Pandora's Star

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Liz eyed them warily. ‘Going to rain before long. Heavy rain.’ She turned to Mark. ‘So which way are we heading?’

  ‘It’s a long way to the gateway,’ he said.

  ‘If it’s still there,’ Carys said. ‘They used a nuke to take out a remote detector station, God knows what they hit the CST station with. And that highway is one very long, very exposed route. Then we have to cross an ocean.’

  ‘There’s no other way out,’ he said.

  ‘You know we have to check on the others,’ Liz said. ‘I want to get the children to safety, more than anything, but we have to know where safe is. And right now I’m not convinced it’s the other side of the Dau’sings.’

  Mark glanced up at the sky, suddenly fearful of the sight. He’d never realized before how open it was. ‘Suppose . . . they come?’

  ‘Here?’ Carys was scathing. ‘Sorry, you guys, but come on. Randtown isn’t exactly the strategic centre of the universe. Without the detector station this is nothing.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Mark said. ‘Okay, we’ll head for town, and check in with a few neighbours on the way.’

  ‘Good enough plan,’ Liz said. ‘We need to know what’s happening on the rest of Elan, and the Commonwealth. If the government makes any attempt to contact us, it’ll be at the town.’

  ‘If there is a government,’ Carys said.

  Liz gave her a sharp glance. ‘There will be.’

  ‘Into the pick-up,’ Mark told the kids. They clambered into the back seat without a word. An equally subdued Panda quickly jumped up with them. He almost ordered the dog out, then relented. They needed every bit of comfort they could get right now. All of them.

  ‘I’ll follow you,’ Carys said.

  ‘Okay. Keep your hand-held array on.’ They’d dug out three old models from the house that had been switched off when the emp washed over the valley. It had been simple enough for Mark to alter their programs so they could be used as basic communicators, giving them a five-mile range.

  Carys gave a backward wave of reassurance as she made her way over to the MG. To Mark’s complete surprise and grudging respect, the sports car’s systems had survived the emp almost intact.

  ‘You’d better take this,’ Liz said. She handed him his hunting rifle, a high-power laser with a low-light focus lock sight. ‘I checked it, it still works.’

  ‘God, Liz.’ He snatched a hurried, guilty glance at the kids. ‘What for?’

  ‘People can behave badly in times of stress. And I’m not convinced the way Carys is about the Primes leaving us alone.’ She opened her jacket to show an ion pistol in a shoulder holster.

  ‘Holy shit. Where did that come from?’

  ‘A friend. Mark, we live miles from anywhere, and you were away from home during the day.’

  ‘But . . . a gun!’

  ‘I’m just being practical, baby. A girl should know how to look after herself.’

  ‘Right,’ he said dumbly. Today it didn’t seem important, somehow. In fact, he was rather glad she’d got it. He climbed up into the front of the pick-up, and drove it off down the long track to the main valley road.

  *

  Randtown was still standing. Sort of. The Regents had deflected the worst of the blast upwards, but the terrible distorted pressure waves that had rushed out from the mountains had easily reached the town.

  Composite and metal panelling had been twisted and torn off every building. The crumpled rectangles were strewn everywhere, on the pavements, embedded in other buildings. The lighter ones were floating in the Trine’ba. Thick insulation blankets were flapping freely off the naked structural girders. Roofs were skeletal outlines, almost completely devoid of their solar panels. Strangest of all was the sparkle. The whole town glittered under a coating of prismatic rainbows. Each and every window in Randtown had shattered, flinging out splinters and granules in long plumes that fell across the pavements and streets, as if sacks of diamonds had been spilled out.

  Mark stopped the pick-up on Low West Street, barely a couple of hundred metres off the highway. ‘My God, I didn’t know there was this much glass on the whole planet, let alone here.’

  ‘Can the tyres take that?’ Liz asked. She was looking along the street, trying to see if anyone was around. Several pillars of smoke were rising over the broken roofs, closer to the centre of town.

  ‘Should do. They’re gelfoam.’

  ‘Okay then.’ Liz brought the hand-held array up to her mouth. ‘Carys, we’re going in. Can the MG handle this?’

  ‘MG will be having a nasty talk with my lawyers if it doesn’t.’

  Mark leaned out of the side window. David and Lydia Dunbavand were riding in the back, sitting on the bags of camping gear; while all three of the Dunbavand kids were squashed into the MG with Carys. Behind that, the Conants’ 4x4 was acting as rear guard; Yuri had fixed it when they arrived at their homestead.

  ‘Going in,’ he called back to them.

  David brought his maser wand up. ‘Okey-dokey, we’ll keep sharp.’

  Mark shook his head as he toed the accelerator. What was it with disasters and people with guns? The pick-up moved forward slowly, its big tyres making a constant crunching sound on the road’s crystalline coating.

  They found the residents as they got closer to the centre. Almost everyone caught outside during the blast was injured to some degree. People walking along the pavements had been badly wounded by the wall panels as they sliced through the air. Those that avoided the panels were inevitably caught in the shotgun bombardment of glass. A lot had suffered both kinds of impacts.

  As they approached the top end of Main Mall the road was jammed solid with parked vehicles. Mark braked the pick-up, and they all got out to walk. ‘Leave Panda inside,’ Liz told the children. ‘She can’t walk on this, her paws will be shredded.’

  The dog started barking piteously as they left the vehicles behind.

  Half of Main Mall’s buildings were bent over at perilous angles, their structural girders pushed beyond their tolerance-loading by the ferocity of the air that had surged against them. The town’s commercial heart had been busy at the time, with the cafés full of people having leisurely lunches, pavement tables crammed full, the street packed with window shoppers.

  ‘Oh Jesus God,’ Mark groaned as he took in the sight. He felt dizzy and faint, needing to hold on to the nearest bowed wall for support.

  It wasn’t the people still lying there. Nor the teams still working to free the remaining trapped victims. Not the triage teams bandaging up the cuts and lacerations. Even the dreadful wailing and moaning he could have withstood. It was the blood. Blood covered everything. The pavement slabs weren’t even visible through the clogging burgundy fluid that had run down the whole length of the slope. The piles of glass were mushy with it. Buckled walls were caked in atrocious splatter patterns that had already darkened to black. People were soaked in it, their skin, their clothes. The air was thick with its tang-stench.

  Mark bent double and vomited over his boots.

  ‘Back,’ Liz ordered the children. ‘Come on, back to the pick-up.’

  She propelled the kids along and Lydia and David hurried to help. Sandy and Ellie and Ed were all crying. Barry and Will looked like they were about to. The adults formed a little protective curtain, pushing gently.

  ‘We’ll find out if there’s any sort of plan around here,’ Carys called after them.

  ‘Okay,’ Liz said. She was fighting her own revulsion. ‘Stay in touch.’

  ‘How about you?’ Carys asked Mark. ‘You okay?’

  ‘No, I’m goddamn not.’ He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Jesus!’ The shock had turned him cold. He hadn’t expected this. The end of the world was supposed to be final, an infinite nothing. That would have been a blessing. Instead they had to endure the aftermath, a world of pain and gore and suffering.

  ‘You’ll cope,’ Carys said unsympathetically. ‘You have to. Come on, let’s see if we can help.’


  Yuri Conant helped Mark stand straight. He didn’t look too good, either. Olga had a cloth pressed firmly over her mouth. Her eyes were damp above it.

  The four of them made their way down Main Mall, boots making a vile slushing sound at each footstep. Things clung to their soles. Mark got a rag out of his overalls, and tied it over his nose and mouth.

  ‘Mark?’ a girl called.

  It was Mandy from Two For Tea. She was one of a little group clustered round a middle-aged man whose leg was badly torn. Makeshift bandages had been wrapped round the wounds, already heavily stained. A rough spike of rusty metal was sticking through the cloth, obviously deeply embedded in his flesh. One of the women was trying to get him to swallow painkillers.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Mark asked her. Her face was filthy with grime and flecks of dry blood, with clear lines of skin on her cheeks where the tears had rolled. Her arms and apron were covered in blood.

  ‘Some cuts,’ she said. ‘Nothing bad. I’ve been trying the help people ever since.’ Her voice came close to cracking. ‘What about Barry and Sandy, are they all right?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re fine. It wasn’t so bad out in the valley.’

  ‘What did we do, Mark? Why did they do this to us? We never hurt them.’ She started sobbing. He put his arms round her, holding her gently. ‘We did nothing,’ he assured her.

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I hate them.’

  ‘Can you folks lend a hand here,’ one of the others tending the injured man said. ‘We can move him now.’

  ‘Move him where?’ Carys asked.

  ‘The hospital’s running, they got some power back. Simon took charge.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Two streets away,’ Mark said automatically.

  ‘We’ll take him,’ Yuri said.

  Even with a makeshift stretcher, it was hard going. There was so much debris to negotiate, and the Chinese restaurant on the corner of Matthews and Second Street was on fire. Without the firebots and volunteer fire service, the flames had really taken hold, threatening to spread to other buildings. They had to make a long detour down one of the tricky alleys that branched off from Matthews. As they walked on, the light gradually grew dimmer. Clouds covered the sky, spinning in a slow cyclone formation centred around the Regents. Thicker, darker clouds were scudding in fast from the horizon. Rain was already falling at the far end of Trine’ba, a broad curtain sweeping towards the town. At least it ought to stop the fires, Mark thought.

  A big crowd of people were milling round on the lawns at the front of the General Hospital. They parted reluctantly to let Mark’s group carry the stretcher through. Lights were on inside, and some of the medical equipment was functioning. The casualty department was already crammed with children and the most seriously wounded adults. Reception had been taken up by deep wounds and blood loss trauma. The nurse on entrance assessment took a quick look at the man they’d brought, declared him non-critical, and told them to find a place in the hallway for him. A team of people with brushes and shovels were still clearing away the shattered glass from the polished floorboards. Mark found a section they’d just cleaned, and set the patient down.

  When he stood up he saw Simon Rand striding down the middle of the hallway, his orange robes hanging like ordinary cloth. Even Simon had been hit by glass. There was a long healskin patch on his hand, another on the bottom of his neck. His entourage was smaller than usual, but they still followed him devotedly. A young woman walked beside him, dressed in a black top and jeans. It was Mellanie Rescorai, still enchantingly beautiful despite the sober determined expression locked on her face. Mark wasn’t at all surprised that she didn’t have a mark on her.

  She saw him staring and offered a little rueful smile.

  ‘Well there you go,’ Carys said. ‘Just when you think your day can’t possibly get any worse.’

  Mark trailed after Simon and Mellanie, with Carys, Yuri, and Olga following on behind. Simon reached the cracked and sagging marble portico at the front of the General Hospital, and raised his arms. ‘People, if you could gather round.’

  The crowd on the lawns moved closer. There were a lot of dark angry looks directed at Mellanie.

  She faced the crowd unflinchingly. ‘I know I’m not the most popular person in town right now,’ she told them. ‘But I do have a link back into the unisphere. To give you a brief summary of what’s happening, twenty-four planets in the Commonwealth have been attacked.’

  As she was talking, Mark brought up the hand-held array he was carrying. It couldn’t find a single network route back to the planetary cybersphere, let alone the unisphere. ‘No you haven’t,’ he muttered.

  Mellanie glanced over to him. She’d just finished telling them about Wessex beating off their assault. Her hand waved unobtrusively, fingers fluttering in a small echo of her virtual interface. Mark’s hand-held array suddenly had a link to a unisphere node in Runwich; it was very low capacity, just enough to give him basic data functions. ‘I’m a reporter,’ she said quietly. ‘I have some long-range inserts.’

  That wasn’t right. Mark knew how networks functioned, and what she was saying was rubbish. He couldn’t puzzle out how she’d given him the link.

  ‘Right now, the navy is organizing evacuations of every assaulted planet,’ Mellanie said to the crowd. ‘CST’s Wessex station is arranging to open its remaining wormholes at every isolated community. Including us. It’s a difficult operation without a gateway at the far end, but the SI is helping them govern the process.’

  Simon stepped forward. ‘It will be painful to leave, I know. But we must face reality here today, people. The hospital can’t cope. The rest of the planet is still suffering attacks of varying magnitude. Don’t think of this as evacuation, we are regrouping, that’s all. I will return. I will build my house anew. I would hope that all of you will come back with me.’

  ‘When are we leaving?’ Yuri asked. ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘The navy’s drawing up a list,’ Mellanie said. ‘We have to make sure that when the wormhole opens everyone from the surrounding countryside is here and ready to leave. We all go through at once.’

  ‘Where are we on the list?’ a voice from the crowd shouted.

  Mellanie gave Simon a tense look.

  ‘We’re number eight hundred and seventy- six,’ Simon said.

  The crowd was silent. Even Mark felt let down. But at least there was a way out. He asked the hand-held array to check if that was right, that they were truly that far down the list.

  ‘Look at your little friend,’ Carys said, her eyes were fixed on Mellanie. ‘She’s getting bad news.’

  Mark glanced over in time to see Mellanie half-turning from the crowd, hiding her face from them. Her eyes were wide with alarm. She mouthed some kind of obscenity and tugged at Simon’s robe. The two of them went into a huddle.

  Mark told the hand-held array to track down all official information on the current Elan situation. ‘No data available,’ it told him bluntly.

  Simon was holding his hands up again, appealing to the crowd who’d been watching him and Mellanie anxiously. ‘Slight change of plan,’ he called above the edgy muttering. ‘We need to get out of town, now. If you have a vehicle that works, please drive it to the bus station. We will leave for the Highmarsh in convoy. That is where the wormhole will be opened. Can I ask all the able-bodied to help with carrying the injured to the station. Anyone with technical knowledge, we need the buses running; report to the station engineering office when you get there.’

  People were starting to call out, ‘Why?’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Talk to us, Simon.’

  ‘Tell us.’

  Mellanie stood beside him. ‘The aliens are coming,’ she said simply, and pointed at the sky behind them.

  The crowd turned in unison to look at the dark rainclouds above the Trine’ba. There were two distinct patches of white flu
orescence up there, as if a pair of suns were shining through. They were getting bigger and brighter.

  *

  It was the show of her lifetimes. Alessandra Baron knew nothing else was ever going to match live coverage of an alien attack. Thankfully, she’d had the presence of mind to change out of her glamorous dress into the prim grey suit her wardrobe department kept ready for disasters and general bad news events. Now she sat masterfully behind her studio desk, perfect as moderator and guide while holograms of analysts, politicians, and junior navy officers flicked in and out of the show to answer her questions. They were interspaced with direct feeds from the assaulted planets – whenever Bunny, the show’s producer, could get a decent link. The fact that the unisphere could be affected, that communications she had taken for granted her whole lives suddenly now weren’t universal and guaranteed, troubled Alessandra almost as much as the nuclear explosions, though she kept her expression professionally impassive the whole time. And as for the shocking power losses when Wessex fought off the Prime worm-holes, it brought everyone close to the battle, giving them a sense of involvement.

  In the studio production office, Bunny was running multiple parallel information streams for accessors, summarizing the status of events on each of the twenty-four planets. The streams for Olivenza and Balya were ominously empty and had been for some time. Alessandra’s virtual vision provided a grid of powerful images available from various reporters unlucky enough to be close to the front line. Force fields over cities, constantly flaring with shimmering opalescence as they warded off either debris or a howling radioactive hurricane. Reporters foolhardy enough to be standing close to the force field revealed the new wastelands outside; the eerily smooth craters with glowing basins surrounded by flat ground that had become a desert of midnight-black carbon. Then there were the human interest stories, interviews with terrified, barely coherent city residents as they wept. Those from outlying towns who’d made it inside the force fields in time. Those whose family and friends were still outside somewhere. All of them had their suffering and sorrow and rage skilfully woven into a story tapestry that made sure accessors could never leave.