The Neutronium Alchemist

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Now what?” Quinn asked.

  “We have to give the security service total access to our flight computer. They’re going to run a complete diagnostic to make sure there aren’t any unexplained glitches anywhere in the ship. They’ll also monitor us through the internal sensors at the same time. Once they’re satisfied there’s no glitch we’re allowed out into the bay. We have to undergo a whole series of tests, including datavises from our neural nanonics. Quinn, we haven’t got any bloody neural nanonics, and a starship’s crew always have them fitted. Always!”

  “I told you,” Quinn’s hollow voice said from deep within his hood, “I will deal with it. What else?”

  Dwyer gave the display a wretched stare. “Once we’ve been cleared, we’re put in a secure holding area while the ship is searched by an armed security team. After it’s cleared, we will be allowed out.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Dwyer’s communications console was showing a demand from the port’s security service to access the flight computer. “What do we do?” he shrieked. “We can’t fly away, we can’t comply. We’re trapped. They’ll storm us. They’ll have projectile weapons we can’t beat. Or they’ll rip the capsule bulkhead open and decompress us. Or electrocute us with—”

  “You’re trapped.” It was only a tiny whisper, but it stopped Dwyer’s rant dead.

  “You can’t! Quinn, I did everything you asked. Everything! I’m loyal. I’ve always been fucking loyal to you.”

  Quinn extended an arm, a single white finger emerging from the end of his black sleeve.

  Dwyer threw out both hands. White fire screamed out of his palms to lash at the black-robed incarnation of Death. Bridge consoles flickered madly as corkscrews of pale flame bounced off Quinn, flashing through the air to bury themselves in bulkheads and equipment.

  “Finished?” Quinn asked.

  Dwyer was sobbing.

  “You’re weak. I like that. It means you’ll serve me well. I will find you again, and use you.”

  Dwyer evacuated his stolen body just before the first burn of pain smashed along his spinal cord.

  The security team assigned to the Mount’s Delta knew something was wrong as soon as the starship docked. Its routine datavises began to drop out for seconds at a time. When the bay’s management officer tried to contact the captain there was no reply. A level one alert was declared.

  The docking bay and its immediate surroundings were sealed up and isolated from the rest of Supra-Brazil. One squad of combat officers and another of technical experts were rushed to the docking bay to complement the original team. Communications lines were opened to an advisory panel made up from senior commanders in the Govcentral Internal Security Directorate and the Strategic Defence force.

  Four minutes after it docked, the clipper-class starship’s datavises had returned to normal, but there was still no response from the captain nor any other member of the crew. The security advisory panel authorized the team to go to the next stage.

  A datalink umbilical jacked into a socket on the starship’s hull. The GISD’s most powerful decryption computers were brought on line to crack the flight computer’s access codes; it took less than thirty seconds. The nature of the bridge’s modified processors and programs were obvious: customized to be run by possessed. Almost simultaneously, the sensors began relaying their images from the interior of the small life-support capsule. There was nobody inside. However, there was one anomaly whose cause wasn’t immediately apparent. A thick red paste was splashed across almost every surface in the bridge. Then an eyeball drifted past one of the sensors, and that mystery was solved—leaving a bigger paradox. The blood hadn’t yet congealed. Some one or thing on board had slaughtered the crew member only minutes ago. GISD could not permit an unknown threat to remain at large; if the possessed had developed a fresh method of attack it had to be investigated.

  An airlock tube extended out from the side of the bay. After arming themselves with chemical explosive fragmentation grenades and submachine guns, five GISD combat officers advanced through it to the life-support capsule. Each of them encountered a small squall of cold air in the tube as they pulled themselves along, barely noticeable through their armour.

  Once inside, they opened every storage locker and cabinet to try to locate the missing crew members. There was nobody to be found. Even the flight computer confirmed no atmosphere was being consumed.

  An engineering crew from the port was sent in to strip down the life-support capsule. It took them six hours to remove every single fitting, including the decking. The advisory council was left with an empty sphere seven metres in diameter with severed cables and hoses poking through sealed inlets. A meticulous examination of the flight computer records, evaluating power consumption, command interfaces, fuel expenditure, and utilities usage showed that there must have been two people on board when the Mount’s Delta docked. But DNA analysis on the blood and tissue smearing the bridge showed it had all come from one body.

  The Mount’s Delta was powered down, and its cryogenic tanks emptied. Then the entire ship was slowly and methodically cut up into sections, from the support framework to the fusion generators, even the energy patterning nodes. No unit or module bigger than a cubic metre was left intact.

  The media, of course, soon discovered the “ghost flight” from Nyvan; and rover reporters swarmed around the bay, demanding and bribing information from anyone they could find connected to the security operation. It wasn’t long before they managed to gain legal access to a sensor in the bay itself thanks to two judges whose motives were somewhat financially inclined. Several tens of millions of people in Earth’s arcologies started accessing the investigation directly, watching the starship being cut up by mechanoids, and waiting eagerly for a possessed to be captured.

  Quinn saw no reason to stay inside the dry deprivation of the ghost realm once he had passed unseen through all the security checks; he rematerialized and sat in a luxurious active contour leather seat in the lift capsule’s Royale Class lounge. He was near one of the panoramic windows, which would allow him to watch the dawn rise over South America as he descended vertically towards it at three thousand kilometres an hour. With his hawkish, stressed face and expensively conservative blue silk suit he slotted perfectly into the character of an aristocratic businessman.

  For the last quarter of the journey down the tower he sipped his complimentary Norfolk Tears, which was continually topped up by a stewardess, and gave the AV projector above the cocktail bar an occasional glance. Earth’s media companies competed enthusiastically to update him on the progress of the search through the dissected components of the Mount’s Delta. If the rest of the lounge wondered at his intermittent guffaws of contempt, Earth’s obsessive cult of personal privacy forbade them from enquiring as to the reason.

  ***

  Jed spent most of the voyage sitting on the pine floorboards in the Mindor’s lounge, gazing out at the starfield. There had never been a time in his life when he felt more content. The stars themselves were beautiful seen like this, and every now and then the hellhawk would swallow through a wormhole. That was exciting, even though there wasn’t much to see then, just a kind of dark grey fog swirling around outside that was never quite in focus. Coupled with the sense of invulnerability generated by riding in the hellhawk was the anticipation of Valisk, never stronger than now.

  I did it. For the first time in my life I set myself a solid goal and saw it through. Against some pretty nasty odds, too. Me and all the other kids from nowhere, we made it to Valisk. And Kiera.

  He had brought his modified recording of her, although he no longer needed it. Every time he closed his eyes he could see that smile, thick soft hair falling over her bare shoulders, perfectly rounded cheeks. She would congratulate him personally when they arrived. She must, because he was the leader. So they would probably get to talk, because she’d want to know how difficult it was for them, how they had struggled. She would be sympathetic, because that wa
s her nature. Then perhaps—

  Gari and Navar bounded into the lounge, laughing happily together. Some kind of truce had been declared since they came on board. A minor omen, Jed thought; things were steadily getting better.

  “What are you doing?” Gari asked.

  He grinned up at her and gestured to the window with its thick rim of brass. “Just looking. So what are you two doing?”

  “We came to tell you. We just talked to Choi-Ho. She says this is the last swallow before we get to Valisk. Another hour, Jed!” Her face rose with elation.

  “Yeah, another hour.” He snatched another glance at the alien greyness outside. Any minute now they’d be back in real space. Then he realized Beth wasn’t here to witness their triumph. “Back in a minute,” he told the two girls.

  The Mindor was quite crowded now. The rendezvous in the Kabwe system had brought another twenty-five Deadnights on board. Everyone was doubling up in the cabins. He walked right to the end of the main corridor, where the light was slightly darker. “Beth?” He gave her cabin door a fast knock and turned the handle. “Come on, girl, we’re almost there. You’ll miss the—”

  Both of Beth’s jackets and her lace-up boots were lying on the floor, looking like they’d just been flung there. Beth herself was stirring on the bed, a skinny hand clawing lank strands of hair away from her face as she peered around blearily. Gerald Skibbow was next to her, sound asleep.

  Indignation and pure anger made it impossible for Jed to move.

  “What is it?” Beth grunted.

  Jed couldn’t believe it; she didn’t display the slightest hint of shame.

  Skibbow was old enough to be her bloody great-grandfather! He glared at her, then stomped out, slamming the door loudly behind him.

  Beth stared after him, her puzzled thoughts slowly slotting together.

  “Oh, Jeeze, you’ve got to be bloody joking,” she groaned. Not even Jed was that stupid. Surely? She swung her legs out from under the duvet, taking care not to pull it off Gerald. It had taken her hours to get him to sleep. Holding him, reassuring him.

  Despite her best efforts, she did dislodge the cover. The fabric seemed to stick to her jeans, and her sweatshirt was all twisted around, making every movement difficult.

  Gerald Skibbow woke with a cry, looking around fearfully. “Where are we?”

  “I don’t know, Gerald,” she said as calmly as she could. “I’ll go find out, then I’ll bring you back some breakfast. Okay, mate?”

  “Yes. Um, I think so.”

  “You go slip into the shower. Leave everything else to me.” Beth laced her boots up, then retrieved one of her jackets from the floor. She gave the inside pocket a determined pat to make sure the nervejam was there before she left the cabin.

  Rocio Condra sensed the voidhawks waiting before he even started to emerge from the wormhole terminus. Seven of them, spiralling slowly around the point where he expected Valisk to be.

  The terminus closed behind him, and he spread his wings wide, letting the thin streamers of solar ions gust against the feathers. All he did was glide along his orbital path while he tried to understand. Confusion was almost total. At first he thought he might even have emerged above the wrong gas giant, however unlikely that was. But no, this was Opuntia, its system of moons easily distinguishable. He could even feel the mass of Valisk’s wrecked industrial stations in their proper coordinate. The only thing missing was the habitat itself.

  <> he asked his erstwhile enemies. <>

  <> one of the voidhawks replied. <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <> Even as he protested, he knew he wasn’t really bothered. The decision he had been nerving himself up to make had been taken for him. He allowed energy to flow through his patterning cells, exerting pressure on a particular point in space.

  <> the voidhawk called. <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <>

  <> Energy flashed through the cells, forcing an interstice open. The wormhole’s non-length deepened to accept his bulk.

  <> the voidhawk proclaimed. <>

  Rocio Condra closed the interstice behind his tail. His mind instinctively retrieved the coordinate for New California from the Mindor’s infallible memory. He would see what Capone had to offer before making any hasty decisions. And the other hellhawks would be there; whatever final choice they made, they would make it together.

  After he explained what had happened to Choi-Ho and Maxim Payne, they agreed not to burden the Deadnights with the knowledge that their false dream had ceased to be.

  ***

  Jay peeled the gold insulating wrapper off her chocolate and almond ice cream; it was her fifth that morning. She lay back happily on her towel and started licking the nuts off the ice cream’s surface. The beach was such a lovely place, and her new friend made it just about perfect.

  “Sure you don’t want one?” she asked. There were several more sweets scattered over the warm sand; she had stuffed her bag full of them when she left the pediatric ward that morning.

  <> Haile said. <>

  Jay giggled. “That’s mad. Everyone likes chocolate.”

  <>

  She bit off a huge chunk and let it slither around her tongue. “What do you like?”

  <>

  “Oh, right. I keep forgetting how young you are. Do you eat solid stuff when you’re older?”

  <>

  Jay smiled at the wistfulness carried by the mental voice. She had often felt the same at her mother’s rules, restrictions designed purely to stop her enjoying herself. “Do your parents all go out for fancy meals and things in the evening like we do? Are there Kiint restaurants?”

  <>

  “I’d love to see your home planet. It must be super, like the arcologies but clean and silver, with huge towers built right up into the sky. You’re so advanced.”

  <> Haile said with cautious uncertainty. <>

  “That’s okay.” Jay finished the treat. “Gosh, that’s lovely,” she mumbled around the freezing mouthful. “I didn’t have any ice cream the whole time I was on Lalonde. Can you imagine that!”

  <properly balanced dietary substances. Ione Saldana says too much niceness is bad for you. Query correctness?>>

  “Completely wrong.” Jay sat up and tossed the ice cream stick into her bag. “Oh, Haile, that’s wonderful!” She scrambled to her feet and ran over to the baby Kiint. Haile’s tractamorphic arms were withdrawing from the sand castle like a nest of snakes that had been routed. She’d built a central tapering tower two and a half metres tall, surrounded by five smaller matching pinnacles; elaborate arching fairy bridges linked them all together. There were turrets leaning out of the sides at cockeyed angles, rings of pink shell windows, and a solid fortress wall with a deep moat around the outside.

  “Best yet.” Jay stroked the Kiint’s facial ridge just above the breathing vents. Haile shivered in gratitude, big violet eyes looked directly into Jay.

  <>

  “We should build something from your history,” Jay said generously.

  <> the Kiint said sadly. <>

  Jay put her arms around the Kiint’s neck, pressing up against her supple white hide. “That’s all right. There are lots of things Mummy and Father Horst wouldn’t tell me, either.”

  <>

  “That’s a shame. But the castle looks great now it’s finished. I wish we had some flags to stick on top. I’ll see what I can find to use for tomorrow.”

  <>

  Jay looked along the row of shapeless mounds that now ran along the shoreline. Each one carried its own particular memory of joy and satisfaction. “Honestly, Haile, that’s the whole point. It’s even better when there’s a tide, then you can see how strong you’ve built.”

  <>

  “We’re simple, really. We always learn more from our mistakes, that’s what Mummy says. It’s because they’re more painful.”