Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘I’ve got a spare room,’ he said. ‘You need a bed for the night. And I know it looks like this is the end of the world right now, but trust me it won’t be so bad in the morning. Nothing ever is. Especially not in a St Libra dawn, when the sun rises between the sea and the rings.’

  She gave him a suspicious, sulky look. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘My own daughter: I’d like to think someone would give her a break if they found her in this kind of state.’

  ‘Really? Where is she?’

  ‘She died, very young. Long story, and full of sorrow. But it’s for the best, or so I keep telling myself.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ And with that, she allowed him to walk her to his flat in one of the converted harbour warehouses. The whole building was pulled down three months later as part of the developer’s plans to turn the harbour into a swanky leisure complex now that the newer, bigger cargo port had been built further along the coast. Emily was still with him when they moved into a new apartment complex in Los Geranios valley; by then she wasn’t using the spare bedroom any more.

  Saul never did fully understand why it had happened. There were much better catches than him even among Abellia’s service contract staff, let alone the middle management types – all of them younger, smarter, richer. But they had something together, and he could actually trust her, which wasn’t something he expected to do ever again. And in one tiny way age acted in his favour, he’d learned enough over the years to recognize a genuine chance at happiness. For the first time in his life, he didn’t blow a relationship.

  Until now, he reflected bitterly. But once again, age was on his side, because if nothing else, he’d learned how to be a stubborn little motherfucker over the years. And what happened last night didn’t have to decimate his life and family, not if he just held his nerve.

  Saul thought back across the last few hours, carefully reviewing what he’d done and said and heard. None of it was particularly incriminating. Not from a legal perspective. It was Emily he worried about. If she knew, what would she think? After all, this was his past life. For twenty years he’d never believed for one second that could ever be an issue.

  So . . . maybe just not tell her. Though she’d know something was up – which he could always blame on Duren coming back into his life.

  He nodded slowly, convincing himself it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. The shock had dazed him, muddled his thoughts. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and stop acting like a neurotic wreck. I can do that. I can.

  A communication icon expanded in his grid. He studied it for a disbelieving second. ‘Confirm caller identity,’ he told his e-i.

  ‘Duren.’

  ‘He’s got to be fucking joking,’ Saul grunted. It was all he could do not to jump up and search round to see if the big man was out there among the dunes spying on him. He took a moment to calm himself – storming in all riled up was never going to be a good idea where Duren was involved.

  His hand reached into the keyspace his iris smartcells were conjuring up, twisting the icon. ‘This is too damn early,’ he said. Attack first, keep your opponent on the defensive.

  ‘I know man,’ Duren replied. ‘I wouldn’t call unless it was really important, you know that, right?’

  ‘What the hell is important at this time of the morning?’

  ‘We need to borrow your boat.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your boat, man.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘I wish it was man, really I do, but we need it. Now.’

  ‘What for?’ But even as he asked, Saul knew he wouldn’t get an answer, leastways not the real one. His decision was let them use the boat, yes or no. Reason was irrelevant.

  ‘We just want to get out to sea before everyone else. If you release it to us now, you’ll get back home without disturbing your family.’

  Bastard! Motherfucking bastard. But . . . Duren and Zebediah and Zulah were the perfect way to deflect Emily’s attention. He could get back from the marina and confess how Duren had crash-landed back into his life.

  *

  Rueda Marina was at the opposite end of Velasco Beach from the old harbour. With Sirius just starting to shine through the edge of the rings, the marina’s curving concrete sea walls glowed in a bright pink-wash light. This early in the morning, it’d taken Saul barely twenty minutes to drive to the entrance. There were only a handful of cars in the park outside the clubhouse, keen boat owners who’d been out at sea all night. Duren and Zulah were standing beside a big old Renault pick-up truck when the Rohan pulled up beside it.

  ‘Man, good to see you,’ Duren said, smiling broadly as he gripped Saul’s hand.

  Saul gave Zulah a nervous glance. She was wearing wraparound sunglasses, but seemed on edge. What could put her on edge? ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let’s just get you in there, shall we.’

  ‘My man.’ Duren gestured casually at the fenced-off lawn in front of the clubhouse, with its broad locked gate which led to the wharfs. ‘Good security here, huh?’

  ‘There are meshes everywhere,’ Saul agreed. ‘The boats aren’t as fancy as most in Abellia, but they still cost.’

  ‘Good. Hate for anyone to steal one.’ And with that Duren reached over into the back of the pick-up. He lifted out a surfboard bag.

  Saul stared at it in growing dismay. The black bag was maybe two metres thirty long – right length for a board that’d suit someone Duren’s size. But staring at the way it bulged along most of its length, Saul knew there was no way it was carrying a board. Then he saw how even Duren’s muscles were straining from the weight of the bag, veins standing proud from his leathery skin, and the nightmare was complete. Holy shit, what the hell is in there?

  ‘Let’s go,’ Zulah said, carrying a small shoulder bag.

  Without a word, Saul walked over to the gate. His e-i confirmed his code with the marina’s network, which checked his biometric pattern with the smartdust woven into the gate and fence. The gate lock clicked, and it slid back.

  Duren and Zulah followed him wordlessly down jetty two to the berth where the Merry Moons was waiting. The yacht was ten metres long, with a telescoping mast and fully automated sails, which could also be crew rigged. He’d wanted the children to know how to sail properly, and always regretted how few weekends they actually spent out on the sea.

  Duren was sweating from effort as he dropped the surfboard bag onto the wood-ribbed decking. It made a dull thud. Not the noise a board would make.

  ‘Thanks, man,’ Duren said. ‘I personally appreciate you loaning the boat and all. I’ll make sure it’s back okay by tonight.’

  ‘Right,’ Saul said.

  Duren gave the yacht a significant glance with his red-glowing eyes. ‘The network code?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ He told his e-i to give Duren the network code for the Merry Moons, adding silently: sorry girl. Though right now he didn’t even care if he never saw the boat again. There was nothing linking him to any crime. The surfboard bag! Just a man lending some out-of-town friends a boat. The surfboard bag! No reason he should ask them where they were taking the yacht while standing where the jetty meshes could see him. The surfboard bag! ‘Take care of her.’

  ‘We will,’ Duren said. He opened the main cabin door, and vanished inside.

  ‘I’d like you to get me some things,’ Zulah said.

  ‘Uh?’ was all he could manage. He was starting to wonder where Zebediah was. Nowhere near anything too dangerous. Leaders never were.

  She gave him a small folded piece of paper. When he started to open it, her hand closed around his.

  ‘Nothing urgent. I’ll call you in a few days.’ Her bodymesh quested a link to his e-i, and a money transfer to his account flipped up into his grid. ‘Here’s some cash, that’ll be enough to cover it. No need to show me any receipts. I trust you to do a good job for us.’ She took her sunglasses off, and peered at him closely. Judging, always judging. ‘You won’t let us down, will you?’


  Saul shook his head, swallowing pitifully. ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll call you in a few days. Store it in the Hawaiian Moon for me until then. Don’t want to impose on your family home.’

  Saul couldn’t see anything but the transfer pending icon.

  ‘Take it,’ Zulah said.

  Instinctively he told his e-i to open one of his ancient secondary accounts, one he hadn’t used for twenty years. Nobody in Abellia had secondaries – they didn’t need to because there was no income tax. He reached up and flipped the transfer icon, and the money twisted away into a Vietnamese bank.

  Zulah gave him a satisfied nod. ‘Be seeing you.’

  Saul turned sharply and walked away, not looking back. They thought they’d hooked him in with the payment, but it wasn’t that easy. There were things about Saul Howard they could never guess at. Whatever else happened from now on, he wasn’t going to be the placid obedient victim they were anticipating.

  *

  Corporal Paresh Evitts regained consciousness by slow, painful degrees. First he was only aware of how much his head hurt. Every beat of his heart brought another hammer thud on the inside of an aching skull. Vision was grey, except for the terrible electric red sparkles which bloomed with every thud. Mouth was dry and tasted of what he imagined must be camel dung. Skin cold and damp: fever flesh. Right leg: dead – nothing at all, no sensation. He tried to move it from the odd bent-up position, and promptly groaned at the stab of pain that motion brought. Blood was flowing into oxygen-starved muscles again, bringing life back in a wave of fire. Which made him very aware of how his stomach was feeling.

  ‘Oh fuck.’ He rolled onto his back and his cheeks bulged. He couldn’t actually lift his head, he was too frightened that the migraine-pulse would split his forehead open and spill his brains out across the sheets.

  Sheets?

  He blinked back tears and self-pity to try and focus on his environment. Some kind of hotel room: yellow walls, grey carpet, white ceiling. Windows with shutters on the inside, leaking St Libra sunlight round the bands. Door to an en suite which someone was using. He could hear the hiss and splatter of the shower.

  ‘What?’ Paresh finally managed to raise himself onto an elbow, which was pretty unpleasant. Okay, so he was on a big bed. There were no pillows, though he could see a couple scattered on the floor. No duvet. And he was naked. Really, completely naked. Some kind of dark wet stain on the sheets. Shit, is that blood? No. Okay. Actually, make that several stains. A bottle of champagne on its side on the nightstand. Another bottle of red wine on the floor, and a smaller bottle of raspberry vodka liqueur. Some suspicious empty silver-grey tox sacs lying beside them. And clothes. His uniform had been thrown round the room, along with . . . Paresh squinted. The white blouse Angela had been wearing was hanging over the back of a chair. Blue skirt on the carpet next to his pants.

  ‘Oh, holy crap!’ Paresh moaned and flopped back on the bed. He didn’t remember. That was terrible. In his life, there had been a few – actually only a couple – one-night stands when he’d woken up the next morning and genuinely couldn’t recall the girl’s name. That was mortifying enough. But this . . .

  They’d been to some bars last night, he remembered that clear enough. A beer or two as they talked, like a real date. Then the restaurant. The Rufus! Yeah, he remembered that, and the milliseeds. No way could he forget that course. Angela had insisted on ordering that dish. The things really looked like terrestrial millipedes only with fur, but they were seeds from the Cochowa tree; when they were ripe they dropped off and crawled away to germinate nearby, their movement slow and graceful. Until you dipped them in chilli sauce, which made them wriggle frantically. You were supposed to pop them into your mouth and swallow whole. Angela had wolfed down a bowlful. He’d tried two before giving up, and she’d laughed at how he wasn’t the big tough soldier after all.

  Then they’d hit the club. No – clubs, plural. Multiple! A few more memories were creeping out sheepishly.

  She could dance, could that Angela. Ho boy! And each lithe movement made him stare bewitched at a body that was downright fantastic. He’d been getting hotter and hotter all night long despite the beer and wine they’d drunk. She knew how to party, too: but he matched her bottle for bottle, glass for glass, tox for tox. The nanny smartcells in his mouth flashing all sorts of warnings across his grid until he shut them down. Then she folded her arms round his neck, and whispered: ‘Please Paresh, it’s been twenty years. Can you imagine twenty years without sex? I need you so badly.’

  They must have teleported to the hotel, because that was the next thing he remembered. The two of them standing at the end of the bed, his tongue down her throat, hands pushing up inside the blouse, groping her fantastic tits.

  ‘Give me one minute,’ she’d said, and scuttled off into the en suite. ‘And Paresh.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’d better be naked when I come back in here.’

  That was it. That was the last thing he remembered. Which was unbelievable. You don’t fuck the night away and remember nothing. But they must have. He stared round the room again, the bottles, the stains, even his arm had raspberry vodka lick-marks on it.

  Paresh Evitts wanted to cry.

  The door to the en suite opened and Angela stepped out, damp hair combed back, wrapped in a red hotel towel.

  More than anything Paresh felt relief that it was Angela, and not some other girl. Which was just pathetic.

  She was giving him a wicked smile. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Er . . . you know.’ He couldn’t take his eyes off her, she looked amazing. Everything a man could ever dream of: smart, beautiful, sexy.

  Angela licked her lips provocatively, and slowly opened the towel. Her skin was still glistening wet. ‘So is it?’

  ‘What?’ Paresh croaked.

  She walked round the bed until she stood over him, and let the towel drop completely. ‘You remember.’

  No! No, I fucking don’t!

  ‘Last night,’ she said, and drew down a deep breath, showing off perfect abdominal muscle tone.

  Paresh thought dying right now was about his best option. ‘Uh—’

  ‘You said you thought I’d look even better in daylight.’ Her hands began to move sensually down her sides as she swayed her shoulders. ‘So do I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She smiled again, and she was so happy it was like a flash of Sirius sunlight. Happiness he’d given her. Then she was on the bed, on all fours, on top of him. A teasing tongue licked at his cheek, his ear. Her hand curled round his cock. ‘We made up for one day last night,’ she murmured hungrily. ‘So now you need to start taking care of the other nineteen years three hundred and sixty-four days.’

  He’d never known humiliation like it. This incredible woman had her sensational naked body on top of him, eager face centimetres from his, hand round his flaccid dick, begging him for sex. And his hung-over, overtoxed body couldn’t even produce a twitch of arousal.

  ‘Sorry.’ He struggled out from underneath her. ‘Sorry.’ He couldn’t look at her. The shame was far worse than the physical pain. ‘Hangover. Feel sick. It’s not you. Not you. Really.’ He blundered into the en suite and slapped the bolt across the door, looked at the waiting toilet, and promptly threw up into it.

  Friday 8th February 2143

  A wide blanket of unbroken cirrus had sealed off the sky, producing an odd omnidirectional light across the jungle. It had been there when Angela walked up the rear ramp into the dark cylindrical fuselage of the Daedalus, reducing shadows to small grey spectres flitting across the ground. There was no wind, not even Abellia’s usual sea breeze; of course the cloud did nothing to kill the heat, and with the humidity building, physical activity had been difficult. Half the time she felt she was sucking down spray rather than simply breathing.

  It had taken the squad over an hour to pack up their tent that morning, and they were all sweating and cursing by the time they’d finis
hed. Orders to forward deploy had come down without warning from Lieutenant Pablo Botin as they were eating their breakfast. They’d bagged their kit, voices filling the wet air with taunts and bullish jokes, eager at the prospect of moving up-country at last. Their tents were folded down into neat, shiny black bundles on top of their respective module. And there the squad sat in the mud, surrounded by their bags, everything and everybody waiting for a logistics corps loader truck to come and collect them, starting them on the route out of here.

  All that sweaty, busy activity made it easy for Paresh to not talk to her, continuing the theme of yesterday. When they got to the Daedalus it was configured to carry cargo, with passengers strictly subsidiary, cheap meat fitting in around the important pallets and equipment. Its cavernous interior was a whale’s gullet sculpted from metal and composite; seats were simple strut-frames which folded down from the side of the fuselage, with a nylon mesh to sit on. Even Vance Elston had to make do with one, stuffing audio-null foam into his ears, and grimacing at the smell, engine roar, poor lighting, vibration, and two toilets shared by sixty people. Angela suspected he rather enjoyed the hardship, it was all very macho. She couldn’t see what Paresh thought of the plane: he’d chosen to sit on the other side, with the mobile biolabs taking up the bulk of the interior between them.

  Her poor puppy boy was suffering deeply, for which she felt a mild amount of guilt. She’d actually been looking forward to some decent sex in the hotel that morning. After that didn’t happen, they’d both sneaked back to Abellia Airport in a subdued mood. The rest of the squad was dying to know if they’d made out, but neither was saying anything.

  On the two-and-a-half-hour flight she read more of her history and politics files. Not just to maintain her cover any more, but to gain a real understanding of what the hell had happened on Ramla during the last twenty years. Ten minutes from landing she cancelled the files, and used her grid to look out through the plane’s external meshes as they started to descend towards Edzell.