The Nano Flower

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The Frankenstein wasp crawled round the metal bar of the conditioning grill, and poised on the cliff-like edge of copper paint facing into the office. Greg could make little sense of what it saw, just smeared outlines, as if he was wearing a glitched photon amp. But the wasp was aware of the empty space ahead, and somewhere out there were flowers, pollen. Sugar tugged at it like a tidal force.

Greg used his espersense to locate the mind he wanted; four metres from the wasp, slightly below. He pushed the wish into the insect's instinct-governed brain. A need to fly towards the man sitting at the desk. Wings blurred furiously.

"You just want the stinger changed?" Jools the Tool had asked Greg curiously that morning. He was a small man, dressed all in black. Round gold-rimmed glasses shielded his damp eyes with pink-tinted lenses. His chalk-white skin looked unhealthy, though Greg wrote it off as partly due to the time of day. The sun hadn't risen when he rang the pet shop's bell.

"Yeah," Greg said. "That's all."

"So how are you going to control it?"

"I'm a gland psychic."

Jools the Tool nodded a grudging acknowledgement, and led him past the cages of sleeping animals to his cubbyhole surgery at the rear of the shop.

The operation hadn't taken long. Greg stood behind the little Frankenstein surgeon, watching the microscope's flatscreen over his shoulder. It showed the wasp, magnified to thirty centimetres long, held down with silk binding sheaths. Micro-surgical instruments delicately amputated its stinger, and stitched in a wicked-looking hollow dagger to replace it. Blades and clamps danced with hypnotic agility around the yellow-and-black striped abdomen, responding to the waldo handles which Jools the Tool was caressing.

"I've primed it with a shot of AMRE7D," he told Greg as the artificial stinger was filled with a clear fluid. "It's a neurotoxin, one of the best. Once it's in the bloodstream, you've got a maximum of twenty seconds before death occurs."

The back of the man's head was distinguishable now, hair like a logjam, lunar mare of skin. Greg guided the wasp down to the nape of the neck, allowing the insect's own instincts to take over for the landing. When the warmth of the skin pressed against its legs, his mind shouted out the compulsion. The wasp thrust its composite stinger into the skin, expelling the AMRE7D in a single blast.

Clifford Jepson's hand swatted the wasp, his yell of surprise and pain rattling round the office.

Greg focused himself on the boiling thought currents. I want you to know something before you die, Jepson, his mind whispered. I want you to know why.

Clifford Jepson's muscles had locked rigid, maybe from terror, maybe from the neurotoxin. Greg looked out through bugged eyes, feeling throat muscles like iron bands, hands clawing at the chair's leather arms.

You were offered an honourable chance to end the madness over atomic structuring. You refused it because you thought you could squeeze more money from the deal. You were greedy, Jepson. And that greed killed my friend. It might have been your psycho-cyborg Reiger who pulled the trigger, but you loaded his program, you ran him. Now you're going to die because of it. I'm glad, and I hate you for that as well.

Greg cancelled the gland's secretion, and opened his eyes. He was sitting in the passenger seat of a navy-blue Lada Sokol, parked in the shade of a Japanese umbrella pine in a big open-air car park. Fifty metres in front of him, the ornate carved stone of the stately home which Globecast used as its European headquarters burned brightly in the mid-morning sun. A flock of white birds were flying through Kent's cloudless azure sky overhead.

"Did you close the deal?" Col Charnwood asked.

"Yeah."

"Good." Col Charnwood flicked the Lada Sokol into gear and drove carefully out of the car park.

Some time after midnight Charlotte pulled on a white silk robe and went out on to the balcony to enjoy the cool breeze that blew in from the Fens basin. It was so refreshing after the sweltering heat of the day. She let it ruffle her hair as she gazed up at the night sky. The alien solar sail was definitely smaller tonight. It had been crawling away from New London over the last few days, now it was low in the south-east, while the fuzzy patch of the asteroid's archipelago glowed above the western horizon.

According to the channel newscasts, light pressure from the Sun was constantly accelerating it. She hadn't known that light could exert pressure; apparently it could. A tiny pressure, but the sail's surface area was the size of a small country, making the overall force colossal. In another twenty days it would reach solar escape velocity; after that it could go wherever it chose in the galaxy. Several times since returning from New London, Charlotte had found herself thinking what it must be like having that much freedom. What a wonderful thing to be able to roam the universe at will, searching out wonders and horrors. And to voyage so majestically, sailing on a sunbeam.

She had never seen a star so gloriously radiant. It was probably bright enough to cast a shadow at night; but Peterborough's permanent light haze made it impossible to know for sure.

They had a good view of the city from their penthouse in the Castlewood condominium, especially the futureopolis of Prior's Fen Atoll. The day they moved in she spent hours on the balcony staring out at the mega-structures that seemed to float on the green-hued swamp.

She thought it strange that she had never visited Peterborough before; after all it was an incredible focal point for wealth. But after she arrived, she realized it ordered a different sort of money to the type she was used to. Peterborough's money was active money, it was finance consortium muscle, corporate power, political influence; the only gambling here was the venture capital backing industrial research lab. Nobody hoarded money in Peterborough, they worked it; the static, emasculated trusts which enabled her patrons to glide indulgently through life shrank from this city's vitality.

Prior's Fen epitomized the new culture, bold, purposeful architecture sticking two defiant fingers up to the dead past. The antithesis of Monaco.

It had been a long journey between the two cities and the physical distance was the least of the gulf she had bridged. But now she'd found it, she knew she wouldn't be leaving.

There were stockbrokers to see in the morning. A new chapter of life to begin.

Victor Tyo had brought Dmitri Baronski's private memory cores with him when he returned from the Prezda with her furniture and clothes and trinkets. "I figured you were the best person to sort through the bytes," he had told her. "The rest of Baronski's girls should be told where they stand. And somehow I don't think they'll be too keen on hearing it from me."

She'd given every piece of that clothing to a charity shop in Stanground, along with the cheaper jewellery. The other girls she had called one at a time, telling them the way it was now, arranging for them to pick up their cut from Dmitri's Zurich account. But the rest of the data, the finance and industry gossip the old man was supposed to squirt over to the Dolgoprudnensky, that was interesting. She could see some valuable deals opening up if the knowledge was exploited properly by Fabian's cargo agents.

The breeze was growing chilly now. She went back into the bedroom, sliding the glass door shut behind her. Fragments of the city's street lighting leaked round the edges of the curtains, giving the room's white furniture a phosphorescent hue.

Fabian was asleep, sprawled belly down across the double bed where she'd left him. She wondered if it was illegal for a guardian to sleep with her ward. More than likely. If only he wasn't so terribly young. But he was hers for three whole years, until he was eighteen. Nothing in her life had lasted three years before. And after three years, well… Dreams were part of Peterborough too.

She smiled down at him, and slipped the robe from her shoulders. He stirred as she slid on to the bed beside him.

"Fabian," she called softly.

His eyes opened drowsily, and he grinned up at her. "Am I dreaming?"

She kissed his brow. "What do you think?"

Julia combed the sweat-damped hair from his eyes as he lay back on the pillows. He really is very handsome, she thought. Funny I never noticed before. Or was that never wanted to notice before? It would have been complicated.

Then she frowned, and peered at his face. "I don't believe it! You're looking guilty already."

"Certainly not," Victor protested. "What you're seeing is plain relief. I thought—"

"What?" she asked eagerly. It was fun teasing him, she hadn't been free to tease a man like this for a long time. It was fun having him in bed too. Nothing astonishing, but that would come with time. She intended there would be a lot of time from now on.

Victor shrugged. "Rick."

"Oh, him. No. He was sweet, and hunky too, of course."

"Thank you very much, ma'am."

She giggled. "Not my type, though. Outside of his work, there's nothing of interest about him. Sad really."

"My heart bleeds."

She waited a while. "I'm extremely grateful to him, though. I would never have thought of flying the Hexaëmeron away. Lord, the thought of having to make that choice still makes me feel cold."

"It won't happen again."

"Thank heavens." She rested her head on his chest. "I'm going to reward Rick, show him just how appreciative I am."

"How?"

"Give him his radio telescope, that Steropes he's forever whining about."

"You serious?"

"Yes. We know it's not a pointless search any more. That puts a whole new perspective on SETI. Now people have been convinced there is life in the galaxy they'll expect a follow-up. And I want Event Horizon to maintain its leadership in the field."

"There isn't going to be much doubt about that, I'm afraid. Greg certainly isn't going to come forward to claim any credit for what happened up at New London. And Sinclair is already a channel celebrity with his religious 'cast; telling the world how you tamed the Beast and liberated the New Jerusalem. So that's another brick firmly cemented in the wall of legend. Julia Evans, superwoman."

"Bugger." She hadn't thought of that aspect. Perhaps Greg… No, that wouldn't be fair at all. "Oh well, at least Steropes won't put a strain on my finances now."

"Too true. That second chamber is quite something, even if the miners didn't appreciate losing their jobs five years ahead of schedule."

The two of them had walked the length of the second chamber the day after the alien left, their boots kicking up puffs of arid dust. It was a landscape of rock turrets and deep zigzag canyons, delicate arched stone bridges reinforced with cores of solid iron. Instant geology; she'd seen the smoothness of water-etched curves, run her spacesuit glove over weather-chewed redstone outcrops. Yet for all its pristine state, the solid cyclorama engendered a sense of déjà-vu. It was the landscape of her childhood, a composition drawn from memory. There had been few nights when she hadn't sat on the rocks above the First Salvation Church warren and watched the sun set above the desert.

"All part of the deal," she said. "The alien was me, after all, remember? A completed second chamber gives Event Horizon a considerable financial boost. What did you expect?"

"Was that really necessary?" he asked quietly. "Showing your memories to that thing?"

"It was the deal, Victor. How else could we be sure the Hexaëmeron would leave? And not just leave, but travel a long way before it resurrects its planet's species. The Centauri system would be no use. Our own ark starships will be there in less than a century; perhaps even sooner if Beswick ever does work out how to open a wormhole. But with my personality loaded in, I guarantee it won't stop for fifty-sixty light-years. Good enough, I think."

"Not much of a deal for the alien. We're free of it, you make a profit. What did it get?"

"It got to live, Victor. Death was the only other option. And that would have been a monumental crime. Planetary genocide. I'm not sure I could have sanctioned that. But it can wait for a couple of millennia until it finds a barren star system to colonize, it's already waited billions of years."

"If you say so," he said reluctantly. "And what about us? What sort of combination do we make? You build it and I protect it?"

There was a tremble in his voice, slight though, well concealed, it wouldn't register with many people. Do I know him that well already, or have I always known? "Something like that. I don't think you're cut out for life as a househusband."

"That's true enough." His arm came over her back, hand stroking the side of her ribs. "Funny how the Hexaëmeron knew us so well it cut straight to the heart of our society. It knew all along that people like you and Jepson were the real powers in the land."

"I've been thinking about that. And it was wrong. Jepson and I were simply the most appropriate people, not the most powerful. That's the way the world works today. A million different interests, all competing, all clamouring for a voice. I told Marchant the world is becoming more complex, and the Hexaëmeron proved that to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. Simple political systems don't work any more; that two-party, two-ideology confrontation is behind us now. We need a system valid for the data age, a world where total information is available and no two places are physically more than ninety minutes apart. Parochialism is dead, long live parochialism."

He gave her a long look. "I don't get it."

"Think about Wales. As part of England it was failing; above-average unemployment, mediocre social services and infrastructure. To New Conservative politicians in Westminster it's just another special interest grouping, like education policy or tax levels. They invest minimum resources compatible with a maximum return of votes; double the investment and they certainly don't double their votes. So it's automatically marginalized. That's why there are such powerful regional secession movements evolving. Not just here, but right across the globe; the Californias, Italy, Germany, even China's decentralization is the same thing with a different name. Small but forceful local governments, providing they are democracies, can always look after their people more effectively. What they lacked in previous eras was the strength and stability resulting from size, which is what Marchant was so worried about England losing. But now access and membership to large-scale organizations is profoundly simple; they're virtually spoilt for choice. Autonomous regions will become nodes in the global networks; and there are hundreds of them, thousands, each of them separate, but every one interlocking; financial, commercial, strategic defence alliances, corporate, pure data, trading markets, all of them networks of some kind or another. Event Horizon itself is a network; my factories are so widely distributed now any product you buy has components made all over the place, there is no single source."

"So you're going to back the Welsh Nationalists' bid for independence?"

"Yes. But first I'm going to dump the New Conservatives. Not dramatically, but they'll get no more money or patronage from me. They were necessary after the PSP fell, rampant capitalism is always a good way to build quickly, and we needed that then, we'd fallen so far. But unless you're very careful, that kind of economy becomes a runaway shark, always having to move to eat, to survive. You get unemployment in the name of efficiency, suffering in the name of market forces. That's over. We've rebuilt, we've gathered all we lost; now we need to consolidate. If the New Conservatives can't accept that, then they deserve to go; if they're smart, they'll adapt their policies. Whatever they do, it isn't important to me any more. They don't matter. England will benefit from Welsh secession as much as the Welsh."

"So it will be you who decides Wales's fate after all. Doesn't that place you outside these networks you have so much faith in? Doesn't that make you the controller the Hexaëmeron thought you were?"

"I neither control nor dictate. I see the trends which evolve, I'm good at that, damn good; it enables me to go with the flow. That's why Event Horizon functions so smoothly, that's what makes it such a powerful network. In this case, I'll nudge a little. But even if I didn't, and this referendum kept Wales under Westminster, the next or the one after would see them breaking free. It's happening, Victor. Separatism is evolving as the single most powerful political movement this century. And evolution is always stronger than imposed solutions."

"You really think that's the way we're going?"

"Yes. It's right for this age. It'll work. Not for ever, but it'll do until the children want to change it."

His hand began to stroke her ribs again. She snuggled up closer, looking over his chest at the bedroom's window. Wilholm's grounds were bathed in a combination of moonbeams and cool sail light. The woodland and lakes were quite enchanting like this, she thought, kissed by magic. It was the same the world over, the human race holding its breath in awe. Police had reported a drop in crime, politicians were quiet for fear of looking utterly foolish. Everybody busy gazing at the stars. Pity it wouldn't last.

The Pegasus lifted from the reservoir's mud flats while Greg was clambering up the limestone rocks. It rose straight up for a hundred metres, then peeled away to the east. He watched it blend into the darkening sky before extending a hand to help Andria up the last couple of metres.

A bonfire was blazing in the middle of the Berrybut estate away on the other side of the reservoir, its reflection dancing off the grey water. As he headed up the slope to the farmhouse he could see the pink and blue glow of charcoal on the pickers' range grill; thin streamers of smoke were spurting upwards as meat juices dripped through the soot-blackened metal mesh. People milled about in the camp field, little groups of five or six sitting on the dusty grass, passing a bottle round as they waited for the meal. A few figures were still wandering through the groves, organizing stacks of white boxes ready for tomorrow's picking.

He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed it all. The three days away were so unnatural compared to this, like something he'd watched on the channels, If it hadn't been for Suzi –

"They don't bite," he said as Andria hesitated on the doorstep.

She flashed a nervous smile. Her eyes were still slightly red from crying.

The hall's biolums were on. Greg walked in to the familiar battered oak chest, the bat stand, churchwarden mirror, ancient tiles with fresh muddy footprints. He could hear rock music playing somewhere upstairs, the mechanical twangs and squeaky voices of a cartoon from the open lounge door.

"Dad!" Christine shrieked. There was a blur of motion as she flew down the stairs.

Eleanor stuck her head out of the kitchen, and smiled. Christine flung her arms round him and kissed him before he could reach Eleanor. Oliver, Anita, and Richy piled out of the lounge yelling and whooping.

"Were you really there, Dad?" Oliver asked, his eyes were round and incredulous. "Up in space when the sail unfurled?"

Greg blinked as Christine let go. "Why are you wearing your nightie?"

She laughed and did a twirl. "Do you like it? It's my new party dress."

"The channel newscasts said Aunty Julia was up there," Oliver insisted. "They never mentioned you."

Christine's shiny black dress was held up by two thin straps at the front, its back dropping almost to her rump; the skirt hem rode well above her knees.

"This is Andria," he said distractedly to the three younger children. "She'll be staying with us for a while."

Richy was chewing one of his toy cars. He tilted his head to one side, and looked up at Andria. "Why?" he asked.

"Because she's a friend, and it's nice here." Which was true enough, the farm was the best place he knew to bring up a kid, but he was going to have to come up with a better reason than that. He would try and explain about the extra baby tomorrow. Though maybe it would be better coming from Eleanor. Yes, excellent idea.

"Do you mind?" Andria asked. Richy shook his head shyly.

Greg managed to kiss Anita.

"Missed you, Dad," she whispered.

"Greg told us you used to work at a shipping office," Eleanor said.

"Yes," Andria nodded.

"How are you at accounts?"

"I shuffled some finance bytes when I was there."

"Good." Eleanor gave Greg a quick kiss and began to steer Andria towards the kitchen. "You can help me with our figures. I'm afraid I'm way behind this year."

Greg gave Oliver a strong hug. "Yes, I was up there, and so was Aunty Julia."

"The sailing star is an aspect of Gaia, isn't it, Dad?" Anita asked urgently. She threw a contemptuous glance at Oliver. "One of her angels come to show us the path to redemption."

Christine smoothed down the front of her dress. "I'm going to wear it to the dance at the Victoria Hall on Saturday. Graham's asked if he can take me. Mum said I'd have to ask you first. But it's all right if I go, isn't it, Dad?"

"Who's Graham?"

Eleanor smiled sweetly. "Supper will be late, sorry." She and Andria vanished into the kitchen.

"It's an alien monster, and Dad stopped it from eating New London," Oliver said hotly, and glared at his twin. "That's right, isn't it, Dad?"

Greg scooped up Richy, who smiled angelically and wrapped his arms round Greg's neck.

"Dad! Can I go dancing with Graham or not?"