The Nano Flower

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Haunted?" Fabian's eyes widened in delight. "How can an asteroid be haunted?"

"I've no idea; it was only a rumour," Charlotte replied idly. She hugged one of the den's cushions. It was fun doing it on the cushions, there were lots of combinations they could be used in, imagination and gravity the only limits. None of her usual patrons could have coped with her inventiveness; even with their expensive clinic treatments joints creaked, muscles soon tired. But Fabian was more than capable, and becoming increasingly proficient under her tutelage. "How does anywhere get to be haunted?"

It was gloomy in the den, Fabian had turned the biolums off, leaving just the light from the fish tanks and the flat-screens to illuminate them. A black and white videoke scene they had recorded earlier was playing on the biggest flatscreen, showing Charlotte going through one of Charlie Chaplin's slapstick routines. Fabian had stolen a dinner jacket and trousers from his father's wardrobe for her to wear. They were baggy enough to complete the 'little tramp' image, but even after five goes she couldn't get the movements quite right. The holographic exoskeleton which choreographed her limb movements was inordinately difficult to follow. She was beginning to respect just how gymnastic Chaplin must have been.

"If something really terrible happens to a chap, like a murder or something, then his spirit is so heavy with grief that it lingers," Fabian said. "That's what I heard, anyway."

"Hmm, don't think there have been any murders in New London yet. They used to say that shooting stars were the souls of emperors ascending to heaven; perhaps they all migrated into the asteroid."

Fabian giggled. "Napoleon, Caesar, and Queen Victoria all spooking up the habitation cavern together, they'd have a right old time."

Charlotte counted that observation as quite a victory. The Fabian who'd leered at her during the Newfields ball would have launched into a lecture about how shooting stars were actually meteorites breaking apart in the atmosphere as they were coming down. So, stupid, how could they be spirits going up?

She wanted Fabian on her side, not that she had any choice when it came to allies. However, she did have some considerable advantages. He was a fifteen-year-old sex maniac, and completely in love with her. On top of that, he was fascinated with space. And she could satisfy each desire. Got him by the heart, balls, and mind. Poor old Fabian.

"Queen Victoria?" Charlotte enquired.

"Absolutely, she was empress over the biggest empire there ever was."

"Oh, yes. I think we'd better scrap that idea, then. She would be pretty distinctive even as a ghost. The Celestials couldn't mistake her."

"Celestials?" Fabian rolled over onto his belly, resting his chin on his hands. He flipped his hair aside. "Who's that? Go on, tell me. You know you will."

"All right. But you're not to tell anyone else. No showing off to your party friends that you know something they don't."

"Promise. Really, Charlotte, I do."

"All right. The Celestial Apostles are a group of about two hundred people who live up in New London without official clearance."

"You mean like tekmercs?"

"No, not at all like tekmercs. Their name is a bit of a cover-all for all the illegals up there these days. But the original Celestial Apostles were founded as a religious community. From what I could understand they're waiting for something like the Second Coming."

"Why can't they wait for it on Earth?"

"Revelation, chapter four, verse one: there is a door which opens into Heaven—presumably New London."

"Oh, crikey!" Fabian whined in disgust. "All the religious nuts always quote Revelation to back up their visions. It's pure junk, just like Nostradamus. You can read anything you want into it if you're stupid enough."

"I know. Convenient, isn't it?" She flashed him a bright smile. "Anyway, chapter four goes on to say: "Come up hither, and I will show thee things which must be hereafter." Which is why the Celestials chose to stay in New London, because that's where they'll see whatever it is that's coming. It does have a kind of internal logic."

"I suppose so."

"What started off as a fringe religious movement attracted more people when they realized it was possible to stay up there without Event Horizon's permission; the idealists who really believe in space, the old High Frontier dream. Construction workers mainly, ones whose contract with Event Horizon ran out after the main section of the colony was finished. A whole host of oddballs threw in with them, from research professors right down to maintenance engineers who'd been fired for negligence. All of them determined not to be flung out of what they see as the human race's greatest hope. So the Celestial Apostles preach two kinds of salvation now. Both wings of the movement expect New London to be a fulcrum in human events. I think they may be right, too, the technological Celestials. There are another four asteroid-capture missions in progress; it's the way the future's going. One day there could be hundreds of inhabited asteroids in orbit around Earth, and think how that kind of industrial capacity would boost the global economy."

"But how could these Celestials stay up there if their contracts ran out? I thought only active workers were allowed to live in New London."

"How would you find them, Fabian? There are fifteen thousand people living and working in New London, plus another four or five thousand tourists at any one time. How can you spot two hundred illegals in that crowd? Especially as there's only about seventy police officers, with maybe twice that many Event Horizon security staff. It would be a fulltime job for the lot of them. And the Celestials hide good, Fabian. New London's habitat chamber, Hyde Cavern, has a surface area of twenty-three square kilometres, then there's the tunnels, hundreds of kilometres of them, and natural caves, fissures in the rock that Event Horizon has never mapped out."

Fabian's expression was remote, junky eyes gazing at her. "They live in caves?"

"Yes, most of them, or the unused apartments."

"How come you know all this?" he asked suspiciously.

"I met a couple of them. They try and get round as many tourists as possible, asking us to join. They were very serious, almost evangelical. Everyone's welcome, they said. Not my cup of tea."

"Crikey, you mean they're recruiting more people to join them?"

"Yes."

"But you said there was over two hundred Celestials already. They'd never be able to buy food for that many, not in a closed environment. Besides, the banks would burn their cards. What do they eat?"

Charlotte laughed. "Whatever they want. The only plant you can't eat in Hyde Cavern is the grass, the rest is all fruit and vegetable, every type you can name. A vegetarian's paradise. It looks spectacular, too. Most of the plants were gene-tailored, and the New London Civil Council insisted they were given decent flowers." She drew a deep breath, remembering. "And the scents! Fabian, there's nowhere on Earth that smells so fresh."

He deflated in frustration. "Bloody hell, I want to go there."

She leant over and kissed the nape of his neck. "I'm sorry, Fabian. I didn't mean to make you jealous."

"I'm not. It's just… I wish Father would trust me more."

"He's a busy man right now." She moved her lips on to his spine, tasting warm saltiness. His downy hair brushing against her cheek. "And New London is going to be there for a long, long time."

"Oh, Father's always busy."

"He told me he'd got some very important contracts to tie up this week."

"Crikey, you're not kidding. I'm not even allowed to use my terminal's datalink to the communication platforms. How am I supposed to get hold of the latest VR games, and the new videoke releases?"

Charlotte stopped her featherlight kisses halfway down Fabian's back. She had been depending on him to provide her with a communication circuit to Baronski. Jason Whitehurst seemed to have thought of that too. God damn the man! "Isn't that unusual?"

"I'll say so. There isn't a single satellite uplink free. I don't know what he can do with all the data that's being squirted on board. All of our cargo agents are plugged into the company management processor cores. He must be selling off an entire country."

"Hey, can you see what they're downloading with all this gear of yours?" She made it come out casually, an impulse.

Fabian twisted his head to look back over his shoulder at her. "Well, yes, I suppose I could. Technically, I mean. My gear could handle it." He looked straight ahead again. "I never have though."

She started kissing his spine again. "It might be fun."

"Father tells me everything about the business."

"Everything?"

"Think so." There were shades of defensiveness and doubt jumbled together in his voice.

Charlotte reached his buttocks. "Turn over, Fabian."

Charlotte pulled on a broad white cotton halter top, and a pair of running shorts. They were tight, making her look as if she was about to burst out of them. Partly clothed always excited men more than being naked.

Fabian watched her getting dressed, wearing the serious face of someone at prayer. "You're so beautiful."

She knelt down and put her hand under her chin. "You keep saying that."

"Because you are."

"And you're very chivalrous."

He flipped his hair aside. "Just saying what I think. I can do that, can't I?"

"The girls at Cambridge are going to go wild over you. Rich, young, clever, handsome, and a real gentleman; and that's before you take your clothes off."

Fabian pulled away, staring at a science fiction saga on one of the flatscreens; wedge-shaped fighter-spaceplanes dog-fighting in the rings of a gas-giant planet. "I don't want any other girls," he said pertly. "I've got you."

She cupped his ears, and gently bent forward to kiss him. He had listened devoutly to everything she'd told him, and remembered it all. If only he wasn't so young, or she wasn't so bloody old. One of the fighters exploded in a brilliant concussion of white and blue flames, dousing them in a tide of phosphor radiance.

"There," she said as the explosion shrank. "See what kind of effect you have."

"I love you, Charlotte."

She gave his nose a quick kiss. "Have you ever skinnydipped in an ice-cold mountain tarn while there's a full moon in the sky?"

"No. Never."

"We'll try it tonight, then. I don't know about the moon and the ice, but the pool's there waiting."

"Yes!" His head swivelled about, taking in the terminals and his miscellaneous 'ware modules, suddenly very determined. "I'm going to see what Father's doing. He's got some pretty strange contacts, you know, for business, for making sure he gets delivery contracts and things. But he's never done anything like this before." He tugged his outsize Superman T-shirt out from under some cushions, and fought his way into it.

"Oh, well, I'm already out of my depth," Charlotte said. "I can never even balance my card accounts. I'll let you get on with it."

"Right," he mumbled. Multicoloured graphics were already rising in the cubes of the terminal he was operating.

She arranged the cushions in a loose nest, slumping into a beanbag at the bottom. Her cybofax displayed the London Times; the headline article was on the upcoming Welsh referendum.

She couldn't concentrate on it. A mirage of Fabian shimmered above the little screen. It wasn't as if she hadn't formed strong bonds with a patron before. One of her favourites had been eighty-eight, Emile Hirchaur, a French count. There had never been any sex involved; he simply enjoyed watching her walk and swim and ride: she'd been a surrogate body for him. And she was an attentive listener, he could be quite funny. He had chortled delightedly at his scandalized relatives when they came to visit his chateau. Life had to be made fun at his age, it would have been so utterly pointless otherwise. He treated his senescence like a second childhood. Another real gentleman. She'd cried horribly when he died.

And there had been younger, hotter lovers. Never anything serious, just physical, a relief from the feeble, tremulous sex of her patrons.

But the two had never been combined. Not that Fabian could be called a patron, not really. He didn't understand the rules, the obligations. And she couldn't blame him for that.

Why couldn't he be a snot-nosed brat she could hate as easy as breathing? Why a bright, shy, lonely boy? And most of all, why did he have to be cooped up on this bloody airship?

"Got it," Fabian called.

One of the wall-mounted flatscreens was showing an accountancy display, thick columns of green numbers moving from top to bottom in jittery stop-start sequences. "Oh, that's no use, hang on." He began to type quickly. A narrow red line appeared along the bottom of the flatscreen, gradually moving upwards; as the descending numbers reached it some of them would contract, then expand out as titles. "Decryption program," he said. The red line reached the top of the screen and stayed there.

Charlotte put down her cybofax, and studied the neatly tabulated accountancy display. It was a big company, probably a kombinate, no one else had a monthly cash flow of two billion Eurofrancs. There were hundreds of subsidiaries, all tied together.

Another flatscreen lit, showing the same sort of thing, a third.

"That's all kombinate finance," she said. "Look at the amount of money involved."

Fabian flipped his hair aside and looked at her cannily. "How would you know?"

"I can read, thank you, Fabian. And I've picked up enough money talk in my life."

He blushed. "Oh, yes, right."

She walked over to him, and slipped her arms round him, resting her chin on his shoulder. "I said I knew what it was, not that I could interpret it."

"Oh, well, it's just a confidential monthly performance review, nothing breathtaking."

"You mean your father shouldn't have them?"

"Anyone can get hold of them if they really want; that much data can't be kept hushed up. There are some commercial intelligence companies that actually produce nothing else but analyses of kombinates."

"So what's he doing with them?"

Fabian shrugged inside her arms, and tapped a finger on the terminal's cube. "One of our on-board lightware number crunchers is running a pattern-recognition program. I'd say he's probably running their finances through it, looking for money being spent on accumulating a stock of specific raw material, or invested in certain facilities."

Charlotte ran the flat of her hands lightly across his chest. "Why?"

"Placement. Father will have acquired some kind of rare cargo; and now he's searching for the best market." He cocked his head to one side as another set of monthly performance figures began to roll down the first screen. "You know, Charlotte, it must be a jolly important cargo for him to go to all this trouble."