Pandora's Star

by Peter F. Hamilton

  When she arrived in the office the next morning, she was surprised that Hoshe was already behind his desk and running through forty-year-old files from City Hall. Even staying awake for half the night, she wasn’t exactly late.

  ‘I can’t believe how much construction work there was in the city forty years ago,’ he complained as soon as she’d sat down at her desk. ‘It’s like half of Darklake wasn’t here. I don’t remember it being so much smaller, and I’ve lived here for sixty years myself.’

  Paula glanced over to the big wall-mounted portal he’d activated. It showed a detailed map of Darklake City, with a lot of green lights pinpointing building activity forty years ago, both civic and private. ‘Don’t forget to include things like roadworks for at least a couple of months after the murder. I know that will increase the search area dramatically, but that uncertainty makes them a prime possibility.’

  He didn’t say anything, but his expression soured further.

  ‘I’ve finished my analysis,’ she said. ‘I’ll help with your search. Divide the city into two, and I’ll take one half.’

  ‘Right.’ Hoshe instructed his e-butler. ‘What did you find in the accounts?’

  ‘It confirmed my theory. But it’s hardly evidence we can take to court, at least not alone.’

  ‘You mean, we need the bodies?’

  ‘They’ll certainly help. Once we’ve established it’s a murder, then the circumstantial evidence will be enough to convict him. I hope.’

  Hoshe looked up at the map in the portal. ‘This is an awful lot of field work for our forensic people. They’re good, but there’s only so many available. It could take months. Longer.’

  ‘It’s taken forty years so far, they’re not going anywhere. And once we’ve locked down every site, I’ll call in some teams from the Directorate. That should help speed things along.’

  Mel Rees knocked on the open door and came in. Paula gave him a surprised look, then frowned. The deputy director always handed out her assignments in person. For him to visit a field operation, it had to be something big. He looked nervous, too.

  ‘How’s the case going?’ he asked.

  ‘As of yesterday, I have a suspect,’ she said warily.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He shook hands with Hoshe. ‘I’ve had some good reports about you, Detective. Do you think you’ll be able to close this one by yourself now?’

  Hoshe glanced at Paula. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘He will,’ Paula said. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  *

  After the Second Chance launched from the assembly platform, it had taken the SI a further three minutes to crack the last fireshield in the gateway control centre datanet. The CST security team had marched in twenty minutes after that, once Rob Tannie had agreed to an unconditional surrender. The only promise CST made was not to shoot him and his colleagues on the spot. As it happened, the other two chose to suicide before the team got through the door, wiping their memorycells as they did so.

  A fresh group of wormhole operation technicians rushed in as Rob was unceremoniously hauled away in handcuffs, leg restraints, and neural override collar. They took two hours to run checks on the systems and reopen the gateway next to the starship in its new, highly elliptical, orbit. By then, what remained of the complex was under the strict control of CST security forces. The surrounding area was isolated and swept clean by the Commonwealth Security Directorate. A squadron of FTY897 combat aerobots had taken up patrol of the perimeter; the smooth dark ellipsoids were ultra-modern and equipped with the kind of weaponry capable of taking out pitiful antiques like Alamo Avengers with a single shot.

  The assembly platform survivors were brought back down to the planet. Fresh crews were taken up to assess the ship’s status and secure exposed equipment against further vacuum degradation. Procedures were drawn up to establish a new assembly platform around the ship.

  Five hours after the first explosion signalled the start of the assault, Wilson Kime stepped out of the gateway to spontaneous applause and cheers from the complex staff, and a bearhug from Nigel Sheldon. The CST media office broadcast the captain’s triumphant return to an audience almost as big as the assault itself had attracted. After that, he gave half a dozen interviews, thanked everyone involved for their tremendous effort, cracked a few jokes, didn’t speculate too hard on who had launched the attack, but said he was fairly sure it wasn’t the Dyson Alpha aliens themselves, promised that he’d come through the ordeal more determined than ever to complete the mission, and finished up saying he’d donate his hazard bonus to a local children’s medical charity. Anshun police gave his car an escort of eight outriders back to his flat in the city.

  Wilson woke with a smile on his face. When he turned over, Anna’s dark hair tickled his nose. She was curled up on the gellmattress beside him, one arm round her head like a small child warding off bad dreams. A whole series of delightful memories – and a deliciously wicked one – drifted through Wilson’s head. He kissed her shoulder. ‘Good morning.’

  She stretched with a cat’s lethargy, giving him a sleepy grin. ‘That’s a horribly smug smile you’re wearing there, mister.’

  ‘Yeah? I wonder what could have put it there?’

  She giggled as he slid his arms round her. One hand stroked down her spine until it came to rest on her rump. ‘Was it this?’ His other hand squeezed a small beautifully shaped breast, mercilessly tweaking the nipple. ‘Or this?’ He kissed her neck, moved round to her mouth to smother the giggling. ‘This?’

  One of her hands wriggled down between them, gripping.

  ‘Wa-how!’

  ‘Might have been that,’ she laughed.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He started to tickle her ribs. She retaliated. It turned into a mild wrestling contest, which soon developed into a much more intimate body contact sport.

  In the end she grinned down victoriously from her position straddling his hips. ‘Well whadda ya know: it is true what danger does to a man.’

  He could hardly deny it. Last night had been all about survival, his body celebrating with its most basic physical reaction. The amount of relief he’d experienced when the Second Chance had risen above the spaceplanes had actually produced the shakes (which thankfully only Anna had witnessed). The others on board – the youngsters – had been delighted, ecstatic even, with their dramatic escape; but the prospect of dying hadn’t been too much for them to stand.

  Wilson had never quite realized before how scared he was of dying, especially now. It wasn’t something today’s society could understand, not with all the expectation of rejuvenation and re-life procedures instilled from birth. The post-2050 generation knew they could live a good chunk of forever, it was their right. He thought his fear might have come from growing up in a time when there was only one life, then you died. The idea that memories could be saved and downloaded to animate a genetically identical body was a reassuring crutch for everyone else. But he couldn’t quite convince himself that was a continuation of his current existence. There would be a discontinuity, a gap between what he was now, and what that future Kime would remember being. A difference; a copy that was flawless was still a copy, not the original. People got round the dilemma by saying that every morning when you woke the only link to your past was memory, therefore waking in a new body was just an extended version of that ordinary nightly loss of consciousness. It wasn’t enough for him. His body, this body, was his life. The longer he lived in it, the more that identifying link was hardened. Three hundred plus years had produced a rock-solid conviction which nothing could break.

  ‘I don’t think I’d survive another dangerous night like that one,’ he told her, still panting slightly.

  She folded her arms across his chest, and bent forward until her chin was resting on her hands, putting their faces inches apart. ‘What’s ship regulations about the captain sleeping with the lower ranks?’

  ‘The captain is very much in favour of it.’
/>
  A finger tapped on his sternum. ‘You do have a sense of humour.’

  ‘Carefully hidden, but cherished nonetheless.’

  ‘So what do we do tonight if there isn’t an attack?’

  He pursed his lips in mock thought. ‘Practise just in case?’

  ‘My diary’s free.’

  ‘You don’t have anyone?’

  ‘No. Not for ages, actually. Too damn busy with my new job. You?’

  ‘Not really. I haven’t been married since my last rejuvenation. Some affairs, but nothing serious.’

  ‘Good.’ She straightened up. ‘I’d better get a shower. Do you really want to meet up again tonight? Last chance for a clean getaway.’

  ‘I would like to meet up again tonight.’

  ‘Me too.’ She gave him a quick kiss. ‘Life’s too uncertain not to try and keep hold of something good. Yesterday really made that clear to me like nothing else. Nobody’s ever tried to kill me before.’

  ‘You did a magnificent job up there. Combat stress is hardly something you’re used to. I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Have you been through something like that before?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I’ve seen active military service. It was a long time ago, though. Not that you ever really forget, not even with rejuvenation editing.’

  ‘Did you—’ She hesitated. ‘Kill anyone?’

  ‘Honestly? I’m not sure. I certainly shot at a lot of people. You don’t hang around to see the result. Slam on the after-burners, and head for home almost before the missile’s left the rail.’

  ‘It’s hard to think how old you are. I just know you as a corporate chief. I had to run a search program to dig up the Ulysses story.’

  ‘Ancient history. If you accessed it recently you probably know more about it than me.’

  ‘But you did it, though. You travelled through space in a ship. It can be done.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call that mission an unqualified success.’

  ‘Oh, but Wilson, it was! You reached Mars. Millions and millions of kilometres from Earth. It doesn’t matter that Sheldon and Isaac found another way. Don’t denigrate what you did. After all, look who needs you now.’

  ‘Sheldon. Yeah, I suppose that’s poetic justice. You know what he said to me yesterday after we got back? He just fixed me with that smartass smile of his and said: You’re having a ball, aren’t you? He was right, too, the bastard. It felt so right flying the starship. We did it on a wing and a prayer. And we won! It’s like everything I’ve done since Ulysses was an interlude, I’ve been marking time for three centuries.’

  ‘And now you’re doing what you were born to do.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  She looked down at her body, then his. Her expression became coy. ‘There’s a question a lot of us on the project have speculated about. You don’t have to answer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All those months on Ulysses. It was a mixed crew. You were all young and fit. The whole voyage was in freefall.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. That’s classified government information.’

  ‘Classified, huh?’

  ‘Yes. But let me just say this: the longer you spend continuously in freefall, the more immune you get to motion sickness. Even vigorous motion.’

  ‘Really? A long time acclimatizing.’

  He gave her an evil grin. ‘Worth every minute of the wait.’

  ‘It better be,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve really got to take that shower now. I’m supposed to be on duty in another ten minutes.’

  ‘Take the day off. Tell them the boss said it was okay.’

  Anna scrambled off the bed. ‘Uh?’

  ‘That door.’ He pointed. There hadn’t been much time to show her round the apartment last night. Clothes were coming off before the door shut.

  ‘Thanks.’ Another giggle, and she headed for the bathroom. ‘At least you don’t have to ask what my name is.’

  ‘Certainly don’t, Mary.’

  One of his slippers flew across the room and hit him on the leg. ‘Ow!’ The door closed. As the sound of the shower began, Wilson put his hands behind his head and stared happily up at the ceiling. Given that yesterday he’d nearly been killed, this really wasn’t a bad way to start a brand-new morning.

  *

  Not even the sight of the badly damaged complex brought down his mood. As he approached along the heavily guarded highway, thin trails of dark smoke were still leaking up into the sky from the ruined power plant. The missing circular administration tower was still a shock. Debris was piled high where the big atrium used to be, and most of the windows on the remaining two towers were either cracked or missing. Firebots picked their way delicately over the fragments of glass and concrete that sprawled out from the base, occasionally spraying out a jet of white foam. Medical salvage crews were working alongside the firebots, sending smaller remote sensors down into the rubble. They were seeking out bodies to remove their memorycell inserts ready for re-life.

  Emergency vehicles had taken over the car park, so Wilson parked on an unused piece of lawn and got out. Oscar was standing watching the work parties in a group of several office staff and a squad of uniformed CST security guards.

  ‘Morning, Captain,’ he said, and saluted. Everyone around him abruptly straightened up.

  ‘Morning,’ Wilson replied. He didn’t bother with returning the salute. Outside genuine military circles there was little point. ‘Where do we stand?’ Before he’d left last night, he’d discussed the immediate problems with Oscar and left his deputy to it.

  ‘The starship is okay, all critical on-board equipment is stable and holding. There were enough back-up and redundant systems lying round down here to re-establish most of the umbilical feeds overnight. We’re going to keep her like that until we can secure her inside an assembly platform again. The malmetal manufacturer hopes to deliver a viable globe to us in another four days. Once that’s in place, we can perform a more detailed examination.’

  ‘Good.’ Wilson nodded at the sagging ruin of the closest assessment hall. ‘And the complex?’

  ‘That’s going to take a bit longer. Security wants to verify the place safe first, make sure the terrorists didn’t leave any nasty little booby traps behind. Once that’s done we can clear the site, and start the rebuild. With the Second Chance so far along her schedule, we won’t need the full suite of facilities down here again, so a lot of the work will just be patch-up operations. CST’s civil engineering division is preparing a bunch of appropriate equipment as we speak; as soon as we give them the go-ahead, they’ll move straight in.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve done a good job, Oscar, thank you.’

  ‘Least I could do. Wish I’d been here yesterday.’

  ‘Believe me, you don’t. I suppose security is eager to implement a whole new set of procedures?’

  ‘Oh yeah. We’re going to have to make some decisions about that and review our new assembly program today. I put off the biggies until you got in.’

  ‘Right. I’ll get on it. Do I have an office?’

  ‘I took over chemical systems building three for senior staff. Oh, and there’s some security people who want to see you now.’

  ‘They can wait.’

  Oscar gave him an uncomfortable look. ‘It might be a good idea to get it done and over with. Mr Sheldon suggested it.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  *

  The last Alamo Avenger had been shot by an FTY897 as it was charging through assessment hall seven on its way to the gateway. An atom laser had pierced clean through its force field to strike the main body with devastating consequences. It had been severed in two as its primary power cells exploded. The blast flung the sections apart, smashing the forward part into racks of delicate fuselage panel stress test equipment, while the smaller rear portion had buried itself into the composite wall, which had promptly collapsed on it, leaving the overhead ceiling dangerously unsupported. One of the legs had been ripped off, embedding itsel
f in the concrete floor.

  A CST security tech force had spent the night de-bugging and powering down the wreckage. Small red tags fluttered from every element, confirming it was now inert and harmless. There were so many of them they made it seem like some abnormal Chinese parade monster. Paula walked slowly around the upturned front section, bending down to inspect one of the shattered sensor clumps on the head. The Director of the Serious Crimes Directorate, Rafael Columbia, was standing in the middle of the damaged assessment hall along-side Mel Rees, the pair of them watching her as she performed her little inspection of the dead armoured monstrosity. Both looked unhappy as water left behind by the fire sprinkler deluge dripped off the overhead beams. Their expensive shoes were already soaked from walking through all the puddles.

  Paula ran a finger over the battered polyalloy armour, feeling the thin carbon ablation blisters crumple like ancient paper below her nail. ‘Not bad for a hundred-and-fifty-year-old weapon,’ she acknowledged. ‘They were lucky Captain Kime was in orbit to take charge.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Mel Rees said.

  ‘I would have preferred CST to be luckier somewhat earlier,’ Rafael Columbia told the deputy director. ‘The current estimate is one hundred and seven people killed, and another eighteen so far unaccounted for. They’re still calculating the financial loss, but it won’t be less than two billion. And we had no prior warning. None. This is the single most destructive act of criminal terrorism we have known in the last century. The death toll in nationalist succession movements adds up over time, but this . . .’ His arm swept round, a gesture taking in the smashed hall. ‘This is our failure. It is a challenge to the Directorate’s very credibility to perform its designated task. I will not tolerate this appalling violation of law and order.’

  ‘We’ll get them,’ Mel Rees said. ‘No question of that.’

  ‘Your division has had decades on this case. I expected better.’