Judas Unchained

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

For once there was no crowd waiting to greet Elaine Doi as the presidential limousine pulled up smoothly. The bodyguards riding with her still went through the disembarkation procedure, scanning the area, running identity requests on the few people who were standing outside the gateway control center. It was a nondescript building made from a high-density metal stone amalgamation with slim recessed vertical windows, the kind of office block that would be rented by a small company going nowhere. In this case it was very literally in the shade of the Hanko wormhole generator building, whose composite panel sides rose up behind the gateway control like a vertical mountain.

Presidential security gave the okay, and the limousine’s thick armored doors unlocked. The pressure seal that protected her from chemical and biological attack disengaged, and the force field switched off.

“I see Nigel hasn’t bothered to come and welcome me,” the President complained. How the unisphere shows would love that slight. He’d sent some station management types to wait on the steps for her instead.

“Remember the Michelangelo feed is live,” Patricia warned as the door irised apart.

As she stepped out of the limousine Doi’s smile had the appropriate gravitas for the occasion. She thanked the two CSI managers for sparing the time to greet her at what must be a frantically busy time for them on this historic day. Nodded courteously at the reporter from the Michelangelo show standing to one side, and let herself be ushered inside.

The control center itself had undergone a hurried modification over the last few days, with over a dozen new consoles crammed into the narrow aisles between the existing two rows. Whereas before, under normal operating conditions, there would be no more than three or four people in the center at any one time, each position now had a technician sitting at it, while more specialists and engineers stood behind them monitoring the new procedures. In addition, the back wall was lined with dignitaries, including Michelangelo himself, who’d arm-twisted an invitation out of CST. With only half an hour to go before the wormhole was switched to its new advanced temporal flow mode, the atmosphere was strained and excited. None of the technical staff were bothering to use the communications links; they shouted questions and comments around the center at high volume.

“It’s worse than a Senate debate,” Doi said from the corner of her mouth as they entered the control center.

Patricia’s neutral expression never flickered.

Nigel Sheldon came over to greet her, apologetic that he hadn’t been at the front entrance earlier. “Things are getting a little tense around here,” he explained. “They even asked my advice on exotic matter stress. I was quite flattered.”

“I’m sure you gave them every help,” Doi said tightly; she was very aware of the Michelangelo reporter standing a few paces away, capturing everything for the unisphere audience. In her virtual vision grid the total access number was creeping up to the kind of level that the last Prime invasion had generated.

“We all contribute what we can,” Nigel said in a very condescending tone.

Rafael Columbia came over to welcome Doi.

“Admiral,” she said in relief; at least he would be more formal. The occasion deserved it, she felt. “How is the navy coping with the remaining Prime ships?” she said, as if the Prime armadas were some minor problem left over, a few spaceships already on the run from superior Commonwealth forces.

“Secure in this system, Madam President,” Rafael said. “We now have eight frigates assigned to elimination duty. Over half of the Prime ships have been successfully eliminated, the rest are in flight. Protecting Wessex with its wormhole generators is imperative. We will guarantee it at all costs.”

“I’m sure you will, Admiral.” Which didn’t quite equate the briefing he’d given her ten hours ago. The Prime ships in many of the Second47 systems were trying to congregate into swarms, merging their defense capabilities while they attempted to find a suitable asteroid or moon to claim as a new home. But in seven systems, the gathering swarms were heading into the Commonwealth worlds. The navy had diverted frigates to try to deflect the inward migration, but the numbers were against them. Those seven planets were going to have a tough time of it during the next week while the evacuation progressed.

“We’re almost ready,” Nigel said. He and Doi walked down to the front of the control center while the noise died down. The five big holographic portals on the wall were projecting data schematics for the wormhole. The central one switched to a picture of Hanko’s Premier Speaker, Hasimer Owram.

“Mr. Sheldon, Madam President,” he said.

Doi was very aware of the hostile undercurrent in his voice, and hoped no one else would pick up on it. The last talk she’d had with him, five hours ago, had been short and antagonistic. Starting with his dismay that Hanko was going to be the first to begin evacuating into the future or, as he put it, the experiment to test if the whole lunatic time travel idea worked; right up to the fact that Nigel wasn’t kidding about not letting anyone opt out of the operation. Owram had wanted to be allowed back into the Commonwealth so he could “monitor” the preparations being made for his people on their new planet.

“Hello, Hasimer,” Doi said. “We’re about to open the wormhole for you.”

“Everyone here is ready. We’re leaving with great sadness, but also a sense of hope and pride. Hanko’s society will flourish again.”

“I have no doubt of that. I look forward to visiting and experiencing your triumph in the flesh.”

“Hasimer,” Nigel said. “The wormhole is ready. We’ve got a direct lock on the gateway at Anagaska. It’s opening now.”

“Anagaska it is then,” Hasimer Owram said. “Make sure we’ve got some decent weather when we arrive.”

“Consider it done,” Nigel said. Anagaska was a phase three world, eight light-years from Balkash, which CST had already advanced to predevelopment state. Its position close to the Lost23 was another source of Hasimer’s anger, but as Nigel had told him and all the other Second47 planetary leaders, the Wessex-based wormholes couldn’t reach the other side of the Commonwealth.

Doi watched the image pull back from Hasimer. The Premier Speaker had been standing beside a dark green six-seat Audi Tarol that was parked directly in front of the Hanko gateway. The train tracks had been ripped up and replaced by a vast apron of enzyme-bonded concrete that had been poured without any finesse over the ground all the way back to the main highway leading to the planetary station. It was starting to look like that wasn’t going to be nearly enough.

The silence in the control center was broken with a buzz of incredulity as the Hanko station yard expanded across the portal. It was covered with vehicles of every description, from open trikes to twenty-wheel trucks. The police had done their best to line them up in columns, but the patrol cars had soon become surrounded and blocked by the sheer volume of the evacuation vehicles. Their strobes were all that gave away their position, points of bright light flashing amid the vast multicolored carpet that covered the entire station. At some point perspective failed, and the vehicles looked like blocks in a city grid, a city that had a vast black river winding through the center. That was the people who didn’t have a car or truck or bike, who’d arrived at the planetary station on one of the thousands of trains collecting them from across the planet. Local news media had estimated there were already over seven million people on foot waiting to walk through the gateway.

A frosty mauve light shone out of the opened gateway. For once not the light of a distant sun, but radiated by the exotic matter itself. Normally the wormhole’s internal length was so close to zero it was for all intents and purposes immeasurable; this one was a glowing tunnel that extended a good way to infinity, and was still lengthening. Air roared into it as the pressure curtain was shut down. Cheers and applause began in the control center, building in volume. Doi joined in, clapping warmly, smiling congratulations at Nigel.

Hasimer Owram drove himself and his family into the wormhole. There had also been a lot of debate about whether he should be first or last. Hasimer had wanted to be last. “It is the decent thing,” he claimed. “I won’t have anyone’s respect if I slink away first and leave everybody else to wait for the atmosphere to collapse and the Prime ships to start their bombardment.”

Nigel had overruled that. “Hanko is going to be the first planet to leave for the future, for better or worse. People are going to be frightened of what’s ahead. You need to lead by example, to show them there is nothing to fear. You must take that first step yourself.”

A seething Hasimer agreed to go first, leaving the Deputy Premier Speaker to bring up the rear.

Doi watched for several minutes as the traffic began to flow into the wormhole. Those on foot rushed forward, shepherded between two lines of police. She saw two or three fall. Didn’t see anyone stop and help them.

With a quick glance to make sure the Michelangelo reporter wasn’t focusing on her, she asked Nigel: “What happens if the generator fails?”

“They die,” he said. “Simple as that. But don’t worry, our generators are designed for long-term continuous usage; and we can sustain the wormhole with a different generator whenever the primary needs maintenance and refurbishment. It can be done. I would not have suggested this if there was too great a risk.”

She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so intent and sincere. It bestowed a curious feeling of confidence. “How are the other generator modifications progressing?”

“We should be able to start the evacuations on Vyborg, Omoloy, and Ilichio within a few hours. The rest will be completed within three days. How long individual worlds take to shove their populations through is up to their governments. Some are coping better than others.”

“And our other problem?”

“We’ll discuss that in a secure facility.”

“Yes. Of course.” She looked over at Michelangelo, who cocked an eyebrow expectantly. “I’d better go and do my PR.”

Michelangelo’s welcoming smile was broad and horribly earnest. Doi got a sinking feeling as she approached the media giant. There was just so much war-related news she couldn’t even keep up with that, let alone ordinary current events. Patricia had given her a reasonable briefing on the trip to Wessex, and the presidential office had a full rebuttal service on-line ready for her, although any pause to consult would be jumped on by a true pro like Michelangelo.

“Madam President,” he said formally, bowing slightly.

“Michelangelo, pleased to see you.”

“We’re running ground reviews for another minute, then we’ll switch straight to interview.”

“Fine.” Doi positioned the rebuttal team icon to the middle of her virtual vision, and pulled the show feed from her grid. Hanko-based reporters were moving through the awesome crowd outside the gateway, snatching comments at random. Mostly they were good-natured, everyone was pulling together: a man who was giving an elderly neighbor a lift with his family; bus company employees who’d volunteered to drive the buses loaded with patients from the hospitals; young kids who’d grabbed pets. People helping out other people. The refugees were a community pulling together in the worst crisis they’d ever known. They gave the ruined sky above the force field resentful looks, but spoke about the trip through the wormhole with cautious optimism. Some snide remarks about Hasimer saving his ass first, which made Doi tighten her lips in disapproval. There was anger that nothing more had been done to save their world, and a lot of heartache about everything they were being forced to leave behind. The feed switched to Michelangelo.

“So, Madam President, now we’ve seen the temporal displacement start, do you think anything more could have been done to save Hanko and the remaining Second47 planets?”

“Not a thing,” Doi said. “The navy did a magnificent job—”

“Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve just fired Admiral Kime. That doesn’t sound to me that you were satisfied with the navy’s performance.”

“The ships and their crews performed superbly. It was the way they were prioritized that gave the War Cabinet grave concern. Consequently, we had no alternative but to accept Admiral Kime’s resignation. I cannot hide from the fact that we didn’t have enough starships, and that is a major funding issue which Senator Goldreich is examining; but the sheer scale of the alien invasion is still something we are all coming to terms with.”

“Are you worried that more attacks will be forthcoming?”

“No. We have taken steps to insure this atrocity will not be repeated.”

“I understand you can’t give any details, but how confident can you be of that?”

“Completely. We have all seen how powerful our weapons have become. I accept responsibility for the ultimate outcome from the deployment of such power against living creatures, but I will not hold back from defending the Commonwealth. I believe in us, I believe we have a right to exist.”

“Something I’m sure my rival, or I should say ex-rival, Alessandra Baron believed in, too. Can you tell us why Senate Security forces thought it necessary to kill her during an attempt at arrest? Did she ask one awkward question too many in the Senate dining hall?”

A century of politics in the front line enabled the President to keep her expression calm, but it was a close thing. “I’m sorry, Michelangelo, but as you well know I can’t comment on an active classified case.”

“So you do know what Alessandra’s alleged crime was?”

“I can’t comment.”

“Very well, can you tell us why Boongate has dropped out of the unisphere? Have the Prime ships successfully invaded?”

“Certainly not. The navy is keeping them off every Second47 world.”

“Then why is there no unisphere link?”

“I believe the physical connection has failed; it’s unusual and unfortunate at this time, but there’s nothing mysterious about it. I assure you we are in contact with Boongate through secure government links. They’re just not wide enough to provide a full unisphere connection.”

“Did the linkage failure have anything to do with the wormhole being reopened?”

“I am not aware of the wormhole to Boongate being reopened.”

“It was, for a very short time. According to some of the refugees who took advantage of the opening to come here to Wessex, and we’ve interviewed four so far, three trains went through from here. What was on those trains, Madam President? What was so important that they were using lethal force to protect? They were shooting at each other, weren’t they?”

“You’re asking me questions about a local incident which I’ve never heard of. The office of President doesn’t exist as a research facility for news shows. I can only suggest you direct your queries about gunfire to the local police.”

“Fair enough, Madam President. Finally, can you tell us if it’s true your chief of staff Patricia Kantil was called in for questioning by Senate Security?”

“I can tell you that Patricia Kantil has my complete confidence. Thank you.” Elaine Doi turned on a heel and marched away.

“Thank you, Madam President,” Michelangelo called after her. There was a great deal of mockery in his voice.

The presidential bodyguard fell in around Elaine as she left the control center, her face a perfect image of contentment. Patricia walked beside her, saying nothing, equally happy-looking. Once they were back in the presidential limousine Elaine checked the screening was on, then kicked the door.

“Where the fuck does that dickhead get off asking me those questions?” she yelled. “Egotistical shit! I’ll fucking have him shot if he pulls a stunt like that again.”

“Don’t say that, even in private,” Patricia said. “One day you’ll slip and say it in public.”

“Right.” Doi kicked the door again, with feeling. “Bastard! Who gave him all that information, for Christ’s sake? And was it true about the Boongate wormhole?”

“Someone’s leaking badly. I suspect it’s being done to soften the shock impact when the public finally gets to hear the Starflyer is real. That would indicate the navy was behind Michelangelo’s illicit briefing. Specifically Columbia, the bastard. He’s building a perception in the public mind that they’re on the ball.”

Doi gave Patricia what amounted to a guilty look. “How much damage can the Starflyer do us?”

“It’s been manipulating Commonwealth politics for decades. Seventy planets have been destroyed, and millions of people killed. We almost lost the war because of cost considerations. Voter mistrust of politicians has never been stronger. Frankly, there’ll be a bloodbath at the next elections. Our assessment team estimates around seventy percent of the current senators will lose their seats.”

“And my reelection chances?”

Patricia drew a breath. “I’ll resign as your chief of staff as soon as Sheldon wipes out Dyson Alpha. That should give you some distance from the Starflyer.”

“Only in a fair and just universe. Nobody’s going to forget the shotgun about me being one of its agents, not now.”

“It was black propaganda. The Starflyer sent it. Isabella…” Her mouth flattened in anger.

Elaine put a sympathetic hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“They said it corrupted her mind when she was a child. Jesus. Can you imagine that? A little girl having her brain invaded by that monster. What she must have gone through, the suffering.” Tears began to well up as she bent over, her head falling into her hands.

“It’s over now,” Elaine said, rubbing Patricia’s spine as the uncontrollable sobbing began.

“What I saw of her, they were glimpses of what she could have been like. How beautiful her life could have been. I should have known, should have realized something was wrong. A teenager giving me advice on political strategy. Me! Of all people. But I loved her, so I never questioned.”

“She can still be that person you thought you saw. They can root the Starflyer out of her memories, turn her back to a full human being.”

Patricia sat back up, dabbing at the moisture on her face. “I’m sorry. This is stupid of me.”

“I understand. And I don’t want your resignation. We’ll face this together.” Elaine sighed. “If there’s going to be a future we can face it in. God alone knows what is really going on. Sheldon’s got himself a little bunch of cohorts who’re calling all the shots. I mean, we didn’t even know about the Boongate wormhole. What the hell did happen there?”

“None of my sources knew about it.”

“Damnit, I’m the President.”

“That doesn’t mean a lot to Sheldon, or the other Dynasties.”

“He is going to wipe out Dyson Alpha, isn’t he?”

“For all he’s a ruthless bastard, he does have a sense of honor. If he said he’ll do it, he will.”

“Hell, I hope you’re right.”

***

Illanum wasn’t like a normal town. It was founded to act as a supply depot for all the estates that the Sheldon Dynasty scattered over the planet; coupled with a small airport for the hypersonics that flew the ultra-wealthy to their extremely private homes. There was also housing, and a few select malls, for the thousands of technicians and specialist construction workers and household staff who helped maintain the estates. Urban expansion also extended to schools for the children of senior Dynasty members, stores promoting the most expensive designer items to be found in the Commonwealth, and a few high-class low-morals leisure clubs whose existence was a constant source of semi-envious rumor on the tackier unisphere gossip shows. Not all the Dynasty members invited by Nigel to build a residence on Cressat favored the splendid isolation route; they preferred a tighter community that had some interaction and built themselves town houses instead.

The district Ozzie drove through didn’t exactly suffer from population pressure, or a shortage of space. Houses were vast, set inside huge open grounds. His Mercedes cab was the only vehicle on the road that seemed curiously narrow amid such ostentation.

“Who are we visiting?” Mellanie asked.

“Old friend,” Ozzie said reluctantly. He thought he recognized some of the ridiculous buildings they were driving past, like the crimson pyramid and the Scottish baronial castle inside its own moat, but it had been a long time. And he didn’t want to check the location with the local net. Nigel and Nelson might well have discovered his backdoor authorization codes by now. He also knew his disappearance would be noticed at some point, sooner rather than later. When that happened all hell would break loose. Dynasty security would run a forensic audit through the mansion’s network, and discover traces of the SIsubroutine. Nigel would go apeshit about that; he’d never really trusted the SI. Infiltrating a copy into his Dynasty’s secure world was essentially a declaration of war.

A ghostly white building that was all vertical curves and long balconies slid into view on the top of a small rise where it commanded a view right across the surrounding district. “Ah, here we go,” he said, and turned off up the drive.

Ozzie knew the house array’s sensors had seen him; he just hoped he was still cleared for authorized entry. In fact, he hoped it was still her house—reasonable enough assumption, people here didn’t sell up and move like they did on ordinary worlds. With his aversion to establishing a link to any part of Cressat’s net still riding high, Ozzie didn’t try to call ahead to see if anyone was inside; instead he rapped on the tall metal door. When Mellanie put her hands on her hips and gave him a maddened stare, he just shrugged lamely.

There was a sound of bare feet walking on a wooden floor. The door swung open, revealing a pink and orange hallway. A woman was standing there, dressed in a black robe, her hair in disarray.

Ozzie squinted. “Giselle?”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Hi, babe.” Ozzie smiled brightly. “Surprise!”

“Dickhead, why are you here?”

“I missed you. Can we talk inside?”

Giselle Swinsol glowered at Mellanie. “Who’s this? You look familiar.”

“Mellanie.”

“The media bitch. Try recording me and I will personally rip your throat out, reach down the hole, and pull your dying heart out so you can watch it stop beating.”

“I don’t record ugly, boring people.”

“Ladies.” Ozzie held his hands out to both of them. “Please, come on. A little civility here. Giselle, Mellanie is a good friend. She’s not working on a story, are you?”

“Probably not,” Mellanie said querulously.

“There, see. Everything is cool.”

Giselle glared at him again. “Cool? You think this is cool?” Her arm came up fast, and she landed a perfectly aimed slap on Ozzie’s cheek. She stomped off back into the house, leaving the door open.

Ozzie tried to wriggle his jaw back into place. It hurt. There were red blotches interfering with his vision.

Mellanie’s smile had returned. “Old girlfriend?”

“Wife,” Ozzie explained wearily. He ventured inside. Crockery was being slammed around in the kitchen. “Did we interrupt dinner?” Ozzie asked. The décor had been changed sometime over the last century, he noticed. The kitchen fittings were now all jet-black, with glass doors. Scarlet worktops glowed faintly, casting a hazy hue on the ceiling. Chic antique Miami bar stools surrounded the long breakfast bar.

“Breakfast,” Giselle snapped. She tugged a coffee mug from a maidbot’s tentacles and shoved it in the dishwasher cabinet. “I’ve been working twenty-six/seven and I’m tired, and I’ve got to get back in another hour.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“I knew Nigel would give you a senior post in the Dynasty starship project, after all it’s practically your planet. You were the best choice to head the research team into the Planters. How is all the gigalife, by the way?”

“Like me, it survives perfectly well without you.”

“I need a favor.”

“Then you should ask someone who cares about you. There must be one person in the Commonwealth, surely.”

“Okay, bad approach, I’m sorry. I’m here because I need to get up to the starships.”

“Ozzie!” She grabbed a side plate.

He didn’t think she’d throw it. “I see you kept the memories of us, then.”

Giselle tipped her head to one side as her expression turned menacingly calm. “Oh, yes. Won’t get fooled again. Thank you.”

“I need help, man. Please, Giselle.” He was surprised at how shaky his voice had become. This really was the final throw of the dice; if Giselle didn’t come through it was truly all over. He wasn’t sure he could live in a universe in which such a crime had been committed. “I know what I did before, I kept the memories of us, too; but please please trust me this one last time. I have to get to the starships. You know what Nigel is going to do, don’t you?”

“What has to be done.”

“It doesn’t.” Ozzie thought he caught a tiny flicker of doubt. “There’s a chance,” he persisted. “A small, pitiful, weak chance that I might be right, and genocide can be averted. Let me take that chance. It’s only me that will be at risk. I’m not going to drag anyone else down with me. Just let me do what I have to do. That’s all I ask. Please.”

“God damn you.” Giselle’s free hand thumped the scarlet worktop. “God damn you, Oswald Isaac.”

Mellanie’s smile had been in place the whole drive from Giselle’s house to the gateway. She kept seeing Orion’s face. His astonishment. Delight. Laughing. Awestruck. She looked up curiously as soon as they emerged from the other side of the gateway. The sun on this world hadn’t quite risen yet, a thick gentian light was only just sliding up out of the eastern horizon to diminish the stars. Something moved quickly high overhead. Something huge.

“Oh, wow!” Mellanie exclaimed, pressing herself to the car’s passenger window. The spaceflower traversed the sky, almost invisible it was so dark. “It was so big.”

From the driver’s seat, Giselle made a dismissive sound.

“More secrets locked away in a single molecule here than Newton and Baker ever figured between them,” Ozzie said.

“Really?” Mellanie said, all mock attention. “Oswald,” she sniggered.

Giselle chuckled disrespectfully.

Ozzie folded his arms across his chest, and glowered out at the sterile landscape. Mellanie grinned again. They were following an Ables forty-wheel transporter carrying a big sphere swathed in polythene and orange wrap straps. The truck behind them was laden with standard cargo pods, gray-white cylinders with environmental hoses plugged in to the end. Mellanie had been surprised by how many vehicles were on the road and the size of their loads. The Sheldon Dynasty’s lifeboat project was clearly pitched an order of magnitude above all the others.

Giselle drove them along the unnamed town’s ring road until they approached what appeared to be a medium-sized industrial park. Pylons rose above the highest roofs, floodlighting the whole area. Under the intense blue-tinged light Mellanie could see that most of the warehouses were joined together in a fishbone pattern. She recognized the wormhole generator building at one end, larger than all the others, its dark paneling more substantial. Behind it were four big fusion generators. A circle of concrete conical towers stood guard around the whole area.

The road took them in toward the complex, passing through a broad arch that seemed to be made from silvery scales. “Here we go,” Giselle said in a nervous whisper. “If the RI hasn’t accepted my personnel updates you can kiss your ass good-bye, Oswald. The smallest perimeter weapons here are atom lasers.”

They drove under the arch. Mellanie’s inserts reported a scan that was almost sophisticated enough to detect them.

Giselle held her breath; she was hunched up over the steering wheel expecting the worst.

“I never could figure out that insecurity of yours,” Ozzie said. “Nobody ever questions the boss.”

“The corporate management expert speaks,” Giselle sneered. “Do you have any idea how…oh, forget it.” She relaxed her hold on the steering wheel.

Giselle parked in her reserved slot outside the administration block and led them directly to the locker room on the ground floor. Mellanie pulled on a shapeless green jumpsuit of semiorganic fabric, which then contracted around her. Its knees and elbows puffed out, providing her with protection against knocks in freefall. Giselle handed her a white helmet. Ozzie was already trying to stuff his hair into one. Eventually he gave up and left the straps dangling down.

The wormhole leading to the orbiting assembly platform cluster was a standard commercial model, the type CST used for its train network, with a circular gateway thirty meters wide. Even that was only just large enough to swallow the spherical compartments that rode into it on a broad malmetal conveyor system. Mellanie stood on the walkway at the side of the transfer hall that led to the gateway, and watched two of the spheres slide past. All their polythene and protective webbing had been removed, leaving the silver-white surface exposed. Given that the exterior was designed to withstand the rigors of deep-space exposure, it seemed relatively delicate. She wondered what Paul would give to see this. It was strange thinking these modules were designed to fly halfway across the galaxy, never to return, that the starships which they would form could actually seed a whole new civilization. She’d looked at paintings in the Great Moments history book that showed the colony boats arriving in Australia; this must be the modern equivalent.

The spheres gave way to a whole series of much smaller cargo pods.

“All right,” Giselle said. “We’re on.”

The three of them moved along the walkway to the gateway. On the other side, Mellanie could see the assembly platform’s reception module; first impression was the inside of a globe that had been covered with the raw architecture of factories. It was an intricate orb of girders that seemed to be rippling constantly. She realized that the grid was host to hundreds of bots scurrying about, while on the underside manipulator arms were in permanent motion. Bright scarlet holograms flashed over half of the girders, warning people off the mechanical systems. The spheres and cargo pods passed sedately along branches of the conveyor to disappear down metallic tunnels leading out to various starship bays.

Ahead of her, where the walkway ended at the gateway, people were grabbing on to handhoops that skimmed along an electromuscle rail which took them inside the reception module. “I’ve programmed the system to take us to the frigate dock,” Giselle said. “Just hang on.”

When she reached the end of the walkway, Mellanie imitated what she’d seen Giselle do, and simply grabbed one of the hoops. Its plyplastic handle responded by flowing securely around her hand, and it moved forward along the electromuscle band, hauling her along. Gravity vanished abruptly, and Mellanie clamped her mouth down hard as every instinct told her she was falling. After a minute she got her breathing back under control, and tentatively began to enjoy the ride. The only thing preventing her from the full novelty was her stomach, which seemed uncomfortably queasy. Orion had told her about that sensation when the Pathfinder fell over the water worldlet. She smiled fondly. Crazy boy.

Mellanie was carried around a quarter of the reception module where the mechanical sounds of the bots and manipulator arms reached stadium crowd volume. Then they curved around to travel along one of the big tunnels. It branched, then split into five. The handle carried her down the smallest passage at the junction, only four meters wide.

There was a malmetal airlock door at the end. An orange hologram illuminated the air in front of it, reading: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Giselle anchored herself on a fuseto patch and put her hand on the i-spot control. The airlock door peeled back in five segments. They moved forward, and the segments closed behind them.

Mellanie suddenly felt claustrophobic in the chamber. It took a lot of willpower not to snap out: Hurry up. A few seconds later, the outer door peeled open.

The frigate dock was a metal cylinder three hundred meters long and seventy wide, with an open end sealed off by a pressure curtain that glowed electric purple. Unlike the assembly bays, the interior was almost devoid of manipulator arms. Three weapons loading cradles were resting on the solid end, their telescoping lift-limbs fully retracted. Two ellipsoid frigates were docked opposite each other halfway along the cylinder, the Charybdis and the Scylla. Scylla was enclosed by curving mesh platforms that gave bots and technicians access to every square inch of the infinite-black hull; several people were working on her. The Charybdis was almost clear, except for three umbilical arms and a plyplastic access cage over its open airlock.

Ozzie stared at the frigate with a greedy smile. “Man oh man. Is it armed?”

“I don’t know,” Giselle said in a subdued tone; now they were in the docking bay she seemed almost puzzled that they’d made it this far. “They’re scheduled to leave in another five hours, so it should be.”

“Let’s go find out.” Ozzie kicked off hard, soaring across the docking bay. After a moment, Giselle followed him.

It was no longer freefall that was making Mellanie feel sick; she was genuinely scared now. The frigates looked chillingly powerful. That they were built for aggression could never be in doubt. And the fact that one or probably both were carrying a nova bomb didn’t help her nerves. She started to activate her inserts, configuring them to scan for any activity. “It can’t be this easy,” she muttered. Her doubts were beginning to be overtaken by a growing excitement. Dear heavens, I’m going to hijack a Dynasty frigate. I’m going to fly to Dyson Alpha to end the war. Me! She jumped across the wide open space.

Ozzie had landed on the wall not far from the Charybdis. He used the fuseto patches on his cuffs and soles to scuttle along like a crab until he reached the thick pillar supporting one of the umbilical arms. A man in a green jumpsuit and white helmet emerged from the frigate and started shouting. Ozzie waved back cheerfully. Giselle landed beside him, and started to calm the man.

“You must recognize Ozzie,” Mellanie heard her say as soon as she was in range.

“Well, yes,” he replied.

“Hi there, dude.”

“Yes, hello. But nobody put this on the schedule.”

“Mark, come on,” Giselle said. “You know the schedule changes faster than anyone can keep up.”

Mellanie landed on the side of the dock and struggled not to fly off again. Fuseto patches were damn difficult to work. She studied her feet for a moment to make sure they were secure, then looked up. Her face split into a wide smile. “Hello, Mark.”

“Huh!” Mark gawped in disbelief. “Mellanie?”

Giselle gave her an alarmed look. “You two know each other?”

“We’re old best friends,” Mellanie drawled in her huskiest voice. Sure enough, Mark’s face turned red.

“She’s a reporter,” Mark protested. “And she works for the SI. I thought the Dynasty didn’t want it on this planet.”

“And she saved your ass,” Mellanie said. “How are Barry and Sandy?”

Mark made an embarrassed grumbling sound in his throat.

“Mark, I’m engaged to Nigel now,” Mellanie said. “I’m going to be one of his harem. So you be nice to the boss’s wife.”

Ozzie’s face screwed up into surprise. “You’re engaged to Nige?”

“He proposed the other night.”

“You never said—” He shook his head. “Okay, not relevant. Mark, I’m just up here to do my inspection tour, okay. Plus I’m really dying to see the frigate; it’d bust my rep if anyone found out what a serious techhead I am, but I gotta say, this is one smooth piece of engineering. Giselle told me all about the Searcher flight and what you did.”

“Well, you know,” Mark said. It was a tone that hinted at a lot of secret pride.

“I guess we all owe you, huh?” Ozzie had reached Mark’s side, and patted him man-to-man on the shoulder.

“The pilots are the important guys,” Mark said.

“Come on! Remember I built the very first wormhole generator with my own hands. I know how much skill it takes to integrate machinery. Thought we’d never get that mother finished. And this”—he ran his hand over the hull—“this has to be orders of magnitude above and beyond that antique. Respect to you assembly dudes, I mean that.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s go check out the cabin, huh?”

Mark gave Giselle one last questioning look. She nodded her approval.

“Sure thing,” Mark said. He started to worm his way back down into the frigate’s airlock. “Careful here, there’s not a lot of room.”

Ozzie flashed a triumphant grin at Mellanie and Giselle, and followed Mark on board.

“Did you make that up?” Giselle asked.

“What?” Mellanie was close enough to the frigate to reach out and touch it. She held back, still awed by its raw power. The hull was so black it looked like a bubble of interstellar space. She half expected to see galaxies floating inside.

“About Nigel. Are you engaged?”

“Oh, that.” She finally pressed her hand against the frigate. It was a historic moment after all. The surface was completely frictionless, and thermal-neutral. Tactile nerves told her she was touching something, but that was all the impression she got. Her eyes couldn’t actually focus on it. “He did propose. I haven’t said yes yet.”

Giselle gave the frigate’s open airlock a twitchy look. “Take my advice, and say yes. That way he might not fling you into suspension for more than a thousand years.”

“Come on, Ozzie has to do this. How do you think he’s going to get rid of Mark? Has he…” She trailed off fast. Her inserts were telling her the docking bay airlock was opening. Dense and very powerful energy sources were emerging. “Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“Somebody’s here. Not good. Warn Ozzie.” She pushed off lightly, gliding around the frigate’s curving hull.

The entire communications spectrum was suddenly filled by a single signal: “YOU BY THE CHARYBDIS, DO NOT MOVE, DEACTIVATE ANY WEAPONS YOU ARE CARRYING.”

Mellanie slid around the ultra-black hull to find herself looking directly at a squad of armored suits flying out of the airlock like angry wasps. Active sensors locked on to her. She instinctively tried to deflect them. Her hands and cheeks began to ripple with silver lines.

“No!” Giselle shrieked.

An instant of disconnection—

—and Mellanie found herself spinning violently. She didn’t know why. Her body had gone numb, apart from the single sensation of cold sweat pricking her forehead. She thought it was the prequel to vomiting, but she couldn’t even feel her stomach. Then she smacked into the docking bay wall and rebounded. Her limbs didn’t seem to be working either. It was strange she didn’t feel any pain; that had been a nasty impact. Red dots drifted across her vision, which appeared to be dimming. Sensation came rushing back in on her consciousness in a terrifying wave of pain. She tried to wail, but liquid was blocking her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Her body was alive with agony, at its worst down her left side. She coughed, trying to clear her lungs. Streamers of blood poured out of her mouth, then wobbled crazily in front of her. Her hands scrabbled at the main source of the pain, finding only warm wet jelly. Thick webs of oscillating blood were spinning around her. On the other side of them a giant black shape slid past. Turbulence from its wake swatted the blood, splatting it against her. Her need to breathe was excruciating. She coughed again, and more blood bubbled out of her throat forming sticky ribbons in front of her. Her whole body juddered. The pain was now submerging itself below an intense cold.

A face appeared above her. Nigel. Mellanie tried to smile. He looked very angry.

“Get a fucking medical kit here. Now!”

She tried to tell him it’d be fine, she was okay, really. That just allowed more blood to escape. It was very red. Her vision was closing in.

“Mellanie!” Nigel’s voice, a long way off.

There was so much she wanted to say. She wondered if Orion had woken up yet. But now the blackness conquered everything.

Ozzie had been inside an Apollo command module once. The Smithsonian staff had removed the perspex cover from the hatchway and stood by with nervous smiles as he squirmed around the historic antique interior. He couldn’t remember how long ago that was now, at least two centuries, but he did recall marveling at how three people had survived in such a small space for the ten days it took to travel to the moon and back.

As he followed Mark through the Charybdis airlock and into the cabin he began to feel a twinge of envy for those old astronauts and the abundant room they had back then. The frigate’s cabin was small; three couches fixed to the rear bulkhead (the reason he suddenly remembered the Apollo) with a one-and-a-half-meter gap between them and the forward bulkhead that was a solid wall of arrays and portals.

“Is this it?” he asked in amazement.

“Sure is.” Mark had levered himself into the left-hand couch, and smiled knowingly at him. “You claustrophobic?”

“We’re about to find out.” Ozzie slid into the central couch. The arrays in front of his nose were covered in symbols he didn’t recognize, but they were powered up. He found an i-spot and pressed his hand against it. “Can you interface?” he asked the SIsubroutine.

“Yes.”

“Do it fast.”

“Working.”

“Hey,” he asked Mark. “Is the nova bomb on board?”

Mark seemed a little easier that Ozzie knew about such things. “Yeah. We’re still waiting for the Scylla’s bomb to be delivered. They promised it in another three hours. Not sure we’ll have the systems integration sorted by then, but we should be able to launch tomorrow.”

“So how many quantumbusters have we got?” Ozzie made it sound like a schoolkid asking questions; next it’d be how fast does it go, mister?

“All ten loaded,” Mark said.

“Man, that is a shitload of firepower.” Ozzie felt indecently happy; the Great Frigate Heist was on-line and powering up smoothly. He could probably let rumors about this one slip out into the unisphere.

“You’re telling me.” Mark peered at one of the portal displays. “Uh—” He glanced over at Ozzie’s hand on the i-spot.

“I have command of all primary functions,” the SIsubroutine said.

A plethora of frigate command icons rose up into Ozzie’s virtual vision. Compressed instruction text orbited each one like a gas-giant ring. Just reading all the introductions would have taken a couple of hours. He assumed he’d be able to do most of the piloting himself. After all, how difficult could it be? It looked like he was going to be more dependent on the SIsubroutine than he liked; despite everything that’d happened he still wasn’t sure he trusted it.

“Hey, what are you loading in?” Mark asked in growing alarm.

“Ozzie!” Giselle called. “We’ve got—ohshit.”

Ozzie’s inserts picked up the warning from the security team. “Close the airlock, and get us out of here,” he told the SIsubroutine. His virtual hand took a broad swipe at all the command icons, sweeping them away like clutter off a desk. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mark putting his hand out toward an i-spot. “Stop it,” he barked. “I’ve got the kind of weapons wetwiring that can slaughter a small army. Killing you from this range is easier than breathing. Sit back and do nothing, and I’ll let you live.”

“Don’t kill me!” Mark wailed. His hand drew back as if the i-spot was wired up to a thousand volts. “Christ, man, I’ve got a family, kids.”

“Shut up.”

The airlock hatch contracted. Ozzie just heard a loud unpleasant snap from outside before it shut completely. He searched around for a button on his couch that would activate the restraint webbing. That was far too simple for this ship. He gave up. “Strap me in,” he told the SIsubroutine.

“Confirmed.”

“And give me some visuals from outside. I wanna see what’s going down.”

The couch’s plyplastic cushioning flowed over his shoulders and hips, securing him tight. Five grids in his virtual vision display came on, and he pulled the pictures out. A whole squad of armored figures was zipping out into the docking bay. Then Mellanie drifted in front of a camera. Half of her left side had been torn away; long tatters of gore hung from exposed, shattered ribs. Her face swung into view, staring directly into the lens. For some reason she possessed a Zen-like serenity, then her lips twitched and arterial blood foamed out of her mouth.

“Mellanie!” a horrified Mark cried. “Oh, God, what have you done to her? Look at her, you fucking monster.”

Ozzie didn’t have the courage to tell him to shut up again.

“Umbilicals disconnected,” the SIsubroutine said. “Engaging secondary drive units.”

The walls of the docking bay slipped past. Brief glimpse of the Scylla, embraced by the cool gray metal of maintenance platforms. Technicians turning clumsily to stare as they flew past. Then there was the purple sparkle of the pressure curtain over the hull followed by the infinite black of space. The planet formed a huge steel-gray crescent cutting across the stars. One of the spaceflowers was almost directly below them, a perfect half circle of rumpled amethyst that suddenly vanished as it crossed into the penumbra.

“Have we got enough power to make it to Dyson Alpha?” Ozzie asked the SIsubroutine.

“Yes.”

He debated whether to ask the obvious. Decided to go for it. “And get back?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, plot a course and take us there.”

“Working.”

“Are you going to kill me now?” Mark was looking at him with the kind of wild eyes that belonged to a dying animal.

“Nobody’s going to kill you,” Ozzie said. He hurriedly told the SIsubroutine to block all access to the onboard arrays apart from his own. Mark was the lead assembly technician; who knew what he’d embedded in the frigate’s systems.

“You will,” Mark said fearfully. “Your type always does.”

“Now wait up one goddamn minute here. I’m not any kind of type.”

“You just hijacked a Dynasty frigate.”

“I don’t have a lot of choice here, man.”

“You’re going to kill me, you bastard.”

“I’m not, I can’t.” Ozzie waved his arms around for emphasis, wincing as he slapped the back of his hand against the arrays. “I’m not wetwired for anything but a few bioneural chips. I swear, man; you’re perfectly safe. So just chill out.”

The silence stretched out dangerously.

“What?” Mark demanded.

“I, er, really needed the frigate; I probably exaggerated what I’d do. Heat of the moment, dude. I was desperate.”

“You piece of shit.”

“What can I say, I’m sorry.”

Mark glared at him, and folded his arms across his chest. It wasn’t an easy position to maintain in zero gee, but he managed it. “Will you be telling Mellanie you’re sorry?”

“We are going FTL,” the SIsubroutine announced.

Ozzie braced himself. There’d probably be a rush of acceleration, space twisting around him, stars blueshifting before they collided into a burst of light ahead and stretched out to envelop the hull. “She’ll get re-lifed,” he mumbled, trying to ignore the spike of shame.

“Well, that makes it all right then.” Mark deliberately and defiantly slapped a hand on an i-spot.

“What’s happening?” Ozzie asked the SIsubroutine.

“Please define context.”

“Why haven’t we gone FTL?”

“We have. We are currently traveling at thirteen point five light-years per hour.”

“Holy shit.” A huge smile split Ozzie’s face. “Really?” If he was designing the ship he’d build in a little flicker of the cabin lights, a deep throbbing sound, just something to emphasize the tremendous forces at work within the drive.

“Confirmed.”

“Wow.”

“You’ve blocked me out of the arrays,” Mark said.

“Sure have. Hey, do you know how fast we’re traveling? Thirteen light-years per hour. Jeez, that’s like just three days to Dyson Alpha. Man, me and Nige should have tried to build something like this back at the start, and to hell with wormholes. This is like totally money, straight and neat.”

“A straight quick trip to our death, more like.”

“Oh, lighten up, man, you’re about to make history in this ship.”

“You mean like the Titanic?”

“Nigel Sheldon is calling you,” the SIsubroutine said.

Ozzie twitched inside his protective webbing. A huge rush of guilt overtook his relief at pulling off the hijack. Then alarm kicked in. “How is he doing that?”

“The frigate uses a method of communications called a transdimensional channel. It is a subfunction of the main drive.”

“Man, I am like really going to have to read the instruction book. He can’t track us with that, can he?”

“The TD channel can be made directional in order to facilitate tracking.”

“Christ! Make sure it’s not doing that right now.”

“Confirmed.”

“Okay. Cool. Put Nigel on.”

“Turn around, Ozzie.” Nigel’s eerily calm voice filled the cabin. “Bring the frigate back, please.”

Mark smiled in satisfaction and gave Ozzie a challenging look.

“Can’t do that, man,” Ozzie said. “And you know it. I worked out a way to reactivate the barrier. I’m going to use a quantumbuster against the Starflyer gadget that’s messing with the generator’s quantum state.”

“There is a Trojan program in the TD signal,” the SIsubroutine reported. “I believe they are trying to take command of the ship by remote.”

“Can you counter it?”

“I believe so. It is not a type I have in my catalogue.”

“Any problem, cut the link immediately.”

“Ozzie,” Nigel said, “we need the Charybdis to eliminate the Prime threat. Bring her back. Now.”

“Course set. Anchor’s up. Sails to the wind. Sorry, Nige, man, I’m committed.”

“Ozzie, we have other frigates. They will be flown by people who understand how to use them properly. I will assign them to hunt you down and kill you. After that, I will make sure you are never re-lifed. I can do this, and you know it.”

“You know what, Nige: if you succeed in that, then genocide MorningLightMountain, I don’t think I’d want to live in the kind of galaxy left over afterward.”

“Mark,” Nigel said, “I’m sorry for what’s about to happen, but we cannot allow Ozzie to hand over the Charybdis to MorningLightMountain. You have my personal word you will be re-lifed immediately. I will also ensure that Liz, Barry, and Sandy will be taken care of in the meantime.”

Mark sniffed. He wiped away the moisture clotting his eyes. “I understand, sir. Tell Otis to shoot straight.”

“Thank you, Mark. Once again, I’m proud you are family.”

Ozzie groaned in dismay and gave Mark a sullen glance. “Since when did you turn into a bonehead hero?”

“Fuck you,” Mark spat.

“Nige, you know damn well I am not turning this frigate over to MorningLightMountain,” Ozzie said angrily. “I’m going to stop you and it from killing each other.”

“You’ve stolen the only two items of technology that can guarantee the human race survives the war, Ozzie. This isn’t dicking around, this isn’t playing the wacky smartass to my corporate stiff. You are attempting to kill humanity. Do you understand that?”

“I’m going to save you,” Ozzie barked back at him. “Trust me, Nige, you always used to. Please.”

“Come back.”

“No. You come with me.” Ozzie hated how petulant he sounded. “Switch the TD channel off,” he told the SIsubroutine.

“Confirmed.”

Ozzie took a couple of minutes out just staring at the systems displays in front of him, allowing his temper to cool. He didn’t like to admit to himself just how rattled he’d been by Nigel’s threats. In the end he released the plyplastic bands from his arms, just keeping his legs loosely restrained, and drew a breath. “Hey, er, Mark, Nigel doesn’t actually have a fleet of these frigates, does he? I mean, they’re all still being built, right?”

“Honestly? He has the Scylla, and three more which have just completed assembly. None of them have been flight tested, but they passed their systems integration trials. Otis flew Charybdis against Hell’s Gateway with a damn sight less preparation than that.”

“Great. Thanks for that, man. I officially appoint you chief morale officer.” Ozzie could see this was going to be a flight with minimal conversation. “Where’s the food? I need a decent meal.”

Mark’s smile was the kind used by evil emperors at their victory celebrations. “What food? We left before the stores were brought on board.”