Judas Unchained

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Ozzie stood motionless at the base of a rubbery globe tree, leaning against its elasticated branches. Not that they bent much anymore, they were so old and wizened. Okay, either I’m hallucinating or someone has done a superb hack job on the handheld array. No, Orion and Tochee don’t remember. So it was a hallucination. Or a vision. But why would I be led here?

  He took a good look around the gloomy jungle floor with its cracked polyp and dusty soil. There were no tracks in the thin dirt. Nothing moved, nothing lived here. He activated every sensor he had, and turned a complete circle. Nothing registered in any spectrum.

  “I don’t get this,” he said out loud. Almost, he expected some bass voice to answer from the treetops.

  “Friend Ozzie, I cannot see a clearing.”

  “No, me neither. The files must have been jumbled up when we landed. The array took quite a few knocks.”

  “Can we go back now?” Orion asked. “I don’t like it here, it’s all dismal and dead.”

  “Sure thing.” He was a lot more cheerful than he had any right to be. Something’s happening. I just wish I could figure out what.

  ***

  It was a miserable duty, but then Lucius Lee was used to that by now. He’d been granted the rank of probationary detective three months ago in the city’s NorthHarbor precinct, and all he’d done since then was sort out a whole load of data files and reports for the two senior detectives he’d been assigned to for his probationary year. When the three of them ever did venture out of the office he was the one who had to do all the boring stuff like cataloguing crime scenes, directing forensic bots, and interviewing low-grade witnesses; he also got the night shift in stakeouts. Like this one: Sitting in a beat-up old Ford Feisha in an underground garage below the Chantex building at twenty past four in the morning, looking out across a concrete cavern illuminated by green-tined polyphoto strips that should have been replaced years ago. There were fifteen other cars parked on the same level; he knew them intimately by now.

  Why the hell they couldn’t use a decent covert sensor for this he didn’t know. Marhol, the detective sergeant who was his official mentor, said it was “good experience.” Which was such bullshit.

  The real problem was ancient enough to be laughable. A punk gang had been carjacking luxury models out of NorthHarbor and—big mistake—one belonged to the rich girlfriend of a councillor’s son. City Hall wanted a Result. Automated systems couldn’t do that, not quickly. So here he was waiting on a tip from one of Marhol’s dubious informers, who were actually more like drinking buddies.

  Marhol had taken Lucius along to the bar for the meeting, presumably so he could witness the expense claim. So he had to sit there while this zero of an informant who couldn’t have been over twenty and had big dependency problems claimed the cars were actually being ripped off by the Stuhawk gang out of SouthCentral. He should know, he was running with the JiKs, who like owned NorthHarbor, and they weren’t doing it. The Stuhawks had stupidly got themselves into big debt with a professional syndicate who’d simply given them a mechanic and a list. They did the scout, and provided muscle. But they scouted cars around NorthHarbor, not their own district. It was a turf war.

  For such crap the Tridelta City taxpayer had to reimburse Marhol’s beer tab for a week.

  Four twenty-one. The lift doors opened. A man emerged. He was smaller than usual, for an age when rejuvenation could add inches to anyone’s frame for almost no additional cost. Skinny, too; his shirt had short sleeves showing arms that were mostly bone. His hands were out of proportion, big and covered in grime. First impression was a first-lifer in his fifties. But then Lucius started to pay attention. The guy had confidence, strutting across the concrete as if he were a Dynasty chief walking into his harem. He was wide awake, too; not someone who’d been working a late shift upstairs.

  Lucius started to breathe faster. There was no way this guy was part of some punk gang. In fact, Lucius was pretty sure he wasn’t a first-life at all; that cool self-assurance didn’t belong to anyone under a hundred. Maybe the informant had been right. The Stuhawks were muscle for a syndicate. Lucius was suddenly very interested.

  The mechanic walked over to a midnight-black Mercedes FX 3000p, a brand-new Hi-range saloon, with a list price of over a hundred thousand Earth dollars. That price included a superb security system; the drive array program was virtually an RI in its own right. It wouldn’t let anyone take control without the owner’s approval.

  Lucius was waiting until the man tried to break the car open. That was when he would make the arrest; and he was quietly thankful there were no Stuhawks with him. An arrest swiftly followed by a successful interrogation would be the kind of proactive police work that the councillor wanted to see. Not that Lucius would get any credit; it would no doubt be filed as Marhol’s arrest.

  The mechanic made a slow circle of the gleaming vehicle, regarding it with respectful approval. Lucius was amazed at the mechanic’s audacity; he wasn’t really thinking of taking the Merc, was he? Then Lucius remembered some Commonwealth-wide alert for a grade-A mechanic coming into the precinct a while back. This man was certainly A-grade, for arrogance if nothing else. He told his e-butler to find the file.

  The mechanic was about to put his hand on the Merc’s front door i-spot when he froze. Lucius held his own breath. The mechanic looked around the near-empty garage until his gaze found the Ford Feisha. His lips moved up in a dry smile, and he started to walk over.

  “Ohshit,” Lucius muttered. There was no way anyone could see through the Ford’s secure glass no matter how good their retinal inserts were, but somehow the mechanic had become aware of him. He drew his ion pistol and flipped the safety. It was then he realized he’d probably revealed himself by using the unisphere. Even with the police-secure encryption there had been an electronic emission from the car. In a deserted garage. In the small hours. “Oh, brilliant, Lucius,” he told himself bitterly. “Just brilliant.”

  To compound the error, his e-butler delivered the requested file for him. Navy intelligence wanted to question Robin Beard, a known criminal specializing in car crime. A lot of biographical data ran across Lucius’s virtual vision. Several pictures accompanied it. With a few easy differences, they matched the man who was now three meters from the hood.

  So far, Beard hadn’t drawn any kind of weapon. Lucius gripped his pistol tighter.

  Beard smiled at the nonreflective black glass windshield, and put his hand on the Ford’s i-spot. His whole forearm glowed red and green as OCtattoos turned active.

  Lucius jumped as a nasty clunk reverberated around the car’s interior. The locks had all engaged. Three red lights started flashing on the dashboard. There was a nasty burning smell.

  “If I were you,” Beard said, “I’d be very careful what you touch in there. Your car’s superconductor batteries are malfunctioning; they’re feeding their power directly into the body frame. So don’t lay a hand on anything metallic. Oh, and anything that ionizes the air will also act as a conductor. To take an example at random: an ion pistol shot fired through the window. Whoever was holding that pistol would be fried in the discharge. Ever see somebody struck by lightning? They say their eyeballs boil and burst while their tongue chars to black meat.”

  The ion pistol dropped out of Lucius’s startled fingers, clattering onto the floor. He flinched.

  Robin Beard smiled at the faint sound. “Not to worry, the batteries don’t have much charge left. They should be drained by noon.” He turned on a heel and walked back to the black Merc.

  A red warning flowed across Lucius’s virtual vision, telling him his connection to the unisphere had dropped out. He watched through the window as Beard put his hand on the Merc’s i-spot. He wasn’t surprised when the door opened. Less than thirty seconds later, the big sleek car slid smoothly onto the garage’s exit ramp and up into the remarkable beauty that was night on Illuminatus.

  ***

  The day the starships were due to arrive at the star system where
Hell’s Gateway was located, the navy increased its observation of the Lost23. Wilson sat in his white office reviewing the information as it came in. Anna was with him acting as communications officer; Oscar qualified for his place as senior staff officer; Rafael completed the navy contingent. Justine Burnelli was there on behalf of the Senate, sitting as far as possible from Rafael, while Patricia Kantil represented the Executive, although President Doi maintained an ultra-secure real-time link; as did Nigel Sheldon, who presumably was in touch with the other Dynasty leaders—Wilson didn’t ask. Dimitri Leopoldovich arrived a few minutes late, and took a seat next to Patricia; he ignored the cool reception he received from the navy officers.

  The navy started opening wormholes above the Lost23. They were the same type that were used to communicate with the insurgency troops that were operating against Prime installations. This time, they opened a considerable distance away from the planet, several million kilometers, clear of the heavy Prime orbital defenses. Sensors slid out into spacetime, and scanned for the quantum distortion signatures of wormholes. They detected a total of eight hundred sixty-four wormholes linking the Lost23 back to the Hell’s Gateway star system.

  “I thought our troops had blown up several planet-based gateways,” Patricia said.

  “Twenty-seven to date,” Rafael confirmed. “On average the Primes take three days to reopen them and assemble a new gateway mechanism.”

  “What are our losses?”

  “A hundred seventeen reported fatalities,” Wilson said proudly. “That’s a lot better than our projected damage ratio. We’re hurting them badly.”

  “We’re tying up resources,” Dimitri said. “I wouldn’t call that inflicting damage, exactly.”

  Rafael gave him a very cold look.

  An hour and a half before the expected attack time, seven hundred seventy-two Prime wormholes shut down.

  “Holy shit!” Oscar exclaimed. He half rose from his chair, as if he could get closer to the data that the holographic portal was projecting across half the room. Wilson’s face lit up in a huge smile.

  “Too early to open the champagne?” Rafael inquired lightly. He grinned at Wilson.

  “We did it?” Patricia inquired delightedly.

  “No,” Dimitri said firmly. He was studying the data in the big display. “There are exactly four wormholes remaining on each planet. We know the Primes use base four; so it is deliberate. They’re maintaining communications with their new colonies. Therefore they shut down the other wormholes, not us.”

  “You don’t know that,” Oscar said.

  “If our attack had been successful enough to knock out over seven hundred wormhole generators, it would have destroyed the remainder at the same time. This is an organized switch, not the result of a strike by Douvoir missiles.”

  Wilson wanted to tell Dimitri to shut the hell up. His hopes had soared with the disappearance of the wormholes. And he needed that boost badly after the shock of realizing the navy was compromised. But what the StPetersburg strategist was saying made uncomfortable sense. Don’t shoot the messenger.

  “When will we know for certain?” President Doi asked.

  “Not long,” Wilson said with outward calm; it was a polite lie.

  Five hours later the wormholes all reopened. A groan went around the office.

  “Your interpretation?” Justine asked Dimitri.

  “They beat off the attack,” the pale man said. For once he looked nervous, dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with a handkerchief. “I did say they would use everything they could to defend the staging post.”

  “So you did,” Rafael said.

  “What now?” President Doi asked. She sounded confused.

  “We need to find out what happened,” Wilson said.

  “They beat us,” Patricia said in an angry, scared voice. An arm gestured wildly at the display. “That much is bloody obvious.”

  “The technical details,” Wilson said. “How did they do it? That’s what’s important if we are to formulate a coherent response strategy.”

  “It’ll be five days at the earliest before the ships get back in communications range,” Nigel said.

  “If there are any ships remaining,” Dimitri said.

  “Enough from you,” Rafael told him hotly.

  Wilson held a hand up to his fellow admiral. “I know this is difficult—those were our friends and colleagues out there—but we have to be realistic.”

  “We cannot afford five days,” Dimitri said. “Madam President, it is imperative that we arm our remaining starships with the Seattle Project quantumbuster weapons. The Prime aliens retain the ability to launch an immediate strike at us. They now have no reason to delay.”

  “Yes,” Doi said. “I’ve seen your earlier recommendations. Admiral Kime?”

  “Madam President.”

  “We will convene a full War Cabinet by ultra-secure link in thirty minutes. Please be ready to present your plans for using the Seattle quantumbusters in defense of the Commonwealth, and any alternatives.”

  “Very well, Madam President.”

  “Do we release the failure of our strike against Hell’s Gateway to the media?” Justine asked.

  “No,” Patricia said immediately. “We don’t know what happened. People will fear the worst, and we won’t be able to offer any details to reassure them.”

  “The news shows are expecting some kind of comment.”

  “Tough. We simply say we are unsure of the outcome, and we’re waiting for the starships to return.”

  “They’ll know something’s wrong,” Justine said. “If the strike had worked we’d be shouting it as hard as we could.”

  “We have five days until we have to admit anything is wrong,” Patricia said. “That’s enough time for me to prepare the groundwork. This had got to be handled perfectly if we’re to prevent panic.”

  Wilson couldn’t bring himself to look at Oscar as everyone except Rafael and Justine left the office. Dimitri had argued that the Primes would work out a counter to the Douvoir missiles because they already knew humans were capable of such an application. What if they were told, given exact details? I knew we’d been compromised, and I did nothing. All for fear of looking foolish.

  “Just so both of you know,” he told Rafael and Justine, “I’m going to recommend we deploy the quantumbusters as Dimitri suggested.” And pray we maintained some kind of integrity with their development.

  “That little shit,” Rafael grunted.

  “He’s always been right,” Wilson said. “And he’s only doing his job. Damnit, if we’d listened to him and equipped the starships with quantumbusters to attack Hell’s Gateway we might not be in this position.”

  “You can’t play what if, not at this level,” Rafael said. “We have to concentrate on the immediate threat.”

  “There wouldn’t be an immediate threat if we’d used the quantumbusters.”

  “We don’t even know that,” Rafael said. “Not for certain.”

  “It wasn’t the technology which let us down, we suffered a failure of will. We’re too civilized to push the genocide button.”

  “I’m glad,” Justine said. “That reluctance to exterminate any creature that might be a difficult problem defines us as a species. We don’t operate at their level. That’s got to be worth something.”

  “Not when you’re dead, it isn’t,” Wilson snapped angrily. He knew that he was actually scared and trying to cover, which in itself was pathetic. But the failure to eliminate Hell’s Gateway was profoundly shocking; and the implications even worse. Dimitri was right, they now had to contemplate the unthinkable.

  “Do you think Doi will authorize their use?” Justine said.

  “Sheldon will,” Rafael said. “He’s a realist. And I know the Halgarth Dynasty will support him, as will most of the others. Nobody was expecting today’s attack to fail so completely. We’re all still reeling from that; but the implication will sink in soon enough, and not just with us.” He s
hook his head in reluctant acknowledgment. “Dimitri and his nerd think tank were right. We weren’t hardheaded enough; we didn’t want to recognize what we’re actually facing, it’s too frightening.”

  Wilson nearly told him about the treachery on board the Second Chance, the existence of the Starflyer. But he retained enough of his political instinct to hold back. Coward, he taunted himself; but he needed Rafael’s whole-hearted support over the next few days; they simply had to work together. The human race couldn’t afford for them to make another mistake. The thought sent an evil shudder down his spine.

  It took the War Cabinet fifteen minutes to make its vote. The unanimous decision was to allow the navy to arm all its starships with quantumbuster weapons in readiness for any subsequent attack by the Prime aliens.

  Chapter Nine

  On the day two hundred years ago when CST’s exploratory division opened a wormhole above Illuminatus, the sight that materialized shocked the entire Operations Center into silence. They thought they had stumbled across the ultimate high-technology civilization, one that had urbanized every square kilometer of land. Directly beyond the wormhole opening, the planet hung in the black of space, darkside on. Every continent glowed a lambent aquamarine from shore to shore, shimmering softly in long undulations as thin clouds wafted overhead. Only mountains and the polar caps were devoid of light.

  The Operations Director extended a communications dish through the wormhole, and attempted to signal the occupants of the planetary city. Strangely, the electromagnetic bands remained silent apart from the warbled harmonies of the ionosphere as it was showered by solar wind. Then the full sensor returns began to build up, providing a provisional analysis. The light didn’t have a technological origin. It was purely biological.

  Every time Adam Elvin visited Illuminatus he forgot to pack any decent short-sleeved linen shirts. It was his old city-boy mentality; he just never expected a climate quite so humid in an urban area. Nobody built cities in the middle of a jungle. It wasn’t civilized. Nor was it commercially viable, either. Except here.