The Neutronium Alchemist

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “That’s not strictly accurate,” Iain Girardi said, his voice tactfully smooth and apologetic.

  “Shut the fuck up!” she bawled. “I don’t need you to tell me what’s been happening to us.”

  “Madeleine, please,” André said. “You are hysterical. No one is forcing you to take part. I will not hold you to your contract if that is your wish.”

  “Damn right it’s my wish. And nowhere does it say in my crew contract that I fly for the possessed. You pay me my last two months in full, plus the Lalonde combat bonus you owe me, and I’m out of here.”

  “If that is what you want.”

  “You’ve got the money?”

  “Oui. But of course. Not that it is any of your business.”

  “Bastard. Why did you leave us to pay for Erick’s treatment, then?”

  “I am only a captain, I do not claim to perform miracles. My account has only just been credited. Naturally it is my pleasure to pay for dear Erick’s treatment. It is a matter of honour for me.”

  “Just been …” Madeleine glanced from André to Iain Girardi, then back again. Understanding brought outraged astonishment. “You accepted a retainer from him?”

  “Oui,” André snapped.

  “Oh, Jesus.” The shock of his admission silenced her.

  “You spoke about Lalonde,” Iain Girardi said. “Did the Confederation Navy rush to your aid while you were there?”

  “Do not speak about an event of which you know nothing,” Desmond growled.

  “I know something about it. I’ve accessed Kelly Tirrel’s report. Everybody has.”

  “And we have all accessed Gus Remar’s report from New California. The possessed have conquered that world. By rights we ought to sign on with the Confederation Navy and help eradicate every one of them from this universe.”

  “Eradicate them how? This is a dreadful calamity which has befallen the human race, both halves of it. Dropping nukes on millions of innocent people is not going to bring about a resolution. Sure it was chaos at Lalonde, and I’m sorry you were hit with the worst of it. Those possessed were a disorganized terrified rabble, lashing out blindly to protect themselves from the mercenary army you carried. But the Organization is different. For a start we’re proving that possessed and non-possessed can live together.”

  “Yeah, while we’re convenient,” Madeleine said. “While you need us to run the technology and fly starships. After that it’s going to be a different bloody story.”

  “I can appreciate your bitterness, but you are wrong. Al Capone has taken the first steps to solving this terrible dilemma; he’s proposing a joint research project to find a solution. All the Confederation Navy is doing is working on methods of blowing the possessed back into the beyond. I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t want them to triumph.”

  Desmond bunched his fist, one toe coming off the stikpad, ready to launch himself at the man. “You traitorous little shit.”

  “You’re going to die,” Iain Girardi said remorselessly. “You, me, everyone on board this ship, everyone in Chaumort. All of us die. It can’t be helped, you can’t reverse entropy. And when you die, you’re going to spend eternity in the beyond. Unless something is done about it, unless you can find a living neurone structure which will host you. Now I ask again, do you want Al Capone’s project to fail?”

  “If all Capone is interested in is spreading happiness across the galaxy, why does he want to hire a combat-capable starship?” Madeleine asked.

  “Protection in the form of deterrence. There are Organization representatives like me in dozens of asteroids looking to sign up combat-capable starships. The more we have in orbit above New California, the more difficult it will be for anyone to launch a strike force against it. The Confederation Navy is going to attack New California’s Strategic Defence network. Everyone knows that. The First Admiral has got the Assembly screaming at him for some kind of positive action. If he can crack the SD network open, he’s cleared the way for an invasion; have the marines round up all the bad guys and shove them into zero-tau.” Iain Girardi let out a heartfelt pained breath. “Can you imagine the bloodshed that’ll cause? You have seen firsthand how hard the possessed can fight when they’re cornered. Imagine the conflict in your lower lounge multiplied by a billion. That’s what it will be like.” He gave Erick a sympathetic glance. “Is that what you want?”

  “I’m not fighting for the possessed,” Madeleine muttered sullenly. She hated the way Iain Girardi could turn her words, make her doubt her convictions.

  “Nobody is asking the Villeneuve’s Revenge to fight,” Iain Girardi said earnestly. “You are there for show, that’s all. Perimeter defence patrol, where you’re visible, a demonstration of numerical strength. Hardly an onerous duty. And you get paid full combat rates, with a guaranteed six-month contract; in addition to which I have a discretionary retainer fee to offer. Obviously for a prime ship like the Villeneuve’s Revenge it will be a substantial one. You will be able to afford to have the worst of the damage repaired here at Chaumort, plus Erick can receive the best medical treatment available. I can even arrange for a brand-new spaceplane on very favourable terms; New California astroengineering companies make the best models.”

  “You see?” André said. “This is the kind of charter to be proud of. If the Organization is right we will have helped to secure the future of the entire human race. How can you object?”

  “No, Captain,” Madeleine said. “I’m not sharing the life-support capsules with the possessed. Not ever. Period.”

  “Nobody is suggesting you do.” Girardi sounded shocked. “Obviously we understand there is a lot of suspicion at the moment. The Organization is working hard at breaking down those old prejudicial barriers. But until more trust is built up, then obviously you will have your own crew and no one else. In a way, that’s part of establishing trust. The Organization is prepared to accept an armed ship crewed by non-possessed orbiting the planet providing you are integrated into its SD command network.”

  “Shit,” Madeleine hissed. “Erick?”

  He knew it was some kind of trap. And yet … it was hard to see how the possessed proposed to hijack the ship. This was one crew totally aware of the danger in letting even one of the bastards on board. Iain Girardi might have made a major mistake in approaching André.

  The CNIS could undoubtedly use firsthand intelligence data on the disposition of ships around New California, which the Villeneuve’s Revenge would be ideally placed to gather. And he could always jump the ship away when the data was collected, no matter what objections Duchamp raised. There were items stowed in his cabin which could overcome the rest of the crew.

  Which just left personal factors. I don’t want to go into the front line again.

  “It’s an important decision,” he muttered.

  André gave him a puzzled look. Naturally he was pleased some of the (diabolically expensive) medical nanonic packages were off, but obviously the poor boy’s brain still hadn’t completely recovered from decompression. And Madeleine was asking him to decide. Merde. “We know that, Erick. But I don’t want you to worry. All I need to know is which of my crew is loyal enough to come with me. I have already decided to take my ship to New California.”

  “What do you mean, loyal enough?” Madeleine asked hotly.

  André held his hand up in a pleading gesture. “What does Erick have to say, eh?”

  “Will we be docking with anything in the New California system? Do you expect us to take on any extra crew, for example?”

  “Of course not,” Girardi said. “Fuel loading doesn’t require anyone coming into the life-support capsules. And if the unlikely event does arise, then obviously you’ll have a full veto authority over anyone in the airlock tube. Whatever precautions you want, you can have.”

  “Okay,” Erick said. “I’ll come with you, Captain.”

  ***

  “Yeah?”

  …

  “Fuck, I might have guessed, wh
o else is going to call this time of night. Don’t you people ever sleep?”

  …

  “Everybody wants favours. I don’t do them anymore. I’m not so cheap these days.”

  …

  “Yeah? So you go run and tell my comrades; what use will I be to you then?”

  …

  “Mother Mary! You’ve got to be … Alkad Mzu? Shit, that’s a name I didn’t expect to hear ever again.”

  …

  “Here? In the Dorados? She wouldn’t dare.”

  …

  “You’re sure?”

  …

  “No, of course nobody’s said anything. It’s been months since the partizans even bothered having a meeting. We’re all too busy doing charity work these days.”

  …

  “Mother Mary. You believe it, don’t you? Ha! I bet you lot are all pissing yourselves. How do you like it for a change, arsehole? After all these years waiting, us poor old wanderers have gone and got us some real sharp teeth at last.”

  …

  “You think so? Maybe I just resigned from your agency. Don’t forget what the issue is here. I was born on Garissa.”

  …

  “Fuck you, don’t you fucking dare say that to me, you bastard. You even so much as look at my family, you little shit, and I’ll fire that fucking Alchemist at your home planet myself.”

  …

  “Yeah, yeah. Right, it’s a sorry universe.”

  …

  “I’ll think about it. I’m not promising you anything. Like I said, there are issues here. I have to talk to some people.”

  ***

  The party was being thrown on the eve of the fleet’s departure. It had taken over the entire ballroom of the Monterey Hilton, and then spread out to occupy a few suites on the level below. The food was real food; Al had been insistent about that, drunk possessed could never keep the illusion of delicacies going. So the Organization had run search programs through their memory cores and hauled in anyone who listed their occupation as chef, possessed or non-possessed. Skill was all that counted, not its century of origin. The effort was rewarded in a formal eight-course banquet, whose raw materials had been ferried up to the asteroid in seven spaceplane flights, and resulted in Leroy Octavius handing out eleven hundred hours worth of energistic credits to farmers and wholesalers.

  After the meal Al stood on the top table and said: “We’re gonna have a bigger and better ball when you guys come back safe, and you got Al Capone’s word on that.”

  There was a burst of tumultuous applause, which only ended when the band struck up. Leroy and Busch had auditioned over a hundred musicians, whittling the numbers down to an eight-strong jazz band. Some of them were even genuine twenties musicians, or so they claimed. They certainly sounded and looked the part when they got up onstage to play. Nearly three hundred people were out on the dance floor jiving away to the old honky-tonk tunes which Al loved best.

  Al himself led the way, hurling a laughing Jezzibella about with all the energy and panache he’d picked up at the Broadway Casino back in the old days. The rest of the guests soon picked up the rhythm and the moves.

  Men, Al insisted, wore their tuxes or, if they were serving in the fleet, a military uniform; while the women were free to wear their own choice of ball gowns, providing the styles and fabrics weren’t anything too modern.

  With the decorations of gossamer drapes and giant swans created out of fresh-cut flowers the overall effect was of a grand Viennese ball, but a damn sight more fun.

  Possessed and non-possessed rubbed shoulders harmoniously. Wine flowed, laughter shook the windows, some couples snuck off to be by themselves, a few fights broke out. By any standard it was a roaring success.

  Which was why at half past two in the morning Jezzibella was puzzled to find Al all by himself in one of the lower level suites, leaning against its huge window, tie undone, brandy glass in one hand. Outside, star-points of light moved busily through space as the last elements of the fleet manoeuvred into their jump formation.

  “What’s the matter, baby?” Jezzibella asked quietly. Soft arms circled around him. Her head came to rest on his shoulder.

  “We’ll lose the ships.”

  “Bound to lose some, Al honey. Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

  “No, I mean, they’re gonna be in action light-years away. What’s to make them do as I say?”

  “Command structure, Al. The fleet is a mini-version of the Organization. The soldiers at the bottom do what the lieutenants at the top tell them. It’s worked in warships for centuries. When you’re in battle you automatically follow orders.”

  “So what if that piece of shit Luigi takes it into his head to dump me and set up all on his own in Arnstadt?”

  “He won’t. Luigi is loyal.”

  “Right.” He chewed at a knuckle, thankful he was facing away from her.

  “This bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It’s a goddamn problem, okay? That fleet is one fuck of a lot of power to hand over to one guy.”

  “Send two others.”

  “What?”

  “Put a triumvirate in charge.”

  “What?”

  “Easy, lover; if there’s three of them in charge of the fleet, then each of them is going to be busting his balls to prove how loyal he is in front of the others. And let’s face it, the fleet’s only going to be away for a week at the most. It takes a hell of a lot longer than that to get a conspiracy up and running successfully. Besides, ninety per cent of those soldiers are loyal to you. You’ve given them everything, Al; a life, a purpose. Don’t sell yourself short, what you’ve done with these people is a miracle, and they know it. They cheer your name. Not Luigi’s, not Mickey, not Emmet. You, Al.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, drawing his confidence back together. What she said made a lot of sense. It always did.

  Al looked at her in the drizzle of starlight. The personas were combined tonight: a feminine athlete. Her dress of sparkling pearl-coloured silk hinted at rather than revealed her figure. The allure she exerted was terrifying. Al had been hard put to control his temper that evening as he picked up the swell of hunger and lust from the other men on the dance floor every time she glided past.

  “Goddamn,” he whispered. “I ain’t never done anything to deserve a reward as big as you.”

  “I think you have,” she murmured back. Their noses touched again, arms moving gently into an embrace. “I’ve got a present for you, Al. We’ve been saving it up as a treat, and I think the time’s right.”

  His hold around her tightened. “I got the only treat I need.”

  “Flatterer.”

  They kissed.

  “It can wait till the morning,” Jezzibella decided.

  The lift opened onto a section of Monterey Al didn’t recognize. An unembellished rock corridor with an air duct and power cables clinging to the ceiling. The gravity was about half-strength. He pulled a face at that, free fall was the one thing about this century he really hated. Jez kept trying to get him to make out with her in one of the axis hotel cubicles, but he wouldn’t. Just thinking about it made his stomach churn.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  Jezzibella grinned. She was the knowing and carefree girl-about-town persona this morning, wearing a snow-white ship-suit which stretched around her like rubber. “The docking ledges. They’ve not been used much since you took over. Not until now.”

  Al let her lead him along the corridor and into an observation lounge.

  Emmet Mordden, Patricia Mangano, and Mickey Pileggi were waiting in front of the window wall. All of them smiled proudly, an emotion reflected in their thought currents. Al played along with the game as Jez tugged him over to the window.

  “We captured this mother on one of the asteroids a couple of weeks back,” Mickey said. “Well, its captain was possessed, actually. Then we had to persuade the soul to transfer down the affinity link. Jezzibella said you’d like it.
”

  “What is this shit, Mickey?”

  “It’s our present to you, Al baby,” Jezzibella said. “Your flagship.” She smiled eagerly, and gestured at the window.

  Al walked over and looked out. Buck Rogers’s very own rocketship was sitting on the rock shelf below him. It was a beautiful scarlet torpedo with yellow fins sprouting from the sides, and a cluster of copper rocket engine tubes at the rear.

  “That’s for me?” he asked in wonder.

  The rocketship’s interior was fully in keeping with its external appearance, the pinnacle of 1930s engineering and decor. Al felt more at home than any time since he had emerged from the beyond. This was his furniture, his styling. A little chunk of his home era.

  “Thank you,” he said to Jezzibella.

  She kissed him on the tip of his nose, and they linked arms.

  “It’s a blackhawk,” she explained. “The possessing soul is called Cameron Leung; so you be nice to him, Al. I said you’d find him a human body when the universe calms down a little.”

  “Sure.”

  An iron spiral stair led up to the promenade deck. Al and Jezzibella settled back on a plump couch of green leather where they could see out of the long curving windows and along the rocket’s nose cone. He put his fedora down on a cane table at the side of the couch and draped an arm around her shoulders. Prince of the city again, full-time.

  “Can you hear me, Cameron?” Jezzibella inquired.

  “Yes,” came the reply from a silver tannoy grille set in the wall.

  “We’d like to see the fleet before it leaves. Take us over please.”

  Al winced, grabbing hold of the couch’s flared arms. More fucking spaceflight! But there was none of the rush of acceleration he’d braced himself for. All that happened was the view changed. One minute the spherical silver-white grid of Monterey’s spaceport was rotating slowly in front of them, the next it was sliding to one side and racing past overhead.