A Night Without Stars

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Glass shattered above Chaing as the Cubar’s windscreen was hit by bullets. He cowered down, pressing himself into the uneven cobbles as gunfire raged and agonized screams cut through the air. His pistol had skittered away. He could see it a metre away, and reached for it.

  The gunfire ended. Chaing snatched up the pistol, then risked a glance round the front of the car.

  He saw five black-clad, helmeted members of the assault squad lying on the road, one of them with his legs still inside the van. Screams were coming from inside the vans, which were riddled with bullet holes. Two PSR officers were face down on the street, unmoving.

  The three gangsters were dead, their bodies torn apart by bullets, blood spreading around them. ‘Oh great Giu,’ he moaned. One of them was surrounded by a pool of blue blood. ‘Nest. It’s a crudding nest!’ Then he saw the face of the Faller gangster, and started in shock as he recognized it from the records division photo. ‘Rasschaert?’

  ‘What do we do?’ Jenifa shouted. She was still crouched down behind the car, shaking violently.

  ‘Cover the club,’ Chaing said. He realized he could barely hear his own voice above the ringing in his ears, and shouted: ‘Cover the club. All active squad members, cover the club! Jenifa, find a radio. Call for ambulances. And get us some crudding backup. Franzal? Franzal!’

  ‘Here.’ The assault squad captain scuttled out from behind one of the vans, keeping low.

  ‘We’ve got to get down there.’

  ‘Okay.’ Franzal started shouting orders to survivors. Four squad members took cover behind the vans and watched the club, carbines held ready for any sign of movement – hostile or otherwise. Chaing split the PSR officers. Half were designated to help the wounded, the rest were to provide cover as Franzal led ten of the assault squad down the metal stairs.

  They deployed perfectly, the two taking point duty edging up to the railings along the top of the sunken courtyard, swinging their carbines over the top as they scanned round.

  ‘Clear!’

  Franzal led eight squad members down the metal stairs. A shotgun took out the hinges on the door at the bottom. A barrage of semi-automatic fire slammed out from the gangsters in the basement corridor.

  Chaing flinched back from the railing along the top of the sunken courtyard. Franzal himself flung two grenades through the ruined door. Chaing took a couple of paces back, waiting for them to go off.

  The explosion was immense. A lethal high-velocity plume of smoke and debris slammed out of the basement doorway, billowing upwards. Chaing felt the ground quake, knocking him down. Cars and vans rocked about. Every window in the front of the townhouse shattered, and the entire building sagged downwards. Cracks split the brickwork, ripping right up to the eves.

  ‘What the crudding Uracus?’

  A dustcloud was mushrooming up from the sunken courtyard, shooting out across Midville Avenue. He staggered over to the buckled railing, and leaned over. ‘Franzal?’ His ears were ringing, but he thought he heard cries from somewhere below. The seething dust was too thick to see through. He started to cough as he breathed it in. A couple of roof tiles smashed on the pavement barely a metre away.

  ‘Crud!’ He looked up through the haze to see more slates skidding off the roof. The building let out an ominous creak. A second wave of fissures were splitting open, multiplying out from the initial cracks.

  ‘Back,’ he yelled and started to run. ‘Get back. It’s going to go!’

  Jenifa came running though the swirling cloud, dust coating her uniform and hair a sickly grey. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Grenades,’ Chaing coughed. ‘Franzal used grenades.’

  ‘Grenades?’ she bellowed. ‘Crudding grenades didn’t do this.’

  The old townhouse collapsed in on itself with a drawn-out rumble. Shattered chunks of masonry went flying across the street, smashing into the PSR’s cars and vans. More dust flooded out to choke the air.

  *

  Someone was calling his name. It was a sweet voice, filled with anxiety and fright, coming from a long way away.

  ‘Florian? Florian, help me.’

  Florian sucked down some air, an action which made his whole body judder. Two more breaths, and his heart began to calm. The blurs of orange in his exovision started to come into focus. He jerked his head up. ‘Essie?’

  She was sprawled on the floor five metres in front of him. The ion haze of the force field was gone. He scurried over to her, and cradled her, a hand stroking her head where Roxwolf’s pistol had fired. There was no damage.

  ‘Oh great Giu, are you okay? Sweetheart, speak to me.’

  ‘Everything fucking hurts,’ she said, and started sobbing. ‘I can’t switch off the pain. I’m not fully integrated yet. Oh fuck. It’s too soon. Fuckity fuck.’ Her mouth opened to let out a pitiful mewl.

  The sight of her anguish made Florian weep. ‘I wish I could take your pain from you.’

  A bell started ringing. Up on the wall beside the telephone exchange, a red bulb flashed.

  ‘What now?’ Florian grunted.

  ‘Alert,’ Roxwolf grunted.

  ‘You bastard!’ Florian shouted. His arm came round, targeting graphics locking on the teratoid Faller. Hot thoughts ordered the bracelet power up to maximum, ready to kill this time. Ready. Yes, ready.

  No way out! He yelled wordlessly in frustration.

  Roxwolf rolled over and sneered at Florian. ‘You know the routine, moron. Kill me and you die, slow and bad.’

  ‘What alert?’ Essie moaned.

  ‘Can I find out?’ Roxwolf mocked. ‘Please?’

  ‘What do I do?’ Florian pleaded.

  ‘Let him ask,’ Essie said.

  Roxwolf walked unsteadily over to the telephone-exchange cabinet and flicked a switch that killed the bell and flashing light. He picked up a telephone. ‘Speak to me.’

  Florian hugged Essie. ‘He threw the medical kit into the stream. I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

  ‘Ozzie fucking wept.’

  Florian was about to chide her for using that kind of language, but gave up with a bitter snort. She seemed different somehow, more aware – more controlled.

  The memories, Florian realized; her true memories must be waking up.

  ‘Crud!’ Roxwolf exclaimed. ‘Don’t let them get in or you’ll be visiting me first,’ he bawled into the handset. Then he was hurrying over to a set of thick brass pipes that emerged from the wall to one side of the vault door. Each of them ended in what looked like a set of binoculars.

  ‘What is it?’ Florian said.

  Roxwolf bent down and peered into the lenses. He spun a small iron wheel at one side of the pipe, which turned the whole apparatus. ‘Your friend Captain Chaing has found us.’

  ‘Chaing?’ Amazingly, that actually seemed like a welcome development.

  ‘Yeah. Come on, boys, hit them – oh yes! Go, go! That’s it. And again. Ah, crud!’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘My people are defending their turf.’ Roxwolf stood up. ‘They have to; there’s no way out past Chaing now, and the only other door is into here.’

  ‘You’re trapped,’ Florian said victoriously.

  ‘And you’re a crudding moron. Last chance to deal. I can get you to a safe haven. Just give me the spaceship’s files, everything you’ve got.’

  ‘There is a way out,’ Essie said. ‘Nobody locks themselves into a place like this without an escape route.’

  Roxwolf gave Essie an admiring stare. ‘Smart girl.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Florian demanded.

  ‘Even if you use it, you’ve got nowhere to go,’ Roxwolf said. ‘Without me helping you, the PSR will grab you within an hour.’

  ‘You tried to kill Essie!’

  ‘You’re not going to hold that against me, are you? I failed. So now go to plan B.’

  ‘Not going to hold . . .’ Florian spluttered in outrage.

  ‘How safe?’ Essie asked.

  ‘No!’ Florian shouted. ‘
Absolutely not.’

  ‘Ten years in preparation,’ Roxwolf said. ‘But I want the files. I want to be able to protect myself from the Commonwealth fury you’re going to unleash on my kind.’

  ‘So Fallers can fight back!’ Florian said.

  ‘To Uracus with them! I want the knowledge for me.’

  ‘I can offer you a degree of protection,’ Essie said.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Florian said. ‘Not him.’

  ‘I want the knowledge,’ Roxwolf insisted.

  ‘No!’

  There was a tremendous bass thud that Florian felt as much as heard, and the ground juddered. A web of splits appeared in the wall round the vault door. Dust and flakes of stone snowed down from the vaulting ceiling. One of the pillars snapped with a violent crack, the bottom third shifting out of alignment. The lights flickered and went out as the waterwheel’s axis emitted a terminal metallic grinding. Small emergency bulbs in each corner came on, casting a pale yellow glow that left most of the hall in shadow.

  ‘What the crud—?’ Florian gasped.

  ‘You were told the lounge was rigged with explosives,’ Roxwolf said. ‘I wasn’t bluffing. Chaing and his team have set them off. Some stray bullets, no doubt.’

  More flakes of stone fell from the ceiling. Florian noticed Essie was wrapped snugly in the pale violet glow again. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but we need to get out. I can’t protect you as well.’

  Roxwolf was heading towards the far end of the hall. ‘Last chance to make a deal, Florian.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Moron to the end.’ He did something to the base of a pillar. A flagstone dropped out of the floor, and Roxwolf jumped into the hole it exposed.

  A deep rumbling started somewhere above. Rivulets of gritty mortar poured down out of widening gaps.

  ‘Quick!’ Florian shouted. He gripped Essie’s hand tight and started to drag her along towards the hole in the floor.

  She stumbled, crying out in pain. ‘Oh crap, it hurts!’

  Florian scooped her up and ran for it across the shuddering ground. The rumbling became a constant roar. Large lumps of stone rained down.

  His enhanced eyesight revealed practically nothing below the hole. He jumped in, bending his knees, praying it wouldn’t be too far. Infra-red gave him a brief glimpse of a grey surface that had to be the floor. He hit painfully, toppling to one side and letting go of Essie, who shrieked as she went tumbling. His legs were agony, and he was sure one ankle was cracked; the pain signals the exovision displayed were peaking. Nausea rose in his gullet.

  ‘Essie?’

  She groaned somewhere in the gloom. Infra-red revealed her – a salmon glow, huddled on the floor a couple of metres away. Above them the hall collapsed. Debris plummeted down through the hole. Florian crawled desperately across the slimy ground, feeling stones hit his back. He curled round Essie to try and protect her. All he could think was that the hall’s floor would surely collapse, crushing them.

  The cascade of rubble stopped. He looked up. All his infra-red showed was an indistinct grey smear in every direction, except for the mound of debris that had come through the hole, and that glowed a feeble amber. Dust swarmed up his nose and down his throat. He started coughing.

  His u-shadow reported Essie was opening a link. ‘Don’t try to talk,’ she sent. ‘Put some fabric over your mouth to breathe through. The dust density is getting dangerous in here.’

  ‘Okay,’ he sent back, and brought up a corner of the furry kaftan to wrap over his nose.

  ‘We need to move. Ozzie knows how long this cellar will last. The whole house must have collapsed on top of us.’

  ‘Okay. Where?’

  ‘Just follow Roxwolf’s footprints.’

  ‘How in Uracus do I do that?’

  ‘Can’t you see them in infra-red?’

  ‘No:

  ‘Okay, I’ll feed you my vision.’

  A small pink icon popped up in his exovision, and he allowed it to open. It showed him the cellar in grainy green and black detail. It was about two and a half metres high, with pillars in every direction like a forest of brick trunks. The viewpoint swung round, and he saw himself lying on the ground, kaftan over half his face. The picture wasn’t favourable. Another shift as she turned her head. And there on the dank floor was a series of dimming red patches snaking off into the distance.

  ‘See them now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Florian, I’m really sorry, but can you help me again, please? My limbs are agony.’

  ‘No problem.’ He tried to stand. Pain shot up from his damaged ankle – pain so strong he had to open his mouth in a soundless shout, determined she shouldn’t know just how much he was hurting. Steeling himself, he hoisted her up, grimacing at the additional weight. Then he started tottering off, following the glimmering footprints.

  He had to stop and lean against several pillars, steadying himself, building up the determination to overcome the pain every time. Then launching himself forwards again, sometimes managing seven or eight steps before he had to rest again.

  ‘Florian, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. The dust, and I picked up some bruises. That’s all.’

  There was a wall ahead that was covered in a thick web of tough roots. The footprints led to a ragged gap. When Roxwolf had forced his way through, some of his body heat had transferred to the gnarled woody fronds. Essie’s superior infra-red vision showed them flushed as if they were smouldering embers.

  They had to duck down and squeeze their way past the clawing vertical thicket. The corridor on the other side was completely covered in the same roots, turning it into a knotty arboreal tunnel. The air was damp, but finally devoid of rubble dust. Roxwolf’s footsteps led straight for ten metres over the tangled cords before twisting off through another gap.

  ‘We’re not going to catch him,’ Essie said. ‘You’re hurt.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, even as he faltered, his ankle giving way on the treacherous snarled surface.

  ‘Let go of me,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ He gritted his teeth, and carried her another few metres before pitching forwards onto his knees.

  ‘Florian!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. We can get into an underground culvert through that hole on the left. It has to be the main one under the road.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Field function scan.’

  Secondary routines produced the appropriate files. He dismissed them. Irrelevant.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I can break us out from there.’

  ‘You can do what?’

  ‘Come on, together now.’

  He tried supporting her as best he could. They staggered forwards, pressed against each other, no longer trying to hurry, just to minimize the discomfort.

  It was a thin hole. Florian went first, pushing at the thicker roots, tearing the smaller lace-like filigrees.

  The culvert was about three metres high and five wide. It must have been larger when it was built, but the original brickwork was smothered by the ubiquitous roots. Drains and sewers emptied into it through slimed apertures in the chaotic weave. Half a metre of water gurgled along the bottom.

  Mostly water, he realized in disgust as his feet squelched down.

  Essie wiggled through the hole, and he helped her lower herself down.

  ‘Stay here,’ she said, and shuffled forwards a little. ‘Face away from me and curl up tight.’

  ‘Why?’

  Her force field came on.

  ‘Oh.’ Florian did as he was told.

  There was a bright flash of light, and something exploded. The pressure wave sent Florian sprawling. Cold fetid water soaked into all his clothes.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘Another coming.’

  He gripped one of the roots.

  The second explosion slapped him hard. Ther
e was a colossal crashing sound, and sunlight was abruptly shining all around him. He turned to see a ragged hole in the apex of the culvert, with a pile of smouldering roots and rubble forming a steep ramp up to the surface.

  They clambered up together, coming out in Midville Avenue about a hundred metres past the ruins of Cameron’s. Languid swirls of dust hazed the air, caged between the giant walwallow trees. A cluster of PSR officers were tending their wounded colleagues beside a line of smashed-up cars and vans. They were all staring at Florian and Essie. Standing slightly apart from the others, caked in ochre dust, his arm in a sling and wearing a black eyepatch, Captain Chaing was pointing a trembling finger.

  ‘Florian!’ he bellowed.

  *

  Ry Evine had been impressed by how quickly the PSR arrived. After he phoned them from a grocery shop at the end of Midville Avenue, he’d parked the tuk-tuk in an alley along from the club where he had a reasonable view. The position gave him plenty of opportunity to leave fast if anyone spotted him.

  The convoy arrived with the arrogance of all PSR operations, sirens wailing and lights flashing, demanding total priority from hapless citizens. And all Uracus erupted. Ry hit the ground fast as stray bullets zipped through the air. A couple struck the tenement on the corner of the alley, wheeeing away in ricochets. Then just as he peered round the corner again, there was a massive explosion. Nearby windows cracked. Walwallow branches flapped as if caught in a zephyr. He watched in stunned awe as the whole townhouse came tumbling down. Dust obscured most of the carnage. There was a lot of shouting.

  He could hear sirens in the distance, getting louder. The dust thinned, revealing the bodies and their traumatized Comrades.

  Another dull crump of an explosion sent Ry cowering. It sounded close, but muffled somehow. He could feel the vibration through his boot soles, but there was no sign of a fireball anywhere. Then another detonation came, and ten metres away the middle of the road suddenly cratered down. It split open to reveal a deep pit. Dust jetted up.

  Ry watched in trepidation as two figures clambered up out of the hole. He recognized Florian and the fleshy girl who’d been in the van with him earlier. Both of them were soaking wet and smeared in shit. Something was badly wrong; they didn’t seem able to stand up properly. The girl was snivelling as if she was in far too much pain for one so young.