Pandora's Star

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Kazimir had fitted active lenses into his eyes long before the scouts reported the convoy was approaching. The view they presented him gave the world a pale-emerald tint, but it stayed sharp and clear as the sun went down. Along with the rest of the Charlemagnes he hung back from the top of the ridge so the enemy had no hint of their presence. Then the McSobels fired the plasma cannon. His lenses simply refused to let that much light through into his eyes, he saw them as pink lines blinking on and off, like an after-image of the noon sun traced across his retina. That was the signal to advance. With the sound of the exploding trucks reverberating around him, he urged Kraken forward to the crest of the ridge. A quick sideways glance showed Bruce at his side, laughing like a demon as the massive warhorses picked up speed. Then they were over the ridge, and the entire panorama glared brilliant jade below them as the diminishing tanker truck fireball ascended into the sky. He watched the trucks skidding about on the road, their force fields haloed by pieces of flaming wreckage that bounced and skittered across the invisible screens. The Cruisers had all turned off the road, and were driving straight towards the clan raiders as they charged down the slope.

  As the distance quickly shrank, the raiders started to fire their ion pistols and the larger carbines. Force fields protecting the Cruisers flared chrome yellow, but none of the shots got through. The thunder of hoofs was now as loud as the howl of flames bursting out of the ruined tanker and the crackling energy weapons. Kinetic rapid-fire guns on the front of the Cruisers opened up. Tall gouts of earth sprayed up around Kraken. One of the projectiles struck Kazimir. His force field rang like a sepulchral church bell, completely deafening him. Vibrant slivers of energy rippled down the dark confining field, then surged through the curlicues embroidered in the warhorse’s shield blanket, turning the metal a glimmering white, before grounding out through the bottom of the tassels. Blue and purple sparks fizzed out around Kra-ken’s hoofs as they charged onwards. The air was filled with the sharp tang of burning metal. All around him, the clan raiders were trailing fabulous streamers of St Elmo’s fire as the projectiles hammered into them – human comets streaking across the gloom. Warhorses screamed as the gunfire tore their flesh open, falling to the earth as blood poured through huge tattered wounds.

  A flight of missiles soared overhead. The Cruiser guns switched their aim upwards, trying to lock on to the elusive barrage. Soldiers jumped out of the rear of the vehicles, sprinting for cover. They started firing ion rifles at the raiders. Their armour suit force fields became vivid coronal beacons as they were shot at in turn.

  The front line of warhorses wavered as their casualties built up. They were almost level with the lumbering Cruisers now. Small groups peeled away. Kazimir urged Kraken over towards the front end of the convoy. There was little thought involved, he simply remembered that was where he was supposed to go. Five times he’d been hit by kinetic bullets or ion rifle fire. So far his armour suit’s force field had held. Terror and exhilaration surged through his body, crushing almost all rational thought. Only some faint recollection of the plan kept him moving in the right direction. He loved the vivacity of the mad ride straight into the lethal muzzles of the Institute soldiers. Simultaneously, the constant fear of being cut to shreds any second made him scream wordless defiance at his foes, while shooting his ion pistol wildly. It was insanity, and utterly beautiful. Even Kraken seemed to share the recklessness, pounding on into the heart of the bedlam. Blood from two craterous wounds was running down the warhorse’s flanks, soaking his shield blanket.

  Bruce was still level with him, still wearing the same rictus grin that had begun on the top of the ridge. He yelled something which Kazimir never heard above the clamour. Then he was gesturing urgently with the long barrel of his ion carbine. Kazimir glanced ahead. The road was only fifty metres away now, as brilliantly lit as any city, showing a zigzag jam of trucks. Bruce gestured again at the second truck, which had come to rest with its force field just nudging into the sputtering flames of the ruined lead truck. Kazimir’s heated zeal subsided enough for him to nod sharp agreement, and they both altered track for the trapped vehicle. Kraken galloped over the road in front of the flames, with Kazimir pulling on the reins to slow their unruly flight and curve back to the second truck.

  It was at that moment he saw into the Institute valley for the first time in his life. He couldn’t see far down it, the angle was wrong for that. From his position all he could make out were a few nondescript low buildings clustered round the end of Highway One. Beyond them, however, the aft section of the alien arkship was just visible. Kazimir had always known its dimensions, how only something that large could survive centuries of travel between the stars. But all the statistics Harvey had coached him in had never registered the way seeing it for real did. The diabolical thing was big. Its fuselage design followed a simple cylindrical geometry, with various protrusions and fins breaking the uniformity of its eight-hundred-metre length, and a complex wart-cluster of force field generators at the prow. At the rear it was a sheer circular cliff of metal two hundred and fifty metres in diameter, with the eight stubby nozzles of its fusion drives sticking out. The Institute had set up a ring of powerful arc lights around the ship, centring it in a huge pool of bright monochrome light. Not that Kazimir could see many of the slate-grey metal hull plates. Vast arches of scaffolding had been erected around the Marie Celeste, supporting access walkways running the length of the fuselage. The shapes of humans and bots were discernible moving along the aluminium planking, tiny scavenger insects swarming some fallen corpse. Cranes rose from the apex of the scaffolding, their long gantries hauling up big freight containers to the loading bays on every walkway level. Flashes of ruby laserlight were coming from the dark cavities of the fusion drive nozzles, evidence of a great deal of activity within.

  A sudden chill washed across Kazimir’s skin, sobering his thoughts. Actually seeing the enemy which his clan was sworn to destroy was a humbling experience. The power and purpose reflected in the massive arkship was formidable, an extension of its master’s will. He felt pathetically small by comparison.

  ‘Come on!’ Bruce yelled as he galloped past. ‘For fuck’s sake, Kaz.’

  Kazimir dropped his gaze from the ship, and saw a fleet of black Land Rover Cruisers tearing out of the Institute town and accelerating along Highway One.

  He grunted, ‘Oh shit,’ under his breath and urged Kraken round towards the intact truck. His hand fumbled with the equipment belt hanging from the side of his saddle, but he eventually found the dump-web unit and pulled it free. Ten metres ahead of him, Bruce was holding his own dump-web, leaning forward in his saddle as he rushed up to the force field surrounding the truck. His arm began to sway to and fro, calculating the weight and closing distance. Then as the warhorse was only a metre from the edge of the force field he swung the unit in a short arc and let go. The dump-web hit the ground and bobbled along until it reached the shield.

  Kazimir had little chance to check his friend’s accuracy. He was doing the same thing with his own unit, letting it swing slightly, watching the force field as he hurtled towards it. Speed, distance, angle – he judged them all and dropped it at what he knew was the right moment, squeezing the activation trigger as it left his hand. The heavy gadget bounced a couple of times then slapped into the force field. Internal sensors detected the coherent energy structure and immediately deployed the compressed nest of conductive filaments at the core of the unit. Fine dark strands expanded quickly, sliding their way along the curve of the shield like a stain spreading upwards. The flimsy mesh began to leach energy out of the field it was climbing up, channelling the flow down into the ground. Smoke began to rise up from the enzyme-bonded concrete where the lower half of the web was unfurling. On the back of the truck, behind the cab, the force field generator began a near subliminal whining as it consumed more and more power, trying to reinforce the relentless drain that was gnawing into it in two places. The driver watched helplessly as more and more indicators
on the cab dashboard turned from amber to red.

  Thirty seconds after Kazimir let go of his dump-web, the huge quantity of energy which the generator had to pull from its superconductor battery to maintain the shield’s integrity exceeded its rated wattage. Burnout was fast, with several components flaring into ruin. The force field collapsed as small turquoise flames jetted out of glowing, cherry-red cooling fins on the generator casing. Several hundred metres overhead, loiter missiles launched by the McSobels detected the failure. Their sensors acquired the naked truck. Solid rocket boosters ignited, and they screamed down vertically at Mach four.

  Kazimir was halfway back to the bottom of the ridge when the truck exploded behind him. He risked a quick look over his shoulder and whooped for joy at the sight of the billowing flames. There must have been some volatiles in one of the containers. Flaming aquamarine globules were spinning out of the main explosion, soaring across the night sky like rampant fireworks.

  Another convoy truck’s force field vanished, and long rocket plumes blazed high above as missiles locked on. Several clan raiders were circling the remaining trucks, ready to throw their dump-webs. Spread out between the road and the ridge, the firefight between Institute soldiers and the remaining mounted raiders was intense. The rapid-fire guns on the Cruisers were inflicting heavy casualties among the Charlemagnes. Retaliatory ion carbine shots were directed at the vehicles, turning their protective force fields into seething bubbles of light.

  Kazimir tugged the reins slightly, steering Kraken away from the stationary Cruisers. According to the plan, all he had to do now was get back to the top of the ridge, and from there to the rendezvous point. At that moment he hadn’t realized how close the Institute reinforcements had come until the rapid-fire guns on the first of the new Land Rovers opened fire. A patch of ground along the side of Kraken tore open, throwing up a ragged curtain of earth and vegetation. The big beast bellowed in shock, jerking sharply to one side. Kazimir clung on grimly.

  Bruce was slightly ahead of him, staying low in the saddle. Ten metres beyond him, three Institute soldiers jumped up from nowhere, and opened fire with their ion rifles. Bruce’s force field glared like a fragment of captured sunlight, the howl of its energy stresses louder than any thunderclap. Perilously thick tendrils of electricity writhed across his Char-lemagne’s shield blanket, punching out of the tassels like a jet exhaust. Kazimir was already shooting back at the soldiers, forcing them to stop, when Bruce’s warhorse reared up as if to charge its attackers. Kinetic projectiles from a Cruiser rapid-fire gun plunged into its underbelly, shredding hide, organs, and bone in a cloud of crimson vapour. Time and gravity withdrew for a moment, allowing the mighty warhorse to hang poised on its hind legs. Then it slowly toppled over. Kazimir howled: ‘NO!’ as he watched Bruce slide off the saddle, instinctively seeing the shape which the fall would take. Bruce hit the ground first, and ion rifle fire pummelled at him, straining his armour towards overload. The warhorse collapsed on top of him, its momentum rolling it over. Kazimir froze, staring in agony as more and more of his friend was engulfed by the massive carcass. Bruce actually managed to lift one arm, as if he was clawing his way free. Then the force field nimbus flickered and died. The warhorse completed its roll, crushing the small defenceless human beneath an avalanche of dead steaming flesh.

  More trucks exploded as missiles slammed down. The newly arrived Land Rovers rushed onwards, driving straight for the retreating groups of warhorses. Clan raiders concentrated their fire on individual Institute soldiers, overwhelming their armour.

  Kraken stood perfectly still as the battle raged around them. Kazimir hadn’t moved, his stare fixed on the bloody remains of Bruce’s warhorse, unaware of anything else. Waiting, waiting . . .

  Another clan raider charged past, screaming something at Kazimir, half of it obscenities. Sound and light swooped back into Kazimir’s universe. The raid was over. They were supposed to be leaving. Already, most of the warhorses were galloping back up the slope. He spurred Kraken on, searching the ground ahead. A couple of the Institute soldiers were kneeling beside a clump of thick bushes not twenty metres away, shooting at the raiders on the slope above. Kazimir was never sure if it was him or Kraken who chose the direction, only that it was the right direction. They were suddenly moving towards the soldiers, picking up speed. The soldiers had a few seconds warning, both of them turning to gape in consternation at the terrible medieval vision of vengeance bearing down on them. One ran. One brought his rifle up. Kraken lowered his head, the titanium blade of his horn level with the soldier’s chest. Kazimir’s face was contorted into a vicious sneer of triumph as the tip rammed home into the soldier’s force field. There was a brief cascade of sparks, streaming out of his torso like some ephemeral flower. Then the carbon-bonded blade punctured the armour, slicing clean through the sternum and into the soft tissue of the organs inside the ribcage. That was when Kraken shoved its neck back, ripping the blade upwards. The soldier’s body left the ground, dragged upwards as the blade continued its scythe through his upper half before it pulled out with a last violent shake as Kraken twisted. The torn figure spun lazily through the air, squirting arterial blood as it went.

  Kazimir knew he should have felt joy. The sweetness of revenge. But it was a hollow, meaningless victory. It mattered nothing to Bruce that the soldier was dead. He wouldn’t care, wouldn’t rejoice back in West Dee, wouldn’t down glass after glass of beer, would never get his chance with Bethany. Bruce was dead.

  As if knowing Kazimir’s confusion, Kraken sped away back up the slope of his own accord, carrying his rider back to the safety of the forest.

  *

  The rendezvous spot was a patch of clear ground alongside a small stream, deep in the forest. There should have been twelve McFosters gathered there. Instead, there were only nine. A sombre Scott McFoster began the roll call. Kazimir listened to the names with eyes closed and tears leaking down his cheeks.

  The roll call was the formal end of every raid. Unless you were there and confirmed your name to the squad leader, there could be no readmission to the clan and its places, the villages, farms, and forts. Too many fighters had fallen in battle only to be caught and enslaved by the Starflyer. Many of them were sent back to infiltrate and kill the very clansmen and women they had grown up among. The roll call prevented such treachery from recurring.

  ‘Bruce McFoster?’

  The way Scott said it told everyone he already knew.

  Kazimir opened his mouth. He was going to shout: ‘Yes, I’m here. I made it back.’ But all he could see behind closed eyelids was that last sliver of radiance from Bruce’s force field going out. The half-second glimpse of fright rushing across Bruce’s face as he realized. Then there was just a mass of blood and gore descending, the sickening crunch of bone snapping.

  ‘Bruce McFoster, your name will be written in honour on our clan’s memorial for those who have forever escaped the Starflyer’s reach. We pray that your final sleep will be filled with dreams of a better place.’

  ‘Amen,’ the others murmured.

  ‘Kazimir McFoster?’

  That faint second skin of light extinguished. How long would it have taken Bruce to die as his body was pulped? Who was going to tell Samantha?

  ‘Kaz,’ someone urged.

  ‘Here,’ he said brokenly. ‘I’m here.’ Which was such a blatant lie. He wasn’t himself, not any more, a part was missing. It was never coming back.

  *

  The Manby Memorial Clinic was in Little Sussex, one of the more pleasant districts of New Costa to live in, a hilly area where lush vegetation thrived and tall palm trees and eucalyptus lined the roads and parks. Senior management had their big homes and sweeping gardens here, protectively moated by middle management estates. The shops were small and exclusive, the schools high class, and the facilities generally excellent. There wasn’t a factory within fifteen miles.

  The AEC police car swept up to the centre’s main entrance and its door opened for Pau
la. She got out and greeted Elene Castle, the clinic’s deputy manager. As the woman chattered away in a slightly nervous manor, Paula underwent a touch of déjà vu; it wasn’t that long ago she’d visited the Clayden Clinic and Wyobie Cotal. But then, most of her cases involved a visit to medical facilities at some point or other.

  Elene took her past the first two blocks, which contained the private recovery rooms, day lounges, and physical therapy spas. Paula was familiar with the set-up, her own post-rejuvenation rehabilitations had been spent in almost identical buildings. The Manby had a slightly plusher decor, but the rituals would be the same. It was the third block which Elene Castle was delivering her to, where the actual rejuvenation treatment was conducted. The long corridors were strangely empty. As Paula passed a lounge, she saw a number of recovering clients slumped in deep chairs watching the Augusta-StLincoln Cup match. Nursing staff hung around unobtrusively, keeping an eye on the big portal as the two national teams duked it out on emerald grass.

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to wait for another couple of hours,’ the deputy manager said apologetically as a collective groan went up from the lounge as St Lincoln’s striker missed a shot. ‘Professor Bose was only withdrawn from the actual treatment chamber forty minutes ago. It will take him a while to recover sufficiently to answer your questions.’

  ‘I can wait that long,’ Paula said. On any other world, it would have taken weeks just to get a court order allowing her to interrupt a rejuvenation. But CST was paying for Bose’s fast-tracked treatment, and Augusta was essentially controlled by the Sheldon family. It hadn’t been difficult to arrange.