Salvation

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Why do we care?” Moshi asked, his eyes still closed.

  “Nothing even close to interesting,” Raina said. “Especially no plutonium scares today.”

  Callum gave her an irritated glance. He knew she’d find out eventually. But she needed to be smarter about it, particularly inside their own office. Does Security bug us?

  Dokal walked in and took a disapproving look around the human wreckage. “Jesus Christ, guys. You’re supposed to be professionals. Couldn’t you even wait till the weekend?”

  “We’ll probably have saved the world twice more by then,” Moshi said.

  “Not in this state you won’t. Are you actually active-ready?”

  “Alternatively,” Raina said, “well done for yesterday, everyone; Connexion is delighted, so I come bringing news of your enormous thank-you bonus.”

  “There are two other crews on shift,” Callum said. “If we get called after them, we’ll be ready.”

  Dokal gathered herself up for a rebuke, then relented. “Actually, Corporate’s appreciation will manifest in your next salary payment.”

  There was some feeble cheering from around the office. Only Henry looked genuinely grateful. But then he’d recently been telling Callum horrific stories of how much new baby gear cost.

  “Cal, a word.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He followed her out of the office.

  Dokal gave him a closer inspection. “Damn. The state of you.”

  “Hey, it’s a mild hangover, okay? I’m entitled.”

  “Yes, but you’re not as young as you were.”

  “Bloody hell, don’t you start.”

  “At least your hair is normal today.” She gave his clothes a final inspection and sighed in disappointment. “Come on, someone wants to meet you.”

  “Who?” Callum asked.

  “You’ll see. But let me tell you, your upcoming bonus is going to reflect the company’s sincere appreciation for how you handled yesterday. There were some very senior people watching the feeds from the M and C.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Would it have helped improve your operation?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  Four portal doors in Connexion’s internal hub network, and Cal found himself stepping out into a huge construction site. He knew it was London’s Greenwich Peninsula before Apollo threw the Hubnav data onto his screen glasses. The old arena dome had been demolished two years ago, to colossal news stream coverage. Now he was standing about ten meters below ground level, in a circular pit with metal restraining walls and a floor of frosty mud. Big construction vehicles rumbled around him, some of them manually operated, the drivers sitting in high cabs, using small joysticks to control their machinery. In the cold morning light, it was a slice of a post-apocalypse world ruled by steampunk dinosaurs.

  “He’s over here,” Dokal said, and set off across the mud.

  Callum followed, realizing that this was probably the first time he’d seen her out of heels. She led him over to a group of suits who looked even more out of place in the pit than he did. Then he caught sight of who was standing in the center of them.

  “You might have warned me,” he grumbled.

  “What? The man who saves the world before lunch every day, scared?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Remember, don’t smile too wide for the photographer, you’ll look insincere. But do smile. Oh, and be respectful.”

  “I’m always—”

  The Pretorian guard of lawyers, accountants, architects, and PAs parted. Ainsley Baldunio Zangari looked around in interest. The side of his mouth lifted in wry acknowledgment. “Callum!” His voice was like a shout as he put his hand out in greeting.

  Just like the news streams.

  “Good to meet you, son,” Ainsley said, shaking hands effusively. “People, this is Callum, who saved our collective asses yesterday.”

  The entourage finally mustered smiles of approval.

  “Let’s him and me get a picture here, for history’s sake.”

  The entourage spread out as if they’d been threatened with a cattle prod. Callum saw one of them, in a slightly cheaper suit than the rest, stand directly in front of him, adjusting his screen glasses. To one side, Dokal mouthed “smile” with a furious expression.

  Callum slowly produced a lopsided grin, and said: “Honor to meet you, sir.”

  “Good man.” Ainsley’s smile got even wider, and his other hand clamped down on Callum’s shoulder.

  Callum felt ridiculous. Ainsley was sixty-one, with thick silver-fox hair and a large frame that wasn’t entirely apparent beneath a suit that was superbly cut to de-emphasize his bulk. Cal couldn’t tell if it was fat or muscle; could have gone either way. And here he was in what media trolls would caption as a wrestling lock—or worse—with his boss, the richest man there’d ever been.

  “Give us a moment,” Ainsley said. The entourage melted away faster than an ice cube dropped on lava. “Good job yesterday, Callum. I appreciate it.”

  His hand and shoulder were released. “Just doing my job, sir.”

  “Shit.” The jovial patriarch persona vanished. “You ain’t a kiss-ass, are you, son?”

  Callum took a moment and glanced at the nearest group of the entourage, which included Dokal, all clustered together and carefully not looking in his direction. “No. I live for this shit. I fucking saved Sweden from a nuclear catastrophe—well, me and my crew. You don’t know what that is. But it’s my life, and it’s the best.”

  Ainsley grinned. “And you, son, have no idea how envious I am. These dicks that can only say yes.” His hand waved around the pit. “This is my life. Don’t worry, I’m not going to come ride along with you. Insurance, for one thing, and the board would go apeshit.”

  “Each to his own.”

  “Yeah, but seriously: Thanks for yesterday. Fucking Brits, can you believe that? Don’t they get plutonium is a century past its sell-by date?”

  “They were trying to get rid of it.”

  “Ha! Fucking Johnston; you shake hands with him, son, you count your fingers afterwards. Nations are dissolving; Connexion’s made sure of that. Everyone’s a neighbor now. It’s not a race to kill each other anymore. We’re off to the stars instead. How about that? You going to emigrate when the starships reach a proto-Earth exoworld?”

  “Dunno. Depends how long it takes to terraform one.”

  “Yeah. I just got back from Australia yesterday, you know. Icefall was impressive, even by my standards.”

  Callum hoped he wasn’t looking too blank and stupid right now. He vaguely recalled seeing something about Icefall on a pub’s news stream late last night as a fickle media finally moved on from Gylgen.

  Apollo threw up details—a Connexion media briefing. It was one of Ainsley’s pet projects, irrigating the central Australian desert. “I heard it started well,” Callum said uncertainly.

  “Certainly did, apart from some dickhead protestors trying to spoil progress like they always do.”

  “Right.”

  “The beauty of it is: We can spin Icefall as a grand humanitarian project, but actually it’s planetary engineering one-oh-one. That’s why I’m really backing it. Get some experience in. This way we’ll be ready to make the truly big decisions when the time comes. And it will.”

  “I guess it’s reassuring to know someone’s planning for the genuine long-term.”

  “That’s why I’ll never make it as a politician; I want to actually achieve something in life.”

  Callum put his hands on his hips and regarded the cluster of hulking machinery that was seeding piles deep into the pit floor. “I’d call this achievement.”

  “Bullshit, son. This is just a building. Egyptians and Incas were building big shit three thousand years ago. Sure, it’s gonna be impressi
ve—Connexion’s European grand hub and headquarters, never going to be anything else. But it’s already three years behind schedule, and we ain’t properly started. Fucking bureaucrats here…Jeez, I thought they were bad in the US. You been to New York, son? The tower I’m putting up next to Central Park is going to be a real statement, like this one. But at the end of the day: just a pile of concrete and glass.”

  “Are you going to put Emergency Detox in here?”

  “Fuck knows. I leave the small shit to assholes in the office ten floors under mine. Let them worry about it. I’m the concepts and deals guy.”

  Callum laughed. “Now I’m starting to envy you.”

  “Yeah, it’s a long way from New Jersey to here. Not that I was ever New Jersey trash. Did you know that?”

  “Your father was a hedge fund manager.”

  “And I followed him to Wall Street and made the right investment, huh?”

  “No, your Harvard degree was in machine intelligence. You liquidated your inheritance to set up Connexion.”

  Ainsley nodded in satisfaction, as if Callum had just passed a test. “Not just a college jock on a rodeo ride at my expense.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re smart, son, and I don’t mean your degree. How many of your crew know about the big boss without their mInet throwing it up?”

  “Some.”

  “But you did, and that counts. We’re expanding, Callum, the human race. And Connexion is going to make it possible. The asteroid habitats were just the start. How did you feel when Orion reached the Centauri system?”

  “Happy and disappointed; I was hoping for a decent exoplanet in orbit.”

  “Likewise, son. Zagreus was well named; that is one crappy little loser of an exoplanet. But we didn’t let that stop us, no, not this time. We went into that goddamned useless star system hard and built us another wave of starships. That’s what our society is these days. We’ve got the balls to look outward and dream like JFK again. Fuck, that makes me proud to be human. One of those new starships will find us somewhere worth terraforming, and if it doesn’t, then the following wave will, or the twentieth wave. It doesn’t matter. We are going to build new worlds out there, son, and Connexion is going to take you out to the stars—you and a billion others desperate for a fresh start on a new planet. Twenty years’ time, you’ll be standing on this very same spot, and you’ll be able to walk into our interstellar hub and step onto one of a dozen planets that we’ve tamed. Connexion is going to be huge. It’s going to span the whole fucking galaxy one day.”

  “It’s pretty big now, sir.”

  “Sure. But this one solar system is just the start. And if the company is going to grow the way I know it can, I’m going to need me some real smart, tough bastards to wrestle it into shape for me. What do you say to that?”

  It was probably the hangover damping his emotions down, but Callum was pleased with himself for not overreacting. He just kept his cool and said: “You offering me a job, Mr. Zangari?”

  Ainsley chortled. “Oh, I like you, son, sure enough. But no. No fancy job offer. Not today. What I’m saying is enjoy your macho time in ED these next few years, and watch out for the next generation who’ll rise up like fucking crocodiles to snap at your heels. Then when the time comes you’re tired of the sound of those teeth getting closer and you apply to go on senior management courses or maybe do an MBA, you’ll find Connexion is supportive. You’re what I’m looking for, son. Don’t get head swell, now; I talk to a hundred like you a week. But you got yourself noticed and approved yesterday. No small thing in an organization this size.”

  “Duly noted, sir, and thank you.”

  Ainsley put his hand out again. “Okay. Now I need people to say yes to me again.”

  Callum’s smile stayed in place as he walked back through all four portal doors to the ED office where the crew was waiting.

  “Ainsley fucking Zangari?” Alana yelled. “Himself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you say? Wait! What did he say?” Moshi demanded.

  “He said: well done. Said to thank you guys, too. Christ knows why.”

  “What’s he like?” Raina asked.

  “Same as on the news streams. Loud.”

  “Holy shit. Did he know our names, too?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. You’ll be in the report file—under mine.”

  “Fuck off!”

  Callum laughed and went to make himself some tea. The pills had squashed his hangover now, and he’d had too much coffee already. His crew chatted away happily behind him. The richest man who’d ever been, their boss, knew they existed and was pleased with their work. So how big is the bonus, do you think?

  He sank back into a settee facing the glass wall into the M & C, giving the news streams a proper look this time and getting Apollo to summarize potential problems. It seemed the world of toxicity troubles wasn’t too dangerous today.

  When he thought back to the meeting, it still seemed slightly surreal. I could have mentioned Savi, told Ainsley we’d got married. He would have congratulated me. That way there’d have been no way Security could have kicked up about it, not with him approving. Except…he’d see me as a troublemaker. Probably blow my chances of getting fast-tracked to the top.

  Why doesn’t she just fucking call?

  Dokal sat down beside him. “Congratulations.”

  “Cheers.”

  “I mean it. Ainsley does that to about three people a year.”

  “Huh? He said he sees a hundred a week just like me.”

  “Who’d have thought it?” She smiled softly. “Someone like that not telling the whole truth.”

  “Wow!”

  “Well, don’t forget us when you’re lording it over Connexion’s whole northern hemisphere operations in twenty years’ time.”

  Callum turned to look at her, wondering just how far her corporate loyalty went. They’d always got on well, but…she was ambitious. And now she knew he was a favorite, she might be agreeable to some mutual backscratching. I only need some advice. “We’re at Donnington this weekend. Come along if you’ve got a spare hour. Be good to see you there again.”

  Her smile was endearing; he didn’t get to see it very often. “Thanks, Cal. Is Savi going? I liked her.”

  “Hands off, she’s my girlfriend.”

  “Well, try and use your brain for once. She’s a keeper.”

  He knew he was blushing, and he didn’t care. “Yeah, I figured that.”

  * * *

  —

  Callum made it past the Craner Curves and throttled back into Old Hairpin. He leaned into it, and the Ducati 999 followed the track like it was a rail. You beautiful machine, you. Through Starkey’s Bridge, and he opened the throttle again. The twin-cylinder engine roared like a small rocket. The instrument panel blurred as the bike accelerated hard. He wasn’t wearing screen lenses. This was all about authenticity. He didn’t need precise readings; he felt the bike.

  Slowing to take the bastard sharp McLeans turn, he was slicing close to the patch of crumbling tarmac and slowed another fraction, weaving wide. A Kawasaki ZX-17B shot past him, followed by an Aprilia RSV4 1000. “Shit!” he screamed into his helmet mic. He throttled up hard—too much for the turn and had to brake, losing even more ground.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  “What’s up, Cal?” Alana asked in his headphones.

  “Overtaken,” he called out in frustration.

  He gunned the throttle again and charged at Coppice for the turn into the long Dunlop Straight. Open the Ducati full and revel in the sheer power as the landscape stretched out into streaks of color on both sides. Focus spot was the track and the screaming bikes ahead. But they were throttled up full, and just as fast. He wasn’t going to catch them.

  Four laps left. He did okay, didn
’t slip any farther down the field. But his edge was gone, and he knew it.

  Nine days now, and nothing. Something’s happened to her. This is serious. How bad is student radicalism these days? How violent do they get?

  A checkered flag was waving on the gantry overhead. Ninth place; there were only fifteen bikes in the race. He took the slow lap around to the exit and drove through the paddock. The support vehicles parked in long lines down the tarmac lanes were even more antique than the Ducati. Spectators enjoyed them almost as much as they did the bikes. People were wandering along, wrapped against the cold February air, gawping at the old camper buses and engineering caravans, parents pointing out shapes and company badges to semi-interested children.

  Callum’s team had an old Mercedes Sprinter van converted to a mobile workshop for the Ducati. It was parked down at the far end of the paddock, opposite the Redgate turn. Colin and Henry had set up an awning beside it, covering their collapsible chairs. A barbeque stood just outside, where Henry was turning the sausages.

  Callum tried not to grin at Henry’s expectant father routine. After all, it was an excited Henry who had originally found the bike on a specialist auction site eighteen months ago, just as Callum was appointed crew leader. They’d formed a syndicate, all of them chipping in for the privilege of riding the superb old machine at rallies and club meetings. Between them they could afford it. But as they’d soon found out, it wasn’t the initial cost that was the problem, but the maintenance. And as for the price of specially synthesized petrol…

  Callum parked the Ducati and took his helmet off.

  “So was that a good result?” Dokal asked with apparent innocence. She was sitting under the awning next to her girlfriend, Emillie, both of them with a can of beer.

  “We need to have a handicap scheme for these club meetings,” Callum said gruffly. “Some of those bikes are more powerful than the Ducati. They’re a lot younger, too.”

  “That’s the spirit, chief,” Raina said. She came out of the back of the Sprinter, zipping up her leathers. “I’m going to have a couple of practice laps before my race, okay?”