Judas Unchained

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Okay, activating main circuitry now,” Thame said. He was the Charybdis technical officer, another Sheldon, a ninth-generation grandson of Nigel. It had always been difficult for Mark to work out the hierarchy the Sheldons employed. Basically, the lower the number in your connection the more important you were. Or thought you were. Though Mark had to admit, everyone involved in the lifeboat project was certainly competent. It was that little nuance of superiority they had whenever they said their name that irritated him.

  A row of red LEDs set into the module’s casing came on, flashing in sequence before steadying to a permanent glow. Corresponding schematics slid across Mark’s virtual vision, complete with green icons. “Okay, we have functionality,” he said. A yawn made him pause for a moment, then he confirmed the engineeringbot’s new sequence, the fifth they’d tried, as valid to the assembly bay’s RI.

  Despite every misgiving, transplanting the frigate assembly bay to the Searcher had worked. Locked up inside the mechanical labyrinth, working constantly, he hadn’t even been aware of the flight. Now they were holding station in the Wessex system’s cometary belt, waiting for Mark and his team to complete the Charybdis. None of them had slept for the last twenty-four hours, and most of them had worked their full shift before that.

  The engineeringbot slid away from the generator. Mark let himself drift back behind it, watching out for girders and struts. He knew he was starting to make mistakes; his bruised face was only one reminder, result of a simple collision with a gantry junction that should never have happened. Wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t so exhausted. “What’s next?”

  “Thermal coupling to the backup quantum fold initiator, portside.”

  “On my way.” Mark didn’t have a clue what the initiator was, nor what it did. Frankly he didn’t care. He just concentrated on plugging the damn components into their power and support services. A schematic appeared in his virtual vision, showing him the initiator’s location. He started to crawl over the hull. Two-thirds of the active-stealth covering was now in place around the frigate. Even in its powered-down state it was eerily black, a pool of darkness rather than a surface that was simply nonreflective. The gaps waiting to be filled allowed access to systems that weren’t yet operational and needed human supervision. Bots and manipulator arms were clustered over them, along with technicians from Mark’s team. The Charybdis crew—Otis, Thame, and Luke—had taken up permanent residence in the frigate’s cabin to run diagnostics from there.

  As he hauled himself along he passed the weapons scientists. He couldn’t help glancing at them, eleven ordinary-looking people in padded freefall overalls and helmets, floating around the missile. There had been quiet rumors about what the frigates would be armed with back at the assembly platform and down on Gaczyna. Superweapons capable of protecting the fleet from any threat. Mark hadn’t paid a lot of attention, even with Liz hungry for gossip each evening. Since the Searcher left, his team had talked of little else. Every time one of them had drifted by him on their way to another job they’d shared a few words; to his surprise, Mark had even joined in with the speculation, passing on what he’d heard in turn.

  The assembly bay didn’t have a mechanism for loading missiles into the frigate. That was supposed to happen in another facility. So the scientists were having to improvise. The missile was strapped to a medium-mass manipulator arm, which was inching it slowly down into the magazine chamber. It looked ordinary enough, a smooth, steel-silver cylinder five meters long, with a thick central bulge. The extremely nervous respect that the scientists treated it with made the hairs along his spine creep. He no longer believed the rumors of mere planetsmashers and warped-quark bullets; whatever they’d built was insanely lethal. You only had to see their faces to know that.

  That warhead was going to make genocide possible. Back on Elan when they were running from the aliens he would have happily pressed the button. Now he wasn’t so sure. It was the kind of thing that people like him never, ever, got involved with.

  He arrived at the open section of hull his schematic indicated, from which an access interstice led deep inside the guts of the frigate. The initiator sat halfway along the narrow gap, a golden sphere with peculiar green triangles jutting up from it. There was a nest of unconnected thermal conductor filaments wrapped around it, with their manufacturer tags still attached. “Okay,” he told Thame. “I’m here. What have the bots tried so far?”

  ***

  Oscar’s starship, the Dublin, was orbiting a thousand kilometers above the Finnish world Hanko when the alert came through. It had been a miserable duty so far, five people spending ten days crammed into a single circular cabin. In theory the cabin wasn’t too bad; it was a good eight meters wide, with three meters between the flat bulkheads. Then you took out the partitioned-off sleeping section, and the laughably titled bathroom facility, and the remaining available volume was considerably reduced. In zero gee such a space was a little less cramped, but that was a relative thing. The five flight couches—bulky padded shelves that had plyplastic secured i-pads, built-in human waste management tubes, and fluid food dispensers—were lined up along the rear bulkhead. Once you’d strapped yourself in, while trying not to jam knees and elbows into the person next to you, the couch slid back neatly into the operations segment. Oscar likened it to lying on the tongue of a dinosaur as it pulled you into its mouth.

  Once in place inside the operations section, there was a half-meter space between your nose and the matte-black curving control console with its high-rez display portals that filled the gap with projections of the tactical display and ship-status schematics. Oscar’s first officer, Lieutenant Commander Hywel, claimed that coffins were a lot less claustrophobic, although admittedly not as colorful.

  Hywel on Oscar’s left, where he monitored the sensor feeds, left the other three couches for Teague, the engineering officer; Dervla, who had recently qualified as their FTL drive technician; and Reuben, who had been seconded from the Seattle Project in charge of weapons.

  Dervla was in the sleep section, and Hywel was eating his meal of microwaved stroganoff goo out in the main cabin as red icons flashed up in Oscar’s virtual vision. Detector stations down on Hanko and in high orbit had detected seventy-two wormholes opening, forming a loose sphere at three AUs distance from the star.

  An adrenaline surge quickly banished Oscar’s lethargy and mild depression. “What the hell are they doing out there?” he demanded. Data from their secure link to Base One through Hanko’s unisphere showed that several Commonwealth worlds were now under a similar pattern of invasion. “Dervla, Hywel, get in here now.”

  “Ships coming through,” Teague said. “God, they’re fast. The wormholes aren’t switching location like last time.”

  “Right.” Oscar watched the graphics unfolding around him, then concentrated on one wormhole. The Prime ships were coming through nose to tail. Ten in the first minute. It was a quantity duplicated at each of the other seventy-one openings.

  “Ships identified as space combat type three,” Teague said. “They’re accelerating at eight gees, broad dispersal pattern. Damnit, we’re never going to intercept those wormholes with our Douvoir missiles.”

  “Clever,” Oscar muttered. He watched the graphic showing him Douvoir missiles leaping out of Hanko’s ten orbital defense stations, neon-green lines streaking straight out from the planet, aligned on the Prime wormholes. It was going to take them a good eight minutes to reach their targets. “They’ll just switch locations before impact. Damnit!” His virtual hands were racing over icons and speed-control activators, synchronizing with Reuben as they brought the Dublin up to combat readiness. “What’s the planet status?”

  “City force fields powering up,” Teague said. “Combat aerobots launching. We have command of orbital defense stations.”

  “Much good it’ll do us,” Oscar grumbled.

  “The Douvoirs can take out the ships,” Reuben said. “They can’t dodge.”

  “Check the
dispersal,” Oscar told him. “One Douvoir missile per ship is not good. This deployment is designed to flood the system with their ships, and we don’t have anything like the capacity to knock them out. The Douvoirs were designed to hit strategic targets.”

  “The planetary defenses can cope with any approaching hostile,” Teague said.

  “Not an armada. They can send ten thousand an hour at us.”

  “We can’t evacuate,” Hywel said. “Not again. There’s got to be a way of keeping them back.”

  Oscar said nothing. He couldn’t think of any way to repel the bulk of the Prime ships. Dublin could probably take out a hundred or so, but there were already more than that in-system. When he summoned the navy’s overview, he saw that forty-eight Commonwealth worlds were under attack. The Primes were using the same long-range injection strategy in all of them.

  As the Douvoir missiles launched from Hanko’s defense stations closed in on the Prime wormholes, they began to switch location.

  “Do we send the Douvoirs chasing wormholes?” Reuben asked. “Or are we going to knock out some ships?”

  When Oscar checked the tactical display, he saw there were already more than two thousand Prime ships in-system. “Keep harrying the wormholes for now. Fleet command will let us know if they want us to switch tactics.”

  “Captain,” Hywel said. “More wormhole activity.”

  “Where?”

  “Our hysradar is picking up an emergence…four hundred and eighty thousand kilometers out from the star’s corona.”

  “Where?” Oscar thought he’d misheard.

  “Directly above the sun.”

  Oscar focused on the tactical display that was reconfiguring to show the latest development. Sure enough, a wormhole had opened close to Hanko’s G-class star. As he watched, ships started to slide through. “Fire a pair of Douvoirs at it,” he ordered, even though he knew it was pointless; it would take the Douvoirs a couple of minutes to reach the new invasion point. “What the hell are they doing there?”

  “I don’t know,” Hywel said.

  The level of tension in Wilson’s office was actually higher than it had reached during the first Prime invasion. Five minutes in, and Wilson was already contemplating doing his deep breathing exercise routine.

  All of the Big15, as well as the fully developed worlds, had been mass-producing components for the missiles ever since the first invasion. The cost had been phenomenal, as much as the entire Moscow-class fleet. Even Dimitri had been satisfied about the level of protection they’d wrapped around Commonwealth planets over the last few weeks. Now it looked as though once again they had seriously underestimated the Primes.

  The Douvoirs were taking too long to get out to the wormholes. Fleet Command, operating from a center several floors below his office in Pentagon II, was working on eventual scenarios the Primes would use to attack the planets, massed waves or an all-in-one blitz. With the ships still flooding through, they were reserving judgment; but either way there were serious limits on how many the planetary defenses could fend off, even when assisted by navy ships.

  Evacuation had already been proposed several times. Wilson hated having to suggest that to the planetary governments and CST, but he was fatalistic enough to see that was the way the invasion was shaping up.

  Physically, Wilson had been joined by Anna, of course, and Rafael. Dimitri had also been on standby in Pentagon II, and was slouched in one of the chairs, watching the holographic specks of light whirl around him. So far he’d said very little, occasionally contacting his team in StPetersburg to discuss the pattern of the attack. From the Seattle Project, Tunde Sutton and Natasha Kersley were attending via an ultra-secure link. Holographic images of President Doi and Nigel Sheldon had also materialized on either side of Wilson. So far the President had said very little; Nigel’s worried expression was almost accusatory.

  “Confirmed forty-eight points of attack,” Anna said. “They’re all in phase two space except for Omoloy, Vyborg, Ilichio, and Lowick.”

  “Roughly the distribution we expected,” Dimitri said. He didn’t press the point. It was his team that had been instrumental in deciding the distribution of the planetary defenses and allocating starships to complement them, choices that had so far proved remarkably accurate. Only nine of the worlds under attack were without starship coverage.

  Wilson took a moment to study the strategic display. The office projectors were showing Commonwealth space as a rough sphere just over two hundred light-years across with a very erratic boundary. The Prime invasion was a hemispherical scarlet stain, centered around the Lost23, and intruding nearly ninety light-years inward.

  “They’re trying to gain Wessex again,” Nigel said.

  “Can you use CST wormholes to deflect them?” Rafael asked.

  “I’ll look into it,” Nigel said. His image froze.

  When Wilson flicked his attention to Wessex, the display expanded, showing him the Tokyo above the Big15 world, and Douvoir missiles chasing after Prime wormholes, never to catch them. Over four thousand ships were already in-system. There at least they would meet a formidable resistance. The industrial facilities in orbit around Wessex were all heavily protected with force fields, atom lasers, and their own close-range interceptor missiles. Multilayered force fields had roofed over Narrabri. Big aerobots patrolled at high altitude. It had more orbital defense stations than any other planet.

  “When are you going to use the quantumbusters?” the President asked petulantly.

  “When the tactical situation allows for it,” Wilson told her. “It’s designed to use against primary targets or close-clustered ships. Neither of which we have at the moment. The Prime ships are all flying away from each other. They’ll regroup eventually, as they close on our planets.”

  “You mean it’s useless?”

  “In these circumstances it is of limited effectiveness,” Natasha said.

  “Somebody tell me we will be able to use it effectively.”

  “When their ships begin to congregate again, then we’ll be able to deploy them with some success,” Dimitri said.

  Doi gave him a vicious look.

  “I’d emphasize that even switched to a minimal effect radius, we shouldn’t activate a quantumbuster within a million kilometers of any inhabited world,” Natasha Kersley said. “That’s the absolute minimum safe distance. Even if it only has the mass of a single Prime ship to work with, the radiation output would be seriously detrimental to the biosphere. They are doomsday weapons, Madam President. They were never intended to be used in dogfights.”

  “You think we shouldn’t have issued them to the navy starships for this?” Doi asked.

  “I designed them, I advise on their use,” the physicist said. “Ultimately, the situations in which they are deployed are a political decision.”

  “Thank you, Natasha,” Wilson said before the argument and recriminations got out of hand.

  “Additional wormhole activity,” Anna said. “Prime wormholes opening near the stars of the planets they’re invading. Damn, they’re emerging close; approximately half a million kilometers above the corona. Seventeen of them have appeared so far.”

  “Above the stars?” Tunde asked, frowning. “I don’t understand. What’s coming through?” The faint waves of color surrounding him rearranged themselves quickly, displaying the hysradar returns of starships scanning the new development.

  “Plenty of ships,” Anna said. “Everyone is launching Douvoir missiles; the wormholes will be closed down in minutes.”

  “Moved,” Dimitri said. “They’ll be moved in a few minutes.”

  Tunde and Natasha exchanged a few words. “I don’t like the positioning,” Tunde said. “It’s constant, look. The wormholes are all opening above the equator of the star, and they are directly in line with the habitable planet of the system. In other words, it’s the closest part of the star to the planet.”

  “Meaning?” Rafael asked.

  “I don’t know, but it canno
t be coincidence. Admiral, we really need to know what’s being sent through.”

  “Could it be something like a quantumbuster?” Wilson asked. The question generated a few moments of complete silence in the office. Wilson glanced at Nigel’s frozen image; the Dynasty chief was still dealing with Wessex. Wilson wondered what the hell he was doing there that was more important than this.

  “I can’t answer that,” Tunde said. “Obviously it is a possibility.”

  “What could a quantumbuster do to a star?”

  The physicists looked at each other, neither of them willing to take the lead. “It would cause quite a disturbance to the photosphere,” Tunde said. “There might even be some impact on the top of the convective zone. But the overall damage would be minimal.”

  “Radiation emission wouldn’t be minimal,” Natasha said. “That would be extremely dangerous.”

  “It’s hardly an efficient use of a quantumbuster.”

  “What else could it be?” Wilson tried to keep his voice level and calm.

  Tunde raised his hands in an awkward gesture of doubt.

  “We have diverted-energy-function nukes,” Natasha said quickly. “As do the Primes. This could well be a large-scale application of that process, powered by the star itself.”

  “Those planets are an AU from their primaries,” Rafael protested. “More in some cases. And you’re saying this could be a beam weapon?”

  “You wanted alternatives,” Natasha said in an accusing tone.

  “Our detector network has now found thirty-eight wormholes close to the target stars,” Anna said.

  Wilson’s virtual finger reached for the Tokyo’s icon. He stopped. He hated, absolutely hated, himself for doing this. But this whole attack was pivotal. Any and every action he took today could decide the fate of the Commonwealth. He had to have information he could trust implicitly. That meant the source must be someone he knew he could trust. He touched the Dublin’s icon. “Oscar?”