Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“We keep the station’s internal pressure at one atmosphere,” Eliot Haydon said, as he ran the powerdown program through the sub’s control ‘ware. “That way once we’re docked, we stay docked. Opposite of spacecraft.”

“What exactly goes on in this station?” Victor asked.

Eliot Haydon stood up and walked back down the sub to the airlock set in the ceiling. He checked the seal display before starting to turn the lock wheel. “Some practical work; investigating sea bed growing techniques, methods of harvesting. Several of the food combine farms use drones to pick the water fruit; we found the Frankenstein dolphins are just as efficient. But mainly it’s a genetics research facility. We improve the water fruit species, modify fish. One team is working on coral; we wanted to give the field reefs small caves, like Swiss cheese, so we could breed crustaceans in them. The pilot scheme is quite successful.”

The circular airlock opened with a hissing sound. A small shower of water sprinkled down on Eliot Haydon’s head. He started to climb up the metal ladder.

The laboratory was GD7, a rectangular chamber on the edge of the station. Three portholes looked out over the fields and reefs, some chemical aspect of the thick material turning them a deep blue-green. Fans of jade light poured in, dancing across the white-topped benches which ran along the wall.

GD7 appeared to be a standard set up. The benches were crowded with specialist terminals and composite equipment modules, long crystalline glassware arrays and culture vats. A rack of empty aquariums stood along the back wall. There was a section given over to an electron microscope. All of it was clean, unused, switched off. Waiting, Victor thought.

Kiley was resting on a pedestal in the centre. An octagonal framework two metres in diameter, half a metre high, its side panels covered in crumbling, grey thermal/particle protection foam. Thimble-sized cold gas thruster nozzles poked out above the foam, along with three sets of star-tracker sensors, a couple of slim conical omnidirectional antennas, tarnished-silver electrical umbilical sockets, and an interface key. Seven corners sprouted a square dull-copper thermal radiator fin. The eighth had a long grapple pin for the remote manipulator arm on Newton’s Apple to grab during retrieval.

A metre-high truss structure on top had held the probe’s collection flask. It was empty now, mounting points trailing a spaghetti tangle of severed power lines and fibre optic cable. Above that was the communication dish, a gossamer-thin umbrella of silver foil, badly crumpled and torn.

Victor looked round, and saw the collection flask on one of the benches, a titanium rugby ball, split into two halves. Empty. There was a plain white card resting against it. He picked it up.

I’ll bet it’s you, Victor-

The handwriting was Royan’s. He crumpled it into a tight ball. It was a superbly equipped lab. What had Royan done here?

“What is this thing?” Eliot Haydon asked, he was walking cautiously round Kiley, staring. “A space probe?”

“Yes. A Jupiter sample return.”

“Gods, what’s it doing here?”

“That’s a bloody good question.”

Open Channel to Julia Evans NN Core. I’ve found Kiley, or at least what’s left of it.

Great. Where?

It’s in the Farm’s main underwater station, laboratory GD7. That’s a genetics lab. But there’s nothing else left, he’s cleaned it out.

Hang on, I’ll access that lab’s memory cores again. They’ve already been reviewed once.

Victor thought he detected a hint of resentment in the soundless voice. “When Royan left, what did he take with him, can you remember?” he asked.

Eliot Haydon was still looking at Kiley, left hand stroking one of the thermal radiator panels. “Just a standard air cargo pod.” He brought his hand away, rubbing his fingers together. “Oh, and a plant. Funny looking thing, like a cross between a cacti and a palm. He was carrying it when he got on the plane, that’s why I remember.”

Victor felt a tingle of alarm. “Was it flowering?”

“Was it…” Eliot Haydon trailed off into uncertain bemusement.

“Flowering? Did it have any flowers?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

I still can’t locate anything, Victor, NN core one said.

He turned a full circle. The personality package had to be here. Royan would expect him to work it out, to come in and see the obvious.

Start with the basics, he told himself. A data construct has to be stored in ‘ware. And it has to be obvious. Royan wasn’t hiding anything, they were supposed to be warnings. A location proof against accidental discovery, but not obscure.

He wanted Greg and his intuition here in the lab. Greg would have seen it straight off.

Victor turned slowly and looked at Kiley. The tiny glass eye of the interface key stared back at him. He pulled his cybofax out of his inside jacket pocket and held it up.

The armoury was a long windowless concrete room, metal lockers along one wall and weapons racks along the other. There were ten tables running down the middle, fitted with test rigs and the various cybernetic tools the armourers used. The sight and warm oil smell of the place took Greg right back to his squaddie days. Even the pre-mission chatter of the security crash team was the same, brash with that unique brand of strained humour.

He was sitting on a bench watching Suzi being kitted out by Alex Lahey, one of the armourers. He had found a muscle armour suit small enough for her, and now he was programming it to accept motor neurone impulses from her implant. A thick bundle of fibre-optic cables ran from the ‘ware interface socket on the suit’s chest to the terminal he was operating on the table. Only the helmet had been left off, leaving Suzi’s head sticking out of the black barrel-like torso.

“First there’s healthy paranoia,” Greg said. “And then there’s obsessive psychosis. The dividing line is pretty thin.”

“Bollocks. Leol got out of that hospital in Nigeria. You think he’s going to give up on Charlotte now?”

“No. But how’s he going to find her?”

Suzi gave a disparaging grunt. “The bastard’s good, Greg. Give him that. And he’s got Clifford Jepson’s money behind him.”

“Victor’s better. And we’ve got Julia’s money.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Alex Lahey looked up from the terminal he had plugged into Suzi’s armour suit. “Could you raise your left arm, please.”

She moved it up slowly until it was level with her shoulder, then it suddenly shot up to point at the ceiling. “Fuck’s sake!”

“Sorry,” Alex Lahey said. He studied the terminal cube, muttering to himself.

“Hey, can I lower it, or what?”

Alex Lahey didn’t look up. “Yes, yes.”

“This personalized tank, bit over the top, isn’t it?”

Suzi’s gauntleted left hand slapped her torso, producing a hollow thud. “I can face him now, Greg. No more running, no more evasion and decoy. Christ, that was fucking humiliating. You should try a suit out, gives your confidence an orgasm.”

“No thanks, muscle armour was after my time. I’ll stick to what I’ve got. Good old mystic intuition. It’s kept me alive this long.”

“Yeah? So what does it say about Royan?” Suzi asked.

“Tell you, he’s up there.” He surprised himself. The words had come out without any conscious thought, he hadn’t ordered a gland secretion, either.

“Huh,” Suzi grunted.

“Would you touch your toes, please,” Alex Lahey said.

Greg kept his amusement in check at the slightly ridiculous sight of a muscle armour suit doing callisthenics as Suzi tested each limb’s articulation. The rest of the crash team started to check out their weapons from the rack.