The Saints of Salvation

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Does it…feel pain?”

  “No. They eradicated the whole concept from their bodies when they became quint. The nervous system is more like a data network. The body knows if it suffers damage, but it doesn’t interpret it the same way we do.”

  “Okay.” He wasn’t sure if he was glad about that or not. Torturing an enemy combatant went against his principles, but this was an Olyix. It deserved punishment—not that he had the slightest idea what was appropriate for the cosmic-size crime they were committing. “So what have you got? Actually, what are you looking for?”

  Immanueel’s tail flicked languidly. “Information on the enclave star system is our primary objective. Firstly, confirmation it is where we believe it to be.”

  “Well, fuck you very much,” Ainsley grunted.

  “Which it seems is correct—thank you.”

  “Forty thousand light-years away,” Yirella said wistfully.

  Dellian exchanged a glance with her. He could see how daunted she was by the distance, but it didn’t bother him. It was just a number. They had the route there, and a method of reaching it through the captured Olyix wormhole. They could take as much or as little time as they wanted traveling. Numbers were irrelevant.

  “Yeah,” Ainsley said. “Ten thousand years, and we finally have a target. Statistically, we shouldn’t be the first humans to take them on. But hey…those are the breaks.”

  Yirella’s gaze hadn’t moved from the immobilized quint. “The Neána must have done something like this. Soćko and Saint Jessika had so much information on the Olyix.”

  “Out of date information,” Ainsley said.

  “That was inevitable,” Immanueel countered, “given the scale of events. But the basic facts are sound. Sadly, there is a hierarchy among the Olyix, with a quint created outside the enclave just about at the bottom. They don’t know much.”

  “I thought they had an egalitarian monoculture society,” Dellian said.

  “You thought wrong, kid,” Ainsley said. “Looks like evolution kicks up the same old shit no matter where in the galaxy you start off at. The quint are the lowest of the low in the Olyix civilization—worker drones, basically. But they do have a degree of autonomy.”

  “Free will?” Yirella asked sharply.

  “Nah, this is more like the ability to come to low-level decisions away from a onemind’s guidance. Just like every religion or ideology, you’re free to do what you want as long as it conforms to the governing commandments. But it does allow them to progress up the ladder—another leftover of natural selection. Darwin would be proud of these little shits.”

  “So they can start to question what they’re doing?”

  “I suppose. In theory. But for a quint to change its attitude and beliefs, they’d have to be exposed to different ways of thinking, something to make them challenge their indoctrination. That never happens. Like you said, they live in a monoculture.”

  “What the hell is the next rung for a quint, anyway?” Dellian asked in fascination. “Six bodies?”

  “A onemind,” Immanueel said. “They transplant you into something pretty basic like a transport ship where you toil away loyally, and if you do a good job you get another promotion. Deliverance ship maybe, then up to Resolution ship or an outpost habitation station, arkship, welcome ship, a manufacturing base. But even those have different levels. If you begin your existence outside the enclave, you only get inside the enclave once you have fulfilled an invasion crusade and brought back the treasure of another species.”

  “Which is a problem for us,” Immanueel said. “We have quint memories of the enclave star system, but none of these quint ever went through the gateway into the enclave itself. They have no firsthand knowledge.”

  “But you’ve found memories of the enclave star system?” Yirella asked excitedly.

  “Yes. Recent ones, only a few years old.”

  Dellian used his databud to call up the data Immanueel and Ainsley had extracted. The primary of the enclave system was a large white star devoid of any planets. Instead there was a single impossibly dense ring orbiting five AUs out, backdropped by the splendor of the galactic core.

  “The ring is rubble,” Immanueel said. “Unnaturally large segments, too. They broke their planets apart to allow easy access to the available mass.”

  “Kardashev Type Two and a half, if you ask me,” Ainsley said. “Re-engineering a star system, for Christ’s sake! And that’s just to prepare yourself for the crusade.”

  “We knew it would not be easy,” Immanueel replied.

  Dellian’s optik provided a picture of the gateway itself. In his mind he’d envisaged a great technological orb, maybe protected by fearsome energy cannons that could blast a minor planet apart. True, the number of Resolution ships circling around it was formidable, but the gateway itself was hard to distinguish, as if it were nothing more than a ball of dark water reflecting the blaze of corelight.

  The sight of it chilled him. So much history. Humans have waited ten thousand years just to get this glimpse. Longer than the recorded history of humans on Earth, for Saints’ sake. The sheer effort and suffering it’s taken us to get to this point is humbling. I don’t think I’m worthy. “The gate to hell,” he said softly. “Do you think we knew all along? That this was so big, so momentous, that it somehow wormed its way into our collective racial memory?”

  “Could be,” Yirella said.

  He knew she was just humoring him, which put a bite of anger in his voice. “Immanueel, do any of these quint memories confirm the Saints were killed? I…I want to know.” To know it wasn’t just propaganda, a lie to break me as part of the neurovirus. He saw Ainsley and Immanueel look at each other. A strange physical characteristic, considering they must be connected at some unimaginably high data rate.

  “There is a level of deep knowledge in every quint brain,” Immanueel said. “A racial memory, similar to us learning critical points of our history. It is a way of best understanding ourselves.”

  “They’re dead,” Ainsley said. “They got to the enclave star system on the Salvation of Life and made a break for it in the Avenging Heretic when they realized they would be discovered. But they managed to take out some Deliverance ships before they got hit. Imagine that! They set out using the most primitive technology—the best we had at the time, but nothing compared to what we have now. It was a fucking miracle they even got on board the arkship to start with! Yet they made it all the way to the Olyix enclave system, the first humans to see it. It was sheer ballpower that got them that far. And they sent the Signal, too. They did everything we tasked them to do, against the most ridiculous odds in the universe. It takes something to impress me, but those guys were genuinely the best of the best. They really were Saints. I’m proud I knew them.”

  Dellian’s databud played the one file that was available. He watched a fuzzy vision of a Signal transmitter blazing away in front of a massive radio telescope. It was a weird visual inversion of natural astronomy, as if a star were orbiting a planet.

  “So the original Signal is on its way to us,” Yirella said reverentially.

  “Yes,” Immanueel said. “It will reach this part of the galaxy in about thirty thousand years’ time.”

  “I wonder if it will be strong enough to detect?” she pondered.

  “It should be.”

  “We should keep watch. We owe them that much.”

  “If humans are still free, I expect we will build quite a creed of expectation around the arrival of the Saint’s Signal. It is a truly magnificent symbol of our fortitude and spirit.”

  Dellian played the file once again. Thank you, he told the Saints silently. You’ve showed me we can prevail even in the bleakest of times.

  After a moment of respect, he drew a breath and started to concentrate on the layout of the enclave star system with its multitude of shi
ps and industrial hubs. “So now what?”

  “Now every corpus aspect will convene to formulate our assault strategy,” Immanueel said. “We invite you to join us in a determinative congress.”

  Sure, like we can contribute, Dellian thought sullenly.

  “Thank you,” Yirella said. “Our priority has to be reaching the Salvation of Life and all the other ships holding human cocoons.”

  “The scale of the enclave star system, and its resources, is at the upper end of our projections. We understand the primacy of liberating the cocooned. However, if that proves unobtainable, our fallback position must be the successful elimination of the Olyix’ ability to continue their crusade. Humans can resume a more normal existence if this nemesis is destroyed.”

  “No,” Yirella said. “I can’t countenance this. We exist to liberate our cocooned cousins.”

  “And every effort will be made to achieve this. But, genesis human, please consider the nature of the weapons that are going to be deployed—by both sides. Somewhere in the gateway system are mechanisms for breaking apart entire planets.”

  “In the past,” Dellian said.

  “Yes. But we cannot ignore the possibility that they still exist. The sheer number of Deliverance and Resolution ships available to deploy against our armada means that the destructive energies to be unleashed is phenomenal. And that is just on the Olyix side. We are bringing a neutron star to this battlefield to fire into their star. There will be a nova—probably a supernova. Our losses will be significant. You must prepare yourself for casualties.”

  “Casualties, yes. Failure, no.”

  “We will develop the best possible strategy. There are still too many unknowns to guarantee victory. I’m sorry, but this is not a war that will result in absolutes. Like the Saints, we will endeavor all we have to accomplish the mission. That is all our ancestors can ask of us: that we tried our best. And this is the best, our omega.”

  “We know,” Dellian said before Yirella could start arguing. He knew her. “And we stand with you. All the squads do.”

  “Appreciate that, Dellian,” Ainsley said. “So let’s get that new congress of determination started, shall we?”

  SAINTS

  OLYIX ENCLAVE

  Callum took the bowl of salmon and asparagus risotto out of the food printer’s base slot and put it in the microwave that he set for ninety seconds. While that was heating up, he waited for the printer to finish conjuring up his garlic bread. The microwave pinged, and he opened the door to inhale the meal’s aroma. Faint traces of vapor were rising off the glistening rice. It smelled wonderful—

  Bloody hell!

  “Hey, those sensing cells on the pipe trunk leaves outside, are they olfactory along with everything else?” he asked urgently.

  Jessika and Yuri were slouched on their rock shelves, receiving the dream that was the onemind’s thoughtstream. Kandara and Alik were sitting together, him with a beer, she sipping a white wine. They all looked at Callum.

  “Well?” he asked, one hand gesturing to the steaming bowl. “Does the onemind have a sense of smell inside the Salvation?”

  Jessika glanced at the risotto and frowned. “There are some leaves budding off the trunks that are sensitive to atmospheric composition. I wouldn’t call it smell, exactly. The ability is used to detect if there’s an imbalance in the gas mix—too much carbon dioxide building up, that kind of thing.”

  Callum stared down at his risotto suspiciously. “Yeah, but the molecules this is giving off have a terrestrial signature, right? The onemind must have a record of them.”

  Now everyone was looking at Jessika. “Possibly,” she admitted. “I’m not sure about the sensitivity levels, mind.”

  “If we’re cooking food in here for a couple of years, there’s damn well going to be a buildup of smells, that’s for sure,” Callum said. “They’ll drift into the corridor outside. Food smells always do. I remember walking through Edinburgh late on Saturday nights.”

  “What are you saying, man?” Alik asked. He held up his beer. “I have to give this up?”

  Callum shrugged. “Water is neutral.”

  “Fuck that!”

  “Cold food is less effervescent,” Kandara said thoughtfully.

  “Effervescent?” Alik sounded astonished.

  “Evaporation. Hot food gives off more odor.”

  “You’re saying we eat Goddamn cold sandwiches for ten years?”

  “Callum may have a point,” Jessika said.

  “Jez-us H. Christ almighty. No fucking way.”

  The food printer flashed a ready light, and the garlic bread slid out of the slot. Callum gave it a guilty look.

  “Garlic is quite strong,” Yuri said. “Worse if you heat it.”

  Callum badly wanted to glare at Yuri, who was clearly channeling the devil at peak temptation. But that would’ve given Yuri a win.

  “Seriously, cold food?” Alik asked. “What about—aww, crap—coffee? No! Come on, man.”

  Kandara nodded sagely. “I think Callum may be right. We shouldn’t take the risk.”

  “I am not spending what’s left of my life drinking…” Alik shouted—then took a breath and spoke quietly. “Water.”

  “Vodka has little effervescence,” Yuri said with low amusement. “And is best served iced in the correct Russian way. Even fewer stray molecules given off that way.”

  Alik gave a cry of disgust, throwing his hands up.

  Callum awarded the garlic bread a last resentful gaze and dropped it in the toilet pan. The flush swirled it away into the atomizer unit at the bottom of the nutrient formulator. At least there was nothing he could do about the risotto now but eat it.

  “The G8Turing should be able to suggest a decent low-emissive menu for us,” Kandara said.

  “Wait.” Jessika held a hand up. “There’s another ship arrived: the Liberation from Ignorance.”

  Startled, Callum’s limbs locked in an idiot pose, fully laden fork just centimeters in front of his open mouth. “At the gas giant?”

  “No. Into the enclave. It just came through the gateway. I can feel its thoughts being unified within the fullmind. Oh, shit!”

  “What?” Yuri asked sharply.

  “They sent a…they called it a Reconciliation Fleet, to Earth. The Liberation from Ignorance is the first to come back. It’s full.”

  “Full?” Callum said. He knew what she meant, but still…

  “Of cocoons.”

  “Oh, Christ, no. How can that be? We’ve only been here— Oh. Right. Slowtime. It must have been years outside.”

  “Couple of decades, at least,” Kandara said. “More when you take the wormhole flight time to Sol and back. Say thirty.”

  “We’ve not been in the enclave two full days yet,” Alik protested.

  She directed a mocking smile his way. “Really slow time.”

  “What happened?” Yuri asked.

  “Earth fell,” Jessika said. “They sent in thousands of Resolution ships. They broke the city shields. They cocooned everyone left on the planet. Billions of us. Billions!”

  “What about the settled worlds?” Alik asked.

  “The Liberation from Ignorance feels sad, sort of incomplete,” Jessika said. “Our terraformed worlds were practically deserted when the Olyix arrived. The exodus habitats had all portaled out, and the Olyix couldn’t find out where.”

  “Thank God for that,” Callum said. “They did it. They got out across the galaxy. There’s still hope.” Somehow he was wiping moisture from his eyes, not knowing how it got there. The kids are safe. Damn, they’ll be old by now; the grandkids will probably have children of their own. At this rate it won’t be much longer—not even a week—and they’ll have lived more years than me. And they’ll never know I’m still alive, that we made it.

  “That wen
t better than I expected,” Yuri said. “They got out—Emilja and the Zangaris, even Soćko, presumably. They know what they have to do. We got the easy assignment, now.”

  “Easy?” Alik challenged.

  “Sit and wait,” Callum said. “And work out how to call the human armada. When it comes.”

  * * *

  —

  Callum had a fitful sleep that night. In his short, vivid dream he walked through nighttime Edinburgh, back in the good old days, him and his pals, making their way to someone’s flat after the pubs had closed. The paved clear routes were slick with a cold rain washing down from the Scottish Highlands, reflecting jagged streaks of streetlighting and hologram ads. Then the lights went out one by one, leaving him alone, staggering through a canyon of stone buildings, their walls shifting out of alignment. There was some light remaining in the dwindling city—the windows of kebab shops and chippies and burger joints and pizzerias and noodle bars. People were crammed inside; elements of grills and ovens glared lava-orange, casting occult glows over drawn faces—faces that were losing their features, melting away to ovals of flesh. And the fat smoke rose from charring food, billowing up into the extractor fans. Jets of rank smog flooded out across the street, their stench unavoidable. And in the gutters, rodent noses twitched behind the bars of the drains, pushing up toward the source—

  “Cal?”

  He cried out as the dream juddered away. Jessika’s face was poised above him, concern on her gentle features. “You were crying out in your sleep,” she explained. “Bad dream?”

  “Something like that. What time is it?” He unzipped the side of his sleeping bag. Cool air slithered over him. I need a thicker sleeping bag.

  “Five in the morning, on the ship’s time we’re keeping.”

  “Uh, right. Thanks. And sorry.” The light in the cavern was a minimal glimmer, allowing the shadows to loom large, compressing his world still further. Just like in the nightmare.

  “The G8Turing has reconstituted the formula for milk,” she said. “It’s less of an aerosol with its molecules now. I can warm some for you, if you like.”