are now holding Fielder.

Where is he now? she asked.

On his way back to Monaco’s airport. He is going to visit Baronski to see if he knows Fielder’s current whereabouts.

OK, keep monitoring the situation.

“Marry me,” an American voice said. “Marry me and let me take you away from all this.”

Julia turned from the hummingbird to see Clifford Jepson standing at her side, grinning ingratiatingly. The president of Globecast was in his forties with a round berry-brown face, thick black hair combed back, channel newsman smile. She knew it was all a forgery, cosmetic face and hormone hair.

Like Julia, Clifford Jepson had inherited his position; and Globecast had nearly doubled its share price in the eight years since he’d been its president. He also carried on his father’s underclass arms trading, which was less welcome news. Julia had used him to supply the Trinities. And she’d questioned the wisdom ever since.

She really liked his father, her uncle Horace. But Clifford Jepson seemed to think that it was a friendship which he’d inherited along with Globecast. He hadn’t, but his position made him just equal enough to talk without being stilted.

Julia glanced round, and saw Melanie Jepson talking to the headmaster. She was a beautiful woman, early twenties, blonde hair so fine it was almost white, a spectacular figure.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Clifford,” she said drily. “Middle-aged businessmen with midlife crises are supposed to leave frumpish old wives for dazzling young actresses, not the other way round.”

“Nothing frumpish about you, Julia. You know I’ve always held a torch for you.”

“Spare me, you’ll be calling me a real woman next.”

He looked at the hummingbird painting. “Not bad, sharpen up the colours, add some life to the eyes, could be the makings of a decent artist there. Nice to see the old forms being adhered to. Kids these days, all they do is talk to their graphic simulators.”

“Bloody hell, crook and art critic. Clifford, what are you doing here?”

He waved his glass in the direction of his wife. “Getting the kids down for entry. I’m based in Europe more often than not these days. So we thought they could board over here, give them a chance of some permanency in their lives. Trouble is, the entrance list for this place is getting kinda full these days. Can’t think why.”