9

Legend has it that the asteroid was a lump of pure gold, the core of which remained intact and now lies buried deep beneath the castle. Whatever the actual composition was, it certainly had an above average density. When it hit Lothian’s southern continent, a couple of centuries before humans arrived, it carved out a perfectly circular crater two miles across. The rim wall was over four hundred feet high, with quite a steep inner face; while the central peak rose to nearly thirteen hundred feet. In those days, ‘peak’ was something of an exaggeration; there was a conical mound in the middle with gently crumpled slopes. It didn’t survive long in that form.

The first settlers, all from Scotland, had a large Edinburgh contingent among them, nostalgic for the old town, and dynamic in their approach to their new homeworld. Their bigger and better attitude was given an aggressive outlet when it came to building the new capital, Leithpool, with the crater as its nucleus. An entire river was diverted, the High Forth, flowing for seven miles along a newly built aqueduct embankment to pour over the crater’s rim wall, slowly filling the ring-shaped lake inside. They wanted a castle at the centre, of course, but the new island’s easy gradient hardly matched the jutting rock crag to be found dominating the heart of old Edinburgh. A fleet of civil engineering bots got to work carving as the surrounding waters rose. Over the following years, three rock-blade pinnacles were hacked out from the solitary mound, sharp and rugged enough to be at home in any Alpine range. A Bavarian-style castle was grafted onto the apex of the tallest peak, reached by a solitary road that spiralled up around the sheer rock cliffs.

Beneath the castle, and occupying the rest of the harsh mount, monolithic granite buildings sprang up, separated by broad cobbled roads and twisting alleyways. There were no parks and no trees, for there was no soil where living things could grow, only the naked rock exposed by the cutting tools of the bots. As the construction work progressed, the entire over-financed mechanism of government moved in; from the doughty parliament building itself to the elaborate palace of the supreme court, bloated office-hive ministries to the Romanesque planetary bank. With the world’s rulers came the usual circus of subsidiaries, the expensive restaurants, hotels, clubs, the office service companies, theatres, corporate head-quarters, concert halls, lobbying firms, legal partnerships, and media companies. Swarming through the sombre official buildings were the army of elected representatives, their aides, researchers, interns, spouses, civil servants, and pimps. Only the top echelon actually lived on the Castle Mount; everyone else commuted from the city which grew up on the other side of the rim. Suburbs and boroughs sprawled for mile after mile down the incline of the crater’s outer walls, home to four and a half million people.

Leithpool was one of Adam Elvin’s favourite cities, a welcome exception to the neat grids which were found on most worlds. Here the streets wound down the outside of the rim in random curves, intersecting and branching chaotically. Light industry and housing all had their separate zones, but they were squashed together in true jigsaw layout with admirable disregard for logic. Broad terraced parks formed pretty green swathes through the stone and composite structures. A good underground metro network, and street-level trams kept the private traffic to a minimum. Elevated rail lines knitted together the main boroughs, meandering their way down to the bottom of the north-eastern slope, where the CST station squatted on the outskirts.

Today, Adam was walking along the western quadrant of Prince’s Circle, the road which ran around the top of the crater rim. It was the main retail district, renowned on many planets. A rampart of tall department stores and brand-flagship shops formed the outer side of the broad road, while the inner side curved down sharply to the quiet waters of the ring lake twenty yards below the pavement. When the city was built, the rim had been levelled off, with the exception of the High Forth inlet, which was roofed by a twin arch bridge; and the similar outlet gully on the opposite side that sent the water foaming down a long artificial cascade through the most exclusive residential districts.

He spent a quiet twenty minutes walking among the crowds that boiled along the shop fronts. Every building was sporting a white and scarlet Celtic Crown national flag. Without exception they were at half mast. Two days earlier, Lothian’s team had been knocked out of the Cup. That had knocked the new Scottish nation hard, it was as if the planet had gone into mourning. Eventually, he found the café he was looking for, a door at the side of a big electrical retailers, opening onto stairs which took him up to the first floor. The large room was some kind of converted gallery, with high ceilings and huge curving windows that looked down on Prince’s Circle. He found a slightly tatty sofa in front of one window, and ordered a hot chocolate with two choc-chip and hazelnut shortcakes from the teenage waitress. The view he had out towards Castle Mount was peerless. A few hundred yards to the south, one of the monorail tracks stretched out across the calm dark water; a single silver carriage streaked along it, shuttling late office workers over to their desks.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ a voice said at his shoulder.

Adam glanced up to see Bradley Johansson standing behind him, holding a large mug of tea. As always, the tall man gave the impression of being slightly disconnected from the world around him. There was something about his thin, elegant face which made him appear far more aristocratic than any Grand Family member could ever manage.

‘I enjoy it,’ Adam said evenly.

‘Of course, it looks even better at Mardi Gras,’ Bradley said, sitting down on the sofa beside Adam. ‘They light up the castle with huge hologram projectors for the whole week, and during the closing ceremony they let off real fireworks overhead.’

‘If you ever give me the time off, I’ll come and take a look.’

‘That’s what I wanted to see you about.’ Bradley stopped as the waitress brought Adam’s hot chocolate, and smiled winningly at her. She sneaked a smile back at him before hurrying off to the next table.

Adam tried not to show his annoyance at the little silent exchange, it was just one more reminder of his own age. ‘You’re going to give me more free time?’ he asked.

‘Quite the opposite, old chap. That’s why I wanted to see you in person, to impress upon you how important the next few years are going to be. After all, you’re not . . . a lifelong Guardian. Your commitment to the cause has always been more financially orientated. I want to know if you’re prepared to continue your role when things get a lot tougher.’

‘Tougher? That Myo bitch almost caught me on Velaines.’

‘Oh, come come, Adam, she was never even close. You outsmarted her beautifully. And continue to do so, the components are all arriving on schedule.’

‘Save the flattery for the bourgeois. I can’t be motivated that way.’

‘Very well. So will you continue to provide us with your assistance, and if so how much will it cost?’

‘What exactly are you wanting from me?’

‘This is the time which the Starflyer has worked for. The time for good men to draw a line in the sand and say: no more.’

‘No further,’ Adam muttered.

Bradley sipped his tea and smiled. ‘In the past, maybe. But in the here and now, I know what must be done. Little of it will be pleasant.’

‘Revolution never is for those who live through it.’

‘This is not revolution, Adam, this is my crusade. I am going to fling the corrupter of humanity into the depths of night beyond hell, where even the devil fears to tread. And that will be the least it deserves. I will avenge myself and all the others who have been consumed by the Starflyer’s evil.’

‘Bravo.’

‘You have your beliefs and convictions, Adam, I have mine. Please don’t mock them, I find it unpleasant. What I am proposing is to extend our combat activities off Far Away. I want to directly confront the Starflyer’s agents and interests in the Commonwealth. And now would you care to tell me what your cooperation will cost, if that doesn’t make you too much of a capitalist.’

‘Direct confrontation? You want me to lead your troops into battle?’

‘Yes. You know more about covert operations and security procedures than any of us. That makes you invaluable to me, Adam. I need you for this. All I can say is that without a human race, there will not be any Socialist society. So will you help me?’

It was a fair question, Adam admitted to himself. Not one he expected in a pleasant café overlooking a serene lake with a fairytale castle. But then where should such questions be delivered? Just what do I want out of life? Once again his resolve faltered. It had been a principle for so long not to seek rejuvenation, because it was a purchase of the bourgeoisie and their plutocrat masters. Society should be structured so that everyone received it regardless of circumstances. The ancient political dream of justice and equality for all, true Socialism. For all his active involvement in the cause, the disruption and violence he’d unleashed against the establishment, nothing had changed. But that doesn’t make me wrong. When he thought of the others, ex-friends and comrades, who had betrayed the movement over the decades by abandoning them or worse, he knew what his course must be, despite the intensely human wish to live for ever. If even someone as committed as him gave in at the end, what hope ultimately could there be?

‘I’m tired, Bradley, really truly tired. I’ve seen my ideals crushed by the plutocrats for my whole life. I’m clinging to a lost cause because I don’t know anything else. Do you realize how pathetic that makes me? Well, I don’t want to save the Commonwealth any more. I’ve tried to do that for fifty years and got nowhere. I can’t do it any more. There’s no point. Capitalism or the Starflyer, I don’t care which of them finishes off this society. I’m through with it.’

‘No you’re not; stop trying to talk up your bargaining position, Adam. You are not going to stand by and watch an alien commit genocide against your own species. You’re an idealist. It’s a magnificent flaw, one I quite envy. Now what can I offer you for your invaluable services?’

‘I don’t know. Hope, maybe.’

‘Fair enough.’ Bradley nodded at the remarkable castle atop its pinnacle. Sunlight was striking the slender conical turrets, making their polished rock walls shine with a vivid bronze and emerald hue. ‘The original castle back in Edinburgh was the seat of Scottish nationalism. It symbolized everything to the diehard believers. Despite all the changes and defeats they endured, the castle stood solid at the centre of their capital. They waited for generations for the Scottish nation to be properly reborn after their bonny Prince was lost. There were times when the cause seemed impossible, or even cursed; they regained their independence from the English only to lose it again right away with the formation of Federal Europe. But once people reached the stars, the true nation was reborn here, and on two other worlds. An ideal kept alive in the darkness can flourish if it has the chance, no matter how long the night lasts. Don’t give up on your ideals, Adam, not ever.’

‘Very trite, I’m sure.’

‘Then try this. I’ve seen what societies like ours progress into. I’ve walked on their worlds and admired them first hand. This Commonwealth is only an interim stage for a species like ours; even your Socialism will be left behind in true evolution. We can become something wonderful, something special. We have that potential.’

Adam stared at him for a long time, wishing he could see through those enigmatic eyes into the mind beyond. Bradley’s faith in himself and his cause had always been extraordinary. There had been times over the last thirty years, when Adam really wished he could write Bradley off in the same way as the Commonwealth establishment did, that he was nothing more than just another crackpot conspiracy theorist. But there were too many little details for him to be laughed off. His superb intelligence sources for a start. The way little facets of Commonwealth policy were organized, seemingly out of kilter with the interests of the Grand Families and Intersolar Dynasties. Adam was so close to believing the whole Starflyer notion, or at the very least he didn’t disbelieve it anymore. ‘There’s something I’d like to know, though I’m afraid it might be a personal weakness on my part.’

‘I will be honest with you, Adam. I owe you that much.’

‘Where do you go for your rejuvenation? Is there some secret underground clinic that I don’t know about which provides the treatment for people like us?’

‘No, Adam, there’s nowhere like that. I use the Unstorn clinic on Jaruva. It’s very good.’

Adam paused as his e-butler called the CST Intersolar timetable up into his virtual vision. ‘Is Jaruva a town some-where?’

‘No, it’s a planet. CST shut down the gateway two hundred and eighty years ago, after a civil war between various nationalist culture factions and the radical evangelicals. The only thing they hated worse than each other was the Commonwealth – there were some unpleasant acts of terrorism committed before the Isolation. Things have calmed down considerably since then, thankfully. They have rebuilt their society, with each faction having its own homeland. The structure is similar to Earth in the mid-twentieth century. None of the mini-nations are Socialist, I’m afraid.’

‘I see,’ Adam said carefully. ‘And how do you get there?’

‘There is a path which leads to Jaruva. The Silfen don’t really use it any more.’

‘Somehow I knew you’d give me an answer like that.’

‘I will be happy to take you there and pay for a rejuvenation, if that’s what you want.’

‘Let’s leave that possibility open, shall we?’

‘As you wish. But the offer is sincere and remains.’

‘I wish I believed as you do.’

‘You are not far from it, Adam. Not really. I expect what is about to happen over the next few years will convince you. But then, I expect it to convince everyone.’

‘All right,’ Adam said. He had a sense of near-relief now he’d made his decision. Many people spoke of the contentment which came from accepting defeat. He was mildly surprised to find it was true. ‘So what do you want the Guardians to do in the Commonwealth? And bear in mind, I won’t ever repeat Abadan station, I don’t do political statement violence any more.’

‘My dear chap, neither do I. And thank you for agreeing to this. I know how it conflicts with your own goals. Don’t give up on them. You will live to see a socially just world.’

‘Like a priest will see heaven.’

Bradley’s soft smile was understanding and sympathetic.

‘What are you going to hit first?’ Adam asked.

‘The Second Chance is my primary target right now. Part of your task is going to be assembling a crew to obliterate it.’

‘Old folly; you can never destroy knowledge. Even if we were to succeed and blow the Second Chance to pieces, they’ll build another, and another, and another until one is finally completed. They know how to build them, therefore they will be built.’

‘I expect you’re right, unfortunately. But destroying the Second Chance will be a severe blow to the Starflyer. It wanted the starship built, you know.’

‘I know. I received the shotgun message.’ Adam stared out at Castle Mount for some time. ‘You know, castles once had a purpose other than symbolism; they used to hold the invaders at bay and keep the kingdom safe. We don’t build them any more.’

‘We need them, though, now more than ever.’

‘What a pair we make,’ Adam said. ‘The optimist and the pessimist.’

‘Which do you claim to be?’

‘I think you know.’

*

To the mild dismay of his staff, Wilson always arrived in the office at around half past seven in the morning. With management meetings, training sessions, interviews, engineering assessments, media reports, a one-hour gym work-out, and a dozen other items scheduled every day he didn’t leave until after nine most evenings. He took lunch at his desk rather than waste time going to the excellent canteen on the ground floor. His influence began to percolate through the whole starship project and, with it, his enthusiasm. Procedures were tightened under his relentless directives, policy became clear-cut and effective. Pride settled around the complex, driving the crews onward.

Every week, Wilson met up with Nigel Sheldon to perform their ritual inspection tour of Second Chance. They arrived at the gateway, and kicked off into the assembly platform. Both of them pointing at and gossiping about some new section of the huge ship, acting like a pair of schoolkids.

All of the plasma rockets were installed now, along with their turbopumps and power injectors. Big reaction mass tanks were being eased into cavities along the ship’s central engineering superstructure, dark grey ellipsoids whose internal structure was a honeycomb maze of tiny sacs.

‘It’s the ultimate slosh-baffle design,’ Wilson explained as the two of them glided along the assembly grid above the central cylinder. ‘The sacs can squeeze out their contents no matter what acceleration manoeuvre we’re pulling and, while we’re coasting, they hold the fluid stable. If only we’d had that on the old Ulysses we’d have saved ourselves a lot of mechanical trouble, but materials technology has come a long way since those days.’

Nigel held on to one of the platform grids, pausing directly above an egg-shaped tank that was being gently eased into position by robot arms. Construction crew and remote mobile sensors were swarming round it like bees to their queen. ‘How come we’re not using hydrogen? I thought that gives the best specific impulse for rocket exhausts.’

‘When you’re talking chemical reactions, sure. But the plasma rockets operate at such a high energy level they break their working fluid down into sub-atomic particles. The niling d-sinks we’re carrying pump so much power in, this plasma is actually hotter than a fusion generator’s exhaust. With that kind of efficiency, cryogenics is a waste of time. Of course, in an ideal world we’d be using mercury as the propellant fluid, but even that has handling problems, not to mention cost and sourcing for the kind of volume we’re looking at. So what we’ve wound up with is a very dense hydrocarbon. It’s almost pure crude oil, but the chemists have tweaked the molecular structure so it remains liquid over a huge temperature range. Given the type of near-perfect insulation we’ve got cloaking the tanks, the thermal support we have to provide for the fuel is minimal.’

Nigel gave the tank a thoughtful look. ‘I always used to think rockets were dead simple.’

‘The principle is as simple as you can get, it’s just the engineering which is complex. But we’re doing our best to reduce that; modern techniques allow us to do away with whole layers of ancillary systems.’

‘I heard you’ve instigated a design review board.’

‘Final design approval, yeah. I prefer that method to the multiple steering committees you’d set up.’ Wilson let go of the grid, and pushed off so he was drifting along the length of the starship towards the life-support wheel. ‘It gives the project an overall architecture policy.’

‘I’m not arguing. This is your show now.’

They passed over the wheel section. The internal decks were clearly visible now, with decking and wall panelling fixed to the stress structure, showing the internal layout.

‘We should start fixing the hull in place by the end of next month,’ Wilson said.

‘Not too much slippage, then.’

‘No. You gave me a good team. And the unlimited funding helps.’

‘Actually, it’s not unlimited, and I’ve noticed it’s still rising.’

‘That was inevitable, but it really should have plateaued now we’re entering the design freeze point. We’ve already started to make a few modifications to the central cylinder to accommodate the expanded stand-off observation period of the mission. The upgraded sensor suite is finishing its alpha-analysis stage, it should be out to tender soon. And we already have the engineering mock-ups of the class three and four remote probe satellites. They’re being assembled for us at High Angel by Bayfoss – we’re up to capacity here, and they are the experts. Most of your exploratory division geosurvey satellites are built by them.’

‘Sure.’ Nigel took another look at the crew accommodation decks, where an atmospheric processor had been secured in place, still wrapped in its silver packaging. ‘Man, I still can’t get over how big this beauty is. You’d think . . . I don’t know, we could build something neater by now.’

‘A one-man starship?’ Wilson asked in amusement. He waved a hand at the front of the cylinder. ‘You helped design the hyperdrive engine. I’ve owned smaller houses than that monster.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I ought to go back and take another look at the basic equations.’

‘You do that, but I’m telling you a car-sized starship will never catch on. I want something big and powerful around me when I go exploring the unknown.’

‘Man, oh man, Freud would have had a field day with you. Now, how’s it going with the crew selection?’

‘Hoo boy,’ Wilson grimaced at the memory. ‘The actual crew squad has been finalized. We’ve got two hundred and twenty who’ll start their second phase training next week. We’ll select the final fifty a month before launch. The science team is a little tougher; we’ve passed seventy so far, and Oscar’s office is trying to sort out the rest of the applications. It’s the interviews that are taking up so much time, the Commonwealth has an awful lot of highly qualified people out there, and we need to put them all through assessment and psych profiling. What I’d like is a pool of about three hundred to choose from.’

‘Ah.’ Nigel stopped himself above the rim of the life support wheel, watching a constructionbot fixing a decking plate into place. ‘Have you considered taking Dr Bose with you?’

‘Bose? Oh, the astronomer who saw the envelopment. I think I remember Oscar mentioning he’d applied. He’d certainly got a lot of sponsors. Do you want me to check if he got through the assessment?’

‘Not as such, no. The thing is, my office is getting a lot of enquiries about him, as is the Vice President.’

For a moment Wilson thought he meant the vice president of CST. ‘You mean Elaine Doi?’

‘Yes. It’s a bit awkward. Every time the media want a comment on the envelopment they turn to Bose, which is understandable. The trouble is, he cooperates with them. All of them. When the guy sleeps, I’ve no idea. But anyway, in the public eye he’s most strongly associated with the project. It’s a position he’s exploited superbly.’

‘Wait a minute here, are you telling me I’ve got to take him?’

‘All I’m saying is that if you were planning on taking an astronomer, you could do worse. For an obscure professor from a back-of-beyond planet, he’s certainly a goddamn expert self-publicist.’

‘I’ll tell Oscar to review the file, if that’s what’s bugging you.’

‘That’s good. And I hope there won’t be any ageism in the selection process?’

‘What?’

‘It’s just that the professor is, er, kind of closer to his time for rejuvenation than you or I . . . or anyone else you’re considering. That’s all.’

‘Oh, Jesus wept.’

*

The plantation where Tara Jennifer Shaheef lived was on the far side of the mountains that rose up out of the northern districts of Darklake City. Even with a modern highway leading through them, it took the car carrying Paula and Detective Hoshe Finn a good three hours to drive there. They turned off the junction at the start of a wide valley, the car snaking along a winding local road. The slopes on either side were heavily cultivated with coffee bushes, and every row seemed to have an agriculturebot of some kind trundling along, tending the verdant plants. Humans and buildings were less prominent within this landscape.

Eventually the car turned into the plantation, a wide gated entrance with a white stone arch above the road. Cherry trees lined the long driveway, leading up to a low white house with a bright red clay tile roof.

‘All very traditional,’ Paula commented.

Hoshe glanced out at the arch. ‘You’ll find that a lot on this world. We do tend to idolize the past. Most of us had settler ancestors who were successful even before they arrived, and the ethos lingers on. As a planet, we’ve done rather well from it.’

‘If it works, don’t try and fix it.’

‘Yeah.’ He showed no sign that he’d picked up on any irony.

The car halted on the gravel in front of the house’s main door. Paula climbed out, looking round the large formal gardens. A lot of time and effort had gone into the big lawn with its palisade of trees.

Tara Jennifer Shaheef was standing in front of the double acmwood doors underneath the portico. Her husband, Matthew deSavoel, stood beside her, an arm resting protectively round her shoulders. He was older than her by a couple of decades, Paula noticed; thick dark hair turning to silver, his midriff starting to spread.

The car drove off round to the stable block. Paula walked forwards. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ she said.

‘That’s all right,’ Tara said with a nervous smile. She nodded tightly at Detective Finn. ‘Hello again.’

‘I trust this won’t be too upsetting,’ Matthew deSavoel said. ‘My wife had put her re-life ordeal behind her.’

‘It’s all right, Matthew,’ Tara said, patting him.

‘I don’t deliberately make this difficult,’ Paula said. ‘It was your wife’s family who wanted this investigation kept open.’

Matthew deSavoel grunted in dissatisfaction and opened the front door. ‘I feel like we should have a lawyer present,’ he said as he walked them through the cool reception hall.

‘That is your prerogative,’ Paula said neutrally. If deSavoel thought his wife was fully recovered he was fooling himself badly. Nobody with three lifetimes behind them was as twitchy as Tara seemed to be. In Paula’s experience, anyone who had been killed, accidentally or otherwise, took at least one regeneration post re-life to get over the psychological trauma.

They were shown into a large lounge with a stone tile floor; a grand fireplace dominated one wall, with a real grate and logs sitting at the centre of it. The walls had various hunting trophies hanging up, along with the stuffed heads of alien animals, their teeth and claws prominently displayed to portray them as savage monsters.

‘Yours?’ Hoshe asked.

‘I bagged every one of them,’ Matthew deSavoel said proudly. ‘There’s a lot of hostile wildlife still living up in the hills.’

‘I’ve never seen a gorall that big before,’ Hoshe said, standing underneath one of the heads.

‘I wasn’t aware Oaktier had a guns and hunting culture,’ Paula said.

‘They don’t in the cities,’ deSavoel said. ‘They think those of us who tend the land are barbaric savages who do it purely for sport. None of them live out here, none of them realize what sort of danger the goralls and vidies pose if they get down to the human communities. There are several political campaigns to ban landowners from shooting outside cultivated lands, as if the goralls will respect that. It’s exactly the kind of oppressive crap I came here to get away from.’

‘So guns are quite easy to get hold of on this planet?’

‘Not a bit of it,’ Tara said. She made a big show of flopping into one of the broad couches. ‘You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to get a licence, even for a hunting rifle.’

Paula sat opposite her. ‘Did you ever hold a licence?’

‘No.’ Tara shook her head, smiling softly at some private joke. She took a cigarette out of her case, and pressed it on the lighting pad at the bottom. It gave off the sweet mint smell of high-quality GM majane. ‘Do you mind? It helps me relax.’

Hoshe Finn frowned, but didn’t say anything.

‘Did you ever possess a gun?’ Paula asked.

Tara laughed. ‘No. Or if I did, I never kept the memory. I don’t think I would, though. Guns have no place in a civilized society.’

‘Most commendable,’ Paula said. She wondered if Tara was really that unsophisticated, or if that was something she wanted to believe post-death. But then, most citizens chose to overlook how easy it was to get hold of a weapon. ‘I’d like to talk about Wyobie Cotal.’

‘Certainly. But like I told Detective Finn last time, I only have a couple of weeks’ memory of him.’

‘You were having an affair with him?’

Tara took a deep drag, exhaling slowly. ‘Certainly was. God, what a body that kid had. I don’t think I’d ever forget that.’

‘So your marriage to Morton was over?’

‘No, not really. We were still on good terms, though it was getting a bit stale. You must know what that’s like.’ There was an edge of mockery in her voice.

‘Did you have other affairs?’

‘A couple. Like I said, I could see where it was heading with Morton. Our company was doing well, it was taking up more and more of his time. Men are like that, always obsessing about the wrong things in life. Some men.’ She extended a languid hand out to deSavoel, who kissed her knuckles indulgently.

‘Did Morton know about the other men?’

‘Probably. But I respected him; I didn’t flaunt them and they were never the cause of any argument.’

‘Did Morton have a gun?’

‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. We had a good marriage.’

‘It was coming to an end.’

‘And we got divorced. It happens. In fact, it has to happen when you live this long.’

‘Did he have a gun?’

‘No.’

‘All right. Why would you chose Tampico?’

‘That’s the place I filed the divorce from, isn’t it? Well, I don’t know, I’m sure. The first time I heard about it was right after my re-life when the insurance investigators were asking me what happened. I never even knew the place existed before.’

‘You and Cotal bought tickets there. You left with him four days after your last memory dump in the Kirova Clinic’s secure store. Why did you run off with him?’

‘I don’t know. I remember meeting him, it was at a party, then after that it was just for the sex, really; and he was fun, enthusiastic the way only first-lives can be. I enjoyed him, but I always found it hard to believe I gave up my life for him. It was a good life Morton and I had here.’

‘You weren’t the only girl Cotal was seeing.’

‘Really? Somehow I’m not surprised. He was gorgeous.’

‘You’re not jealous about that?’

‘Irritated, is about as far as it goes.’

‘Did Wyobie have a gun?’

‘Oh . . .’ She appealed to her husband. ‘Please.’

‘Come now, Chief Investigator,’ deSavoel said loftily. ‘There’s no need to take such a line. Wyobie Cotal was also killed.’

‘Was he?’

He gave Paula a weary grin. ‘I sincerely hope not. Yet, I fear it is so. This is not pleasant for my wife, to raise such spectres again after she has accustomed herself to a complete body loss.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ Paula said. ‘To make sure it won’t happen again.’

‘Again?’ Tara’s voice rose in alarm. She stubbed her cigarette out. ‘You think I’ll be killed again?’

‘That’s not what I meant. It would be most unusual for a killer to strike at you twice; and you have been alive for over twenty years this time. Please don’t concern yourself about the possibility. So, Wyobie didn’t have a gun?’

‘No. Not that I remember.’

‘You mentioned other affairs. Were you seeing anybody else at the same time as Cotal?’

‘No. Wyobie was quite enough for me.’

‘What about enemies, yours or Cotal’s?’

‘I must have fallen out with many people, you do over a hundred years, but I can’t think of any argument or grudge that would warrant killing me. And as for Wyobie, nobody that age has enemies, not ones that kill.’

‘His other girlfriend might have been angry enough.’

‘Possibly.’ Tara shuddered. ‘I never met her. Do you think that’s what happened?’

‘Actually, no. If you and Wyobie were killed, then it certainly wasn’t a crime of passion, or at least not a spur of the moment slaying. As yet, we don’t know where and when you were killed. To throw up that much uncertainty takes planning and preparation. Other than your ticket there’s no real proof you ever went to Tampico.’

‘The divorce,’ deSavoel said. ‘That was filed on Tampico. And all Tara’s things were sent there.’

‘The divorce was lodged with a legal firm, Broher Associates, on Tampico. It was a pure data transaction. In theory it could have been filed from anywhere inside the unisphere. As for your effects, Tara, they were sent to a Tampico storage warehouse for seven weeks, then removed by your authorization into a private vehicle. The insurance company investigators were unable to trace them. What I find interesting about that is your secure memory storage arrangement. There isn’t one apart from the Kirova Clinic, not on Tampico, nor on any other Commonwealth planet as far as the investigators could find, though my Directorate will start double-checking that now. And you would have made one, everybody has a secure store they can update for precisely this reason: re-life. The ticket, your effects shipped out there, your divorce, it’s all evidence you were settled on Tampico. But to me, the lack of a secure memory arrangement calls the whole Tampico episode into question.’

‘But why?’ Tara asked. ‘What would be the point in killing me or Wyobie? What did we do?’

‘I don’t know. The last time you were seen alive was when you had lunch with Caroline Turner at the Low Moon marina restaurant. If anything was wrong, you didn’t tell her. In fact, she said you seemed quite normal.’

‘Caroline was a good friend, I remember. I might even have told her about Wyobie.’

‘She says not, and certainly nothing about leaving Morton to go off with Wyobie. So if you didn’t go crazy wild and run off with Wyobie, we have to consider you got involved in some criminal event.’

‘I wouldn’t!’

Paula held up a cautionary finger. ‘Not necessarily deliberately. The logical explanation would be an accident, something you saw or discovered that you shouldn’t have, and were killed because of it. My problem with that theory is where it happened. If it was here, then we only have a very small incident window to investigate. Morton had been away from home for two days, and was scheduled to stay at his conference for another four days. He says you stopped answering his calls two days after your lunch with Caroline, the same day your Tampico ticket was purchased. Now, your last memory deposit in the Kirova Clinic secure store was the same day Morton went away. So at the most you had four days for this event to happen to you. I believe we can safely say it didn’t happen in the two days prior to your lunch, which leaves us with just two days, forty-eight hours, for it to occur.’

‘Police records for that whole month don’t have any major crime incident listed,’ Hoshe said. ‘Actually, it was a quiet year.’

‘Then they were good criminals, clever ones,’ Paula said. ‘You never caught them, and the only evidence is this possible ice murder. That doesn’t leave us with a lot to go on. I have to say that if Shaheef and Cotal walked in on something bad, then the chances of discovering what actually happened are slim. Which leaves us with Tampico. You arrived and bumped straight into something you shouldn’t have. Our hypothetical Tampico criminals maintained the illusion that you were alive by picking up your effects and then filing for the divorce. That would explain the lack of a memory store.’

‘What sort of criminals?’ Tara asked shakily. ‘What would they be doing to make them kill me and Wyobie?’

‘It is only a theory,’ Paula told her quickly. ‘I have difficulty in accepting major criminal conspiracies, the probability is extremely low, not that we can ignore it. But that implausibility does leave us with a quandary. If it wasn’t that, and it wasn’t your private life, which appears blameless, then what did happen?’

Tara fumbled with her case, and lit another cigarette. ‘You’re the detective, everybody knows that.’ Her hands were trembling as she took a drag. Matthew deSavoel held her tight, glaring at Paula. ‘Have you got enough?’ he snapped.

‘For now,’ she said calmly.

‘Find out,’ Tara called out as Paula and Hoshe started to leave. ‘Please. I have to know. Everything you’ve said . . . it wasn’t a freak accident, was it? I’ve told myself that for twenty years; told everybody I had a mad romantic impulse and ran off with Wyobie, because if you say it and keep on saying it, then that becomes what happened. It was like making up the memory. But I knew, I really knew it didn’t happen like that.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Paula said.

‘Where now?’ Hoshe asked as the car drove away from the big isolated plantation house.

‘The ex-husband, Morton.’

He sneaked a look at her. ‘You got any idea what happened?’

‘It wasn’t an accident. I believe Tara. She used to be too sensible to do anything like running off with Wyobie. He was already giving her everything she wanted from the relationship. That means Tampico is all wrong; it was a set-up, an alibi.’

‘Used to be sensible?’

‘You saw what she is today.’

‘Yeah. That’s what you meant by investigating people, isn’t it?’

‘Of course.’ She turned to stare out of the car’s windows, seeing nothing but a blur of big shaggy walrush trees that had been planted as a windbreak for the neat plantation bushes. ‘It’s people who commit crimes, so that’s where you’ll find the motivation: people.’ It was so instinctive, so obvious, she didn’t have to think to talk to him.

Her parents, or rather the couple she had thought to be her parents during her childhood, had sincerely believed that instinct was one which could be stillbirthed. It was the old nature versus nurture argument, and the outcome of this particular ultra-modern chapter of it was one they desperately wanted to use to prove to the whole Commonwealth that nurture could be the victor, that there was no preordained fate. Especially not one like Paula’s creators intended for her.

The planet where she was birthed was called Huxley’s Haven, though the other Commonwealth worlds derisively called it the Hive. Settled in 2102, it was funded, and populated, by the Human Structure Foundation, a strange collective of genetic researchers and intellectual socio-political theorists. They were keen to explore the genetic possibilities for psycho-neural profiling now they were clear of Earth’s restrictions, believing it possible to create a perfectly stable society by implementing the phrase each to his own to a degree which the rest of humanity found quite chilling. A lot of Anglo-Saxon surnames originated from occupation: tailor, thatcher, crofter . . . The aim of the Foundation was to make the link solid and unbreakable, determined within an individual’s DNA. Professions couldn’t be installed wholesale, of course, a psychoneural profile merely gave a person the aptitude to do their designated job, while simpler, physiological modifications complemented the trait. Doctors would be given dextrous fingers and high visual acuity, while farm workers and builders possessed a large, strong physique – so it went right through the entire spectrum of human activity. The traits were bundled together, and fixed to prevent genetic drift. As far as the traits were concerned, there would never be any mixed profiles. The Foundation scrupulously avoided using the word ‘pure’ in its press releases.

The Commonwealth as a whole detested the notion. Right from its conception, Huxley’s Haven became a near pariah state. There were even serious calls for military/police style intervention made in the Senate, which contravened the organ-ization’s constitution – the Commonwealth was set up originally to guarantee individual planet freedom within an overall legal framework. In the end, the Foundation was able to proceed because legally the planet was independent and free.

After several prominent and well-financed private court cases against the Foundation came to nothing, it was CST’s turn to face a barrage of media-supported pressure to close the gateway. Nigel Sheldon had to reluctantly argue the case for keeping it open: if they closed one gateway because of an activist campaign, that left all gateways vulnerable to people who disagreed with a planet’s culture, religion, or politics. The Hive stayed connected to the Commonwealth, though it never really contributed to the mainstream economic and financial structure. Quietly, and with considerable scientific flair, the Foundation got on with the job of building their unique society.

Some people never did accept the lost court cases or the Foundation’s ‘right’ to pursue its goal. A greater human right took precedence, they argued. In their view they were now left with a whole planet of genetically modified slaves to be liberated.

If there was ever anybody to whom the term extreme liberals could be applied, it was Marcus and Rebecca Redhound. Born into the considerable wealth of Grand Earth families, they were happy to contribute financially as well as actively to the cause. Along with a small, equally dedicated, cabal, they planned a raid against the Hive, which they were convinced would be the grand event that would finally demonstrate to the rest of the Commonwealth that the Foundation was wrong, not just in its politics but its science as well.

After months of covert planning and preparation, nine of these urban rich-kid commandos broke into one of the Foundation’s birthing wards in the Hive’s capital, Fordsville. They managed to steal seven new-birthed babies and get them to the CST planetary station before the alarm was raised. Three were traced immediately by the Intersolar Serious Crimes Directorate, and the infants returned to their crèche on Hux-ley’s Haven. The publicity was everything the group could have wished for, though public sympathy didn’t entirely swing their way. Something about stealing babies just cut people cold.

Four of the cabal were arrested when the babies were traced. After that, the Serious Crimes Directorate mounted the largest manhunt the Commonwealth had ever seen to find the four missing babies, one male, and three females. It took another fifteen months of painstaking detective work by ten Chief Investigators aided by the SI to locate the missing boy in a town on the then frontier planet of Ferarra. Five months after that two more of the girls were recovered on EdenBurg. The last child and remaining two cabal members proved more elusive.

With the paranoia which only the truly committed can muster, Marcus and Rebecca had spent over two years fermenting their own elaborate preparations for the snatch, an activity they kept secret from the rest of their cabal. The first part of their cover was to have a child of their own, Coya, who would act as a sister to the Hive baby. She would set a normal behavioural example to the psychoneural-profiled waif; and a young family with twins would be less likely to attract attention. It was a good plan. Marcus and Rebecca had bought a house on Marindra, out in a small agricultural town, where they established a small market garden business. It was a pleasant place to live, with a good community spirit. The children fitted in well as they grew up. Paula’s half-Filipino features were slightly incongruous, given her parents and ‘twin’ Coya were all of prominent eastern Mediterranean stock. But they explained it away as a genetic modification designed to bring out Rebecca’s distant Asian ancestry, honouring her deep ethnic origin. By then, the case of the last missing Hive baby had long faded from public attention – Paula’s looks were never the cause of suspicion.

As a child, Paula really wasn’t too different to her sister. They played together, ran their parents ragged, loved the puppy Marcus bought them, had a fondness for swimming, and did well at school. It was as she moved into her teens that Paula was noticeably more restrained than Coya; she did as her parents asked, didn’t argue with them, and steered clear of all the trouble that was to be found in their little rural community. Everyone commented on what a nice girl she was becoming, not like half of the teenagers in this town who were simply terrible and a sure sign of society’s imminent collapse. She regarded boys with the same contempt and fascination as her peers; started dating, suffered the heart-aching humiliation of being dumped, and promptly took it out on her next two boyfriends by chucking them. Found another boy she liked – and went steady for five months. In sports she was competent rather than outstanding. Academically she excelled at languages and history. As teachers remarked, she had superb recall and an obsession with tracing down the smallest facts connected to her subjects. Aptitude tests showed she would make a great psychologist.

Looking at their contented, normal, extra daughter on her sixteenth birthday, Marcus and Rebecca knew they had succeeded. They’d brought up a Hive child in a loving natural environment, and produced a perfectly happy, healthy human being. What could be done with one, could be done to all. The Foundation’s hold over its oppressed population could be broken, their method of control was flawed. Decency and human dignity had triumphed in the end.

Two days later, on a splendid late summer afternoon, they took Paula out into the garden and told her of her true heritage. They even sheepishly showed her the old news media recordings of the snatch and subsequent manhunt.

What the Foundation had never revealed at the time was the nature of the psychoneural profiling given to the snatched babies. The others were all reasonably standard for Huxley’s Haven: public service workers, engineers, accountants, even an archivist. But Paula, as luck or fate would have it, was an exception even among her own kind. Crime on Huxley’s Haven was extremely rare, naturally so, given that its citizens were all designed to be content in their jobs and lives. Although not even the Foundation claimed to make life perfect. All human civilizations needed a police force. On Huxley’s Haven it was a source of national pride that there was one law enforcement officer for every ten thousand people. Paula was one of them.

Two hours after their joyful confession, Marcus and Rebecca were in custody. It was Paula who turned them in. She had no choice; knowing what was right and what was wrong was the core of her identity, her very soul.

The last missing Hive child was the greatest media story to hit the unisphere for a decade, making Paula an instant celebrity. Young, beautiful, and frighteningly incorruptible; she was everything a sixteen-year-old should never be.

Thanks to Paula’s relentless testimony, Marcus and Rebecca were sentenced to thirty-two years life suspension each, losing double the time over which their crime was perpetrated, the kind of punishment normally reserved for murderers. Unisphere coverage of the trial allowed a quarter of the human race to watch in silent fascination as Coya broke down and screamed hysterically at the judge before begging her step-twin to withdraw the sentencing application. Paula’s only answer, a silent pitying glance at the sobbing girl, made that whole quarter of the human race shiver.

After the trial, Paula went back to Huxley’s Haven, the home she’d never known, to discover her real name and suffer embarrassing introductions to the other stolen children with whom she had nothing in common. She belonged there even less than on Marindra; a modern Commonwealth education put her completely outside the norm as far as Huxley’s Haven was concerned. They didn’t have advanced technology on the Hive, the new conformist society was structured so that people did all the work, not machines. With her exposure to domestic bots and the ultimate data access of the unisphere, Paula considered such rejection to be stupid and provincial. It was the one success Marcus and Rebecca had with shaping her thoughts, though by then their bodies were safely comatose in the Justice Directorate’s hibernation wombs, beyond knowing.

Away from the public eye, Paula left Huxley’s Haven for Earth, where she enrolled at the Intersolar Serious Crimes Directorate. At the time, she had no idea how high up the political food chain her application was bounced before it was finally approved. But approved it was, and inevitably she became the best operative they ever had – despite the one notorious case of 2243 which she still hadn’t solved.

*

Morton lived in the penthouse of a fifty-storey skyscraper standing behind Darklake City’s Labuk Marina. Not at all far, in fact, from Caroline Turner’s last lunch with Tara. Paula noted the coincidence as the car drove them along the water-front. They parked in the skyscraper’s underground garage and took the express lift up to the top floor. Morton was waiting for them in the vestibule as the doors opened. Three years out of rejuvenation himself, he was a tall, handsome young man whose thick chestnut hair was tied back in a long ponytail. Dressed in a fashionably cut amber and peacock-blue tropical shirt and expensive hand-tailored linen slacks, he looked good and obviously knew it. His youthful face put on a broad courteous smile as he shook their hands in welcome.

‘Good of you to see us,’ Paula said. It was early evening local time, which was only a few hours ahead of Paris time.

‘Least I could do.’ Morton ushered them inside through elaborate double doors. His penthouse must have had a floor area larger than the plantation house where his ex-wife now lived. They walked into a massive split-level living room with a window wall. It was six thirty, and the copper-red sun had already fallen level with the top of the skyscraper, shining its rich hazy light directly into the penthouse. Opulent furnishings and expensive artwork gleamed in glorious twilight hues as they soaked up the illumination. There was a large roof garden on the other side of the wide glass doors, half of which was taken up with a swimming pool. Beyond the stainless steel railings ringing the patio area was a tremendous view out across the city and lake.

The three of them settled in the lavish conversation area settees in front of the glass wall. Morton ordered it to raise its opacity, ridding most of the glare. That was when Paula saw someone was in the pool, a young girl, swimming lengths with powerful easy strokes. She told her e-butler to bring up Morton’s file; there was no current registered marriage, but local media gossip files had linked him to a string of girls since he came out of rejuvenation. His current lover was Mellanie Rescorai, a first-life nineteen-year-old, and member of the Oaktier national diving squad. Mellanie’s parents were on record as strongly objecting to the liaison – in reaction, Mellanie had simply moved out of the family home and into Morton’s penthouse.

‘Something to drink?’ Morton asked. The butler appeared at the side of the settee, dressed in antique-style black clothes. Paula stared at him, mildly surprised: a real live human servant, not a bot.

‘No thank you,’ she said. Hoshe shook his head.

‘I’ll have my sparkling gin, thank you,’ Morton said. ‘It is after office hours, after all.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The butler gave a discreet bow, and walked over to the mirrored drinks cabinet.

‘I understand it was you who alerted the police about this situation,’ Paula said.

‘That’s right.’ Morton leaned back casually into the leather cushioning. ‘I thought it was kind of strange that Cotal had to be re-lifed as well as Tara. To me it implied that they died at the same time, which is kind of suspicious, especially as nobody ever found out how Tara died. I’m surprised nobody else made the connection, actually.’ His polite smile focused on Hoshe.

‘Different insurance companies, different clinics,’ Hoshe said defensively. ‘I’m sure Wyobie would have raised the question with my division eventually when he asked after Ms Shaheef.’

‘Of course.’

‘So you recognized the name?’ Paula asked.

‘Yes. God knows why I didn’t edit the little shit out of my memories during the last two rejuvenations. Subconscious, I guess. You learn from your experiences, a smart man doesn’t dump them.’

‘So was it a painful divorce from Tara?’

‘Her leaving me was a shock. I simply didn’t see that coming. I mean, with hindsight I was heavily involved with our company, and we’d been together for a while, I suppose it was inevitable. But to walk out like that, without any warning, that wasn’t Tara. Not the Tara I thought I knew, anyway. But I got over it the same way a lot of guys do: screwed every piece of skirt in sight and threw myself into my work. After that, the actual divorce was completely irrelevant, just a signature certificate loaded on a file.’

‘And there was no clue she was going to leave you?’

‘Hell, no, I was worried about her when I got back home. I mean, she hadn’t answered my calls for two days. But I figured at the time she was pissed with me for spending the time away from home. Then when I got back she’d stripped the apartment, everything she owned was gone. Pretty big fucking clue, huh?’

The butler returned with the sparkling gin in a crystal glass, and put it on the side table next to Morton. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

‘For now.’ Morton waved him away.

‘Was there any message?’ Paula asked.

‘Not a damn thing. The first and only time I heard from her was when the divorce file arrived two weeks later.’

‘That was handled by a legal firm. So you never actually had any contact with Tara at all?’

‘No. Not after she left.’

‘How did you know Wyobie Cotal’s name?’

‘It was in the divorce file.’

‘Tara put it in?’

‘Yes. He was the irreconcilable difference.’

‘I’d like a copy, please.’

‘Sure.’ He instructed his e-butler to release a copy file to Paula.

‘I have to ask, did you benefit from the divorce?’

Morton laughed with genuine amusement. ‘Sure did, I got rid of her.’ He took a drink of his sparkling gin, still grinning.

‘That’s not quite what I meant.’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He locked his hands together behind his head, and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Let’s see. There wasn’t much to it. We both came out of it financially secure. That was part of the pre-marriage contract, everything to be split fifty fifty. It was fair enough. Tara was richer than me back then, she put up a higher percentage of initial capital for the company. That was no secret. But I was the one who managed it, who made it work. When we divorced, our shares were divided up strictly according to the contract, we both got half.’

‘How much more money did she put in?’

‘It was a sixty-five, thirty-five split. That percentage isn’t something I’d kill for.’

‘I’m sure. So who kept the company?’

‘I’m still running it, after a fashion. AquaState’s one of our subsidiaries now.’

Paula consulted his file. ‘I see. You’re the chairman of Gansu Construction now.’

‘That’s right. Six months after we went public, Gansu made an offer for AquaState. I negotiated a good two for one exchange rate on my shares, a seat on the Gansu board, and a decent options deal on more stock. Forty years of hard work later, and here I am. We’re the biggest civil engineering outfit on this whole planet; you name it we can build it for you. Plenty of offplanet divisions as well, and more opening every year. One day we’ll rival the multistellars.’

‘According to my records, the company you and Tara owned, AquaState, didn’t go public until three years after the divorce.’

‘No, Tara agreed – or rather her divorce lawyers did – that we’d both get a better deal by waiting, letting the moisture extraction business grow until we could get the maximum price from the flotation. When AquaState finally went public, her shares were registered with a bank on Tampico, then they were converted to Gansu stock when I sold out. I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but . . . Since she got re-lifed, most of them have been sold. She’s using up money at a hell of a rate, supporting that idiot aristocrat husband and his plantation.’

‘Thank you, but I don’t think that’s relevant to our inquiry. I’m more interested in what happened to her shares for the seventeen years prior to her re-life. Did they just sit in the Tampico bank?’

‘As far as I know, yes. I only know they’re being sold now because as chairman I can see the ownership registry. She’s disposing of them at quite a rate, a couple of million Oaktier dollars a year.’

Paula turned to Hoshe. ‘We need to check with the Tampico bank to find out what happened to those seventeen years’ worth of dividend payments.’

‘Certainly.’

Mellanie Rescorai climbed out of the pool and started towelling herself down with the pink-wash sky as a backdrop. She was very attractive, Paula conceded. Morton was staring at her with a greedy expression.

‘What about enemies?’ Paula asked. ‘Did Tara have any?’

‘No.’ Morton was still looking at his trophy girlfriend. ‘That is: I doubt it, I don’t actually remember, I got rid of the majority of those memories, just kept the essentials from those days, you know.’

‘And you? Did you have enemies back then?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. I had business rivals, certainly. And I’ve got a damn sight more of them now. But no deal would be worth killing over, not in those days.’

‘Only those days?’

‘Or these,’ he said with a grin.

‘Did you meet up with Tara again, after the re-life?’

‘Yes. The insurance investigators and the police both had a load of questions for me, all of them the same as yours. I went to see her after she came out of the clinic, for old times’ sake, to make sure she was okay. I don’t hold grudges, and we’d had thirteen good years together. We still meet up occasion-ally, parties, social events, that kind of thing. Though that’s getting less and less now she’s got her husband. I haven’t actually seen her since my last rejuvenation.’

‘You and Tara didn’t have any children, did you?’

Morton’s attention switched back to the living room. ‘No.’

‘Why not? As you said, you were together for thirteen years.’

‘We decided we didn’t want them; it was even written into our pre-marriage contract. Both of us were busy people. The lifestyle we had then didn’t have any space for that kind of family commitment.’

‘Okay, one last question, probably irrelevant considering you’ve had two rejuvenations since, but do you remember any odd incidents prior to her disappearance?’

‘Sorry, no, not a thing. If there were any, they’re memories that I left behind a long time ago.’

‘I thought that might be the case. Well, thank you again for seeing us.’

Morton stood up and showed the Chief Investigator out. As they walked through to the vestibule, he let his eyes slip down to her rump. Her business suit skirt was clinging in an enjoyable way, showing off her hips. Even though he’d accessed her court cases several times through the unisphere, her physical appearance post-rejuvenation was a pleasurable surprise. He wondered if she’d be going to a Silent World tonight. If so, it was one he’d like to be visiting.

When they’d gone he went back out onto the roof garden. Mellanie smiled at him with the simple happiness of the totally devoted.

‘So was she murdered?’ the girl asked.

‘They don’t know.’

She twined her arms around his neck, pressing her still damp body against him. ‘Why do you care? It was centuries and centuries ago.’

‘Forty years. And I’d care very much if it happened to you.’

Her lips came together in a hurt pout. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘The point is, time doesn’t lessen a crime, especially not today.’

‘Okay.’ She shrugged, and smiled at him again. ‘I won’t run away from you like she did, not ever.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He bent forwards slightly, and started kissing her, an action which she responded to with her usual eagerness. Her youthful insecurity had been so easy to exploit, especially for someone with his years of life experience. She’d never known anyone as urbane and self-confident, nor as rich, as him before; the only people she’d ever dated were nice first-life boys. By herself, she wasn’t brave enough to break out from her middle-class conformity; but with his coaxing and support she soon began to nibble at the forbidden fruits. The publicity of their affair, the rows with her parents, it all played in his favour. Like all first-lifers she was desperate to be shown everything life could offer. And as if by a miracle, he’d appeared in her life to fill the role of both guide and paymaster. Suddenly, after all the years of discipline and restrictions she’d endured to reach national level, nothing was outlawed to her. Her response to the liberation was a very predictable over-indulgence.

Mellanie wasn’t quite the most beautiful girl he’d ever bedded, her chin was slightly too long, her nose too blunt, to be awarded that title. But with that lanky, broad-shouldered body of hers trained by the national swimming federation coach to the peak of gymnastic fitness she was certainly one of the most physically satisfying. Although, truly, it was her age which excited him in a way he’d never reached with any of his Silent World encounters. Even in this liberally inclined society, a rejuve seducing a first-lifer was regarded as being over the edge of civilized behaviour – which simply added intensity to the experience. He could afford to ignore the disapproval of others.

This was what he was now, one of the rich and powerful, rising above the norm, the mundane. He lived his personal and professional lives in the same way. If there was something he wanted in either of them, he got it. Empire building became him, allowing him to thrive. Compared with his first mediocre century he was truly alive now.

‘Go in and get changed,’ he told her eventually. His e-butler summoned the dresser and the beautician to help get the girl ready. ‘Resal is expecting us on the boat in an hour. I don’t want to be too late, there are people coming that I need to meet tonight.’

The dresser and the beautician appeared in the doorway, waiting patiently. Two middle-aged women who knew his tastes probably better than he did; the dresser acted as his wardrobe stylist as well.

‘It’s not all business, is it?’ Mellanie asked.

‘Of course not, there’ll be fun people there as well. People your own age, and people older than me. Now please, we need to get moving.’

‘Yes, Morty.’ Mellanie caught sight of the two women waiting for her, and turned back to him. ‘What would you like me to wear?’

‘Always: something that shows you off.’ His virtual vision was displaying recent clothing purchases the dresser had made. ‘That gold and white thing you were fitted for on Wednesday. That’s small enough.’

She nodded eagerly. ‘Okay.’ Then she hugged him again, the kind of tight reassurance-seeking embrace a child would give a parent. ‘I love you, Morty, really I do. You know that, don’t you?’ Her eyes searched his face, hunting for any sign of confirmation.

‘I know.’ His older, earlier, self would probably have experienced a twinge of guilt at that adulation. It was never going to last. He knew that, even though she would never be able to see it. In another year or so some other stray beauty would catch his eye, and the sweet heat of the chase would begin again. Mellanie would be gone in a flood of tears. But until then . . .

He gave her bum a quick gentle slap, hurrying her back into the penthouse. She squealed in mock-outrage before scampering in through the wide doors. The two women followed her in.

His e-butler brought up a list of items which he hadn’t finished working on during the day. He surveyed them all, taking his time to add comments, demand more information, or approve them for action. It was always the way; no matter how complex the management smartware a company employed, executive decisions were inevitably made by a human. An RI could eliminate a whole strata of middle management, but it lacked the kind of creative ability which a true leader possessed.

When he’d tidied up the office work, the butler brought him another sparkling gin. Morton leant on the steel balcony rail to sip the drink, gazing out at the city below as the sun fell below the horizon. He could outline sections of it in his mind, entire districts which Gansu had built, where their government-licensed subsidiaries now provided utility and civic services – his innovation, that. There were other areas, as well, which drew his eye. Old plantations and orchards that now formed the outskirts, green parquetry flocking round the base of the mountains. Gansu’s architects had drawn up plans for beautiful buildings which would fit snugly into those crumpled mini-valleys, expensive exclusive communities providing for Oaktier’s increasingly affluent population. Already, the farmers were being tempted with financial offers and incentives.

When he looked up to the darkening sky the stars were starting to twinkle. If everything went to plan, his influence would soon stretch out to them, far exceeding the small subcontracts their offplanet offices currently achieved. He controlled Gansu’s board now, and the increased business and rising stock price he’d achieved for them over the last decade had given him near-regal status. There would be no timidity in his expansion plans. The opportunities which lay out there were truly staggering. Entire civil infrastructures to be built. The new phase three junction worlds which would one day rival the Big15. Now was the best time to live.

He lowered his gaze again to scan the city rooftops. One old medium-sized tower caught his attention. It was the apartment block he and Tara had lived in for most of their marriage; he’d never realized he could see it from his roof garden before. There were no details from this distance, twilight transformed it into a grey slab with parallel lines of light shining out through windows. He took another sip of the cocktail as he stared at it. His memory couldn’t even provide an image of the apartment’s interior. When he’d gone in for rejuvenation six years after the divorce he’d edited away everything but the basic information from his secure store. Now, that life was almost like a series of notes in a file – not real, not something he’d lived through. And yet . . . Twenty years ago, when he’d heard of Tara’s re-life procedure some-thing about it had nagged at him. It was out of character to go and see her, yet he had. The semi-neurotic woman in her new clone body wasn’t anyone he recognized, certainly not the kind of woman he could form an attachment to. He put that down to shock and psychological trauma from the re-life.

Then the news about Cotal had been filtered out of the unisphere media streams by his e-butler, which had caught the connection to Tara. He’d stopped work in his office – an unheard-of event – and worried about how strange the coincidence was. His staff had made a few discreet inquiries, the results of which had been enough for him to call the police. Their subsequent report on the case had annoyed him with its vagueness and lack of any real conclusion. Rather than kick up a fuss himself, which would draw comment, he’d spoken to some of the senior members of the Shaheef family.

He hadn’t quite expected someone as renowned as Chief Investigator Myo herself to be assigned the case. But it was a pleasing development; if anyone could sort out what had actually happened, it would be her. His thoughts slipped to her compact body again, and the high possibility of her needing to visit Silent World.

‘Morty.’

He turned round. The dresser and beautician had worked their usual magic. Mellanie was standing silhouetted in the light from the lounge, her auburn hair dried and straightened so it fell down her back, the tiny dress exposing vast amounts of toned young flesh. His disquiet over Tara and Cotal vanished at once as he contemplated what new indecencies he would tutor her in later tonight.

‘Do I look all right?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Perfect.’