Salvation

by Peter F. Hamilton

  While his crew was working on readying the tank, Callum started clearing an area to work in, level with the gap Alana and Colin were preparing. He cut into the girders, creating a cave to bring the portals through unencumbered. It was tough work, sending long lengths of metal tumbling down into the pit below, where they bounced and spun off the thick pipes leading in from the other tanks, clattering away to the very bottom of the pit. Several struck the side of the portal chamber five meters below him.

  To hold the six-meter portal, they’d brought three support rails with them—telescoping composite tubes that Callum and Alana set up underneath the tank’s severed pipe. Bonding pads at each end secured them to the remaining steel girders.

  The whole procedure took nearly seventy minutes. Callum was sweating profusely when they finished, and Raina confirmed the rails had bonded correctly to the molecules of the lattice girders. Standing on the precarious walkway, he opened the second case, which contained another thirty-centimeter portal, and placed it base down on the mesh.

  “Henry, we’re ready. Start threading.”

  * * *

  —

  As soon as the tank’s gas evacuation was complete, Henry had cycled out of the ventchamber airlock and headed back to the ED ready-one compartment. Haumea station’s broad passageways were simple metal tubes with nearly a meter of insulation foam sprayed on the outside to help combat the cold imbued by the asteroid’s lonely trans-Neptune orbit. The station didn’t warrant the investment of its own manufacturing module; all its sections and components were shipped out directly from Earth. They were laid out across Haumea’s ice-crusted rock surface in a series of basic geodesic spheres with radial spokes leading out to cylindrical ventchambers of varying size. There were more than eighty ventchambers already, most of them with their outer doors permanently open, allowing plumes of misty vapor to fountain up out of their portals as toxic chemicals or radioactive gases were shunted far away from Earth. The remainder would intermittently produce bursts of canisters, which streaked out across interplanetary space like a blast of giant shotgun pellets. New spheres and ventchambers were still being added as Earth methodically disposed of its historical pollution.

  Technicians were already assembling the threader when Henry arrived in ED ready-one. The inside of the dome was the same triple-level layout as a free-fall space station; with Haumea’s minimal gravity it made maneuvering large machinery a lot easier. The central deck was the assembly area for threaders. Henry smiled inside his helmet as he saw the six-meter one being prepared; the big machines always delighted him.

  The core of this one was the pair of six-meter portals, currently pressed together so tightly they formed a single disk of molecular circuitry a meter and a half thick. Nine robot arms were carefully integrating an elegant egg-shaped frame of brushed aluminum ovals around them, containing a multitude of mechanical components and actuators, wound with power cables and data fibers.

  Henry clicked his space suit boots into the floor grid, holding himself in place while the technicians glided around the growing threader like curious fish investigating a shining reef. He watched the process advance while the voices of the crew back in Gylgen babbled away in his ears.

  Once the first part of the threader was complete, a similar, smaller version was attached to its front end, then finally an even smaller edition was attached to the end of that. The three together resembled a bizarre Russian doll mechanism caught in mid-separation.

  “Henry, we’re ready for you,” the lead technician said.

  Henry picked up the second of the two suitcases he’d brought with him from Brixton. He kicked off the floor and floated easily through the air to the threader. To stop he grabbed one of the ceiling handholds, and maneuvered himself back to vertical relative to the decking. Working in zero gee, constantly having to manipulate your whole body mass with a single arm, built muscle bulk like no gym exercise ever could. All space workers developed upper bodies like pro swimmers. And because portal doors meant everyone went back home to Earth at the end of shift, nobody suffered the kind of calcium loss and muscle wastage early astronauts were plagued with on long-duration flights.

  He opened the suitcase and took out the circular thirty-centimeter portal. It locked into place on the front of the threader. “Integration complete,” he reported.

  “Reading it,” Fitz said. “Running threader procedure checks. You are go to egress the ventlock.”

  The magnetic monorail grip on the bottom of the threader powered up, propelling it along one of several rails on the deck. Henry waited until it went past, then grasped one of the curving aluminum ribs at the back and let it tow him along. The rail led down a passageway to the largest ventchamber on Haumea.

  As soon as it was inside the cylindrical metal cave, the inner door slid shut and sealed with a fast succession of metallic clunks. The threader extended ten legs, which engaged with loading pins on the chamber floor.

  “In position,” Henry said. He looked up, checking the outer door above the threader. A ring of amber caution lights was flashing around the heavy-duty hydraulic actuators.

  “Callum’s almost ready,” Fitz told him. “Stand by.”

  Henry drifted over to the airlock at the side of the big egress door he’d just come through and opened it in readiness. Once everything was in place, he was going to have to leave the ventchamber fast. His mInet was throwing up several data columns on the space suit visor, showing him the threader status.

  He’d been listening to his friends back in Gylgen for several minutes before Callum said: “Henry, we’re ready. Start threading.”

  Henry gave the instruction to his mInet. The smallest of the threader’s three mechanisms started up. At its center was a paired portal, like a particularly thick dark-gray paving slab, twenty-five centimeters wide and one point five meters long.

  “Initiating spatial entanglement on unit alpha,” Fitz said, as the data on his displays showed him the system’s progress. “Okay…we have zero gap. Power stable to both sides. Uncoupling now.”

  The actuators inside the threader mechanism split the slab apart into identical rectangles whose quantum spatial entanglement transformed them into linked doors. No matter how great the physical distance between the twinned segments, the entanglement provided an open gap that was no length at all: the portal.

  Henry grinned in delight as the threader supports holding the portal pair lifted the two identical rectangles away from each other. Actuators moved with the fluidity of metal muscles, sliding one of the twins—short edge first—through the waiting thirty-centimeter portal, its edges just clearing to emerge directly into the Gylgen facility.

  “Got it,” Callum said.

  In front of Henry, the threader mechanism rotated the remaining portal slab by ninety degrees, so its longer opening was ready to receive the shorter side of the next stage.

  “Initiating spatial entanglement on unit beta,” Fritz said.

  Unit two was another rectangular portal, larger this time, one and a half meters by six and a half. The support arms pulled its twin segments apart and immediately slipped the short end of the upper segment into the waiting unit alpha portal, with a clearance of less than a centimeter. Inside the threader, the remaining unit beta portal was rotated to present its wider side to unit gamma, the six-meter portal.

  “Here we go,” Henry muttered. “Unit gamma ready for you, chief.”

  * * *

  —

  Callum caught the unit alpha slab as it threaded through from Haumea and placed it on the floor in the section he’d marked out. Unit beta quickly emerged out of it, and the legs on its back deployed, lifting it up, and flipping the open side ninety degrees so it finished up horizontal. He checked it was aligned with the rails bridging the gulf under the tank. Apollo adjusted its height until Callum was satisfied. Alana fixed its legs to the walkway’s grid.


  “Let’s have it,” he told Henry.

  The six-meter portal came through, sliding out across the rails. Callum glanced into the opening, seeing the ventchamber’s outer door dead ahead. He watched the data column showing him the state of the rails and their bonding points. Everything was well inside tolerance. “Looks good from here. Let’s go.”

  Along with Moshi, Alana, and Colin, he clambered back up the metal stairs to the top of the lattice. Moshi had prepared straps and harnesses for all of them, fastened to the thickest girders. Callum eyed the top of the tank as he clipped himself in.

  “Everyone secure?”

  “Good to go, chief.”

  “Raina, I need you to keep watch on the building sensors.”

  “I’m on it, chief.”

  “Henry, open the ventchamber door,” Callum said. “Moshi, get ready.”

  It began with a faint hissing sound. A breeze started up, plucking at the thick fabric of his hazmat suit. The hissing deepened, quickening his heartbeat. Peripheral vision showed things moving on the walkways that crisscrossed the lattice: old abandoned plastic cups, paper, scraps of wiring, plastic slivers, all wiggling and rolling along.

  “Door at fifty percent,” Henry reported.

  The hissing had become a storm-roar now. Its force was buffeting him with a lot more force that he’d anticipated. Instinct made him check the harness clasps. Colin and Alana were already on their knees, gripping the walkway rail for extra security.

  “Seventy-five percent,” Henry said.

  Callum could hear the whole building protesting now. Metal was creaking overhead. When he glanced up, he could see the lights swinging wildly. Above them, the ceiling panels were buckling, starting to peel from the frame.

  “Hundred percent!”

  The snarl of air venting into interplanetary space became a hurricane howl. Vapor was streaking across the lattice at incredible speed. Two roof panels ripped free and slammed down onto the tank, vibrating furiously as they were sucked away down the sides.

  “Blow it,” Callum shouted.

  The charges on the tank support struts detonated simultaneously. He couldn’t even hear them above the gale that was clawing at him. Snowflakes transformed to dangerous ice bullets, strafing down from widening cracks in the roof. The top of the tank vanished, dropping so fast he barely caught the motion. More lethal panels were scything through the air, following it into the cyclone funnel that had formed in the gulf its departure had created.

  “It’s clear,” Raina yelled across their comms.

  “Close it, Henry!” Callum shouted.

  The gale took an age to subside as the ventchamber’s outer door labored against the incredible pressure. Twice as long as it took to form, Callum was sure.

  Silence, when it came, was like a physical force slapping him. Callum took a shaky breath and stood up, tensed against the eerily still air. “Everyone okay?”

  They called it in, voices unsteady with relief. Callum slowly unclipped the harness. Snow was falling through wide fractures in the broken roof. The inside of the building resembled a bomb site. He checked his radiation sensor, which showed him background levels only.

  “Bloody hell, we did it!” he said. Then he started laughing at the surprise in his own voice.

  * * *

  —

  The alarm clock’s buzzing woke Callum. Someone had turned the volume up to stadium-rock level and added earthquake-shake to it. Callum moaned weakly and opened his eyes—actions that were hideously painful. His hand groped around for the alarm clock. Somewhere in his aching brain he cursed the smartarse out-of-reach trick.

  That was when he realized he wasn’t even in the bedroom, let alone his bed. He was sprawled on the settee in the living room with a cricked neck and one arm wedged under his torso. And the alarm was still buzzing away. His vision was blurry, but he could see through the open door into the bedroom where the red glowing digits taunted him.

  “House,” he croaked.

  “Good morning, Callum.”

  “Switch the alarm off.”

  “That is not possible. Your alarm clock has no interface. It is very old. I believe it was manufactured in the 1990s.”

  “Bastard.” He staggered upright, groaning at the wave of pain the motion caused at the very center of his brain. The living room lurched nauseatingly around him. Somehow he managed to coordinate his limbs and tottered into the bedroom. He didn’t bother with the snooze or cancel buttons on the clock, just switched the fucker off at the mains.

  Relief lasted about five seconds. “Oh, shit,” he gasped, and sprinted for the bathroom.

  He didn’t know what he’d had to eat last night, but he certainly managed to throw up most of it into the toilet bowl. He pressed the flush, then slumped on the floor with his back to the washbasin, breathing heavily as his body abruptly turned to ice and his clearly lethal bastard of a headache hammered at the inside of his skull in an attempt to break free.

  They’d spent another hour at the Gylgen disposal facility yesterday after dumping the tank, first helping the staff check to make sure no waste canisters had split or leaked during the chaos; then threading the portal doors back to Haumea station. Media drones had caught the roof buckling and the snowy air screaming into fissures as the panels were sucked down into the massive emergency vent. Everyone assumed the tanks had imploded. It took Connexion’s PR team a while to calm fears and reassure everyone that ED had worked their usual miracle, preventing radiation leakage from contaminating the surrounding area. Under Dokal’s forceful guidance, the PR team underplayed the potential damage level, emphasizing the debris would have only been mildly radioactive medical waste.

  The news streams ignored that modesty and started playing old Chernobyl videos. By that time, Callum and the crew were all back in Brixton, kicking back in their office, cheering and jeering at the deluge of alarmist reports. If only you knew, he thought smugly. After that, they all went out for a quiet celebratory drink.

  The shower helped a little. But he took four ibuprofen as soon as he got out, washed down with half a carton of fresh orange juice he found in the fridge. A fully stocked fridge. “Oh, thank Christ for that.” He slapped bacon rashers into the pan. Plenty of bread today, so two bacon sandwiches. Two mugs of extra strong coffee to go with them.

  He found some clean clothes, shoved the entire dirty laundry pile into the housekeeping service’s bags—they could sort everything out, and screw the extra cost—and left them outside his door for pickup.

  Then he sat back down at the breakfast bar and took a couple of paracetamol, because a paramedic ex had told him it was okay to mix them with ibuprofen. He wasn’t quite up to the walk to the Young Street hub yet. He couldn’t be bothered to watch the overnight news streams. If there was anything bad, ED would have called him in.

  He slipped on his screen sunglasses. “Hey, Apollo, any calls or emails from Savi?”

  “No.”

  “Ping her mInet for me, pal.”

  “No response.”

  “Bastard.”

  Callum didn’t get it. Six bloody days and not a single minute away from dumb student radical eyes? Maybe it’d all been some kind of con? She’d married him for his money, and the whole Diana Klub staff was in on it. They jacked a couple of romance-bewitched tourists every month, laughing as they cashed in his…His what? All he had were good prospects. Can’t take that to the bank.

  He shook his head wearily. “Grow up, you moron,” he grunted angrily.

  It was clear what his brain was doing—trying to deny the obvious conclusion. Something’s happened. Something bad.

  “Apollo?”

  “Yes, Cal.”

  “Set up a new news filter. Find any female students fitting Savi’s description, but not her name, reported missing from campus in the last six days.”


  “Which campus, Cal?”

  He shrugged. “All of them.”

  “On the planet?”

  I’m paranoid. But am I paranoid enough? “Yes,” he sighed. “Everything on Earth.”

  “That might take a while. May I purchase additional processor time?”

  “Do it.”

  * * *

  —

  When he walked into the crew’s office, he might have laughed at the state of Alana and Colin—except he didn’t exactly occupy the moral high ground. Besides, he suspected he looked even worse than they did. Their sunglasses weren’t as dark as his. Raina looked as lively and peppy as she always did. And he was sure he had a memory of her matching his vodka shots. There was even a vague recollection of a cocktail glass alight with blue flame.

  Raina gave him a weary, sympathetic smile. “How’s it going, chief?”

  “Still alive. Why aren’t you hungover?”

  “Younger, smarter, know where to score better drugs.”

  “Bastard,” he grumbled.

  Moshi was at the small kitchen bar in the corner, washing down pills with a big mug of tea. He hadn’t shaved, and Callum was pretty sure he was wearing the same shirt as yesterday. “Morning,” Moshi said, and slumped back into one of the settees before closing his eyes.

  For Henry it was just another morning, and all was well with the world. But then Henry had been a responsible adult last night and gone home before midnight to be with his expectant partner.

  Callum looked through the glass wall into the M & C Center. Fitz grinned and gave him a mocking two-finger salute. Callum responded with one finger.

  “Okay.” Callum tried to focus on the news streams running across the wallscreens. One of the central pair was still showing the Gylgen facility; there’d been a heavy snowfall overnight, covering some of the more blatant damage to the building. “What have we got?”