The Night's Dawn Trilogy

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Turn the clips ninety degrees clockwise, then pull them up,” Rocio said.

  Jed knelt down and did as he was told. When the clips were free, the hatch rose ten centimetres with a swift hiss of air. He swung it aside. There was a narrow metal crawl way below it, bordered by foam-insulated pipes and bundled cables. Beth activated the lightstick she’d brought along, and held it over the hatch. There was a horizontal T-junction a couple of metres down.

  “You will go first, Beth,” Rocio said, “and light the way. I will supply directions. Jed, you must close the hatch behind you.”

  Reluctantly, with the girls pouting and scowling, they all climbed down into the crawl way. Jed tugged the hatch back into place after him, nearly catching his fingers as it guillotined shut. When it was in place, the washroom floor silently and fastidiously sealed over with elegant floorboards again.

  4

  Dariat wandered along the valley, not really paying much attention to anything. Only the memories pulled at him, bittersweet recollections guiding him towards the sacred places he hadn’t dared visit in the flesh for thirty years, not even when he’d roamed through Valisk to avoid Bonney and Kiera.

  The wide pool, apparently carved into the grey-brown polyp-rock by the stream’s enthusiastic flow, nature at its most pleasing. Where tufts of soft pink grass lined the edges, strains of violet and amber moss sprawled over the scattering of boulders, and long fronds of water reeds swayed lazily in the current.

  The flat expanse of land between the slope of the valley and an ox-bow loop in the stream. An animal track wound through it, curving round invisible obstacles as it led down to a shallow beach where the herds could drink. Apart from that it was untouched, the pink grass which currently dominated the plains was thick and lush here, its tiny mushroom-shaped spoor fringes poised on the verge of ripeness. Nobody had camped here for years, despite its eminent suitability. None of the Starbridge tribes had ever returned. Not after . . .

  Here. He walked to one side of the empty tract, the taller stalks of grass swishing straight through his translucent legs. Yes, this was the place. Anastasia’s tepee had been pitched here. A sturdy, colourful contraption. Strong enough to take her weight when she tied the rope round her neck. Was the pink grass slightly thinner here? A rough circle where the pyre had been. Her tribe sending her and her few belongings on their way to the Realms (every possession except one, the Thoale stones, which he had kept safe these thirty years). Her body dispersed in fire and smoke, freeing the soul from any final ties with the physical universe.

  How had they known? Those simple, backward people. Yet their lives contained such astonishing truth. They more than anyone would be prepared for the beyond. Anastasia wouldn’t have suffered in the same way as the lost souls he’d encountered during his own fleeting time there. Not her.

  Dariat sat on the grass, his toga crumpling around chubby limbs, though never really chafing. If any of her essence had indeed lingered here, it was long gone now. So now what? He looked up at the light tube, which had become even dimmer than before. The air was cooler, too, nothing like Valisk’s usual balmy medium. He was rather surprised that phenomenon registered. How could a ghost sense temperature? But then most aspects of his present state were a mystery.

  Dariat?

  He shook his head. Hearing things. Just to be certain, he looked around. Nobody, alive or spectral, was in sight. An interesting point though. Would I be able to see another ghost?

  Dariat. You are there. We feel you. Answer us.

  The voice was like affinity, but much softer. A whisper into the back of his mind. Oh great, a ghost being haunted by another ghost. Thank you again, Thoale. That could only ever happen to me.

  Who is this? he asked.

  We are Valisk now. Part of us is you.

  What is this? What are you?

  We are the habitat personality, the combination of yourself and Rubra.

  That’s crazy. You cannot be me.

  But we are. Your memories and personality fused to Rubra’s within the neural strata. Remember? The change to us, to the neural strata’s thought routines, was corporeal and permanent. We remain intact. You, however, were a possessing soul, you were torn out by the habitat’s shift to this realm.

  A realm hostile to the possessed, he said rancorously.

  Exactly.

  Don’t I know it. I’m a ghost. That’s what the shift did to me. A bloody ghost.

  How intriguing. We cannot see you.

  I’m in the valley.

  Ah.

  Dariat could feel the understanding within the personality. It knew which valley he meant. A true affinity.

  Can we have access to your sensorium, please. It will allow us to analyse the situation properly.

  He couldn’t think of a reasonable objection, even though the idea sat uncomfortably. After thirty years of self-imposed mental isolation, sharing came hard. Even with an entity that claimed to be derived from himself.

  Very well, he griped. He allowed the affinity link to widen, showing the personality the world through his eyes—or at least what he imagined to be his eyes.

  As requested, he looked at his own body for the personality, walked about, demonstrated how he had no material presence.

  Yet you persist in interpreting yourself as having human form, the personality said. How strange.

  Force of habit, I guess.

  More likely to be subconscious reassurance. The pattern is your basic foundation, the origin of quintessential identity. Retention of that is probably critical to your continuation as a valid entity. In other words, you’re very set in your ways. But then we know that already, don’t we.

  I don’t believe I’m that self-destructive. So if you wouldn’t mind cancelling the insults for a few decades.

  As you wish. After all, we do know how to cut the deepest.

  Dariat could almost laugh at the impression of déjà vu which the exchange conjured up. He and Rubra had spent days of this same verbal fencing while he was possessing Horgan’s body. Was there a reason you wanted to talk to me? Or did you just want to say hello?

  This realm is not hostile to souls alone. It is also affecting our viability right down to the atomic level. Large sections of the neural strata have ceased to function, nor are such areas static, they flow through the strata at random, requiring persistent monitoring. Such failures threaten even our homogenised presence. We have to run constant storage replication routines to ensure our core identity is not erased.

  That’s tough, but unless the failure occurs everywhere simultaneously, you’ll be safe.

  As may be. But the overall efficiency of our cells is much reduced. The sensitive cell clusters cannot perceive as clearly as before; organ capability is degrading to alarming levels. Muscle membrane response is sluggish. Electrical generation is almost zero. All principal mechanical and electrical systems have shut down. The communication net and most processors are malfunctioning. If this situation continues, we will not be able to retain a working biosphere for more than ten days, a fortnight at most.

  I hate to sound negative at a time like this, but what do you expect me to do about it?

  The remaining population must be organized to assist us. There are holding procedures which can be enacted to prevent further deterioration.

  Physical ones. You’ll have to ask the living, not me.

  We are attempting to. However, those who have been de-possessed are currently in an extremely disorientated state. Even those we have affinity contact with are unresponsive. As well as undergoing severe psychological trauma, their physiological condition has deteriorated.

  So?

  There are nearly three hundred of our relatives still in zero-tau. Your idea, remember? Kiera was holding them ready as an incentive for the hellhawk possessors. If they were to be taken out, we would have a functional work force ready to help, one that has a good proportion of qualified technicians among it.

  Good idea . . . Wait, how come their zero-tau
pods are working when everything else has failed?

  The zero-tau systems are self-contained and made from military-grade components, they are also located in the deep caverns. We assumed that combination affords them some protection from whatever is affecting us.

  If all you’ve got to do is flick one switch, why not just use a servitor?

  Their physiological situation is even worse than the humans. All the animals in the habitat seem to be suffering from a strong form of sleeping sickness. Our affinity instructions cannot rouse them.

  Does that include all the xenoc species?

  Yes. Their biochemistry is essentially similar to terrestrial creatures. If our cells are affected, so are theirs.

  Okay. Any idea what the problem is? Something like the energistic glitch which the possessed gave out?

  Unlikely. It is probably a fundamental property of this realm. We are speculating that the quantum values of this continuum are substantially different from our universe. After all, we did select it to have a detrimental effect on the energy pattern which is a possessing soul. Consequently, we must assume that mass-energy properties here have been altered, that is bound to affect atomic characteristics. But until we can run a full analysis on our quantum state, we cannot offer further speculation.

  Ever considered that the devil simply doesn’t allow electricity in this particular part of hell?

  Your thought is our thought. We prefer to concentrate on the rational. That allows us to construct a hypothesis which will ultimately allow us to salvage this shitty situation.

  Yeah, I can live with that. So what is it that you want me to do?

  See if you can talk to someone called Tolton. He will switch off the zero-tau pods for us.

  Why? Who is he?

  A street poet, so he claims. He was one of the inhabitants we managed to keep out of Bonney’s clutches.

  Does he have affinity?

  No. But legend has it that humans can see ghosts.

  Shit, you’re grasping at straws.

  You have an alternative?

  * * *

  Ghosts can get tired. This unwelcome discovery made itself quite clear as Dariat trudged over the grassland towards the ring of starscraper lobbies in the middle of the habitat. But then if you have imaginary muscles, they are put under quite a strain carrying your imaginary body across long distances, especially when that body had Dariat’s bulk.

  This is bloody unfair, he declared to the personality. When souls come back from the beyond, they all see themselves as physically perfect twenty-five-year-olds.

  That’s simple vanity.

  I wish I was vain.

  Valisk’s parkland was also becoming less attractive. Now he had hiked out of the valley, the vivid pink grass which cloaked the southern half of the cylinder was grading down to a musky-grey, an effect he equated to a city smog wrapping itself round the landscape. It couldn’t be blamed entirely on the diminished illumination; the slim core of plasma in the axial light tube was still a valiant neon blue. Instead it seemed to be part of the overall lack of vitality which was such an obvious feature of this realm. The xenoc plant appeared to be past its peak, as if its spore fringes had already ripened and now it was heading back into dormancy.

  None of the insects which usually chirped and flittered among the plains had roused themselves. A few times, he came across field mice and their xenoc analogues, who were sleeping fitfully. They’d just curled up where they were, not making any attempt to return to their nests or warrens.

  Ordinary chemical reactions must still be working, he suggested. If they weren’t, then everything would be dead.

  Yes. Although from what we’re seeing and experiencing, they must also be inhibited to some degree.

  Dariat trudged on. The spiral-springs of grass made the going hard, causing resistance as his legs passed through them. It was though he was walking along a stream bed where the water was coming half-way up his shins. As his complaints became crabbier, the personality guided him towards one of the narrow animal tracks.

  After half an hour of easier walking, and pondering his circumstances, he said: You told me that your electrical generation was almost zero.

  Yes.

  But not absolute?

  No.

  So the habitat must be in some kind of magnetic field if the induction cables are producing a current.

  Logically, yes.

  But?

  Some induction cables are producing a current, the majority are not. And those that are, do so sporadically. Buggered if we can work out what’s going on, boy. Besides, we can’t locate any magnetic field outside. There’s nothing we can see that could be producing one.

  What is out there?

  Very little.

  Dariat felt the personality gathering the erratic images from clusters of sensitive cells speckling the external polyp shell, and formatting them into a coherent visualisation for him. The amount of concentration it took for the personality to fulfil what used to be a profoundly simple task surprised and worried him.

  There were no planets. No moons. No stars. No galaxies. Only a murky void.

  The eeriest impression he received from the expanded affinity bond was the way Valisk appeared to be in flight. Certainly he was aware of movement of some kind, though it was purely subliminal, impossible to define. The huge cylinder appeared to be gliding through a nebula. Not one recognizable from their universe. This was composed from extraordinarily subtle layers of ebony mist, shifting so slowly they were immensely difficult to distinguish. Had he been seeing it with his own eyes, he would have put it down to overstressed retinas. But there were discernible strands of the smoky substance out there; sparser than atmospheric cloud, denser than whorls of interstellar gas.

  Abruptly, a fracture of hoary light shimmered far behind the hub of Valisk’s southern endcap, a luminous serpent slithering around the insubstantial billows. Rough tatters of gritty vapour detonated into emerald and turquoise phosphorescence as it twirled past them. The phenomenon was gone inside a second.

  Was that lightning? Dariat asked in astonishment.

  We have no idea. However, we can’t detect any static charge building on our shell. So it probably wasn’t electrically based.

  Have you seen it before?

  That was the third time.

  Bloody hell. How far away was it?

  That is impossible to determine. We are trying to correlate parallax data from the external sensitive cells. Unfortunately, lack of distinct identifiable reference points within the cloud formations is hampering our endeavour.

  You’re beginning to sound like an Edenist. Take a guess.

  We believe we can see about two hundred kilometres altogether.

  Shit. That’s all?

  Yes.

  Anything could be out there, behind that stuff.

  You’re beginning to catch on, boy.

  Can you tell if we’re moving? I got the impression we were. But it could just be the way that cloud stuff is shifting round out there.

  We have the same notion, but that’s all it ever can be. Without a valid reference point, it is impossible to tell. Certainly we’re not under acceleration, which would eliminate the possibility we’re falling through a gravity field . . . if this realm has gravity, of course.

  Okay, how about searching round with a radar? Have you tried that? There are plenty of arrays in the counter-rotating spaceport.

  The spaceport has radar, it also has several Adamist starships, and over a hundred remote maintenance drones which could be adapted into sensor probes. None of which are functioning right now, boy. We really do need to bring our relatives out of zero-tau.

  Yeah yeah. I’m getting there as quick as I can. You know what, I don’t think fusing with my thought routines has made that big an impression on you, has it?

  * * *

  According to the personality, Tolton was in the parkland outside the Gonchraov starscraper lobby. Dariat didn’t get there on the first attempt. He en
countered the other ghosts before he arrived.

  The pink grassland gradually gave way to terrestrial grass and trees a couple of kilometres from the starscraper lobbies. It was a lush manicured jungle which boiled round the habitat’s midsection, with gravel tracks winding round the thicker clumps of trees and vines. Big stone slabs formed primitive bridges over the rambling brooks, their support boulders grasped by thick coils of flowering creepers. Petals were drooping sadly as Dariat walked over them. As he drew closer to the lobby, he started to encounter the first of the servitor animal corpses, most of them torn by burnt scars, the impact of white fire. Then he noticed the decaying remains of several of their human victims lying in the undergrowth.

  Dariat found the sight inordinately depressing. A nasty reminder of the relentless struggle which Rubra and Kiera had fought for dominance of the habitat. “And who won?” he asked morbidly.

  He cleared another of the Neolithic bridges. The trees were thinning out now, becoming more ornate and taller as jungle gave way to parkland. There were flashes of movement in front of him coupled with murmurs of conversation, which made him suddenly self-conscious. Was he going to have to jump up and down waving his arms and shouting to get the living to notice him?

  Just as he was psyching himself up for the dismaying inevitable, the little group caught sight of him. There were three men and two women. Their clothes should have clued him in. The eldest man was wearing a very long, foppish coat of yellow velvet with ruffled lace down the front; one of the women had forced her large fleshy frame into a black leather dominatrix uniform, complete with whip; her mousy middle-aged companion was in a baggy woollen overcoat, so deliberately dowdy it was a human stealth covering; of the remaining two men, one was barely out of his teens, a black youth with panther muscles shown off by a slim red waistcoat; while the other was in his thirties, covered by a baggy mechanics overall. They made a highly improbable combination, even for Valisk’s residents.