Event Horizon (Hellgate)

by Mel Keegan

  “Rumor is rife in every city, on every ship, that military scientists in the Deep Sky colonies have developed a new ‘super-weapon’ which is more than a match for the ships of the Terran Confederacy’s DeepSky Fleet. No firm data is available but analysts agree, the existence of such a weapon will be proved out when the next colony declares its secession from the Confederacy.

  “Which colony will it be? Military and political analysts are arguing between Borushek, Jagreth and even Omaru, where news to hand suggests there has been an interruption in comm and data traffic with the ships of the Fleet blockade.”

  There was more, but Marin stopped listening and turned his back on the threedee. “It’s starting … and it’s a mess.”

  “It was always going to be a mess.” Finished eating now, Travers had crammed his debris into the same bag as Marin’s. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better … but you have to believe it will get better.” He frowned into the threedee. “Spontaneous mutinies on Fleet vessels? Conscript crews aren’t stupid. And the more ships pare themselves away from Fleet, the less chance Fleet has of cracking the whip out here. With the super-carriers as good as gone –”

  “The London,” Marin said bleakly, “could be dropping out in this system, right over our heads, any time this brand new, hardline commander of theirs cares to make the commitment. And you’ve seen Jagreth by now. It’s just a backwater, it has to look like the proverbial pushover.”

  “Colonel Tomas Carnairo de Carvalho.” Travers’s lips compressed. “A pushover? The man’s about to get a bloody nasty surprise.”

  Marin pushed back the chair and glanced over his shoulder at the threedee, where the local time was displayed in the bottom-right. “If you want to take a look at the Resalq exhibits, now’s your chance. In half an hour Chesterfield Security will be bringing the President to the theater, and then – game on.”

  The words inspired a shiver. An odd chill, deep as the bone marrow, took him by surprise as he watched Travers drop the refuse of their meal into a service chute. On the street, people were gathering together in little knots and groups to watch CNS on a public screen here, a handy there. All heads in the café were turned toward the threedee and faces were pale, grim, as Marin headed away toward the wide, white marble foyer of the museum.

  Many of the smaller exhibits were new but the big, permanent features had been in place since he was a child. Management habitually rearranged the dust and each year or three the signage would be freshened, but the displays seemed perpetual. Travers wanted to look around the terraformer drone, which filled almost a third of the ground floor. Marin stood back, watching a documentary on paleoclimatology until he was done. Research into the remote past of Jagreth would continue for centuries – the ice ages, ancient vulcanology, the irony of a fossil record of creatures that had spent a hundred million years evolving into forms now relegated to a ‘native environment preserve’ and reclassified as ‘alien,’ their part in the evolution of their own world finished.

  The upper floors were devoted to colonial history, technology, geology, zoology, but Travers wanted the Resalq displays, and they had always been in the basement. They were too massive to be moved. Almost half an acre of the original buildings lifted cleanly on industrial Arago fields, out of the excavation site beyond the mountains, and specialists spent a year reconstructing it here with a care to detail Marin appreciated.

  Millennium-old walls, floors, blind windows, sliding doors in the Resalq design, so familiar from Saraine, were sealed behind armorglass and lit as if by the morning sun. A street ambled along the glass facade, courtyards stretched back, fountains seemed to be waiting only for the water to be restored. A commentary looped endlessly in the quiet basement, and Marin was amused to find it was the same recording he had heard as a child.

  To Travers it was new and he stood, hands in pockets, as he watched the condensed, dumbed-down presentation of Resalq culture playing in a little threedee in the forefront of the standing display. According to current wisdom, the ruined city was once known as Aliman, which apparently translated out into the common colonial tongue as “Good Times.”

  Marin’s knowledge of the living language was far more profound than anything the local archaeologists possessed, and he smiled at the casual liberties they took with the translation. They derived the short form of ‘Aliman’ from ne’Aelim anha, which meant ‘from the Fine Times,’ referring to the years before the Car’am anha, the Dying Time, when the Zunshu came. That part of the story, he thought darkly, would come out long after the war, when the Resalq grew confident enough of Deep Sky politics to show themselves.

  But much of the presentation was interesting. As far as the Jagrethean researchers had been able to discern, the city of Aliman was not ruined, it was simply abandoned. At the height of a technological civilization leaving buildings filled with power lines, servomotors, cybernetics, air conditioning ducts, trunking for comm and data cables and tiny generators the size of coffee cups, one year they packed everything movable and walked away. Why? Where had they gone?

  The first time Marin heard all this, he was eight years old. At that age he was inspired by the epiphany that humanity was not the only intelligent and technological species in the universe – aliens were a reality; or at least they had once existed, and were artistic, brilliant, before they vanished utterly.

  The exodus hypothesis had not changed. The commentary still set out the most likely cause for the abandonment of Aliman as a new disease, almost certainly a virus, causing the unaffected population to evacuate while they could. One of their destinations was known to be the Eternal City on Saraine, where human archaeologists had worked for decades, supported by a wealthy eccentric who lived nearby in a mansion of ancient Resalq design; a man so obsessed with the dead culture that he spent his life translating texts which were occasionally discovered in the ruins. Mark Sherratt would have enjoyed a chuckle. The archaeologists never knew their most cherished artifacts were seeded into Saraine’s ruins ahead of them, just as the local researchers never suspected the text of the saga of Jagreth was carefully stashed in Aliman for them to stumble over.

  But after Saraine, where did the Resalq go? There, the commentary descended into sheer speculation about climate change, unexpected solar events, and carriers taking the virus with them unwittingly, world to world, until the species eventually perished. Travers gave Marin a cynical look.

  “The truth’ll come out soon enough.” Marin joined him at the threedee. “Give the Resalq a chance to be sure enough of the Commonwealth. If they show themselves too early and it goes wrong, it could be bad. The elders won’t risk a mistake, not after generations were reengineered to walk among humans unnoticed – and if Emil Kulich’s right, they traded their culture and identity for survival.”

  “And they’re wise to wait. It’s not as if the local archaeologists have any idea about the Zunshu,” Travers added.

  Marin’s brows arched. “That’s not … quite true. The local specialists just have no clue yet about what they’re looking at.”

  “The Zunshu have been here?” Travers was astonished. “When? They didn’t cripple the planet.”

  “The Resalq had shut everything down, the whole world was running dark, silent, cold – like Saraine, right now – by the time Zunshu scouts made it this far. You know how they hunt. Zunshu key on the noise and muck of industry, tech. They don’t waste time and warheads on squirrels! Come on.” Marin beckoned him to the wide, pink marble stairs and up two flights to the technology exhibits.

  The lighting was dim up here and the building was too warm, making the skin prickle with sweat inside the thin, flexible layers of kevlex-titanium body armor they both wore. The air was dry, sterile as a tomb, and at this hour the halls were deserted. He knew what he was looking for, but the displays had been rearranged in recent years and he had to search for it. The scale model and panoramic images were pushed away into a corner now, half-hidden by the genuine skeleton of an extinct marsupial ba
dger the size of a rhinoceros.

  He said nothing, but let Travers make what he would of the exhibit. Neil read the signage, and when the presentation came online, tripped by motion sensors, he listened with outraged fascination.

  The thing was in the south, on the biggest island in the chain stretching away in a crescent-shaped archipelago from the tip of the southern continent. It was difficult to get to, impossible to stumble over by accident, very easy to miss. The colonial surveyors had missed it entirely and the terraformer fleet never had any business in the islands, so the thing remained intact until the First Fleet arrived, and only then bared its fangs. Very little was known about the event; there were no survivors on the outside, only a number of charred craters blasted into solid rock. Intense explosions had destroyed objects which left nothing, no smallest part of themselves, to suggest what they had been. The thing itself closed back up and remained closed … inert, silent, dormant, impervious to research.

  “Jesus,” Travers whispered. “There’s a stasis chamber here, like the one on Kjorin.”

  “More like the one on Ulrand,” Marin corrected. “The one on Kjorin was still functional, still scanning the region for signs of industry and calling home on the Zunshu comm band. The stasis chamber on Ulrand was like this one – as close to dead as it can be, and not actually be dead.” He frowned at the scale model, which showed a partially denuded hemisphere, just a wedge of it visible where it had weathered out of a mudstone bank. “It was buried by a flood, gigaliters of mud,” Marin mused. “It would have been buried when the surveyor ships were here, and in a remote area. Scans missed it; they never knew it existed. Thirty years later, the colony ship arrives, and … all we know is, there was one hell of a fight.”

  “Automata,” Travers said, chilled. “Someone took them on, but there were no survivors. The chamber almost certainly called out on the Zunshu band, but for some reason there was never any response.”

  “No weapon like the Borushek device ever dropped out of e-space here,” Marin said quietly. “We can only make a guess at why not.”

  “Hellgate,” Travers speculated. “Blind luck. At the critical moment a major Hellgate storm just sheeted out the whole area with high-level radiation, the transmission never got through. Somebody, somehow, stopped the stasis chamber blowing itself to hell and taking half the planet with it –”

  “The way the Kulich brothers shut one down.” Marin took a long breath. “They fought the same kind of action to let the Raishenne get away from Kjorin. Like Midani and Emil, the heroes who closed down this device paid the price for it. They were almost certainly trapped inside. For all we know, the only way to control a stasis chamber, deactivate it, might be from inside. Whoever draws the short straw is going to stay in there.”

  “Damn.” Travers shook his head slowly. “If that’s the case, they’re definitely still inside, like Midani and Emil Kulich. So then – what? The colony engineers slapped a quarantine zone around the site?”

  “A plascrete dome, the same containment you’d use for extreme biohazard. They labeled the stasis chamber ‘unknown Resalq tech, very dangerous, keep out.’” Marin smiled grimly. “Fast forward about 160 years, and here we are. That thing,” he added with a nod at the scale model, “will have to be resolved sooner or later. It can’t just stay there. I’m guessing Dario and Tor and Mark can probably open it, disable it, get rid of the threat. It may be dormant, but it still has at least a resisidual potential to implode half of this planet and tear the atmosphere off the rest.” He glanced into the threedee, at the chrono there. “Time, Neil. We’re expected at the theater.”

  Strategically positioned as one left the museum was the store – visitors walked through it to reach the exit, between racks of colourful products, most designed for children. Art caught Marin’s eye and he smiled at the fanciful cover of an actual, physical book. Books of any kind were a rarity, hardcover graphic works even more so, and it begged to be picked up, opened.

  It was a visual fantasy on The Sovereign Voyage of Jagreth, printed on plastex sheets, heavy and sumptuous in the hands. The Slingo text lay side by side with the original Resalq, and Marin was fascinated. This was the first complete Resalq text ever discovered – a large enough sample for proper analysis. The work was introduced by the linguist who had used the text to break the language more than a century and a half ago, and after-words by both the Jagrethean archaeologist who uncovered the text in the ruins at Aliman, and the illustrator. The artist was credited as Ian McGuire. Marin had met McGuire at an art dealers’ soiree on Saraine, but it was doubtful the Westminster University Press had any idea their illustrator was a centuries-old Resalq, native to Riga, Borushek, whose name was Eyen Meguar.

  On a whim he handed the book to the attendant along with a wad of blue and green Velcastran dollars, which were accepted almost anywhere on Jagreth. He passed the bag to Travers with a wink.

  “Picture books?” Neil asked fatuously. “I haven’t quite forgotten how to read.” But he slipped the parcel into his right inside pocket, opposite the holstered Chiyoda.

  “There’s a little more to it than pictures,” Marin promised, headed out onto the street.

  The evening was spending itself fast. He had become so accustomed to the longer days on worlds and ships keeping time closer to Earth-normal, he felt almost caught short as they left the museum. Velcastra and Omaru enjoyed a slightly longer day, like Darwin’s World itself; Borushek and Saraine were within thirty minutes of each other, their days a little longer than Earth’s. The Wastrel kept the traditional 24-hour clock. Richard Vaurien was born on Earth itself; his biorhythms were not merely human, they were Earther. One could grow accustomed to anything, Marin thought; but home should be the one place where a man was at ease.

  A lively, cooler breeze rushed down Shackleton Strand, tossing the foliage on eucalypts and native pines. The weather was changing, as he had known it would since seeing cumulus over the sea. He turned his face to the wind, enjoying it, until they strolled into the paved courtyards at the side of the opera house.

  Chesterfield Security had formed a cordon around the Madeleine Chen Theater. The red carpet was still in place but the presidential party had already gone inside. The limousine had lifted out of the street, up to the air park on the roof. Travers was listening to Chesterfield’s comm, not intruding but getting a grasp on their protocols, and he stopped Marin with a hand on his arm, well short of the cordon of armed, armored guards.

  The security personnel were intent on the strand, as if a column of Terran agents might burst out from behind the metroshuttle stops. Marin was not about to challenge them, and was about to call into the loop, looking for Jon Kim, when he heard Kim’s voice.

  “Curtis, Neil – I can see you. Stay right there, I’ll send an escort for you. This place is apeshit paranoid – I thought they were going to frisk me on the way in! They’re so suspicious, they’re dangerous. Hey, look up.”

  A movement at a second floor window caught Marin’s eye and he saw Kim there, framed by heavy blue curtains, right hand waving. “We’ll be here,” he said simply. And then, “Neil, those security guys are scanning us.”

  “And we’re armed,” Travers added. “Stand still – don’t give them a reason.” He held his hands well out from his jacket, and as two Chesterfield goons approached – faceless, anonymous in the full-visor helmets – he turned his head to display the military style combug in his ear. “Colonel Neil Travers, Colonel Curtis Marin, with General Shapiro’s party.”

  Two cocked and primed service pistols remained leveled on them, but an authorization call went through at once and a moment later both squaddies performed a crisp salute. “Go right through, Colonel Travers.” The voice was as anonymous as the face; only the sergeant’s chevrons distinguished the speaker from any other trooper on this street. “Take the side door, the private elevator. The General’s aide is waiting for you in the Blue Room.”

  Three steps led up to an ornamental door flanked by potted p
alms. A waft of chill air greeted them ahead of another naked pistol, and a young uniformed officer scanned them from head to foot before she would let them pass. Marin and Travers shared a glance and Marin asked,

  “You expecting trouble, Lieutenant?”

  “We always expect trouble.” But she set aside the handy and gestured them toward the lift. “You’re just in time.”

  “For what?” Travers wondered.

  “Proclamation.” The short-cropped blonde head nodded toward the body of the theater. “It’s happening, Colonel. You have no idea what it means to us. I’ve got a kid brother who’s waiting for his conscription notice. Now he won’t have to go.” Her face darkened. “I’ve also got an older sister still in Fleet, and they won’t even tell us what ship she’s on. She could be on the London for all we know.”

  “Reality hits you in the face like a brick,” Marin said quietly. “My partner, here, has young siblings who’ll be rookies about now. Who knows where they are?” He stirred forcibly. “General Shapiro’s aide is waiting for us – the Blue Room. Where…?”

  She pointed. “Elevator, up one floor turn right. The Blue Room is a press room just off the circle balcony. The President’s party will be seated in the prestige spot, with a security cordon. The President himself will be escorted to the stage directly, and then up to the center-circle, right on the balcony. There’s a concert following Proclamation.”

  And the party would begin across Westminster and most of the planet, Marin thought as he and Travers stepped into an elegant, mock-antique elevator. A smooth, fast ride later, it opened onto a bronze-carpeted salon with multiple double-doors to the body of the theater on their left and a bar in front, already serving a small crowd. The Blue Room was ten meters on their right – guarded, with two uniforms either side of the door and four plain clothed secret service people inside.