Rick clasped his hands together, grinning. "Lord save us from these heathen hordes."
Victor sat in front of the desk, staring up at the big hologram of Steropes. "Is the data from the radio telescopes coming through all right? Requisitioning astronomical signals isn't exactly a familiar field for my people."
"Yes, quite all right." He put the cubes on hold and bent down to open a desk drawer. "You want a beer?"
"No, thanks."
Rick produced a can of Ruddles bitter. "That Julia Evans, she's quite something."
"Yes."
"I mean, not just smart, attractive with it." He tugged the can's tab back.
"Yes."
He swallowed some beer and looked thoughtful. "Do you think Royan is still alive?"
"He was a week ago."
"Right." Rick took another swallow. "I want to ask you something. I meant to ask Julia Evans, but, well. . . I didn't know quite where I stood with her. The thing is, I suppose she's assembling some sort of team to contact this alien when we find it."
"I've no idea; but put like that, somebody will have to meet it."
"I want in," Rick said quickly. He bent forwards over the desk, knuckles whitening as he gripped the Ruddles tightly. "Damn it, I'm loyal, I'll even keep quiet about it afterwards if that's what's needed. But I want to be there."
"I'll tell her. I should think she would've included you anyway. Who else has spent a lifetime thinking about aliens?" He wondered if it had come out sarcastically; he hadn't intended it to.
Rick searched his face intently for a moment, then sat back. "Thanks."
Julia Evans Access Request, Victor's processor node told him.
Expedite Channel.
Hello, Victor, how's it going? Julia asked.
Surprisingly well. The astronomy department won't be asking you to their Christmas party, their schedules have been shot to pieces; but the radio signal data is beginning to come in. Rick and his team are preparing to shove it through some kind of specialist analysis program. The optical review is going to take longer, couple of days, Rick says.
OK, fine, first the good news. Royan's Kiley probe is back, and it brought some microbes.
How did you find that out?
Your idea. There was a personality package waiting in bay F37's memory core.
One of Royan's?
Yes.
What did he say?
That he was going to modify the microbes into something useful. A more advanced form of bio ware. And that he wasn't totally confident about the outcome, which is why he left the package, so that if anything goes wrong we'll be able to understand the problem.
There are more packages?
Yes, but he didn't say where. Have you tracked down that spaceplane crew?
No, I've been organizing security for the SETI office, but I'll get on to it. Did Royan say if there was a starship orbiting Jupiter?
No, but the Kiley's sensors probably wouldn't have seen it anyway, they were attuned to the micro, not the macro. My NN cores are reviewing the star tracker memories. I don't hold out much hope.
This isn't making a lot of sense yet. At what point did Royan make contact with the starship aliens?
No idea, but we might find out soon. I've located Jason Whitehurst, and he's agreed to meet Greg and Suzi. Get this, they can put in a bid for Charlotte Fielder.
A bid?
Yes. Jason was preparing to sell her to the highest bidder. Fortunately the auction hasn't started.
Ye gods. Anything else?
Leol Reiger is being paid by Clifford Jepson. And I think there's a connection between the alien and atomic structuring. It's too much of a coincidence having them both turn up at the same time, virtually the same day.
I can buy that. So we're in a race?
Beginning to look that way.
OK, Julia, I'll find that spaceplane crew, and your NN cores can access every memox core they ever plugged into.
Right. Let me know when you've got them.
Straight away, count on it.
I always do, Victor.
Cancel Channel to Julia Evans.
Rick was crumpling up his Ruddles can, head cocked to one side, giving Victor a shrewd stare.
Victor got up and went to stand by the window, looking down on Building One's assembly hall. "Which is bay F37?" he asked.
The can landed in the bin. "That one." Rick pointed.
"Fine. Do you know the members of the assembly crew that put Kiley together?"
"Some of them, yes."
"You'd better introduce me, then."
* * * *
The manager of assembly bay F37 was William Terrell, who told them it was the Newton's Apple which had boosted Kiley into orbit. Victor accessed the Institute's 'ware, and tracked the spaceplane down to Spaceplane Preparation Building Two where it was being readied for flight.
He and Rick took a personnel cart over to the big hangar-like structure. Flight bay twelve, where the Newton's Apple was being prepped, was a large white-walled chamber with overhead hoists and five large empty cargo pod cradles in the centre.
Newton's Apple was a Clarke-class spaceplane, a swept-wing delta planform with a span of fifty metres, sixty metres long. The fuselage was a lo-friction pearl-white metalloceramic, gleaming brightly under the big biolum panels in the ceiling. Maintenance crews in blue overalls were checking round the undercarriage bogies. Red power cables as thick as Victor's arm were plugged into hatches in the underbelly, charging up the giga-conductor cells. The rear clamshell doors were already shut, its cargo pods loaded.
The flight cabin was small, with room for five people. They found the captain, Irving Diwan, at the pilot's console running through preflight checks.
People always gave Victor a fast distrustful glance when they were introduced to him. It was one of those things—royalty got bows, channel stars got asked for autographs, lovers got kissed, security men got nervous assessments. He had learnt to accept it, part of the routine.
It didn't happen with Irving Diwan. The captain had purple-black skin, a shaved scalp with a single dreadlock on top, worn in a flat spiral; when he stood up he was fifteen centimetres taller than Victor, putting his eyes level with Rick's. He grinned with delight when Victor showed him his card.
"Head of security? What have we been caught doing, sympathizing with Welsh separatists?"
Meg Knowles, the payload officer, gave him a sharp accusatory stare. He shrugged back.
"I'm here to ask about the Kiley probe," Victor said. "Do You remember it? I need to know if it was recovered by the Newton's Apple."
"Sure," Meg Knowles said. She was sitting at the horseshoe-shaped payload monitoring console behind the pilot's seat. "I remember the Kiley recovery, it was in early April. I had to snag it with the arm. I'd never seen space hardware in such a state before. Its particle-protection foam had taken a real pounding in Jupiter's ring."
"What about unloading it?" Victor asked. "Can you remember which flight bay you used?"
"There are only five equipped to handle space probes. I think we used number seventeen," she said.
"Great." Open Channel to Julia Evans. "How about after that? Do you know where the Kiley was taken?"
Meg Knowles paused, staring off into space.
NN Core One On Line. Sorry, Victor, my flesh and blood self is dealing with Michael Harcourt right now. I can interrupt if it's important.
No, don't bother. This is more relevant to you in any case. I've learned that Kiley was recovered this April by a Clarke-class spaceplane called Newton's Apple, they unloaded it in flight bay seventeen.
Fine work, Victor, I'll plug into the spaceplane and the flight bay's 'ware, see if there's another of Royan's personality packages waiting.
Right, and I'll see if I can find out what happened to it after it was unloaded. Cancel Channel to Julia Evans.
"Hey," Irving Diwan protested. The payload monitoring console had activated itself, data was flowing through its four cubes
so fast it was an unreadable blur. "What the hell?"
"Leave it," Victor ordered as Irving Diwan reached for the console's keyboard.
"But the flight 'ware doesn't respond to my node orders. It's malfunctioning."
"No, it isn't. Leave it."
The pilot exchanged a glance with Meg Knowles who had steeled her expression into tight-lipped pique.
"Did you do that?" Rick asked; he sounded more amused than anything.
"Sort of." Victor turned back to Meg Knowles. "The unloading?"
"Yeah, right. I have to stick around, you know. Not like these glam pilot jockeys. While a payload is on board, I'm responsible for it. That means I'm here for loading and unloading. I was interested in Kiley, the first sample from a gas giant. So I was surprised by the way it got played down, no channel news teams, no Institute planetologists. You'd think there'd be somebody. But there's just Royan and the regular flight bay crew. I stuck with Kiley until it was in the payload facility room. They drained out the reaction mass and discharged the giga-conductor cells; then it was put into an ordinary commercial container and driven off."
The data in the console's cubes froze, Victor saw a dark green sphere suspended inside one of them, a honeycomb tracery of minute folds furrowing its surface. It winked out. The console shut down. Irving Diwan swore softly, and shook his head.
"Did Royan say where he was taking it?" Victor asked.
"No, but the container was from the North Sea Farm company, its logo was on the side. You know, that daft one with the seahorse. That's why I remember it. I thought it was pretty odd, sending a space probe to a sea farm."
"Yeah," Victor said. A blank container would have been the obvious choice. So Royan had wanted it to be noticed. Laying a trail in bright flashing red neon. It was all a game, even something as momentous as alien microbes, a game, new and fascinating. He felt real anger then. Royan was risking everything Julia had built, and at the end, win or lose, he wouldn't particularly care. He'd just move on to whatever proved bright and glittery enough to capture his attention next, leaving everyone else to shovel up the shit.
His cybofax shrilled loudly. Emergency code. Victor pulled the wafer out of his jacket pocket, and scanned the security division status display rushing down the little screen. The crash teams had launched to rescue Greg and Suzi.
"Come on!" he called to Rick, and took the metal stairs out of the cabin three at a time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Julia's nodes closed the channel to Victor after he finished briefing her on the SETI office's progress. Wilholm's patio sprang back into her perception; a broad rectangle of yellow-grey York slabs laid outside the library's French windows. There was a heavily tinted glass roof overhead, supported by thick stone pillars that were choked by the ropy branches of climbing fuchsias. Big orange and white puffball flowers shone like Chinese lanterns as they caught the bright afternoon sun.
Matthew was drinking his lemon juice from a tall frosted glass, looking at her in exasperation. "You were talking to someone," he accused.
"Fraid so." She took a sip of tea from her cup. It had seemed like a good idea, tea on the patio with the children. Hot afternoon, cold drinks, excited chatter, and chocolate cake.
Deep down she knew she was grabbing the opportunity for herself. Charlotte Fielder would be brought to Peterborough this evening; there would have to be a decision over who to align herself with in the bidding war for atomic structuring; and Victor would soon find the spaceplane that had recovered Kiley. There weren't going to be many spare hours in the next few days. "Bit of a flap on right now, you see." Although when isn't there?
"Is that why Victor was here earlier?" Daniella asked.
"Yes."
"I like Victor."
"Me too," Matthew said.
"That makes three of us, then."
"Is it about Daddy?" Matthew asked.
"Matthew!" Daniella scolded. "You said you wouldn't."
He scowled rebelliously.
Julia patted her daughter's hand. "It's all right. Yes, it is about Daddy. I've got a lot of people looking for him."
"Uncle Greg will find him," Matthew declared stubbornly.
"My word, nothing much escapes you two, does it?"
Daniella gave an awkward shrug. "Christine said he was going to do a tracking job. He hasn't done that for years."
"Daddy and Uncle Greg fought together in the war, you see," Matthew said eagerly. "People who do that will do anything for each other afterwards."
Julia sighed. "It wasn't exactly a war, dear."
"What then?"
"A very sad time. Things got out of hand after the Warming, chaotic and unpleasant. It was just a very few people at the top who caused a lot of trouble for everybody else."
"Daddy always said—"
"Can we drop the subject, please."
"There, see," Daniella said triumphantly.
Matthew slurped his lemon noisily.
"Uncle Greg will find him, won't he?" Daniella asked, her self-confidence suddenly collapsing.
"Your Uncle Greg is the best," Julia said. She wanted to say yes, of course; but then she would have to produce Royan. She wondered if she was really doing them any favours sheltering them like this. When news of the alien hit the channel newscasts—and it would—there'd be temper tantrums and sulks because she hadn't told them about it. But in the mean time they could have a few more days running riot in Wilholm's grounds, a few more days of the childhood she never had, plenty of friends and no cares.
Her cybofax bleeped, and she sagged back into the chair. Was half an hour with the children so much to ask?
"Go on, Mummy," Daniella said. "Answer it. The only people who have your number are ultra-important. It's probably the King."
"I don't think even William could help much with this one," she mumbled half to herself as she took out the wafer. Open Channel to SelfCores. Who is this?
Michael Harcourt, NN core one answered. It's an official call in his capacity as Minister for Industry, so we told Kirsten to let it through. The government has finally decided to contact you about atomic structuring. Apparently the inner cabinet has been in crisis session for most of the morning, ever since the Ministry of Defence briefed the PM on atomic structuring.
Really. Stay on line, please, I may need some data interpretation.
Of course.
"Is it the King?" Matthew asked, trying to look serious.
Julia laughed. "No. How about you two finishing your tea in the summer-house while I take the call?"
Matthew lunged for the chocolate cake, lifting its plate with both hands. Daniella picked up the tray with the jug of juice and the glasses.
"We don't mind, Mummy, not really," she said.
Julia forced a smile through the guilt, disturbed by just how hard it was. "And don't give any cake to Brutus," she called after them.
Michael Harcourt was a New Conservative central office clone; all the party's cabinet ministers seemed to have been bred in a vat somewhere, she thought. The same vat, bloody nearly the same chromosomes. He was fifty-something, old enough to inspire confidence but nowhere near past it, immaculately groomed, not too expensive suit, silver-grey hair, authoritative face, voice coached into classless inflection. Capped teeth smiled at her from the cybofax's little screen. "Ms Evans, I'm very grateful to you for taking my call at such short notice."
Smooth bastard, she thought; the channel current affairs casts had been hinting at a leadership contest recently: the New Conservative backbenchers were unhappy at Joshua Wheaton's handling of the Welsh problem. Michael Harcourt was a major contender to replace him. Something else she should have kept up with; the NN cores would know.
"My office coded your call as a priority," Julia said.
"We consider it so, absolutely. The thing is this, Julia; this morning the government was informed of a rather valuable new technology being hawked round the market."
"Yes, atomic structuring."
"Ah." M
ichael Harcourt's eyebrows rose a fraction. "You do know about it. Excellent. The Ministry of Defence was contacted by both the Greater European Defence Alliance and the Globecast company, to tell them this atomic structuring was being offered for development. According to our analysis, and these are absolutely top-rate people I've got working on it, Julia, it's going to cause quite a bit of a stir. In fact, the word revolutionary has been bandied about, not altogether in jest."
"My people say the same thing," she replied.
"Good, I'm glad to hear an independent confirmation, always a relief. Can I take it then, Event Horizon will be putting in a strong bid for a partnership with Clifford Jepson?"
"Of course we'll put in a bid."
Michael Harcourt's news bite smile dimmed slightly. "Ah, well, that's a point of some contention in the Cabinet, Julia. You see, Event Horizon has such a prominent position in English industry, we really feel it's essential that you put in the winning bid."
"If you know of a way to guarantee mine is the winner, Minister, I'd be delighted to hear it."
"Well, obviously, Julia, I'd do anything in my power to ensure that Event Horizon wins. We really can't afford to have you fall behind on this one."
"We?"
"The nation, Julia. As you know, the New Conservatives have always supported you. Event Horizon is an inspiration and example to industrialists everywhere. You epitomize our policies and the success to be gained by following them. We want to make sure that continues."
"Mr. Minister?"
"Yes, Julia?"
"Would you mind leaving out the BQ and get to the point."
Michael Harcourt frowned. "BQ?"
"Bullshit quota."
That's my girl; always keep politicians in their place. And that place is down.
Either contribute constructively, or be quiet, Grandpa.
"Ah, yes, well, to be perfectly blunt, then, Julia, I'd like to offer my services as a negotiator between Event Horizon and Clifford Jepson. I might not have much weight in corporate circles, but for what it's worth, I'd like you to consider it at your disposal."
It wasn't what Julia had been expecting. She took a sip of tea to cover her lapse, and embarrassment. Betrayed by her own cynicism. Of course all politicians were self-advancing autocrats.