“I’ll find out,” he snapped back, wishing he didn’t feel like it was just bluster. “I’ll find out who you are. I’ll find out what you are.”
“You already know what I am,” Angela said as she rose to her feet. “I’m your second worst nightmare. The first, the one waiting for you on St. Libra, that’s what your God made in His own image, just like you.” She pointed at the door. “Now either let me be your technical adviser, or send me back to Holloway. Of course, the case file I put together on my trip here might just download into the cache of every civil rights activist linked to the transnet if I’m not around to re-up the timer code every now and then. Make up your mind, Jesus-freak.”
Vance told his e-i to open the office door. “Stay out of trouble. I mean it.”
Angela winked at Antrinell as she sauntered out. “Be seeing you.”
“Sweet Mary, she’s coming with us?” Antrinell asked.
“For every minute of every hour of every month we’re all crammed together on the expedition: yes.”
“Wow, this is going to be one fun trip. And … torture?”
“Brainscan.” He hesitated. “There were drugs involved, too. Probably less sophisticated than we’d use these days. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but we had to know for sure.”
“So what did the scan reveal?”
“Exactly what she said—an alien monster butchering Bartram North’s harem and household. I’ll let you access the files; you can give me your thoughts once you’ve reviewed them.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I asked her the wrong questions back then. I won’t make that mistake again.”
*
The site of the first mesh coverage gap that Sid examined was in Keelman’s Way, a strip of nominally green parkland running along the Tyne to the west of Redheugh Bridge. When he got there just after ten o’clock in the morning he had already written it off. For a start, access was difficult—the only route through was a path for pedestrians and bicycles, which was guarded against incursions from cars on a rat-run by bollards at both ends. The bollards could retract down into the tarmac to allow park maintenance vehicles through, but you needed the code. All right, not too difficult to obtain if you were a dedicated bytehead, or to bribe out of a city worker, either, but there would be tire prints in the snow. The functional meshes on either side of the coverage gap hadn’t seen any kind of vehicle in the area on Sunday evening before or after the estimated time the body had been dumped. And as for getting down from Rose Street, which ran along the top of Keelman’s Way, not a chance. The slope was high, steep, and planted with thick trees. Sid knew there was no way he’d ever be able to carry a body down that. True: That didn’t rule out some kind of sledge, though it was highly unlikely.
But procedure was procedure, and he couldn’t afford any balls-ups. Not today. Not with this case.
Small swirls of snowflakes drifted down out of a gray-haze sky as he climbed out of his car and walked toward the cordon barriers. The air temperature still hadn’t risen above freezing. A cluster of agency constables over by the bright orange barriers were wearing thick coats and balaclavas, stamping their feet and looking thoroughly pissed off as he approached them. It had been a cold, boring morning for them. They tried not to show too much resentment when they greeted him, and told him they’d turned away a total of five walkers, two with dogs, since they started at six o’clock. That was good, he thought; if that was all the activity they were getting then the site wouldn’t have been disturbed too much yesterday.
Sid could see a couple of Northern Forensics vans parked on the other side of the barriers, but outside the bollards. Six agency SOCOs (scene of crime operatives) were covering the ground, waving various sensors around; another two were leaning over the rail above the river in the middle of the coverage gap. Either the smartdust coating the rail was physically dead or the mesh had been ripped. Both technicians were retrieving individual smartdust motes, trying to determine which it was.
What Sid wanted was to go over to the lead SOCO and get an impression of the site examination. But there was another car parked by the bollards, a big dark Mercedes. Its presence didn’t surprise him. He walked over, and the front window slid down.
Aldred North was sitting inside. The front passenger door hinged up, and Sid used a patch to pause his official log before he climbed in.
“So I’m guessing this isn’t the return to work you expected,” Aldred said.
“No. Look, man, I’m sorry it was one of your brothers.”
“Duly noted. And thank you. If we just knew which one …”
“Aye, that’s more than strange.”
“You’re telling me. It’s not just Ari and Abner running through the list. I’m here to tell you that my office is on it as well; if they get anything they’ll feed it into your investigation through Abner.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t say that yet. I’m pretty sure Brinkelle’s family is being open with us. I know Bailey—this has shaken them up.”
“Bailey?”
“He does my job for the B’s.”
“Right.” Sid rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Look, I appreciate your support in all this.”
“Least we could do after your suspension. I appreciate your discretion on the matter. And don’t worry, your post in our security division is secure.”
“Thanks.”
Aldred nodded at the SOCO crew making slow progress across the thick snow. “It’s not here, is it? They’re not going to find anything.”
“No, they’re not. Look, I know this isn’t pleasant for you, but it would help me to have some solid facts rather than transnet gossip.”
“About what?”
“Aye, come on, man: you. Your brothers. Your sons. How does it actually work?”
“Ah.” Aldred grinned faintly as he stared out at the frozen parkland. “The way it is? Sure. Us 2s are born from Augustine’s girls. The transnet crap you access has it that he sleeps with all of them. Perhaps my older brothers were conceived like that, I don’t know. But all of us conceived in the last seventy years were a result of artificial insemination; after all, he is a hundred and thirty-one now. I mean, this is a good body, and Christ knows we can afford the best anti-geriatric treatments. But come on. Maybe a few were natural conceptions in that seventy years. I know I wasn’t. My mother only met Dad three times before she got packed off to the clinic.”
“Met?”
Aldred sighed. “He interviews them to make sure they are suitable mothers. We don’t grow up in a giant Brave New World crèche, you know. We have nice middle-class homes to nurture us.”
“No, actually I didn’t know that. But I’m glad to hear it.”
“So that’s the 2s. There’s eighty-seven of us still living—not counting Sunday’s body. Five have died in accidents.”
“Were they …?”
“No. There is no chance they secretly survived, all right?”
“I have to ask.”
“Yeah. Anyway, their ages didn’t match the corpse—they’d all be too old, for one thing, as the last one was fifty, and he died twenty-eight years ago. So no, it wasn’t one of them.”
“With anti-geriatric treatments it might be, though, right?”
“Wow, you really are paranoid.”
“I’m trying to find a solution.”
“The autopsy’s biochemistry report showed no signs of anti-geriatric treatments in the corpse’s tissue.” Aldred let out a long breath and stared out of the windshield. “Besides, anti-geriatrics don’t wind the clock back, they just slow it down a bit.”
“Like a one-in-ten?”
“Same principle, it just doesn’t work as well, and it’s mostly cosmetic. If you’re going to rejuvenate someone, you need the techniques Bartram developed, and they are phenomenally expensive. Do you know there are about a hundred trillion cells in the average human body—and thank fuck us Norths aren’t fat bastards. For true rejuvenation the DNA in each one needs a specifically tailored repair sequence vectored in. It takes over a decade of treatments to complete. Not even Northumberland Interstellar can afford that for eighty-seven of us.”
“Let alone people like me.”
“Quite. So no, the victim is a genuine 2North.”
Sid knew he shouldn’t ask, but with Aldred in confessional mode he couldn’t resist. “What’s the point?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did Augustine do it? And his two brothers as well. Why have so many sons?”
“You know why dad and my two uncles were born, don’t you?”
“Kane North perfected human cloning.”
“Yes, but why?”
“I’ve no idea. That’s why I’m asking.”
“The Norths back then were old American money, a long line of financiers, bankers, landowners. They were the über-establishment traditionalist, conservative, Ivy League WASPs, with each new little North destined for greatness and intent on multiplying the family wealth and power on Wall Street and in Washington. That was one of the reasons Kane went to West Point. Serving one’s country was tradition and duty; a lot of Norths put in a tour with the military, we certainly served in the Civil War, probably even the original revolution against the British. Anyway, Grandfather Kane got himself shipped out to Afghanistan. That’s where he got hit by an IED—improvised explosive device. He was shipped back to the States and given an honorable disability discharge.”
“I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do. He survived, sure, but the fucking thing blew his balls off.”
“Crap on it!”
“Yeah, well. No way could he have kids; that was it, end of the line. The family wealth would start getting diluted though relatives and lawyers and managers. Well, old Kane didn’t like that idea. He might not have testosterone bubbling around in his brain anymore, but he was still a North. So he moved to Scotland and began recruiting members of the Dolly team—the ones who first cloned a mammal, a sheep by the name of Dolly. The States has a long history of official disapproval when it comes to manipulating human genes; it’s a legislative nightmare thanks to the Religious Right, then as well as now. Far easier to set up a pioneering lab over here in Edinburgh. Not that everything that went on inside there was strictly legal. Long story short: The triplets were born, my dad and two uncles. But of course, the genetic fixing techniques were crude back then, and I’m a result of that quirk. We’re a dead end, Sid; evolution culls our offspring inside of three generations. So if you can’t go deep, go wide. Us 2s are the ones who actually built Northumberland Interstellar. Nearly two hundred of us in total back then before the split; directors and managers all acting with the same drive, the same direction, possessing the same determination. This world has never seen anything like that build-focus since the days of the kings who ruled by divine right. To this day St. Libra is the only planet opened by an individual, even though that individual is me and my clone brothers. New Monaco, that’s nothing, a multifinancier world. Besides, it’s a refuge, not a society.”
“But you have children, too.”
“They are a mistake,” Aldred said bitterly. “And the 4s are even worse. But you can’t fight human nature. We have women, we need them like any straight man; wives, girlfriends, lovers, one-night stands, even good old-fashioned gold diggers still, God bless ’em. Thankfully there are fewer and fewer children. And soon there will be none.”
“You don’t know that. I thought Augustine is rejuvenating. It’s been buzzing about the transnet for years.”
“He is. But it isn’t complete, the process is still being refined. Not that it matters—a new generation of 2s is emerging. Except they’re not even 2s anymore, not really. Brinkelle was the first. Bartram and his Institute finally eradicated the fix that contaminated his DNA, and reverted it to something more normal. She’s the first genuine offspring any of the triplets ever had, even though she’s IV-conceived and germlined to the hilt. And she’s had children, real children, not 3s. We original 2s are a dying breed, Sid, we’ll never be repeated. Our era is over. Brinkelle’s family is the future now; and whatever the hell Constantine is doing at Jupiter. After he’s rejuvenated, I guess even Father will get himself fixed and have proper children.”
Sid took a long moment, the two of them sitting in uncomfortable silence. He’d been totally unprepared for that level of unburdening. Not that he was entirely surprised; he’d seen what the grief of bereavement could do to people countless times. The need to talk, the need to explain, as if that somehow comforted the dead.
“It has to be a C,” he decided.
“I know. But we’ve had precious little contact with Constantine since the split. He and Augustine exchange messages a couple of times a year, but that’s all. And Jupiter still claims none of their people are on Earth.”
“You said there were nearly two hundred 2s back in the day. If it wasn’t one of your brothers, and you trust Brinkelle, then it had to be a C. If he was here clandestinely, then they won’t tell you, will they. And if he was involved in something dodgy, it’s probably the reason he was murdered.”
“By an alien hand?”
Sid let out a hugely frustrated groan. “Ah, crap on it, I just don’t know what to believe. This whole case is a fucking nightmare, man, and I’m the one stuck with it.”
“You want my advice?”
“Oh God, yes please.”
“Play it exactly the way Elston wants you to. Find the place the body was dumped in the river and grab us some solid evidence from the site. Nothing else matters.”
“Aye, I suppose you’re right there. But … Jesus!”
“I know. Let me repeat, there’s a senior place reserved for you at the company no matter what the outcome to this crock of shit. We owe you, and we don’t forget our friends.”
“But you want me running this case as well, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sid, I do, because I know you’re straight with us.”
“Right, well, I’d better be getting on with it.” He pressed the door switch, and it hinged smoothly upward.
“Good luck.”
Outside again, Sid reactivated his official log, then accessed the Northern Forensics field ringnet. The site SOCO team data slid down his grid: names, rankings, assignments, the equipment they’d deployed, initial results. He told his e-i to connect him to the senior supervisor, Tilly Lewis. Tilly was one of those people who were easy to work with, which was getting to be a rare event in law enforcement these days. Smart, experienced, and competent, she was a huge asset on any investigation, which was why Sid had arranged through Osborne to have her work with him today.