Judas Unchained

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Stig called Keely McSobel, who was on duty in the room above the Halkin Ironmongery store. “Anything near us?” he asked.

  “No, you’re cool, the Scottish quarter’s pretty quiet. But they’re really pouring their people into 3F Plaza. It’s not just troops, either. Some tech types are in the gateway control building.”

  “Damn, that’s not good. Can you snoop around inside?”

  “That’s the second problem. The city net’s links to CST’s center are being eliminated. I think they’re physically cutting them.”

  “Dreaming heavens, are we going to be able to get our calls through?”

  “I’m not sure. I managed to get a scrutineer inside CST’s arrays. It can’t send much back without being detected now they’ve cut the bandwidth, but from what I can make out the Institute is setting up censor programs on all the Half Way channels. Any call going out through the link to the Commonwealth unisphere will be examined, same for anything coming in.”

  “Bloody hell.” Stig finished his orange juice and pulled out a pure-nicotine cigarette. “Good job, Keely. We’re going to scout around 3F Plaza.”

  “Be careful.”

  They collected the sandwiches and coffee, and he started to tell Olwen about the Institute’s latest accomplishment as they walked along toward Mantana Avenue, which was the quickest route to 3F Plaza.

  “That’s very provocative,” she said carefully. “Especially on top of everything else this city is putting up with.”

  “Yeah.” He lit the cigarette. “They’ve already armor-plated the route from the gateway to Highway One, now this. It can only mean one thing.”

  “The Starflyer’s coming,” she said it with a knowing gleam in her eyes. It was the moment every Guardian dreamed of. The showdown with their enemy. The planet’s revenge.

  “Yeah.”

  They were very visible going down Mantana Avenue, the broad thoroughfare that linked First Foot Fall Plaza with the main government district. With a little uncharacteristic flourish of ambition, city planners had laid out a three-lane road as a transport centerpiece between the biggest commercial market and storage zone in the city and the civil servants who sought to regulate it. Then a wealthy Russian émigré had gifted the city with a thousand saplings of newly sequenced GM maple fur poplars. The trees were all planted along Mantana, growing fifty meters tall, with leaves that resembled woolly magenta catkins. For nearly a century the arboreal avenue had been one of the city’s grandest sights, with the thick tall trees screening the road from the pavement.

  Now, over half of the trees had withered and died from a native fungal virus that had reestablished itself in the southern hemisphere and swept through the city a couple of decades back, spoiling the beautiful wall of drooping leaves that separated traffic from pedestrians. The Barsoomians had provided resistant saplings as replacements, but the uniformity of the avenue would never be regained now, and a lot of the saplings had been vandalized. It left long segments of the pavement exposed.

  Stig assumed an innocent, absorbed expression as yet another convoy of six-wheeled Land Rover Cruisers roared along the road toward 3F Plaza, hooting crossly at any other vehicle impertinent enough to be on the same route. The buildings set back from the avenue were three or four stories high, their elaborate faux-Napoleonic façades making them the most sought after addresses in Armstrong City. Their ground floors were individual shops, as exclusive as anything could be on Far Away; the offices above were mostly inhabited by lawyers and the local headquarters of big Commonwealth corporations, the only organizations that could afford the rent.

  “Where in the dreaming heavens is everyone else?” Olwen complained as the Cruisers disappeared ahead of them. Even for early morning, there were remarkably few pedestrians abroad; the traffic was reduced as well. Normally there would be a stream of vans and trucks and carts going in and out of 3F Plaza in preparation of the day’s commerce.

  “Bad news travels fast,” Stig told her.

  Half a kilometer from the Enfield entrance to 3F Plaza they took a side road off the avenue, and made their way through the clutter of secondary streets to Market Wall.

  “Stig,” Keely called. “Muriden says he’s seen a couple of guys loitering around the end of Gallstal Street; it’s the third time they’ve walked past.”

  “Damnit,” Stig exclaimed. Gallstal Street was only a few hundred meters away from the Halkin Ironmongery store. He and Olwen were now fifty meters from the base of Market Wall. The merchants in the archways were starting to open for business. Everyone seemed a lot more meek and restrained than usual. “Tell him to keep watching them; I want to know what they do next, if they’re just on a loop. And tell the other sentries to scan around.”

  “Aye, will do.”

  “And, Keely, prep for a crash evacuation.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, do it.”

  “What’s up?” Olwen asked as he scowled.

  “Possible reconnaissance on the store.” He was angry that he wasn’t there to make a proper evaluation. I ought to trust the others by now.

  “It was only a matter of time,” she said.

  “Right.”

  They reached the bottom of Market Wall, and started up one of the broad stone stairs that led to the raised souk. On the top, the stalls with their canopies of solarcloth and worn canvas shared the subdued air that infected the vendors at the base. He and Olwen did their best to blend in, but this hour was given over to chefs and owners of cafés and restaurants buying fresh food from bulk suppliers. It was like a massive extended family, with everybody knowing each other. So they wove through the ramshackle layout of tables and counters, ignoring the welcome smiles and promised bargains, trying not to be too obvious. When they reached the thick stone parapet, it was lined with cautiously curious people staring at events below. Stig edged through and glanced over. “Bloody hell.”

  It was as if an occupying army had landed in the middle of Armstrong City. A curving line of Range Rover Cruisers was parked in front of the gateway, their mounted kinetic weapons deployed and sweeping from side to side to protect the shimmering force field. More Cruisers were parked to block every entrance, except Enfield, where barriers and concrete cubes turned away all civilian traffic. The wide expanse of the Plaza was empty, something Stig had never seen before. The three big fountains were actually audible from the top of Market Wall as they pumped their white plumes into the air. Squads of Institute troops in flexarmor were going around the base of Market Wall, ordering the stallholders in the archways to shut up and go home. There were a few loud protestations, swiftly followed by the sounds of a brutal beating, screams, sobbing. The Institute was now in complete control here.

  “Keely, give me status on the link to Half Way, please,” Stig asked.

  “There are no links. They’ve cut every cable into the CST control center except two, and those both have monitor programs that I wouldn’t know how to circumvent. I’m sorry, Stig, there’s no direct line back to the Commonwealth anymore.”

  Stig clenched his jaw as he stared down at the dark armored figures strutting across the dusty plaza below. “What about Muriden?”

  “His two observers have gone, but Felix reports a possible in his zone.”

  “Okay, get out now, that’s an order. We’ll regroup our headquarters at fallback location three. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The connection ended. Stig waited a few moments, and told his e-butler to connect him to the Halkin Ironmongery store. The address was inoperative. He smiled in grim satisfaction. Keely and the others were acting professionally.

  “Let’s go,” he told Olwen.

  They retraced their path through the stalls, and started back down the broad stairs. “What do we do now?” Olwen asked.

  “I don’t know. And don’t tell the others that.”

  “Sure.”

  “Damnit, I should have seen this. I screwed up completely. If Adam makes his blockade run now,
they’ll come out into the biggest concentration of Starflyer firepower on the planet. And we can’t even warn him.”

  “You’ll find a way.”

  “Don’t say that, don’t just wish that everything will be all right. The Starflyer just secured the only route onto the planet.”

  “Johansson will see we’ve dropped out of communication; he’ll know the Starflyer is on its way back.”

  “There’s a difference between knowing and being able to do anything about it.” He glanced back at the sturdy stone and concrete edifice of Market Wall. “We might have to attack the Starflyer ourselves when it comes through.”

  “But…the planet’s revenge,” she said it in almost reverential tones.

  “The planet will be revenged if the Starflyer dies. I need to get our heavy-duty weapons ready. Just in case.”

  ***

  Like most senior Dynasty members, Campbell Sheldon kept a private residence on Earth. His was on an artificial island, Nitachie, that had been built in the Seychelles several hundred years ago when the natural archipelago was threatened by rising sea levels. The greenhouse effect never did achieve the worst-case scenarios that the more evangelical environmentalists claimed it would. Some of the smallest islands were swamped by exceptional high tides, but the relocation of the population to protected land never happened. Once the worst industrial polluters moved offplanet to the Big15, and the UFN Environment’s Commissioners introduced their onslaught of regulations, the climate began its turnaround toward the benign nineteenth-century ideal that was the goal to which the EcoGreen campaigners had dedicated themselves. The worst damage to the Seychelles in ecological terms was the coral bleaching, which had killed off thousands of reefs. Even that was being countered as new polyp was planted, allowing the magnificent coral to expand again.

  From her private hypersonic, Justine could just see the odd glimmer of light that indicated an island. The rest of the sea was pitch-black, there was no moon to shine off the water, and precious little starlight.

  They began to decelerate hard, the nose pitching up as the delta-wing plane began its long curve toward the ocean twenty kilometers below. Justine accessed the sensors in the needle nose as they descended. Nitachie was just visible against the dark water, a warm patch against the cooler sea. The island was square, five kilometers to a side; with long breakwaters extending out from the steep concrete walls, where white sand was building into deep curving beaches. Several lights twinkled around the solitary house, set above the northern side. As they swept in close she could see the glowing blue-green patch of a big oval swimming pool.

  Red and green strobes were flashing on the landing pad, a metal grid standing a couple of hundred meters offshore. The small hypersonic settled with only the slightest bump.

  Two of Justine’s Senate Security bodyguards walked down the air stairs. Only when they gave the all clear did she and Paula step outside. It was warm, even for the middle of the night. Justine breathed in the clean salt air, feeling quite invigorated after the cabin’s air-conditioned purity.

  Campbell Sheldon was standing at the side of the pad, flanked by his own security staff, dressed in a white and gold toweling robe. He yawned, trying to cover his mouth with his hand. “Good to see you,” he said, and gave Justine a small kiss on the cheek. “You okay? I accessed the reports from New York before I turned in.”

  “I’m fine.” She was amused to see he had threadbare slippers on his feet.

  “Sure.” Campbell was giving Paula a curious look. “Investigator. Always a pleasure.”

  “Mr. Sheldon.”

  “Do you mind if we go back into the hut?” Campbell asked. “I’m not even on Seychelles time yet.”

  “That would be nice,” Justine said.

  There were a couple of small carts parked on the edge of the landing platform. They drove the small party back along the causeway and up to the house. Architecturally, Campbell’s beach hut was all curving arches and glass bubbles. Even though the larger outside arches appeared to be open, they framed pressure curtains; a subtle air-conditioning cooled the interior, extracting the worst of the humidity. He led them into a big living room full of casual chairs. Justine sank down into soft white leather cushions, and nodded dismissal to the bodyguard team. Campbell’s own security team withdrew. An e-shield came on around the room.

  “Okay,” Campbell said, rubbing at his dark blond hair. “You have my full and complete attention. You get shot at by the most lethal assassin in existence, and the first thing you do is come and see me. Why?”

  “I came in person to emphasize how important this is to us. We need to know where the Sheldons stand on certain points, and I don’t have time for the usual Senate Hall talking-in-bullshit routine. I’m only a senator by default.”

  “A damn good one, I’d say. I access our Dynasty’s political office bulletin.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So ask away. I’ll answer whatever I can, and if I can’t I’ll tell you. We know each other well enough for that.”

  “Very well.” Justine leaned forward slightly. “There’s going to be a vote in the Security Oversight Committee, engineered by Valetta, to dismiss Paula from Senate Security. I need to know which way the Sheldons will vote.”

  Campbell gave her a strange look. It was clear the request wasn’t what he was expecting. He glanced at Paula, then back to Justine. “You came here for this?”

  “It’s the strategy behind it which is crucial,” Justine said. “And, Campbell, the answer must come from Nigel himself, I don’t want some aide in Jessica’s office to trot out a standard response.”

  Campbell gazed at Paula, clearly confused. “I don’t get this. Does the Senator know about Merioneth?”

  “No,” Paula said.

  Justine turned to the Investigator. She knew she’d just lost a considerable amount of momentum. “What’s Merioneth?” she asked in annoyance. Her e-butler flipped a file up into her virtual vision that told her Merioneth was an Independent world, which had left the Commonwealth over a century ago.

  “An old case,” Paula said.

  “For which our Dynasty was, and remains, deeply indebted to the Investigator,” Campbell said.

  “That’s the problem,” Paula said. “And why I’m here to back up the Senator. I do need to know your current policy toward me.”

  Campbell remained silent for a moment, his eyes studying data in his virtual vision. “This is connected with Illuminatus, not the assassination attempt. Right? One of your old team was some kind of infiltrator.”

  “Tarlo, yes. But this is connected with the assassination, too, and your Dynasty’s political strategy. The question about my future is the key to that.”

  “This is why I chose the development side of CST, not politics,” Campbell said. “The intrigue and backstabbings that you people…” He shuddered.

  “Can you get us the answer?” Justine inquired.

  “You want me to ask Nigel personally if the Dynasty is trying to fire Paula?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Right,” he said briskly. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what you get. Hang on a moment.” He closed his eyes and sank back in the thick cushions of his own chair.

  Justine turned to Paula. “Merioneth?”

  “Long story from a long time ago. I took a holiday from the Directorate to finish up a case on the planet after it went Independent.”

  “After?” Justine couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Not for the first time, Justine considered how totally boring her own life was compared to that of the Investigator. Until recently.

  Campbell’s eyes opened. There was a bad boy smirk on his face. “Well, that’s me out of favor for a week. I interrupted Nigel while he was, er, busy.”

  “What did he say?” Justine asked; it came out uncharacteristically needy. She was trying to keep calm, though she saw her hands were trembling.

  “The Sheld
on Dynasty has every confidence in Investigator Myo, and will be happy for her to carry on her job with Senate Security unhindered. The Senator for Augusta will make that very clear to the Halgarths. We will oppose any removal proposal.”

  Justine let out a long breath, almost a sob. Her eyes were watering. She knew it was hormones, and didn’t care that Campbell was seeing her like this. But the relief was incredible. She’d been too frightened to consider what would have happened if Nigel had been in league with the Starflyer.

  “Jesus,” Campbell said as he stared at Justine. “What the hell is going on here?” He rose from his seat and took her hand. She sniffed, wiping away some tears.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m a bit of a mess right now.”

  “This isn’t the gorgeous Justine I remember,” he said softly. “Perhaps you should stay and get some rest, recover from your ordeal. I can’t think of a more relaxing place than Nitachie. There is a spare bed. There’s also my bed.”

  She smiled weakly at his playfulness.

  “We need to see Nigel Sheldon,” Paula said. “Could you please schedule a meeting with him for myself and the Senator?”

  Campbell’s expression was close to indignation at the Investigator’s lack of tact. Justine’s grin broadened. “I’m afraid the Investigator’s right, we do need to see Nigel. It’s very urgent.”

  “Very well,” he said with remarkable dignity. “I’ll call him again and—” He broke off, his eyes widening in surprise at the priority data sliding down his virtual vision.

  Justine was seeing the same thing. An ultra-secure alert from the navy was flashing up details about hundreds of new alien wormholes opening in Commonwealth star systems.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mark!”

  “Huh?” Mark snapped his eyes open. He hadn’t been sleeping on the job. No. Just quietly resting while the engineeringbot ran its new program cycle. He blinked some focus into his eyes, and concentrated on the junction between the force field generator and its secondary phase alignment module. The bot’s instrument arms had withdrawn after establishing a seal. “Yeah, looks good. Run the power test.”