Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

  The weather radar display shining across the cockpit canopy showed the afternoon storm as a giant red wave sweeping in from the south-east. If nothing went wrong they should just be able to outrun it. Any kind of weather forecast on St Libra was a boon. Without satellites they were as close as Ravi had ever been to flying blind. Thankfully the e-Rays provided some coverage along the flight path to Edzell, but this zooming into the unknown was all part of the great game.

  ‘Cloud coming,’ Tork Ericson called above the turbine whine and gearbox growl which saturated the cabin – military birds weren’t big on soundproofing. He was an aviation engineer, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat today to help with the abnormal load.

  ‘We’ll beat it,’ Ravi called back. ‘This is one smooth gig.’

  ‘But not as cool as a Thunderthorn,’ Tork supplied.

  ‘You got it.’ In his glorious youth Ravi Hendrik had flown SF-100 Thunderthorns, the HDA’s first line of defence against Zanthswarms. And Ravi had been a newly qualified pilot, eighteen months out of HDA flight school, when the New Florida Zanthswarm began. He’d flown mission after mission above that doomed world. Nothing in his professional or private life since had ever come close to matching the sheer terror and exhilaration of that all-too-brief time.

  The HDA had reassigned him away from his beloved SF-100 when he was in his late thirties. Younger pilots were coming through the academy, boys and girls with hunger to kill the Zanth, with faster reflexes and more up-to-date systems knowledge than that sad old-timer Ravi Hendrik. They didn’t have the real-life experience, but that counted for shit in these days of virtuals. So Ravi was assigned to support flying duty as the clock ticked down to pension time – still extremely important work his squadron commander insisted, even though he was older still and knew exactly what a load of bullshit he was feeding to resentful sidelined ex-hero pilots.

  It was a Bad Thing, he knew, but Ravi wanted every day to be a Zanthswarm day, allowing him to fuck the enemy with D-bombs that he launched, that he detonated amid the terrifying rifts through spacetime. The universe’s greatest power trip.

  But even he had to admit, this crazy expedition was pretty hot. A good swansong for his career.

  The alien jungle stretched out to the horizon in all directions, lush glaucous vegetation clinging to every hill and ravine, plants that possessed a unique vitality, clogging tributaries until they swamped, forming cliff-like sides to the deeper faster-flowing rivers. It was relentless and all-powerful. Giant, palm-like trees stabbed upwards, towering thirty to forty metres above the main canopy like green impaling spikes waiting for the Berlin flight to make one mistake. Vines festooned the gaps caused by steep gorges. Bubble-bushes, a pink-hued scrub that grew in clusters across any sodden area, thronged the folds creasing the mountainsides, where misty streams trickled downwards. Waterfalls spewed white from rock precipices, falling for an age into deep pools. Thick tattered braids of cloud meandered along valleys and round peaks. Away to the west, the land rose in a vast massif that created an even more rugged-looking plateau country beyond. Much of it as yet unnamed – who had the time?

  ‘Man, this is one mean bushworld,’ Tork said.

  Ravi nodded. He got it. Travelling like this, low and slow, over land where no human had ever been before, and likely-as-not never would again, made him very conscious of how far they were from civilization. More importantly, how far from help if anything went wrong. The expedition had some Sikorsky CV-47 Swallows, including a fully equipped medevac version. But even Ravi had to question how useful they’d actually be at plucking casualties out of this remote verdant wilderness.

  Their only communications out here were routed via relay packages in the six e-Ray AAVs (Autonomous Airborne Vehicle) that were flying tight, high-altitude loiter patterns, strung out across the gulf between Abellia and Edzell. It had taken four days to position the e-Rays, which had gone on to perform preliminary scans, plotting out the basic topography, searching for the features they needed.

  A two-kilometre flat zone, close to water, with low bush coverage, had been found with relative ease. A couple of Berlins had flown out to drop preliminary camp equipment and a detachment of engineers – along with a full Legion squad for protection. None of the evaluation flights had detected any alien animals, not even insects, but Major Griffin Toyne, who was head of expedition security, wasn’t taking any chances. They were here to find potentially hostile aliens, and he didn’t want them finding the expedition first.

  After eight hours of flying, and placing more trust than Ravi found comfortable in their inertial guidance system, he spotted the lake. It was at the base of a wide gentle valley that was clear of jungle, with just a few lone bullwhip trees standing among the wispy amethyst-shaded grass. They were probably his favourite trees amid St Libra’s intriguing zebra botany. Spores grew along the inside of the coils, dark nut-like nodules. When they were ripe the coils unwound like a loosened spring, and flung them wide across the surrounding ground. It was one of the more interesting mechanisms St Libra’s evolution had developed to compensate for the lack of birds and insects. Of course, a lot of the plants shook or trembled, throwing seeds off like a dog coming out of water. The plant orientation briefing warned them about the peppershot bush, that coughed out a spore cloud like pepper dust, which played havoc with human skin.

  Sunlight shimmered on the long serpentine patch of water fed by a river at the head and leaking away into a broad swamp six kilometres away at the lower end. The cluster of black and silver bricks that were the expedition’s Qwik-Kabins above the lake shore made an incongruous sight amid the pervasive colourwash of St Libra’s abundant flora. Two Berlins were sitting beside the shelters. Legionnaires patrolled the loose perimeter of the camp, including the eighty-metre stub of raw earth which a lone dozer had cleared.

  Clouds were already crawling across the sky as Ravi brought the Berlin round to the end of the infant runway to hover. HDA engineers scuttled underneath the big helicopter, holding their sunhats in place against the downwash. The senior loading officer on the ground guided him down, and the dozer touched the earth. Tork released the cables, earning a thumbs-up from the ground crew. Ravi peeled away to find a landing site.

  Later, after he’d had a rest, he’d help unload the rest of the equipment and supplies the Berlin had brought, along with the fresh food. They could barbecue the burgers and sausages this evening, enjoying a tropical sunset without the usual insect attack that plagued most of the trans-stellar worlds. As he settled the big copter, he saw the contra-rotating blades on the parked vehicles start to turn as the turbines were fired up. The crews were desperate to get airborne before the bulk of the storm hit Edzell. They had at best seven hours of daylight left, along with a refuelling rendezvous with the Daedalus tanker, so they’d be finishing the flight back to Abellia in darkness. Ravi grinned approval at that – more skilled flying.

  He throttled the turbines back, and initiated the general craft powerdown sequence. Raindrops began to splash across the bulging cockpit windscreen. It was growing dark outside, the twirling mass of cloud had already veiled the sun. Tomorrow he’d be sitting about, waiting for the next Berlin flight to arrive before he could leave. That gave him several hours to scout round and get a feel for the territory. Maybe the engineers would allow him to drive one of the dozers. It was a grand time to be alive.

  Sunday 3rd February 2143

  There were supposed to be as many coves around the Abellia peninsula as there were days in the year – though you had to be generous in your definition of ‘cove’ and there was a question over which planet’s year . . .

  The bungalows of Camilo Beach were simple structures nestling among the low dunes between the beach itself and the Rue du Ranelagh, a twin-lane highway that bordered the bottom of the slope. They were made from white concrete, with big glass doors opening onto neat patios and sandy yards, giving everyone easy access to the beach. It was a nice community, and right from the start designed for families of
Abellia’s burgeoning middle class; the independent business people and company staff whose contracts had expired but chose to stay on

  Saul Howard woke up with the bright Sirius light streaming through the gap at the bottom of the blinds. For a while he just lay there, enjoying the quiet drowsiness that allowed his mind to wander through warmly pleasant notions. Somewhere deeper inside the cottage bungalow came the occasional muffled thuds and voices that meant the kids were awake and up. Most likely trying to make themselves breakfast, and hell alone knew what kind of mess that would result in. At least Isadora, the eldest at fourteen, would take charge. Though why a teenager would be up this early was a sore puzzle to him. That particular clan were supposed to sleep until noon and then grump around the house all day, not be the kind of happy delight Isadora had developed into. That she so broke the stereotype format was something he should be thankful for.

  Must take after her mother.

  He shifted his head so he could see Emily. A tangled wave of rich auburn hair ran down the pillow, just revealing that enchanting, fine-boned face with its small mouth and long nose; skin darkened by a decade and a half’s exposure to St Libra sunlight made it hard to distinguish the delightful freckles these days. But they were there, unusually visible this morning in the hazy light.

  For a long moment he considered reaching out and stroking the hair. Leaning forward for a kiss, which she would respond to lazily. Slide the sheet down slowly and coyly. Emily never did wear anything other than PJ trousers, which even after sixteen years of marriage he still found irresistibly sexy. But then she had a body to match that beautiful face.

  The notion of a morning consisting of nothing but leisurely sex was enticing indeed. But as his heart quickened and he woke up fully he had to sigh and roll off the bed as gingerly as he could. The en suite was eight depressingly familiar paces across the tiled floor. Sadly, at fifty-eight he didn’t quite have the body to match that of his much younger wife; joints were perennially stiff and twingey, short curly hair which long ago had turned traitor grey was now realigning itself in the dreaded male pattern baldness, and his gut, despite daily exercise and a healthy diet he hardly ever cheated on, was sagging. A mounting decrepitude which his bladder reminded him of with its standard morning urge.

  Emily had roused herself when he returned, propping herself up on one elbow and wrapping the sheet demurely round her shoulders. He rolled back onto the mattress and snuggled up beside her.

  She grinned knowingly. ‘They’re already awake.’

  ‘They won’t come in.’

  ‘Down boy.’

  Saul rolled his eyes in mock despair. ‘It’s the weekend.’

  ‘Now you’re just coming over all needy.’

  ‘I’ve always been needy.’

  An elegant eyebrow was raised disdainfully. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We could put a lock on the door.’ Something Emily had never countenanced – she wanted the children to be able to come straight in if anything was wrong.

  ‘Why stop there? Why don’t we just move out?’

  ‘You are a cruel lady. But I like your thinking. We could probably afford to rent, maybe a nice pied-à-terre.’

  She smiled at his foolishness and leant over to kiss him. The top of the sheet came free, and he slid his hand across exposed silky warm skin.

  Little footsteps thudded noisily along the corridor outside. Saul had just managed to turn the snog into a harmless-looking mum and dad cuddle when the door burst open. Jevon, their eleven-year-old, came zooming in, all eager smiles.

  ‘Surf’s up!’ he announced gleefully.

  Saul manfully resisted the obvious double entendre. ‘Is it?’

  Isadora appeared in the doorway, holding six-year-old Clara’s hand. She gave her mother a guilty glance. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t stop him.’

  ‘It’s okay, darling.’ Emily patted the bed, and Jevon landed beside her with a bounce, still all eager smiles.

  ‘Can we go down on the beach?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Please, I’ve done my teeth and everything.’

  ‘We need our breakfast first,’ Saul said. That was when he caught sight of the antique clock, and pressed his teeth together in dismay: 7:48. On a Sunday!

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Jevon volunteered enthusiastically.

  Saul did well not to shudder at the memory of his son helpfully bringing Mum and Dad breakfast in bed a couple of weeks back. ‘It’s okay, we’ll manage. You need to check your board, and pack the beach bags.’

  ‘Done it already!’

  ‘You’ll just have to wait,’ Emily said. ‘It’s too early. We will go later, all right. That’s a certified cert.’

  Jevon pulled his end-of-the-world face, but accepted his mother’s ruling. There was always an argument when Saul told him to do anything. The way it should be with fathers and sons, Saul supposed, but it did get exhausting.

  Saul pulled on a towelling robe and walked through to the kitchen where the debris of a hurriedly eaten kids’ breakfast was still on the table. Emily prepared their croissants and coffee while he shoved the mess into the dishwasher.

  ‘You don’t have to wait until I get back,’ Saul said as they took their light meal out onto the small vine-sheltered patio outside the kitchen’s sliding glass doors.

  Emily stood over him as she put the little tray down. Always a mildly intimidating sight. She was an easy six-foot tall in her bare feet, while he just about made five nine.

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ she groused. It was exactly the same inflection Isadora now used when complaining about how unfair the universe was. Clara was starting to learn it, too.

  ‘Big day for us,’ he countered, as always.

  ‘I know,’ she sighed and sat down beside him.

  Breakfast outside with a gorgeous young wife on yet another cloudless tropical morning wasn’t a bad way of starting a Sunday, he admitted. The patio was wedged into a corner of their cottage, a perfect morning suntrap with two sides made up by whitewashed concrete walls, leaving the other two open to the view across the beach that began a mere fifty metres away. St Libra’s rings swept across the sky above the sparkling, wave-tossed sea. Pergola beams ribbing the patio were webbed with a tangle of terrestrial honeysuckle and native aquelvine – the latter for the shade given by its dark glossy leaves, and former for the scent of the flowers.

  As he drank his coffee he could hear the waves slapping against the fine pale sand beyond the low dunes with their feathery reeds. Without a single giant moon, St Libra lacked the tides which roamed across Earth’s oceans, but between them the rings’ little shepherd moonlets and some healthy ocean winds produced batches of decent waves. The beach that Camilo Village was clustered round had good surf most days. Isadora was already a proficient surfer, with Jevon determined to match his big sister; while little Clara was an expert body boarder. Saul enjoyed his days on the beach, splashing about in the water with the whole family, occasionally catching a good curl and keeping his balance, following it up with a barbecue for lunch; and Clara still liked sandcastles, while Jevon pretended he’d grown out of it but joined in with a spade anyway.

  ‘You okay?’

  Saul shook his head and smiled at his wife. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You seemed a bit distant, there.’

  He gave the rings-dominated sky a guilty glance, but none of the huge dark HDA planes was overhead at that moment. ‘Just this expedition nonsense, that’s all.’

  ‘What’s to worry about? You don’t really think there’s a sentient species living out in the wilds there, do you?’

  ‘No. Course not. It’s stupid. It’s just the disruption that’s all. And the amount of bioil they’re using up may leave the city short. We don’t have that many algaepaddies, and it’s not like we can import it from Highcastle.’

  Emily gave him a curious look. A hand waved up casually at the bungalow’s high sloping roof. ‘We have a photovoltaic roof, which produces more electricity than we use. The cars have auxiliary batteries for the fuel cells
, which have enough charge to get us either to the school or the shop, and we can recharge them here if the tanks ever do truly run dry. So what’s your problem?’

  He shrugged. ‘Our economy. It might turn sour. The farms need bioil, you know. Tractors don’t run on batteries – they have high-rated fuel cells – and a lot of them have biodiesel engines.’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t just say that. That’s such establishment talk. I’m awfully worried about the economy, the market’s down, you know, do you think we should we change the interest rates, old chap,’ she taunted.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Sorry, but . . . come on. This is exciting for the kids. Jevon wants to drive out to the airport and watch the planes, especially those big SuperRocs.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘He’s eleven! And they are big chunks of shiny machinery whizzing round over his head, helping to discover aliens hidden in the jungle – what else does he want to go and see?’

  Saul almost said the surf, but that would accelerate the argument and they’d both wind up getting stubborn and defensive like they always did when they fought, which wasn’t wise. Not at this time on a Sunday morning. ‘I’ll maybe take him out there this evening if there’s a SuperRoc flying. The airport must publish a flight schedule somewhere on the transnet.’

  ‘That’ll be nice for the two of you. I’m surprised you haven’t been out there already, it’s the biggest collection of boys’ toys we’ll ever see here.’