Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“New London is a dormitory town and tourist resort,” Julia said. “I’m not having you take a private army up there.”

“Take the crash team with you,” Victor said smoothly. “You know they’re good, yes? And Julia’s right. We really can’t permit armed tekmercs in New London, no matter how loyal to you or well disciplined they are. Highest bid, Suzi.”

She grinned. “Sold. It sounds fluid enough.” The crash team would be OK; she’d been talking to them, putting on the old-time pro routine, surprising what’d kicked free.

“I hope you’ll allow me to accompany Greg and the security team up to New London,” Rick Parnell said.

Suzi hadn’t paid him much attention, a hunk in a bad suit. University man, who looked for aliens in the stars, his talk would be in the stratosphere. He’d been very keen to sit next to Julia.

“I want the Jupiter search supervised properly,” Julia said.

“It will be,” Rick insisted. “But I’m not an astronomer. I couldn’t contribute to that. You always say put the experts in charge. And I’d be best employed in contacting the alien. It’s going to have a very strange psychology. I’m not saying I’ll understand its motivational behaviour patterns, but, well, the SETI department has initiated some studies into-”

“All right,” Julia cut in. “If Greg doesn’t object to you tagging along.”

“No.”

Rick let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Victor, you chase up Royan’s next memory package,” Julia said. “It ought to be at the North Sea Farm company.”

“We’ve already accessed every memory core at the Farm,” said one of the screen Julias. “They’re clean.”

“All the more reason for Victor to go in person,” Julia said. He can find what you’re missing.” She looked round the table. “Right, well if that’s it, we’ll start. Greg, your spacePlane will be here in an hour.”

“Are you coming to New London with us?” Suzi asked.

“Not initially, first I’m going to try and sort out the atomic structuring situation with the kombinates and Clifford. But as soon as you locate the Celestial priest, I’ll follow you up.”

“Right.” Suzi stood up. There wasn’t even the slightest tweak of pain from her knee. The clinic’s bioware bracing was the best she’d ever seen.

What about the Dolgoprudnensky?” Fabian asked.

“Fabian-” Charlotte began warningly.

“No,” the boy said stubbornly. “I won’t be quiet. The Dolgoprudnensky started all this, they got you all fighting each other. And that’s why my father is dead.” He turned to face Julia Evans, eyes accusing. “Why aren’t you going to do anything about them?”

“I am going to do something about them, but this situation requires my full attention right now. They’ll still be there in a week, after this is all over. And you’ll be a big part of their demise, Fabian. We can pass on everything you know about their timber operation to the Russian Justice Ministry.” She gave him a modest smile. “Good enough?”

He hunched his shoulders, looking belligerent. “Yes. All right.”

“Thank you, Fabian. I know it’s hard for you right now.”

“Can I go up to New London with Charlotte?”

“I don’t think so. You’ll be a lot safer here. Charlotte will be back in a couple of days.”

Fabian’s sullen expression darkened, but he didn’t push it. Charlotte’s arm had slipped round him, giving him a reassuring hug.

Suzi felt like cheering the kid on, someone who wasn’t totally intimidated by Julia. Fuck knows, there were few enough in the world.

The sun hadn’t quite risen high enough to burn the dew off Wilholm’s lawns. Julia’s Pegasus sent the pale grey and silver droplets scurrying in vast interference patterns as it landed.

She walked down the stairs from the belly hatch to be greeted with kisses and shouts from her animated children. Brutus barked at her, then started sniffing round her feet.

“You’ve been gone all night.”

“Where did you go?”

“Was it with Uncle Greg?”

“Do you know where Daddy is yet?”

She put her arms around both of them, hugging tight. They started to walk towards the manor together, Daniella skipping.

Julia took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I had to rush off. It was Listoel. Yes. And, I think we might now.” She laughed at Matthew, his jaw had dropped as he tried to match answers to questions.

“Where do you think Daddy is?” Daniella asked.

“New London. Your Uncle Greg is going up there today to find out if he truly is. We should know by tonight. I might have to leave again.”

“Can we come?”

“No. If I find Daddy, I’ll bring him straight back here. Promise.”

Daniella and Matthew exchanged a look, annoyed and half relieved. Julia grinned at them. “Come on, I’ve got a teleconference in a minute, but we’ll have some elevenses together first.”

“No interruptions?” Matthew asked suspiciously.

“None at all.”

David Marchant had been the first New Conservative Prime Minister elected after the PSP fell, a position he held for twelve years and two further elections before finally standing down in favour of his successor, Joshua Wheaton. Julia had found herself regretting his decision with increasing frequency over the last five years. Wheaton was too much like Harcourt, an image merchant desperate for public support, a spin doctor’s cyborg. At least Marchant had the guts to make unpopular decisions on occasion. These days he had settled into a cosy role of elder statesman and New Conservative grandee. Always on the channel current affair casts, ready with an opinion and a quip. Perceived as the power behind Wheaton’s throne. An accurate enough assessment.

When his image appeared on the study’s flatscreen she felt herself relaxing. There had been a lot of head to head sessions in the old days, hammering out deals to their mutual advantage. Nowadays it was done through an army of assistants and lawyers, departmental interfaces, industry and government working groups, advisory committees.

One reason why the whole Harcourt problem had arisen in the first place. No hands-on control any more.

“Hello, Julia,” he said. As always a rich resonant voice, instantly trustworthy.

“Morning, David. I have a problem.”

“Whatever I can do, Julia, you know that.”

“Choosing a better successor would have been a good start.”

David Marchant smiled wisely. “Joshua is right for these times, as I was for mine. We needed strong leadership to recover from the Warming and the PSP, and now we need to loosen up a little, consolidate.”

“There’s a difference between loose and falling to pieces. Wheaton has lost just about all of his authority, over the country and the party. And I have Michael Harcourt on my back because of it.”

“Michael is an ambitious man, admittedly.”

“Michael is a bought man.”

David Marchant laughed. “You’re just annoyed because it isn’t you who owns him.”

“He isn’t from your wing of the party. And if he does snatch the premiership from Wheaton, he’ll purge the cabinet. You really will have to become a professional current affairs presenter if you want your voice to be heard after that. Trouble is, Jepson runs Globecast too. You’ll be locked out. Give you a chance to get your golf handicap down,” she said maliciously. Marchant hated sports; when Peterborough United won the FA cup she had sat next to him in Wembley’s royal box for the match. He had emptied two hip flasks of whisky. Out of boredom, he always claimed…

“If you’d given Wheaton some support over Wales none of this would have happened, Julia.”