Pandora's Star cs-2

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “I know,” she said softly. “A lot of us know.” Her smile was enchanting. “I remember when you discovered the envelopment. I used to access reports of you when I was at school. I used to think I wanted to be an astronomer because of you.”

  He twitched his shoulders around awkwardly. Her closeness was dangerous. He could feel his erection growing because of that. He was frightened she’d see it. He wanted to see her naked. He wanted them to be screwing like demons on overdrive. “Did… did you? Are you one? An astronomer?”

  “No. I’m not the intellectual type I’m afraid. I chose a sports curriculum in the end, I was on a diving team.”

  “Ah.”

  “You know, I can hardly believe I’m talking to my old idol.”

  “I’m nobody’s idol. I’m not even sure I’m me.” The base of his fist knocked against the refrigeration cabinet, again and again. Even talking to her couldn’t divert his thoughts for long. “You know the real Dudley Bose is still out there. Still looking at alien stars, but from a much closer viewpoint these days.” His laugh was high-pitched, almost out of control.

  Her hand caught his fist, and held on, preventing him from moving it. “I’m Mellanie.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” All he could feel was her fingers gripping his wrist, her strength and warmth. She had dabbed on the faintest of perfumes. He breathed in deeply, knowing a scent that was so very different to the filtered conditioned air of the clinic, a human scent.

  “I have a rented car outside. And I also have a room in this hotel.”

  Dudley found it almost painful to say anything. “Yes.”

  “So. I can either drive you to the nearest Silent World. Or we can go upstairs. Now. Right now.”

  The hotel room was as mass-produced and indistinguishable as any other Augusta product, a long L-shape with a balcony at one end, and the marbled bathroom at the other. The big double bed was on a raised level, with curtains that could close it off from the rest of the room.

  It was dark outside when Oscar finally opened the door and stumbled in. He’d spent two hours in the small fifth-floor residents-only cocktail lounge with Antonia before the reporters tracked them down. That had been the end of that party.

  He left the lights off and went over to the kitchen alcove. There was enough illumination coming in through the wide glass patio doors to see the beer bottles in the fridge. He chose one and popped the top. Antonia had been right, a hair of the dog always worked a lot better than a tifi hit. His hangover had completely vanished now. The hotel menu was on the counter; he picked it up as he went out and stood on the narrow balcony. There had been a formal banquet planned for this evening to finish the whole welcome-back event, which was why he had the room. But the meal had been canceled. If he was going to get anything to eat it would have to be room service.

  Outside, New Costa gleamed brightly under the night sky, as if it were an amplifying mirror for the constellations above. Inland, to the north, the horizon was glowing a deep-hued amber where the steel smelters were stretched out amid the Colrey hills. A genuine false dawn. The corona was actually brighter than the sky of a world with an orange dwarf star he remembered exploring eight–nine years ago. Highways were slow-moving pyrotechnic rivers, winding through the sparkling grids in perpetual motion. Narrow strips of darkness cut across the city, rail tracks where long glimmering trains rolled endlessly between yards and stations and factories.

  Oscar smiled passively at the industrial megalopolis, overwhelmed as always by its sheer size and energy. The El Iopi wind was strong tonight, sending warm dry air to scour the highways and avenues. He took a sip on the beer. Somewhere out there in the jeweled grid of lights were the factories where CST built its hyperdrives. There had been rumors around Base One of the latest variants, faster than the marque 4s, a lot faster. Now that would be some starship.

  “That was quite a performance this afternoon.”

  Oscar jumped at the voice. The beer bottle slipped out of his fingers, falling soundlessly toward the dark parking lot fifteen stories below. “Shit!” When he lurched back into the room there was a man sitting on the sofa. Oscar had never seen him when he came in.

  “Some people never change,” the man said. “You were always a little too fond of the old booze.”

  “Who? What?”

  There was a chuckle, and the man turned a table light on. Oscar peered at the intruder. He was quite old, probably early sixties—not rejuvenated. His face was comfortably round with reddish cheeks, a skin with a slightly rugged texture, the trait of someone who used too much cellular reprofiling. His body was larger than average, but not unfit, not for someone his age.

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  “Oh, yes, Oscar, you know me.”

  Oscar walked over to the sofa and looked closely, trying to fit the face he saw into his own past. “I don’t…”

  “Don’t try and place me from memory. There’s nothing left of what I used to look like. I’ve been reprofiled a hundred times over the decades, staying a couple of steps ahead of the law all this time.”

  “Oh, holy fuck.” The strength went out of Oscar’s legs. He sat heavily at the other end of the sofa. “Adam? Adam, is that you?”

  “None other.”

  “Oh, God. It’s been forty years.”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  Oscar looked with real dread at the man who had once been his friend and comrade. “What do you want?”

  “Is that any way to greet an old comrade?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Adam spat. “Don’t remind you what you once were? Don’t remind you that you used to have ideals? Principles? Don’t remind you what you did for the cause?”

  “I never fucking forgot!” Oscar shouted. “Dear Christ. Nobody could forget. Not that. Not what we did.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Here I was thinking you’d gone to work for the biggest corporation the human race has ever known, helping them spread their oppression and corruption to new worlds.”

  “Forty years and you still haven’t come up with a new goddamn speech. Do you have any idea how tired that crap is? And don’t forget to use the word ‘plutocrat,’ big words like that always impress the poor ignorant saps you con into giving up their lives for your cause. It makes them think you’re an intellectual, someone they can trust, someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  “It used to be your cause, Oscar. Have you given up on social justice? Is that the price of rejuvenation these days? Is that what the new young Oscar Monroe uses for currency?”

  “Oh, spare me. I was only young once, and I was a fucking hothead buffoon, an easy target for bastards like Professor Grayva to exploit. Damnit, we were just fucking kids. Just kids, we didn’t know anything. You talk about being corrupted, you haven’t got to look far to see where it really happens.”

  “The Party is right, and you know it. This society is not a just one.”

  “Go on, say it!” Oscar leaned forward, his fingers contracting into fists. “Go on, you miserable bastard. Say it! Say it for fuck’s sake. Say: The Ends Justify The Means. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? That’s what you wanted one last time.”

  Adam turned away from the fury in his eyes. “Nothing justifies what we did,” he said so quietly Oscar could barely hear it. “We both know that.”

  They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, not looking at each other. After a minute, Adam grunted dismissively. “How about this. We’re like an old married couple, always arguing.”

  “What are you here for, Adam? Come to bring me down in a blaze of glory?”

  “Oh, no, you don’t get off that lightly.”

  “Then what do you want?” His eyes narrowed as he took in his old friend. “Money? You must need rejuvenation pretty soon.”

  “I’m not sure I care to carry on living in this universe.”

  “Not even you are that stupid. You can’t die. That means you’ve wasted your whole life.”

>   “It’s a life lived true to myself and my principles. Can you say that?”

  “Yes. I’ve helped find dozens of new worlds. I’ve given our species a whole load of fresh starts. Phase three space isn’t the same as one and two. There’s no revolution, not one with Molotovs and people beating the shit out of each other on the street, but there’s a difference.”

  “Humm.” Adam nodded, as if some question had been answered correctly. “Same cause, different angle of attack, huh?”

  “Whatever. I’m not here to re-live old battles with you. They’ve all been fought and lost, by both of us. What the hell do you want, Adam?”

  “I was sent to ask you something you won’t like.”

  It was the way he said it that finally alarmed Oscar; it was almost as if he was ashamed. Except Adam Elvin was never ashamed of what he did. Not ever. That was his whole problem. The reason for them turning their backs on each other all those decades ago. A truly venomous parting. “I doubt this day could get any worse.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I want you to review the Second Chance flight data.”

  “Review the…” Oscar almost started choking. “Wait. You said sent. Who sent you? What do you mean, sent?”

  “The man I work with on occasion believes there was an alien influence on board the Second Chance when you flew to the Dyson Pair. If the flight logs are given a professional analysis, they may show the evidence he needs to prove this.”

  Oscar stared at the old man from his terrible past, his thoughts examining what had been said one word at a time. “Bradley Johansson,” he said at last. “You work with Bradley Johansson? You joined the Guardians of Selfhood? That bunch of nutters? Jesus fucking wept, Adam. Tell me you’re joking. This is a sick joke. It has to be. It fucking has to be.”

  “I have not joined the Guardians. I do know Johansson. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  “You.” Oscar pointed at him with a trembling finger. “OhmyGod, you attacked the Second Chance. It was you.”

  Adam smiled with faint pride. “None other.”

  “You crazy fucked-up psychopath!” Oscar bunched up his fist, ready to pound, smash… “That terrorist attack nearly killed half of my friends. You ruined millions of dollars’ worth of equipment and facilities and delayed our launch date by months.”

  “I know. I think I’m slipping. In the old days I would have got the lot of you, and blown up the starship.”

  “You are crazy. People died, Adam.”

  “They were all re-lifed. Just like your friend Dr. Bose.”

  “I’m calling navy intelligence.”

  “Ah, the universe’s greatest oxymoron. How long do you think they’ll give you in life suspension?”

  “I don’t care about myself. Not anymore. You have to be stopped.” Oscar almost did it, almost told his e-butler to make the call. He was going to do it. He was really going to do it. Any second now.

  “No, Oscar. It’s you and your navy who are in the wrong now, you who are the danger to humanity. Look where your precious Second Chance flight led us.”

  “What is wrong with you? You don’t believe that Guardians crap: President Doi is an alien agent. Come on! Not you.” He studied the old man’s round face, hunting for some sign of guilt.

  “What I believe doesn’t matter, does it?” Adam said. “It’s what I want from you which is important. We want the log data reviewed, and you’re the perfect choice. You have unrestricted access, and it’s your field of expertise.”

  “Oh, now I get it. If I study the data and don’t find your evidence, then someone makes a call to Rafael Columbia. Right?”

  “No, Oscar, this is on the level. I want you to run a genuine, thorough search.”

  It was only the alcohol flowing sweetly through his head that prevented Oscar from laughing outright. “Dear God, I never thought you’d be reduced to this. I mean, I always had this image of you carrying on the Party’s agenda. Every time one of those seccession movements hit the unisphere I would think: I bet Adam’s there, working away behind the scenes, urging the troops on, giving their leaders advice whether they want it or not. Then you’d slip back into the Commonwealth before CSI closed the gateway, and build up underground cell networks on every world; you’d have thousands of loyal activists ready for the day your word would come and the whole Commonwealth would be plunged into civil war and revolution. That you’d be some kind of Gandhi, or Mandela, or maybe just Napoleon. But certainly you’d be somebody. Not this though, God, look at you. Just another fat aging rebel who lost sight of his cause decades ago. So desperate you joined up with the saddest bunch of losers this universe has to offer.

  “It’s not real, Adam, there is no alien. I was on board that starship for over a year, I never bumped into it in the showers, never caught it stealing a late-night snack from the canteen, there was no ghost on deck thirteen. This is where your conspiracy theory runs slap bang into the solid wall of reality. You and Johansson can sit at home pulling every rumor you want from the unisphere and build them into a tower of your Fact. It’s all bullshit. There is no evidence to be found. So before you go just leave the little crystal memory on the table, and I’ll politely ignore it, then when you’re gone and I’m even more drunk I’ll access the file your friends have forged and decide if I’m going to splice it into the official log for you so that I can save myself from life suspension because I’m too much of a pitiful coward to take responsibility for what I did once.”

  “You need to get a shrink to take a good look at that self-loathing. It’s not healthy.”

  “Fuck you,” Oscar said. The pain he felt was close to physical now. “Just leave the memory crystal and go.”

  Adam struck him across the cheek. The blow was almost powerful enough to knock him off the couch.

  “Shit.” Oscar dabbed at his mouth, blinking back tears from the stinging pain. A trickle of blood was oozing out from the corner of his lips. He gave Adam a wild look. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I said I’d do it. What more do you want?”

  “There is no forged file, you motherfucker. This is as real as it gets. And I said there was an influence on board, not a bug-eyed monster. The Starflyer works through humans. Somebody on board the Second Chance turned the barrier off—don’t even try telling me that was coincidence. The same somebody who fixed it for Bose and Verbeke to be left behind. You don’t think it was remotely suspicious that of all the supertechnological, multiple-redundant, fail-soft gadgets you had on board that a simple communicator failed at exactly that critical time? Because I fucking do.”

  “Somebody?” Oscar asked cynically. “A crew member?”

  “Yes. One of your precious crew. One of your friends. Or maybe more than one. Who knows? But that’s what you’ve got to find out.”

  “That’s even worse than an alien stowaway. Do you know how much training and back-history investigation we went through to get on board? Nobody remotely suspect ever got close to the ship.”

  “You mean like you and Dudley Bose?”

  Oscar stared at him for a long, chilling moment. “Look, Adam, what you’re asking, it can’t happen. Physically, it’s not possible for me to do it. Do you realize how much raw data is in those logs?”

  “I know. That’s why we could never steal it and analyze it ourselves. You don’t have to go through every byte yourself. You know the critical segments of the flight; that’s where you look. Not at the main events, what happened on the bridge or in engineering, they’ll be clean. It’s what went on in the background that’s important. Who was haunting deck thirteen when the barrier came down? Find them, not just for us, for yourself, for everyone. We need to know what really happened out there.”

  “This is… I can’t…”

  “The alien is becoming more active now. You have to admit, there’s some weird shit going down these days. That explosion on Venice Coast which took out our arms supplier; the murdered Senator.”

  “Bullshit. That was some covert operative fr
om the government, or an Intersolar Dynasty. Everybody knows that.”

  Adam smiled maliciously. “Sounds like a conspiracy theory to me.”

  “You are so wrong. Why can you never admit that?”

  “Then prove it. Exactly who are you betraying by looking at the data? If we’re wrong you lose nothing. If God forbid, we’re right, we need to know. And you’ll be a hero. That’s big enough to absolve all your past sins.”

  “I don’t need absolution.”

  Adam stood. “You know I’m right. And I know you can never admit that to my face. So we’ll stop macho posturing now, and I’ll contact you every fortnight or so to check on your progress.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Yeah, I said that very same thing when Johansson told me to get in touch with you. But it’s not like either of us have a choice, is it? Not after Abadan station. Take care, Oscar, there’s a lot of people depending on you.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Carys Panther took the metallic gray MG metrosport into New Costa Junction, then drove it straight onto the car-carry train to Elan. The carriage was completely enclosed, a tube of aluminum with a bright polyphoto strip along the ceiling and a couple of narrow windows along each side. Her MG was so low-slung they were above her eye level. The car’s drive array edged her right up to a big BMW 6089 four-by-four before engaging the full brake lock; a Ford Yicon saloon pulled up behind her.

  She ordered the seat to recline and settled back for the trip. Her e-butler brought up a whole raft of story ideas and plot sequences into her virtual vision, which she started to fill in, joining them together in complicated loops. At the moment there was a big demand for the long slightly fantastical sagas that were her preferred genre. Ant, her agent, was keen to exploit the market. He said that it was the uncertainty of the Prime situation that was putting people off gritty realism at the moment; they wanted escapism. He should know; Ant was actually older than Nigel Sheldon, and he’d been doing the same job for century after century, he’d seen every creative fad there was, living through the fashion cycle as it spun the genres around and around.