Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“Life isn’t as black and white as it used to be in your day, David. Politics isn’t as simple, nothing is as simple. Which is a step to the good.”

“Hardly, Julia; complexity is a step towards chaos.”

“And simplicity makes control easy,” she countered wryly. “It’s oppressive.”

“The PSP was oppressive, Julia, never us. We created the economic environment you thrived in, you have a lot to be grateful for. And as long as we remain in Westminster, Event Horizon can go on expanding. You have carte blanche, you know that.”

“Event Horizon is already large enough, thank you. Besides, pure capitalism is as unsavoury as pure communism. I never favoured either extreme. There has to be a degree of regulation, and responsibility. A social market somewhere in the middle.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. You know the gains to be made from our policies. Without us acting in tandem this country would only be a second-rate European state, not the leading power we are today.”

“You people, you’re always so hemmed in by geography, aren’t you? It ruins your thinking. The rest of Europe, the rest of the world for that matter, needs to develop their economies to the same level as England. If for no other reason than if they’re poor they can’t buy our goods.”

“Nice in theory, Julia. You’ll never see it in practice. Governments are too parochial, too protective. They have to be; it’s how they get elected.”

She favoured him with an indolent smile. “Unless they’re Welsh governments.”

“Touché. So what did that little shit Harcourt offer you?”

“He claims a direct line to Jepson, which he’ll use to tell me what the other bids are. That’s his edge. The rest of it was a standard government to industry inducement package.”

“Hmm.” David Marchant rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking hard. “Well, of course, the inducement package will remain, that goes without saying. After all, my natural successors are placed in the Exchequer as well as Number Ten. That just leaves us with the problem of the actual bid. Fortunately, the PM can offer you Treasury backing for any offer you make to Jepson. In which case anything Harcourt tells you becomes irrelevant. I imagine Wheaton will consider a more appropriate position for him afterwards; Minister we can all blame for traffic jams, or somesuch. I take it you are arranging a suitable figure for Jepson with your financial backing consortium.”

“Yes,” she said grudgingly. Another bloody problem. Her finance division chief had briefed her during the flight from Listoel; the banks and finance houses were terrified by atomic structurng, running round like headless chickens. It was making business extremely difficult in the money markets.

“Good. Simply put in a figure you know the kombinates can’t match. We will bridge the gap between that and the imount the banks will advance you. Blank cheque, Julia. And interest free.”

“It will run to tens of billions, if not hundreds.”

“So? Taxpayers are a bottomless source of money for governments. And they’re not going anywhere.”

“As a taxpayer, I object.”

“Ah, but, Julia, you don’t pay much tax, do you? New Conservative policies see to that.”

“What about Wales?”

“I’m sure that if you have a chat with Joshua Wheaton he’ll convince you to see our point of view Perhaps you could say a few words to that effect when you leave Number Ten, there’s always a lot of reporters hanging around outside.”

“Tell me one thing, David. Why do the New Conservatives want to hang on to Wales?”

“A large country is a stable and strong country. Without Wales, we would be weakened, possibly fatally. I have no intention of allowing that to happen, to waste all we have built over the last seventeen years. It would be national suicide.”

“And you would lose your majority in Westminster.”

David Marchant gave a delicate shrug. “If we lose, you lose, Julia.” The flatscreen went blank.

Going to be one of those days, I think, Juliet, her grandpa said.

Yes. And if I’m not extremely careful, it might be the last.

You should have told him about the alien.

No. I don’t want people like him to make first contact; there’s first impressions to consider as well.

And Royan is the perfect choice for that, is he, girl?

She couldn’t answer.

Julia went upstairs for a shower after the teleconference. Wilhom’s master bedroom was large, with a high ceiling, its windows looking out over the lake. A Paris design house had been contracted for the decoration, giving it walls of royal purple and emerald, a mossy cream carpet, gold fittings, heavy curtains that hung from the ceiling to the floor. A solid four-poster made from oak, with a plain white silk canopy.

On impulse she sat on Royan’s side of the bed and opened the door of his cabinet. Inside she found a couple of bottles of aftershave, comb, a hardback set of The Lord of the Rings, AV memox crystal recordings of black and white films from the nineteen-forties and fifties, a cybofax that must have been ten years old, it was so bulky.

She took them all out and arranged them on the bed, lining them up according to size. Not much of a legacy. She remembered buying him the cybofax, the Tolkien books too, come to that.

Clothes? She slid open the door to his walk-through wardrobe. The biolums came on automatically. Dust filters kept the air clean. She walked between the two rails, her hand brushing along his shirts and jackets and waistcoats, setting them swaying gently. The shoe rack along the far wall was well stocked: cowboy boots, suede ankle boots, trainers, alligator shoes, hiking boots. Some of them hadn’t even been worn. Then there were ties, belts, hats.

She let the styles and colours sink into her mind, seeing him in various combinations. He’d grown into quite a sharp dresser.

But what had he been wearing the day he left? She couldn’t remember. There was no spare hanger.

The wardrobe, the beside cabinet, they shook loose memories. Not her usual processor indexed recollections, real memories. Human memories. They were twinned with emotional responses. Messy.

She left the cube of clean silence, shutting the door behind her. He hadn’t cared enough about the clothes to take them with him. They were hers as much as the manor and the company. He wore them for her, when he was with her. Plugging into the role she’d given him.

Kirsten McAndrews was waiting for her in the study, sitting behind a terminal on the long central table. A dark African vase had been placed in the middle, full of pale pink rose buds. They gave off a thin aromatic scent.

Julia took her own chair at the head. Open Channel to Selfcores. I want you to run a search through patent office memory cores and see if Clifford has filed anything on the generator yet.

He hadn’t yesterday, we checked, NN core one said.

Well, check again, and assign a monitor routine to keep me updated. As soon as it’s filed I want to know.

I see, NN core two said. Why hasn’t he filed one already?

Quite. By telling people he has the generator data for sale he’s exposed himself to every hotrod and tekmerc in existence running a snatch deal against him, not to mention us and kombinate security, probably certain defence ministries too with these stakes. All he has to do is file it with a patent office and he’s covered.

He ain’t got it, Philip Evans said.

That’s what I’m beginning to think, Grandpa. Which means he’s batting on a very sticky wicket. He must know that if I get to the alien before it squirts him the generator data I’ll make it an offer that’ll be difficult to refuse. Event Horizon has interests in every human discipline. Whatever it wants, I ought to be able to supply it.