Peter Hamilton - Manhattan in Reverse

Bethany Maria Caesar stiffened as she realized there was to be no escape this time. No window with a convenient creeper down which to climb. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘What do you think my punishment should be? Am I to hang from the gallows until I’m dead.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ Neill Heller Caesar told her. ‘Edward and I have come to an agreement which allows us to resolve this satisfactorily.’

‘Of course you have,’ she muttered.

‘You took Justin’s life away from him,’ I said. ‘We can produce a physical clone of him from the samples we kept. But that still won’t be him . His personality, his uniqueness is lost to us forever. When you’re dealing with a potentially immortal being there could be no crime worse. You have wasted his life and the potential it offered; in return you will be sentenced to exactly that same punishment. The difference is, you will be aware of it.’

Was that too cruel of me? Possibly. But then consider this: I once knew a man who knew a man who had seen the Empire’s legionaries enforcing Rome’s rule at the tip of a sword. None of us is as far removed from barbarism as we like to think.

Bethany Maria Caesar was taken from the Eta Carinae habitat on our deepflight ship. We disembarked her on a similar habitat in Jupiter orbit which the Caesars had resource funded. She is its sole inhabitant. None of its biononics will respond to her instructions. The medical modules in her body will continue to reset her DNA. She will never age nor succumb to disease. In order to eat, she must catch or grow her own food. Her clothes have to be sewn or knitted by herself. Her house must be built from local materials, which are subject to entropy hastened by climate, requiring considerable maintenance. Such physical activities occupy a great deal of her time. If she wishes to continue living she must deny herself the luxury of devoting her superb mind to pure and abstract thoughts. However, she is able to see the new and wondrous shapes which slide fluidly past her region of space, and know her loss.

Her case is one of the oldest to remain active within our family thoughtcluster. One day, when I’ve matured and mellowed, and the Borgias have left the Vatican, I may access it again.

I Bradley Ethan Murray pledge that starting from this day the First of January 2010, and extending for a period of two years, I will hold open a wormhole to the planet New Suffolk in order that all decent people from this United Kingdom can freely travel through to build themselves a new life on a fresh world. I do this in the sad knowledge that our old country’s leaders and institutions have failed us completely.

Those who seek release from the oppression and terminal malaise which now afflict the United Kingdom are welcome to do so under the following strictures.

1) With citizenship comes responsibility.

2) The monoculture of New Suffolk will be derived from current English ethnicity.

3) Government will be a democratic republic.

4) It is the job of Government to provide the following statutory services to the citizenship to be paid for through taxation.

a) The enforcement of Law and Order; consisting of a police force and independent judiciary. All citizens have the right to trial by jury for major crimes.

b) A socialized health service delivered equally to all. No private hospitals or medical clinics will be permitted, with the exception of ‘vanity’ medicine.

c) Universal education, to be provided from primary to higher levels. No private schools are permitted. Parents of primary and secondary school pupils are to be given a majority stake in governorship of the school, including its finances. All citizens have the right to be educated to their highest capability.

d) Provision and maintenance of a basic civil infrastructure, including road, rail, and domestic utilities.

5) It is not the job of Government to interfere with, and over-regulate the life of the individual citizen. Providing they do no harm to others or the state, citizens are free to do and say whatever they wish.

6) Citizens do not have the right to own or use weapons.

It was the day Gordon Brown was due to appear before the Iraq Enquiry again. He’d been called back because of discrepancies in his previous evidence. Opposition politicians (those we still had left) interviewed on Radio Four’s Today programme were full of eager anticipation, taunting their opponent to come out and face allegations about military funding deficits full on, confident he would screw up. Over in Brussels, the EU Commission was drawing up plans to send in teams of German and French engineers to take over critical shutdown procedures in UK nuclear reactors from our rapidly declining numbers of power station technicians. While in Russia, NovGaz was talking about payment in advance for supplying us with gas this winter. And I’d forgotten to buy Frosties for Steve.

‘Not muesli again!’ he spat with the true contempt which only seven-year-olds can muster. If only the Civil Service union leadership had that kind of determination when facing the latest round of abysmal Treasury budget cuts to compensate for the ‘migration situation’.

‘It’s good for you,’ I said without engaging my brain. After seven years you’d think I’d know not to make that kind of tactical error with my own son.

‘Mum! It’s just dried pigeon crap,’ he jeered as I stopped pouring it into the bowl. Olivia, his little sister, started to giggle at the use of the NN word. At least she was spooning up her organic yogurt without a fuss. ‘Not nice, not nice,’ she chanted.

‘What do you want then?’ I asked.

‘McDonald’s. Big Cheesy One.’

‘No!’ I know he only says it to annoy me, but the reflex is too strong to resist. And I’m the Bad Mother yet again. Maybe I shouldn’t preach so hard. But then that’s Colin speaking.

‘How about toast?’ I pleaded as a compromise.

‘Okay.’

I couldn’t believe it was that easy. But he sat down at the table and waited with a smug look on his face while I put the granary bread in the toaster. God he does so look like Colin these days. Is that why he’s becoming more impossible?

‘What’s the prim ?’ Olivia asked.

Today had moved on from sniping at the Prime Minister to cover the demonstration at Stansted.

‘Public Responsibility Movement,’ I said. ‘Now please finish your breakfast. Daddy will be here soon.’ He’d better be.

I put the toast down in front of Steve, and he squirted too much liquid honey over it. I didn’t chide. Both of them were suddenly silent and eating quickly, as if that would speed their father’s arrival.

I opened the flat’s back door in an attempt to let in some cooler air. Summer was so damn hot and dry this year. Here in Islington the breeze coursed along the baking streets like gusts of desert air. Desert air that had blown across a sewage plant.

‘Poooeee,’ Steve said, holding his nose as he munched down more toast. I had to admit the smell which drifted in wasn’t good.

Olivia crumpled her face up in real dismay. ‘That’s horrid, Mum. What is it?’

‘Someone hasn’t tied up their bin bags properly.’ Which was true enough. The pile of bags in the corner of De Beauvoir Square was getting ridiculously big. As more bags were flung on top, so the ones at the bottom split open. The Sky News and News 24 programmes always showed them with comparison footage of the ’79 Winter of Discontent.