Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

So Kendric was in Peterborough, was he? Close to the action. How convenient.

Greg made one final call, then headed back to the bedroom.

The sheer number of Event Horizon facilities springing up in Peterborough after the Second Restoration, coupled with Wilholm’s proximity, meant that the company had to establish a large finance division in the city. Julia used it as her de facto head office, so it was only natural that Morgan Walshaw should use it for his security division’s command centre as well. It was a temporary arrangement while both divisions waited for the irrespective custom-built headquarters to be completed, The building they had moved into for the interregnum was the old Thomas Cook office block, situated at the top of a small bluff overlooking the Ferry Meadows estuary, on the western side of the town. In doing so they’d ousted the PSP Minorities Enhancement Council staff who had occupied it ever since currency restrictions put an end to the glories of package holidays.

After Event Horizon had taken over, the company engineers immediately set about building a concrete embankment along the bluff to halt the erosion which was eating towards the foundations. At the base of it they planted three small lagoons of gene-tailored coral to house a set of tidal turbines which powered the finance division’s gear. Seeing a building which wasn’t plastered with the glossy black squares of solar-cells came as something of a novelty.

The security office inside, which Greg and Gabriel had been loaned for interviewing the NN core team, was a cramped cell of a room with a metal table and three plastic chairs. It looked out towards Longthorpe, where gulls strutted about on the partially exposed mudflats.

Emily Chapman left the office without looking round, her rigid back conveying stark disapproval. She had every right to be upset, Greg acknowledged. He was actually doing the interviews with the NN core team. He’d thought it politic; Gabriel had dropped into one of her best prickly sulks at having to examine his possible interviews with over two hundred and fifty of the security staff in the building, and told him to take a share of the load himself for a change. But she could’ve timed it better, though.

The trouble was, Philip Evans had been right; the NN core team were all grade-A people-keen, loyal, honest, hard working, churned out by Event Horizon’s blandification programme. They hadn’t taken kindly to his accusations.

“Shit creek, and no messing.” He could feel a neurohormone headache coming on. Thank God there had only been nine of them to question.

“Don’t swear,” Gabriel snapped primly.

“I’ve got a right. None of them leaked the information about the NN core. How are you doing with the security personnel?”

“You wouldn’t find anything.”

“What? None of them have any shameful secrets?”

“They might well have, but if so they can certainly hide it from you.”

His unwinding espersense caught her gelid mind tone. Eggshell walking time. “Bugger, you know what that means.”

“Dillan Evans.”

“Yeah, unless we can produce this mole pronto. And I’m now having serious doubts he ever existed. Christ, how am I going to tell Philip? Maybe I’ll tell Julia first, she’s pretty protective when it comes to her father. Can’t say I blame Dillan, though, the man is totally fucked. Not rational.”

“Saved by the bell.”

“What?” His cybofax bleeped. “Oh.”

The call was a data squirt, a scramble code he knew by heart. Royan. His spirits lifted as the decrypted message rolled down the cybofax’s little screen. Royan had found one of the hotrods involved in the blitz: Ade O’Donal, operating from Leicester under the handle Tentimes. Greg snapped the cybofax shut with a flourish; at last he could take some positive action, get out of dead company architecture and pull in hard information. When he glanced up Gabriel was already standing by the door, expectant. “Coming?” she asked.

Greg drove past the ranks of company buses in the car park and out on to the A47.

Getting under way didn’t noticeably alter Gabriel’s disposition. “Fascinating,” she said. “The lovely Eleanor, a fully-fledged Trinity urban predator. The mind boggles.”

“I wish you’d make an effort. That girl’s never said a single bad word about you. And God knows she’s entitled.”

“Greg, you can’t just abandon all your old mates in her favour, however besotted you are with her gymnast legs and top-heavy chest.”

He pulled his anger down to a tight incendiary ball. Anger never did any good, not against Gabriel. But it was fucking tempting to let fly once in a while. Not this time, though. He needed her. And she knew it. “Eleanor gets on perfectly well with the marine-adepts, and Royan has taken a shine to her.”

“That was the first time you’d been to see Royan for two months. You know how much that boy worships you.”

Fell into that one, he told himself. Just as she’d intended, guiding his conversation down the Tau line she’d selected.

Greg gunned the Duo along the A47 above the flooded remains of Ailsworth. Her words had kindled not so much guilt as a sense of melancholy.

Arguing with her when she was being this waspish was impossible. Whatever he said in his defence she’d have a parry honed and ready, the best of all possible answers. Besides, truthfully, he had neglected Royan. Eleanor made it easy to forget. Life and the future, rather than Royan, a shackle to an emetic past. He just wished Gabriel didn’t use a sledgehammer to ram home the point.

He was aware of her studying his face intently. She gave a tart nod and leant back into the seat cushioning.

The last section of road leading into Leicester cut through a banana plantation. Methane-fuelled tractors chugged between the rows of big glossy-leafed plants, hauling vast quantities of still-green fruit in their cage trailers. Cutter teams moved ahead of the tractors, machetes flashing in the sun.

Incorporated in the city boundary sign was the prominent declaration: PSP Free Zone.

“Oh yeah?” said Gabriel.

Greg let the snipe ride, though he conceded she had a point. Leicester council had earned a reputation for sycophancy during Armstrong’s presidency; it was one of the last to acknowledge the Party’s perdition.

That obedience was the root of its downfall; a numbing historical repetition, those showing the most loyalty receiving the least. With such devotion assured, the PSP had no need to pump in bribe money. Leicester had declined as Peterborough had risen. Now the city’s New Conservative dominated council was striving hard to obliterate the image of the past in an attempt to attract hard-industry investment.

“Give them a chance,” Greg said. “It’s only been two years.”

“Once a Trot, always a Trot.”

“Exactly where would you be happy living?” he asked in exasperation.

“Mars, I expect. Turn left here.”

“I know.”

He turned off the Uppingham Road and nudged into the near solid file of bicycle traffic along Spencefield Lane. The big old trees whose branches had once turned the road into a leafy tunnel were long dead. New sequoias had been planted to replace them. They were grand trees, but Greg couldn’t help wondering whether they were a wise choice if the residents were aiming for permanency; give them a couple of centuries and the sequoias would be skyscraper high.

The original trees had been trimmed into near-identical pillars six metres high, supporting giant cross-beams over the road. Each arch was swathed in a different coloured climbing rose. The sun shone through the petals, creating a blazing sequence of coronal crescents. It was like driving under a solid rainbow.