A Night Without Stars

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘So do you think we’ll reach Opole before dawn?’ Florian asked.

  ‘Sure thing. Look, a normal run would take me maybe three hours. This route, we’re looking at ten. And if we do come up short, I’ve got me some holes to crawl into. We can wait the day out snug and secure. Quit worrying.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

  ‘Well, I have. Wouldn’t have life any other way.’

  ‘But . . . I thought you believed in the Church of the Return?’

  ‘I do. The Skylords are the only way our souls can find their way to Giu. They are the guiders through the dark.’

  ‘But this life . . .’

  Lukan laughed. ‘The Skylords don’t judge how our life is lived in accordance with all the petty laws and restrictions we invent for ourselves. They judge only if you have led a full life, if you have lived in a way that makes you happy. They care that you have not wasted your mortal existence. And, buddy, this is not a waste. I bring people what they want, and have fun doing it. It don’t get much better than that. Take yourself now. How would you like it if I wasn’t around?’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘We were all better off in the Void. We belong there. Our minds were strong there. I truly believe that this is a temporary exile, that Giu is punishing us for the crimes Nigel committed. But the Skylords will find us again, because they are the compassionate angels who have always guided us. It is why they exist. And when they do finally come to Bienvenido, we must show them that we have learned our lesson, and be humble in the face of their glory. If we can do that, if we show that we are worthy again, then they will guide us back.’

  Florian didn’t argue, much as it galled him. All the files he had in his head, all the superior Commonwealth knowledge, told him what an utter load of crud the Church of the Return was. Yet he held back. He’d learned long ago that logic and facts never meant anything to true believers – of anything. And now he was slightly scared of Lukan, too – not just because he was completely dependent on him, but how the man would react if he learned what the child was, the hope she was bringing to Bienvenido.

  How many more people like him will she have to face? How much anger and fear?

  Smiling down at her little face, he brushed strands of hair from her forehead. It’s not fair, not fair at all.

  The radio messages faded to almost nothing after midnight. By then they were driving through broad open countryside, where the farm tracks stretched on for kilometres, and Lukan rarely changed direction. Progress was good.

  It was only when they drew closer to Opole that the regiment chatter started to build again. And this time there were sheriffs out there as well, reinforcing the roadblocks.

  ‘—definitely going for the city—’

  ‘—Coperearl is modified—’

  ‘—high speed—’

  ‘—chased Lukan before—’

  ‘—looks all battered, but—’

  Lukan sucked down a breath. ‘Now how about that? They know we’re coming.’

  ‘Joffler!’ Florian grunted in dismay. ‘He betrayed us.’

  Lukan’s answering laughter was shocking. ‘He’s a drug dealer, buddy. What did you expect?’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘You think all he does is pass waltans along to the city? He’s got deep connections, and Letroy is his territory. He supplies a lot of small local dealers. You weren’t five per cent of his traffic. Means he’s got a lot to protect when those troopers came a-knocking.’

  ‘Crud!’

  ‘You betcha. Now from what I’ve heard on the radio, they’ve got every road into the city staked out and blocked.’

  Florian instinctively hugged the girl tighter. No way could he let the PSR get her now. Not now he’d seen how they reacted to the space machine, how desperate they were to get their hands on him. Crud, it’s going to have to be Port Chana. He dreaded having to face Lurji again after all these years and those terrible words spoken at the end. But for the girl’s sake he was just going to have to swallow his pride – assuming he could find his brother. After all, the sheriffs never had.

  ‘I suppose I might know some people in Port Chana,’ he said miserably.

  ‘It’s a dump,’ Lukan said flatly. ‘Besides, I’m due to deliver you to Opole.’

  ‘But they’ve got it surrounded.’

  ‘They’ve got the roads covered, sure, but there’s plenty of rail tracks into the city.’

  ‘They’ll be covering the stations as well!’

  Lukan laughed again. ‘I said rail tracks, not trains.’

  *

  Less than an hour later, the Sandy-J was sitting atop a steep railway cutting. The lights of Opole were creating a pale haze in the predawn sky, five kilometres away to the west.

  ‘You ready?’ Lukan asked with a manic grin.

  ‘Oh Uracus.’

  ‘Come on, buddy. This is what I was talking about before. This is living.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Florian muttered. ‘But for how long?’ Clearly, Lukan was crazy.

  ‘Oh yeah, here we go!’ Lukan gunned Sandy-J down the slope.

  Florian squeezed himself back into the seat, holding the girl firmly. They must have been tilting at fifty degrees, though it seemed they were only one degree off vertical as they dropped. He could feel Sandy-J’s back end starting to slide sideways. Lukan spun the steering wheel enthusiastically, fighting the skid, keeping them stable.

  Then they reached the bottom of the cutting, levelling out with a lurch. Essie moaned in her sleep as she was jolted around. Florian shushed her, stroking her face softly.

  Lukan steered Sandy-J onto the tracks. The metal rails stretched out ahead of them, perfectly straight lines reaching into the heart of the city.

  ‘Do you know the train timetable?’ Florian asked nervously.

  ‘Nope! Just hoping the Skylords are smiling on me tonight.’

  ‘Oh crudding Uracus.’

  ‘Hey! Young ears, buddy.’ Lukan slipped the car into third gear, and accelerated. The big tyres thrummed monotonously over the sleepers as they raced forwards. For the first time, Sandy-J showed off the kind of speed she was capable of.

  Florian desperately wanted to shut his eyes, to disconnect from what was happening until such time as Lukan announced they were in the city and turning off the track. But instead, panic made him sit bolt upright, his eyes scanning round for any hint of a train – ahead or behind.

  After five kilometres, the cutting walls suddenly grew higher and they shot into a tunnel.

  ‘How long?’ Florian demanded.

  ‘Dunno.’ But Lukan did floor the accelerator. Sandy-J leapt forwards.

  Florian’s enhanced eyes found the soft semicircular glimmer of light that was the end of the tunnel up ahead. Then a pinpoint of bright light was shining in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Train!’ he yelped.

  Lukan chuckled. ‘Oh yeah, baby, this is what it’s all about!’

  Sandy-J raced out of the tunnel. The cutting walls sank down on either side, and Lukan twisted the wheel. They bounced off the tracks and sped along parallel to them.

  ‘Need a place to hide,’ Lukan said. ‘See anything?’

  ‘There. On the left. Shed.’

  ‘Got it.’ Lukan started braking. Behind them, the tunnel mouth was a bright white semicircle as the train approached.

  There wasn’t much room between the shed and the cutting wall. Sandy-J wound up tilted at thirty degrees, wedged in behind the shed as the train roared past, belching out steam and smoke, pistons pounding. A long line of goods wagons followed. Then silence.

  ‘Skylords,’ Lukan said knowingly.

  Utter crud! Florian thought.

  A kilometre and a half further on, they reached an intersection where more tracks joined the ones they were following. The land on both sides flattened out. Sidings branched away from the main tracks. Old abandoned wagons stood on rusting wheels, while buddleia bushes grew tall and spindly betw
een them. Lukan turned off the tracks and found a service road. Two minutes later they were driving carefully through the back streets of Opole’s Bingham district.

  *

  It was a small brick warehouse along Connolyn Street. Lukan stopped outside, and flashed his lights twice. The double doors were opened, and he drove in.

  With the headlights off, there wasn’t much light inside. A couple of low-wattage bulbs hung from the age-blackened rafters high overhead. The warehouse was practically empty, with just some old wooden packing crates along one side.

  Lukan took a moment in the silence after the engine had died, staring through the windscreen. ‘Careful around these guys,’ he said softly.

  Three men were waiting for them. Florian knew it was an ancient prejudice, but he didn’t like the look of them. They were dressed sharply, suits of expensive fabrics, cut well. Heavyset – a bulk that wasn’t all fat. And gold jewellery worn prominently: thick rings, bracelets, necklace chains outside their shirts, earrings.

  Earlier he’d been intimidated by Lukan; now he was glad the driver was sitting beside him.

  Essie woke, blinking, as Florian climbed awkwardly out of the car. Incredibly, she’d grown again while curled up in his lap overnight. The dress was far too tight across her shoulders. Teal lolloped out behind him. Lukan was climbing out on his side, smiling welcome at the men, reaching out a hand. ‘Perrick, good to see you, buddy.’

  The taller of the three men smiled and shook hands. ‘Impressive, my man,’ Perrick said in a throaty rasp. ‘The sheriffs have the whole city sealed up. My boys here said it was pointless waiting for you. But me? I said no, we will wait. The mighty Lukan has never missed a delivery. And see, here you are.’

  ‘Yep, here I am. And this here is my friend, Florian.’

  ‘Greetings, Florian.’

  ‘Hello.’ He wanted to say more, but Essie was snivelling.

  ‘Dress tight, Dada. Everything hurts. I’s hungree.’

  ‘Okay, sweetheart. Daddy will sort this out. There’s some milk in my backpack. I’ll take the dress off and wrap you in my coat. Be nice and cosy, yes?’

  ‘Hungree! Need toilet.’

  The men sniggered. Florian tried to ignore that as he went back into the car and retrieved his backpack.

  ‘You got the cargo?’ Perrick asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Lukan said. ‘In the boot.’

  While Florian was trying to pull the last richmilk bladder out of his backpack, one of the men opened Sandy-J’s boot, and retrieved the duffel bag.

  ‘Um, I need to go with you to Billop,’ Florian said as Essie snatched the bladder of richmilk from his hands. ‘I need my money.’

  Perrick directed a neat implacable smile at him. ‘No, you don’t go see Billop. Not now. Not ever. We’ve been listening to the sheriffs and the PSR on the radio. You are way too hot, my friend – that’s if you’re even human. We don’t need dangerous liabilities like you fouling our territory.’

  ‘Of course I’m crudding human! Lukan, tell them!’

  Lukan raised his hands in a sorrowful gesture. ‘I’m just the driver.’

  ‘You’re crudding kidding,’ Florian cried in outrage. He turned to Perrick. ‘But I need my money.’ Teal picked up on his anger and barked.

  ‘What money is that?’ Perrick asked, feigning curiosity.

  ‘My money! Seven years I’ve been trapping waltans for you. I want my money. It’s mine!’

  ‘You should go to the sheriffs, then. Put a complaint in.’

  All of them laughed at that.

  ‘Those are my waltans,’ Florian shouted. He started towards the man carrying the duffel bag, ready to snatch back what was rightfully his.

  ‘Don’t!’ Lukan warned.

  The third man took two quick steps forwards and punched Florian hard in the gut. He doubled up as the breath was slammed out of him and toppled onto the hard stone floor. Essie wailed. Teal barked, and charged forwards, snarling.

  ‘Crudding dog!’

  Teal leapt, jaws closing on the arm of the man with the duffel bag.

  Medical alerts sprang up in Florian’s exovision. He couldn’t get enough oxygen, and his heart was doing its panicked flutter again. Concentrating was hard. There was a lot of angry shouting. Teal’s snarls.

  A pistol shot rang out. Incredibly loud.

  And Teal was lying on the ground, blood pouring from the huge hole in his neck.

  Florian yelled out in anguish.

  Perrick swung his pistol round to point it directly at Florian’s head. ‘Faller bastard.’

  ‘Imminent threat identified,’ Florian’s u-shadow declared. ‘Suggest immediate neutralization.’ More displays slipped up into his exovision as the defence bracelet armed itself. Target circles captured all four men, shrinking around them like coloured shadows.

  ‘Do it!’ Florian wheezed.

  Four slim, dazzling blue-white lines ripped out from the bracelet, stabbing the men. A ferocious bang accompanied the discharge. And all four of them were flying backwards through the air as if they’d been struck by a sledgehammer.

  ‘Crudding Uracus,’ Florian whimpered. The silence in the warehouse was as shocking as the beams’ thunder had been a second ago. Then Essie started wailing at the top of her lungs, tears flooding down her cheeks.

  Florian patted the smouldering holes in his shirt cuff as new files popped up in his exovision, explaining the bracelet stun-pulse function.

  Mostly harmless, the summary read. Targets usually recover after a few minutes. Not recommended for targets with a weak heart.

  Lukan was twitching where he lay, so he was still alive. Perrick and the man with the duffel bag were unconscious, but groaning as if having nightmares. The third man was completely inert.

  Florian staggered over to Essie and picked her up, hugging her close. ‘It’s over,’ he soothed. ‘It’s over, sweetheart. Daddy promises. It’s all over. Only good things are going to happen now.’

  She went rigid in his hold. ‘Leave, Dada,’ she said in a clear voice. ‘Bad people will come. Always more bad people.’ Then she slumped down lethargically and started trembling.

  ‘Oh great Giu, help me,’ Florian moaned. He looked at Teal’s body for a while, holding back the anger and tears, then picked up his backpack and headed for the door.

  *

  It was seven years since Florian had been in the Gates district. As dawn washed its narrow crooked streets in a pastel light, he found the old memory triggers oddly reassuring. Nothing had changed. The sweet shop his mother used to take him and Lurji to. The second-hand clothes store. TollGate, a long bent lane where he and Lurji had fled a gang of lads who’d shouted out ‘Eliters!’ and run at them with clubs. Six Bells pub where, aged thirteen and goaded by his brother, he’d tried to buy a beer, only to be thrown out by the jeering barmaid; Lurji had laughed and taunted him the whole way home.

  Most of all, he was reassured by the links. The Gates was full of link pings, buzzing around him like invisible bees as Eliters called to one another with address codes, then began talking. Encrypted files filled the electromagnetic spectrum. The general band was full of data packets with the Warrior Angel’s icon.

  It was music to his mind. I’m home.

  And the broad green-painted door halfway along MistleGate – Aunt Terannia’s club. The door was smaller than memory had it. Drab paint, old and scuffed.

  He stood in front of it for a long moment. Then knocked. Nothing. The club had probably only shut a couple of hours ago.

  Knocked again, more forcefully this time.

  Heavy bolts thudded back, and the door swung open. Aunt Terannia stood there – a formidable woman in her nineties, dyed ebony hair dishevelled, wrapped in a threadbare burgundy towelling robe, blinking in amazement. ‘Florian? Oh Uracus, it is you. Come in, my boy, come in.’

  To his absolute horror, he burst into tears.

  BOOK FOUR

  A Long Fast Week

  1

  The Opole Gene
ral Hospital was a nine-storey grey stone building on the edge of the Jaminth district, built over four hundred years ago. Designed to provide the comfortable Void-era middle-classes with individual rooms where they could be treated privately, the management board had struggled to adapt it for the requirements of modern medicine and the massive post-Transition political shift of the state providing equal medical treatment for all. But it persevered through funding crises and staff shortages, giving local citizens a basic medical safety net.

  Ambulances delivered urgent cases to the Emergency Treatment Centre, a newly built brick annex at the back. To get to it, you had to turn off Roturan Road, which ran along the front of the hospital, and down Vilgor Alley – a narrow backstreet that had a sharp turn at the end, which was difficult for ordinary vans, let alone anything as big as an ambulance.

  When Chaing’s Cubar pulled up outside the hospital late in the afternoon, his PSR driver didn’t even have the option of turning down into Vilgor Alley: it was blocked off by three sheriff patrol cars. He and Jenifa got out quickly and barged through the cluster of reporters outside the main entrance. They were both wearing their PSR uniforms, which quashed any complaints before they were made.

  The Emergency Treatment Centre was divided into three wards. The sheriffs had taken over one of them, with two officers standing guard outside the door. They exchanged a glance as Chaing advanced on them and reluctantly let him past unchallenged.

  Inside, the long ward was lined with assessment bays that could be curtained off. Most of the curtains were open, showing several injured sheriffs on the trolleys. Arms were in slings. Foreheads were grazed and gashed, wrapped crudely in bandages. Pressure dressings were bound over abdominal wounds. One had badly blooded torn trousers, her foot at an impossible angle. The ward’s team of harried doctors and nurses were treating the casualties, conferring with a couple of surgeons.

  More sheriffs milled about in the centre of the ward, looking angry and anxious – wanting to help and not wanting to get in the way.

  ‘Where is he?’ Chaing asked the first one.

  The sheriff pointed along the ward, scowling. ‘We should have just left the piece of shit in the wreck.’