Salvation Lost

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Confirmed,” Nils said.

  “Hell, boss, I accessed the file on Feriton,” he said as he settled back into his chair in the Greenwich operations center.

  “Now you understand,” Yuri replied.

  “I do. For the record, I’d rather die than have that happen to me.”

  “Yeah, me too, my friend.”

  “But…I can’t see any way out of this. I really can’t.” One of the hologram cubes was showing the Alpha Defense feed, where the Salvation of Life was continuing to separate into two unequal portions.

  “Go by the numbers,” Yuri replied. “That’s what we’ve got. Kill their sabotage, preserve what we can. The Neána aliens seem to think some of us can survive, that we can get away like they did. But to do that, we have to fend them off for long enough. So that’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Right.” Kohei knew it was completely hopeless, but even so, you followed procedure, did the job, and told yourself someone further up the command chain knew what the hell they were doing. He told Nils to expand the hologram cubes around his chair, surrounding himself with a galaxy of vivid primary color graphics. Smiling fiercely, accepting the challenge, allowing his subconscious to discern the patterns that would be lurking among all that vibrant data. It was an ability he had. He didn’t know how it worked, just that it did. Back in college, partying in the student bar, his friends used to shout eight-figure digits at him, ten or fifteen of them, one after the other, and somewhere, somehow in his brain he added them up. They’d shake their heads in amazed disbelief and down more beer.

  The operations center G8Turing was doing the same thing, analyzing and trying to predict, but its pattern recognition algorithms lacked intuition. He’d win; he knew he’d win.

  The majority of the sabotage so far was digital, with the company’s G8Turings blocking it almost as soon as it was detected. Physical attacks were fewer in number but effective, leaving wrecked buildings and smashed portals in their wake. Seventeen so far in England, fifty-nine in western Europe. That had to be stopped—and fast. Data logs of each incident splashed out into the cubes, summarizing the history and isolating similarities. The initial darkware attacks were designed to generate enough glitches in security systems, however temporary, to sneak the perpetrators inside. Sometimes people, sometimes drones—either mechanical or animal synths. So…strengthen the network against darkware, and use external civic and public sensors to complement company scrutiny. Creeperdrones were sneaking in under the buildings, using conduits or ancient pipes; London had centuries of obsolete infrastructure that had never been taken out. Maintenance drones were activated and sent down into the old sewers, armored ferrets hunting rodent automata.

  Kohei watched the deployment in satisfaction, but he knew it wasn’t enough. The ops center was only reacting. To be effective, to counter this properly, they had to go on the offensive. He started looking for the deeper patterns that must be there. How would I bring down Connexion? It was an old trick, one he’d learned from Yuri way back when. What are we not seeing? A question no Turing could ever answer no matter what G it was.

  To take out the hubs one by one was a phenomenal task, requiring vast resources. Preparations on that scale would’ve been picked up by intelligence agencies. In short, it would be seen. So if I can’t take out the hubs directly, what else will cripple them? What do the hubs depend on?

  The side of his mouth rose in a soft smile. “Splash the power grid feeds to the hubs,” he told Nils.

  Connexion had engineered a good distribution system, using an idea Ainsley Zangari himself had come up with right back at the very start. Power from the solarwell MHD asteroids was delivered via portal to commercial relay stations all over Earth, affording multiple redundancy. From those relays it was transferred to every single Connexion portal door via a built-in one-centimeter portal. That way the company didn’t have to spend billions of additional wattdollars laying a massive web of superconductor cables across the planet.

  “Review security networks of each power relay station we tap into,” he ordered. His smile broadened as the results splashed across the cubes.

  It was starting. The Connexion G8Turings observed darkware infiltrating the networks of a dozen major power relay stations—darkware that was a lot more subtle and sophisticated than anything launched against the hubs. None of it was active yet. They were waiting, gathering themselves, ready to strike.

  “Yuri, they’re going for the power grid,” Kohei warned. “The attacks on our hubs are a diversion.”

  “Good work,” Yuri responded.

  Kohei watched Yuri’s alert flash out across Connexion’s security network, feeling a burst of satisfaction. But it’s going to be a long, dirty war. He reviewed the status of the European power relay stations. Now they knew what to look for, the G8Turings were identifying suspicious people and drones coalescing around several stations. “Let’s bring in the police tactical teams,” he told Nils as various taxez, bugez, and creeperdrones inched surreptitiously closer to their objectives. “They can complement our squads, and ambush the bastards—hard.” Another fast assessment of the approaching hostiles. “Start with Croydon.”

  Dusk embellished the city skyline in overstated tones, separating the jet-black geometric jags of the buildings from the gold horizon in an austere border. Gwendoline Seymore-Qing-Zangari stared at it from behind her desk, oblivious to the splendor. Her tarsus lenses were splashing too many finance spreadsheets for anything else to register, and the pheni-nark she’d taken that afternoon was draining out of her synapses like a retreating tide, leaving her tired and irritable. She rubbed her eyes, squashing the tight graphics into multicolored Rorschach clouds. Those figures were the culmination of eighteen months of work. Her team was steering Connexion’s Exosol Investment Office through the Corbyzan project—so far, just a ridiculously complex finance root bubble future fund that would be governed by a dozen Turing rocksquatters. More than a hundred banks, finance houses, angel investors, and sovereign funds were involved, each one contributing additional problems and demands to the negotiations. But eighteen months of political deal-making, schmoozing, arm-twisting, close-to-blackmailing, favors given and owed, and they were edging toward an agreement that satisfied just about everyone. And once the finance was established, the real work would begin.

  Gwendoline had found herself involved and interested by Corbyzan in a way that hadn’t happened in any previous corporate ventures she’d helped set up. The fund would pay for the terraforming of Corbyzan and setting up its preliminary government with a constitution that was acceptable to every partner—a political nightmare of compromise and concessions. In itself, Corbyzan wasn’t that exceptional: an exoplanet orbiting 55 Cancri, forty light-years from Sol. There were dozens of similar planets with a primordial atmosphere of hydrogen sulphide, methane, and carbon dioxide—the kind that were the easiest to convert. But it would be the first new terraforming endeavor in thirteen years. With eleven terraformed planets at stage two habitation, and a further twenty-seven in stage one, the market was deemed to be saturated. But this was something new; the Corbyzan constitution was being pitched as the Universal counter to Utopial culture. It was going to use sophisticated fabrication technology as its manufacturing base, but with a capital-market economy. The semicontroversial part was its citizenship requirement. You were going to need an IQ over 125 to settle there, and all immigrant offspring would receive germline modification to give them an IQ over 135. Given it had a Sol asteroid belt Turing rocksquatter as its founding government, the Sol Senate Justice Court had no jurisdiction should anyone try to claim exclusionary discrimination, and anyway the Utopials had set the precedent with their omnia descendant conditions for settlement. Nonetheless, there were objectors—unsurprisingly, given Sol’s historically conservative finance sector. Her dealings had proved quite revealing into the attitudes of plutocrats who publicly clung to the liberal eth
os.

  A yawn parted her lips, and she knew her concentration was wilting after sitting in the office for ten hours straight. Right now only another pheni-nark would bring it back, and she wasn’t going to do that. She’d seen enough colleagues and business associates slip into that bad habit to know it wasn’t worth it. One addiction laid you open to others in a fast downward spiral.

  “Store and close,” she told Theano, her altme. “And you,” she said to her three young executive assistants, “we’re done for today. Go out, have fun.”

  The complex data splash vanished, leaving just her personal data icons bracketing the edge of her vision. The solnet news filter was flashing updates on city shields; apparently Sydney and Johannesburg had switched theirs on. Odd. “Monitor it,” she instructed Theano.

  Her executive office suite on the eighty-fourth floor of Connexion’s Greenwich tower had a portal door straight to her portalhome in Chelsea, at the corner of Cheyne Walk and Milman’s Street. She had the penthouse, twenty stories up, with a long lounge whose elegant bay windows gave her a direct view over the Thames to the curving glass cliff face of the lavish ziggurat bestriding the south bank. Several of its residents were already partying on their terraces, which brought an amused smile to her lips. Some nights she’d seen parties whose decadent antics even managed to shock her. Not this evening, though.

  Anahita, her social aide, hurried in. “You’re running late,” she said; it was almost accusatory.

  “I know. Sorry.” Not meant. It was ritual for Gwendoline; she was always late. Proof of a full and rich life, just like employing humans as house staff. There was very little that Turings and robotics couldn’t do, and cheaper, but then it was never about cost. Gwendoline’s position meant she had a certain status to maintain.

  “We have the selection for next Thursday,” Anahita said, clicking her fingers impatiently. Her junior assistants, Jimena and Luciana, hurried in, both hauling bundles of tissue-wrapped evening gowns.

  Gwendoline almost sighed in dismay at the sight of the bright fabrics and remarkable styles, this ceremony had been acted out so many times now. Instead she made a show of disinclination as she slipped out of her business suit jacket and started unfastening the skirt. “All right, we’ll do this on the table.”

  A minute later she was lying on the padded massage table in the orangery, with fluffy white towels under her back. She was always aware of an underlying tension when she was naked in the penthouse. From the staff, anyway; she rather enjoyed being voyeured by the genuinely youthful. It was like a certificate of approval.

  Cho, her masseuse, was slowly easing the iron strings of office tension from her legs, while Yana was diligently applying soft unguents on her face to repair a day’s abrasion inflicted by harsh air-conditioning. Given the giddy amount of money she spent on her body—not just anti-aging therapies, but also personal trainers, spa memberships to complement bioactive cosmetics, and a perfect diet—she wasn’t about to neglect the fundamentals now, no matter how pressed for time she was. It was worth it. At fifty-four, she still had the slim build of her adolescence. Slightly more muscle now to keep everything firm, but that was a medal of pride, earned getting back into shape after pregnancy. There was no hint of her knife-blade cheeks getting blunt, thankfully, so she hadn’t needed any cosmetic therapies—apart from bleaching out her freckles, which wasn’t a vanity thing; she just didn’t feel comfortable with them given her current corporate director position. Anyone who didn’t know would think she was still in her early twenties.

  Anahita stood beside the table, holding a bottle of oil for Cho. “You have cocktails at Marquise’s in…twenty-eight minutes.”

  “How am I going to get my hair done in time for that?” Gwendoline asked petulantly.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I did have Charlie booked, but that was seventy minutes ago.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m late. Then…?”

  “After cocktails there’s dinner with Tam and Kaveh in Bali, so that will be morning there, and hot.” Anahita beckoned to Jimena, who hurried forward, unwrapping the first gown, an emerald silk affair with sweeping full-length skirt.

  “What have you got for me to wear in Bali?”

  “The scarlet Divanni,” Anahita said immediately. “It’s an above-the-knee summer dress, loose-weave cotton.”

  “Okay, fine.” She couldn’t be bothered to argue and let out a soft moan as Cho moved up onto her stomach, applying the spice-scented oil in smooth, talented strokes. “What am I choosing for again?”

  “Prince Raiden’s ball. It’s for charity. The Eldemar germline treatment—for underprivileged children.”

  “Who isn’t underprivileged compared to us?” she muttered and stopped Yana’s attentions for a moment to study the gown Jimena held. “No.” Doing this at home was a pain, but preferable to visiting one of Chelsea’s plethora of boutique TryMe stores. She barely had time for this, never mind shopping.

  Anahita shooed Jimena away. “The architect called. He has a redesigned interior ready for the Titan dome.”

  Gwendoline and Anahita both glanced along the wide central hallway, whose walls were lined with eight archways. Each one held a portal door to the penthouse’s extended rooms. Five were gleaming with various intensities of sunlight beyond, while two were dark: the Moon and Pluto.

  “I’m not sure about Titan,” Gwendoline said. “I mean, it’s just pink methane fog the whole time. Bit murky. So boring.”

  “Of course. Do you want to consider somewhere else?”

  “Maybe.” Gwendoline gave the eighth archway—the empty one—a contemplative look. “A Jovian moon? But everyone has one of those.”

  “Perhaps Io? The sulfur volcanoes are spectacular, apparently. I know there are some rooms available in a couple of the viewblocks.”

  “I suppose. But how often are the eruptions really? Not the viewblock company’s figures.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  Yana unbound Gwendoline’s long hair so it hung over the edge of the padded table and began a scalp massage. Luciana stepped up, proffering a yellow evening gown with a very deep plunge neck.

  Gwendoline moaned in satisfaction as both massages eased away the tautness afflicting her body. “No. Too tarty. You have to leave something to the imagination.”

  A disappointed Luciana backed away.

  “You received eighteen invitations today,” Anahita said. “I turned down fifteen of them on your behalf. If you’d like to review the others—”

  Theano splashed the three remaining invites for her. “Oh, Waldemar’s chateau party. I love those. Yes to that. Polite no to the others.”

  “Of course.”

  Jimena stepped forward to show off an orange-and-white gown.

  “Hmm. Would that go with my complexion, do you think?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jimena assured her ardently.

  “I have items for Octavio’s birthday present,” Anahita said.

  Gwendoline sighed. “Show me.” She sneaked a longing glance at the hallway’s third arch, the one with the portal door out to a clifftop balcony overlooking the Mediterranean where a low honey sun shone golden rays across worn-smooth terracotta tiles. It sported cozy-cushioned sun loungers, the sparkling clean water below, a warm breeze, the scent of night flowers in the air. Add some properly chilled wine, and it would be perfect. A do-nothing evening was something she hadn’t enjoyed for…Well, she’d have to check with Theano, so the answer was too long. A man—smart, sophisticated, funny, handsome—in the next sun lounger would cap it off nicely. Again, too long…

  Jimena held up the orange-and-white dress, studying it for herself. “Would you like to try it on?” she asked hopefully, as if that would score points against Luciana.

  Gwendoline grimaced as she gave the frilly miscreation a stricter appraisal. Whatever happened to LBDs?

  “Af
ter dinner, you’re due to see Wobari at the Piccadilly Fusion club,” Anahita continued relentlessly. “Then if you can manage later, Fiona’s aide called. She’d like to—” She trailed off, frowning at whatever was splashing across her tarsus lenses.

  Gwendoline opened her mouth to tell Jimena she’d decided against the orange-and-white after all when Theano splashed up red icons. One made her start; it was from the super-exclusive GlobalPAC she was a member of (fee two million wattdollars a year, paid for by Connexion). And it was a physical security warning. Something she’d never seen before. Financial warnings, yes, but a physical threat…The level at which that GlobalPAC operated made it particularly unnerving. What the hell can worry them?

  Outside the orangery windows, the gleaming star-speckled horizon began to dim.

  “Oh, my,” Anahita gasped. “That’s the London shield. They’ve switched the shield on.”

  Gwendoline rolled off the table and padded over to the glass wall, her staff clustered around behind her. The last of the soft gloaming faded out altogether as the shield generators locked air molecules together in a two-kilometer-thick wall that curved over the entire city. She remembered the last time London’s shield had been tested, back in ’89. It had been daylight, and the sky had dropped to a pasty gray. Now the underside of the dense energized gas refracted the city’s streetlights to create an eerie uniform shell of phosphorescence, as if the universe had shrunk to a final bubble of existence.

  “What’s happened?” Jimena asked shrilly. “Is there a meteorite up there?”

  Gwendoline had stopped watching the artificial dome to access the reports from her GlobalPAC and the classified sensor stream Connexion’s security division was feeding direct from Alpha Defense. The Salvation of Life had split open, its two sections moving ponderously apart, the larger one under acceleration. A gravity drive? What the actual fuck? Then a Connexion executive-only alert splashed up: Teucer had dropped from the company secure network. No additional details, but the Olyix Monitoring Office was silent. No, not silent; its communication link was dead. Which she thought was impossible.