Pandora's Star

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘To use an old analogy: you are playing croquet while they are kick boxing. If the Primes did succeed in extracting information from Bose and Verbeke, as the evidence we have so far indicates, then they know everything about us. They will know that our attempts to contact them were peaceful. They know how to reciprocate by opening channels of communication to us in a non-hostile, non-threatening manner. That they have not sought to at least investigate the state of the galaxy around them after a thousand years of isolation is extremely suggestive. In tactical terms, they are manoeuvring themselves into a position of considerable advantage.’

  ‘But why come all this way?’ Oscar asked. ‘If all they want is material resources, then there are hundreds of star systems close to their own that they could spread out to and exploit.’

  ‘The number of unknown factors we’re dealing with means we really do have to concentrate on the few facts we have, rather than engage in perpetual speculation,’ Dimitri Leopoldovich said somewhat reprovingly. ‘We still don’t know why the Dyson barriers were put up, nor by whom. We don’t know why one was switched off. Break it down to basics, my friends: all we know is that they’re demonstrably hostile, they have tens of thousands of warships, and they’re building wormholes that can reach us. We have to reset our civilized way of thinking to default mode: shoot them before they shoot us. In this instance, we have no alternative other than to prepare for the worst-case scenario. I’d rather spend a trillion dollars on the navy and live to regret the waste of tax money, than not spend it and find out we really needed to. Remember Pearl Harbor.’

  Wilson watched with silent enjoyment as Patricia forced herself not to comment on Leopoldovich’s trillion-dollar navy. ‘I’m not sure the parallel strictly applies,’ he said. ‘But I do understand where you’re coming from.’

  ‘We will have one strategic advantage,’ Dimitri Leopoldovich said. His rigid smile of emphasis made him look even more vampirish. ‘Precisely one. It must be exploited no matter what the cost to ourselves, for it will be our only chance of survival. The Primes are at the end of a very long, singular supply line. Without it, there can be no hostilities. That is why my team makes the urgent recommendation that the Prime wormhole is attacked the instant they open it in Commonwealth space. Attacked and destroyed. I cannot emphasize this strategy strongly enough. There will be no rules of engagement once they start coming through. We have studied the records from the Conway; they were sending dozens of ships through Hell’s Gateway every hour, and that was months ago. While here you talk of building one warship every three weeks, and the first one isn’t even finished yet. If we devoted our entire industrial output to shipbuilding, it would take decades to reach the number which the Primes can deploy against us right now.’

  ‘Is that combat scenario possible?’ Patricia asked. ‘Can we fire something back through their wormhole which will destroy the generator mechanism at the other end?’

  ‘A crowbar or even a slingshot can knock out a wormhole generator if you know which critical components to smash,’ Wilson said. ‘The key is getting close enough to inflict the relevant damage. You can be sure the opening at this end will be defended by squadrons of ships, and the strongest force fields they can throw up. We would have to break through them to reach the station at the other end. At the moment, the kind of systems which can do that are not part of the armaments we’re fitting to the warships.’

  ‘Then they must be designed and installed,’ Dimitri Leopoldovich said forcefully. ‘Immediately.’

  Patricia and Daniel looked at each other. Daniel inclined his head minutely.

  ‘Very well,’ Patricia said. ‘If that’s your team’s official recommendation, Academician. Admiral, would your staff look into the proposal, please, and cost it out for the steering committee to review.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Wilson said.

  *

  In summer, Paula actually quite enjoyed sitting out on Paris’s pavement cafés. The coffee in the deeply nationalistic city was still bitter and natural, avoiding a great many UFN processing regulations, while the pastries accompanying them contained way too many calories. The sun and the people made a refreshing change from the sanitized office environment. But for this call she went inside a little bistro a few hundred metres away from the office, and took a private booth. She’d been using the same place for fifty years; the waitress showed her to the booth at the back without even asking. Paula ordered a hot chocolate, and one of the pastries with almonds and cherries.

  Her e-butler said the call was coming through. She put a small hand-held array on the table, and waited for its screen to unfurl. It wasn’t that she couldn’t take this call in the office, she just felt it was more appropriate to take it in her own time. Thompson Burnelli’s face appeared on the thin plastic, from the blurred gold and white background she thought he was in his Senate Hall office.

  ‘Paula,’ he gave her a relaxed smile. ‘No uniform?’

  Anyone else would have earned a crippling stare for that dig, the senator merely got a raised eyebrow. ‘It must be in the wash,’ she said. The formation of a Commonwealth navy had caught Paula by surprise; she wasn’t prepared for the brand-new Planetary Security Agency to be switched to naval funding and change once again. But like it or not, she was now in naval intelligence with the rank of commander. The day after the changes had been announced to the Paris office, Tarlo had saluted her as he came in to work. Nobody would be doing that again. Nobody in the Paris office wore uniforms, either, although they were technically entitled to. Office rumour said that several members of staff changed into them before going out for a night clubbing in town, testing the ancient theory that every girl loves a sailor.

  Uniforms were the least of her worries. To start with, Mel Rees had told them the whole office would be moving to Kerensk, where Vice Admiral Columbia was establishing his administration. That led to a showdown between her and Rees where calls were fired off to political allies with the speed of Prime missile salvos. Mel Rees desperately wanted the move to the navy’s planetary defence headquarters where his chances for promotion inside the new navy were considerable; Paula threatened to resign if any kind of relocation or team alteration went ahead.

  Rafael Columbia solved the problem with his usual political deftness. Paula was appointed commander of the Johansson project, which would remain in Paris for strategic reasons. Mel Rees was also promoted, and would run a new unit on Kerensk dealing with the deployment of the wormhole detector net-work. She was rather pleased to find that her contacts out-weighed his family connections.

  ‘Sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you on this,’ Thompson said. ‘Life in the Senate hasn’t been this exciting for . . . well, I don’t ever remember a session like this one before. Kime’s second flight really stirred things up. I never really thought we’d have to form a navy, and I was heavily involved in the early preparation work.’

  ‘Did you know the old Serious Crimes Directorate would end up as navy intelligence?’

  ‘No, Paula, I didn’t realize quite how ambitious Rafael was going to be. I heard about your fight with Rees. I’m glad they managed to work out a compromise that allowed you to stay on. Hell, we only just managed to hang on to Senate Security. Can you believe Columbia wanted that as well?’

  ‘It can’t last, Thompson. We still need some kind of Intersolar department to track down criminals. Apart from Johansson, there is nothing for navy intelligence to do. My former colleagues are still working on their old cases. They just wear uniforms to do it.’

  Thompson smiled sadly. ‘Not quite. There is a small amount of opposition to the navy taking shape. Disaffected hotheads for now, but they need to be monitored, those that don’t go and join the Exodus.’

  ‘Local police can handle that.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue with you, Paula. I’m calling because I have news.’

  ‘I’m sorry, go ahead.’

  ‘Okay, first, there is no secret security department run by the Execut
ive. That’s a definite. I did consult my father. Whoever it was that made the hit at Venice Beach, they weren’t authorized by the President or Senate Security.’

  ‘Thank you. What about Boongate and the Far Away cargo?’

  ‘Ah.’ Thompson shifted round uncomfortably. ‘This is where it gets interesting. I spoke to Patricia Kantil about that myself, pointed out that we really needed to inspect everything going to Far Away. She said she agreed, and she’d put in on Doi’s agenda. Since then all I’ve had is memos about how the proposal is under active consideration. Even before your suspicions I would have been curious about that. Something this trivial should be easy for me to arrange; normally I’d just tell an aide to sort it out. The fact that I can’t swing it is very suggestive.’

  Paula felt a cold shiver run down her chest, despite the warmth of the chocolate she’d been sipping. The decades she’d spent filing requests for this very action with every new boss in the Directorate, to see them come to nothing every time. All of them must ultimately have been blocked by the Executive office. ‘Who is opposing you? Surely not Doi herself?’

  ‘No. This is Newton’s law of politics, for every action . . . Somebody will be lobbying the Executive office to allow the cargo to go through unchecked.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s the arena of whispers and spin we’re dealing with here. At this level of the game, your opponents don’t reveal themselves, that’s part of the game. But, Paula, I’ll find out. You’ve got me worried about this, and that’s not easy.’

  *

  Warm summer sunlight poured through the circular windows above Mark Vernon’s head, diffusing evenly across the hemispherical study. The illumination was brighter than he’d envisaged when he and Liz had sat down to plan their new home together. Not that he didn’t want his study properly lit, it was just that he’d always had an image of a slightly darker room, maybe a little cluttered with his personal stuff; the kind of room a man could happily use to retreat from his family on occasion. But with its airiness and pearl-white drycoral walls, he never felt happy allowing any mess to build up. So his desk was clear, and his stuff was all neatly organized in big alvawood cabinets. Given that Barry and Sandy had free run through the rest of the house, it made the study the tidiest place inside.

  He stood just inside the frosted glass door, and looked round in confusion. The short coat he knew was in there, wasn’t.

  ‘Dad! Come on!’ Sandy shouted in the main hall behind him.

  ‘It’s not here,’ he called, hoping Liz would take pity on him.

  ‘It’s your coat,’ Liz called back at him from the hall.

  He gave the study another perplexed glare. Then Panda, the family’s young white Labrador, came in pulling his favourite woollen coat along with her. Her tail wagged happily as she stared up at him.

  ‘Good girl,’ he started to approach her. ‘Drop it. Drop it, girl.’

  Panda’s tail wagged even faster in anticipation of the game; she started to turn.

  ‘No!’ Mark shouted. ‘Stay!’

  Panda bounded out into the hall, pulling the coat with her. Mark ran after her. ‘Come back! Stay! Drop it!’ He tried to think of the other commands they’d gone through together at obedience classes. ‘Heel!’

  Over by the front door, Liz was pulling Sandy’s windcheater on over her head. Both of them turned to watch.

  ‘Stay! Stop that. Come here!’ Mark had got halfway across the hall when Barry emerged from the kitchen and said, ‘Here, girl.’ He patted his knees. Panda scampered over to him, and dropped the coat at his feet. ‘Good girl.’ Barry made a fuss of her, letting her lick his face and hands.

  Mark picked up the coat with as much dignity as he could muster. There was a big soggy patch on its shoulder from the dog’s jaw. They’d got Panda nearly a year ago when they’d finally moved into the drycoral house. A family dog. She only ever did what Barry told her. ‘That’s because she’s still a puppy,’ Mark had been claiming for the last three months. ‘She’ll grow out of it.’ To which Liz simply replied, ‘Yes, dear.’

  Although he’d never owned a dog before, Mark had always enjoyed the idea of them having one; envisaging long rambles along the Ulon Valley with their pet trotting beside them. Such an animal would be loyal, obedient, and loving, an excellent companion for the children. And anyway, most of the homes in the Ulon Valley had dogs. It was part of the whole Randtown ideal.

  The owner of the pet shop on Main Mall had assured the Vernon family that white Labradors had all the breed’s natural friendliness, but with a higher intelligence sequenced into their DNA along with the snow-white coat. Mark thought that had sounded perfect. Then Sandy had spotted the fluffy white puppy with its black-circled eyes, and the choice had been made before Liz and Barry got a say.

  Mark draped the coat over his arm. ‘Everyone ready?’

  ‘Are we taking Panda?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re in charge of her,’ Liz said sternly. ‘She’s not to be let off the lead.’

  Barry grinned, and hauled the dog along out of the front door. Liz checked that Sandy’s windcheater was on properly, and ushered the girl out after her brother.

  ‘Barry has got coursework, you know,’ Liz said. ‘And the nursery is short-staffed enough without me taking afternoons off.’

  ‘If you want him to get on with the work, then he doesn’t have to come,’ Mark said. ‘But you know I have to do this.’

  She sighed and looked round the hall with what could have been a nostalgic expression. ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘We’re protecting our way of life, Liz. We have to show the navy they can’t push people around like this.’

  Liz gave him a fond smile, a finger stroking down the line of his cheek. ‘I never realized I married someone with so many principles.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I think it’s admirable.’

  ‘So should we take the kids?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain. ‘I mean, these are our views, and we’re forcing them to take part. I keep thinking about children who are vegetarians or religious, just because that’s what their parents are. I always hate that.’

  ‘This is different, darling. Going on a blockade protest is not a lifelong vogue for them. Besides, they’ll love it, you know they will.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He tried not to grin, and failed miserably. ‘I know.’

  The Ables pick-up was parked next to Liz’s small Toyota 4x4 on the patch of compacted limestone where the old temporary house used to stand. Although the building was long gone, Mark had never quite got round to programming the bots to clear the stone away.

  The kids were already in the back seat, arguing. Panda was barking happily as she tried to clamber up with them.

  ‘Straps on,’ Liz said as she got in the front.

  Mark led the dog firmly round to the back, and shoved her into the covered cab before climbing up into the driver’s seat. ‘All ready?’

  ‘Yeah!’ the kids chorused.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They drove out along the Ulon Valley into Highmarsh, then turned onto the highway, heading north, away from Randtown. After a few miles the valleys began to narrow, and the four-lane highway was climbing up the side of the mountains where it ran along a broad ridge cut into the rock. Twenty miles out of town they passed through the first tunnel. There was no traffic at all coming the other way. When the road straightened out, Mark could occasionally see a vehicle of some kind up ahead of them.

  It was early summer, so the multitude of streams running down the side of the mountains hadn’t dried up yet, though the flow was noticeably reduced from the spring deluge. The Dau’sings were rising high on either side of them as the highway wound its way northwards. Often they’d have a sheer fall of several hundred metres at the edge of the road, with only a thick stone wall as protection. On the lower slopes, boltgrass was turning from its usual wiry yellow to a richer honey colour as it approached its week-lon
g spore season.

  Thirty miles out of town, they passed by one of the abandoned JCB monster roadbuilders which Simon Rand had used to carve his highway through the mountains. It was sitting on a wide patch of broken ground that one of its cousins had hacked into the side of the slope beside the road. Decades of fierce southern continent winters had reduced its metal parts to melted-looking chunks of rust, while the composite bodywork was bleached and cracked. The huge solid metal tracks had sagged on their runner wheels, allowing its belly to settle on the ground where it had bent and buckled. Souvenir hunters had picked most of the smaller components away, while the glass of its insect-eye cab at the front had been smashed.

  Both kids got excited at the sight, and Mark had to promise to bring them back some time for a better look.

  Five miles beyond the roadbuilder, on the high shoulder of Mount Zuelea, the highway was clogged with stationary vehicles. Napo Langsal waved them down. He owned one of the dive tour boats in Randtown. Mark had never seen him anywhere other than in the town or on his boat. He wasn’t even sure Napo owned a car.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ Napo said. ‘Colleen’s about to head back to town, so if you could slot this in where her truck was parked we’d be grateful.’

  ‘No problem,’ Mark said. ‘We brought some lunch, but the kids will need to get home by tonight.’

  ‘I think there’re some vehicles coming out about seven o’clock, they’re going to take the night shift.’

  ‘Right then.’ Mark eased the pick-up forward, driving down the narrow zigzag gap between the vehicles that were parked at right angles across the lanes, most of them pick-up trucks or 4x4s, the kind of vehicles driven by Randtowners. People walking along the road saw the Vernons and gave them a wave or thumbs up. A section of the central barrier had been removed, and he went over onto the southern carriageway. Colleen’s big truck was easily visible, the sides were painted in the bright pink and emerald logo of her precipitator leaf business which were fluorescing strongly in the sunlight. Since they’d arrived, Mark had had several arguments with her about the semi-organic equipment she’d supplied, but now they both smiled cheerily at each other as they passed.