Pandora's Star cs-2

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Mark shook himself. He wanted to go through the Watchtower inch by inch, examining its dark mysteries for himself. One night this week he’d take the time and lie on his bed, running a TSI of the exploration.

  The news company switched to Senator Thompson Burnelli who was standing in front of Washington’s imposing Senate Hall. A broad semicircle of reporters was gathered around him, while he was flanked by two aides.

  “Obviously I am disappointed by certain aspects of the flight,” Burnelli said. “Although I would like to take this moment to express my sympathy to the families of both Dudley Bose and Emmanuelle Verbeke for the shock they received today. In relation to that, I do think there are some very serious questions raised by the way the Second Chance left the area so abruptly. I believe a lot more effort should have been made to ascertain the nature of the Dyson aliens. As to the supposed threat: nothing actually fired on our ship, a few robot devices were getting close, that’s all. We don’t know they were missiles. Kime could have taken a second, a third, even a fourth look; kept on trying until we got some real information. The Second Chance was equipped with FTL, they could leap out clean and free from any genuine danger.”

  “What’s going to happen now?” a reporter asked.

  “The full Commonwealth ExoProtectorate Council will be convening as soon as possible to review the results. Once we have done so we will make our recommendation to the President and the Commonwealth Senate.”

  “What will your recommendation be, Senator?”

  Thompson tipped his head thoughtfully to one side, frowning intently at his questioner. “I think that is obvious. Due to the lack of any real data, we’ll have to send another ship. This time commanded by a captain who has some nerve, one who can find out for us what’s really going on out there.”

  Mark was nodding in agreement. Maybe Kime was hasty. The Second Chance had good shielding, I remember that from the specs. Protection was a prime design driver.

  Olivia returned, and they spent most of the afternoon watching the portal. CST released the recordings Dudley Bose had made, explaining and commenting on the data that the ship gathered. His descriptions fascinated Mark, they were pitched at a level he could understand, a clear confident voice turning the dry facts to vivid life. No wonder he was such a respected, successful astronomer.

  Mark went out to the workshop a few times that afternoon, trying to do some work on the autopickers. Each time his mind drifted from the job and he went back to check the portal again. A lot of the time was spent wondering what it must have been like for Bose and Verbeke at that moment when they finally realized the starship had gone for good. How would anybody handle knowledge like that? Christ, how would I take it?

  He shut the Ables garage up early, and drove home in his pickup truck. The first part of the journey was along the great highway that Simon Rand had built, taking him around the back of Blackwater Crag and into the steep narrow valley there. Terrestrial grass had been planted at the side of the highway, a vigorous variety that had evicted the boltgrass, converting the slopes above the fast-flowing stream to a rich healthy emerald. Fat sheep still in their winter coats ambled around dozily, munching away, while their new lambs jumped about excitedly. High above them, where there was less grass and more boulders, mountain goats scurried about, venturing in and out from the edges of the pine forest.

  After a few miles the valley widened out, the hills on his right sinking away where a much broader valley branched off. He took the junction, and started driving along the long straight track of hard-packed stone chips. This was the Highmarsh Valley, the first in the district to be farmed, and long since drained by an extensive network of ditches, leaving the rich peat exposed for the tractorbots and cattle. Long driveways branched off from either side of the main track, leading to big bungalow ranches and clusters of barns. The only trees here were tall, slender lüpoplars planted in perfectly straight rows to mark the boundaries.

  After five minutes the track forked again. Mark took the route down into Ulon Valley. It was almost as wide as the Highmarsh, though the mountain walls were higher. Boulders and stone were littered about, with a new crop brought down by the snows every winter. Although the soil was reasonable, the Ulon wasn’t really suitable for cereal crops. Instead, and at Simon Rand’s suggestion, the first homesteaders planted vines of grencham berries, an Elan-native plant that was already earning a reputation among Commonwealth oenophiles, though it had only ever been cultivated on the northern continents. The first few years saw passable vintages produced along the Ulon; then new varieties were introduced, and the yards got organized, forming a cooperative for blending and bottling, and incorporating their brand name.

  By the time the Vernons arrived, the whole operation had become slick and commercial. Two-thirds of the valley was under cultivation, with the remaining plots being snapped up. Any purchaser got their ten or fifteen acres to be planted with vines, and a house site at one end. The vines would be managed and harvested by the co-op, guaranteeing a modest income each year from the Ulon Valley label.

  Mark turned onto the track that led up a short slope to his home, slowing as the suspension bounced him around in the puddles and potholes. Once again, as he did every morning and evening, he reminded himself to get some decent gravel delivered. The vine trellises were stretched out on both sides of the track; lines of wires and poles, like flimsy fences, set a couple of meters apart, extending as far as the eye could see. Small gnarled brown strands of the vines themselves were carefully wound along the wires, each one trimmed identically, no more than five buds along each frond. It was too early in the year for any growth, leaving the whole plot looking pretty bleak with only the narrow strips of straggly grass providing any color between the trellises, though they seemed to be more mud and stone than living tufts. Up at the top of the ridge, where the house sat on an acre of flat land, the lawn was a vigorous emerald carpet. At the moment it surrounded two houses. The one they’d brought with them on the back of a big flatbed truck as a pile of square weather-resistant composite panels that could be clipped together in any design. Liz and Mark had settled on a simple L-shape, with a long rectangular living room at one end attached to three square bedrooms, a bathroom, kids-room, kitchen, and spare room—which was still crammed with crates of stuff they’d brought from Augusta and hadn’t yet opened. Its roof was made up from curved solar collector sections that slotted on top. The whole thing was cheap, easy to assemble, and the kind of place that you wouldn’t want to live in for more than a few months, especially not in winter. They’d been on Elan for almost two years now.

  Behind the temporary prefab, their true house was still growing. In keeping with Randtown’s green ethos, they’d both decided it was going to be drycoral—which was strangely rare for an eco-obsessed district. Normally the plant was grown over an existing structure, but Liz had tracked down a company on Halifax that offered a much cheaper method. She’d started with what was essentially a cluster of hemispherical balloons, a simple made-to-order any-size-you-want membrane that she spread out over the ground and inflated. Then she just planted the kernels all around the outside, and waited for them to grow. As the strands slithered their way upward, she twined them together and pruned judiciously, ensuring the walls were smooth and water-tight. Because of Ulon Valley’s harsh winters, she selected a drycoral variety thicker than most, to provide a decent insulation. When they were done, a simple domestic solar-pumped heatstore cube would keep them warm and snug all winter. But it was that necessary additional thickness that made them realize why few Randtown district homes were made from drycoral: it took a long time to grow upward. Every day when he got out of the pickup truck Mark would take another look at the tops of the pearl and cornflower-blue strands to see how far they’d gotten. On four or five of the smaller outlying dome rooms they were already up to the crest, where Liz was knotting them together in a minaret finishing twist; but on the three largest domes they still had a couple of meters to go. “They’ll be
ready by midsummer,” Liz kept saying. Mark prayed she was right.

  Barry burst out of the house and ran over to Mark, flinging his arms around his father. It used to be his father’s legs, now they were above his hips.

  “What did you do today?” They both said it together as ritual demanded, and smiled at each other.

  “You first,” Mark said as they walked back to the temporary house.

  “I was reading, and spelling this morning, then we had Mr. Carroll for math and programming. I did general history with Ms. Mavers, and Jodie took us for practical mechanics to finish off with. I liked that. It was the only thing that made sense.”

  “Really, why’s that?”

  They walked into the kitchen, where Liz was sitting at the big cluttered table, trying to coax Sandy into having some soup. Mark’s daughter looked the picture of misery with her cheeks and nose all red, eyes damp, and wrapped in a big warm blanket. It was a flu variant that had been going the rounds of all the local kids. Barry had managed to avoid it so far.

  “Daddy,” Sandy said weakly, and held her arms out.

  Mark knelt down and gave her a big cuddle. “So how are you feeling today, my angel, any better?”

  She nodded miserably. “Little bit.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Well done, darling.” He sat in the chair next to her, and got a very fast and perfunctory kiss from Liz. “How about eating some of this soup then?” he asked his daughter. “We’ll eat it together.”

  What might have been a smile passed across Sandy’s lips. “Yes,” she said bravely.

  Liz rolled her eyes for Mark and got up. “I’ll leave you two to it, then. Come on, Barry, what do you want for tea?”

  “Pizza?” he said immediately, followed by a hopeful, “and chips.”

  “It’s not going to be pizza,” Liz told him sternly. “You know you’ve cleared all of them out of the freezer. It’s going to have to be fish.”

  “Oww, Mum!”

  “We can probably find some chips to go with them,” Liz said, knowing it was the only way to get him to eat the fish.

  “All right,” the boy said glumly. “Well, is it fried fish, then?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Barry sat in his chair at the table, a picture of tragedy. Liz told the maidbot to fetch some fish from the freezer, adding an order silently through her e-butler to make it a grill-only packet.

  “So why didn’t anything make sense?” Mark asked again.

  “Well, it did sort of,” Barry said. “It’s just that I don’t see the point.”

  “Of what?”

  “School.”

  “Ah, why not?”

  “I don’t need it,” the boy said sincerely. He gestured to the broad kitchen window with its view back down the Ulon Valley. “I’m going to be a jetboat captain, and do the river.”

  “Oh, right.” Last week it had been a gyroball instructor. Kids in the Randtown district tended to be influenced by the more sporting and physical aspects of life. They were all going to be raft masters, or jetboat captains, or ski instructors, or pro fliers, or gill divers. “Well, you still need a basic education, I’m afraid, even to qualify for that. So you’ll have to keep going, at least for a few years more.”

  “Okay,” Barry said mournfully. “I might be a starship pilot, as well. I was watching that on the cybersphere today. The whole school was there when the Second Chance docked with its platform. That was so cool.”

  Mark kept looking at Sandy as he was spooning her the soup. “Yeah, it was.”

  “You saw it, too?”

  “Certainly did.”

  The maidbot arrived back with a packet of fish. Liz grabbed it from the little machine. “Come on, help me cook this.”

  “Where are the chips?” Barry asked plaintively.

  “There are some potatoes in the basket. We’ll cut them up. It won’t take long.”

  “No no, Mum, real chips. From the freezer!”

  Mark took Sandy through into the living room while Barry and Liz prepared the fish. He cleared some of the toys off the sofa and sat down. Sandy curled up in his lap, sniffling as she clung to her friend-doll, a pro-response polar bear that was sensing her illness, and held on to her arm affectionately.

  He flicked through a few cybersphere reports on the big portal before reluctantly settling on Alessandra Baron, who had secured an exclusive with Nigel Sheldon himself. He was sitting behind some big desk in his corporate office, talking clearly and confidently, as if the whole starship return drama had been just a scheduled stop for one of his trains. “While I deeply regret that Captain Kime had to leave Emmanuelle and Dudley behind, I don’t believe he had any choice in the matter. I was not there, nor were any of the somewhat distasteful armchair critics I’ve heard today. As such we are completely unable to offer anything approaching a valid opinion concerning what was done, and what other courses of action were supposedly available. Only a fool would try to second-guess an event like that. I appointed Wilson as captain because I believed he was the right man for the job. His exemplary actions throughout the mission have completely vindicated that appointment.

  “Of course, CSI has already authorized re-life procedures for both of our lost crew. Thanks to the safety procedures which we take so seriously, their onboard secure memory stores were updated just before they went over to the Watchtower.”

  “But what about the information the Second Chance brought back?” Alessandra asked. “Surely you have to concede it’s disappointing?”

  Nigel Sheldon smiled as if he pitied her. “We have more data than the entire Commonwealth physics community can absorb. I’d hardly call that a dearth.”

  “I was referring to the lack of knowledge about the Dyson aliens. After so much money was spent, so much time devoted, and with the added cost of human life, don’t you think we should know more? We don’t even know what they look like.”

  “We know that they shoot at us on sight. The one thing I am in agreement with my good friend Senator Burnelli over is that there must be a return mission. This is the nature of exploration, Alessandra, I’m sorry it’s not fast enough for your personal timetable. But sensible, rational humans venture somewhere new and see what the conditions are like so that we can prepare ourselves to go farther next time. The Second Chance did this, it brought back a wealth of details on Dyson Alpha and what kind of ship we need to go back there with.”

  “So you’re in favor of going back, then?”

  “Definitely. We’ve only just begun our encounter with the Dyson stars.”

  “And what kind of ship should we use, based on what we learned from the first mission?”

  “One that is very fast, and very strong. In fact, just to be safe, we should probably send more than one.”

  Mark and Liz got the kids to bed and settled by eight o’clock. After that, they sat in the kitchen, eating their own supper of chicken Kiev: out of a packet and microwaved, of course. “Old Tony Matvig has some chickens,” Mark said. “I talked to him the other day, he’ll give us some eggs if we want our own.” His fork prodded at the meat on his plate, squeezing out some more of the garlic butter. “It would be nice to have something we know isn’t full of hormones and weird gene splices to feed the kids with.”

  Liz gave him her “weighing up” look. “No, Mark. You know we’ve been through all this. I like living here, and I’ll like it a whole lot more once the house has finished growing, but I’m not buying in that deeply. We don’t need to keep chickens, we earn more than enough to eat well, and I don’t order factory food from the Big15. Everything in that freezer has the clean-feed label, if you ever bothered to look. And who did you see plucking and gutting these chickens, exactly? Were you going to do it?”

  “I could do.”

  “You won’t. The smell is revolting. It made me throw up.”

  “When did you ever gut a chicken?”

  “About fifty years ago. Back when I was young and idealistic.”

  “And foolish.
Yeah, I know.”

  She leaned over and rubbed his cheek with her fingers. “Am I a real pain?”

  “No.” He tried to catch one of her fingers in his teeth—missing.

  “In any case,” she said, “chickens will ruin the lawn. Have you ever taken a good look at their claws? They’re evil.”

  Mark grinned. “Killer chickens.”

  “They kill lawns, and rip the rest of the garden apart as well.”

  “Okay. No chickens.”

  “But I’m all in favor of the vegetable garden.”

  “Yeah. Because I’m going to rig up an irrigation system, and a gardeningbot can look after the rest of it.”

  Liz blew him a kiss. “I said I’d tend the herb bed myself.”

  “Wow. All of it?”

  “Any regrets yet?”

  “Not one.”

  “I can think of one.”

  “What?” he asked indignantly.

  “I need a big strong man to go out and look at the precipitator leaves again.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding! I fixed them last week.”

  “I know, darling. But they barely filled the tank last night.”

  “Goddamn semiorganic crap. We should have dug a decent well.”

  “Well, we can get a constructionbot to lay a pipe down to the river when the real house is finished.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  The maidbot took their plates and cutlery away to stack in the dishwasher. Mark carried a dish of sticky toffee pudding through into the living room, along with two spoons. They snuggled up together on the sofa, and started scooping at the gooey mass from opposite ends. Over on the portal, Wendy Bose was stammering and weeping her way through a statement. Professor Truten, labeled by the subtitles as a “close family friend,” had his arm supportively around her shoulder.