Peter Hamilton - Pandora's Star

“Finding the Starflyer would also end this.”

“How would you do that?”

“Travel to Far Away. If Johansson is right, there will be an abundance of evidence at the Marie Celeste Research Institute.”

“Won’t that be somewhat dangerous?”

“The risk is acceptable. No one will expect me to do such a thing. And it would be quick.”

“I can see the appeal in that. The Starflyer would be the greater crime, which will allow you to pursue it with a clear conscience. If you’re sure that’s not a reaction to the shock of being dismissed from your position.”

“It’s not. I will catch Johansson eventually. However, I have to consider that given the Prime situation I might not have much time left, especially if Johansson is right and it was engineered to our detriment. The whole purpose of exposing the Starflyer to the authorities would be to prevent any kind of conflict.”

“Ignore the time factor, it is an unknown you cannot outguess. You have to go after Johansson. You know how he works, his pattern. And you now have a huge advantage.”

“How so?”

“If you work alone, he will not receive any leaks from your office. He won’t know you’re coming.”

She smiled thinly. “You have more in common with Alexis than I thought.”

“Why thank you. So how will you go about the case now?”

“I will travel to Far Away and contact the Guardians. They will take me to Johansson. As you said, he won’t expect me to come at him from that direction.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. I suppose you know what you’re doing, but please be careful. I’d like to think my great-grandchild will sit here listening to your next quandary.”

She stood up and offered her hand. “Tell him to watch out for me.”

“You really are going to take my advice?”

“It helped me focus on what I have to do, yes.”

He looked out of the French doors at Matilda who was still stretched out on the towel. “Then I really should take your advice.”

A huge black Zil limousine was parked outside the entrance to Paula’s apartment building, almost completely blocking the street. She was surprised the police hadn’t towed it away; at the very least they should have fined the driver. As she drew up level, a gull-wing door in the side lifted up silently. A man whose skin was pure gold put his head out.

“We need to talk,” he told Paula.

TWENTY-THREE

Tulip Mansion was situated just outside of New York, in Rye County. The building itself sat on top of one of the small mountains that made up the majority of the rugged region, where it was surrounded by pine forests that swarmed over the adjacent hills. Mingling in among the tall trees were huge rhododendron bushes that enjoyed the stony soil, producing the most exquisite carpet of color when they were in flower. People who had homes there tended to stay for many lives and centuries. Rye’s proximity to the city made it an excellent area to live for those who could afford the land prices. It wasn’t as chic as the Hamptons—but it was very convenient.

Miles Foran had thought so when he began his estate at the start of the twenty-first century, an Internet billionaire whose share stock had achieved a near-ballistic trajectory upward. With the Tulip Mansion it was his goal to build “the first true American stately home of the new millennium.” Not for him the standard timber-frame mansion clad in brick and stone. Mock was not in the vocabulary when architects were summoned. His ornate stone walls had cores of concrete and steel that would last for centuries. Craftsmen were flown in from all over the world; master carpenters and stone masons chipped and chiseled away, crafting a work of art you could live in. Aristocratic designers were contracted to produce a modern classic interior that would make the palaces of oil potentates seem cheap and tacky by comparison. The grounds were shaped and landscaped into gardens that would rival those of Versailles.

The decade-long project was well under way when Jeff Baker released into the global market his new crystal memory: the pinnacle of electronic data storage, eliminating all other competing systems, obliterating copyright, and revolutionizing the Internet into the datasphere. Gravity suddenly took a very firm grip on Foran’s stock trajectory, which not even filing Chapter Eleven bankruptcy could protect him from.

Several years later the creditor banks were quietly grateful when Gore Burnelli made them a small offer for the estate and its half-completed folly. Work was resumed. The central stamen tower was completed, topped out with its gold anther crown. The four wings laid out around it were the flower’s petals, stretched-oval shapes that were given curving scarlet and black roofs whose design was stolen directly from the Sydney opera house. Inside were reception rooms, a ballroom, a grand banqueting hall, fifty guest bedrooms, a library, swimming pools, solariums, games rooms, and cavernous underground garages stocked with a range of vehicles that any motor history museum would kill to obtain.

All in all, it was excessive to the point of vulgar; but Justine spent more time at the Tulip Mansion than she did at any other family residence. If anywhere was home for her, it was here. And now she was having to host Murielle’s engagement party in the gardens at a time that was monstrously inappropriate.

But the party had been planned months in advance. The negotiations between lawyer teams representing the Burnellis and the Konstantins had been completed. Their union had to be examined for share block shifts between the two families—not that core blocks would change, this couple’s relatively junior status meant they’d only be awarded secondary shares, a few small companies spun off, a virtual finance house, real estate in phase three space. Though given this was a direct line merger the lawyers had also allowed for the possibility of closer fusion for the children in a couple of centuries. It was an interesting dynamic, which had taken a long time to be cleared.

A tearful Murielle had bravely volunteered to postpone the party; after all, Thompson was her ancestor. Justine had smiled at the bewildered first-life girl and said: Not at all, Thompson would want you to carry on.

So at midday she stood under a rose-covered gazebo receiving guests who rolled up in modern limousines or fabulous antique cars. She paid no attention to the vehicles; her interest in one-upmanship among Society had been exhausted centuries ago—although she had to own up to a certain awareness when it came to who was wearing what. Costumes were supposed to be themed from around the 1950s, and the pavilions set up across the garden’s high lawn reflected that. Waiters in period uniforms served cocktails from the era.

For herself, Justine had chosen a formal sea-green evening dress with a mermaid tail skirt. She drew the line at heels on the grass, though.

A ’56 Oldsmobile pulled up, and Estella slowly got out of the back.

“What on earth happened to you?” Justine asked as her friend limped over to the gazebo. Estella was wearing a scarlet dress with white polka dots, and pink winged sunglasses. Instead of shoes, she was wearing a pair of electromuscle support boots.

Estella gave her a brief kiss on both cheeks. “I’m so sorry to spoil the look of the thing, darling. But I went and sprained both ankles. It was hideously painful, I kid you not.”

“How did you do that?”

“So silly. I was dancing on the coffee table at a party. When I jumped off I landed badly. I don’t understand it, darling, I’ve danced on that table a hundred times, and nothing like this ever happened before.”

Justine didn’t scold, it would have been far too parental. “I never get asked to parties like that anymore.”