The Nano Flower

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

There were seven of them in the group that emerged from the public lobby below the Governor's Residence. They stood clustered together on the lava-like surface of the ring road which ran round the base of the southern endcap, looking across the open parkland, not quite sure where to go first. Very touristy, Greg thought, not that he was particularly concerned with stealth. But they did give the impression of a booked party. No need to draw unnecessary attention. Charlotte and Suzi were with him, of course; along with Rick and Melvyn; while a couple of the crash team, Teresa Farrow and Jim Sharman, completed the group. Lloyd McDonald had set up a dedicated mission office in the security centre, where he was reviewing reports from the police and his own personnel from inside the Cavern.

"Where we headed?" Suzi asked.

"Not sure. Lloyd will call us as soon as someone spots a Celestial Apostle." He sucked in some air, glancing round Hyde Cavern. A tiny secretion struck up a certain restlessness, but there was no call towards any particular part of the cylindrical landscape. "But in the mean time, we'll try the beach. The one where you met the priest, Charlotte."

Charlotte nodded. "All right."

Other pedestrians were glancing at her as they passed. Greg had to admit she looked sensational. Perhaps he ought to have asked her to wear something less conspicuous.

It isn't her clothes, he told himself, it's your hormones.

Rick had stuck close to her side on the way down from the Residence, making small talk, absolutely not looking at the top's scoop neck. The way she dealt with the attention was a frictionless wall of politeness, nothing that would encourage, nothing to take offence at. It was a neat trick. Poor old Rick.

He took his cybofax out of a jacket pocket, and pulled a map of New London's train network from the colony's memory core. There were stations every two hundred metres round the endcap. He started walking towards the nearest one.

"I've just heard from Sean Francis," Melvyn said. "Julia Evans is on her way up."

"When will she be here?"

"Three hours."

"What's the matter, doesn't she trust us?" Suzi grumbled.

"Give her a break," Greg said. It came out flatter than he intended. "She needs that atomic structuring technology. Once I confirmed the alien was here she didn't have many choices."

"Yeah," Suzi said. "This alien thing, knowing it's here somewhere, ain't helping calm me. Why doesn't it show itself?"

"It hasn't demonstrated any hostility," Rick said.

"Not yet," Suzi said knowingly. She patted the Browning in her shoulder holster.

Rick gave a despairing sigh.

The vine-roped balconies gave way to sheer rock cliff, and the road bowed out from the base. They walked over a gently curved mock-stone bridge across the neck of a lake. A waterfall emerged from a cleft in the rock a kilometre above; Greg had to tilt his head right back to see its apex. The crinkled rock behind it was thick with creepers and slimy algae. He tracked the ragged white plume as it curved sideways through the air, thundering into the lake twenty metres away. The air was full of a fine spray, leaving the side of the bridge permanently slicked.

"Freaky world," Suzi said above the noise.

"Yeah," Greg called back. The endcap rose vertically for the first hundred metres, which was as high as the balconies and windows went, above that it sank into a slight depression of blank rock, with the lighting tube sprouting out of the centre. He could see another five of the exotic Coriolis waterfalls spaced round it at regular intervals.

The train station was on the other side of the bridge, below ground. They took an escalator down to a whitewalled, spotlessly clean platform. Greg asked the station 'ware for a private coach. There was a rush of dry air from the tunnel, and the bullet-nosed aluminium cylinder glided out, hovering a couple of centimetres above the single rail. They all trooped in, and Greg showed his Event Horizon card to the driver panel, requesting the Kenton station.

The fall-surf beach was spread out along one side of a deep horseshoe-shaped cove which hugged the foot of the northern endcap. This time there was no cliff of balconies at the base, the endcap was a simple shallow hemisphere carved out of the rock. The six Coriolis waterfalls were replicated, but lacking the severe drop of their southern endcap counterparts. They flowed down channels cut in the rock, clinging to the curve. One of them emptied into the cove with a dramatic foam cloud of spray. Thin rainbows swirled inside it.

Greg watched in amazement as a woman on a surfboard shot out of the mist, flying across the cove. Another followed her. He looked up.

The fall-surfers were dotted at fifty-metre intervals all the way back up the waterfall. Where it jetted out of the endcap, a kilometre above him, he could just make out a small metal platform like a broad diving-board. A tiny dark figure leapt off it, descending almost vertically to start with, low gravity only just managing to provide the stability for a lazy glide. The tail of the long board barely touched the water. Then gravity took hold, building constantly as the curve of the endcap increased underneath the surfer. His speed began to pick up. By the time he reached the bottom he was travelling at a hellish velocity.

They all heard a gleeful whoop as he exploded out of the waterfall's foam cloud and flashed past, slicing out a long creamy wake. He had almost reached the end of the cove before he slowed to a halt and began paddling back to shore.

"Now that is something else," Suzi muttered in admiration.

Greg knew what she meant, his immediate reaction was: I want to try that.

Charlotte stared up at the waterfall with a fond smile. "It takes a lot of nerve to kick off the first time. But after that it's addictive."

"You've done it?" Suzi asked, slightly envious.

"Oh, yes. Fall-surfing is one of their greatest tourist traps. It looks wild, but actually it's very safe."

"I'm sure it is," Greg said. "But it isn't on our agenda." He led them along the path towards the cove, Suzi grumbling behind him.

The beach itself had a Riviera look, organized, colourful, and crowded. Bars that were little more than wooden planks under dried-palm roofs lined the bluff above the sand. Behind them was a more substantial row of restaurants. Regimental squares of sunbeds covered the top half of the beach, competing for space with netball pitches. The powder-fine sand was dazzlingly white. Waiters in white shirts and dark-green bow ties scurried between the bars and sunbeds, carrying trays of drinks.

Greg walked along the crumbling sandy soil of the bluff.

There was a steady drift of families coming up the steps from the beach, carrying their bags and towels, small children with tired-looking faces.

Suzi stayed at his side, looking out over the bodies lying on the sunbeds. Rick and Charlotte were still together, locked at the centre of a protective triangle formed by the three hardliners. Greg was pleased with their unobtrusive professionalism.

Teresa Farrow was a psychic, equipped with sac implants; he could discern her espersense pervading the beach and the bars, alert for hazards. She had told him she possessed an empathy similar to his, but no intuition.

Jim Sharman was one of the crash team's tech specialists. All of the team members had one or two fields of expertise.

"Can you see him?" he asked Charlotte.

She was standing at the top of some stairs. "No, he isn't here. Sorry."

"I didn't expect to find him first time," he said, and gave her a reassuring smile.

They walked on.

Greg's cybofax bleeped. It was Lloyd McDonald.

"I think we've got something for you," the security chief said. "A couple of bobbies saw three people distributing leaflets outside the Trump Nugget casino. Two men and a girl. One of the men is in his late fifties, they say."

"Great," Greg said. "Tell the bobbies to keep watching, we'll be right over."

One of the bobbies was waiting for them in the station, barely able to keep his excitement contained. His name was Gene Learmount, a boyish freckled face and ginger hair; Greg thought he was about twenty, terribly naïve.

He told Greg how he and his partner had seen the suspected Celestial Apostles, and immediately taken a table in the casino's beer garden where they could watch without being seen. The search for the Celestials was the biggest deal for New London's police in months. Did it mean the Governor was finally going to do something about them?

Greg gave a noncommittal shrug as they rode the escalator up from the station to the park.

Victor had told him that the police were there principally for the tourists; company security handled the workers and possible tekmerc deals. He wondered how the police felt about that, but the kid seemed happy enough deferring to his Event Horizon card. It was his tradecraft, or rather lack of it, which was worrying. The Celestials must have developed some kind of watcher routine.

The escalator brought them out under a small marble rotunda. The Trump Nugget was fifty metres away, a three storey Disneyland fairy castle with tall circular turrets, a moat, drawbridge, and portcullis. Flags were fluttering idly at the top of turret spires. It was ringed with young apple trees in full blossom, white and pink petals coating the grass like dry snow.

Gene Learmount muttered into his cap's comset. "They're still in the quadrangle," he said.

"How do we go?" Melvyn asked.

Greg looked at the portcullis and drawbridge again, letting his espersense expand. There were a few people coming and going, it wasn't a busy time for the casino. Too early. He caught the watcher's steely wakefulness, completely out of phase with the passive thought currents around him. When he looked he saw a young man in scarlet shorts picking small yellow fruits from a bush above the moat.

"Bugger," he muttered. The watcher would have seen Gene Learmount walk from the casino to the station. "Is there another way out of the quadrangle?" he asked the bobby.

"Yes, certainly. If you go into the castle, there's a goods delivery subway, and a couple of footbridges over the moat."

"OK. Charlotte, Suzi, and Teresa come with me. The rest of you stay here, but be ready to move."

They walked out into the open. Greg kept his espersense focused on the watcher, waiting for any sign of alarm, but the man just showed a mild interest in their approach. He carried on filling his net bag with the fruit.

"Tell you, we're being watched," Greg said to Suzi.

"Yeah, I know," she said. "Stud in the red shorts. I clocked him when we came up the escalator."

"Oh. Right." He turned to Charlotte who was staring at the watcher. "Don't be too obvious."

She grimaced and looked away quickly. "Sorry."

"This is the way I want you to handle it," he said. "When we get into the quadrangle just look round and see if you can spot him. Take your time, make certain. If he's there, point him out to us, and walk over to him, say hello. We'll be with you the whole time. If he makes a run for it, don't try and follow. Leave that to Suzi and me."

"Thanks," Suzi muttered.

"Teresa, you stick with Charlotte the whole time."

"Yes, sir."

His cybofax bleeped when they were twenty metres from the drawbridge.

"Got another one for you," Lloyd McDonald said.

"Oh, Christ, now where?"

"Sports arena. There's a tennis exhibition tournament this week; the Jerome Merril and Lemark Pampa match. One of my people has seen a couple of Celestials talking to some spectators."

"OK, same procedure. Keep them under observation until we get there."

"Affirmative."

The castle really was made out of stone, one-metre cubes of a rusty-brown colour that had been quarried out of the asteroid somewhere. Greg had been expecting jazzed-up composite.

The quadrangle had three levels. A sunken corner given over to an ornamental water garden, the main lawn with several large brass and granite freeform sculptures from the organic school, and the beer garden running along one side, overlooking the other two. Greg squashed a groan when he saw the second bobby sitting at one of the tables, diligently observing the people threading their way round the sculptures.

Greg spotted one of the girls straight off, a smiling blonde in a halter top and long swirling skirt.

Teresa Farrow nudged Charlotte, and nodded to a man coming up from the water garden. He was about sixty, a thick sheaf of leaflets was sticking out of an open belt pouch. Greg wrapped his espersense round him, finding a peculiar mix of alertness and satisfaction.

"That's not him," said Charlotte.

"Shit," Suzi said. "You sure?"

"Absolutely."

Greg felt something being thrust into his hand, dry and light, cylindrical. He closed his fingers round it instinctively.

When he turned, there was a slim Oriental girl standing behind him, wearing a black string vest tucked into cutoff jeans.

"Your future lies among the stars. I hope you'll join us tomorrow," she said, deeply serious, then smiled and walked away.

He followed the denim-painted backside as she walked through the archway towards the drawbridge.

"Just your type, huh?" Suzi asked. She was smirking lecherously.

"Committing her to memory, that's all." He looked down at what she'd given him. It was one of the leaflets, rolled up.

Tomorrow a new dawn will rise.

Tomorrow the road to the stars will be thrown open.

Tomorrow man will not be made in God's image.

Tomorrow our suffering and fear will end.

Tomorrow we will no longer be alone.

Tomorrow the Earth will be cured.

Tomorrow we shall be free.

Tomorrow is now.

Join us in Tomorrow.

The Celestial Apostles will hold a Blessing.

Ushering in the age of Redemption.

The All Saints Church Hyde Cavern.

Noon Tomorrow.

All Welcome.

Greg showed it to Suzi. "Yeah, very deep," she said. "I didn't know copywriters ran away to be Celestials when they grew up."

"Tomorrow, Clifford Jepson is officially going to announce atomic structuring to the world," Greg said.

She sniffed, and read the leaflet again.

"Some of those connotations are pretty strong," he said.

"Could be," Suzi admitted grudgingly. "You want to snatch one of them and run your word-association gimmick?"

"No. They'd all go to ground, and we can't afford that if I'm wrong." He folded the leaflet and stuck it in his jacket pocket. "Come on, let's go see the tennis match."

Greg rode the escalator out of the Slatebridge Park station into another of the ubiquitous rotundas. There was a police sergeant waiting for him, Bernard Kemp, whose stomach was bulging over the regulation belt holding his shorts up. Greg was glad to see him, obviously an old hand. His phlegmatic greeting made a pleasing change from his colleagues' breathless enthusiasm.

Slatebridge Park was the ninth sighting of the afternoon. After the casino there had been the tennis match, an orchard, a beach, shopping arcade, another beach, a gallery—Hyde Cavern seemed to be suffering from a plague of Celestial Apostles, all of them distributing the same leaflet advertising the blessing ceremony. "They've never been this blatant before," Lloyd McDonald said. "It's almost like they don't care about stealth any more." And after Slatebridge Park there were another two sightings waiting to be investigated.

The visibility of the Celestial Apostles was worrying him.

He was sure the Dolgoprudnensky would have agents up here. Would they connect the leaflet with the alien? His intuition was mercifully silent. They couldn't have found Royan or the alien yet. But not even Royan could hide for ever. He was growing increasingly aware of how finite New London really was. And the Dolgoprudnensky had a four-day lead.

Greg looked over Bernard Kemp's sagging shoulders at the Globe. It was an open-air amphitheatre, cut into the side of a hillock, circled by a lonely rank of fluted Greek pillars. Tiered ranks of stone seats looked down on a simple open circular stage; the only backdrop was the long still lake at the foot of the small valley.

About a quarter of the seats were filled. Three actors in white togas were on the stage. Greg was too far away to hear the dialogue, but guessed at Julius Caesar.

Bernard Kemp used his police-issue cybofax to verify Greg's card, something none of the other bobbies had done.

"Company man?" the sergeant said sourly.

Greg recognized the mind tone, resentful and weary. Bernard Kemp wasn't a man who enjoyed his beat being interrupted for political reasons. Greg felt a degree of sympathy. As a policeman Kemp was infinitely preferable to André Dubaud. Pity he himself was the irritant. "Not quite, no," Greg said. "But it's a good enough description. So where's our man?"

Bernard Kemp stabbed a thumb at the Globe. "Annoying the audience. There's a couple of them in there. My partner's watching." The thumb moved, lining up on the pillars at the top of the seats. "Their look-out is skulking about up there."

A black woman in an Indian poncho was sitting with her back to one of the pillars, her knees drawn up to her chin. The position gave her an excellent view over the surrounding parkland.

Bernard Kemp was the first person to spot a watcher. Greg wasn't surprised.

They walked up the slight incline to the amphitheatre. Greg detected the stirrings of alarm in the black woman's mind as she saw the group of them. She climbed to her feet, brushing grass from her poncho.

Charlotte stood on the side of the seats, looking round the audience. She blinked, leaning forwards. "It's him." She sounded dubious. "Really."

Greg looked at the man walking up one of the aisles. Charlotte had been generous when she said he was in his late fifties, Greg put his age closer to sixty-five. Other than that he fitted her description: rotund, thinning hair drawn back into a pony-tail, albino skin. He was playing the joker, handing out the leaflets with a bow, smiling broadly, mocking himself. The technique was good, people took the leaflet without protest.

"All right," Greg said. "Charlotte, you lead. Just walk over to him. Teresa, keep an eye on the watcher."

Charlotte started to thread her way along the seating. It wasn't quite the surreptitious approach Greg had wanted, too many heads turned to follow Charlotte's progress. When they were halfway towards him, the Celestial caught sight of her.

Greg watched the emotions chase across his mind, the surprise that came from recognition, interest then concern. When he caught sight of Greg the concern tilted into agitation. Resignation was last, after he'd looked round, sizing up his chances of making a run for it. He gave a half-hearted shrug, and stuffed the leaflets back in a satchel.

The black woman by the pillar had disappeared by the time Charlotte reached him.

"Hello again, Charlotte," the old man said. "I didn't expect to see you up here again so soon."

Charlotte gestured awkwardly, not saying anything.

"Good afternoon to you," he said as Greg stepped into the aisle. "You'll be wanting a leaflet?"

Greg grinned. "Thanks, I've already got one." Charlotte had been right about the warmth of his smile.

"Ah well. I'll be going, then."

"I've come all the way from Earth just to see you," Greg said.

"What, this little sack of skin and bones?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sure you must have the wrong person."

"No." He was aware of the people sitting by the aisle watching him. "You want to go somewhere where we don't disturb people?" He pointed to the top of the amphitheatre.

The old man glanced round with pointed slowness. "Well now, what do you say, Charlotte? Should we stop distracting these good people from this rather mediocre performance? I could never resist the wisdom of a pretty girl."

"Please," Charlotte said quietly.

"Ah, now that's the word to use. Please." He began to walk up the slope.

Greg saw Rick, Teresa Farrow, Jim Sharman, and Bernard Kemp walking up the side of the seats to meet them at the top.

"Is that a member of the constabulary I see?" the old man asked.

"Yes," Greg said.

"Am I to be taken away in chains, then?"

"Not unless I tell him to," Greg said lightly.

The Celestial shot him a fast appraising glance, then squared his shoulders and carried on. Suzi gave an evil chuckle.

"The look-out scooted," Teresa Farrow said when Greg reached the top of the hillock. "Do you want her back?"

"No. Not important."

"All this effort," the Celestial said. "I'm quite flattered."

"Want to tell me your name?" Greg asked.

"I'll show you mine if you show yours."

"Greg Mandel, Mindstar Captain, retired."

"By all that's holy, a gland man."

"No messing."

"The name is Sinclair, for me sins. Pleased to meet you there, Captain Greg." He stuck out his hand.

Greg turned to Bernard Kemp. "Thanks very much for your help. We'll take him from here."

"I figured you might," the sergeant said. He paused. "Sir." He adjusted his cap, taking his time, then walked back down the aisle.

Greg just heard him mutter: "Glory boys."

Sinclair's smile was fading as they all looked at him, he dropped his hand back to his side. "Ah well, I had a grand run. Not that it particularly matters any more, of course. Not after tomorrow."

Greg realized the light was dimming. The idea was perturbing, it had remained constant the whole time they'd spent chasing round Hyde Chamber after the Celestials; an eternal noon, casting virtually no shadows. He looked up, round, instinct calling him to the southern endcap a couple of kilo-metres away.

The waterfalls had gone. Instead, six huge plums of dense snow-white vapour were shooting out of the openings in the rock. They swept across the sky, heading towards the northern endcap, already several hundred metres long, twisting round the lighting tube like bloated contrails from an acrobatic display team.

"What the hell is that?" he asked.

"Hyde Chamber's irrigation system," Melvyn said. "They turn it on every other night, once in the early evening, and again just before dawn."

"You mean it rains in here?" Suzi asked.

"Yes. The lighting tube's infrared emission is turned off, and the cloud condenses, just like on Earth. It's a whole lot cheaper than laying down a grid of pipes and sprinklers, and it flushes any dust away as well."

Suzi squinted up at the clouds. "I'll be buggered."

Greg watched the head of each plume mushroom out, merging into a broad puffy ring. The cavernlight had changed subtly, he could feel it on his upturned face, it was still as bright, but the pressure of warmth had gone from the rays. A second, identical band of cloud was reaching out from the northern endcap.

He shook off the distraction, and told Sinclair: "I need to know about the flower you gave Charlotte."

"Ah, well now, you see, that's a private matter, Captain Greg. A very delicate matter, to be honest. I'd be betraying a trust."

"Tell him," Suzi said. "He'll only rip it bleeding from your mind, otherwise."

What was left of Sinclair's smile became fixed.

"Julia Evans and I know Royan sent it," Greg said. "We just want to know where you got it from."

"Is that true what your charming companion just said?" Sinclair asked. "About minds and blood, and other things ladies shouldn't know about?"

"I can if I have to," Greg said. "Although there's no physical pain involved. But I'd rather not. How about you?"

"Julia Evans?" Sinclair asked. "Julia Evans sent you here looking for me?"

"That's right. The very same Julia Evans who tolerates you and your mates running about like mice, stealing her food. Now I think it's about time you started paying her back for that kindness. Not to mention Charlotte here, who was nearly killed because she took the flower down to Earth."

"Is that true, young Charlotte?"

She pursed her lips dolefully. "Yes."

"I wasn't told that," Sinclair said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't have asked you if I'd known it was dangerous. No, I wouldn't."

"I believe you," she said.

They were suddenly engulfed by a shadow. The leading edge of the southern cloud ring was directly overhead, blotting out the lighting tube. Its bottom layer had dropped down to barely three hundred metres, looking disturbingly solid. Small vortices swarmed over its surface, there was a hint of darkness inside. The northern cloud was racing to meet it. Only a narrow band of light was left shining down in the centre of the cavern.

The Globe's audience were looking up, some of them began to take out umbrellas.

"Royan?" Greg prompted.

"Now there's a strange lad for you," Sinclair said. "We found him. Or I suppose you might say we found each other really. Fated to meet, we were. Outcasts, but very different. He was with us for a few days."

"When was this?"

"About a month ago, maybe three weeks. We don't concern ourselves with time as much as you fellows do. Everything's scheduled for you. That's part of what we are, you see, throwing all that away, keeping life calmer. I don't think the lad was really cut out for a life with us. He was wound up terribly tight inside, you know? Bit like you, really, Captain Greg."

Greg ignored the crack. "He was with you, then he left?"

"Ah, sharp as a knife you are. I can see I'll keep none of my dark hoarded secrets from you."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No. That he didn't, I'm afraid."

"All right, so what about the flower?"

"Do you believe in ghosts, Captain Greg? I do. Spirits at any rate. Spirits that possess. Spirits that drive you. There's a spirit in New London."

"There's an alien in New London," Rick said.

Greg shot him an annoyed look.

"Is that so, now?" Sinclair asked in amusement. "Well well, fancy that."

"You're not surprised," Greg said.

"Aren't I, Captain Greg?"

"No." He wasn't. In fact, Greg could sense some of his thought currents racing with gratification. "You want me to go deeper?"

"Thank you kindly, but no. You see, this strapping young man here—"

"Rick."

"Pleased to meet you, Rick. You see, Rick here, he calls it an alien. I call it a presence. A guiding light, Captain Greg. An angelic being come to grant us the sight. We'll be shown our own souls in all their nakedness. Do you think you can withstand that? You who entomb yourself in the physical world?"

Intuition deluged Greg abruptly, as it so often did; like cards snapping down on the table, everything laid out and visible. "You founded the Celestial Apostles, Sinclair," he said. "You're their preacher and their leader."

"Ah now, Captain Greg, you're becoming a sore disappointment to me. You said you weren't going to peek. And you an officer and a gentleman, and all."

"Tell you, I didn't peek," Greg said. "It just happens that way sometimes."

"Perhaps it was the spirit who showed him the truth," Suzi said, feigning complete innocence.

Sinclair wrinkled at her. "You could be right at that. Anyhow, this flower you're so keen about, it was brought to me."

"Who brought it?" Greg asked.

"Why, one of the little people, Captain Greg." Sinclair gave him a cheery smile. "About so high, they are." His hand prodded the air half a metre above the grass. "All dressed in orange and black, he was, very smart, his little antenna wobbling about."

"A drone," Greg said.

"Your word, Captain Greg, so crisp and functional. Suited to what you are."

"What I am is an orange farmer," Greg said, and had the enjoyable sight of Sinclair's face slapped by perplexity. He brought out the leaflet, and tapped it with an index finger. "What about this? What about tomorrow?"

"The simple truth," Sinclair said. "Oh, Captain Greg, come now, can you not feel it? And you with your marvellous second sight as well. It's like a thunderstorm sent by the Creator himself—one that builds and builds away on the other side of a mountain range. You can't see it, not with your eyes, but oh dear mother Mary, you know it's there, and you know it's going to come sweeping over the tallest peaks to remind you of nature's raw power. That's what tomorrow is. A storm to wash away our tired terrible perception of the world. We'll see everything in a new, clean, and golden light. The coming of Revelation."

As if on cue, the first drops of rain began to patter down around them.