The Night's Dawn Trilogy

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Can we eat now?” Gari asked plaintively. “I’ve got everything ready.”

  Beth gave the preparations a quick inspection. The girls and Webster had prepared six trays for the induction oven, mixing food packets together. Potato cakes with rehydrated egg mash and cubes of carrot. “Well done.” She keyed in the quantity on the oven’s control panel, and activated it. “Where’s Gerald?”

  “Going crazy in the main lounge. What else?”

  Beth gave the girl a sharp glance.

  Navar refused to give ground. “He is,” she insisted.

  “You dish the food out,” Beth told Jed. “I’ll go see what the problem is.”

  Gerald was standing in front of the lounge’s large viewport, palms pressed against it, as though he was trying to push the glass out of its frame.

  “Hey there, Gerald, mate. Supper’s ready.”

  “Is that where she is?”

  “Where, mate?”

  “The asteroid.”

  Beth stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. Almaden was centred in the viewport. A dark lump of rock, rotating slowly against the starscape.

  “No mate, sorry. That’s Almaden, not Monterey. Marie isn’t in there.”

  “I thought it was the other one. Monterey, where she is.”

  Beth gave his hands a close inspection. The knuckles were lightly grazed from pounding on something. Fortunately, they weren’t bleeding. She gently put her hand on his forearm. Every muscle was locked rigid beneath her fingers, trembling. His forehead was beaded in sweat.

  “Come on, mate,” she said quietly. “Let’s get some tucker down you. Do you good.”

  “You don’t understand!” He was near to tears. “I have to get back to her. I don’t even remember when I saw her last. My head is so full of darkness now. I hurt.”

  “I know, mate.”

  “Know!” he screamed. “What do you know? She’s my baby, my beautiful little Marie. And she makes her do things, all the time.” He shuddered violently, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, Beth thought he was going to fall over. She tightened her grip as he swayed unsteadily.

  “Gerald? Jeeze . . .”

  His eyes abruptly sprang open, hunting frantically round the room. “Where are we?”

  “This is the Mindori,” she said calmly. “We’re on board, and we’re trying to find a way to get back to Monterey.”

  “Yes.” He nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s right. We have to go there. She’s there, you know. Marie’s there. I have to find her. I can free her, I know how to. Loren told me before she left. I can help her escape.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I’m going to talk to the captain. Explain. We have to fly back there right away. He’ll do it, he’ll understand. She’s my baby.”

  Beth stood completely still as he turned round sharply, and hurried out. She let out a long despondent breath. “Oh shit.”

  Jed and the three kids were sitting round the small bar in the galley, spooning up the pinkish mush from their trays. They all gave Beth an apprehensive glance as she came in. She tilted her head at Jed, and retreated back into the corridor. He followed her out.

  “We’ve got to get him to a doctor, or something,” she said in a low voice.

  “Told you that the day we first saw him, doll. The fella’s a genuine braincrash.”

  “No, it’s not just that, not just in his head. He’s really ill. His skin’s all hot, burning, like he’s got a fever, or a virus.”

  “Oh Jeeze, Beth.” Jed pressed his forehead against the cool metal wall. “Think, will you. What the hell can we do? We’re inside a bleeding hellhawk fifty trillion light-years from anyone who’d give a toss about us. There’s nothing we can do. I’m real sorry about him catching some xenoc disease. But all I’m worried about now is that he doesn’t infect us with it.”

  She hated him for being right. Being completely impotent, not to mention dependent on Rocio, was tough. “Come on.” With a final check on the kids to make sure they were eating, she hauled Jed into the lounge. “Rocio.”

  A translucent image of his face materialized in the viewport. “Now what?”

  “We’ve got a real problem with Gerald. Reckon he’s sick with something. It’s not good.”

  “He’s here on your insistence. What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I dunno for sure. Have you got a zero-tau pod? We could shove him in there until we leave. The Edenist doctors can give him a proper going over then.”

  “No. There’s no working zero-tau pod anymore. The possessed are understandably nervous about such items; the first ones to come on board broke it up.”

  “Bugger! What do we do?”

  “You’ll have to nurse him along as best you can.”

  “Terrific,” Jed muttered.

  Almaden began to slide across the viewport.

  “Hey, where are we going now?” Jed asked. The asteroid vanished below the rim, leaving only stars which were slicing thin arcs across the blackness as the hellhawk accelerated in a tight curve.

  “Back to my patrol route,” Rocio said, “and hope no one has noticed my absence. Deebank has datavised the list of electronic components they need to get the nutrient refinery functioning again. They’re all available at Monterey.”

  “Well glad to hear it, mate,” Jed said automatically. A cold thought ran clean through his brain. “Wait a minute. How are you going to get the Organization to hand them over?”

  Rocio’s translucent image winked, then vanished.

  “Oh Jeeze. Not again!”

  * * *

  In peacetime, Avon’s starship emergence zones were positioned round the planet and its necklace of high-orbit asteroids at convenient distances to the stations and ports which they served. The one exception was Trafalgar, which, of necessity, was always on alert for suspicious arrivals. Following the official outbreak of war, or as the diplomats in Regina preferred: crisis situation, all the emergence zones were automatically shifted further away from their port. Every Confederation almanac carried the alternative coordinates, and the onus was on captains to ensure they were aware of any official declaration.

  Emergence zone DR45Y was situated three hundred thousand kilometres away from Trafalgar, designated for use by civil starships flying with government authorization. The sensor satellites which scanned it were no less proficient than those covering the zones designated for various types of warships, there was after all no telling what vessels an enemy might employ. So when the gravitonic distortion scanners began to pick up the familiar signature of a ship starting to emerge, additional sensor batteries were brought on line within milliseconds. The rapidly expanding warp in space-time was the focus of five SD weapons platforms. Trafalgar’s SD control also vectored four patrol voidhawks towards it and put another ten on rapid-response alert status.

  The event horizon expanded out to thirty-eight metres and vanished, revealing the starship’s hull. Visual-spectrum sensors showed the SD controllers a standard globe coated with dull nulltherm foam. All perfectly normal, except for a single missing hexagonal hull plate. And the ship was impressively close to the centre of the zone; the captain must have taken a great deal of care aligning his last jump coordinate. Such a manoeuvre indicated someone anxious to please.

  Radar pulses triggered the starship’s transponder. Trafalgar’s AI took under a millisecond to identify the response code as the Villeneuve’s Revenge, captained by André Duchamp.

  Following the standard transponder code, the Villeneuve’s Revenge promptly transmitted its official flight authorization code issued by the Ethenthia government.

  Both codes were linked to grade two security protocols. The CNIS duty officer in Trafalgar’s SD command centre took immediate charge of the situation.

  Another, altogether quieter, alert was initiated within the asteroid’s secure communication net, of which the CNIS knew nothing. The televisions, radios, and holographic windows inside The Village’s clubhouse abandoned their
nostalgiafest to warn the observers of this latest development.

  Tracy sat up to stare at the screen. The large lounge had fallen very quiet. Colourful SD sensor imagery was scrolling down the big Sony television set as various weapons locked on to the starship’s fuselage. She backed up that somewhat poor supply of data with a more comprehensive summary from Corpus as it gathered information from a variety of sources in and around Trafalgar.

  “They won’t let the ship get near them,” Saska said in a hopeful voice. “They’re far too paranoid right now, thank the saints.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Tracy muttered. A quick check with Corpus showed her Jay was still in the Congression with Haile. Best place for her right now; Tracy definitely didn’t want her to pick up on all their doubts and worries. “Hell alone knows how Pryor managed to worm his way off Ethenthia.”

  “Ethenthia’s possessed could probably be cowed with Capone’s name,” Galic said. “Bluffing your way into the headquarters of the Confederation Navy is a very different matter.”

  The CNIS duty officer appeared to share the thought. She immediately declared a C4 condition, prohibiting the suspected hostile starship from moving, and requesting the patrol voidhawks to interdict. Warnings were datavised directly to the Villeneuve’s Revenge, making very clear what action would be taken if SD Command’s orders were not obeyed. They were then prohibited from using any propulsion system, not even the RCS thrusters to lock attitude, nor were they permitted to extend their thermo-dump panels, no more sensor booms were to be extended, or any other fuselage hatch activated. Non-propulsive vapour dumps were allowed, but prior warning should be given. Once a grudging Captain Duchamp had confirmed his compliance, the four patrol voidhawks accelerated in towards the inert ship at a respectable five gees.

  Kingsley Pryor datavised his personal code to the CNIS duty officer, identifying himself as a Confederation Navy officer. “I’ve managed to elude New California to get here,” he told her. “I secured a lot of tactical data on the Organization fleet before I left. It should be delivered to Admiral Lalwani as soon as possible.”

  “We are already aware of your period with Capone,” the duty officer said. “Our undercover operative Erick Thakara’s report of his time crewing with the Villeneuve’s Revenge was very thorough.”

  “Erick is here? That’s good, we thought he’d been caught.” “He’s filed charges of desertion and collaboration against you.”

  “Well even if I have to undergo a Court Martial to prove my innocence, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m carrying a great deal of useful information. The admiral will want me debriefed properly.”

  “You will be. The patrol voidhawks will escort you to a secure dock once we have confirmed your ship’s status.”

  “I assure you, there are no possessed on board. Nor is this ship a military threat. I’m amazed we even managed to get here at all given the state some of our systems are in. Captain Duchamp is not the most proficient of officers.”

  “We know that, too.”

  “Very well. You should also be aware there is a nuclear device embedded in hull plate 4-36-M. It has a decimal three kiloton yield. I have the control timer’s reset code, and it’s currently seven hours from detonation.”

  “Yes, that’s Capone’s standard method of ensuring compliance. We’ll confirm its location with a remote probe from one of the voidhawks.”

  “Fine; what do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing at all. The hull plate will be removed before you can proceed to dock. Duchamp must open the flight computer to us, and remove all access restrictions. You will be given further instructions as we proceed with our analysis.”

  On the bridge, Kingsley removed the straps securing him to his acceleration couch, and gave the seething captain a detached glance. “Do as she requests. Now.”

  “But of course,” André growled. A thousand times during the flight he had considered simply refusing to go any further, calling Pryor’s bluff. Arriving at Trafalgar was going to put an end to his life, permanently. The anglo Navy knew too much about him now, thanks to Thakara. They would take his ship and probably his liberty away from him, no matter how much money he spent on villainous lawyers. This was one port where he had no favours to call in at all. But each time the option popped up into his head, one nasty little aspect of cowardice prevented him from actually putting thoughts into deeds. Refusal meant certain death from the nuke in the hull plate, and André Duchamp could no longer face that fate as confidently as he once had. He had stared the possessed in the eye and defeated them (not that the Confederation navy had ever thanked him for that, oh no), and more than most he knew how real they were. With that came the cold knowledge of what awaited his soul. Any fate, however humiliating, had suddenly become more attractive than death.

  André datavised a set of instructions into the flight computer, enabling the SD command centre to take control. The procedure was well established now. All internal sensors were activated, verifying the number of crew on board, establishing their identities. They were then required to datavise files and physiological data to SD Command; stage one in corroborating that they weren’t possessed. Stage two would be an intensive sensor examination once they had docked.

  Once SD Command had provisionally classified the five people on board as non-possessed, diagnostic routines were run through every processor in the starship. In the case of the Villeneuve’s Revenge this procedure wasn’t quite as smooth as it would be in a ship that adhered closer to CAB maintenance requirements. Several legally required systems remained stubbornly off-line. However, SD Command confirmed that there were no telltale glitches in those processors which were working. This, coupled with an analysis of the (admittedly incomplete) environmental system logs, allowed them to assign a ninety-five per cent probability that the starship wasn’t smuggling any possessed.

  André was allowed to deploy the thermo-dump panels, relieving the heat sinks. Thrusters fired, stabilising their attitude. An MSV from one of the voidhawks slid out of its hangar and manoeuvred itself over hull plate 4-36-M. Waldo arms reached out, ready to detach the section.

  Tracy watched the camera feed on the big Sony television screen as the anti-torque keys engaged around the panel’s rim. “I don’t believe this!” she exclaimed. “They think it’s safe!”

  “Be reasonable,” Arnie said. “Those precautions are good enough to locate any possessed skulking on board.”

  “Except Quinn Dexter,” Saska grumbled.

  “Let’s not complicate matters. The fact is, the navy is being very prudent.”

  “Rubbish,” Tracy snapped. “That CNIS officer is criminally incompetent. She must know Capone had exerted some kind of coercive hold over Pryor, yet she’s not taken that into account. They’ll let that bloody ship dock once they’ve unscrewed the hull plate.”

  “We can’t stop them,” Saska warned. “You know the rules.”

  “Capone and his influence are waning,” Tracy said. “No matter what delusory victory he inflicts he cannot regain what he’s lost, not now. I say we cannot permit him this gesture. The overall psychological dynamic of the situation has to be taken into account. The Confederation must survive, not only that it must be the entity which brings this crisis to a successful resolution. And the Navy is the embodiment of the Confederation, especially now. It must not be damaged. Not to the extent Pryor’s mission is capable of.”

  “You’re being as arrogant as Capone,” Galic said. “Your thoughts, your opinions, are the ones which must prevail.”

  “We all know very well what has to prevail,” she replied. “There has to be a valid species-wide government mechanism to implement the kind of policies which are going to be needed afterwards, and oversee the transition phase. For all its faults, the Confederation can be made to work properly. If it fails the human race will fragment, socially, politically, economically, religiously, and ideologically. We’ll be right back where we were in the pre-starflight age. It’ll take centur
ies to recover, to get us back to where we are today. By that time we should have joined the transcendent-active population of this universe.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. We. We privileged few. Just because we were engineered here doesn’t mean we’re not human. Two thousand years spent walking amongst our own people makes this the alien world.”

  “Now you’re being melodramatic.”

  “Call it what you like. But I know what I am.”

  * * *

  The internal sensors on the Villeneuve’s Revenge revealed Kingsley Pryor to be alone in his own small cabin. He’d adopted the same unnerving posture which André and his three crew had witnessed throughout the tortuous flight. He hung centimetres from the decking, legs folded in Lotus position, with eyes granted a vision of some terribly personal hell. Even over the link from the starship, the CNIS duty officer could see he was suffering.

  With the remote electronic survey complete, and hull plate 4-36-M now detached and held in the MSV’s waldo, André was given a vector taking them in towards Trafalgar at a tenth of a gee. SD Command observed the flight computer responding to the crew’s instructions, coaxing the fusion tube to life. They were following the security protocols to the last byte.

  Kingsley drifted the last few centimetres down onto the decking, and suppressed a whimper at what that meant. During the flight he’d elevated his dilemma to a near physical pain, every thought he had concerning his destination burned from within. There simply was no way out of the box Capone and his whore had trapped him in. Death surrounded him, making him more compliant than any set of sequestration nanonics could ever achieve. Death and love. He couldn’t allow little Webster and Clarissa to vanish into the beyond. Not now. Nor could he let them be possessed. And the only way to prevent that from happening also could not be permitted.

  Like men in his position throughout history, Kingsley Pryor did nothing as events swept him to their conclusion; simply waiting and praying that a magical third option would spring from nowhere. Now with the fusion drive pushing the starship towards Trafalgar, hope had cast him aside. The power he had been given to inflict suffering was insane in its size, yet he could feel Webster and Clarissa. The two balanced, as Capone knew they would. And now Kingsley Pryor had to make that impossible choice between the intimate and the abstract.