The Saints of Salvation

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Her smile chided him gently. “The last of the Belt’s original habitants portalled out seven years ago.”

  “How many have you dispatched now?”

  “Classified. But all the settled systems are building exodus habitats at a phenomenal rate.”

  “Really?”

  “Relatively, yes. Consider the size of a habitat, and the ancillary systems we have to send with them. And they have got to work, Horatio. At heart, they’re starships—beyond help if anything goes wrong.”

  “I don’t doubt you.”

  Gwendoline leaned in closer to the camera, giving him a better view of her face. It was remarkably unchanged, but then she’d never looked her age even back when the invasion happened. Zangari money had seen to that. And her anti-aging regimen had continued without a break when she went to live on Nashua, which was set up to allow Zangaris to carry on their sumptuous lifestyle with very little change. Then after that, Pasobla had excellent medical facilities, especially for level two citizens. Just looking at those fine mid-twenties features made him so aware of how many decades he was showing now. Thinning, graying hair, the gradually expanding waistline, the old-man grunt every time he heaved himself up from a chair. His memory not as sharp as it used to be, and now he was having his altme monitor his diet carefully, keeping the carb intake down to avoid full-blown type one diabetes and the insulin gland that would entail—assuming he could even get on the implant list. If it wasn’t for his bicycle trips keeping him relatively fit, he knew he would have piled on weight and related problems. Visits to the gym had become more and more of an effort, and he didn’t know when he’d last been for a jog along London’s streets; he kept telling himself it was too difficult now everyone was on boardez and bikes and resurrected taxez and modified trollez. It was like the roads of the early twenty-first century out there, for heaven’s sake. No portals, of course; there never would be again. There wasn’t that much power to spare from the settled worlds. The hubs, loops, and radials of Connexion’s London transport network were a legend of time past that they told the children about.

  “Utopials are good people,” Gwendoline said. “I like it here. You will, too.”

  “Gwen—”

  “Horatio,” she said firmly, “it really is time for you to leave London now.”

  “I can’t just abandon people. They depend on me.”

  “I depend on you.”

  “No. We have the memory of us. A beautiful memory—and a memory I’m so profoundly grateful I possess.”

  “Lacasta needs you.”

  It was a blow so low, Horatio couldn’t speak for a moment. “Don’t.”

  “Sie’s nearly three now, and sie wants to meet hir grandfather, not just see him on a screen. Sie needs your arms around hir, for you to hug hir and love hir. Don’t deny hir that.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, aghast. “I can’t leave. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “You ‘checking your birth benefit’ isn’t fair to us, your family. All it’s going to do is get you cocooned.”

  “I’m not virtue-sacrificing. I can see what’s happening.”

  “You can’t, Horatio. Trust me, you don’t know anything.”

  “Yeah? The Londoners who are leaving? They’re chosen carefully.”

  “It’s random. A lottery.”

  “A lottery by area. It’s always evenly distributed, sure—always someone from the next street, someone either you know or a friend’s friend knows and talks about. It’s deliberate, tunnelling down into the personal, to give the illusion that you’re going to be leaving real soon now. To keep the hope alive.”

  “Without hope, Earth would have fallen into anarchy. You can’t afford that, not living under shields.”

  “I know. But you can’t save us all.”

  “I can save you.”

  “And if everyone like me leaves?”

  “Sorry, Horatio, my darling, but you’re not that unique.”

  He hunched forward, hating that their talks had come to this. At the start of Blitz2 he’d felt so empowered, staying and helping those who needed it—which was just about everyone. He had a purpose that would never exist if he’d followed Gwendoline to Nashua. But that had faded as first years, then eventually decades, flowed past. People were coping now; the city was working again. It was a very different type of economics from what had come before—the ultimate closed-cycle manufacturing. If a printer needed raw material, it had to come from disassembling something—especially if you needed specialist compounds. That took organization and cooperation at a local level, which was the area Horatio excelled in. It had kept him busy for years.

  “I know,” he said miserably.

  “Then here’s something you don’t know.” She glanced around as if there were people in her home and drew a determined breath. “The G8 monitors might cut the link on me, but…Trappist One has gone.”

  “Gone? You mean the Chinese evacuated everyone, from every planet? That’s incredible.”

  “No, Horatio. Gone, as in fallen. The portal links failed last night, just after they detected wormholes opening. Resolution ships came through in force. The Olyix are back. It won’t be long now. Every settled world will go. Earth! Earth will fall. Probably in a few hours.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “So tell me now what you can accomplish by staying. You have family here. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “It means everything!”

  “Good. Then open the portal. I know it’s still working; the G8Turing runs checks on it every hour. Come through now. Right now.”

  “Every hour?” he asked dumbly. Every hour for twenty-five years? Longer even than we were married.

  “Yes, Horatio,” she said in a voice that finally gave her age away. “I’ve never given up hope.”

  “God, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “All right,” he said. And after two and a half decades it was so surprisingly easy. There wasn’t even any guilt.

  “You’ll come?”

  “Yeah. I’ve just got a couple of people I have to say goodbye to.”

  Gwendoline’s lips lifted slyly. “You can bring her, if you want. Let’s face it, I haven’t been living in a nunnery for twenty-five years.”

  “Not that kind of goodbye,” he said, just a little too quickly. “Give me a couple of hours.”

  “I’m going to call Loi. He’ll be here to welcome you.”

  “And Lacasta?”

  “Try and stop hir.”

  FINALSTRIKE MISSION

  FLIGHT YEAR 15

  It was Ellici who was standing over Dellian’s suspension chamber when his eyes opened. Her smile was indecently cheeky as her gaze lingered on fluid-beaded skin. He ignored it, and the arm she proffered, as he slowly clambered out. The spin gravity didn’t do his sensitive stomach any favors when he tried to stand. Spin gravity?

  Icons and data tables expanded in his optik. “We’re not under deceleration?” he asked in confusion. The last time he’d been awake was three years ago—the final duty tour before they were due to reach the neutron star. The data showed him they were point-nine of a light-year out, which theoretically meant the fleet should have completed their survey of the neutron star.

  Ellici offered him her arm again. “Wow, she really didn’t tell you, did she?”

  “Huh?” Instinctively, he looked over at Yirella’s chamber. It was empty.

  “They used to call it plausible deniability back on old Earth,” Ellici said.

  He didn’t like repeating what the whole time; it made him sound totally dumb. But— “What?”

  “Yirella has caused quite a stir. Surprise! There’s going to be a big council about it tomorrow. Everyone wanted you to be part of it. Alexandre authorized getting you out of suspension.”


  “Oh, Saints, is she in trouble?”

  “Depends on your point of view.”

  “What’s she done?”

  “How long have you got?”

  * * *

  —

  He made it to their quarters to find Yirella holding court with about twenty people, eight of them squad leaders. The remainder were omnia, wearing ship uniforms from across the fleet. Everyone looked grim.

  She got to her feet and hugged him for a long time. It was only when he started swaying, about to fall, that she let go. He sat down fast on a couch, and everyone else filed out.

  “It’s all true,” she said bleakly. “Every paranoid theory I ever had, and then some. It’s not just us backward binaries that are puppets; the whole omnia exodus was manipulated. I never thought this—being right, winning—would make me feel like crap.”

  “Saints. What did you find out? Wait: I just realized. Alexandre authorized me coming out of hibernation?”

  “Yeah. Sie’s acting captain at the moment, and has been for two days. A lot of people—crew and squads—are seriously pissed with Kenelm right now.”

  “So sie has been steering us politically?”

  “Yes, it looks like it.”

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  “Sie hasn’t been terribly forthcoming. Yet.” She handed him a tall mug of beef broth and a plate of warm, thick-cut bread. “Eat that and listen, you have to be ready for tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  The council was held in the Morgan’s sports arena, which was packed with seats. Dellian suspected that having people attend in person added to the feeling of involvement and therefore legitimacy. It wasn’t nearly big enough for everyone on the fleet, so ninety percent of the participants had a virtual presence, with texture walls transforming the open space into an old-style amphitheater with grass banks. Everyone on the fleet who wasn’t currently in a suspension chamber was accessing the gathering.

  When they walked in, Dellian hardly noticed the churn of people hunting for vacant chairs. All he could focus on was Kenelm sitting at one side of the dais that had been set up at the far end of the arena. “So how old is sie?” he asked Yirella.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe three thousand years?”

  “Saints alive!”

  They eased past people and stepped up onto the dais. Yirella was given a seat between Napar and Illathan. The two captains greeted her amicably. The remaining fleet captains made up the front row of the virtual attendees, some obviously fresh out of hibernation.

  Dellian went and sat close to Cinrea, who had chosen the other side of the dais from Kenelm. It was strange seeing hir in a uniform that no longer had the captain’s insignia. As he settled in, Dellian noticed just how much animosity was being directed Kenelm’s way by the audience in the arena. At least no one is upset about what Yirella did. It still hurt that she’d not confided in him about her plan for the neutron star. He just couldn’t let go of the notion that it was because of the neurovirus that she no longer entirely trusted him.

  Alexandre rose from hir chair in the middle of the dais and motioned for silence. “We’ve a lot to get through, and plenty to decide. I’d ask you not to make fast decisions. We can afford to take our time; it will be another year before we can match velocity with the neutron star. So…Kenelm, I think it’s appropriate for you to start. Would you like to tell us where you came from originally?”

  Kenelm inclined hir head. “Thank you for the opportunity—”

  “Traitor,” someone in the audience yelled.

  Dellian thought it sounded a lot like Ovan’s voice.

  “No,” Alexandre said, raising hir hand in warning. “I will not permit that kind of abuse. We have moved on past such intolerance. This council will listen respectfully to Kenelm and Yirella before deciding what our options are.”

  “I apologize for the impression my existence must be generating,” Kenelm said. “But I assure you the purpose my colleagues and I uphold is purely to advance the human interest and help us survive the Olyix. I have never abdicated that responsibility. It is all I exist for.”

  “Can you tell us where you came from, please?” Alexandre asked.

  “I was born on Kanima, two thousand six hundred years ago. I left on the generation starship Byessel, which founded Falkon. That was where our group was formed at the behest of Soćko and Emilja. They were already concerned by the drift away from original Utopial ideals and the ongoing lack of success of any Strike mission. We were all level one citizens tasked with keeping the whole exodus project on track. I am proud of the part I have played in that.”

  “You manipulated us?”

  “We guided—admittedly with a disproportionate degree of influence due to our status. Because of that, our society has remained Utopial, which I believe to be a positive achievement. The Utopial ideal is the height of human culture, demonstrating compassion and inclusion for every individual.”

  “How many of you are in this group?”

  “I believe there were about a thousand of us on Falkon,” Kenelm said. “After that, we divided at each generation world. Some would go on Strike missions; the rest would continue our undertaking through generation ships. By the time we reached Juloss, there were less than fifty of us. We did, of course, retain our level one citizenship, which allowed us considerable influence.”

  “And on this mission?” Cinrea asked.

  “Loneve and I were the last.”

  “So we are free of manipulation?” Yirella said. “This council can make an independent choice?”

  “Of course. That has always been the way. If someone had put up a compelling suggestion to alter the Utopial exodus policies, then a vote in council would have been respected. Out of everyone agitating for change, I always suspected you could be the most effective, Yirella. I do admit, however, I never envisaged just how much you were prepared to risk to achieve your ambitions.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “Before any decision is made by this council, I would like to emphasize how concerned Emilja, Soćko, and even Ainsley had become by the lack of any Signal. That is why all of us in the group agreed that, after the Factory, we would press our respective worlds to consider ending expansion by generation ship and instead follow the Neána option of establishing a secluded interstellar society—built on a Utopial foundation, of course.”

  “So you believe we should do nothing about the Olyix but hide from them?” Alexandre asked.

  “No. It is more than that. Humans can live between stars; we can thrive there in a way we never do on a generation world. And, thanks to the Vayan ambush, we now understand just how powerful the Olyix are, how widespread. They are overwhelming, and they are hunting us.”

  “I thought that was the point of our exodus, to give humans time and resources until we are strong enough to challenge the Olyix.”

  Kenelm shrugged. “The Strike concept was put together in a time of extreme crisis, when humans didn’t properly understand what we were facing. I don’t think even the Neána did; certainly Soćko was troubled by our failures. Ainsley and Emilja managed to get what passed for the human polity of those days to support the idea of postponed vengeance and rescue, then throw in a triumphant return to Earth as the grande finale. But with no Signal ever detected, Emilja came to the realization that using lures to send our finest directly into an unknown enemy stronghold was a supreme folly. However, by then, the concept had built a colossal psychological and political momentum, which kept growing with every millennium. One person—even someone as powerful as her—could not stop it with a single proposal. Politics at that time were volatile—especially after contact with the Katos, Angelis, and Neána. So instead it was decided we should adopt a double aspect approach. The warships built by the Factory, like Ainsley, were our last attempt to secure an ad
vantage against the Olyix. They were intended to fight them here in this section of the galaxy and establish a safe zone for humans. It is far easier to destroy a wormhole terminus carried into our territory by an Olyix ship than to challenge the enclave itself.”

  “The Saints sacrificed themselves for us!” Dellian yelled. It was out before he really knew he’d said it. He flushed hot from all the looks directed at him—and a few smirks, too—but he didn’t repent.

  “Four humans and a Neána,” Kenelm said smoothly. “Their loss is regrettable, but utterly insignificant compared to the number of humans lost to the Olyix. Billions from Earth alone—and probably quadruple that number by now as the Olyix caught up with the expansion wavefront.”

  “So you were going to abandon the Strike?”

  “That was the second aspect. Our group members would point out to councils on planets and generation ships that the Strike concept was making no progress; we were no nearer to invading the enclave than we were when we abandoned Earth. There was no Saints’ Signal detected; the lures didn’t work; we had no idea where the enclave was. So the Neána option was to be presented as an idea whose time had finally come. The pressure we could maintain—for centuries, if necessary—would eventually result in a vote for its adoption. In cases like the Morgan, I could simply say that it had been included as an order if our lure was taking an unexpectedly long time to attract the Olyix.”

  “But we beat the Olyix at Vayan,” Ovan said.

  “Ainsley beat the Olyix at Vayan,” Kenelm replied. “I’m sorry, but the Strike mission is no longer valid. Nor, with all respect to Yirella, is FinalStrike. The enclave is forty thousand light-years away. We now have a golden opportunity to establish ourselves safely between the stars. Let the Factory ships harass the Olyix forces and raid their sensor stations; a guerrilla-style campaign will deny them an effective presence here for millennia. And who knows what we may ultimately create if we end our migration, if we can consolidate everything we build?”