Peter Hamilton - Manhattan in Reverse

I followed her along the length of the forensic department. The end wall was hidden behind a large freestanding chamber made from a dulled metal. A single door was set in the middle, fastened with a heavy latch mechanism. As we drew closer I could hear an electrical engine thrumming incessantly. Other harmonics infiltrated the air, betraying the presence of pumps and gears.

‘Our freezer,’ Rebecca announced with chirpy amusement.

She took a thick fur coat from a peg on the wall outside the chamber, and handed me another.

‘You’ll need it,’ she told me. ‘It’s colder than these fridges which the big grocery stores are starting to use. A lot colder.’

Rebecca told the truth. A curtain of freezing white fog tumbled out when she opened the door. The interior was given over to dozens of shelves, with every square inch covered in a skin of hard white ice. A variety of jars, bags, and sealed glass dishes were stacked up. I peered at their contents with mild curiosity before hurriedly looking away. Somehow, scientific slivers of human organs are even more repellent than the entirety of flesh.

‘What is this?’ I asked.

‘Our family’s insurance policy. Forensic pathology shares this freezer with the medical division. Every biological unknown we’ve encountered is in here. One day we’ll have answers for all of it.’

‘And one day the Borgias will leave the Vatican,’ I said automatically.

Rebecca placed the bag on a high shelf, and gave me a confident smile. ‘You’ll be back.’

It was late afternoon as the SST came in to land at Newark aerodrome. The sun was low in the sky, sending out a red gold light to soak the skyscrapers. I pressed my face to the small port, eager for the sight. The overall impression was one of newness. Under such a light it appeared as though the buildings had just been erected. They were pristine, flawless.

Then we cruised in over the field’s perimeter, and the low commercial buildings along the side of the runway obscured the view. I shuffled my papers into my briefcase as we taxied to the reception building. I’d spent the three-hour flight over the Atlantic re-reading all the principal reports and interviews, refreshing my memory of the case. For some reason the knowledge lessened any feeling of comfort. The memories were all too clear now: the cold night, the blood-soaked body. Francis was missing from the investigation now, dead these last five years. It was he, I freely admit, who had given me a degree of comfort in tackling the question of who had killed poor Justin Ascham Raleigh. Always the old missus dominicus had exuded the air of conviction, the epitome of an irresistible force. It would be his calm persistence that would unmask the murderer, I’d always known and accepted that. Now the task was mine alone.

I emerged from the plane’s walkway into the reception lounge. Neill Heller Caesar was waiting to greet me. His physical appearance had changed little, as I suppose had mine. Only our styles were different; the fifties had taken on the air of a colourful radical period that I wasn’t altogether happy with. Neill Heller Caesar wore a white suit with flares that covered his shoes. His purple and green cheesecloth shirt had rounded collars a good five inches long. And his thick hair was waved, coming down below his shoulders. Tiny gold-rimmed amber sunglasses were perched on his nose.

He recognized me immediately, and shook my hand. ‘Welcome to Manhattan,’ he said.

‘Thank you. I wish it was under different circumstances.’

He prodded the sunglasses back up his nose. ‘For you, of course. For myself, I’m quite glad you’re here. You’ve put one of my charges in the clear.’

‘Yes. And thank you for the cooperation.’

‘A pleasure.’

We rode a limousine over one of the bridges into the city itself. I complimented him on the height of the buildings we were approaching. Manhattan was, after all, a Caesar city.

‘Inevitable,’ he said. ‘The population in America’s northern continent is approaching one and a half billion — and that’s just the official figure. The only direction left is up.’

We both instinctively looked at the limousine’s sunroof.

‘Speaking of which: how much longer?’ I asked.

He checked his watch. ‘They begin their descent phase in another five hours.’

The limousine pulled up outside the skyscraper which housed the Caesar family legal bureau in Manhattan. Neill Heller Caesar and I rode the lift up to the seventy-first floor. His office was on the corner of the building, its window walls giving an unparalleled view over ocean and city alike. He sat behind his desk, a marble-topped affair of a stature equal to the room as a whole, watching me as I gazed out at the panorama.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘You win. I’m impressed.’ The sun was setting, and in reply the city lights were coming on, blazing forth from every structure.

He laughed softly. ‘Me too, and I’ve been here fifteen years now. You know they’re not even building skyscrapers under a hundred floors any more. Another couple of decades and the only time you’ll see the sun from the street will be a minute either side of noon.’

‘Europe is going the same way. Our demographics are still top weighted, so the population rise is slower. But not by much. Something is going to have to give eventually. The Church will either have to endorse contraception, or the pressure will squeeze us into abandoning our current restrictions.’ I shuddered. ‘Can you imagine what a runaway expansion and exploitation society would be like?’

‘Unpleasant,’ he said flatly. ‘But you’ll never get the Borgias out of the Vatican.’

‘So they say.’

Neill Heller Caesar’s phone rang. He picked it up and listened for a moment. ‘Antony is on his way up.’

‘Great.’

He pressed a button on his desk, and a large wall panel slid to one side. It revealed the largest TV screen I’d ever seen. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep the Prometheus broadcast on,’ he said. ‘We’ll mute the sound.’

‘Please do. Is that thing colour?’ Our family channel had only just begun to broadcast in the new format. I hadn’t yet availed myself of a compatible receiver.

His smile was the same as any boy given a new football to play with. ‘Certainly is. Twenty-eight inch diameter, too — in case you’re wondering.’

The screen lit up with a slightly fuzzy picture. It showed an external camera view, pointing along the fuselage of the Prometheus , where the silver grey moon hung over it. Even though it was eight years since the first manned spaceflight, I found it hard to believe how much progress the Joint Families Astronautics Agency had made. Less than five hours now, and a man would set foot on the moon!

The office door opened and Antony Caesar Pitt walked in. He had done well for himself over the intervening years, rising steadily up through his family’s legal offices. Physically, he’d put on a few pounds, but it hardly showed. The biggest change was a curtain of hair, currently held back in a ponytail. There was a mild frown on his face to illustrate his disapproval at being summoned without explanation. As soon as he saw me the expression changed to puzzlement, then enlightenment.

‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were one of the Raleigh representatives assigned to Justin’s murder. Edward, isn’t it?’

‘That’s helpful,’ I said.

‘In what way?’

‘You have a good memory. I need that right now.’

He gave Neill Heller Caesar a quick glance. ‘I don’t believe this. You’re here to ask me questions about Justin again, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’