A Quantum Murder

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Julia found her hand straying towards Robin's hair. He was sleeping sprawled out on his belly in the middle of the bed, head fallen between two big fluffy pillows, mouth slightly agape. She stroked his hair softly, smoothing down the ruffled tufts. Seen in the lush morning light which was prising its way round the edges of the curtains he was even more handsome than the first time she had caught sight of him at the pool. And he was so terribly sweet. Tender, anxious, and eager all at once—excellent body too. He lacked Patrick's ruthless dynamism, which had made their sex far more sensual. She still wasn't quite sure if she was his first. But she was certainly near the front of the queue. A thought to treasure.

He stirred below her hand, and she held her breath. She didn't want to wake him up just yet. The poor dear must be tired after last night.

She would have a cup of tea, skim through the breakfast 'casts, nip into the toilet, then it would be time for him to perform again.

NN Core Access Request.

No peace for the wicked. And last night she had been gloriously wicked.

Open Channel To NN Core.

Morning, Juliet.

Morning, Grandpa. We can't be having a crisis this early.

Not a crisis, no.

Thank heavens for that. What then?

I'm curious about something you did yesterday

Spying on me again?

No. I was just reviewing some of your data traffic. Double checking. That's what I'm here for, your safety net.

Yah, go on. She had a pretty good idea where this was leading.

You accessed one of our biochemical research labs yesterday. Using your executive code, no less. Mind telling me what for, girl?

No, I don't mind. She leaned over to the bedside cabinet and poured her tea from the silver service.

Juliet!

Oh, you wanted to know right now?

If I still had a body, I'd put you over my bloody knee, m'girl.

Grandpa, behave. Besides, I'm too big and too strong these days. And I don't fight fair, either.

You learnt that from me, Juliet. Now are you going to tell me?

She picked up her cup and saucer, and settled back into the pillows. Yah, all right. I wiped every record of the retrospective neurohormone from our memory cores, the analysis report, molecular structure, conclusions, everything. Then I sent Rachel over there, and she tipped all the remaining ampoules into the toxic waste disposal furnace. Happy now?

Bloody hell, girl. Why?

The tea was too hot to drink. She blew across the top of her cup as she marshalled her thoughts. Because I don't want something like that let loose in the world, Grandpa. It's bad enough having people like Gabriel being able to see what I might do in the future, or Greg knowing how badly I've been misbehaving just by looking at me. I don't want someone standing in this room ten years from now taking a simple infusion and being able to see what I did last night.

Hardly a simple infusion, girl.

Exactly. The Home Office have slapped a restriction order on what really happened at Greg's farm and Launde Abbey. Admittedly their main concern is the way MacLennan abused his paradigm project; if word got out that the New Conservatives had been allowing a company to research what amounts to a mind-control system there would be hell to pay. Certainly it would cost them the next election. Marchant didn't need much prodding to include the neurohormone. And there are now only fifteen people in the world who know a retrospection neurohormone is even possible. With those numbers we might just be able to keep it that way. Even if the news does eventually leak out, it would take an immense research effort to produce it again, if we ever could. Kitchener was a very clever man, not to mention idiosyncratic.

You can't fight progress, Juliet.

A retrospective neurohormone isn't progress, Grandpa. Quite the opposite. And there is already more than enough freely available technology in this world capable of being misapplied by tekmercs and others. Corporations and kombinates are going to have to start becoming responsible again. After all, we do fund ninety per cent of all the significant scientific research these days.

Lord preserve us, a global citizen with a conscience.

Somebody has to be, Grandpa. There is more to Event Horizon than making nifty household 'ware gadgets. Do you really want me to use all that influence for the bad?

Juliet, you are beautiful. I'm so proud of you.

She knew her cheeks would be reddening. Didn't care. Not this morning. Thank you, Grandpa. I am what I am because I have the best teacher in the world.

I've said it before, I'll say it again. Seductress!

Yah. And proud of it.

Eat your breakfast in peace, Juliet, I've got plenty of data-work piled up for you later.

Exit NN Core.

She took a sip of tea and fired the remote at the wall-mounted flatscreen, keeping the volume low. It was the East England channel, and she was on again. Yesterday's gala reopening of the Stock Exchange. Another invitation impossible to refuse, half the companies listed were heavily dependent on Event Horizon contracts. The exchange had been operating out of temporary quarters at Canary Wharf ever since the PSP had fallen and trading became legal again. Party activists had razed the old exchange a couple of months after President Armstrong came to power. So a new purpose-built building had risen up out of the old site, one with plenty of spare data processing and communications capacity, ready for the challenge of regeneration.

Very symbolic, she thought caustically.

She watched herself walking down the main hall with the exchange officials, most of them male, and most over fifty. So boring, no conversation outside money. Esquiline had dressed her in a white dinner jacket made from a fabric which played clips of old black and white films over its surface.

Superbly unconventional, and formal at the same time. Going to Esquiline had turned into one of the best decisions she had made for a long time—if for no other reason than Esquiline's fitting team was a fantastic new source of gossip, opening up the underbelly of the social scene. According to them, Lavinia Mayer didn't even need to intervene on her behalf with the Coleman cow. Apparently Jakki Coleman's agent had read her the riot act, effectively neutering her; it turned out he had a major contract with Esquiline to fit out several of his clients. And being thrown off an agent's books for being difficult was worse than death in the channel universe. At least if you were dead, cult status repeats boosted your ratings.

Jakki hadn't said a word against her for the last three days. Julia on the flatscreen cut the ribbon to the trading floor as Charlie Chaplin waddled across her back twirling his cane. All the jobbers cheered her enthusiastically.

Now they had been fun to talk to at the reception afterwards. Most of them were under thirty.

She took another sip of tea as the scene changed back to East England's breakfast studio. The blond twentysomething female presenter in a tight sweater was lounging back on a deep settee.

"That was yesterday's opening ceremony," she gushed warmly. "And to review it, I have our fashion correspondent, Leonard Sharr."

The camera panned back to show the most effeminate man Julia had ever seen sitting at the other end of the settee, dressed in leather jeans and a purple jacket with half-sleeves, topaz handkerchief hanging flamboyantly out of his breast pocket. She bit back on her giggles.

"Leonard, what did you think of Julia's clothes?"

"I found her choice so very, very appropriate. Tatty old design, showing tatty old films, at a tatty old function. It said simply nothing to me, except perhaps: look what a disaster I am, and I'm too rich to care. Really, this simply will not do for someone of her standing. She could be such a pretty little girl if she just made an effort and wore some nice frocks."

"Arsehole!" Julia completely forgot her cup was still half full. The tea went everywhere.