Salvation Lost

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Yirella, now she was a pragmatist.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, now the Morgan is accelerating to meet the Resolution ships—three gees. It’s got some mighty fine weapons, but it’s no match for these new-style ships. I’m nearly five thousand kilometers away from the action, and the bad guys have spotted me.

  Shit. Two of them are coming at me. I don’t care about that. But the third is vectoring out to tackle the Morgan.

  Comm maser: “Captain Kenelm, stand down. Leave this to me.”

  “Who are you?”

  Ah, I don’t have time for this crap. The Morgan and the Resolution ship are accelerating hard, like they’re going to ram each other. Twenty-three seconds until they reach intersection point. They’ll be a hundred kilometers distant when they pass, but that won’t save the Morgan from those negative graviton shots.

  Accelerating. Two hundred fifty gees. Christ, that’s fast. My discontinuity boundary is lighting up like a dinosaur-killer asteroid hitting the atmosphere. Cool.

  My course will carry me equidistant past the three Olyix warships. Three of my q-v missiles go active, loaded with target data, and anticipating any microsecond evasive maneuvers in the unlikely event they detect the incoming threat and fire. Missiles gone, five-hundred-gee acceleration. Given our separation distances, they have barely a second of flight time.

  I predicted that right. None of the Resolution ships has time to react. That’s cellular processing versus photonic for you.

  The missiles trigger their quantum-variant warheads, warping the field stability of space-time within a hundred-kilometer radius. My processing is fast enough to catch it, but the oneminds will never know what hit them. Just call me merciful.

  The atoms from which the Resolution ships are made perform weird alchemy transformations. Sections of mass shift at random between solid, fluid, and gaseous states. The abrupt loss of nuclear cohesion breaks the ships apart in plumes of distorted molecules tormented with rudimentary energies.

  And I’m already flashing past the trio of destruction blooms. Switching acceleration direction to slow and curve around back to the arkship.

  Three minutes—a long time in space warfare terms. But I’m sliding into rendezvous with the big bastard. Scanning to see if there are any more Resolution ships waiting inside.

  Clean.

  Their wormhole generator is powered down. All the debris spilling out of the craters is clotted with scraps of organic matter, some vegetation, some Olyix cell segments, even a few explosively decompressed quint bodies scattered across the uncaring stars.

  I have five hundred autotroops, like human combat drones, but with vastly superior weapons technology. They’ll chase down and slaughter all the arkship’s surviving quints, leaving us with the major headache of what to do with the cocoons. But first I dispatch five mentalic subsections into the arkship. Ironically—or pleasingly, depending on your sense of humor—human-sized oblates. They zip into the passageways and scurry into the big chamber containing the wormhole generator. Four attach themselves to the control network and begin retrieval. The onemind initiated a total wipe procedure, of course, but my subsections execute a detailed quantum analysis scan, extracting the past electron states of every molecular junction. The data is as easy for me to read as a kindergarten text.

  My remaining subsection inserts a needle into a nexus. The arkship neuralstrata is massive. So many thoughts, and not nearly as ordered as I was expecting. The Olyix haven’t lifted themselves quite so far from their messy evolution as they claim, then.

  “Well, hello there,” I say.

  “What are you?” it asks.

  “You don’t know. That’s good. And please, you can stop trying to slip a neurovirus to me. I’m not an out-of-date Neána.”

  “Your mind is so hard and bright. How beautiful you are. Join us. Come with us to meet the God at the End of Time.”

  “Oh, pal, that hookup just ain’t going to happen. It never was. But now I’m going to make fucking sure of it.”

  “Human, then. More advanced than any of the exodus wave we have encountered.”

  “No clues. No masterplan monologue. You’re sneaky bastards. And I can read in your memory you sent a message about me down the wormhole before you shut it down.”

  “The enclave will rejoice in the knowledge that an entity of your stature exists.”

  “You are just so full of bullshit. And FYI, there is no end of time. The cyclic universe theory is a crock of shit.”

  “Such a human view.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s been a blast. But I’ve just downloaded the gateway coordinates for your enclave. I’m off to pay your kind a visit now.”

  “I have a message for you.”

  “I know. I’ve already pulled it out of you, right from your sacred soul. Bring me all your life, bring me all your batshit crazy followers, yada, yada, yada.”

  “It comes from the future. It was sent to us, because the God knows we will travel successfully to reach it. Neither you nor I can escape divine destiny. The loop is closed and eternal.”

  “Good talk. Now die.”

  For two days the people living under Earth’s city shields vented their panic in protest marches, riots, and violence. Always, their targets were the cocoons—most of which were burned, with many more hacked apart, while some were simply thrown from high buildings to the cheers of spectators on the ground. Curfews were ordered, then martial law in the most aggressive cities, prohibiting anyone from venturing outside.

  Gwendoline watched it all sporadically, mostly accessing public news and the more frank feeds from her GlobalPAC, but sometimes staring at the columns of smoke rising into the listless air above London. When she wasn’t doing that, she helped Horatio nurse Crina. It was pointless, of course; there was nothing they could physically do to stop the woman from cocooning. Her flesh had been completely annexed by the Kcells, remodeling her body to chillingly nonhuman specifications. But they could provide some comfort as she drifted in and out of consciousness over those excruciating forty-eight hours: talking calmly, offering reassurances that they’d contact her family, promising no one would disturb her cocoon when the process was complete.

  Those conversations were bad enough, and Gwendoline had to summon up her deepest reserves of patience and determination to keep going, providing the kind of companionship and sympathy reserved for the most precious of dying relatives. And this for a woman she’d known for less than a week. That Crina was suffering no pain at all made it even worse. The few times Gwendoline had managed to call Loi, he confirmed one of the earliest cocoon malformations was a gland that secreted an antidepressant, keeping the victim unnaturally relaxed throughout the ordeal.

  Attempting to soothe Crina got so bad that Gwendoline simply couldn’t face those last few hours, leaving Horatio to provide what consolation he could. Instead she sat in the semidarkness of the lounge drinking coffee brandy (with too much brandy) and despising herself for being so weak. She couldn’t bring herself to access any feeds, instead playing old music tracks and trying not to think about anything, let alone the choices she was about to face.

  London had finally quieted down, with only a scattering of buildings on fire visible from her elevated windows. The authorities were gradually recovering control of the streets. There was talk now of assigning safe zones for the cocoons, where they could be brought by their relatives to be guarded against any further mayhem. She couldn’t quite see that working, but applauded the initiative.

  It was sometime before dawn when Loi’s icon appeared. “Hello, Mum, how are you?”

  “Drunk. Miserable. Frightened. Tell me again cocooning isn’t contagious?”

  “It’s not contagious. You have to have a medical Kcell implant. Though we’ve seen cases on Earth where Olyix agents have used nerve-block shots on people, then inserted the Kcells into—”

 
; “Stop! Not today, darling. Just…I can’t handle much more bad news, okay.”

  “That’s good. I’ve got some better news for you.”

  “Thank fuck.”

  “Mum!”

  “Yeah. Sorry. What is it, darling?”

  “You’ll get a visitor in the next ten minutes. I swung the family name around hard and pulled in some favors. He’s bringing you a twenty-centimeter portal.”

  “What do I want with a twenty-centimeter portal?”

  “It’s from Connexion’s Civic Emergency Support division. It will thread up to a two-meter rectangle portal and take you direct to the Greenwich tower. That’s just one step from Nashua, Mum. You and Dad can be safe in the Puppis system in less than a minute.”

  “That’s….that’s fabulous. Thank you, darling.”

  “You need to pack light, okay?”

  “Loi…Darling. I’m not sure we’ll use it.”

  “What?”

  “Listen to me, darling. There are so many people here. What are they going to do?”

  “There’s a contingency plan for everyone, Mum. And you know better than to ask.”

  “She was frightened, you know, even with whatever sedatives those bastards were filling her with. How horrible is that? Lying there watching alien cells eating your body away, knowing the cotton wool wrapping your thoughts is made out of chemicals raped from your own blood. But she didn’t let it win, she was too strong for that.”

  “Oh, Christ, Mum. Just use the portal, okay?”

  “I will. But what about everyone else? We can’t just desert them…?”

  “We’re not going to desert them. But you can’t help them, not by staying in London.”

  “Your father thinks we can. He wants to stay, even though he hasn’t said it. I know him. People from his agency have been calling him for days, asking for advice. It’s bad. There are whole communities out there that have been abandoned.”

  “Mum. Please! Come on, you’ve got a cocoon in your home—inside the security boundary. You and Dad have to leave.”

  “I should stay with him.”

  “No, Mum, he should stay with you. We are going to need every capable large-project manager we can find to help build the exodus habitats. And that’s you, Mum. Those habitats are what’s going to save the human race, and nothing is more important than that. Ask Dad if you don’t believe me.”

  “Hell, you really do take after him, don’t you? My genes never got a look in.”

  “We both know that’s not true. Look, the Deliverance ships will be here by the end of the day. I wasn’t kidding: We don’t know what is going to happen. They have the power to kill Earth and everybody on it, and there is nothing Alpha Defense can do to stop them. You have to leave. Now, while there’s still time.”

  “If I leave now and the London shield falls, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “All right. How about this: You both wait where you are until the first Deliverance ships reach Earth. If they can break the shields, then the pair of you leave right away. If the shields hold…then Dad has to make the decision. Not you. Understand?”

  “All right. I can’t argue with the logic.”

  “Good. So when the portal arrives, thread it up.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “I mean it, Mum. If you think I won’t send someone through to carry you out of there by force, think again.”

  She couldn’t help the smile creeping onto her lips. “Why did you have to grow up?”

  “So I can look after you.”

  “My son.”

  “Mum, be careful, please.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll get you a live feed from Alpha Defense. You can see what happens to the city shields in real time.”

  “Thank you, Loi. I love you.”

  “You’re the best, Mum. Stay safe.”

  Gwendoline tipped her head back until it was resting on the settee’s deep cushions. She exhaled a long, long breath.

  “You still amaze me,” Horatio said from the doorway.

  She pressed her lips together. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “What I didn’t hear I could guess at. He’s right, of course; you have to go to Nashua. At least someone has a working plan for how to save people.”

  “Some people.” She gestured at the window. “Not those out there, which is where you want to go.”

  “I do, because if the shield stands up to the Deliverance ships, then the people living underneath will need a lot of help to get through the next few years. Don’t they deserve that?”

  “Why you?”

  “Same reason they need you to help the exodus project. It’s what we do. No—it’s what we’re good at.”

  She took his hand and pulled him down onto the settee. “It’s not fair, though.”

  “Life generally isn’t.”

  “I can’t stand the thought we’ll be separated. Forever.”

  “We have hope. That will be shared, like our own private entanglement. The Olyix can never take that from us.” He smiled.

  “Right.” As always, that smile did wicked things to her soul. She never could resist the Horatio smile. Because of it, traitorous liquid was building up behind her eyes—tears she could never shed, because that was unfair to him.

  “Okay,” he said. “So now what?”

  “Is it over?”

  “Crina? Yes. She’s been unconscious for the last two hours. I was only in there to make absolutely sure.”

  “Christ, that’s a horrible way to go. And how’s that cocoon going to keep her alive? We’re on the top floor. It can’t send out roots from here.”

  “I left some of the packets of protocarb pellets next to her. And there’s the en suite bathroom; it can get water from there, I guess. That’ll sustain her for a while.”

  “At least none of the anti-Olyix crazies can get at her in here.”

  Theano told her that Loi’s messenger was outside the penthouse and splashed a camera image of a self-conscious intern-type standing there holding a small case. “Close the vestibule security door,” she told the altme. “Open the entrance. Tell him to place the case inside, then leave.”

  Horatio raised an eyebrow. “Crina has rubbed off on you.”

  “She taught me not to be complacent, yes.”

  A minute later she stood beside the vestibule security door as it slid back. The case was standing in the middle of the marble tile floor. She picked it up, and Theano gave it her executive code. The top hinged up silently, and she stared at the portal inside.

  If I go, I’ll be safe. I’ll never have to worry again. I’ll be taken care of.

  I’ll have no say in my life. Protected, a beautiful, rare animal in a breeding zoo flying off blindly into the galaxy.

  The case closed, and she walked back into the lounge.

  “What now?” Horatio asked.

  “Now we see if the city shields can withstand whatever the Deliverance ships are going to throw at them.”

  “Right.” He shifted uncomfortably. “And if they can’t?”

  “We run away. And I do mean we.”

  “Above all else, I love your practicality. When do the Deliverance ships arrive?”

  “The first ones will reach the atmosphere in eight hours. Then the next twenty-five thousand follow them down over a week or so.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “It’s an interesting number. There are approximately five thousand city shields, so that works out at about five Deliverance ships per city. Of course, some cities are a lot bigger than others. Who knows what the actual distribution will be.”

  “Do they know which city the first ships will go to?”

  “No. But if they keep their deceleration constant, they’ll be coming down somewhe
re over the Indian Ocean.”

  * * *

  —

  They spent the rest of the day preparing for three outcomes. The first option was easy enough. Set the portal up in the middle of the lounge, with a couple of bagez standing ready beside it like a pair of bulbous sentry drones. If the Deliverance ships broke through every city shield they attacked, thread up fast and go.

  Second option: If some shields held and some fell, wait to see what happened to the London shield. If it fell, run like hell through the portal.

  Option three, the one she dreaded: The shields all held, London held. She went to Nashua. Horatio stayed.

  “I want the shields to fall,” she confessed miserably. “Does that make me a bad person?’

  He scrunched his face up as if in deep thought. “Slightly on the selfish side, there, I feel.”

  “Where will you go? I mean, you’re welcome to stay here, but…Crina. The Kcells transformed her once. Maybe they’ll do it again.”

  “I’ll just go back to my flat.”

  “In Bermondsey?” she exclaimed; she hoped the dismay wasn’t too obvious.

  “It’s not a leper colony, you know. I like it there. The Benjamin agency has a couple of centers in the borough, and they do good work with the local kids.”

  “It’s next door to Southwark,” she pointed out.

  “Ah, the wilderness. ’Tis said there be dragons there.”

  “You know what I mean. There are a lot of gangs.”

  “There’s a lot of lost, impoverished, disenfranchised kids who need help, if that’s what you mean. The news and allcomments demonize them.”

  “How come you never stood for office?” she asked abruptly.

  “I don’t want to be a politician. I want to accomplish something in my life. The agencies I work with make a genuine difference to a lot of lives.”

  “And you might have lost the vote, or had to compromise if you won.”