Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

An uncomfortable sensation of emptiness was plaguing her stomach. What had Adrian seen when he looked at her? Her figure or her money and name? She couldn’t forget that Bil Yi Somanzer hadn’t even noticed her before Uncle Horace told him who she was.

Four minutes. Her bedtime lingerie was laid out ready. Adeka hadn’t been consulted in that department, not at all. Julia had bullied herself into making the decision. Kats wouldn’t have had any second thoughts.

She drew a deep breath and pulled on the French knickers; they were sheer silk, a pale peach colour, inset with lace. Her robe was white silk, ankle length. The combination was simple, sensual.

Impact was the most important thing. Overwhelm him, get him off balance and push. She studied the mirror critically, then retied the belt. It still wasn’t right. Five more goes and the front of the robe was open to her navel, showing a long V of deeply tanned skin, and a more than generous slice of breast.

Seven minutes. Julia went back out into the bedroom, dimming the biolums to a faint rose-tinted glow.

Rachel was on duty outside. When they’d arrived, Julia had told her that Adrian was to be allowed in At Any Time. Rachel’s face had never flickered, the woman must be a cyborg.

How long to wait? That was the real twister. Give him say twenty minutes-no, fifteen ought to be enough. All he had to do was take off his dinner jacket.

Nine minutes. She stood by the bed. An antique four-poster. So romantic.

If he wasn’t here after fifteen minutes then she’d damn well go to his room. If she could find the nerve. What if his door was locked? What if he said no? What if one of those link vixens from the party was with him?

God, don’t even think about it.

Ten minutes.

There was a light rap on the door.

“Come in,” she said, furious at the sudden quaver afflicting her voice. She almost let out a whimper of relief when she saw it was Adrian. He was wrapped in his burgundy towelling robe. Bare feet, no pyjamas.

She blipped the lock. Sealing him in.

“Julia!” There was a note of surprised admiration in his voice; and desire lighting his eyes as he drank down the sight of her.

She couldn’t stand it anymore, and ran at him. Swept up in strong warm arms. Spinning round and round. Both of them laughing jubilantly.

On Saturday morning Greg parked the Duo in a side street just outside New Eastfield, and handed over a fiver to the local teeny-bopper extortionists before walking out into the plush precinct’s tranquil boulevards. He’d used the Event Horizon card to splash out on new light-grey slacks, blue canvas sneakers, and a jade-green pure wool Stewart sweater. His usual jeans and T-shirt would’ve aggrieved the private police squad which New Eastfield’s residents employed.

One major contributory factor to Peterborough’s post-Warming prosperity had been its burgeoning maritime links. The Nene allowed cargo ships to sail right into the heart of the city. They docked at a new port and warehouse complex which had sprung up in the place of the old shopping precinct and Queensgate mall.

In addition to the commercial shipping, an armada of nearly seven thousand small boats had set out from the Norfolk Broads as the Antarctic ice melted, converging on the city. They’d anchored around the island suburb of Stanground; their moorings evolving into a hugely complicated maze of jetties built out of timber scavenged from the roofs and floors of deluged buildings out in the Fens. The boats at the centre were trapped there now, ten years’ worth of rubbish clogging the water around them, embedding them in an artificial bog. He’d heard that around ten thousand people lived in the sprawling boat-town. The actual figure was uncertain, Stanground’s inherent chaos made council hall governance nigh on impossible. An aspect which the residents took full advantage of. The narrow twisting channels were Peterborough’s main haven for smugglers, pumping hard currency Eurofrancs into the city’s economy.

Finally, there was an impressive squadron of pleasure craft. The potential of the city’s industrial vigour, coupled with the kind of seedy spice endemic to monstrous overcrowding, proved a powerful attraction to Europe’s shipborne rich. People who ran their mini-empires of financial trusts and venture projects from floating gin palaces. They were a flock in eternal migration, never in one port long enough to qualify for the taxman’s attention.

They had their own marina in New Eastfield, north of the Nene’s main course. The quays were concrete, substantial, immaculately clean. Every requirement was catered for, from stores supplying five-star food and maritime gear to a not-so-small dry dock capable of providing complete refits.

Greg hit the marina itself around eleven; a whole community of clubs, sports complexes, shops, restaurants, and pubs along the waterfront, open to permit holders only. Royan had loaded his ID into the membership computer. The promenade was a kilometre long, built from huge granite cubes. Five quays stabbed out into the deep harbour that’d been dredged for the yachts of the mega-rich.

A gauzy layer of cumulus cloud diffused the sun into sourceless light overhead. The humidity this close to the Fen basin approached steam-bath levels.

He found Angelica’s, a single-storey flat-roofed emporium opposite the centre quay where the Mirriam was berthed. It was a food hall selling wholesale quantities of nouveau delicacies he didn’t even know how to pronounce.

Greg walked down the cul-de-sac side alley and found the delivery bay’s metal roller-door at the rear. Beside it, embedded in the bricks, was a series of metal rungs. He started to climb.

The uniformity of the solar-collector roof was broken by two satellite-dish weather domes and three big conditional stacks, their fans spinning silently. Dead centre was a box structure of slatted wooden panels which housed Angelica’s water tanks. Greg crouched down and scuttled over to it. One of the slat panels was hanging loose. He pulled it aside and slipped in.

The panel opened into a narrow gap between two big water tanks, one and a half metres wide, three long. There wasn’t enough headroom to stand up, and he had to hunch down with his hands brushing the floor. What space there was had nearly been used up.

At the far end, various photon-amp lenses were poking through the slats, their cables feeding a jumble of compact gear modules. Weird little halos of coloured light cloaked five miniature flatscreens which flickered with the image of the good ship Mirriam, half covered with red digital read-outs.

Right in front of the entrance panel was a pile of drink cans and food wrappers. Greg nearly put his foot in an adult-sized potty that had been connected in to Angelica’s plumbing by a ribbed flexible pipe. There was only one smell: ripe human.

Between the rubbish and the gear was a thin yellow sponge mattress. Suzi was lying on it, wearing blue shorts, soaked a shade darker by sweat. Her mauve spikes had drooped in the torrid heat.

She peered at him out of the gloom. “Christ, ‘bout time you showed. See what we’ve been suffering for you.”

“All in a good cause.” He stepped over the potty and squirmed on to the mattress beside her. One of the gear modules poked sharply into his back.

“Cosy.” Suzi smirked spryly. “You wanna do it? There’s enough room if you ain’t into anything too kinky.”

Greg was suddenly very aware of her tough little body pressing against him. “We’d die of heat exhaustion.”

“Yeah, tits the size that new girl of yours was stacked with, can’t say I blame you.”

Greg nearly started to protest, but thought better of it. “I hope you’re not handling the observation all by yourself. This heat is bad for you. Seriously.”