The Night's Dawn Trilogy

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Renato Vella squirmed into the chamber with jerky motions, knocking large chips of the wall material from the edge of the hole Samuel had cut. “Oh great, late era gloomy,” he pronounced. “They didn’t exactly go in for frills, did they?”

  “I doubt a translator could even find an equivalent word,” Samuel datavised back.

  The first serjeant was emerging from the hole, fracturing even more wall material as it came. There was an almost identical hole a third of the way round the wall, slightly larger. A matching opening had been made next to one of the airlocks at the ship end of the chamber. Samuel’s gauntlets gripped the indentations in the desiccated sponge fabric, and he moved cautiously hand over hand towards it.

  “This must be where the archaeology team cut their way in,” he datavised. “Wait. Yes.” The suit sensors showed him a small plastic box fixed close to the jagged rim by a blob of epoxy, narrow lines of red human lettering covered a third of its dark blue surface. “Some kind of communication block. There are several cables running through the hole.” He ordered his suit communicator to transmit a standard interrogation signal. “No response. I guess the power’s drained by now.”

  “Shame,” Renato datavised. “It would have been convenient to have some kind of communication net in there.”

  “We could probably power it up again,” Oski replied. “It’s only a century old, the processors will be fully functional.”

  “Forget it,” Monica told them. “The bitek processors can keep us in touch with each other and Oenone. We’re not going to be inside long enough to justify getting cosy.”

  “We hope,” Samuel said. With the whole team now in the airlock chamber, his helmet lights refocused into wide beams. He grasped the edge of the old hole and pulled himself through.

  The archaeology team had cut their way into a broad corridor that served one of the large jammed-up airlocks. It was a simple, square section shaft sliced straight through the rock, with the spongy hoof-grab fabric along the floor, and pipes fastened to both walls. He barely did more than look round, when Syrinx announced the presence of a hellhawk. She gave them a running commentary as the other team members emerged into the corridor.

  “The Oenone is swallowing over to the moons to tag the hellhawk,” Syrinx told them. “Lady Macbeth will distract the Tyrathca.”

  “For how long?” Monica asked.

  “As long as possible,” Joshua replied. “Worst case, we fail completely. Their first ship should reach Tanjuntic-RI in fifty-three minutes—mark.”

  “That’s no good. We won’t even have reached the second level by then.”

  “I’ll swap with you any time.”

  “Sorry, Joshua; that wasn’t a complaint. How did that hellhawk know we were here?”

  “Probably followed us from the antimatter station,” Syrinx said. “It wouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “Thank you, Captains,” Samuel datavised. “We’ll try to be as quick as we can.”

  “If things get too hot, let us know,” Joshua replied.

  “We’d better get on,” Samuel told the team. “Every minute of lead time could be indispensable later.” He ordered his backpack to fire the cold gas jets, and slid easily along the corridor to the first big airlock. Monica triggered her own backpack, and glided after him.

  The corridor flared out around the airlock, which was a typical example of Tyrathca engineering: a square of titanium four metres in diameter with rounded corners, edged with locking seals, thick, sturdy, and reliable. And vacuum welded into place. The archaeology team had solved the egress problem by cutting out a metre-wide circle of metal from the Tyrathca slab and installing their own airlock. It was a simple mechanical hatch with frictionless hinges and seals. A chrome handle was half-recessed in the middle, with standard operating instructions stencilled beside it.

  Samuel secured himself and pulled the handle. His armour’s power augmentation barely kicked in to help. The handle slid up, and rotated ninety degrees.

  “One up to human engineering,” Renato datavised as Samuel pushed the hatch inwards.

  “Not really,” Oski datavised. “It’s our materials science that makes the difference. The hatch was designed for longterm vacuum exposure. Their airlock was built with regular maintenance services in mind.”

  There was another corridor identical to the first on the far side of the airlock. One of the serjeants shut the small hatch after them. This corridor also ended in a big titanium airlock, with an identical human hatch inserted. Samuel pulled the lever up. Before he could attempt to push the hatch open, his suit sensors advised him of an environment change. “It’s venting,” he datavised. “Very small nitrogen release, minute contamination. Pressure must be equalising.”

  “Open it,” Monica datavised. “There can’t be any real atmosphere in there. We’re wasting time.”

  Samuel gripped one of the titanium spars with one gauntlet, and pushed with the other. The suit’s power augmentation whined on the threshold of audibility. A whirl of silvery dust scooted around Samuel’s armour as the hatch flipped back.

  “Just how many of these corridors are there?” Renato asked as he air-swam through, only to be faced with yet another blank rock shaft. His inertial guidance display showed him it was inclined slightly, heading away from the rotation axis. Though there was still no appreciable gravity.

  “This is the last one, according to our file,” Samuel said.

  The airlock at the far end had a human hatch in it; there was also a small plaque.

  HIGH YORK UNIVERSITY

  ARCHAEOLOGY EXPEDITION OF 2487

  We respectfully offer our tribute to the generations of Tyrathca who ventured forth in this vessel.

  In this place we have stumbled through the remnants of greatness, eternally thankful for the glimpse of nobility they reveal.

  Though the Tyrathca have no god, they are clearly not devoid of miracles.

  Renato floated over to the silvered plaque after Monica moved aside. “Well that’s a nice way to start,” he datavised. “The archaeology expedition never found any reference to a Tyrathca god.”

  “We knew that already,” Oski datavised. “Besides, I doubt they were looking. The only memory files they accessed were in the systems management architecture. We’ve got to go a lot deeper than that to find anything useful.”

  Samuel shifted his sensors from the plaque to the hatch. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like a grave robber.”

  “There have been worse assignments,” Monica datavised. “For you as well as me, I suspect.”

  Samuel didn’t reply. He grasped the hatch’s handle and pulled up. This time there was a significant gas vent.

  “This is it,” Oski datavised. “We’re in. Terracompatible nitrogen oxygen mix, several trace gases. Three per cent standard atmospheric pressure. No water vapour content. Guess it’s too cold. Registering thirty degrees below zero.”

  “Checks with the file,” Monica confirmed. Samuel pushed the hatch open and glided through.

  The archaeology expedition had spent six weeks exploring the interior of Tanjuntic-RI. Given the timescale, it could hardly be thorough. But the main sections were all mapped, allowing the nature of the arkship’s engines and environmental maintenance mechanisms to be inspected. Tanjuntic-RI was arranged in three principal levels. Along the rotation axis were three long cylindrical chambers six hundred metres wide. Each contained a shallow lake which served as the principal biological recycling system. The water was a combination fish-tank/ algal air regenerator, powered by a thermal lighting array strung along the axis. Surrounding that was an extensive warren of hemispherical caverns linked by kilometre after kilometre of broad corridors. This level was devoted to engineering and flight maintenance; the caverns filled with machinery, everything from fusion generators to chemical filtration plants, cybernetic factories to mineral storage silos. The rear quarter of the caverns were all used to house support systems and fuel for the fusion engines.

  Enci
rcling the second level were the eight principal life support rings. Tunnelled out of the rock and lined with metal, like giant binding bands; they had a rectangular cross section, five hundred metres wide, a hundred metres high. Their floor was a single looped strip of Tyrathca tower houses threaded by narrow roads of greenery, a computer design program’s notion of urban pleasantries.

  “We need the third level, ring five,” Oski datavised as soon as they were through the last airlock. “That’s where the archaeologists found the control offices.” A three dimensional map of the interior expanded into her mind. Her guidance block extended a glowing green line through the tunnels, linking her present location to ring five.

  The last airlock had brought the team into a standard-sized corridor that circled the forward end of the arkship. Over a hundred other corridors branched off from it. Gravity was barely noticeable, taking several minutes to pull objects towards the floor. Monica used her gas jets to take her over to a clump of human crates stacked against the wall. The thin, freezing atmosphere had turned the white plastic a faint cream. She read some of their labels. “Nothing we can use,” she datavised. “It’s their camp equipment. Programmable silicon shelters, life support units, microfusion generators; that kind of thing.”

  “What about lighting?” a serjeant asked.

  “Good question.” Monica shifted position, scanning more labels. “Yes, here we go. Monochrome projectors, three hundred metre illumination radius. I don’t think they’re self powered, though.”

  “Leave it,” Samuel datavised. “We don’t have the time.” He fired his manoeuvring pack and started drifting along the corridor. The wall opposite the airlocks had archways leading away into the interior, their depth defeating his suit sensors and lights. “There should be a lift here somewhere. Ah.” The fifth archway had a palm-sized plastic disk stuck on the wall beside it, a small lifelong beacon light in the centre. Samuel couldn’t resist flicking it with a gauntlet finger as he went past. There was no spark of light from the beacon, its tritium-decay power source had been exhausted decades ago.

  His gas jets squirted strongly, steering him through the archway. Fifteen metres down the corridor was a lift door: a single panel of metal ten metres long and three high. The team didn’t even pause by it. There was a smaller door on either side, each heading a ramp that spiralled, DNA-fashion, around the entire length of the lift shaft. One of them was open; it had a dead light beacon just inside.

  “This should take us nearly a kilometre straight down,” Samuel datavised.

  “At least it’ll be a smooth ride once the gravity kicks in,” Renato datavised. “Thank god the Tyrathca don’t use steps. Can you image the size and spacing?”

  Monica halted in mid-air beside the doorway and focused her suit beams through the gap. The downward slope was barely noticeable, though the curve was pronounced. She took a tube dispenser from her belt, and thumbed out the first disk. Jupiter had supplied the little bitek sensors, completely transparent disks a centimetre wide. Their affinity range was only a few kilometres—enough for this mission. She pressed it against the door rim. It stuck instantly. When she requested an affinity bond with it from her suit’s bitek processor, the disk revealed a fish-eye view of the corridor, with the suits floating before the ramp doorway.

  “Pity we don’t have a swarm of bitek insects covering the interior,” she datavised. Samuel didn’t rise to the jibe. “But this’ll give us plenty of warning. There’s a motion trigger if anything starts moving around behind us.”

  “Onward, then,” Samuel datavised. His gas jets flared, pushing him along the ramp.

  Everyone’s bitek processor received Joshua’s troubled hail. “I’m afraid you’re going to have company,” he announced.

  * * *

  Lady Mac was accelerating at six gees, a quarter of a million kilometres above Hesperi-LN and heading in a shallow curve around the planet’s north pole. Two five-strong formations of Tyrathca ships were heading out to intercept, rising from their hundred thousand kilometre orbits at one and a half gees. He wasn’t worried about them, nor the three ships that were on course for the twin moons to investigate the antics of the two bitek starships. Another group of four ships were flying straight for Tanjuntic-RI, seventy-five thousand kilometres from Lady Mac.

  “Definite interception course,” Beaulieu confirmed. “Looks like they want to know what was going on there.”

  “Wonderful,” Joshua grunted. “The only way to stop them is if they think we’re hostile.”

  “I think they know that already,” Sarha said with as much irony as five gees allowed.

  As soon as they’d accelerated along their present course, Joshua had launched three combat wasps. There was no real target designation, just the planet; and they were programmed to detonate ten thousand kilometres above the atmosphere if they managed to get that far. But the Tyrathca didn’t know that. All they’d seen was three nuclear missiles charging in towards their planet at twenty-seven gees: an unprovoked attack from a human starship that was continuing to manoeuvre in a hostile manner.

  Joshua changed course again, flying along a vector which would take him below the ships heading for Tanjuntic-RI—logically, a position he could bombard the planet from. Another two combat wasps flew out of their tubes, searing fusion drives thrusting them towards the four ships.

  It was a good tactical move, which almost paid off. Three of the Tyrathca ships changed course to defend themselves against the combat wasps and pursue Lady Mac. The fourth remained on course for the arkship.

  “Thirteen ships heading right at us,” Beaulieu confirmed. “Twelve SD platforms have also acquired lock on. No combat wasp launch yet.”

  Joshua reviewed the tactical situation display again, purple and orange vector lines flipping round inside his skull. Lady Mac was now heading in almost the opposite direction to the last Tyrathca ship. There was nothing left he could do to distract it. The only option left was an attack, which wasn’t an option at all. First he would have to reverse his current vector which would take up a vast amount of time and delta-V, then he would have to fight his way past the three other ships with their potentially large stock of combat wasps. And even if he achieved that, he’d have to kill the ship to stop it rendezvousing.

  It was a bad deal. The Tyrathca crewing the ship were innocent—just trying to defend themselves and their world against aggressive xenocs. Although, if you looked at it in an abstract way, they could well be all that stood between the exploration team and salvation from the possessed. Can you really allow a dozen Tyrathca to bring about the end of an entire race because of what was essentially a communication breakdown on a multitude of levels?

  Joshua used the bitek array to call the exploration team and warn them of the approaching ship. “We estimate it’ll dock in another forty minutes,” he said. “Just how long do you need?”

  “If everything goes without a hitch, a couple of hours,” Oski said. “But I would think a day would be more realistic.”

  “A day is out of the question,” Joshua said. “If I get seriously noisy out here I might be able to buy you an hour or so.”

  “That’s not necessary, Joshua,” a serjeant said. “This is a very big ship. If they do come on board, they’ll have to find us.”

  “Not too difficult with infrared sensors.”

  “That’s assuming a straightforward pursuit scenario. Now we know the Tyrathca are coming, we can make that pursuit extremely difficult for them. And there is also the Horatius option to consider. We four are expendable, after all.”

  “Our weapons are superior, as well,” Monica said. “Now we haven’t got to worry about the hardware glitching on us, we can deploy some real firepower.”

  “What about getting out afterwards?” Dahybi asked.

  “Advance planning for a situation this fluid is a waste of time,” Samuel said. “Let’s wait until we have the relevant data before we consider how to achieve extraction.”

  “Okay,” Joshua sa
id reluctantly. “Your call. But we’re here if you need us.” He returned to the tactical situation. Lady Mac wasn’t in any real danger from the planet’s defences. She was too far away from the Tyrathca ships and SD platforms. At this separation distance, any combat wasp would take a minimum of fifteen minutes to reach them. The starship could jump out of trouble long before that.

  “Right, let’s keep these bastards busy,” Joshua said. He instructed the flight computer to fire another combat wasp at the planet.

  * * *

  Halfway down the giant spiral ramp, the easiest way to descend was to sit and slide. Black frost had coated the floor, sending broad tendrils scurrying up the wall like frigid creepers. Along with the others Monica was bumping along on her bum as if she was on an après ski glissade, gradually picking up speed, and ignoring the total lack of dignity. Clouds of filthy ice motes were spraying up from where the suit was making its grinding contact with the ramp. Every now and then she’d hit an uneven patch and glide through the air for a metre.

  “Getting near the bottom,” Samuel datavised.

  He was two people down the line from Monica, nearly obscured by the black particle haze. Suit beams were jouncing about chaotically, throwing discordant shadows across the walls.

  Monica put her gauntlets down to try and brake her speed. They just skipped and skidded about. “Just how do we slow down?” she asked.

  “Manoeuvring pack.” Samuel triggered the jets at full throttle, feeling the gentle thrust slow him. The serjeant directly behind bumped into his back. “Everybody at once, please.”