The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle

by Peter F. Hamilton

  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 Leopoldvich 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 f
rom that; but the implication will sink in soon enough, and not just with us.” He shook 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.

  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.

  Stepping out of the Hotel Conomela’s air-conditioned lobby was yet another unpleasant reminder of his bad choice of luggage. The heat and humidity on the street was already up to sauna levels, and that was with the hotel’s bright scarlet half-moon canopy overhead protecting him from direct sunlight. The semiorganic fiber of Adam’s white suit acquired a silver hue as it struggled to repel heat away from his body. He fanned at his face with his genuine Panama hat. A uniformed doorman gestured to a maroon Lincoln taxi that glided to a halt and popped its door. “Señor Duanro.” His white gloved hand touched the tip of his cap respectfully.

  “Thanks.” Adam hurried into the cool dry interior, for once not pausing to consider, all men being equal, the market-enforced indignity of the doorman having to be servile. Today, anyone whose job it was to hasten him into cool comfort was okay by him.

  He gave the drive array his destination, and the Lincoln pulled out aggressively into the flow of traffic. The street was jammed full of vehicles, half of them delivery vans and trucks parked on the curb so that angry cars, bikes, and buses were squeezed out into the few remaining lanes. His taxi rolled along at thirty kilometers an hour, its horn tooting about every thirty seconds as pedestrians, powerskaters, and cyclists dodged around it. It was always the same in Tridelta City; twenty-four million people crammed onto a patch of ground barely fifty kilometers across generated a serious amount of traffic pressure.

  Eight kilometers and twenty-three minutes from the hotel, the taxi pulled up beside the Anau Tower, a cylindrical skyscraper two hundred fifty stories tall. Its broad metallic silver windows were arranged in a slight step pattern, looking as if the tower skin were twisted around the structural frame in a corkscrew spiral.

  Adam took the elevator lift up to the hundred fiftieth floor, the airship docking level, then switched to a local elevator to get up to one-seven-eight. The Agent’s office suite was on the east side of the tower, three modest rooms decorated in cold black granite blocks. The receptionist was an essay in visual intimidation. Her simple charcoal-gray suit was stretched tight around her, illustrating the boosting she’d received, with several seams of muscle wrapped around her original frame. Adam suspected a host of wetwired weapons were lurking in among the dubious additional muscle cells and overstretched epidermal layer. Her neck was a smooth cone of flesh that blended directly into her cheeks. There was no chin, only an eerily attractive set of lips that had been glossed in dark cherry-red. They perked into a smile for Adam when he presented her desk array with his Silas Duanro identity.

  “You can go straight in, Señor Duanro,” she trilled in a sweet high voice.

  “He is expecting you.”

  The Agent smiled in greeting from behind his granite desk. A tall man who kept thin by expending a lot of nervous energy, he had a beak of a nose that came down almost to his upper lip. For some reason he hadn’t modified his scalp follicles; a receding hairline was only partially disguised by a very close cut. “Señor Silas Duanro? Humm.” He smiled at his own humor. “You are allowed to use the same name with me, you know. After all these years, what have we got if not trust?”

  “I’m sure.” Adam hadn’t visited Tridelta for several years; yet the Agent always managed to recognize him. Last time he’d looked very different, older and chubbier. Right now he’d morphed his face into that of a forty-year-old, with rounded cheeks, green eyes, and thick auburn hair. The skin was thick and slightly pocked as it finally began its protest at so many hurried cheap and unprofessional cellular reprofilings. He had to apply moisturizing cream every morning and evening now; even so it felt as if he were stretching scar tissue every time he spoke. His cheeks were always cold these days, the capillaries were in such a bad way from constant readjustment. There was a limit to how much reprofiling anyone could undergo, and Adam knew he was fast approaching the time when he’d have to quit.

  But not yet.

  Becoming Silas Duanro had also involved shedding a lot of fat, and receiving some extra muscle boosting. He hadn’t been this fit and strong for a while now, though it was taking some very sophisticated genoproteins to maintain his heart and other organs at a level where they could support the added muscle. He’d also had to correct his body for the onset of type two diabetes, which had developed over the last couple of years. But whenever the call came through to start the blockade-busting run he was assembling for Johansson, he was determined to be ready for it. No way was he going to see that from some backseat, shouting advice across the unisphere. He fully expected it to be his swan song.

  “Drink?” the Agent asked. It was part of their ritual.

  “What have you got?”

  The Agent smiled and went over to the wall. A long block of granite swung out silently to reveal a brightly lit drinks cabinet. “Let’s see. We won’t bother with the Talotee wines, even though they’re all the rage. How about Impiricus-blue, a local copy, but in my humble opinion better than the original.”

  “Hit me.”

  The Agent made a show of pouring the thick purple liqueur into a chilled cut-crystal shot glass. “And one for me.” He returned to the desk and slid the shot glass over to Adam. “Salut.”

  “Salut.” Adam drained it in a single gulp. A sensation like cold flame burned down his gullet. “Woho, boy,” he grunted, there were tears in his eyes. “Good stuff.” His voice was harsh, as if he’d come down with flu.

  “I knew you’d like that. You have class, which most of my customers are sadly lacking. I deal with so many gangsters; bigger guns and nastier viruses are all they know. But you: I was most proud to see the names which came up in court after the attack on the Second Chance, knowing I had provided most of them. Now that was a truly stylish operation, conducted with verve. There are so few of those mounted these days.”

  “The ship survived, though.”

  “Alas, yes. But to have dreamed the dream is to
have flown above the mountains so high in all but deed.”

  “Keats?”

  “Manby. So now, what can I do for you?” the Agent asked.

  “I need some assistance for a new project I’m putting together.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mostly blunt end troops,” Adam told his e-butler to transfer the list file to the Agent’s desktop array.

  “No technical specialists? That’s a shame. I’ll certainly see what I can do to find you the requisite people. I should tell you half of my B-list is currently serving with the navy behind enemy lines. Not all of them were taken out of suspension, either; a lot of them volunteered. It’s the kind of job which appeals to their more base instinct. They’ll come back covered in glory and medals determined to be upright citizens, then in a couple of years they’ll be hammering down my door for a job. In the meantime, I’m embarrassed by such a poor inventory. Is there any way you could delay your project?”

  “Not indefinitely, no. If it’s question of money …?”

  The Agent looked genuinely aghast. “Good Lord, no. I’ll probably wind up waiving my commission for you. I do value the challenges you’ve given me over the years, and you bring a much appreciated amount of business my way. I’m confident I can rise to the occasion once more. Professional pride and all that.”

  “I see.” Adam smiled his best false smile, feeling his abused facial skin distend. It was always about money with the Agent; criminals were the worst capitalists of all. “I will be offering the usual re-life insurance bond in the event of premature bodyloss.”

  “That’s good to hear. Right now, the Commonwealth clinics are overflowing with re-life procedure requests from the families of bodyloss victims from the Lost23. The swine are charging extortionate fees. Seller’s market, I’m afraid.”

  “After the revolution we’ll put them against the wall and shoot them, eh?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be happy to supply the firing squads free of charge. Until then—”