Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

‘It’s okay,’ Mark Chitty told her kindly. ‘The armour’s impact honeycomb absorbed a lot of the impact. It’s good stuff. Without it he’d probably be dead.’

  ‘Multiple broken ribs,’ Coniff reported, her eyes still closed. ‘Can’t see any signs of pulmonary contusion, but I want to keep an eye on that. Repeat the scan every hour to see what develops.’

  ‘Got it,’ Chitty murmured.

  ‘Moving on to the heart. With this kind of blunt force there’s going to be some myocardial contusion. Let’s set up an EKG, please. Get me a baseline.’

  Chitty sprayed a clear gloop saturated with smartdust on Paresh’s violet chest. ‘Mesh established and linking to our net. Processing and monitoring his cardiac rhythm now.’

  Paresh moaned again, wheezing down a breath.

  ‘Enough,’ Coniff said. ‘I want him properly sedated. We’ll put the shoulder back in and set the arm.’ She turned to stare at Angela. ‘Your boyfriend’s lucky. He’s young and built like an ox, which helps. We’ll repair the damage, and pump him full of anti-inflammatory steroids. The ribs will cause a lot of discomfort for a few weeks, but that can be mitigated by some internal nuflesh insertions once the bruising reduces.’

  ‘He’s okay?’ Angela was dismayed at how pathetic she sounded.

  The corner of Coniff’s mouth lifted up, which must have been her version of a smile. ‘Yes. Now you will leave us, because I’m not having you in here when we hammer his shoulder back into its socket – it’s too gross for friends and family. He’ll be under anaesthetic for hours anyway. Mark will let you know when he’s awake, you can talk to him then.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took her time getting her outer layers on again. Watching as Paresh was properly anaesthetized. Chitty started tightening some nasty-looking metal clamps around his torso and upper arm. Angela wrinkled her nose up, gave Luther a quick hug of thanks, and left.

  The transition numbed her for a long moment. St Libra’s malignant cold wriggled its way through gaps in her layers, scratching minute prickly fingers against her flesh. The pink sunlight was beset with bold green flickers, turning the snow a sickly grey-purple. She stood outside the biolab, looking around. The scene now was identical to all the other refuelling breaks they’d made on the journey so far. Vehicles parked in a line. People walking about carrying equipment. Darwin and Olrg packing the flex grid sections away in the sledge. Truck-2 being reconnected to its sledge. Legionnaires on patrol. There was no sign of Ophelia’s corpse.

  Angela abruptly set her jaw and marched across the rumpled snow to truck-2. When she reached it, the cab was empty, and the tow cables had been removed. A bulky figure was moving to intercept her.

  ‘How is he?’ Elston asked.

  He’d know, of course, but he was giving her an excuse to babble, to let her pent-up fear go spewing out. At any other time she’d appreciate that. ‘He’ll be fine. They’re fixing the arm now. The doc didn’t want me there for that.’

  ‘I see. I’m glad.’

  Angela pointed at the truck. ‘Where’s the tow cable?’

  ‘It got packed away. We have additional cables so there’s no problem.’

  ‘I want to see it.’

  ‘Angela . . .’

  ‘I want to see where it split. I want to know how a cable with a fifty-tonne breaking strain can snap when an MTJ gives it a little tug.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  Elston took her arm, which was an almost useless gesture. She had so many layers on her arm was too wide for him to grip properly. Certainly he couldn’t pull her along. She chose to go with him as he headed slowly back to biolab-1.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I looked at the ends. The cables are a bundle of superbonded carbon filaments inside a triple layer polymer sheath. Someone had cut it. Not all the way through, they’d severed just enough filaments so it wouldn’t snap straight away.’

  ‘The son of a bitch has caught up with us,’ she grunted.

  ‘We haven’t seen any sign of it for the whole week we’ve been travelling. But that tow cable’s been used a dozen times to pull the MTJs out of drifts. If it had been weakened back at Wukang, it would have snapped before now.’

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ she said in a throaty whisper. ‘You think it was done today? But that means one of our people did it.’

  ‘Yes. The only possibility I can come up with is Karizma, who wants to go back to Wukang. But I’m not sure how this helps her case. Besides, Ophelia was her friend, and an active member of their little turn-back-now cabal.’

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ Angela said. ‘She had to know she’d be putting Ophelia in harm’s way.’

  ‘Which leaves us with a big problem. We were all out here. It could have been anybody.’

  ‘Damnit.’

  ‘Anyone you’re suspicious about?’

  Angela regretted he was all wrapped up, she couldn’t make out his expression. Because that was one hell of a leading question. ‘Nobody. Sabotage doesn’t make any sense. If we get stuck out here, we die. It’s that simple.’

  ‘All right then. I’ll reorganize the vehicle rosters to take the injured into account. Biolab-2 is getting crowded, and truck-2 needs another driver. We’ll move on as soon as the doctor has finished with Paresh’s shoulder.’

  *

  From the front passenger seat in Tropic-2, Rebka watched the intense talk between Angela and Colonel Elston play out. She was pretty clear what topic was under discussion. As soon as the tragedy happened, most people instinctively rushed over towards the MTJs where Paresh and Dean lay, battered and incapacitated. A few hardier souls, led by a distraught Erius, had made their way over to Ophelia’s headless corpse in time to see her steaming blood slowly freeze into the snow. Rebka had gone with the bulk of the convoy personnel, taking a slight curving detour to pass by the broken tow cable. As she went she picked it up and let it run through her mittened hand until she got to the end. She let it drop immediately. By then her cache had captured the image perfectly.

  As Dr Coniff tended to Paresh, she’d huddled with the others in a semicircle, anxiously awaiting a verdict. Behind her goggles her eyes were closed as her grid displayed the image for her to review. Thousands of hair-thin filaments flopped out of the torn polymer sheath like a root system at the base of a plant. They looked ragged, as well they might after breaking under such a strain. But not all of them, over half ended neatly together. Some kind of blade had sliced through the cable.

  It left her with two questions. When? And the nature of the blade? One of five that were arranged in a finger array?

  ‘Incoming,’ Angela announced over a link to Tropic-2. Raddon opened the rear door as Angela knocked snow from her boots and gaiters on the bodywork. Then she was inside and settling into the seat.

  ‘How is he?’ Forster asked, twisting round in the driver’s seat.

  Angela pulled her balaclava off and started unzipping the front of her parka as the cab’s heater blew warm air around them. ‘Lucky, so the doc said. The armour saved him. He’s got some broken ribs and the arm. They’re going to monitor him to make sure his heart and lungs are okay. And that’s about it. Man, he looks like one giant bruise.’

  Rebka pulled her own balaclava off. ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks. The dumb ass had me worried for a minute, there.’

  ‘Elston said we’re resting up for a couple of hours,’ Raddon said. ‘He’s sent Darwin to help Gillian drive truck-2.’

  ‘We should shove a meal in the microwave,’ Rebka said. ‘It’ll be nice to eat one while we’re sitting still. I might not cover myself in food for once.’ She made herself busy, keeping in the Madeleine persona as she put their packets in the microwave and generally ran through the bubbly short-order waitress routine. The Tropic’s cabin was soon filled with the smell of pepperoni pizza and hot chocolate, adding some small amount of cheer to the sombre mood.

  Even her own optimism was growing shaky now.
If they didn’t find the tributary soon, then they would have to turn back. The prospect of waiting for rescue at Wukang was a bleak one. Right up until the tow-cable sabotage she’d been certain she could complete the mission, and capture the creature – whatever it was. It would be tough, she’d always known that, but the systems she’d brought with her from Jupiter instilled a level of confidence that she was now acknowledging might be misplaced. But then no one could have foreseen events unfurling in the disastrous way they had since she arrived on St Libra. Not even Constantine, who had spent two decades preparing. The constant attrition of personnel had unnerved her as it had everyone in the convoy. Smartmicrobes she’d placed strategically among the vehicles had died in the blizzards and sub-zero temperatures. The smart programs she’d infiltrated into the convoy’s net had been reduced to ghosts of their former selves as the hardware failed and degraded. She was still fairly sure she would be victorious in any one-on-one combat. However, engineering that encounter was becoming increasingly unlikely. Like everyone, she had no idea where the damn thing concealed itself. It really did emerge from nowhere, which meant that while her metamolecule armour was inactive she was as vulnerable as anyone else. Her only alternative was to become more overt in her efforts, potentially pitting her against everyone else. It might yet have to come to that.

  She realized her hand had crept up her chest to touch the phial she wore round her neck. ‘To help ground you,’ Constantine had said when he’d given it to her. Even now she was impressed by how prophetic those words had turned out.

  *

  Rebka had woken up early that day. All smiles and excitement as the habitat axle light rings pumped up to full intensity, and the colourful jungle birds greeted its fast dawn with a chorus of squawking. She pushed back the thin duvet and sat up on the edge of the bed, stretching and yawning.

  ‘Clear the window,’ she told her e-i. The curving wall in front of her turned from a purple haze to a simple window looking out across the habitat. Two of the house’s surrounding circle of palm trees blocked her view in the centre and to the right, their long leaf crowns sagging down to allow the tips to rub against the top of the glass. The third palm, the one on the left, had died about a year ago, leaving a tall withered stem that was already decaying, hosting all manner of interesting orange and topaz fungi. Dad hadn’t yet got round to organizing a replacement. He and Mum were still arguing over what to plant; both agreed they weren’t having anything so big so close to the house again. Rebka suspected the argument never would be finished.

  She slowly walked across her room, sliding her feet round the clothes and dirty underwear and sports equipment and cups and empty bottles and bits of the neumanonics kit from her year-ten science project and floform-stone sculptures and sketch pads and brushes and make-up boxes and . . .

  Her cheeks puffed out in mild dismay at the maze of crap smothering the carpet. Maybe she ought to clear up some time. Mum had given up nagging years ago, but refused to help, saying she had to take responsibility for her own life. Good old Mum, always banging on about being a proper citizen.

  And today I am.

  One of the drawers had some fresh knickers and a bra. And her jeans from yesterday – and a few days prior – were still relatively clean. There were three washed and pressed T-shirts in the cage basket she’d brought back from the utility room recently. She chose the orange one, with flowers embroidered on the cap sleeves.

  ‘Give me a mirror,’ she told her e-i. A section of the window turned perfect silver, and she studied herself critically. Tall, which was okay thanks to the long legs; blonde hair that was dark enough to verge on chestnut, but was easy to dye, and still had pink and purple tips, with a single zombie-green forelock stripe; long face, pretty enough even with a thin nose, though she still considered it belonged to someone a good two years younger. Rebka frowned, peering forward, then let out a sigh of exasperation. To celebrate that youthfulness, her chin had erupted a couple of new spots overnight. She squared her shoulders and hustled her bra up into a better place. Grinning. Dad always rolled his eyes in not-quite-mock-disapproval at the scoop necks she favoured.

  She went into the tiny en suite bathroom. Sloshed some dentjel round her mouth and spat it out. Washed her face carefully with the cleanser, then rummaged through packets to find some sup patches which she applied over the spots. Spots. Today of all days! Eyeliner, purple and gold. Brush the hair into shape – not enough time for a shower and shampoo now. Rub scent on strategically. And she was ready for whatever the grand day threw at her.

  Both her parents were waiting for her at the breakfast bar. The ground floor’s archway windows were fully open, allowing the morning air to gust gently into the house. It was fresh with the humidity of the overnight mist which atmospheric services squirted into the habitat every day between one and four in the morning. Birds flittered about through the trees, and geckos were skittering up the house walls.

  Thinking about it, Rebka realized life couldn’t be much better than this. Perhaps she did have a lot to be thankful for. And maybe she should have expressed a little more gratitude over the years. The surge of emotion caught her by surprise, and she swallowed hard, especially when she saw Mum and Dad both fighting to hide their own pride and sorrow.

  Then the pair of them were smiling broadly, holding out their hands and chorusing: ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

  Rebka hugged them, not really caring that her eyes were all watering up. ‘I love you,’ she squeaked out.

  They’d prepared her favourite breakfast. Sweet bacon and a pile of pancakes with strawberries, dussulpears and cream, and maple syrup. A tall glass of mango and cranberry juice poured over crushed ice. Farmhouse loaf toast with thick-cut blood orange marmalade.

  ‘I can’t eat all this,’ she protested weakly as they all sat at the big patio table.

  Dad grinned and popped a champagne bottle cork, pouring the chilly fizz into their juice glasses. ‘Best way to start today,’ he promised. ‘You’re only going to be eighteen once.’

  Through her happy giggles she saw the strange look her parents exchanged, and wrote it off to the fact that she’d be moving out soon. Her very own apartment in the new habitat shell, twice the length of this one with a lake that almost qualified as a sea it was so large. She’d even been considering asking for one of those mobile home capsules which people were starting to use, but wasn’t sure if that was just a fashion statement. Either way, she’d be independent, like Raul and Krista had become after they reached their majority. This house would be very big for her parents after that, she thought. Maybe that’s why things like decisions on replacement trees were being put off. Although she couldn’t imagine home without them in it.

  They all touched their glasses in salute, and sipped the fortified juice.

  ‘Thank you both,’ she said, still all teary. ‘Look, I know I’ve not been the best daughter ever. And—’

  ‘Hey, none of that,’ her father said and put his arm round her. ‘I don’t want you to spoil your present opening. I’ve been planning mine for months.’

  Despite her rampaging emotions, Rebka was abruptly curious. ‘Oh?’

  He reached under the table and produced what looked like a slim rectangular box, wrapped in blue and silver paper with a pink ribbon round it. Rebka took it, even more intrigued now she felt how heavy it was.

  ‘Go on!’ her father urged, as eager as her.

  She pulled the ribbon’s bow and unwrapped the paper. The object inside puzzled her for a moment, she’d never actually held one before, then realization dawned. ‘A book!’ she exclaimed. When she turned it over, the title was printed in gold leaf: Alice in Wonderland. Now she really did cry, it had been her favourite for so many years growing up. Such weird incredible adventures, even to her, a girl living in a space habitat orbiting Jupiter. Or perhaps especially here, the strangeness of Alice’s travels was easy to relate to. ‘Thank you, Daddy.’ She folded her arms round him, hugging tightly.

  ‘It
’s not a first edition or anything,’ he said gruffly. ‘But it is twentieth century. I got Clayton to pick it up when he was on Earth last.’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  Her mother held out a much smaller box of black velvet. It contained a plain gold ring. ‘My grandmother’s wedding ring,’ she explained. ‘I just want you to always know and understand you are truly family.’

  As she embraced her mother, Rebka was worried she was going to spend the whole day in tears, albeit happy ones.

  Eventually – ring on her finger where she could admire it, book on the table waiting to be read – she tucked in to the pile of pancakes.

  ‘Raul and Krista are coming over for lunch,’ her father said. ‘Just the family. A quiet time before tonight’s party.’

  Rebka grinned wolfishly at that. She’d spent months planning tonight’s event with all her friends.

  ‘Do you know what you’re wearing yet?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Uh, no.’

  ‘We could go through some catalogues together, choose something to print out.’

  ‘Yes, please. That would be lovely.’

  Her father cleared his throat. ‘You haven’t forgotten what you have to do this morning, have you?’

  ‘No! Go and see Constantine.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What does he talk about? Raul and Krista would never say. It’s all very mysterious, which is stupid.’

  ‘He just asks you what you want to do with your life, to make sure you’re happy here. After all, we can’t really afford malcontents in something as fragile as a habitat.’

  ‘Wow, that’s going to be boring.’

  ‘It probably is, dear,’ her mother said primly. ‘But try not to show it. After all, it is his habitat.’

  ‘What’s he going to do if I tell him I hate it – kick me off?’

  Her father’s face fell into his hands.

  Rebka pressed her lips together in self-censure. Dad was so easy to wind up. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll behave. Kiss-promise.’

  ‘Well I suppose there’s a first time for everything,’ he countered.