Silversands

Gareth L. Powell

First published in the UK in hardback by Pendragon Press, 2010.

This revised edition copyright Gareth L. Powell, 2016.

www.garethlpowell.com

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author.

ISBN-13: 978-1540590824

ISBN-10: 1540590828

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover photo by Wilmer Martinez via Unsplash.

www.garethlpowell.com

“Powell’s first novel [Silversands] is a fine hi-tech romp”

– The Guardian

“Powell is a master …  Silversands is an excellent debut.”

– Interzone

“A clever and, at times, brilliant novel. Powell is definitely an author to watch.”

– Morpheus Tales

“A worthy addition to any devoted SF reader’s library.”

– Suite 101

“A great novel in a very interesting setting … Silversands is a satisfying and enjoyable read … Powell makes the most of his characters and backdrop to tell a page-turning story.”

– Walker of Worlds

“Unique and exciting.”

– SFF World

“At the forefront of science fiction.”

– SF Book Reviews

ALSO BY GARETH L. POWELL

Novels

Silversands

The Recollection

Ack-Ack Macaque

Hive Monkey

Macaque Attack

Embers Of War

Fleet of Knives

Light of Impossible Stars

Collections

The Last Reef

The New Ships

CONTENTS

1. Transponder Handshake

2. ARCHIPELAGO

3. New World Haulage

4. Shrapnel Scars

5. The Omega Point

6. Artificial Intelligence

7. Atlantean Lighthouses

8. Political Engineering

9. First Landing

10. Standard Contact Protocol

11. Skyhaven Freewheel

12. The End Of An Era

13. Prosthetic Adaptations

14. Emergency Airlock

15. The Ghost In The Machine

16. Silver Sand

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

1. Transponder Handshake

Avril Bradley’s hands shook as she unfastened the straps holding her to her bunk. The trip through the wormhole had been rough, like a rollercoaster ride through a furnace, and she could hear the ship’s heat shield creaking and groaning as it cooled. She slipped on a lightweight leather jacket and pulled her shoulder-length hair into a short ponytail. During the trip, her foil pack of cigarettes had fallen onto the deck. She picked them up and lit one, catching her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her eyes were the pale blue of an autumn sky and her features were sharp, as if etched by the quick strokes of an impatient sculptor.

A groan came from the cabin’s other bunk. It was Nina Doroshkow, the Pathfinder’s middle-aged Lithuanian navigator, a tall muscular woman with a platinum crew cut and a lopsided frown.

“Do you have to smoke?” She waved a hand in front of her face. “My stomach’s still doing cartwheels. This is worse than morning sickness.”

“Really?” Avril took a last drag and mashed the half-finished butt into a plastic cup. To avoid straining the air recyclers, she was limited to five per day. “And exactly how many times have you been pregnant?”

“Not once.” Nina smiled. “But I’ve heard stories. Did I tell you about my cousin? Triplets. She was sick for months.”

Avril reached over and tapped the softscreen taped to the bulkhead above Nina’s bunk. It brought up an external rear view. On the screen, the gate from which they’d just emerged appeared as a barely visible ring of black against the stars. It was almost impossible to judge its distance with the naked eye, but a shifting digital readout in the corner of the view showed it was slowly falling behind as the Pathfinder’s gentle acceleration carried them forward.

“Do you think we’ll ever discover who built the gates?” Nina asked, sitting up.

Avril shrugged. It was a favourite topic of conversation amongst the crew, and everyone seemed to have his or her own pet theory. She reached into her jacket and pulled out the brooch that she habitually carried in the inside pocket. She fixed it to her collar, and then clipped her commcard to her lapel.

“Beats me,” she said.

They stepped out of the cabin and made their way along the narrow gangway between the crew’s quarters and the chill ranks of storage tanks where the refugees from River Fork were stored. At the end of the gangway, they took the glass elevator forward to the command deck.

The levels they passed through were ergonomic and utilitarian, laced with ducts and corridors. Decorative plants covered every available surface. Nanofilters in the ducts absorbed carbon dioxide and other toxins from the air. They passed small cargo modules holding priceless mineral samples, astronomical apparatus and cryogenically preserved samples of flora and fauna; and larger modules, which held emergency supplies and homesteading equipment.

Avril and Nina, like the rest of the crew, wore simple olive green one-piece shipsuits. Laced with nanotech, these garments could serve as pressure suits in an emergency, stiffen to provide splints for broken limbs, and store energy that could be tapped later to increase the wearer’s strength. They were also capable of monitoring body functions and providing support during high-G manoeuvres. The pastel triangle of the Tanguy Corporation logo was prominent on the left breast beside the blue star insignia of the New United Nations Space Agency.

“You okay?” Nina asked.

Avril nodded and clutched the handrail as the floor of the elevator surged under them. She still felt a little sick and the uneven motion wasn’t helping. “I’m just looking forward to finding out where we are.”

Nina consulted her commcard. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “According to the ship we were in the hole five and a half years this time, which means we could have travelled that many light years in any given direction.”

She put a hand on Avril’s shoulder and spoke in a gentler tone. “And even if we found him, it’s been over sixty years since he left Earth; there’s no guarantee that this man you’re searching for is still alive. I’ve seen you disappointed twice now.”

Avril shrugged her off as the elevator slowed. Her hand went to her thigh pocket and her fingers brushed the creased edge of the photograph inside, tracing the familiar cracked and curled texture. She pulled it out and smoothed the creases with her thumb. The picture was of a man in his late twenties standing on a pebbly beach. The wind ruffled his hair and chopped spray from the surf behind him. He was caught in the act of turning toward the camera, as if about to speak.

“I know,” she said, tracing his face with a fingertip as the elevator doors sighed open. “But perhaps this’ll be third time lucky.”

The Pathfinder’s command deck was a complicated multi-level array of virtual sensor readouts and flat data screens. Nina picked up an old plastic cup from her navigation console and grimaced at the cold, curdled liquid inside. She passed it to Avril. “Better get rid of this mess before we reach turnover,” she said. “We don’t want it floating all over the place when we cut the thrust.”

Avril dumped the cup into the recycler. “The maintenance program must have a glitch,” she said, squeezing into her acceleration couch. The effects of wormhole transit were wearing off, leaving her insides feeling like a clenched fist, and her stomach growled in protest as she lit another cigarette. As she began activating the instruments on her communication console, automatic air conditioning systems cut in, unobtrusively extracting the smoke.

The first thing she opened was a damage report. Some of the ship’s more delicate systems had suffered vibration damage during the transit and a couple of hull plates had buckled in the heat - but otherwise, there was nothing serious. Behind her, Mission Commander Henrik Charbonneau stepped onto the bridge, ducking to avoid the overhead screens as he edged up behind Nina’s couch.

“What’s our status?” he said. He had a thick French accent and his close-cropped hair was grey at the temples, adding to his natural air of grizzled authority.

“All stations report green, all crew members fully recovered from the jump,” Nina said, without looking up from her monitor. “We began automatic acceleration as soon as we cleared the gate. Ship’s systems are running smoothly and the medical suite reports no problems with any of the storage tanks. All sixty-seven refugees are still in suspended animation, alive if not exactly healthy.”

“Have you any idea where we are?”

Nina touched a button and a revolving three-dimensional star chart appeared on one of the larger overhead screens. A jagged yellow line represented the Pathfinder’s course of random jumps. “From initial observations, the ship’s almost one hundred per cent certain that we’re here.” She illuminated a star five and a half light years from Epsilon Eridani. “Tau Ceti. Nearly twelve light years from Earth. It’s a main sequence, yellow-orange dwarf with about ninety per cent of the mass of Sol but only sixty per cent of its luminosity.” Her voice took on a clipped, professional quality as she shifted into a routine made familiar by years of training and repetition. “We’re accelerating outward from the gate at one gee. There are a couple of unremarkable gas giants on the edge of the system, and one rocky planet in the habitable zone. Estimated time of arrival: three days, fourteen hours and twelve minutes.”

Charbonneau leaned over her shoulder and frowned at the displays, then spoke to Avril: “Any sign of life?”

Avril glanced down at her board. “We’re picking up some radio chatter from the planet,” she said. “And there’s some evidence of point-to-point laser communication in the system’s asteroid belt.”

“Excellent.” Charbonneau rubbed his hands together. “And what do we know about the planet?”

Avril called up a sub-window on the display. “It’s at approximately the orbital distance of Venus. Size is point nine of Earth, mass about point nine five. The length of the year is two hundred and twenty-eight days, and the days are just under thirty standard hours. The air is thin but has a high oxygen content, which suggests the existence of indigenous life.” She made an adjustment to her screen. “And I’m picking up a signal from orbit.” She frowned. “I think it’s a ship.”

Charbonneau narrowed his eyes. “Who are they?”

“I have access to their comm net,” Avril replied. “I’m initiating transponder handshake. At this distance, it’ll take about eight minutes before we get anything.” She punched up the relevant menu and information flickered across the space between the Pathfinder and the distant transmitter.

When the reply came, she transferred the incoming data to one of the larger softscreens and began scrolling through it.

“What have we got?” Charbonneau said.

“All the usual stuff: crew and cargo manifests, ship specifications.”

“Skip it. Tell me who she is.”

“Aye, sir.” Avril accessed the sub-channel that contained the ship’s identity and flight log.

As she read, her mouth dried. She swallowed and ran a hand across her tied-back hair.

Nina looked over her shoulder and grunted in surprise. “Third time lucky,” she said.

Avril laughed, still unsure if she should believe her eyes. Deep down, she’d never believed they’d find the Anastasia; the odds against it had been too great. But now, there on the screen, she could see the old ship’s call sign.

“Do you think it’s really her?” she said.

Nina leaned toward her. “Just because that’s the ship he left on, it doesn’t mean he’s still alive,” she said.

Before Avril could reply, a thin, high-pitched alarm sounded on Nina’s console. The older woman slid back into position and scanned her emergency displays.

“We’ve got a pressure spike in one of the deuterium tanks.”

“Can you control it?” Charbonneau asked.

Nina shook her head. “There’s some sort of malfunction in the containment field.”

“Then jettison it.”

“I can’t!” Nina slapped a palm against her console. “The controls are frozen. I’m completely locked out.”

“Bradley!” Charbonneau barked. “Run a diagnostic. We need to trace that malfunction, fast.”

“Aye, sir.” Half a dozen emergency lights started blinking for Avril’s attention. She pulled up enough menus to realise that whatever was causing the malfunction in the fuel containment pod was also affecting the comms system. Allowing her reflex training to guide her fingers, she opened an emergency diagnostic routine but, before she could initiate it, the whole ship shook with the force of an explosion and the lights went out.

2. ARCHIPELAGO

At the helm of the Thermopylae, Cale Christie pulled the hood of his thick parka back to watch the swollen orange sun slide like a smoky opal beneath the horizon. Above him, the catamaran’s white sails rippled and curled as her computer strove to catch the erratic evening wind. To the Southeast, a spreading bank of slate grey cloud marked an approaching storm. To the north, a scattering of small icebergs rocked on the restless swell.

During the weeks he’d been on the open sea, Cale’s face had been tanned by the wind, sun and salt. His normally shaven hair and beard were grown out and straggled. Ahead of him, in the gathering twilight, he could see the familiar jagged silhouette of Rebecca’s Island, with its forest of wind turbines. Their long blades chopped the air, harnessing the winds that blew across the endless ocean.

He squinted in the evening light, trying to make out the other islands of the archipelago. The remains of an eroded crater wall, they formed a loose circle of steep-sided peaks a hundred kilometres in diameter. Rebecca’s Island was at the southernmost point in the circle. On the leeward shore of the next island along lay Cale’s destination, the town of Providence. He’d only been away for six weeks but it felt a lot longer.

During his time at sea, he’d visited several of the University’s scientific outposts, collecting samples and delivering supplies. He’d also visited a handful of the scattered algae farms on the volcanic islands around the equator.

Before the trip, he’d spent four months undergoing a gruelling series of treatments for prostate cancer. Although successful, the treatments had left him physically and mentally drained. At his ex-wife’s suggestion, he’d left the bar he owned in the hands of its staff and taken this trip as a sabbatical, the first real break he’d had since retiring as a detective, almost ten years before.

The freedom and solitude he’d found on the Thermopylae had been a revelation. He’d found time to listen to classical music, downloaded to his commcard via satellite from the University archives; to read books, teach himself to fish, and even establish an exercise routine. Each day had helped him gather his strength and clear his mind. He was leaner now, and more muscular than he’d been in years, his body having regained some of the tone that age, illness, and too much time in low gravity had robbed from it.

He stretched, rubbed his hands together in the chill air and, taking one last look at the fading sunset, engaged the Thermopylae’s autopilot. Moving carefully, he made his way aft and climbed down into the cabin. Dogging the hatch, he shrugged off his thick fleece-lined parka and lit an electric lamp.

After six weeks of solo occupation, the cabin was organised but cluttered. Charts and satellite photos were pinned to the walls and large softscreen displays showed real-time weather images, GPS and radar information. The shelves above were filled with samples of native life in plastech containers, carefully held in place by elastic bungee cord. Two fishing rods leaned up against the folding table that doubled as his desk, and a few dog-eared books and articles of clothing lay piled on the bunk.

Cale fried some freshly caught mackerel in olive oil and seasoned it with sprinkles of ground spiderhair lichen. The lichen was a tough and stringy native plant found on most of the equatorial islands; it was a little sharp for his taste but complimented the flavour of the fish.

When he was done eating, he pushed his plate aside and dug out a small flask of homemade wine. Although the grapes had been artificially grown under a sun lamp, the wine wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. In fact it was so good that he almost forgot his daily medication.

Although the tumour was gone, there was still residual damage to the surrounding tissue. The pills he took contained microscopic medical bots designed to carry out the necessary repairs without the need for invasive surgery. He washed one down and was pleased to see there was only one remaining in the blister pack, which meant that after tomorrow, he could finally put the whole episode behind him.

He tucked the pack carefully back into a thigh pocket and slipped his feet out of his tough plastech boots. Then he sat back, closed his eyes, and allowed the fatigue of the day to wash through him. The familiar slap and swish of the water beneath the twin hulls relaxed him, and he knew that once he plunged back into the day-to-day running of the bar, he’d miss moments like these, when he was the only person for tens of kilometres in any direction. That knowledge only made the moment sharper, and the remaining hours of the voyage more precious.

Occasionally, a chunk of floating ice would bump against the bow, tapping the side of the hull as it slid past. The Thermopylae’s twin hulls were plated with a molecule-thick diamond film designed to withstand the rigors of sailing in these ice-filled northerly waters, and Cale was confident the autopilot would avoid anything large enough to cause real problems. He was just pouring himself a second glass of wine when his commcard chimed.

He unclipped the credit card-sized device from the breast pocket of his shirt and held the small readout up to the light. There was a message waiting. He passed his thumb over the DNA security reader to unlock the card and then, using its infrared link, he accessed the large softscreen on the opposite cabin wall. The screen blinked as it interpreted the incoming signal, then cleared to reveal his Inbox.

On top of the list of previously read messages was a new one, unopened. He selected it and brought up a sub-window to display the sender’s name.

Madelyn Walker.

It couldn’t be her. He checked the name again, frowned at the screen, and scratched his head.

Madelyn Walker had been dead for over sixty years. He’d been close to her during the two years of the Anastasia’s voyage. They’d even been lovers for a time and, although that facet of their relationship hadn’t lasted more than a few months, their stormy friendship had remained strong up until her death.

He took a deep breath and opened the file. The message consisted of four words that initially made no sense to him. He reread them several times, as if trying to glean some deeper meaning, but they remained the same.

BRING ME THE KEY.

He switched off the commcard. He grabbed his parka and stuffed his feet back into his boots. He opened the hatch and the cold evening air slapped him in the face. He pulled in a frigid lungful, trying to clear his head. Water slapped against the Thermopylae’s diamond hull and her sails flapped languidly with the approaching storm. He leaned on the railing and looked up at the darkening sky. The clouds were thickening and there were spots of rain on the breeze.

Madelyn was dead. She’d been dead a long time. He sat by the helm and tried to make sense of the message. Looking up, he saw the first stars were showing between the gathering clouds. He looked out for the bright, unmoving one that was the Anastasia but couldn’t find it.

Looking down again at the waves hitting the twin hulls of his boat, he replayed the message in his mind.

BRING ME THE KEY.

He scratched his beard. What key?

3. New World Haulage

When Jason Wiltshire stepped into the pressurised docking bay at the Anastasia’s Northern polar cap, he saw Jasmine was still busy running tests on the Dragonfly’s flight computer. She waved from the cockpit and he responded with a half-hearted nod. Tall and thin, with a little paunch beginning to press against his belt buckle, he was nursing the remains of a hangover.

Yesterday evening had been another long, frustrating, and ultimately unsuccessful negotiation for a cargo contract. He’d been trying to convince a sour-faced representative from one of the industrial Freewheels to let him handle a percentage of their ground-to-orbit haulage, but after spending a large portion of his dwindling savings at dinner, he’d learned the contract had already been awarded to a rival company - the larger DalbyTech. The Dragonfly was scheduled to descend to Silversands today but with its cargo capacity less than half full and docking charges a week overdue, Jason knew he’d be lucky to break even on the trip.

Nestled in its cradle, the delta-shaped Dragonfly had been designed for rugged durability. She was capable of transporting twelve passengers and ten tonnes of cargo between Silversands and the various habitats orbiting around it. Manufactured on board the asteroid starship Anastasia in 2162 - thirty years before Jason’s birth - she’d taken part in the establishment of the Silversands colony, ferrying materials and crew to the planet’s surface. In the years that followed, she had seen a variety of new roles and refits, finally being sold into private hands.

Jason’s father, Thomas, had bought her and used her to set up New World Haulage, the business Jason now ran. Securing passenger and freight contracts from the University with the help of his wife Suzanne, Thomas had spent years shuttling between Providence, the Freewheels, and the Anastasia, hauling whatever loads were available. The inhabitants of the orbital habitats needed food and raw materials, while the colonists on Silversands required equipment and supplies, such as the fruits, plants and animals that only grew in the Anastasia’s warm artificial climate - as well as access to her parklands and superior medical facilities.

Unfortunately, there’d always been too many commercial space planes for the available business. After the initial flurry of contracts during the first years of colonisation, the work had slowed to a trickle as the smaller companies were assimilated or went bankrupt.

When the debts for New World Haulage mounted, Thomas turned to drink and Suzanne hitched a ride with a starship trying to find its way back to Earth. Her final messages before passing through the wormhole gate had been filled with remorse and recrimination.

After that, Thomas lost interest and began to spend more time in the spaceport bar than the cockpit, leaving Jason to struggle on alone. Thomas died drunk one night in 2217, run down by a cargo loader. Since then, Jason had been doing his best, with the help of the University contracts, to stay one jump ahead of his creditors. But now, with the start of the much-heralded Silversands Space Elevator project, it looked like New World Haulage was finally going to be forced out of business.

He walked up the space plane’s ramp and into the cockpit, where Jasmine was waiting. She frowned as he slumped into the pilot’s couch.

“You look terrible,” she said.

He closed his eyes. “Are we ready to fly?”

“We will be in a minute. I’m just running final checks. Did you have a heavy night?”

“Uh-huh.” Jason opened his eyes to find her holding a white tablet and a bulb of water.

“Take this,” she said.

He washed it down with a squirt from the bulb. Jasmine moved to the door connecting the cockpit and the main passenger cabin. As she passed him, she ran a finger down the side of his face.

“Better get a shave,” she said. “You don’t want to frighten away what little business we do have.”

He grinned and turned to admire the way her tight flight suit accentuated her curves as she walked down the aisle of the passenger cabin.

Jasmine Li was a short Freewheeler of Chinese ancestry, with short neon pink hair and a jewelled stud in her nose. She’d been the most promising candidate to answer his ad for a co-pilot, with thousands of VR flying hours on the simulator - but today would be only her fourth actual descent to the planet’s surface. Because she’d been born among the ring-shaped space habitats orbiting Silversands and was used to their gentle spin gravity, Jason had harboured some initial doubts, worrying she might have a hard time with the fierce decelerations involved in a landing - but after several months, he now knew she’d make a first-class co-pilot.

Besides, she was engaging. Something in her voice and the curve of her cheek appealed to him in an inexplicable way, and just watching her move around the cabin filled him with a fierce mixture of yearning and shame. She was so stylish, he felt ashamed of his comfortable old clothes and spreading midriff.

In the last month, they’d slept together several times – usually after a night drinking in one of the Anastasia’s bars or cafes. He’d tried to ensure their working relationship stayed professional but failed. Over the last weeks they’d grown closer in subtle ways. Her gentle scolding, for example: when had he begun allowing that?

As the pill she’d given him began to work, Jason shifted his attention to the instrument panel, to check the status of the Dragonfly’s flight systems. His visual implant synchronised with the plane’s systems, throwing a display of green numbers and HUD diagrams over the vision in his left eye.

When he was satisfied they were ready to fly, he disengaged and stood to rummage in an overhead locker for a tube of shaving cream. He was smearing it around his jaw when a blinking icon on the console indicated they were picking up an urgent signal from the spaceport on Silversands. Curious, he opened a visual channel and saw the unmistakable scowl of Tom Kelly, the Australian head of Providence orbital traffic control.

“Wiltshire? How soon can you be ready to depart?” the man barked.

“In a few minutes,” Jason said. “We’re waiting for a couple of passengers. Why? What’s the hurry?”

“One of our satellites detected a starship coming through the wormhole gate three days ago.”

Jason sat down. “Really? Do you know where she’s from?”

Kelly shook his head. “She’s in trouble. Some kind of explosion in her fuel system, so far as we can figure. She made mid-point turnover and seems to be decelerating into an elliptical orbit but we’ve had no communication with her and we don’t know how badly she’s been damaged.”

“Maybe her communication system’s down?” Jason said.

“That’s our guess,” Kelly said. “Now she’s in range, I’m scrambling every bird I’ve got to assist. So far there’s only the Gazelle and the Anna Rose, but both of them are on the ground and neither can lift for another five or six hours. Sure would be a big help if we could get the Dragonfly out there as soon as possible.”

Jason took a deep breath. This was the first starship to come through the hole since the survey vessel Danube, four years ago. There was bound to be a lot of publicity for the first plane to reach them, publicity that could help keep his business afloat.

“Okay, Tom. Clear us for emergency departure and we’ll do what we can,” he said.

“Will do. I’m forwarding the navigational data to your AI as we speak. Kelly out.”

Jason closed the channel and called up an emergency departure menu, selecting the fastest launch solution from the range of available options. In the bay, alarms and flashing lights grew fainter as the air was pumped out. With a lurch, the cradle holding the Dragonfly swung slowly toward the opening bay door and Jasmine Li burst into the cockpit.

“Are we launching?” she said.

“Sit down and strap in.” Jason wiped the cream off his jaw with his sleeve. “I’ll explain when we’re clear.”

A flashing green symbol in his left eye told him the Anastasia had cleared them for departure. He pushed the release button and felt a small shudder as the cradle’s docking clamps disengaged. Another control slammed the transparent pressure doors shut, sealing the Dragonfly’s internal compartments. He used the rear manoeuvring jets to nudge them away from their berth and they drifted toward the bay doors.

As they emerged into clear space, sunlight caught the Dragonfly’s nose and made it shine. Behind the rocky grey bulk of the Anastasia, Silversands filled the sky with bright whorls of white cloud twisting above a vast grey ocean. Jason waited until they were completely clear of the docking area before building up the thrust. He could feel the vibration of the engines in the pit of his stomach, where it mixed with a growing feeling of apprehension.

4. Shrapnel Scars

Avril Bradley’s footsteps echoed dully in the gloom as she moved slowly along the stacked rows of storage tanks, checking each one. Because the air in this compartment was kept below freezing, she was glad she had her jacket. The tubes and power cables supplying each storage tank gave the cramped space an overgrown feel, and the tanks themselves looked like sarcophagi. Red lights winked on their instrument boards, each telling the same story: the refugees inside were waking prematurely.

She opened an audio channel to Nina Doroshkow. “You were right,” she said. “The storage tanks have gone into emergency revival. I estimate we’ve got about five or six hours before they start waking up.”

“Understood.” Nina sounded distracted. She was running another test on the main engines and Avril could hear the strain in her voice.

“Is there anything we can do?” she asked. It usually took two or three days of highly supervised care and attention to thaw a person after storage. It was risky, and there were all sorts of dangerous side effects. Beneath the sheen of frost on their transparent casings, the refugees” faces were slack and pale.

“I doubt it,” Nina said. She was tired; days of wrestling with the damaged drives were taking their toll.

Avril bit her lip. She knew that cryogenic storage was a last-ditch procedure. Even with the best medical care there was a high chance of permanent brain damage. She hoped the special symbiotech packages she’d fed into their bloodstreams would be enough to minimise the damage. With luck, it would be enough to keep them alive.

Having done all she could, she turned and walked away. She lit her fourth cigarette of the day as she made her way back to the elevator, the smoke mingling with her frosty breath. It had been three days since the explosion. She shuddered as she remembered how they’d been plunged into darkness and how her stomach had lurched with the sudden loss of thrust. Surrounded by these mute passengers hovering between life and death as she waited for the elevator, she felt the horror of it all come racing back...

In a panic, she’d grappled around until she found the straps to her couch. Before her, the instrument panel was dead and her heart hammered in her chest as she heard the other crewmembers flailing around in the darkness.

As the red emergency lights on the bridge came up, she wriggled free and used the back of her chair to kick herself toward Henrik Charbonneau, who was floating behind her holding his arm close to his chest.

“Are you okay?” she said, stopping herself with a hand against an overhead screen.

“I’m fine.” Charbonneau uncurled and shrugged off her attempts to help him. “Just tell me how bad the situation is.”

She turned and pulled herself quickly back to her couch, to scan the reports coming in from other parts of the ship. “Most systems are returning to normal, with the exception of the main drive,” she said. “The explosion seems to have been caused by a malfunction that shorted out the containment systems in one of the fuel pods.”

“Are the engines damaged?”

“Main engines are down but we still have auxiliary thrusters.”

“Do we know what caused it?”

She shrugged. “It’s impossible to say without a full inspection, and it looks as if the main antennas took a hit as well. We seem to be receiving okay but I can’t transmit.”

“Were we attacked?”

Avril flicked her fingers across a virtual keyboard to coax meaningful results from jittery instruments. “It’s possible this was caused by a viral upload from the Anastasia,” she said.

“Sabotage?” Charbonneau said.

Avril shook her head. “It’s only speculation. The timing could be pure coincidence.”

Charbonneau turned to Nina: “Can we reach orbit with auxiliary thrusters?”

Nina nodded. She looked queasy and yellow globs of sick speckled her instrument console and the chest of her shipsuit. A few stray clumps drifted toward the air filters.

“Yes, if we run them at their maximum safety tolerances,” she said. “They’ll get us into orbit but they’ll need a complete overhaul afterward.”

“Well, that’s something.” Charbonneau let out a long breath. He gave Nina the word and she slowly ramped the thrust up to half a gravity and, as weight returned to the bridge, Charbonneau fell gently feet first to the deck, wincing with his broken arm still held tightly against his chest.

“Any casualties?” he said.  Avril consulted her comm-link. Most of the crew were reporting only minor cuts and bruises. Only the drive specialist, Maria Ciaburro, had failed to answer. Her workstation was close to the rear of the vessel, where the explosion had taken place, and security cameras in that part of the ship were off-line, either destroyed or broken. Fearing the worst, Avril sent two nearby crewmembers to investigate. Then, as Nina continued to struggle with the helm, she helped a pale Charbonneau to the emergency locker to cut away the material of his ship suit and fix a symbiotech medical sleeve around his arm. The sleeve resembled a green foam cushion, smelled heavily of disinfectant, and immediately solidified into a protective cast as it sent fibres to infiltrate the wound. It would take four days to knit the bone back together and regenerate the surrounding tissues. During that time, Charbonneau would be kept mildly sedated. As Avril expected, Charbonneau refused to leave the bridge after she was done, so she guided him to his couch, where he immediately began calling up damage reports on his command screens.

A few minutes later, the Pathfinder’s xenobiologist, Hernandez located Maria Ciaburro in one of the ship’s damaged sections.

“She’s pretty badly burnt,” he told Avril. “But it’s dangerously radioactive down there. I can’t send anyone in to get her.”

“Don’t we have protective suits?” Avril said.

Hernandez coughed. “They’re useless. Too much shrapnel damage,” he said.
Avril rubbed her eyes and tried to think of a way to get Ciaburro out.

For a moment, it seemed hopeless - then an idea struck her. Their pressure suits, designed for EVA work, were always shielded against cosmic radiation. The main airlock had been destroyed, but there were spare suits stored on every level, as a safety precaution.

“Go to the pressure suit lockers,” she said. “They should protect you long enough to do what you need to.”

“Will do.” Hernandez clicked off and Avril turned to find Nina looking at her.

“That was a good idea,” Nina said.

“I just hope they get to her in time.”

Nina screwed up her face. “Me too, but you know as well as I do that we don’t have the equipment to treat her. Not if her burns are that severe.”

Avril pushed her hair back and closed her eyes. Without medical attention, Ciaburro chances of survival were slim.

“We’ll just have to do what we can,” she said.

Now, days later, as she waited in the cold for the elevator, surrounded by the thawing refugees, Avril thanked the heavens that her idea had paid off and they’d got Ciaburro out in one piece.

“How’s the engine test going?” she asked.

“Fine,” Nina snapped. “Now get back up here. The ship’s detected a craft making a burn to intercept us. It looks like a space plane.”

“How long until they reach us?” Avril looked back at the emergency lights winking on the stacked storage tanks.

“Four hours, if they hold their present course.”

The elevator arrived and Avril travelled up to the command deck, where Charbonneau, still fighting the sedatives, was ordering Nina to attempt a cautious rendezvous.

“And I want everyone armed,” he growled. “If that explosion was deliberate sabotage, then this plane could hold a raiding party.”

As Jason Wiltshire nosed the Dragonfly alongside the Pathfinder, the damage caused by the explosion became evident. One of the spherical fuel tanks encasing the fusion drive had blown apart. There were ragged shrapnel scars on the rearmost cargo pods, and a tear in the Pathfinder’s starboard flank that vented a thin plume of gas. Beside him, Jasmine looked at the damaged ship with wide eyes. Apart from the Anastasia, it was the first time she’d seen a functioning starship up close.

There’d been no transmissions from the Pathfinder since the explosion. Jason had spent the last three hours matching vectors with the decelerating craft. The ship seemed to be limping toward a stable orbit but there was no way to tell if any members of the crew were left alive. The main hab module appeared intact but that proved nothing. For all he knew, the ship could be running on automatic.

“It looks like their main airlock was there.” Jasmine said, pointing to a tangled mess of metal at the edge of the main gash. “You’ll have to try and enter through one of the cargo modules.”

Jason nodded: “If you can hold us steady, I’ll go and suit up.” He unbuckled his straps and slithered up out of his seat.

“No problem.” She switched control over to her workstation and smiled at him. “Good luck.”

Jason kicked toward the Dragonfly’s airlock, fighting back old doubts about her ability. Virtual reality was no substitute for the kind of experience they’d need here. He knew she preferred to make her own mistakes, but in space making mistakes could get you killed.

In the airlock, he stepped into one of the bulky pressure suits, allowing the smart fabric to tighten and mould itself around him. Once it was secure, he pulled on a helmet and buckled himself into the tubular frame of the Emergency Mobility Unit.

The EMU was like the skeleton of a rucksack, a simple tank of pressurised nitrogen gas connected to an array of small jets designed to give the wearer a few minutes of independent manoeuvrability in the event they had to abandon ship. He ran through a quick systems check, then asked Jasmine to cycle the airlock. The door closed and the pressure dropped. External sound died away with the air and he felt his suit adjust itself around him, tightening to keep him comfortably supported.

Without waiting for the lock to cycle, Jason overrode the safety mechanism and the external door slid open. The last of the escaping air puffed out and instantly froze, so that he tumbled out into the universe surrounded by a thin cloud of ice crystals.

The flank of the Pathfinder’s hab module wheeled before him as he stabilised his trajectory with a couple of corrective bursts from the EMU”s thrusters. His retinal HUD overlay guided him, giving him a course that would compensate for the ship’s deceleration. Another burst rotated him through one hundred and eighty degrees and he watched the Dragonfly recede, a delta-winged silhouette against the bright grey globe of Silversands. He performed a quick communication check, making sure Jasmine was receiving the image from the tiny camera set into the casing of his helmet. When he was satisfied, he toggled the EMU”s thrusters and, as the planet swung from his view, his faceplate filled with stars.

It was at times like these that he remembered why he loved being a pilot. Out in the emptiness of space a man’s daily problems found a new perspective. Being alone out here was heady and exhilarating, like swimming in a mountain stream, and the accompanying adrenaline rush blew away the cobwebs in his mind, leaving him alert and focussed.

He’d intended to cut his way into one of the larger cargo modules but as he grew near, a hatch in its side slid silently open, revealing a dark interior.

“Looks like there’s someone home after all,” Jasmine said in his ear. He grunted and fired his thrusters one last time, slowing so he came to rest inside the waiting cavity. The door slid shut behind him and the tell-tales in his suit showed the air pressure rising. At a suitable level, he doffed his helmet. The inner door swung open with a sigh of cold, metallic air, and his ears popped. He swallowed hard and stepped over the threshold.

Inside, the cargo module was gloomy. There was just enough light for him to make out the stacks of crates and other equipment covering the metal deck. The module was spacious but the dim lights and the cat’s cradle of internal bracing made it seem far more claustrophobic than it actually was. He was just starting to wonder why no one was there to meet him when a plasma bolt crackled past his left shoulder, the near-miss scorching his cheek and its green after-image burning brightly in his eyes. Belatedly, he dropped to the deck behind a pile of boxes and lay still, ears straining for the slightest sound.

When he could see clearly again, he cautiously raised his head and saw a glimmering, metal spider standing a few meters away, its body covered with antennae, lenses and weapons – all of which were pointing at him. Realising that doing anything else would be fatal, he carefully raised his hands.

Two figures emerged from behind a stack of containers: one slim and Spanish looking, the other tall, with his arm swathed in a green symbiotech sleeve.

“I’m here to help,” Jason said.

“Silence,” ordered the tall one. The smaller man walked over to pat Jason down.

“He’s clean, sir,” he said.

“Okay.” The tall one stepped closer. “My name is Henrik Charbonneau and I am the commander of this vessel. My colleague here is Pietro Hernandez, security officer and xenobiologist. Who are you?”

Jason’s heart hammered in his chest. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips.

“Jason Wiltshire,” he said. “I’m a commercial pilot. I’ve been sent to help.”

Charbonneau’s eyes narrowed: “We’ll have to ask you to strip, I’m afraid.”

Jason started to protest, but the spider shifted its balance with a buzz of servomotors and the barrel of its plasma cannon glinted in the overhead light. So, under Charbonneau and Hernandez’s watchful gaze, he peeled off his pressure suit, stripped down to his underwear, and stood shivering in the cold cargo hold.

Hernandez checked through Jason’s clothes and, when satisfied, handed them back. Then he turned and ordered the spider away, and it skulked off into the dim recesses of the module as Jason pulled his flight suit back on.

“I hope you understand our need for caution,” Charbonneau said still watching Jason carefully. “We’re a long way from home and we can’t be too careful.”

“No problem,” Jason said, trying to keep his voice calm as he zipped up his suit and clipped the helmet to his belt.

“You have to admit that it was quite a coincidence we had a fuel containment failure as soon as we linked into your commnet,” Hernandez said, crossing his arms.

Charbonneau nodded in agreement. His eyes beneath their bushy brows were cold and unblinking, watching Jason for any evidence of hostile intent.

“It’s lucky that it was one of the depleted tanks that failed, otherwise we’d have been vaporised,” he said.

Jason looked him straight in the eyes: “I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

The Pathfinder’s commander considered him for a long moment.

“Well, now you’re here, you can make yourself useful,” he said gruffly, taking Jason’s arm and guiding him out into the long, narrow shaft running the length of the ship’s spine.  As the engines were at the rear of the ship and they were currently decelerating stern-first toward Silversands, they had to catch an elevator “up” to the habitation section near the bow.

Once there, Charbonneau led him into the cabin where Maria Ciaburro lay surrounded by machinery and encased in symbiotech bandages. The room smelled of burnt hair. Her face looked red and swollen.

“Radiation exposure,” Charbonneau said. “We don’t have the equipment on board to treat her, and we can’t freeze her in this condition. Do you have a hospital that you can get her to?”

Jason nodded, unable to take his eyes from the injured woman. “Was she caught in the explosion?” he asked.

“Of course.” Charbonneau put an arm out to hold him back. “And she’s very radioactive, so don’t get too close.”

Jason said, “I don’t have enough fuel to return to the Anastasia but I can take her down to the surface. I’m sure the University hospital in Providence will be able to take care of her.”

“Okay.” Charbonneau took a deep breath. “You say you’re here to help? How much room do you have on your space plane?”

“It can carry about twelve people,” Jason said.

Charbonneau nodded thoughtfully. “Cargo?”

“About ten tonnes.”

“Tell your co-pilot to try and dock with the airlock on the cargo module. We have sixty-seven refugees in suspended animation. The explosion shorted out their cryo-tanks and they’ll shortly be coming round.”

“Refugees?” Jason said.

Charbonneau scratched his wrist where it emerged from its symbiotech sleeve. “We promised we’d transport them to Earth, if we could, or to the first suitable inhabited world we came across. They need medical attention.”

“And you want me to take them down? I can’t fit that many in my plane.”

“You’ll have to.” Charbonneau looked grim. “Our life support systems are off-line. We barely have enough reserves to keep the crew alive while we make repairs.”

Jason glanced back at the woman on the bed. “I don’t know if we can do it,” he said.

“You’d better try,” Charbonneau growled. “Otherwise, I’m going to have to start throwing them overboard.”

The night air along the waterfront was cold and thin; it clouded Cale’s breath and scraped the inside of his lungs like a knife. The storm was over for now but a thin sleet still fell and the inhabitants of Providence shuffled past him wrapped in parkas, hats and gloves. Everyone’s pace was slow; it was easy to over-exert yourself in the thin air.

It was good to be home. After living in austere isolation for so long, things he’d previously taken for granted now astounded him. The buildings, for instance, were mostly nanofactured out of the bedrock. Their diamond walls were self-repairing and durable. Most of them were low and sprawling, with gardens of heather, gorse and alpine flowers. Some had stone or plaster facades, while the ones by the quay were painted yellow or white, giving the area a Mediterranean feel that contrasted with Providence’s cold climate.

Above the town, the Longreach glacier stretched from Mount Banshee to the sea. Sometimes on quiet nights, you could hear it creak and flex.

Bistros, bars and cafes crowded the quayside. Their illuminated signs blinked through the rain-slicked dark. At either end of Main Street, sleek glass and steel terminals housed the elevators and transit tubes leading down to the undersea agricultural domes, civic buildings and accommodation units resting on the seabed. Providence’s largest hotel was a three-storey block midway along the concourse. Beside it, The Sloop Inn was a low building with a few empty tables out front on the pavement where, on sunnier days, patrons watched trawlers and pleasure craft in the harbour.

It was his bar: After leaving the Guardians, he’d bought it with his retirement check, intending to settle back and enjoy a quiet life.

As he drew near, he recognised his ex-wife standing under the porch light.

Patricia Lear was a handsome woman in a sharp business suit. She had warm hazel eyes and curly auburn hair. She was standing in the doorway and he immediately noticed her frown.

“Are you taking your pills?” she asked.

He sighed.

“You can’t blame me for being worried,” she said. A stray wisp of auburn hair hung from her fur cap. She raised her gloved fingers and brushed it back.

“I know,” Cale said, “but I’m fine, really.”

“Well, you look dreadful. When was the last time you shaved?”

“About six weeks ago.” He smiled awkwardly. “Look, I’ve only just got back and I’m tired. How about we get together for a drink tomorrow, or something?”

“Maybe.” Patricia yawned and turned up the collar on her coat. “I’m kind of busy, though.”

“You’re always busy.”

“It comes with the job.” She smiled. The corners of her lips crinkled up in a way that had once been irresistible but was now only comfortably familiar. The passion in their relationship had been one of the first things to go, second only to trust. In its place, however, there was a stubborn fondness.

“I spoke to my father this evening,” she said, after a short silence.

“Did you?” He tried to keep his tone neutral.  Patricia’s father, David, was the former head of the Silversands Command Council. Since retiring, he’d been living in semi-seclusion on the Anastasia.

Patricia held his eye: “He asked me to come and meet you. He wants me to reactivate your Guardian security clearance and accompanying privileges.”

She took his arm, leaned close, and whispered: “He wants you to do some digging around.”

Cale looked over her shoulder. About a hundred yards away, parked against the kerb, a Guardian rover waited.

“What sort of digging?” he said.

When Patricia spoke, he felt her warm breath tickle his ear. “There have been rumours of bribery and corruption within the Command Council,” she said.

He let his shoulders drop, disappointed. He didn’t like politics. “I’ve retired. I run a bar now.”

“I know,” she said. “But he trusts you.”

Cale shook his head – first the message from Madelyn and now this; he could feel the relaxation of the last six weeks seeping away.

“Why can’t you do it?” he asked. “Surely he trusts you?”

Patricia smiled.

“I’ll offer what support I can, unofficially, of course. But as a Councillor myself, I can’t be seen to accuse my colleagues without serious and substantial evidence.”

Cale turned away. “I’ll think about it.”

“He’d be very grateful. You know he thinks the world of you.”

“I only said I’d think about it,” Cale said.

While she straightened her hat, he closed his eyes to think. David Lear was held in high public esteem and treated as honorary head of state, but his actual political power was slight. If he suspected the Council was corrupt, it made sense he’d turn to an old friend to gather evidence surreptitiously before making any sort of public challenge. Cale looked up at the overcast sky. How high did this corruption go? Was there a connection with the message from Madelyn? It had been a long time since he’d had to think this way.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Patricia said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Cale said, still distracted by her news. “How are you?”

“Busy.” She glanced down. “What with the wedding next month and everything.”

Out on the water, a passenger ferry revved its engine as it prepared to leave for one of the other islands.

“Yeah?” Cale said, scratching his beard. It was getting colder and he wanted to go inside.

“Do you mind me talking about it?” Patricia said. “I didn’t want to bring it up until you were back on your feet.”

“Why should I mind?” he said. He’d known for months she was planning to remarry.

“We spent a lot of time together while you were in the hospital,” she said.

He smiled: “And you think I’m still holding a torch for you?”

She looked into his eyes.

“Aren’t you?”

It began to rain in earnest, so they stepped into the doorway. This close, he could smell her vanilla perfume.

“Look,” he said, “it’s been a long time since the divorce. I couldn’t be happier for you. Honestly.”

“Are you sure?”

He took hold of her shoulders and kissed her forehead.

“I’m sure.”

For a moment, her eyes searched his, and then she stepped back.

“Hey,” she said, “we’ve known each other the best part of a century; in my book that makes us family, okay?”

“Okay.” Cale looked out at the black sea. He clapped his hands and stamped his feet. “And I appreciate it, I really do. Marcus is a good man, and he seems to own half the planet. I wish you both lots of luck.”

Patricia smiled. “I’ve got to go,” she said, touching the commcard on her wrist. Behind her, the Guardian rover purred into life, its headlights shining on the wet road. “But we’ll talk again soon. I’ll see you in the next couple of days. I’ll come to the bar.”

The rover drew level and the nearside door slid open. She splashed across the road and climbed in.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she called, pulling the door shut. Rivulets ran down the door’s smoked glass, reflecting the red neon of the overhead bar sign.

Cale watched as she pulled away. The rover’s tracks made a soft ripping noise on the wet roadway. As it turned at the end of the street, its taillights vanished behind the glass terminal building and he turned back to the familiar warmth of the bar.

This early in the evening there were only a handful of customers spread among the tables and booths inside. He recognised some regulars: the smartly-dressed female psychologist with an office down the street who came in for a drink after work every evening; a couple of trawler men eating at the bar; an algae farmer whose name he couldn’t remember; a group of teenagers standing around the pool table; and a couple of Freewheelers in a corner booth.

Framed photos from Earth, Mars, and the Japanese bases on the Moon hung on the walls, and a softscreen menu by the kitchen hatch advertised terrestrial and local seafood dishes. From behind the bar, his assistant, Rose Grozelak saw him and waved. She was twenty-one, with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. Excited, she pressed him for details of his trip.

“I found a row of three natural stone spires on an island by the equator,” he said, perching on a stool. “Each one over a hundred meters tall. They stood in a dry valley, like the supports of a vanished bridge.”

He passed her his commcard, so she could see the pictures he’d taken. But after weeks of solitude, he found the effort of making small talk exhausting. He couldn’t stop yawning.

“Go and sit down,” Rose said. “I’ll bring you some food.”

Grateful, Cale took his beer and moved to a table near the fire, his plastech boots clumping softly on the flagstone floor. The Thermopylae was securely moored in the harbour and his sample collection could wait until the morning to be unloaded and transported to the University. For now, he was content just to be home.

He was taking off his coat and gloves to enjoy the warmth of the fire when a softscreen on the far wall caught his eye. Usually it played one of the local sports channels but now it was showing a newsfeed from the spaceport. Interspersed with stock footage of the black wormhole gate, there were eerie green light-enhanced pictures of the space plane Dragonfly gliding silently down out of the overcast night sky with its navigation lights blazing. The commentary was turned too low for him to hear, but the scrolling captions along the bottom of the screen told him all he needed to know. One by one, the conversations in the room died as people turned to watch. The arrival of a starship was always big news, but this time something had gone wrong. One of the crew had been injured in an explosion. He watched for a while, and then turned to the flickering logs in the hearth, still troubled by the message from Madelyn Walker.

Using data mining techniques he’d learned in the Guardians, he’d traced the source of her message to the Anastasia. Beyond that, whoever sent it had done a good job of covering their tracks and he didn’t have the proper authority to dig any deeper. He pulled out his commcard and read it again.

BRING ME THE KEY.

It still made no sense. What key? And what did a dead woman need with a key anyway?

He took a sip of beer. The last time he’d seen Madelyn Walker alive had been sixty years ago, shortly before the Anastasia reached Silversands at the end of its two-year journey from Earth. At the time, Madelyn had been preoccupied with her work in the lab and he’d been brooding over the impending breakdown of his marriage to Patricia. Neither of them had spoken very much as they shared lunch at one of the Anastasia’s many cafés.

Even now, he remembered sitting at that table, looking out across the width of the rocky starship’s cylindrical central cavern. It was like sitting at the bottom of a steep valley. The green and blue landscape curved upwards on either side until its green hills, scattered lakes and straight shining monorails were lost behind the white glow of the suntube. Between sprawling clusters of terraced apartment blocks, ostrich and buffalo wandered open spaces that were a cross between pasture and park land. There were also orchards, olive groves, and fields of corn and barley. All the lakes and streams had higher banks on their southern shores to prevent their contents from spilling over when the Anastasia accelerated.

He remembered being irritated when Madelyn lit a cigarette before he’d finished eating, and he would have complained but she seemed so distant he felt unable to bridge the gap between them.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked her.

“The wormhole gates,” she said, toying with her knife. “There must be some way to specify a destination, some code or approach vector we haven’t figured out yet.”

She blew smoke into the space between them.

“Patricia’s asked for a divorce,” Cale said. Madelyn’s eyes narrowed and she put her cigarette down in an ashtray.

“I told her it was over between you and me,” he said. “I told her it was just a stupid mistake, that we’re just friends.”

Madelyn shrugged and lit another. She was genuinely surprised when he pointed out the first, still balanced on the edge of the ashtray. Beneath her hair, her experimental processor implants made ugly bulges against the fine line of her skull. She told him they were transmitting a continuous recording of her brain’s quantum state to a central data bank. He didn’t ask why. She was so driven and obsessed; he saw it as his role to distract her, to anchor her in everyday reality. Whenever he could persuade her to leave the lab, they went out for meals or walks where he tried to interest her in films or sports. It was hard work, and in the end, it cost him his marriage.

Two weeks after that meal, there’d been some sort of accident in Madelyn’s laboratory. Automatic countermeasures, designed to prevent a runaway nanotech outbreak, blew the entire lab module into space before it could infect the rest of the ship.

Cale had been on one of the first rescue shuttles scrambled to recover survivors, but they’d arrived too late. Before they reached the lab, a slick of nanotech ate its way through an exterior panel and the whole module explosively depressurised, ejecting its inhabitants into the vacuum. Madelyn and two of her assistants died. As a precaution against infection, their bodies were abandoned to space where, eventually, they were caught by the gravity of Silversands and burned in its upper atmosphere.

For months, rumours of sabotage circulated, but the Guardian investigation - headed by Patricia Lear - failed to turn up any conclusive evidence. Madelyn had been experimenting with biological nanoprocessors and neural-electronic interfaces, and the investigation concluded the catastrophe had been a tragic accident, that something had gone catastrophically wrong with her work.

Back in the Sloop Inn, Cale considered calling Patricia. As Councillor in charge of Planetary Security, she had the influence and resources to track down the person that had sent him the message. He glanced at his commcard, but then sighed and put it away, deciding to leave her out of it.  She’d spent a long time getting over his affair with Madelyn. To stir that up again, especially now they were closer than they had been for years, would only upset her. Besides, the last thing she needed in the build up to her second marriage was for him to start raking up the reasons for the failure of her first.

Instead, his eyes drifted back to the softscreen by the bar. The space plane had now taxied to a halt and the passengers were disembarking into waiting ambulances. Flight crew and port workers were helping to unload the medical stretchers carrying the refugees, while leather-clad Guardians scanned them for illegal or dangerous substances. The camera panned to a figure swathed in bright green symbiotech bandages. A sidebar labelled her as Maria Ciaburro, a crewmember who’d been injured by an exploding fuel pod. Behind the stretcher came representatives of the starship’s remaining crew, one man and two women in identical shipsuits. The first two were wide eyed and slack jawed as their names scrolled across the bottom of the screen; they were craning their necks and holding their palms up to catch the falling rain. Cale smiled, remembering the excitement of his own landfall after two years spent confined aboard the Anastasia.

When the camera came to rest on the third representative to leave the ship, he saw she had a lightweight leather jacket slung over her shoulder, and the caption told him that she was the Pathfinder’s Comms Officer, Avril Bradley. Half way down the ramp the port lights touched one side of her face and he caught his breath—she was younger than he remembered and wore her hair differently but there could be no doubt. He carefully lowered his shaking glass to the table and got to his feet.

Whatever else this Avril Bradley might be, she was the spitting image of the young Madelyn Walker.

5. The Omega Point

After seeing Ciaburro and the refugees safely into the waiting ambulances, Avril, the xenobiologist Hernandez, and Jeanette Berglund, the ship’s sociologist, were formally welcomed to Silversands by the Chairman of the Silversands Command Council, Frank Nicholls. Brief introductions were made among the flash and buzz of news drones, and then they hurried across the slick tarmac of the spaceport toward a low, rambling building near the perimeter fence. The rain was bitterly cold and brought with it the smell of the ocean. As Avril pulled her jacket tight, the pistol Charbonneau insisted she bring along bumped against her breast.

“The planet’s still emerging from its last ice age,” Nicholls explained, smiling over at her as they walked.

He went on to tell her that Silversands had a thick crust and very little volcanic activity. Aside from the archipelago and the ragged grey scattering of islands around the equator, shallow oceans covered the planet from one floating ice cap to the other. Sixty years after colonisation, human settlement was still predominantly clustered around the town of Providence. The spaceport sat on a rocky plateau overlooking the town. Behind it, the jagged peaks of snow-capped mountains loomed against the dark sky.

Avril took a deep breath; the air felt clean and fresh, and the landing lights on the runway shone through the drizzle. By reflex, her fingers dipped into her pocket and closed around the small photograph she carried there, as her eyes searched the faces around her.

They were approaching the spaceport bar. An old swinging sign above the entrance announced it as The Omega Point.

“Why Omega Point?” asked Jeanette Berglund.

Nicholls turned to her. “Because, eventually everyone seems to end up here,” he said.

They filed through thick double doors into the dim interior, where they were introduced to the manager of the spaceport: “I don’t have many friends but my associates call me Kelly,” he said, “and I’ll be your host for the evening.”

He led them to a large table where the bar staff had laid out plates of hot food and ice-cold bottles of local beer. Avril wasn’t particularly hungry; her stomach was still on ship time, which was about three hours behind, but she didn’t want to appear ungrateful, so she tried a spoonful of the spicy stew placed before her.

The food on the Pathfinder was mostly recycled from the crew’s waste products, and was passable but always lacked texture. In contrast, the fresh vegetables and herbs in the stew were delicious and the bread was warm and crusty; the smell of it alone made her mouth water. She tore a hunk from the loaf in the middle of the table and turned to Kelly.

“This is one thing that we can’t replicate convincingly,” she said and Kelly nodded, smiling.

Around them, the bar was filling with curious colonists and Avril was surprised to see many had space-adaptations. A group to her left looked more android than human, while others sported synthetic skin or metal plates grafted from head to toe. She mentioned it to Kelly, who explained The Omega Point was a favourite with space plane pilots, Freewheelers, and Rockhounds from the system’s asteroid belt. He also pointed out the muscular men and women adapted for working the undersea fish farms on Silversands, telling her their fingers and toes were discreetly webbed and their eyes covered with clear protective membranes. Thin dorsal ridges bulged beneath their clothing. To Avril, they looked unsettlingly reptilian, like throwbacks to some amphibian ancestor, but none of the locals seemed to give them a second glance.

Kelly went on to tell her that The Omega Point had been built using parts scavenged from old prefabricated shelters and landing craft used during the period of settlement. It had been extended and refurbished sporadically over the years, which accounted for its ramshackle appearance.

Once the plates and dishes were cleared away, the locals around the table started asking to hear about the other worlds that the Pathfinder had visited since leaving Earth. Avril sat back and lit a cigarette, reasoning that the ship’s sociologist was better qualified to describe the places they’d seen.

“We’ve come across two other colonies,” Jeanette Berglund said, and there was a stir as the crowd pressed closer to listen.

“The last wasn’t too bad,” she said, scanning the sea of curious faces. “It was jointly settled by a Japanese colonial expedition and a French scout ship that had become stranded in the system when its heat shield failed. They found a small, rocky world much like Mars. The atmosphere was very thin and the majority of its surface was freezing, desiccated desert. I can’t remember the Japanese name for it, but the French called it Nouakchott.” She paused to take a sip from her beer as the crowd waited patiently: on Silversands, news from other stars was rare and something to be savoured.

“There’s no native life on Nouakchott. The name means "place of the winds" and you need an air filter if you go outside, but otherwise it’s nice enough. We would have dropped the refugees off there but they just didn’t have the infrastructure in place to deal with that many people needing urgent medical attention.”

“I’m not altogether sure we have here,” Kelly murmured.

A silver-skinned girl in the crowd asked: “Where are they from, the refugees?”

Jeanette took a deep breath and Avril knew she was preparing herself for an unpleasant memory. “There was a Russian colonial attempt in 2149, before the Anastasia left Earth. Some of you may remember it?”

Avril looked around: There were nods from some of the old timers.

Jeanette continued: “Apparently they failed to find anywhere suitable and tried to return to Earth. They made six or seven jumps without success before mechanical failure stranded them in the Beta Hydri system. In the absence of a habitable planet, they did the best they could, cannibalising their ship to make habitats and holding on, hoping for rescue. They called their colony River Fork, for reasons we never really established.” She lowered her head and Avril knew she was thinking about the failed colony’s maze-like warrens of filth and disease.

“What’s the set up here?” Avril said, leaning over to Kelly as Jeanette took questions. His fingers stroked his beard as he considered an answer.

“Well,” he looked cautiously around the bar. “Depends how you mean. The government’s pretty loose. For the first few years of the colony, the University was pretty much in charge of things, with David Lear as an honorary President. You’ve heard of him?”

Avril nodded. She’d studied the records of the Anastasia’s departure since she was a child. She said, “He was the leader of the expedition, right?”

“Uh-huh. When most of the surveys and biosphere alteration had been done, we set up a civilian government.” He scratched at his coppery stubble. “It’s not very big. We’ve got a Chairman, who you’ve met. He acts as spokesman for the Command Council. Then there are the Guardians, who keep the peace. The Council’s mostly made up of members of the original command crew of the Anastasia, or their descendants, but the University still handles the majority of the bureaucracy and has the final say on ecological matters.”

“Doesn’t that cause conflict?” Avril asked but Kelly shook his head.
“We rub along okay. Hell, it’s been years and no one’s starving. People are kind of used to it, I guess.”

Avril nodded and took a swig of beer. “I guess that makes sense,” she said.

Kelly smiled at her. “Hey,” he said, “anyone who doesn’t like it is welcome to move out to one of the Freewheels.”

“Talking about moving out,” Avril said, looking at the time on her commcard, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to report back to my ship.” She waved at the crowd as she stood. “And I think I’ll step outside, it’s a bit noisy in here.”

“Of course.” Kelly stood to allow her to squeeze past. With a nod to Jeanette and Hernandez, she made her way through the crowd and out the door.

A cold wind from the sea whipped the rain in stinging squalls across the spaceport. Seeking somewhere sheltered to make her call, she hurried across to the nearest building in a row of prefabricated space plane hangars. A corrugated iron door rattled on its hinges. She opened it and stepped inside. The hangar was dark and smelled of engine grease. She wiped her face on her sleeve and squeezed some of the rain from her ponytail as she waited uncomfortably for her commcard uplink to the Pathfinder. Even the short dash from the bar had left her soaked.

“Charbonneau here. Anything to report?”

“Negative.” She kicked a discarded bolt and it skittered away into the darkness. “No one down here seems to know anything about an attack. They all seem to assume it was some sort of accident.”

On the commcard’s tiny screen, Charbonneau nodded. “Until we can fix the damage to the ship, we’re trapped in this system. I suggest you remain on your guard until you can be certain,” he said.

“Sure.” Avril uploaded a full record of their descent and signed-off. Then she leaned against a wall, looking up at the sky framed in the grubby skylights high above. Low clouds, under lit by the spaceport lights, scrolled across her view, creating the illusion that the building was moving. She closed her eyes to shut it out. Then, above the rain drumming on the roof, she heard approaching footsteps. She opened her eyes and looked around. Was she trespassing? Had someone followed her from the bar? She backed up against a stack of fuel drums, and put her hand against the reassuring bulge of the pistol in her jacket.

Charbonneau’s paranoia was becoming contagious.

The footsteps reached the hangar door and a figure slipped through, silhouetted against the runway lights. A thick parka hood hid his face. He turned his head, scanning the hangar’s dark interior, and stiffened when he saw her.

“Who are you?” he said, “and what do you want?”

“If I’m trespassing, I’m sorry.” Avril thought about the pistol but doubted that, if he rushed her now, she’d have time to draw it.

The man stepped under a skylight and pushed back his hood. He was wearing night-vision goggles, which he removed and pushed into a pocket. Despite his beard and straggly hair, Avril felt a jolt of recognition and snatched the photograph from her pocket to compare it with the stranger standing before her. It was him: There could be no doubt.   It was the man she’d spent the last ten years searching for.

“You’re Cale Christie,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?” he said.

“I’ve been looking for you.” She held the picture out and he stepped forward to take it. He angled it to catch the light and grunted.

He said, “Where did you get this?”

“From my mother, before she died.”

“Your mother?”

“Natascha Bradley.”

Cale’s head snapped up. “You’re Natascha”s daughter?

“Yes.” Avril’s hand brushed the diamond brooch on her jacket.

“But why did you send me that cryptic message?” he said. Off in the distance, the surf roared against a rocky shore. Inside the hanger, a door squeaked on its rusty hinge.

“I haven’t sent you any message.” Avril said. “But can we go back to the bar to talk?”

Cale looked at her for a long moment.

“I used to know your mother very well, back on Earth,” he said.

“My mother died when I was sixteen.” Avril pressed her palm flat against the brooch on her lapel.

Cale said, “I’m really sorry to hear that. She was a fine woman.”

“She was.” Avril folded her arms against her chest.

“You’re shivering,” Cale said.

“Shall we get inside?”

He stood appraising her for another moment, and then he held his hand out and she took it. His skin was warm and leathery over her cold fingers. She looked up at him and caught him staring at her.

“What is it?” she said.

“I’m sorry.” He looked away. “It’s just that you really remind me of someone I used to know.”

“My mother?”

“No, someone else. A friend.”

The rain stung Avril’s cheek as they stepped outside. In the glare of the runway lights, a motor purred and tyres hissed on the wet pavement ahead. She shaded her eyes and squinted as a sleek black ground car rolled to a standstill a few metres away. As she watched, the doors slid back and three figures emerged with their faces obscured by the same style night-vision goggles Cale had worn. One was a woman, and the two larger ones were male. All wore plain black combat fatigues and the men carried assault rifles.

“Miss Bradley?” the woman said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with us.”

Back at The Omega Point, Jason Wiltshire held up two fingers and pointed at the half-empty glasses on the table. The waitress nodded and turned back into the press of bodies around the bar, returning a few minutes later with another rum and coke for Jason and a glass of water for Jasmine. The water was bottled from streams beneath the Longreach glacier in the mountains above Providence and was served with plenty of ice.

“Are you sure you don’t want a proper drink?” Jason said, watching the lemon floating in her glass. Like all the fruit on the planet, it had been imported from the Anastasia’s gardens.

Jasmine shook her head and her diamond stud earrings flashed in the light. With of all the media attention surrounding the Dragonfly’s rescue mission, she’d ditched her pilot’s fatigues for a tight black dress and brushed denim jacket.

As they’d prepared to leave the Dragonfly earlier, Jason had watched her fix her lipstick, leaning across the sink to the mirror with one booted foot slightly raised. Each dip and shadow of the dress followed the movement of skin and muscle beneath, filling him with an almost uncontrollable urge to touch her, to run his hands over her bare shoulders and slip his arms around her waist. Every movement she made sparked memories of their nights together and he’d had to still the butterflies in his chest when she’d turned and asked him if she looked okay. At a loss for words, he’d grunted something and she’d laughed, wrapping her arm in his and pulling him toward the door.

Now, beside him in the booth, she raised her glass.

“I’m fine with this.” She took a sip of water.

“Are you feeling okay?”

She shook her head. “I just don’t fancy drinking tonight. Something I ate, I expect.”

The party in The Omega Point would continue late into the evening with the crowd almost equally divided between the bar and the table where Berglund and Hernandez were holding court. Jason sipped his rum and coke and tried to marshal his thoughts. It wasn’t easy with Jasmine’s thigh pressed against his in the booth. He could feel her warm smooth skin sliding over his as she shifted position. He took a long drink. Tonight she was like a fire flickering against him. He was dazzled.

“Hey, take it easy.” Jasmine laughed.

He looked around for the waitress.

“I was asking about your father.”

“Were you?”

She gave him a curious look. “You don’t like talking about him much, do you?”

“What’s to say? He’s dead.” Jason rested his elbows on the scratched plastic tabletop. He was trying to identify the music playing on the bar’s jukebox by the thump of the bass line.

She said, “You miss him, don’t you?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

He looked around the walls at some familiar pictures: Galileo; Gagarin; Armstrong; the starships Exeter and Zheng He. There was even a framed antique mission patch from one of the manned Chinese moon missions.

“Are you all right?” she said.

He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s been a bit of strange day, that’s all. I just want to have a drink and relax.”

He emptied his fourth glass and held the last swallow in his mouth. The rum was rough, the coke was far too sweet, and none of the drinks were having any effect.

“Hey, that’s okay with me.” Jasmine slid closer and lowered her voice. “Just don’t get too comfortable. I want more from you tonight than just another quick, drunk fumble.”

She put a hand lightly on his thigh and the rum went down the wrong way. She laughed and smacked him between the shoulder blades. When the coughing stopped, he wiped his lips on the back of his sleeve and looked at her. She smiled, clinked the ice cubes in her glass, and glanced up.

“I’ve booked a room,” she said, nodding toward the door separating the bar from the hotel behind. “I thought it would make a change from sleeping on the plane.”

Jason leaned over to kiss her and she grabbed him. She was gentle, but her lips had an urgency that brought back his butterflies

Outside the spaceport hanger, Cale sized both men up. They looked confident and fit. He guessed from the familiar way they cradled their plasma assault rifles that they had some sort of military or professional background. One of them looked vaguely familiar. Probably ex-Guardians, he thought.

He fingered the holster for his Gauss pistol — it had been a long time since he’d used it.

From behind the two men, the woman called: “Miss Bradley, this is your last chance to come along.”

Seeing the position of Cale’s hand, one of the men raised his rifle.

“Drop it,” he warned.

Lightweight, quiet, and easy to maintain, the plasma assault rifle had long been an underworld favourite. Generations of gangsters, mercenaries, and even undercover police had relied on them. Carrying one always meant you were engaged on deadly business.

Seeing no other choice, Cale pulled out his pistol and shot the man, grabbing Avril by the arm and leaping sideways.

The Gauss pistol fired a supersonic slug propelled by electromagnetic fields in the barrel. It had no recoil and made no sound, save for the crack as the projectile broke the sound barrier. Cale’s first shot hit the man in the hip, sending him sprawling backward and down. As he fell, his rifle sprayed pulses of super-heated plasma across the tarmac like bolts of lightning.

The woman ducked for cover as her second colleague fired. Flickering white light from his rifle seared lines of after-image across Cale’s vision as he bounced off the hanger doors, returning a steady stream of fire. Most of his shots missed, but one exploded the second man’s left knee in a red spray, and the man collapsed, dropping his rifle. The woman slithered over the bonnet of their car and disappeared.

Cale hit the tarmac and rolled onto his back, panting over the steady drumming rain.

He turned to see Avril crouched by the hangar wall, frozen with her hand on the holster of her own pistol. Her face was white and her hands were trembling.

“Are you all right?” he said.

She swallowed and nodded. “Who are they?” she whispered.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Let’s just get out of here in case they brought any friends.” He climbed to his feet and reached for her.

Just as their hands met, he was shot in the neck. His hand flew to the wound and when he brought it down, his fingers were bloody. His gauss pistol slipped from his fingers and clattered on the wet cement.

He was vaguely aware Avril was firing her gun beside him. He turned his head to see the woman behind the car holding a small silver gun. Now, as Avril’s shots sparked and spanged off the vehicle’s armoured bodywork, the woman jumped in and gunned the engine to roar away across the landing field, taillights disappearing into the rain.

Cale reached up to pull a tiny dart from his skin. It was only a centimetre in length but had sharp little barbs that caught painfully as he tugged it loose. He pocketed it and looked at the rain washing the colours from the world. His legs felt heavy and his clothes were wet. Avril was kneeling beside him, inspecting his neck.

“Not much blood. Doesn’t look too bad,” she said.

“Must’ve been drugged,” Cale said. “I feel terrible.”

He looked at the two felled gunmen. Blood from their wounds mingled with the rain and greased the tarmac. The one with the shattered knee was moaning quietly and rocking. The other lay still, eyes closed. He may have been dead but Cale doubted it. Although both wounds were nasty, if these guys were ex-Guardians as he suspected, their mil-spec symbiotech would keep them alive until help arrived.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.

Avril slipped an arm under his ribs to steady him, and then staggered as she adjusted his weight to rest on her shoulder. Cale stood and swayed with one hand on the cold metal of the hangar doors.

“I should go for help,” Avril said.

Cale shook his head to try and clear his thoughts. He felt woozy and disconnected.

“No,” he said. “Until we know why these people were after you, we need to get away from here.”

“But where to?”

“My bar” Cale said. “We should be safe enough there.”

Patricia Lear had been working late and only managed three hours sleep when she was woken by a call from Frank Nicholls. She pulled the covers up to her throat and instructed her apartment’s phone system to display the call on the main entertainment screen. The screen, which had been showing a real-time view of the night sky from the weather station on Mount Banshee, changed to reveal the Silversands Command Council seal – which meant that this was to be official business.

Because the message was heavily encrypted, she had to confirm her identity to access it. She yawned, picked her commcard from the bedside table, and waited for a couple of seconds while the sensor patch on the back sampled DNA from the skin on her thumb and compared it to SCC records. Then the screen changed again and the face of the most powerful man on the planet appeared in her bedroom.

Frank Nicholls was thin, with pale skin the colour of candle wax. Patricia could see from his expression this was no social call.

“I need you over here now,” he said without preamble.

“Problem?”

“A double shooting and the possible abduction of one of the visiting astronauts.”

“I’m on my way.”

She threw the covers aside and climbed into a sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms. Then she put a call into her assistant at the Guardian offices and asked to be brought up to speed on the night’s events. The news wasn’t good: Two off-duty officers down, shot in a confrontation at the spaceport. To make things worse, the comms officer from the Pathfinder had vanished, probably kidnapped by whoever shot the officers. She left her apartment and caught a travel tube to take her to the main Council chambers.

Her apartment building was in a complex near the University where, before being elected onto the Council, she’d overseen the day-to-day running of the Faculty of Biodiversity Management. She still maintained an office there and tried to keep up with the latest research whenever possible.

As the travel tube left her apartment complex, its walls became transparent and she looked out across the seabed at the buildings of the town, whose lights shone through the murky water. Patricia had always thought Providence was like an iceberg: seventy per cent of it was submerged. Many of the islands of the archipelago had jagged peaks and steep sides plunging down into the ocean. The few with areas suitable for building had been largely reserved for housing and recreation projects, while the administrative, educational and industrial buildings were underwater. Some people, Patricia included, preferred living there. She found the controlled climate more comfortable than the surface, where the average midsummer temperature lingered around five or six degrees centigrade and storms ravaged the coastline during the autumn and winter months.

She shifted in her seat and rested her head against the window. Fish and other creatures moved in the darkness outside, their bodies shining with reflected light from the tube’s windows. She spotted the chunky outline of a bulldog fish, a local predator with a segmented carapace and short, broad fins. It fed on smaller fish and crustaceans and had a round, wrinkled face and an over-sized lower jaw. As it swam past, she noted its pregnant, swollen belly.

Everything on Silversands reproduced asexually. New creatures grew like tumours in the bodies of the old, feeding on their hosts until they became large enough to detach and fend for themselves. At first, Patricia had found it horrific. Eventually, though, she had seen it made a kind of sense. On Earth, global changes in climate and temperature had caused the evolution of sexual reproduction as a way of spreading genes and gaining flexibility. This was not the case on Silversands. Ice cores taken from the poles indicated the planet had enjoyed a comparatively stable climate for several hundred million years before the last ice age, and the relatively shallow oceans had provided only a limited number of environments and ecological niches - so each generation was almost a carbon copy of the one preceding it.

Sitting in the tube, she found herself drawing parallels between the growth on the bulldog fish and Cale’s brush with prostate cancer. Although their marriage had ended after the death of Madelyn Walker, she’d never stopped caring for him, even during the years when they’d hardly spoken to each other. And when he’d fallen ill, it had been her he’d called. That made him more like an old friend than an ex-husband, almost family. She’d have liked to introduce him to Marcus before the wedding, but her fiancée rarely left a good first impression. He tended to be uneasy in social situations and overcompensate by acting the brash arrogant tycoon – something she knew Cale would react badly to. Only Patricia knew the softer, more vulnerable side Marcus never allowed anyone else to see.

Then it struck her how absurd it was to be getting married at one hundred and seven years of age. After Cale had agreed to a divorce, she’d thrown herself into her work at the University and, later, on the Council. Surely by now she was too set in her ways to marry again? Over the last six decades, she’d indulged in a handful of affairs and infatuations but they’d all come to nothing. She’d become bored with the whole idea and grown used to living alone. But then Marcus had come along and made her feel young again.

They’d met at a University ball. He was very charming in a white tuxedo. He asked her to dance and they hit it off immediately: The Councillor and the millionaire, both in the pubic eye, both sharing similar pressures. Over the next few months she grew to love and trust the man behind the smooth talk. And now they were getting married.

True, he was twenty years her junior but neither of them had skimped on their anti-ageing treatments. Regular stem cell regeneration and telomerase enzyme therapy, combined with symbiotech tissue repair, ensured they were both as healthy as they’d been at forty. Their skin was a bit more leathery and their joints stiffer, but it didn’t matter; their deep, comfortable affection was very different from the great passion she’d had in the early years with Cale, but it suited her needs.

Her father didn’t trust Marcus but, since being forced into semi-retirement, David Lear was suspicious of all successful people.

As the lights of her destination loomed out of the shadows ahead, Patricia’s thoughts returned to the call from Frank Nicholls. She rang Harper Brown, the officer in charge of the investigation.

“Any news?” she said.

Harper looked tired and anxious. “Nothing yet. We’re doing a DNA sweep of the area but the rain isn’t helping.”

“Any witnesses?”

Harper shook his head. “Night like this, everyone was indoors.”

“And the victims?”

“One dead, the other critically injured,” he said. “The hospital’s doing all it can but their resources are pretty stretched with the refugees from the Pathfinder.”

“Well, keep me informed.” Patricia disconnected as the travel tube stopped in a brightly lit foyer. Frank’s PA, a young man with qualifications in both administration and hand-to-hand combat, was waiting for her. She stepped out and allowed him to guide her to the Chairman’s Office.

Although Frank Nicholls was the most powerful man on Silversands, at heart he was a bureaucrat. He was thorough and disciplined - someone who’d risen steadily through the political ranks. Because of this, an electorate jaded by the corruption that had fragmented the UN government on Earth considered him trustworthy. In contrast, Patricia often found him cold and emotionally withdrawn, with an ego that irritated her.

Upon entering his office, she recognized the other man in the room as Hernandez, the head of security from the Pathfinder. Beside him, Frank looked short and thin, with the lines around his eyes highlighted by his desk lamp so they looked like knife cuts. At the sound of the door, both men turned. Frank made the necessary introductions.

“Any news?” he said.

“Not much,” Patricia replied, “but I’ve got Harper Brown heading up the investigation. He’s one of the best men we have.”

“This is a very serious situation,” Hernandez said. “A member of my crew is missing.” His voice held traces of a Spanish accent.

“We’re doing everything we can,” she said.

“I hope so,” Hernandez said, “because my Commander is not a patient man. Already he suspects that the explosion that damaged our vessel was a deliberate act of sabotage. Now our communication officer goes missing.” He folded his arms. “It’s beginning to look like a conspiracy.”

“I assure you, I will oversee this personally,” Patricia said.

“See that you do,” Frank Nicholls said. His hands fidgeted with the paperweight on his desk: a scorpion embedded in Perspex. “There’s more resting on this than you perhaps realise.”

“Such as?”

He put the paperweight down and clasped his hands together, looking at Hernandez.

Hernandez said: “We have much to trade, Miss Lear. Medical advances from Earth, nanotech templates for new machinery, genetically tailored crops. Also, templates for improved symbiotech treatments.”

“We need those,” Frank said, looking over at Patricia. “You know how overwhelmed the hospital is tonight; our stocks are run right down and it’ll take us months to replace them. We just don’t have the facilities to deal with large numbers of casualties.”

“And unless you find Avril Bradley, alive and well, there will be no trade,” Hernandez said.

“Can’t you trace her commcard from orbit?” Patricia said. Hernandez shook his head.

“We can’t locate the signal. Either she’s switched it off, which would be foolish, or it has been deliberately sabotaged.”

“I see.” Patricia was thinking, already planning the search. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go and wake up a lot of people.”

Frank nodded. “Get everyone you can spare working on this.”

“I will do.” Patricia turned and stepped out into the corridor, to find Frank’s assistant waiting. It was four-thirty; somewhere above the waves, the sun would be rising. With a sigh, she opened a channel on her commcard and began issuing orders to her staff. As she hurried along the corridor, her trainers squeaked on the ersatz wooden flooring.

When she’d called everyone necessary, she took a travel tube over to the University and ordered breakfast in her office.

6. Artificial Intelligence

Cale woke in his bunk on the Thermopylae to the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke. He tried to turn his head but his neck was stiff, as if he’d been sleeping in a draught. He rolled onto an elbow and saw Avril. She was sitting with her head out of the hatch, smoking. Beside her on the top rung of the wooden steps were her gauss pistol and a gently steaming cup of black coffee. She looked as if she hadn’t slept at all. Being careful with his neck, he unzipped his sleeping bag and sat up. She turned and smiled at him.

“Good morning,” she said, flicking the butt of her cigarette overboard and stepping down into the cabin. “How are you feeling?”

“Not my best.”

“That’s hardly surprising. What do you remember of last night?”

Cale rubbed his eyes. “Pretty much everything, I think.”

With Avril supporting him, they’d slipped away from the spaceport under the camouflage of the rain and darkness.    He’d originally planned to return to the Sloop Inn, but on second thoughts had decided it would be a good idea to avoid public places. So they’d used the town’s steep back streets to reach the marina. By the time they’d climbed aboard the Thermopylae, they were both exhausted and soaked.

“That’s good. The wound’s not too bad,” Avril said inspecting his neck. “The dart’s left you with a small puncture and a nick on your jawbone. I’ve put a symbiotech patch over it.”

“So I’ll be up and about in no time, right?” Cale reached and touched the soft patch. Avril looked away and fumbled in her pockets.

“What is it?” he said, but she wouldn’t meet his eye.

“I’m afraid there’s more to it than that.” She pulled out her foil pack of cigarettes and lit another. Her hands were trembling. “The patch reported the presence of two toxins. The first was a strong anaesthetic.”

“Is that why I felt so groggy?”

“Yes. I neutralised it. I couldn’t get an accurate diagnosis on the second toxin so I uploaded the results to the Pathfinder’s computer.”

“And what did you find?” Cale said, keeping his voice carefully level. Avril took a long drag on her cigarette. Her face was pale and she had bags under her eyes.

“It’s a nanovirus,” she said. “Military-grade and totally illegal. Nothing of the sort is supposed to exist on this planet.”

“An artificial virus?”

Avril nodded. “A bad one.”

“You say it’s not supposed to exist. Do you have any idea where it came from?”

Avril tilted her head to one side. “I’m sure no one from the Pathfinder is responsible.”

She walked to the small stove to pour another coffee.

“I guess I should thank you, or something,” she said, handing it to him. Her hands fluttered, wafting smoke around the cabin.

“Are you all right?”

She gave a crooked smile. “I’d never been shot at before last night.”

Cale reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “If it’s any consolation,” he said, “neither had I.”

She moved to the middle of the cabin, where the ceiling was high enough to allow her to stand straight.

“What should we do now? Do you have a police force? Shouldn’t we report what happened?”

Cale shook his head. “I think it would be best if we tried to discover who it is that’s trying to kill us before we contact the Guardians.”

“I’ll need to report to my ship at least. Charbonneau must be going nuts.”

Cale sipped his coffee. It was hot, strong and unconvincing. Genuine coffee was in short supply, a luxury item beyond his means to afford. In the past, he’d longed to buy a farm on one of the Equatorial islands where he could raise coffee beans in an agricultural dome. The stuff would be liquid gold on the mainland.

“This virus,” he said. “How bad is bad?”

Avril sighed: “The ship says you’ve got some pretty fancy symbiotech enhancements to your immune system.”

“Those are Guardian issue.”

“Whatever they are, they’re the only thing keeping you alive. They should be able to delay the virus for the next two, maybe three days.”

“And then what?” Cale said. His mouth was dry despite the coffee.

“It will begin disassembling your cells. It will be very painful and you’ll be dead within an hour.” Avril rubbed her eyes with her fists.

Cale raked his fingers back through his hair.

“Damn.”

She reached out to him but he ignored her.

“What do we do?” she asked.

He flopped back on his bunk. “I don’t suppose there’s an antidote?” he said.

She shook her head. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. From somewhere high above, the sonic boom of a space plane rolled down over the harbour.

“In that case,” he said, “I’m open to suggestions.”

There was a long silence and then, as if on cue, his commcard started to chirp.

It was another message from Madelyn Walker; a link to a VR chat room on the local commnet. He showed it to Avril.

“What do you think?” he said.

“Only one way to find out, I guess.”

They clipped the commcard to a battered old VR headset he hadn’t used in years.

“Do you want total-immersion?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Not until we’re sure who we’re dealing with here. Just give me sound and vision.”

Avril tapped a couple of buttons and stepped back. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“I’ve no idea,” Cale said. “But there’s only one way to find out.” He inserted an earpiece and pulled the lenses over his eyes. He tapped the link on the commcard, blinked twice to activate the headset, and was in.

Jason Wiltshire leaned up against the side of the hangar enjoying the warm morning sun on his eyelids. Now that the rain had stopped, the spaceport was bustling with ground crews fuelling and loading the space planes standing on the damp tarmac. In the cockpit of the Dragonfly, he could see the pink hair and hunched shoulders of Jasmine Li. She was working with the space plane's AI to recalibrate the navigation systems. He was pleased she’d been sensible and kept her head during the rescue yesterday, providing help and practical suggestions as he jettisoned every non-essential piece of equipment to make space for as many of the refugee cryotanks as possible.

Since losing his parents, he’d been unwilling to place too much trust in people; but yesterday, he hadn’t had any choice. After moving the cryotanks, he’d been too exhausted to fly, and Jasmine had landed The Dragonfly. He had hated to give up control of his ship, but she’d brought the old plane down on the runway as carefully as if it had been made of spun sugar and moonbeams.

And after the reception in the spaceport bar, they’d slipped away to spend the night wrapped in each other’s arms.

They’d slept together several times in the last few weeks, but last night had been different, more intimate and less urgent, more like making love and less like scratching an itch. All night, he’d been unable to take his eyes from her. She’d looked fantastic and everything she did was charged with an electric sensuality that took his breath away.

An automated cargo lifter rolled from the hangar with half a dozen crates on its back. It beeped at him and he used his commcard to direct it to the Dragonfly, where it began unloading into the space plane's belly. As he watched the operation, he became aware of high heels clicking across the apron. He turned and saw a woman stalking toward him. She wore a charcoal-grey business suit and carried a briefcase.

“Mr Wiltshire?”

“Who wants to know?” He felt uneasy. She looked like a lawyer.

“My name’s Charlotte Black. I represent the DalbyTech Corporation,” she said, extending a gloved hand. The leather was soft and warm but her grip was firm. Her fingers felt like taut steel cables.

“What can I do for you?” he said. He couldn’t imagine what the company holding the contract for the space Elevator project could possibly want from him. “Have you come to compensate me for loss of business?” he said bitterly.

“Perhaps.” She unfastened the briefcase. Her red lipstick glistened like fresh blood. She withdrew two holos and passed them over.

“Would you study these, please?”

Jason took the pictures and shuffled from one to the other. The first was a picture of Avril Bradley, the comms officer from the Pathfinder who he’d spoken to during the descent. The other was a grainy black and white shot obviously lifted from a local surveillance camera. It showed a bearded man in a thick parka, who he didn’t recognise.

“You may have heard about the incident here last night,” Charlotte said, nodding toward the Omega Point, where Guardian detectives still had one of the adjoining hangars sealed off. All morning, Jason had been hearing rumours from the port staff about a shooting there last night.

“Were these two involved?” he said, passing the holos back to her. She looked over her glasses at him.

“There’s some chance,” she said, “that these two will attempt to arrange passage off-planet, either to the Pathfinder, or to one of the Freewheels. If they approach you, or one of the other space plane operators, then we’d be very grateful if you’d let us know.”

“How grateful?”

Charlotte Black narrowed her eyes. “As you’re aware, your father borrowed a substantial sum of money to keep your business afloat,” she said. “We’d be willing to write off those debts.”

Jason whistled. “That’s very generous.”

“Let’s just say that we’d prefer to hear of their whereabouts before certain other parties.” She looked toward the distant Guardians.

“I see.”

“And we’d also appreciate it if you kept this conversation confidential,” she said, sealing the holos back in her briefcase with a snap. “Do we have a deal?”

Jason scratched his chin. “I guess so.”

“Very well. Good day, Mr Wiltshire.”

Charlotte turned on her stiletto heels and walked away. Jason watched her as he considered her request. Why did she want to find those two? If they’d been caught in a gun battle, it was surely a Guardian matter. But she didn’t want the Guardians involved. Why not?

Behind him, another cargo lifter beeped for instructions. It was loaded with spare parts and tools for the Pathfinder’s repairs. Of course, once in orbit, every crate would have to pass Henrik Charbonneau’s vigorous and, in Jason’s opinion, paranoid security checks. He couldn’t understand why Charbonneau believed the Pathfinder had been attacked. It seemed absurd. Visiting ships were cause for excitement and celebration. What would be the point of sabotage? And if it had been an attack, could there be a link to the mysterious Charlotte Black and her search for Avril Bradley? What could DalbyTech possibly want with her? He hadn’t the slightest clue.

He mulled it over for a few minutes, then shrugged and decided it was none of his concern. DalbyTech was threatening to drive him out of business with their Space Elevator project, and he’d be damned if he’d help them, no matter how much money they offered.

There was a space plane on the main runway. He watched it race past the hangars, pushed by a blue flame. It was newer than the Dragonfly, with the interlinked triangles of the DalbyTech logo on its tail. When it reached the end of the runway, it leapt into the sky, arching above the bay to fill the clear morning air with the roar of its engine. Jason admired its speed and manoeuvrability. He guessed it was carrying personnel and equipment for the Elevator project.

He looked back toward the aged Dragonfly to see Jasmine staring down at him from the cockpit. She gave him a mock salute and he waved back, feeling his mood lifting with anticipation for the upcoming ascent. Dismissed as being too much like his father, the other space plane pilots had never really accepted Jason as a serious rival. But after the rescue flight, he was being treated like a celebrity around the port. People turned to smile and congratulate him as he passed. When the Dragonfly lifted in a couple hours, there would even be news drones on board from two of the planet’s major networks.

His commcard beeped with an incoming message. It was a voice-only communication from an undisclosed recipient, probably someone with a suspicious cargo to offer. Jason opened the channel.

“Mr Wiltshire?” The voice was female and scratchy, with an accent he couldn’t place.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I hope so. I’m calling to make you an offer.”

“Who is this?”

The woman’s voice paused. When she spoke again, she sounded amused. “Forgive the secrecy, Mr Wiltshire. You may call me Madelyn. If you’re willing to listen to my request, I’m prepared to pay you a substantial amount of money.”

Jason waved another cargo lifter to his ship. “Everyone’s offering me money, today.”

“I’m aware of the offer Miss Black has made you,” Madelyn said. “She’s approached every independent ground-to-orbit transport business with a similar proposal.”

“Then you must know that it’s very substantial,” Jason said.

“I’m prepared to offer something of much greater value.”

“Really?” He was sceptical. The wind blew across the landing field from the sea combining the smell of grass with engine fumes.

“If I may be blunt, Mr Wiltshire, I know your business is failing. You’ve inherited crippling debts and you’re barely one step ahead of your creditors. Even the money Ms Black has offered won’t cover everything that you owe.”

Jason clenched his fist. She was right. He’d taken on his father’s debts and run up plenty of his own.

“What I’m offering,” Madelyn said, “is a fresh start. If my suspicions are correct, I will soon have access to information of incalculable value, and I’m offering you a share in the profits.”

Jason scratched his chin. “How much would "incalculable" be in real money?” he said.

“What value would you put on a clean slate and funds to start over?” Madelyn said.

Jason looked up at the Dragonfly’s cockpit, where Jasmine was still working with the instruments.

“And what would I have to do?” he asked.

“I simply need you to pick up two passengers and bring them into orbit.”

“Yeah?” He was suspicious. “These must be two seriously important people if you’re willing to pay that much for a simple charter.”

“Let’s just say I’d also prefer to avoid the attention of the Guardians,” Madelyn said.

“You too, huh? Why?” Jason asked. “Are these guys wanted?”

“Yes.” Madelyn said: “By everybody.”

Cale panned around the virtual landscape and recognised it immediately. It was a representation of the same cafe where he’d last seen Madelyn Walker, sixty years ago. And, when he looked, she was there, sitting across the table from him.

“Hello, Cale,” she said.

She looked exactly as he remembered her, even down to her round, wire-rimmed spectacles, and the similarities between her and Avril struck him anew. They had the same sad blue eyes and, although Madelyn was a lot older, the same fair skin and wiry build.

“Are you all right?” she asked. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and took a sip.

“Who are you?” Cale snapped.

She raised an eyebrow. She said, “Who do I appear to be?”

Cale took a deep breath; there was nothing to gain by losing his temper. “You’re not Madelyn Walker,” he said.

She glanced up, surprised. “What makes you say that?”

He stared at the water in the pitcher. “Madelyn’s dead,” he said. “I saw her body. I know you can’t be her.”

“Then who am I?”

He put his hands flat on the table. “I think you’re an AI.”

She nodded in approval.

“Very good,” she said. “I can see why you made a good Guardian.”

“I’m retired.”

“I know.” She pushed her drink aside, clasped her hands on the tabletop, and leaned forward.

“As you say, I’m not the material Madelyn Walker.” She said. “I just think I am. I have her memories, her experiences and her temperament. I think like her and I act like her. But physically, I am not her.”

Cale remembered the implants the original Madelyn had inserted in her skull. “You’re the back-up?” he said.

“Quite right. When Madelyn was alive, she used a standard, off-the-shelf artificial intelligence to help her catalogue her research.”

“You?”

“Yes. During the course of the project, she routinely downloaded memories and notes into her implants for processing and storage. The technique was experimental and relatively crude, and the bandwidth was unreliable.” Madelyn paused, using one finger to push her glasses firmly back onto the bridge of her nose. “She was unable to accurately select and isolate the precise memories that she wanted to store. Gradually, more and more of her unrelated thoughts and experiences leaked into my files.”

“And so you began to think like her?”

“No. I became her consciousness.”

Cale rubbed his eyes. “Okay, let me get this straight: You’re a computer simulation that thinks it’s an old friend of mine.”

Madelyn nodded. “Crude as that definition is, it will serve us.”

“You really think you’re Madelyn?”

“Yes. Her memories inform my actions, the same way that your memories inform yours.”

Cale slumped in his chair. He had to admit everything from her body language to her accent was the same.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s suppose I believe you. Why did you send me that message about the key?”

“Because I need your help.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask?”

“I couldn’t download myself into the commnet without attracting attention. It was easier to email you.”

“Are we okay here?” Cale turned and glanced over his shoulder.

“Yes.” Madelyn smiled. “You’ve come to me. It’s a standard VR chat room hosted on the Anastasia, nothing suspicious.”

Cale scratched his beard. “So, what is it you want from me?”

“First, you must understand that the other Madelyn – the original - completed her research before she died.”

“Into neural interfaces?”

“No, not quite.” She pulled her glasses off and pointed them at him. “The neural implants were simply a means to an end. She was expanding her mind, blending her creativity and talent with the analytical speed of a computer in order to work on the problem that had secretly obsessed her for decades.”

“And what was that?” Cale tried to think, but he’d never paid much attention to Madelyn’s work.

“She didn’t want anyone to know what she was working on, least of all the New United Nations. It was one of the reasons she joined the Anastasia expedition in the first place.”

Cale said: “What have the UN got to do with it? Surely once she was aboard, they couldn’t touch her?”

Virtual Madelyn carefully slipped her glasses back into place on her nose and stared at him. “They have agents,” she said. “Who do you think tried to kill you last night?”

Cale leaned forward. “It’s been sixty-two years since we left Earth. We’re almost twelve light years away, on the other side of an unreliable and unpredictable wormhole network. It would take twenty-four years just to get a reply to a radio signal. How do you expect me to believe that those guys were working for the UN?”

“They weren’t,” Madelyn said. “But the person who sent them certainly was. Madelyn Walker – the biological Madelyn Walker - was certain there were deep cover UN Security agents watching her. Her research was considered too valuable and dangerous to fall into any hands other than those of the UN itself.”

Cale took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “So what was this research?”

Madelyn looked down at the table. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “That’s why I need the key.”

This Madelyn was as frustrating and exhausting to Cale as the original.

“I don’t understand,” he said, eyeing her.

She picked up her empty glass, holding it in both hands. “Madelyn Walker placed a physical code-lock on her research files,” she said. “I can’t access them at all. I can’t even think about what they contain. It’s extremely frustrating.”

“So what is the key?” Cale asked.

Madelyn smiled. “I’m sure you can work that out for yourself. The lock’s located in the processing substrate of the Anastasia. You must come here, and bring Avril with you.”

“You’re asking a lot,” Cale said. “We’re in a bit of trouble ourselves.”

“I know,” Madelyn said. “I intercepted Avril’s signal to her ship and I know all about your nasty artificial virus. If anyone can find a cure for it in the time you have left, it will be me.”

“You think so?”

“I do. Don’t forget, Cale, I’m a genius.”

The inside of the café began to flash with red light and Madelyn jumped to her feet.

“I must go,” she said. “Someone else is trying to access the files. You must hurry. Go to the monument at First Landing. Bring Avril.”

She disintegrated into a swirl of blocky pixels and Cale found himself ejected back into the real world.

7. Atlantean Lighthouses

Marcus Dalby's private offices were situated near the bows of the floating city Hakudo Maru. They were airy and light with hardwood floors and tastefully sculpted nudes carved from local stone. The walls were crowded with banks of softscreens that allowed him to monitor the Space Elevator project. Right now, one of those screens was showing him a real-time holographic image of the asteroid to be used as the raw material and counterweight for the elevator. To Marcus, it looked like a mottled grey potato and reminded him in size of the Anastasia.

As he watched, a small puff of dust on the asteroid’s flank signalled the impact of the latest DalbyTech probe. In Mission Control, two floors down, champagne corks would be popping. Activated by the impact, the probe’s specialised machines would begin to knit the carbonaceous rock of the asteroid into a diamond-sheathed cable one hundred thousand kilometres long. The process would take five years.

Marcus” attention drifted from the screen to the window, where a fluttering pennant on a nearby tower caught his eye. He rose from his desk and walked over to the glass balcony doors. From there he could see the ship’s bows.

The Hakudo Maru was a streamlined floating ziggurat, studded with landing pads and cranes, crammed with antennae and observation bubbles. At just over a mile in length, with two outriggers the size of cruise ships, she could weather the fierce equatorial storms of Silversands with ease. Designed as a combination of corporate head office and mobile research centre, in her twenty-eight years, the ship had come to resemble a floating town as DalbyTech employees brought their families to live in her spacious and luxurious suites. Still, she wasn’t crowded. Even with eight thousand people on board, there were still empty cabins on some of her decks.

Although the Hakudo Maru occasionally visited the Ring Archipelago, she mostly cruised between the equatorial islands where DalbyTech held various interests. The most profitable were the giant agricultural domes producing tea, fruits, beef, and maize in their shielded environments.

Marcus gazed to the flat horizon. Growing up in the domed cities of Mars, water had been a rare and precious resource - but Silversands was a global ocean.

As a child, he’d been at home in the warrens and tunnels of the Martian settlements, but after once becoming lost on a field trip and almost running out of oxygen, the deserts above left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. Since then, he’d been incurably agoraphobic. All open spaces had become dangerous and inhospitable wildernesses to him, and now he rarely left the Hakudo Maru. The corridors and gangways of the great ship were his home and the place he felt safe. Once or twice a year, he’d travel to Providence, but the rest of the time he spent on the ship, overseeing his business empire remotely. In fact, he’d advised his staff to evaluate every business trip to see if productivity would increase without travel. He used economic arguments to rationalise his behaviour. It wasn’t agoraphobia, he could tell himself, just good business.

And who would question him? Under his leadership, DalbyTech had risen to become one of the largest players in the economy of Silversands. The company owned patents on hundreds of templates, allowing the creation of everything from agricultural machinery and electrical components to clothing and medicine; and as a result of the company’s growth, Marcus had become a celebrity. His autobiography was hailed as one of the colony’s great success stories, and it consistently topped the list of most popular downloads on the planetary commnet. For a secretive recluse, this attention had presented him with a problem – because beneath his public face and invented past lay a secret far darker than his agoraphobia.

He didn’t want anyone, least of all his fiancée Patricia Lear, to know he was actually a security agent for the New United Nations. The only person he’d confided in was his assistant, Charlotte Black. Deceiving Patricia bothered him, but he’d been living an agent’s life for so long secrecy had become a reflex, a habit he couldn’t break.

He looked back to the asteroid on the screen, remembering the early days of the Anastasia’s voyage.

The New UN (Earth’s global government) had disapproved of David Lear’s plan to build and fly a privately funded interstellar starship. During the construction of the Anastasia, Marcus Dalby and another agent, Suzanne Wiltshire, were ordered to infiltrate Lear’s organisation. By posing as would-be colonists, they’d assisted in the landscaping and settlement of the starship.

Suzanne had brought her unwitting husband with her and the two moved into an apartment overlooking the large lake in the central cavern. Dalby had a room near the air plant. He’d taken a job designing templates that would be used to grow civic and administrative colony buildings when the ship reached Silversands. But it was all a cover - neither he nor Suzanne expected the Anastasia would actually be allowed to leave. The UN was using every means at its disposal to try and prevent the departure. Shuttles were impounded, arrests made, and Lear’s assets were seized. But, when it finally became clear nothing could prevent the Anastasia’s departure from orbit, Marcus and Suzanne were ordered to stay aboard.

They weren’t worried. For decades, there had been an embargo on traffic through the wormhole gate. Too many expeditions had been lost, shunted off to random coordinates in the wormhole network. When the Anastasia reached the gate, Dalby had fully expected Lear to back off in the face of the blockade – he hadn’t expected the Anastasia to barge its way past the UN ships.

At first, being stranded on the Anastasia as she left Earth behind seemed a terrible, unfair burden. But now, six decades later, Marcus could see that leaving everything he’d ever known had been the making of him.

After the foundation of the Silversands colony, he’d used his nanotech template designs to found his own company. As his influence grew, he’d begun to support emerging politicians using bribery and blackmail against their rivals. Most of the recipients of this covert help were unaware of his efforts; Marcus preferred to exert subtle pressure over long periods of time to keep his true intentions hidden. These techniques had ensured the Space Elevator contract went to DalbyTech, despite howls of opposition from other corporations.

When the project was complete, DalbyTech would have a monopoly on the transportation of passengers and freight, drastically undercutting all commercial space planes. The media was already referring to the Elevator as “Dalby's Beanstalk” and he was insistent his PR department cultivate his image as a courageous and benevolent entrepreneur.

Of course, the Freewheels thought it was unfair to allow a single organisation to control such a vital transportation network. Since the project had been announced, they’d been putting pressure on the Silversands Command Council to have the Elevator placed under public control. Just thinking of about it made Marcus’s lip curl. Sometimes, he could understand why Lear had abandoned his commercial empire on Earth to strike out into the unknown. As far as Marcus was concerned, the orbital Freewheel habitats were crammed full of socialist troublemakers. However, as they’d be providing the bulk of the elevator’s freight and passenger traffic, he couldn’t afford to alienate them. He tapped a fingernail against his white teeth. Perhaps he could offer them a minority share in the project? Would part-ownership and a slice of the profits be an acceptable compromise?

He stared back to the softscreens showing the revolving grey flank of the counter-weight asteroid and tried to imagine the furious activity taking place beneath its rocky surface. Then, with the usual thrill of satisfaction, he called up a computer-generated simulation of the completed project.

It was breath-taking.

Sometimes, he found it hard to process the scale of it all: The “elevator” would be a cable with one end fastened to an equatorial island; the other end would stretch upward beyond geosynchronous orbit. The tension between the planet’s gravity at the lower end and outward centripetal acceleration at the top would keep the cable taut. Passengers and cargo would ride up from the surface to orbit in pressurised elevator cars. It was a fantastic scheme running contrary to Marcus’s understanding of the way the universe worked. He couldn’t grasp how the cable would remain in place, but his experts assured him it would.

He turned the simulation off, intending to move back to the window, but stopped as his eye caught the photo of Patricia Lear sitting on his desk. She was one of the most respected politicians and academics on the planet. That she was also one of the most attractive and sensual women he’d ever met was a fortunate bonus.

He kept telling himself that to get married now was only good business and nothing else, and that the pressures of living a double life had left him too cynical, too habitually defensive to allow emotions to cloud his judgement – but it simply wasn’t true. Deep down, he knew he loved her.              Outside, the sea was flat and still, stretching away to the horizon like a glass tabletop. Shrugging off an agoraphobic twinge, he turned back to the warmth of his office. Despite his ambition, there were still some things he wasn’t yet ready to face.

Cale accessed a news channel and sat watching while Avril went up on deck to contact the Pathfinder. Wrapped in his parka, she sat facing the shore and dangled her feet over the Thermopylae’s side. Beneath her boots, the grey water lapped gently against the smooth hull.

Along the quayside, trawlers were unloading the first catches of the day; she could smell engine fumes mixed with fish and hear the shouts of the crews over the cries of the squabbling gulls. Her breath misted in the thin crisp air and the snowy mountain peaks above the town shone white in the soft morning light. She opened an uplink channel and was greeted by Nina Doroshkow. The older woman looked concerned.

“Avril! Are you all right? Where have you been?”

“It’s a long story. Where’s Charbonneau?”

“He’s supervising the repair teams. Think yourself lucky he’s not here. He nearly had a fit when he heard about the shooting. He thinks it’s all part of a plot by the locals to take over the ship. We’ve been trying to contact you all night.”

“Yeah, sorry, I had my card switched off.”

“Well, thank heaven you’re okay. When we couldn’t trace your signal, Charbonneau was convinced you’d been kidnapped. He’s recalled Hernandez and Berglund to the ship and he’s been arguing with the local authorities all morning. He’s even threatened to send down an armed expedition to recover you!”

Avril grimaced. “I bet that didn’t go down too well.”

“You’re right about that. The local militia have claimed jurisdiction and we’ve been told to butt out. We’re officially confined to the ship until they resolve this mess. Charbonneau’s not happy.”

“I can imagine.” Avril rubbed her eyes with the knuckles of her free hand. “Look, I can’t stay on long. I found the guy I was looking for. We’re in a bit of trouble but we’re okay. I just need a little more time.”

“You found him?” Nina’s eyes widened. “He’s still alive?”

Avril glanced down the open hatchway. “Only for another couple of days,” she said.

Nina frowned. “Does this have anything to do with the medical sample you uploaded to the computer last night?”

“You noticed that?”

“Yes, but I haven’t mentioned it to Charbonneau yet.”

Avril’s attention was drawn to the bustling activity at the quayside. It was another market day. Beside each trawler a stall was heaped with fish and, on the opposite side of the concourse, more stalls were being set up for fruits and vegetables, clothing, weapons and fast food. The appetising smell of frying onions drifted across the water to her.

“So,” Nina said lowering her voice. “This guy, is he your father or isn’t he?”

Avril lit a cigarette and looked up at the cloudless sky. The sun was warm when the breeze wasn’t blowing.

“I haven’t asked him yet.”

“What do you mean, you haven’t asked him? You’ve come across thirty years of time to find him and you haven’t asked yet? Hell, girl, why didn’t you run a DNA comparison on that sample last night?”

“I did.” Avril tapped the ash from her cigarette and watched it drop into the water. “I’m still nerving myself to check the result.”

“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Nina said.

Avril forced a smile. “Tell Charbonneau not to break out the nukes yet. I’ll shout if I need any help.”

“Okay. But you’d better have one hell of an explanation up your sleeve. He almost went berserk when we lost your signal.”

“I promise,” Avril said. “As soon as I know what’s going on, I’ll tell you.”

Nina shook her head. “Well, make sure you leave your card switched on from now on, so we can monitor your position.”

“Will do. Bradley out.” She broke the connection and slipped the card back into her jacket pocket.

The sunlight here was redder than on earth, and the disc was almost a third larger. Beyond the harbour wall, she could see the next islands in the archipelago curving away like craggy teeth.

This idyllic scene reminded her of the misery she’d left behind on Earth – storms, droughts and flooding, the brownouts and food shortages. She’d grown up in the hallways of a housing project just outside Chicago, trying to avoid its gangs and violence. Compared to Earth, Silversands was a paradise: maybe a little basic, but still infinitely preferable to the unravelling society she’d left behind.

She unpinned her diamond brooch and held it out so little rainbows of refracted sunlight danced around her fingers. The “diamond” had been created using carbon extracted from Natascha Bradley’s cremated remains. It was a gaudy and undignified memento but, apart from a few pictures, it was all Avril had. She closed her fingers around it and the stone pressed into her palm.

Her mother had been a good woman. Perhaps a little distant and sad, but she’d raised Avril as best she could. At the time of her mother’s death, Avril had been enrolled in the Tanguy Corporation’s astronaut training program. She’d transferred to the Pathfinder project a couple of weeks after the funeral. With Natascha gone, there had been nothing left to keep her on Earth.

For a moment, she considered dropping the brooch into the water. Perhaps now she’d found Cale, it was time to let her mother rest. She tried to picture the vigorous, active woman her mother had been before the illness. But however hard Avril tried, her thoughts kept returning to Natascha fading away in an anonymous hospital bed, sunken and pale, reduced to a broken stick of a woman.

She held the brooch out over the water but couldn’t let go. Instead, she clipped it back on and turned toward the cabin.

Inside, Cale was searching through the archives on his commcard. They contained hundreds of old documents and pictures he hadn’t looked at since retiring. Just scanning down the titles felt like archaeology.

He scrolled down until he found the Guardian-issue file marked “Crew”, transferred it to the active memory and projected it onto the softscreen on the cabin wall.

“It’s a complete photographic record of the crew of the Anastasia,” he said as Avril climbed back down into the cabin. “With luck, we should find our attackers” faces in here somewhere.”

“Isn’t it a bit out of date?” Avril said.

Cale sat back and pulled his fingertips through his beard. “The population’s been growing fairly steadily. Obviously there’s been a few deaths in the last sixty years, and we’ve had a handful of other ships arrive, but those crews were pretty small, and most of them joined the Freewheels.”

“But didn’t the Anastasia carry five hundred thousand people? “Avril said.

Cale smiled. “It’s the best lead we’ve got,” he said.

He watched as she stretched out on the bunk.

She said: “As I recall, the UN tried to stop you, didn’t they?”

He turned back to the screen. “The rumour was that an expedition brought back something that panicked the UN into putting a protective cordon around the wormhole gate itself,” he said.

“What was it?”

Cale shrugged. “Nobody knew. They just closed the gate and said it was too dangerous to use.”

“But Lear decided to go anyway?” Avril reached out for her coffee mug.

“By that time, the Anastasia was ready to fly. Lear was under a lot of pressure from the government. When the cordon went up, he just decided to ignore it.”

“I’ve seen the footage,” Avril said. “The Anastasia was five kilometres long. Short of using nuclear weapons, there was no way they could stop you.”

“So how did you get here?” Cale asked.

Avril stifled a yawn. She needed sleep.

“Twenty years after you left, they started sending ships through the wormhole again,” she said. She pointed upwards, at the sky beyond the boat’s low ceiling. “Ships like the Pathfinder. We’re supposed to be making contact with scattered human colonies and rescuing stranded expeditions, that sort of thing.”

“But how can you be a rescue party?” Cale said. “The gates just shove you down a random wormhole. There’s no guarantee you’ll ever make it back to Earth yourselves. You might just keep jumping further and further away.”

“I guess some of us thought it worth the risk,” Avril said. “You must have known it yourself when you joined the Anastasia.”

He looked straight at her for a moment, and then turned back to the softscreen as it began displaying the photographs and biographies of people matching his vague criteria.

“This could take all day,” he muttered. He scrolled quickly though the first entries and then refined the search parameters. After several minutes, he was looking at a dark-haired young woman in a smart business suit.

“That’s her,” said Avril, sitting up.

“Are you sure?”

“She had her hair tied back last night, and less make-up, but that’s definitely her.”

Cale pulled up the attached biography. “Not much here,” he said. “Her name’s Charlotte Black. She was born in Providence twenty-eight years ago. Her parents were Purists, and both died when she was young.”

“Purists?”

“They don’t believe in anti-ageing treatments, they prefer to live a natural lifespan.”

Avril stretched. “What else?” she asked.

“She works for DalbyTech. They make software and nanotech templates.” Cale scratched his head and frowned.

“Do you think they’re involved?”

“They might be; I’ve no idea.”

The Dalby name had come up a number of times in the last twenty-four hours. Both Patricia and Madelyn had mentioned it. Cale wondered what the connection was.

“Hey!” Avril pointed to one of the smaller softscreens on the wall. “Turn up the sound on that newscast.”

Cale turned and saw the face of one of the two men he’d shot. The picture was cropped from an old holiday photo with the man in a bright Hawaiian shirt, a martini glass in one hand, and a pair of maracas in the other. Cale reached for the volume but the item finished. He quickly called up a text version of the news headlines.

“It says those guys from last night were off-duty cops. I thought I recognised one of them but I wasn’t sure.” He tapped their names into his commcard and headshots of the men appeared. Both were listed as Guardians.

“It also says that I’ve been kidnapped,” Avril said, reading the text on the softscreen. “Doesn’t look as if they know you’re involved yet, though.”

“I’m sure they’ll find out soon enough.”

Avril sat down on the bunk beside him and began to toy with her diamond brooch. “So what does this all mean?” she said.

Cale scratched at his beard. “It means that it’s about time I got a shave,” he said. “I think we’re going to have to pay a visit to my ex-wife.”

Fearing the public transport tubes were being watched, they instead took an underwater glider from the quayside to the University. The gliders were small, slow craft used mainly by marine biologists and sightseers. One of Cale’s regular customers was a tour operator who let them borrow one on the condition Cale tore up his bar tab.

“It works using a trick of buoyancy,” Cale explained to Avril when she didn’t see any engine. “If I tilt the nose forward as we sink, internal weights shift forward and drive us in that direction.”

“So it’s unpowered?” She looked nervously at the cold grey seawater bubbling up to cover the cockpit windows.

“No external moving parts,” Cale said. “We glide wherever we’re going. It’s very clean and very economical.”

“And very slow?”

He grinned. “Top speed’s about one knot, so you’d better sit back: this might take a while.”

Avril stretched out in her seat and yawned. She put her feet up on the heavy case he’d brought with him from the Thermopylae and closed her eyes. She hadn’t slept during the night and Cale was glad she was finally resting.

He rubbed his smooth shaven chin. He’d even allowed Avril to trim his hair in the hope the change would make it harder for any witnesses from last night to identify him.

Keeping the glider on course demanded very little attention, so his thoughts turned to the previous night.  He was sure Charlotte Black had shot him by mistake, that she’s been aiming for Avril. Crouched behind a car in the rain and the darkness, it was a wonder she’d hit anything at all.

He brushed the soft medical patch on his neck. The reality of what Avril had told him of the virus had yet to sink in. Looking out at the water illuminated by the spotlights on the glider’s nose, he wished he’d stayed on the Thermopylae, alone on the endless ocean.

Beside him, Avril muttered in her sleep.

An hour later, as he brought the glider in on a slow looping curve, he woke her so she could see the two underwater spires of the University.

Fashioned from mutated coral, they were over one hundred meters in height, with bases anchored deep in the ocean floor. Light from their windows softly illuminated the surrounding water. Seaweed and barnacles encrusted their sides, making them look much older than they actually were. To Cale, they resembled glowing stalagmites straining toward the sunlight high above, or bizarre Atlantean lighthouses. The Northern spire housed the hospital. Halfway up its southern counterpart was the Office of Biodiversity Management and, as he’d hoped, there was light coming from Patricia’s window.

Once docked, their footsteps echoed as they made their way through an airy atrium toward a receptionist’s desk by the elevators.

“Good morning, Mr Christie,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”

Cale rested the heavy case he was carrying on the desk.

“I’ve got some specimens for Councillor Lear,” he said, reaching inside and pulling out a jar containing a local sea slug. It was bruised purple and the size of a severed human tongue. The receptionist wrinkled her nose at it.

“Go on up,” she said.

Cale led Avril into a transparent elevator. She was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a fleece cap. She’d pulled the brim and earpieces as low as she could, to hide her face.

“Are you okay?” he said, as the doors closed and the roofs of the University’s lower buildings dropped away beneath them.

“I’m tired,” she said. She grabbed his arm. “How’re you feeling?”

“Not too bad. A bit feverish, maybe.” That he was going to die still seemed unreal and outlandish. He hadn’t been able to process it. For some reason he’d felt worse when he’d been diagnosed with prostate cancer, even though he’d been assured it was treatable.

Perhaps, he thought, this failure to believe in his own mortality was a side effect of his extended lifespan; after all, he was two hundred and thirty-eight years old. He had gotten used to not dying.

The elevator rose into an opaque section of the tower and the doors opened.

“Follow me,” he said, lifting the case of biological samples. He led her across a corridor to a door in the opposite wall. It slid open and they stepped inside.

Patricia Lear was seated at her plastech desk reading some notes on a softscreen. She looked up in surprise as they entered.

“Cale? What are you doing here?”

He slid the heavy case onto her desk. “These are the samples I collected on my trip. I thought you’d like to take a look at them.”

He looked around at the office’s familiar clutter. Patricia was the Councillor in charge of Planetary Security, which meant she oversaw the day-to-day operations of the Guardians, but her first love had always been biology. In the years leading up to the Anastasia’s departure, she’d been instrumental in establishing its biosphere. Her office shelves were lined with rows of classic scientific texts and awards from her distinguished academic career. Her collection of bound fiction was an anachronistic luxury.

Outside the window, a shoal of sleek, black fish darted to and fro, attracted by the light.

“What do you want, Cale?” she said. “I know who this is by the way.” She jerked a thumb at the disguised Avril. “And I’m guessing she’s part of the reason you’re here.”

He nodded.

“I also heard what happened at the spaceport last night.” Patricia folded her arms. “Were you involved?”

“Yes. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Patricia banged her hand on the case. “Those were two of my best men. One’s dead and the other’s wired to a life support machine. What the hell happened?”

“I was hoping you might be able to answer that one,” Cale said.

She gave him a blank look.

“I think I should get a couple of Guardians down here,” she said. “It’s for your own good. We need to straighten this out.” She reached into the pocket of her business suit for her commcard but Cale opened the case and pulled out his gauss pistol. Avril tensed beside him and Patricia’s face reddened.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said from behind her desk.

“Sorry, love. There’s more going on here than you know.”

He reached across and took the card from her fingers, then used the butt of the pistol to smash it on the desk.

“Have you gone mad?” Patricia said.

“Quite possibly.” He levelled the pistol at her again. “Now let’s have some straight answers.”

Avril coughed. “Do you want me to keep watch?” she asked.

“Stay by the door,” Cale said, lowering his voice. “Make sure no one surprises us.”

Avril nodded and, with a glance at Patricia, stepped out into the corridor. The door slid closed behind her.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Patricia said.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. A headache was building.

“I’m dying, Pat.”

“What?”

“There was a woman at the spaceport last night. Her name’s Charlotte Black and she’s a DalbyTech employee. She shot me with a military-grade nanovirus. I think it was meant for Avril but I just happened to be in the way.”

“Charlotte Black? She’s Marcus’s personal assistant. Are you certain it was her?”

“Do you think I’d make this up?”

Patricia sat forward in her chair. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

She looked at him for a long moment, and then shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve no idea what my men were doing at the spaceport. They were off-duty.”

“Are you sure?” He leaned over the desk. He’d begun to feel tired and clammy. A single bead of cold sweat ran down his chest.

“Of course I’m sure.” Patricia pushed the gun aside. “For God’s sake, we were married for eight years. Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew someone was trying to kill you?”

Cale looked her in the eye. “Some people might say our marriage was ample motive for you wanting me dead.”

“That’s not even funny.” Her tone changed. “You’re both wanted for questioning and, until we find out what those two officers were doing there last night, your only hope is to let me turn this girl in. If you were acting purely in self-defence, then you shouldn’t have too much to worry about. But I warn you, Cale: Guardians don’t take kindly to people killing their colleagues.”

Cale shook his head. “Right now, what I need is to find a cure for this virus.”

“I’ll help you, if I can. You just have to turn yourselves in.”

“No.” He took a couple of paces back. “I’m not going to trust anyone until I know what’s going on.”

“Not even me?”

“I don’t know what to think. Last night, you asked me to look into allegations of corruption on the Council.”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “And you think that’s why you were attacked?”

Cale shrugged. “It could be, but they were mainly after Avril, I’m sure of that.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t mention the warning from Madelyn, turning instead to something he hoped Patricia would have noticed.

“I haven’t had time to run any sort of tests,” he said, “but did you notice how much Avril looks like Madelyn Walker?”

Patricia shivered. “You gave me quite a shock when you both walked in just now,” she said. “For a split second, I thought it was her, back from the dead.”

“It’s kind of weird for me too,” Cale said. “She claims Natascha was her mother.”

He turned as Avril slipped back into the room. She walked across the floor and stood in front of him gripping her commcard.

“Natascha always told me you were my father. That’s why I came looking for you,” she said. “But I’ve just looked at the results of the DNA test I ran last night – and we’re not even related.”

He took a step forward but she backed away.

“You came looking for me?” he said. “You had no idea where I was, and no way of knowing where the wormholes would take you. How the hell did you expect to find me?”

Avril pulled off her shades and glared, reminding him of Madelyn and the frequent arguments that had marred their brief but stormy relationship. “I did though, didn’t I?”

Patricia Lear cleared her throat. She said: “If I might interrupt, I came across some papers when I was investigating Madelyn’s death.”

Cale turned to her. “What papers?”

“Before she joined the Anastasia, Madelyn had a number of eggs taken from her ovaries. Natascha couldn’t conceive naturally and Madelyn’s genes were good, so they did a deal.”

Avril pulled her hat off and ran a hand through her mussed hair.

“What are you saying?”

Patricia drummed her fingers on the desk. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m saying that you’re a clone.”

Avril laughed and shook her head. She took a step back. “What?” she said.

Patricia looked away. She said: “They kept it a secret because Natascha – your mother – didn’t want you put under pressure to live up to Madelyn’s achievements.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m sorry.”

Avril looked around, clearly confused. “What about you?” she said to Cale.

He scratched his chin. “I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was,” he said. He wanted to say more but Patricia cut in again.

“It’s all academic now,” she said. “The fact is, Charbonneau’s furious. Avril, I have to get you back to him by midnight or there’s going to be hell to pay.”

An alarm sounded. She had pushed a concealed button under the edge of her desk.

“There’s no point running,” she said. “This is a small planet.”

Cale glared at her before grabbing Avril’s arm and pulling her out into the corridor. He knew there were Guardians stationed on the ground floor of the spire. They’d be here in moments.

“Follow me,” he said, slipping his pistol into a pocket and leading her to the stairwell. Two flights down, there was a row of emergency evacuation pods built into the wall.

Avril pulled back. She looked dazed.

“What’s going on?” she said.

Cale took her by the shoulders. “The guardians are on their way,” he said. “Do you want to wait here and see if they can get you back to your ship?”

She started to twist away from him, but then stopped struggling and took a deep breath. She glanced at the patch on his neck.

“No,” she said.

“Okay.” He pointed at the evacuation pods. “We’ll be trapped if we stay down here. This is the fastest way to the surface.”

There was a small glass fire alarm panel in front of him. They’d be too conspicuous if they took one pod; it would be easier to blend into a crowd.

“I think this qualifies as an emergency,” he said, and then broke the glass with his elbow. The alarm began to wail and they were immediately drenched with salty spray from sprinklers built into the ceiling.

Within seconds, the corridor filled with confused and anxious staff from the surrounding offices. Cale and Avril crowded into an evac pod with five of them and when the door shut, the pod detached from the side of the spire in a cloud of bubbles. A ring of fabric balloons around the top inflated with gas from canisters in the fuselage and they rose quickly. Cale swallowed as his ears popped with the pressure change. All around them, other pods floated up like corks.

8. Political Engineering

Last night, Marcus Dalby had been shocked when his news browser showed him the face of the Pathfinder’s Communications Officer, Avril Bradley. Even though their mannerisms had been quite different, the physical resemblance between her and Madelyn Walker was astounding.

Immediately, he’d checked the surveillance programs installed around Walker’s locked files. None had been compromised, but checking back through the records, he found records of some unusual activity that had started within minutes of Avril’s arrival in the Tau Ceti system, just moments before the explosion that had crippled the Pathfinder.

This was no coincidence, he was sure: Her appearance had triggered a response powerful enough to disable a spacecraft.

Now, standing in his office in the morning light, he waited anxiously for Charlotte Black to contact him, to tell him she’d made amends for last night’s botched attack at the spaceport by finding Bradley and taking her into custody, so he could find out what kind of threat she represented.

He checked the time on his wristwatch. Then he crossed the room to his drinks cabinet and poured a whiskey imported from Earth. It was a priceless status symbol and he’d paid dearly for it, yet he tossed the glass back like water, hoping it would calm him. He had a meeting with some of the Space Elevator’s principal backers in an hour and couldn’t allow himself to appear flustered.

His commcard beeped. Moving to the centre of the room, he touched a pad on the card and the bank of softscreens on the wall brought up a middle-aged man with small, sharp eyes. It was one of his lawyers, Petrov.

“I’ve just had a very interesting meeting with Frank Nicholls’s secretary,” he said.

Marcus turned and went to get himself another drink. He didn’t much like Petrov's abrupt manner.

“In what way "interesting"?” Marcus said, with his back to the screens.

Petrov leaned toward the camera. “Nicholls is putting out feelers, trying to gauge the support of the business community.”

“Support for what?” Marcus said, turning.

“Rumour has it that David Lear’s unhappy with what he sees as corruption in the Council.”

The whiskey glass stopped halfway to Marcus’s lips. “And you think Nicholls fears a leadership challenge from Lear?”

Petrov nodded. “The smart money says the old man’s looking to come out of retirement.”

Marcus needed Nicholls: Despite his aura of dependable honesty, the man was crooked and easily manipulated.

“So what should I tell them?” Petrov asked. “Can Nicholls count on your support?”

Marcus smiled: He had an idea.

“Tell him I’ll be backing Lear,” he said.

Petrov's brows arched. “May I ask why?”

“No, you may not.” Marcus cut the connection and walked around to his desk. He leaned back in the plush leather chair with the glass resting on his chest.

Frank Nicholls knew Marcus was engaged to Lear’s daughter and would assume he had switched allegiances. If Frank was worried Lear planned to challenge his leadership, then the prospect of an alliance between the old man and DalbyTech would scare him silly. With a bit of luck and careful manipulation, Marcus hoped he could make Frank paranoid enough to move against Lear.

At first, the idea of engineering a political confrontation seemed absurd. But then he remembered who he was - Marcus Dalby, entrepreneur and deep cover spy; a man who could do whatever the hell he wanted. If Frank attacked Lear, Marcus could take advantage of the ensuing political chaos to get his people into higher positions of power, maybe even onto the Council itself. And once that happened, he could push to have the Anastasia decommissioned. Not only was the old rock a hazard to the Space Elevator, her substrate also held Madelyn Walker’s hidden files. Getting rid of her would solve both problems at once.

And somehow, Avril Bradley was the key to it all. If he could convince Frank that Lear was making a deal with the Pathfinder through Avril, it might force the politician to act.

Marcus sat up and opened a channel to Charlotte Black. She was sitting with her legs crossed on the edge of a hotel bed filing her blood red nails.

“I’ve been monitoring Guardian comms,” she said. “It seems Bradley’s been involved in an incident at the University.”

Marcus leaned forward. “What sort of incident?”

“She was with a man named Christie. It seems they traced the two men I hired back to their day jobs.”

“What happened?”

“There was a confrontation between Christie and Patricia Lear, and the Guardians were called. Christie and the girl escaped under cover of a fire alarm.”

Marcus leaned into his desk, taking his weight on his elbows.

“Do you have any idea where they are now?” he said.

Charlotte shook her head. “I’m monitoring the usual channels, and the emergency services are en route. I’m sure they’ll be apprehended the moment they step ashore.”

“What if they evade the Guardians?” Marcus said.

Charlotte stopped filing.

“I’ve approached a number of commercial space plane pilots this morning, in case they try to get off-world,” she said, examining her nails.

“Good. Make that your priority.” There was no way Marcus wanted that Bradley woman anywhere near the Anastasia. “Also,” he said, “get another team together and see if you can track them down again before the authorities do. Use your contacts.”

“Will do.”

“If as you say, you hit her with the nanovirus, she’ll be dead within a few hours. We just have to keep her away from the Anastasia until then.”

“I know I hit one of them,” Charlotte said.

Marcus nodded, “Good”.

The virus, which he’d smuggled from Earth, was a nasty one. Designed not only to kill, it would also dispose of the body afterward. In a few hours, it could liquefy a corpse beyond all hope of identification.

“Report back when you have something concrete to tell me,” he said.

He broke the connection and crossed the room to the window. He stepped out onto the balcony. The fresh ocean air filled his nostrils and a cold wind blew through his lightweight suit, chilling him. As a child on Mars, he’d worn a breathing mask and insulated suit to leave the domes. The cold on Silversands didn’t bother him; at least here he could breathe the air, even if he felt uncomfortable outside.

He gripped the rail and looked toward the great ship’s bow. They were heading north, toward Providence. Tiny icebergs dotted the water far below him.

With a bit of training, he thought Charlotte Black would make a fine corporate assassin - but she lacked the subtlety and patience for this situation. She didn’t know the bigger picture; she wasn’t aware of his fears concerning the locked files. Perhaps, he thought, he should take charge of matters personally.

He ran a hand through his slick black hair. The first thing was to locate this Bradley woman. If she was part of a plot to access the information buried in Madelyn Walker’s locked files, he’d have to obtain the information himself on behalf of the New United Nations or, if that proved impossible, destroy it to stop it falling into the wrong hands.

For six decades, he’d watched over the files. His colleague, Suzanne Wiltshire, had left the life. She’d raised a son but when her marriage collapsed, she’d gone with a Russian ship passing through the system as it tried to find its way back to Earth. Briefly, he wondered where she was. With the randomness of the wormhole network, she could be anywhere.

Energised by the sea air, Marcus stepped back into his office to pick up Avril Bradley’s trail. But he knew he needed an ally, so he ordered a flyer to take him to Providence. While he was waiting, nerving himself to venture off the ship for the first time in days, he put in a call to Patricia Lear’s office for an appointment.

Struggling to keep his footing against the press of wet and anxious bodies, Cale clambered out of the rocking pod into the cold, knee-deep seawater. His legs were weak and he felt sick. All along the shore, other pods were beaching and discharging people into the shallow surf. There were shouts and a general commotion as they splashed around looking for friends and colleagues. Through the milling crowd ahead, Cale saw Avril on the gravel of the beach. She was bent over with her hands on her knees, panting.

“Where now?” she asked between gasps. Cale, breathless as well, pointed at a medical rover approaching from the road. When it reached the fringes of the crowd and its doors opened, six paramedics in reflective yellow jumpsuits crunched down onto the beach.

Cale took Avril’s arm and casually worked his way through the crowd toward the now empty vehicle. Resting on caterpillar tracks, it was designed for the mountainous island terrain surrounding the town. With a final glance back to the beach, they climbed into the cab and the doors slid shut. The dashboard was scuffed and stained but the electric motor started smoothly. Cale eased it into gear and, ignoring the indignant shouts of the medics, headed uphill, away from the sea.

9. First Landing

After an hour, Cale brought the rover to a halt under a rocky outcropping in a steep-sided valley on the other side of the island, at the end of which Avril could see steel grey waves rolling against a desolate shoreline. Thick clumps of green algae floated further out on the swell and orange sunlight reflected off the sand dunes.

Cale filled two backpacks with survival equipment and emergency rations and offered Avril one.

“I’m afraid we walk from here,” he said, tapping instructions into the rover’s autopilot. “These things have inbuilt location transponders. Handy for navigation but they can be easily tracked.”

“So, are we leaving it here?” Avril looked at the thick frost in the shadows where the low sun had yet to penetrate.

“No,” Cale said. “I’m programming it to return to the hospital by a route that should blur our trail a bit.” He stopped typing and stepped down onto the wiry grass. Cold, briny air swirled into the cab, and Avril fastened her parka before following him. As she closed the hatch, the engine started and the rover turned and trundled back up the valley.

“Where now?” she said. Wisps of morning fog clung to the young pine trees on either side of the melt water stream that ran down the boggy floor of the valley. She could hear the distant lonely clang of a buoy at sea.

Cale pointed to where one side of the valley extended out into the surf, forming a rocky headland. She was about to protest but the wind ruffled his hair and reminded her of the photograph of him in her pocket, the one she’d treasured all through her teenage years. Her eyes prickled and she could only nod and follow as he began climbing the grassy slope.

At the end of the headland, they came to a clearing surrounded by bracken and thick gorse. A polished megalith sat in the centre of a circle of smaller stones. Cale rested his back against it. He was light-headed and the strap of his backpack rubbed painfully against the dressing on the side of his neck. High up on the opposite side of the valley, a shaggy herd of stocky bison grazed on the thin springy grass. Their breath rose in puffs above them.

Avril came up behind and flopped onto the ground.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“It’s called First Landing,” he said, patting the megalith. “It’s the spot where Helen Cherhill became the first person to set foot on Silversands, sixty years ago. This stone commemorates the event.”

Avril looked around. “Then what are those smaller ones for?”

“They’re monuments,” he said. “The one on the end belongs to a friend of ours. There’s an inscription on the other side.”

Avril shrugged off her backpack and climbed to her feet. She stretched her aching calf muscles as she rounded the weathered row of stones and found a brass plaque bolted to the nearest. Scraping aside some lichen, she peered at the inscription. Without looking, he knew it read: In memory of Madelyn Walker.

He heard her laugh and then saw her sink to her knees. He came around to put his hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Just leave me alone,” she said. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

He could see she was angry, frightened and confused, and he wanted to comfort her, but before he could speak, he heard the sound of an engine and dropped to his knees.

“Someone’s coming,” he said, crawling over the dry, coarse grass toward the megalith. As he did so, he saw a camouflaged rover emerge from the trees at the bottom of the valley.

“Guardians,” he said. “They must be tracking the route we took.”

Avril flattened herself on the grass.

“What do we do?” she said.

“We lay low and hope they don’t see us.”

“Do you think they’ll come up here?” Avril crawled toward him, to put the megalith between her and the rover.

Cale nodded. “They’ve got heat sensors, real-time Navsat pictures, all sorts of surveillance gear and sensory enhancements. Finding people is what these guys do for a living.”

“Then we’re in trouble.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps we can explain,” she said.

Cale peeked around the stone. “We shot two of their colleagues,” he said. “I’m not too sure they’ll be eager to believe a word we say.”

The rover reached the rocky overhang where they’d abandoned their own rover half an hour before. Doors on the vehicle’s side hinged open and a dozen Guardians jumped out in full battle dress.

“I guess they didn’t fall for your little bit of misdirection,” Avril said.

“It doesn’t look like it.” Cale squinted to get a better look. One of the troopers held a portable scanner. He turned in circles with it, like a hunting dog questing for a scent.

“They’re scanning for us,” Cale said.

“Damn.” Avril pulled out her commcard and held it toward him. “This emits a homing signal.”

He snatched it from her and flicked it over the edge of the cliff.

Avril watched it disappear. She said: “This is beginning to look like a set-up - Why did Madelyn want us up here, anyway?”

Cale gripped her hand. “I don’t know. Personally, I’m beginning to have some serious doubts about this whole affair.”

Above the din of the wind and waves, he heard a mounting whine, and a space plane rose from the beneath the cliff, the downdraught from its engines whipping up a cloud of dust and grit as it hung in the air for a second before tilting its nose forward and moving inland.

Cale grabbed Avril, pushed her down, and planted his face between her shoulder blades as its exhaust passed over them. When it was safe, he looked up to see the plane touching down on the headland beyond the megalith.

As the landing struts bounced on their shock-absorbers, a side hatch irised open and a young woman with a shock of pink hair leaned out with a riot gun in her hands.

“Need a ride?” she shouted.

Below, the Guardians had raised their rifles. Bullets rattled against the Dragonfly’s hull.

Cale scrambled to his feet, pulling Avril by the arm as they stumbled toward the hatch.

As soon as Jasmine had them secured inside, Jason opened the throttle and hurled the Dragonfly up and away from the advancing Guardians. Once over the ocean, he lit the scramjet and the acceleration rammed him back in his crash webbing. A scrolling readout on his retinal display told him they’d taken small arms fire but the hull was intact.

An algae farm flashed below with its hexagonal grid    stretching out into the ocean. The genetically engineered algae were grown in pens and grew thicker and cleaner than if they just floated loose. Harvester barges transported it to enormous vats where it dried, before it was baled up for collection once a week, shipped to Providence, and processed into a variety of foodstuffs, or ground up to make fertiliser.

The Dragonfly’s AI was signalling an urgent call from Flight Control in Providence but Jason ignored it. Instead, he plugged his commcard into the plane’s intercom and the first strains of Puccini’s Nessun Dorma! filled the cockpit.

They’d better be worth it, he thought as the sky beyond the windshield darkened and the first stars appeared.

10. Standard Contact Protocol

Marcus found Patricia Lear behind her desk. While the rest of her staff cleaned up the damage caused by the sprinklers, she was busy co-ordinating the search for Bradley and Christie.

“Rough day, huh?” He closed the door.

She pushed back a strand of damp auburn hair that had fallen across her face. “You have no idea.” She picked her smashed commcard from the desk, pressed experimentally at a few buttons, and then dropped the dead device into the waste paper basket. “The commander of the Pathfinder’s making all sorts of threats. He’s demanding we turn over his missing crewmember and if he has the firepower he claims, this whole situation could get very nasty, very quickly.”

“Perhaps I can help?”

Marcus walked over to the window. He left footprints behind him in the wet carpet.

Patricia looked up and folded her arms, waiting to hear what he had to say. Outside, a pair of grey sealfish grazed on the thin green seaweed clinging to the side of the coral spire.

“I may have some information,” he said. This was the opening he’d rehearsed many times on the flight from the Hakudo Maru. There was no way to convince her of the potential dangers contained in Madelyn Walker’s files without revealing his own interest. He knew the only way to get Patricia’s co-operation would be complete honesty. But now that he was here, confessing was more difficult than he’d expected. It was hard to give up the secrecy of the double life he’d led for so long.

“What information?” she said.

Marcus took a deep breath. “Bradley and your ex: I know where they’re headed.”

Patricia’s eyes narrowed. “You do?”

He leaned forward so his forehead rested against the soothing coolness of the window.

“The Anastasia,” he said. “If I’m right, they’re trying to access files hidden in the substrate.”

“What files?”

His heart raced. This was it, the moment he’d been dreading. He said: “It’s complicated.”

Patricia stood and put her hands on her hips. “I’m listening.”

He walked across to her desk. There was a paperweight carved from a lump of local coral sitting in the middle.  He picked it up and turned it around, admiring the fractal complexity of its purple spines. It was the first gift he’d given her.

“I’m a UN agent,” he said.

Patricia took a step backward. “Are you serious?”

“Completely.” He replaced the paperweight.

She laughed nervously, unsure if he was joking. “You work for UN Security?”

Marcus nodded. He noticed his hands were shaking, so he slipped them into his pockets.

He said: “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Patricia sat on the edge of her desk and pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “We’re supposed to be married in three weeks. Now I don’t know whether to arrest you or throw you out.”

Marcus tried to sound relaxed and reasonable. “Just because there’s never been any direct contact between Silversands and the UN, doesn’t mean we’re necessAvrily on different sides here,” he said.

She looked up. “I suppose so,” she allowed. “But why did they send you? Surely you can’t report back?”

He adjusted his tie. “Madelyn Walker,” he said. “I was keeping track of her before she was killed, making sure she didn’t accidentally create a nano-plague or a doomsday weapon.” He paused. “That’s where you come in.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned away, stealing himself. Outside the window, submersibles were towing the evac pods back into position.

“I know why your investigation failed to find her killer.”

In the reflection of the glass, he saw Patricia grip the edge of the desk. “Go on,” she said.

He turned to her.

“I know you killed her,” he said, and saw her flinch.

She said: “What makes you say that?”

“I had her under surveillance, remember?” He took a step towards her but she rounded the desk and sat unsteadily in her chair. She tried to hold his eye for a moment, but then looked down at her hands.

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” she said.

“There were also two dead lab assistants.”

“I know.” She put her face in her hands.

“Then why did you do it?”

“I was trying to spoil her experiment.”

“The way she’d spoiled your marriage?”

Patricia’s shoulders dropped. “Yes,” she said.

Marcus turned and ran a finger across one of her bookshelves. The books were soaked, probably ruined.

“If you’ve known all this time,” Patricia said, “why mention it now?”

Marcus wiped his wet finger against the leg of his trousers and turned to face her.

“To show you that I’m serious,” he said. “When Madelyn died, she left a cache of locked files in the Anastasia’s substrate and I don’t know what’s in them - But whatever it is, it could be very bad news for both of us.”

He walked around the desk and took her by the shoulders.

“What if she developed some kind of weapon?” he said.

Patricia tried to pull away but he tightened his grip. He said: “You know the kind of experiments she was running. What if she came up with a self-replicating weapon or a mind-control device? Or something even nastier?”

He let go and allowed her to step backward. Then he moved toward her again, his feet squelching on the wet rug.

“We must find Avril Bradley,” he said.

On the desk, Patricia’s phone beeped and he stepped back, smoothing down a stray lick of hair. Patricia switched the call to the softscreen above her desk. It was Harper Brown. Marcus had met him a few months ago, at a formal dinner in Providence. He remembered him as a soft-spoken, conscientious detective. Today, however, Brown looked tired and unshaven as though he’d been working all night.

“We’ve located the fugitives,” he said. “They were picked up from First Landing by space plane a few minutes ago, destination unknown.”

“Damn,” Marcus said. Patricia held a hand up to silence him.

“Do we know who was flying the plane?” she said

Brown nodded: “ According to the manager, Kelly, it’s the Dragonfly, owned by New World Haulage.”

Brown transferred the space plane’s projected course and Patricia signed off.

“You were right,” she said, smoothing down her jacket. “It looks like they’re trying to reach the Anastasia.”

“I’ve a shuttle standing by at the port,” Marcus said. “With a bit of luck we can intercept them before they do any damage.”

Patricia narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to look at him. “Are these files really that dangerous?”

“Potentially, yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m certain.”

“Then I guess we should pool our resources,” she said. She rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand. “At least until this is over.”

The Dragonfly’s thrust became rougher without warning. Pressed into his couch by the acceleration, Cale reached for the intercom connecting the passenger cabin and the cockpit. He was surprised to find his palms damp with sweat. In his peripheral vision, he could see Avril looking over with concern from her couch across the aisle. He smiled, took a deep breath, and pressed the switch.

“What’s the matter with the engines?” he asked. After a short pause, Jason Wiltshire’s voice came up: “It looks like we took damage after all,” he said. “The automatics have shut down one of the thrusters. It was burning raggedly and there was coolant leaking all over the place.”

“A stray shot?”

“Either that or wear and tear; we’re half a million miles overdue for a service.”

Then Jasmine Li came on the line.

“We can make orbit,” she said, “but I think we’ll have a hard time reaching the Anastasia.”

“You still haven’t told us why you picked us up,” Cale said.

“I was hired to,” Jason replied. “I thought you knew about it.”

“Who hired you?”

“A woman. She contacted me this morning. Her name was Madelyn.”

Across the aisle, Avril raised an eyebrow.

“Surprise, surprise,” she said.

Nina Doroshkow floated in the Pathfinder’s observation dome watching the endless oceans of Silversands pass below her. The dome was a transparent blister on the bottom of the hab module, studded with sensor arrays and telescopes designed to survey and assess planets for the ability to sustain life. As the ship passed the Ring Archipelago, Nina took in the circle of islands and the dazzling cliffs of the polar cap. Columns of data projected onto the glass in front of her reeled off measurements of atmospheric composition, temperature and humidity. The harshly beautiful interplay of water, ice and rock reminded her of where her Aunt lived in Newfoundland, and teenage days spent exploring the coastline on horseback.

Because she’d spent ten years on the Pathfinder, most of her other memories of Earth had faded. Even before they’d left, she’d known her chances of returning were small and that the only way to get back was to solve the riddle of the gates and find a way to navigate through the network.

Her commcard beeped. She sighed and touched a button, and Jeanette Berglund appeared on its tiny screen, her golden nebula of blonde curls dancing around her head.

“Nina, it’s me. Can I come and see you?”

“Sure. I’m in the observation dome.”

Nina signed off and stretched; her muscles were stiff from hours spent in her couch running tests and building workarounds for the ship’s damaged drives. The auto-repair systems were running smoothly, stitching the torn fuel lines and rebuilding damaged engine components - but the high radiation levels in the stern meant the human engineers could only operate in cumbersome protective suits, which were impractical in the confined spaces and narrow walkways. As a result, the work was slow and frustrating, and Charbonneau was becoming impatient. Unable to leave orbit, he was like a trapped bear, pacing the bridge on constant alert for any threat from the planet below.

Nina closed her eyes and twisted her head to crack her stiff neck. Behind her, the hatchway to the dome opened and Berglund somersaulted in, landing feet-first on the glass. She caught a tether on the rebound and pulled herself to a halt.

She was clearly excited – eyes wide, almost breathless.

“What can I do for you?” Nina said.

“I think I’ve found the cause of the explosion.”

“Where?”

Berglund bit her lip. “I’m not totally sure but it looks like Charbonneau was right all along.”

Nina caught her hand and pulled closer. “Are you saying we were attacked?”

“That’s right,” Berglund said. “When we contacted the Anastasia’s transponder, we automatically transmitted the usual handshake signal.”

“Name, planet of origin, crew roster, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, standard contact protocol. And the Anastasia responded the same way, of course. However, something piggy-backed its signal and downloaded a scads of data into our mainframe.”

“What was it?”

Berglund frowned. “I’m not sure. We haven’t been able to penetrate it and it’s been shielding itself from our diagnostics, which is why we didn’t pick it up right away.”

“Have you told Charbonneau?”

Berglund shook her head. “Not yet. I wanted to run it past you first. If I know Henrik, he’s going to freak when he hears this.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Nina said. “He’s been in a paranoid frenzy since the explosion - I hate to think how he’ll react to this.”

“But the thing that puzzles me,” Berglund said, “is why it detonated a depleted fuel cell. If it was a serious attack, why wasn’t it followed up? Why bother disabling the ship when it could have destroyed us just as easily?”

Nina scratched her head. “Do you have a theory?”

Berglund was evasive. “No. All I can think is that someone, or something, wanted to make sure we’d have to send some, or all, of our crew down to the planet’s surface.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. And there’s still that huge cache of encrypted data lying in our system. Who knows what it’s for?”

Nina raked the fingers of one hand through her platinum crew cut. “Charbonneau’s going to go ape-shit,” she said.

Her commcard started to beep again.

“Hell, what now?” She linked the card to the observation dome’s projectors and a screen opened in the glass before them, showing Avril’s head and shoulders.

“Nina! How are things going?” Avril said.

“From bad to worse.” Nina glanced at Berglund. “How are you?”

Avril shook her head. “I don’t have a lot of time right now. I’m in a damaged space plane and because I lost my card, I’m using its commlink. I don’t think the encryption is as good as it could be, so I’ll be brief. We’re trying to get to the Anastasia but the pilot says the damaged engine is slowing us. The co-pilot’s talking about heading for a Freewheel, which I think is a type of space station.”

“We’ve spoken to some of them,” Nina said. “There’s about twenty scattered in orbit above the planet, and another two or three out in the asteroid belt.”

“I guess we’re heading for an orbital one, then.”

“Guess so.”

Avril turned to listen to someone off-camera for a couple of seconds before returning to Nina.

“The pilot says there’s another plane following an hour behind us,” she said, “but he doesn’t think they’ll be able to intercept us before we dock.”

“Are you still in trouble?”

“Very much so.” Avril glanced off-camera again. “Can you keep the engines warm and I’ll yell if I need the cavalry?”

“Sure thing,” Nina said. “Charbonneau’s had the Orbital Transfer Vehicle powered-up since we lost the signal on your card. I guess he figured we might need to come looking for you.”

“Well, you can tell him he was right,” Avril said.

Nina opened a new window on the glass in front of her and tapped in a couple of quick calculations.

“We’re in a much higher orbit than you, but I figure we could reach your approximate position in three or four hours.”

“Okay, thanks.” Avril smiled, obviously relieved.

“You look after yourself,” Nina said.

Avril reached forward. “I’ll be in touch,” she said. She pressed something out of sight and the screen went blank.

Frank Nicholls leaned against the stall’s zinc counter inhaling coffee steam from the Styrofoam cup in his gloved hand. The steam masked the smell of the trawlers at the quay’s edge, on the other side of the concourse. Around him, the lunchtime crowd filled the market, browsing the stalls and thronging the cafes and bars. Beside him, Harper Brown looked down at his half-eaten fish samosa and wrinkled his nose.

“This is disgusting,” he said. He wrapped it in a napkin and dropped it into the overflowing wastebasket at the end of the counter.

“It tastes like crap.” He took a sip of watery tea and looked over at Frank. “But then, you didn’t ask me here just to buy me lunch, did you?”

Frank twisted his cup between a thumb and forefinger.

“I understand you’re heading up the investigation into last night’s incident at the Omega Point,” he said.

“Have you got an unofficial interest?” Harper asked.

Frank took a sip of coffee. “Let’s just say that I would appreciate it if you kept me updated with your progress.”

Harper turned to the tethered trawlers and pleasure boats bobbing on the swell. At the end of the quay, the Thermopylae was cordoned off while a Guardian forensic team examined its cabin.

“This’ll be in addition to the reports you’ll receive from Patricia Lear?” he said.

“Exactly.”

“Can I ask why?”

Frank made sure the coffee stall’s proprietor was out of earshot.

“I need someone I can trust,” he said. “You’re a good man, Brown. We’ve worked together before and I think you’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”

Brown hesitated. “You can’t trust Patricia?” he finally said.

Frank stared straight ahead. The stall opposite advertised the latest nanotech homebrew templates: everything from clothing to cutlery, gardening tools, and solar panels. At the back were statues carved from coral and local stone. A bust of David Lear that had been faithfully mimicked from stone by a local artist startled him.

“Not any more,” he said.

“Because of her relationship with Christie?”

“No.” Frank said, still staring at the bust. “Because of her father.”

Harper leaned forward, his face full of curiosity. “Do you think he’s involved?”

Frank held up his commcard. “I’m sending you an audio file,” he said, pushing a button. “It’s a recoding of a conversation that took place yesterday evening between David and Patricia Lear. They’re discussing Cale Christie.”

Harper’s card chimed as the transfer completed.

“You’re monitoring Lear’s calls? Is that legal?”

“It’s necessary.”

Harper leaned his back against the stall’s counter and loosened his tie. Despite the fresh sea air, Frank couldn’t help noticing the detective was sweating.

“You are, of course, aware that Christie is our main suspect in the kidnap of Avril Bradley?” Harper said.

“He’s working for Lear,” Frank said flatly.

“Do you think they want to use her as leverage, to cut a deal with the Pathfinder?”

“Yes, I do.” Frank lifted his coffee and swirled it around in the cup. “I think he’s planning to use allegations of corruption in the Council to get more of his people into positions of influence.”

“Do you think he’s planning to make a comeback?”

A ferry came along the quayside coughing blue fumes from its engine. Ropes were fastened and passengers began to disembark.

“He’s still got a lot of supporters on the Anastasia. My sources tell me he’s getting ready to come out of retirement.”

“And he’s using Bradley to ensure that Charbonneau doesn’t oppose him?”

“Exactly.”

Harper whistled. “Are you sure of this?”

Frank looked back at the stone bust of Lear. It was a good likeness, he thought. It captured the essence of the man.

“Where are Bradley and Christie right now?” he said.

Harper stared up to the sky. “En route to the Anastasia.”

“And Patricia Lear?”

“She’s following them, in one of Marcus Dalby's shuttles.” Harper grimaced. “Do you think they’re working together?”

“I’m certain of it,” Frank said.

“What do you need me to do?”

Frank tapped the jacket pocket where he’d put his commcard. “I need a list of people on the Anastasia that we can trust. There are a lot of people still loyal to Lear - I don’t want to order his arrest until I’m sure it will happen. We can’t afford to act precipitously until we know how things stand.”

Harper looked back down the quay. “Do you think it’ll come to a fight?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said. “But if the old bastard's planning a coup, I want to know about it.”

The detective took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “Leave it with me,” he said.

Frank straightened up and rubbed his gloved hands together.

“You know, when this is over, there’s likely to be a vacancy for Councillor of Planetary Security.”

Harper stared straight over Frank’s shoulder. “Yes sir.”

A young couple sauntered up to the stall and ordered drinks. Frank put his cup down on the counter and adjusted the cuffs of his coat.

“I’m not happy about any of this,” the detective said.

Frank patted his arm. “You’re a good man, Harper. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

11. Skyhaven Freewheel

Cale had ninety minutes to rest before they reached the Freewheel. He felt sweaty and he ached all over. He hadn’t had a case of flu since being immunised in his fifties, but the feeling was familiar and it brought other memories with it: memories from childhood, of colds and sniffles.

He held his head in his hands. He could hardly remember anything from his early life. He’d crossed such vast deserts of time and distance since then that he’d almost forgotten it all.

He massaged his temples with his fingertips. The couch beneath him was worn but comfortable and the air conditioning blew from a vent above, chilling the sweat on his brow. Closing his eyes, he found himself thinking of Patricia and the rooms they’d shared in Providence, in the early days of the colony, before the divorce.

They were trying to rebuild their marriage after Madelyn’s death. The window of their suite opened onto a small iron balcony overlooking the quay, and the warm smell of bread rose through the floorboards from the shop below. On Tuesdays, there was a market where the trawlers unloaded the first catches of the day. They’d wake to shouts from the crews and the cries of the squabbling gulls, and walk down to the market where each boat had its own stall heaped with fish. In the evenings, there was music from the cafés and bars lining the seafront. They dined in three or four of their favourite restaurants. Strings of lights in the trees threw shadows on their bedroom wall and, on a still night, they could hear the cracking noises made by the glacier on the plateau above the town.

For a time, they were happy, with Madelyn gone. But as late summer turned to early autumn and the morning frosts hardened, Patricia turned more and more to her work overseeing the University’s biodiversity management program. It took up most of her time, and Cale took to walking the steep narrow streets of the town wrapped in a thick parka. The cold and the sharp smell from the unloading trawlers conjured boyhood memories of holidays in Scotland – memories that, until then, he’d thought lost.

Back in the Dragonfly’s cabin, he sighed. His infidelity meant he’d never regained Patricia’s trust, and so their efforts to rebuild their marriage had faltered.

“Are you okay?” Avril asked.

He opened his eyes. “About as well as can be expected,” he said. “How about you?”

“Holding up.”

He could see that behind her brave facade, she was as tired and as anxious as he was.

She reminded him so much of Madelyn, yet there was something different with Avril. He tried to identify it but couldn’t. All he knew was that he’d been growing steadily more protective of her since the confrontation in Patricia’s office. He felt responsible for her. He closed his eyes again. Had she really travelled so many light years, thrown herself into the randomness and fire of the wormhole network, displaced herself thirty years in time just to find him? And then to discover he wasn’t her father, that she’d been lied to all along - he couldn’t begin to imagine how she felt.

At least they’d be relatively safe on a Freewheel. Outside the jurisdiction of the Council, they’d have time to rest and figure out a plan. Madelyn wanted them on the Anastasia and he’d grown curious to see what was in the locked files. And of course, she’d promised to find a cure for his virus. With only a handful of hours left, he hoped she was up to the task.

Thinking of Madelyn, he understood she’d come to him for help because of their prior relationship - but he didn’t see how Avril was involved, even if she was Madelyn’s clone. Did Madelyn have some crazy idea she could download her personality into Avril? Could that be done, if they shared the same DNA?

He opened his eyes and looked at the security panel on the back of his commcard, running his finger thoughtfully over the security lock that responded only to his DNA.

“Bring me the key.” He leaned back. “What does it mean old friend? What is it you want?”

And suddenly it came to him. He sat up. “Avril?” he said: “Was a crew roster included in the information you beamed to the Anastasia’s transponder?”

Avril frowned. “Yes, I expect so.”

“And it included your name?”

She leaned forward. “Why?”

“I think it was Madelyn who damaged your ship.”

Avril turned to face him: “Why would she do that?”

“She must’ve recognised your name and decided to ensure you stuck around long enough.”

“Long enough for what?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Long enough for you to open her sealed files,” he said.

Once the Dragonfly’s thrusters cut out, Jason Wiltshire switched to autopilot and opened the overhead emergency locker. After a quick rummage through first aid kits and dehydrated survival rations, he pulled out a drinking bulb. The rum inside was a cheap local brew, but it had the kick he needed after wrestling the damaged space plane into orbit.

“What are you doing?”

He lowered the bulb to find Jasmine looking at him from the co-pilot’s couch.

“Oh, sorry,” he wiped the neck of the tube with his sleeve and offered it to her. She wrinkled her nose and turned away.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He slipped the bulb into his pocket. “It was just a sip,” he said.

“Do what you like.” She looked away.

“You disapprove?”

Jasmine busied herself with the console in front of her. “I didn’t say that.”

He turned to look at the radar screen, hoping to avoid the confrontation he sensed looming.

“We’re still being followed,” he said. “They’re faster than us but I think we’ll reach Skyhaven ahead of them.”

Jasmine didn’t answer. Irritated, he unbuckled his safety harness and swung himself out of his couch. “I’m going to check on our passengers,” he said.

She caught his leg as he floated past.

She said: “Look, I’m sorry. I was just surprised. I’ve never seen you drink during a flight before.”

He braced himself in the companionway and turned. “It was just a sip. We’ve got the sober pills if we need them.”

She turned back to her console so the jewelled stud in her nose caught the light. “If Kelly found out, you’d lose your licence.”

Jason puffed his cheeks out. “After the stunt we pulled today, I think that’s the least we can expect.”

“I can’t help worrying, though.”

He reached into the pocket of his flight suit and pulled out a pack of chewing gum. “What about?” He popped a stick into his mouth and began to chew.

“Wasn’t your father an alcoholic?”

Jason’s cheeks burned. “I’m nothing like him,” he said, but even to his own ears, he sounded defensive.

Jasmine looked down. “I wasn’t suggesting you were.”

Jason said: “He drove my mother away.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Jasmine said: “I thought she died when you were young?”

“No.” Jason held her gaze. “She left on a Russian ship six years ago, when I was twenty-four.”

Jasmine unbuckled her harness and floated up to embrace him. “You’ve never mentioned any of this before.”

He buried his face in her shoulder and exhaled.

“I guess we can kiss the business goodbye,” he said.

Jasmine pulled him tight. She said: “So what? With the money this Madelyn woman is paying, we’ll be able to start again, do something different.”

He shook his head, rubbing his forehead against her. “You don’t understand. This is the family business. It’s all I’ve ever know, the only piece of my parents I have left. And now I’ve thrown it away.”

She cupped his chin in her hands and looked into his eyes.

“But how much longer did you think it would last?” she said. “When they finish building that damn elevator, the cost of shipping freight to orbit’s going to drop to almost nothing. You’ll be out in the cold.”

“I suppose.”

“And now look at where we are right now. We’re out of business, yes? We’re probably in a whole heap of trouble - but we’ve gone out on our own terms. We’ve made a heap of money and you’ve pulled the kind of stunt you’ll be able to tell your kids about.”

Jason looked down between them. He loved her optimism. It made him smile. “When you put it like that,” he said, “it doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s not so bad, you idiot.” She poked him in the chest. “And even if we have to spend the rest of our lives on a Freewheel, at least we’ll have each other.”

She kissed him and he hugged her, grateful for her warmth and the familiar smell of her pink hair.

“There’s just one thing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t have any kids to brag to.”

She reached out and took his hand. Gently, she guided it toward her abdomen. Beneath the flight suit, her skin was warm and smooth.

“Now I don’t want you to panic,” she said, “but that’s no longer true.”

He pulled back. “What do you mean?”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “We’re going to have a baby,” she said.

The Skyhaven Freewheel was a double ring of cylindrical modules fifteen hundred metres in diameter with a counter-rotating dock at its hub. Avril could hear Jason in the cockpit talking to its flight control computer as he nosed the Dragonfly closer to the dock.

In the seat across the aisle, Cale slept. Slack and pale with illness and exhaustion, his face seemed to reflect his true age. From the little Natascha had told her of him, she knew he’d been born in London and, after graduating from university, spent ten years working for the ESA in Holland before being headhunted into commercial flying for the Messiah Corporation. It was there he’d first met Natascha. She was a young medical student from Baltimore, and they’d hit it off immediately.

Everything Avril knew of their relationship after that was a lie. Cale wasn’t her father. He’d been married to Patricia Lear, Natascha”s boss. He hadn’t abandoned Avril - he hadn’t even known she existed.

And Natascha hadn’t even been her real mother.

But Cale was more handsome than the photograph she’d cherished all these years. True, his skin was leathery, but his features were strong and the lines worn into his face added character. Looking across at him, she felt she’d known him all her life.

But he’s not my father, she thought. There’s no connection between us. I’m a clone - I don’t suppose I even have a real father.

Her search had been futile all along. But she couldn’t be angry with Natascha. Telling her that Cale was her father had been Natascha”s way of trying to protect her until she was old enough to understand the truth. Better for her to think her father was out adventuring among the stars than to realise she’d been grown from a tissue sample because her mother was infertile.

Avril reached inside her parka and brushed the brooch pinned to her shipsuit. Suddenly, her life on Earth was impossibly remote and she had to struggle to see her mother’s face. She pulled out a cigarette and lit up, savouring the taste as the smoke rolled over her tongue. She inhaled deeply and immediately got light-headed. She thought: At least there are some things I can depend on.

Jasmine appeared in the companionway separating the cockpit from the main passenger cabin. Seeing the cigarette, she wrinkled her nose.

“Can you put that out?” she said, pointing to the No Smoking sign on the forward bulkhead.

Avril sighed. “Oh, come on,” she said. “One won’t hurt, surely.”

“Please?” Jasmine floated toward her.

Avril reluctantly dropped the butt into the plastic cup of lukewarm coffee on the arm of her chair.

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind.” Jasmine pulled herself into a couch on the opposite side of the aisle. “But right now, the smell makes me sick.” Her hands fidgeted on the arm of the couch. Her foot tapped on the carpeted floor.

“Are you okay?” Avril asked.

Jasmine hugged herself. “I’m pregnant,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“Congratulations. How long have you known?”

“Since yesterday.”

Avril smiled. “And the father?”

Jasmine nodded toward the cockpit.

“I just broke the news to him. He’s white as a sheet in there.”

“I take it he was surprised?” Avril said.

Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Yes, the poor man. His whole life’s been turned upside down today.”

Avril glanced at Cale. “I know the feeling,” she said.

Jasmine leaned over and touched Avril’s forearm. “Is there something I should know about between the two of you?”

Avril shook her head. “No, there’s nothing between us,” she said. “I thought he might be my father, but he’s not.” She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Jasmine leaned closer and offered her a tissue. “Are you okay?”

Avril wiped her eyes. “I will be,” she said, pointing to the approaching space station on the wall screen. “Tell me about this place. What happens when we dock?”

The younger woman turned to the section of spinning wheel currently filling the screen.

“That’s Skyhaven,” she said. “It was one of the first Freewheels.”

“You’ve been here before?” Avril asked.

Jasmine smiled. “I grew up here.”

“So you’ve got family here?”

“Sure have.” Jasmine patted her stomach, and they both turned as Jason Wiltshire drifted in from the cockpit. He looked worried.

“I’ve been talking to Kelly,” he said. “We’re really in the shit this time.”

“Bad?” Jasmine asked.

“We’re all to be arrested on sight.”

Avril looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay.” Jasmine patted her arm again. “We needed the money. As long as this friend of yours, Madelyn pays up, we’ll have enough to settle on Skyhaven and start a new life.”

“This is our last flight,” Jason confirmed.

“I’m sure we could offer you sanctuary on the Pathfinder if things get too awkward for you here,” Avril said, envisioning Charbonneau’s reaction to taking on more refugees. “You might have to risk riding in cold sleep, but it’d be a chance to start again somewhere else and, who knows, we might even find our way back to Earth one of these days.”

Jason looked interested. “You mean that?”

She nodded. “I’m sure it could be arranged.”

“That would be great.”

“It would be a gamble,” Jasmine said.

“I know,” Jason said. “But people have been using the wormholes for over a century. There must be pockets of humanity spread out all over the sky by now. Surely wherever we go, we’ll find somewhere we can settle.”

“Maybe,” Avril said, immediately thinking of the squalid, disease-ridden hellhole the River Fork colony had become. “Anyway, I only mention it as an option. First, we have to work out some way of getting to the Anastasia.”

“Why?” Jason said. “Why not just go back to your ship, where you’ll be safe?”

“Because,” Avril said, feeling the determination rise inside her: “Because I need some answers.”

On the command deck of his shuttle, the Valkyrie, Marcus Dalby watched the dart-shaped Dragonfly approach the rotating Freewheel.

“Isn’t there any way we can get close enough to intercept them before they dock?” he said, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his couch.

“It’ll be easier to apprehend them on the wheel than to try to board them out here,” said Charlotte from the couch to his left.

“You think so?”

“It stands to reason.”

He looked over to the comm station on his right, where Patricia Lear shook her head.

She said: “I’ve already put a request through to Skyhaven Control, but they’ve refused to let a DalbyTech shuttle dock, especially one with a member of the Command Council on board. They said something about the ownership of the Elevator.”

“Damn!” Marcus slapped his hand off the console. “I thought these guys were supposed to be the ones with the laissez-faire outlook on life.”

“That’s in business,” Patricia said. “This is politics.”

“There’s a difference?”

“To some people.”

Charlotte Black put her hands behind her head and stretched until her knuckles crackled. “We’ll just have to try another approach, then,” she said.

“What did you have in mind?” Marcus asked, and Charlotte pulled a pistol from her belt.

“Perhaps it’s time for some decisive action,” she said.

“We can’t just go marching in there,” Patricia warned. “Skyhaven's beyond my jurisdiction. If we use force, the political repercussions will be catastrophic. We can’t afford to jeopardise our relationship with the other Freewheels.”

“I’m aware of that.” Charlotte ran a finger along the gun barrel. “I was thinking of something a touch subtler.”

“You want to go over there yourself?” Marcus said.

Charlotte nodded: “They haven’t got the best sensors on those old rust heaps. I think one person in a stealth suit stands a good chance of getting in there undetected.”

“But how do you plan to get them out once you’ve arrested them?” Patricia said.

Marcus shuffled his feet and looked at the forward view. He knew exactly what Charlotte had in mind. Beside him, she turned her gun over and slammed a magazine in. There was a loud double click as she worked the mechanism. When satisfied, she raised it with one hand and drew a bead on an imaginary target.

“Who said anything about arresting them?” she said.

12. The End Of An Era

Cale woke to find Avril’s head nestled against his shoulder. She was curled tightly on the couch next to his with her arm draped over his chest. Her breathing was soft and her relaxed face looked younger and softer than he might have expected.

Carefully, he checked the time on his commcard. He’d been infected for thirty hours. His neck and shoulders were stiff from lying on the couch’s uncomfortable headrest and he had a headache. His arm under Avril had gone numb and he tried to gently wriggle his fingers. She yawned and squirmed against him like a cat, almost waking up. After a moment, she opened her eyes and smiled.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” he said. He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “It looks like we’ve arrived.”

She sat up, stretching. “We docked a couple of hours ago. I didn’t want to wake you.”

He looked around the empty cabin. “Where are the others?”

“They’re over at Flight Control, arguing about berthing fees.”

She put a hand on his forehead and frowned. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad,” he said. “I’ve had worse hangovers.”

Avril began gathering the gear that had spilled from their packs during the ascent to orbit.

“If a shower would help, there’s one back there,” she said, nodding toward the rear of the cabin.

“Have you had one?”

“Yes. It felt great.” She picked up a foil-wrapped sachet of dehydrated emergency rations and held it out to him.

“Do we really need all this?” she said.

“At the time, I thought it might come in useful.”

The main airlock irised open and Jasmine stepped into the cabin with a large plastic grocery bag on one arm.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she said, smiling.

“We were just resting,” Cale said.

“Are you hungry?” She reached into the bag and tossed him some packaged sandwiches.

“It’s only mushroom and algae,” she said. “But if you hold your nose, it kind of tastes like chicken.”

“It’s been a while since I ate,” Cale said, tearing at the plastic covering and taking a bite. The bread was dry and the algae tasted exactly as he’d expect something grown in a vat to taste - but he was too hungry to care. When he’d finished, he gulped down a carton of orange juice.

“Better?” Avril asked.

He nodded, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I guess I need all the energy I can get right now.”

Avril’s face dropped and she turned away.

“What’s the matter?” Jasmine asked.

“It’s a long story,” Cale said. “Just give us a moment, will you?”

Jasmine glanced toward Avril, who was lighting a cigarette, and then walked up the aisle toward the cockpit. When she was out of earshot, Cale reached out but Avril flinched away.

“What’s up?”

“I just had a nasty thought,” she said. “The virus - do you think it’s transferable?”

“In what way?”

She turned and looked him in the eye. “Physical contact?” she said.

He returned her gaze. She looked so young and vulnerable with her mussed hair framing her face and wide brown eyes seeking reassurance.

“I doubt it,” he said. “It wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?” There was a tremor in her voice. She wanted to believe him.

“It wouldn’t make any sense,” he told her, “because if it were easily transferable, it’d stop being a weapon and turn into an outbreak. No one’s going to risk that happening.”

“They’re not?”

“Remember what happened after that outbreak in Istanbul?” He put a hand to her cheek. “They had to bomb the city - there’s nothing there now but a puddle of glass.”

She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was muffled in the folds of his shirt. “The last thing you need is me freaking out.”

“It’s okay,” he said, stroking her hair. “We’ve both been through three kinds of hell in the last twenty-four hours. We need to get to the Anastasia and find Madelyn, and then maybe we’ll get some answers.”

He heard a cough and looked up. Jasmine Li stood in the gangway. She’d changed into a neon pink shipsuit matching the colour of her hair, plastech combat boots, and an ankle-length black coat. She had a lightweight pistol on her hip.

“As you’re talking about the Anastasia,” she said, “I thought you’d like to know I’ve found a way to get us there.”

Cale released Avril, who looked away to compose herself.

“How?” he said.

Jasmine smiled. “A cousin of mine owes me a favour. She’s got an ion tug, and she reckons she can get us there in a few hours.”

“That’s great,” Cale said.

Jasmine huffed. “Jason thinks the Dragonfly could make the trip now he’s secured that dodgy fuel line, but it looks like it’s going to be impounded until we can afford the docking fees.” She glanced at her commcard and frowned. “They’re sure keeping him a long time. Damn bureaucrats.”

“I thought this was supposed to be some sort of benign technocracy,” Cale said, amused.

“Yeah?” Jasmine snapped back, “and I thought we were an anarcho-syndicalist commune, but I guess we were both wrong.”

She looked at Avril. “You okay, honey?” she said.

Avril looked at Cale and nodded.

“I think so now,” she said.

From his office, Kelly watched the four commandeered space planes roar along the runway and into the air, one after another, thundering into the afternoon haze above the town.

Despite his protests, and instead of tools and spare parts for the damaged Pathfinder, each one carried a dozen heavily armed Guardians in full combat dress. He’d watched them board, their plasma rifles and black body amour shining in the sun. The connection between this sudden mobilisation and Jason Wiltshire’s stunt at First Landing was obvious, and he hoped the lad would be okay.

Wiltshire was a good kid, but trouble followed him around like a pet dog. Since his father’s death, he’d been in a couple of brawls and a few shady deals. Nothing too bad, but coupled with his drinking, he’d gotten himself a bad reputation. Some of the older pilots considered him a liability, which Kelly didn’t think was fair. A lot their bad feelings stemmed from his having an alcoholic father. Against that, the lad hadn’t had much of a chance.

Kelly turned from the window as the last plane faded from sight. There were enough troops in those four planes to mount an invasion, he thought. And it looked like they meant business.

Tired and angry, Jason Wiltshire hurried along the corridor leading back to the Dragonfly’s berth. The ceiling lights were dim. According to station time, it was early morning and the place was empty.

It had taken three hours to persuade the Skyhaven authorities to allow the Dragonfly to disembark. At the best of times, the population of the Freewheel had to be carefully balanced against available resources. Now, with Patricia Lear standing by a few kilometres away, he’d been forced to agree to the seizure of his ship in lieu of docking charges and immigration fees.

It was the end of an era. The old plane had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. Since the loss of his parents, she’d represented the only comfort and stability in his life. Losing her was like losing part of himself.

Then he thought of Jasmine and the baby, and knew it was time to put the past to rest. With the loss of the Dragonfly, the day-to-day stresses of running the old plane were gone too. Although he’d fought to keep her, he now realised he was shedding a great weight from his shoulders.

He reached a row of empty bays and paused to consider the colourful and incomprehensible graffiti on their walls.

But what am I going to do now? He wondered. I only know how to fly.

The lights in the corridor brightened another notch. The station kept the same thirty-hour day as the planet below, and it would soon be breakfast time.

There was a noise from the empty bay behind. It sounded like a footfall. Curious he turned – and was hit in the face by something hard that sent him sprawling.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself facing the barrel of a gauss pistol. Looking up from the ground, the it looked large enough to park a space plane in.

Charlotte Black held the gun in one hand and a steel wrench in the other. She motioned him up and he struggled to his feet. His cheekbone throbbed where the wrench had hit, and his legs were loose and rubbery.

Charlotte pushed him through a hatch. He hit the wall beyond and slid down. They were in a large, unlit airlock. Rows of pressure suits hung limp like dissected ghosts, on rails receding back into the darkness. The only light – aside from the light spilling through the door from the corridor - came from an unfurled softscreen stuck to the bulkhead beside an access panel. Its grainy picture showed an external shot of the Dragonfly, obviously hacked from Skyhaven's internal security system.

Charlotte tossed aside the wrench and lowered her gun so it pointed at his midriff. She wore a skin-tight black stealth suit and her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her eyes were narrowed, and every muscle on her slender frame was taut and poised. In the clinging suit she looked both dangerous and sexy, a predator every bit as graceful and deadly as a panther.

“I want to know about the hidden files,” she said.

Jason dabbed at his cheek and the fingers came away bloody. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

Charlotte leaned over him. “Then why are you taking Bradley to the Anastasia? You’ve risked a great deal to get her this far.”

Jason worked his jaw, wincing in pain. “Because I was hired to do it,” he said. “You know how much I need the money.”

She put one hand on her hip and looked at him. On the screen behind her, he saw Jasmine, with Bradley and Christie in tow, climbing down from Dragonfly’s hatch. He looked back at Charlotte. Her eyes were so cold and determined he knew she’d kill all four of them if she had to. He spoke quickly to distract her.

“Whom are you working for? What do you want?” he said.

She smiled and said: “I work for the same people your mother did.”

He pulled himself up against the wall. His knees shook as they took his weight and every movement of his mouth, every word, hurt. “What are you talking about?”

Charlotte’s aim didn’t falter. “She was a UN Security agent. A good one too, before she quit.”

“You’re lying.”

She shrugged. “Why would I lie? Your mother was a spy. I simply took over when she left on that Russian ship. That’s why I had to kill your father, by the way: No telling what the old drunk might’ve known.”

Jason’s knees buckled. He reached for the pressure suit rail to steady himself. On the screen, he caught a final glimpse of Jasmine as she stepped from the docking bay and out of shot. He hoped she’d have the sense to go straight to her cousin and not come looking for him.

At least I’ve given her a head start, he thought.

“So, you really don’t know anything about those files?” Charlotte asked, stepping closer. He shook his head. If he could delay her a little longer, it might give Jasmine the time she needed to get off the station altogether.

“I really don’t,” he said defiantly, trying to hold her gaze.

“Then I’m afraid you’re no longer any use to me.” Charlotte pushed the muzzle of the pistol into his ribs, and pulled the trigger.

13. Prosthetic Adaptations

The station was waking. As Jasmine led them through the narrow walkways between the docking bays in Skyhaven's hub, Avril studied the people they passed. Similar to the patrons of the Omega Point in Providence, many had prosthetic adaptations. Some were plated with metal or synthetic skin, so they could work outside without a pressure suit. Eyes were enhanced with glittering jewel lenses, and hands and arms with ports where tools and weapons could be jacked in. A few even had limbs that branched into bristling clusters of delicate manipulators. Those without obvious enhancements favoured striking body paint and wild hair dye. Among them, the occasional unpainted planet-dweller stood out.

“You think these guys are weird?” Jasmine said. “Wait until you see my cousin…”

They stepped into a corridor with hatches leading to smaller bays; Jasmine tried again to raise Jason on her commcard but there was still no answer.

“I don’t understand this,” she said.

Avril put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure everything’s fine. If he doesn’t catch us up now, maybe your cousin can bring him across later?”

“I hope so.” Jasmine stared at the card.

“He’ll be fine.” Avril rubbed Jasmine’s back. “He’s probably just wrapped up in red tape.”

Jasmine, unconvinced, walked slowly down the corridor.

Avril looked over at Cale.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He glanced back the way they’d come. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m just getting paranoid in my old age.”

They followed Jasmine, who was reading the numbers stencilled on the hatches set into the corridor’s floor. Eventually, she found the one she wanted and pulled it open, and they climbed down a metal ladder into the grimy, cluttered space below.

Jasmine’s cousin, Cressida, had a more extreme prosthetic adaptation than anyone Avril had ever seen: She was a centaur. She had an extra set of legs and hips grafted onto her extended spine, and she was one of the most beautiful creatures Avril had ever seen. She wore an oil-stained, loose-fitting coat with a zip fastening that ran from her neck to the crotch of her second pelvis. A mane of long, tawny hair spilled down her back and her breasts rode high on a muscular torso. Her four legs were slender and human, and moved in a simpatico that was fascinating to watch.

She was a maintenance worker at the station. Her old ion tug, Caspian, was a squat caesium-fuelled cylinder designed for hauling loads up from low orbit. Over the years, she’d retrofitted it for general construction and repair work. It had pitons and lines to grab the surface of small asteroids, insect-like mechanical arms for handling rock fragments, and dangerous-looking attachments for drilling and welding. Searchlights and sensors surrounded a clear diamond cabin at the front. She was proud of the Caspian, calling it “a state-of-the-art, one-of-a-kind, multi-purpose space tug.” To Avril, who was used to the security of a bigger ship, it looked like a leaky piece of junk.

While Cressida and Jasmine negotiated for emergency departure clearance, Avril asked to borrow Cale’s commcard. He wiped his thumb on the DNA scanner to unlock it for her and she walked to a quiet corner of the bay. She lit a cigarette and put a call in to Nina Doroshkow. After a few seconds, Nina’s face appeared on the screen. She was sitting in an acceleration couch and Avril could make out part of a bulkhead and some screens behind her. When she saw Avril, Nina smiled.

“How’re you doing?” she asked.

“Okay for the moment,” Avril said. “I just thought I’d better let you know we’ve found a way to get to the Anastasia. Can we meet you there?”

“I’m already on my way,” Nina said. “We left the Pathfinder about half an hour ago and we should be able to rendezvous at the Anastasia in approximately two hundred and twenty-five minutes.”

“Good. Can you trace the signal from this commcard?”

Nina fiddled with some unseen controls and nodded. “I’ve locked onto it.”

Avril allowed herself to relax. Some part of her could hardly wait to get back to the familiar cabins and corridors of the ship that had been her home for the last ten years. After the turmoil of the last two days, she craved its security and comfort. Now that Nina was en route too, a familiar normal life seemed one step closer.

“I’ve got Hernandez with me,” Nina said. She rolled her eyes. “Charbonneau insisted he came along in case of trouble.”

Avril smiled. “I can imagine. And Nina? Thanks.”

“Roger. I’ll see you in just under four hours.”

Avril broke the connection and dropped her cigarette onto the metal deck, mashing it with the toe of her boot. Ambling back to the airlock of the stubby tug, she found Jasmine and Cale trying to reach Jason again.

This time the call was answered.

“Who are you?” Jasmine said at her commcard.

Avril looked over Jasmine’s shoulder. The woman who’d attacked them at the spaceport had appeared on the tiny screen. Shocked, she glanced at Cale and saw him reach for the patch on his neck.

“My name’s Charlotte Black,” the woman said. “I’m acting under the authority of the New United Nations and I’m here to prevent you gaining access to certain locked files in the processing substrate of the Anastasia.”

Avril glanced at Cale. His worried eyes never left the screen.

Jasmine said: “Where’s Jason?”

Charlotte Black smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough.”

“What have you done with him?”

Cale snatched the commcard away. He threw it to the deck and splintered it with his foot. Then he pulled Jasmine into the tug’s airlock.

“We’ve got to go,” he said. “She was tracing that call, and she’s on her way, right now.”

“But what about Jason?” Jasmine said.

Avril stepped in and punched the cycling mechanism to seal them inside.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” she said.

14. Emergency Airlock

Sitting beside Cressida in the cramped cabin of the Caspian, Cale Christie watched Dalby's shuttle edge closer and closer as its AI tried to match their acceleration. Several kilometres behind, the Dragonfly, now piloted by Charlotte Black, struggled to keep pace.

“If they can get a grapple on us, their drives are big enough to compensate for anything we can do. They could just reel us in,” he said.

Cressida clenched her fists. “We’re not finished yet,” she said.

She brought up a virtual workstation and made several flickering gestures with her fingers. A screen in front of Cale switched to an external view of the Caspian patched through from a camera on her hull. As Cressida waved her hands, spiny manipulators clustered around the tug’s waist unfolded upward like the legs of an overturned insect. With a puff from its forward thrusters, Dalby's shuttle backed off.

“I don’t think we can do them too much damage but they don’t want to take the chance,” Cressida said.

From one of the couches behind, Avril spoke up:

“They’ll catch us when we dock. Their acceleration’s much better than ours. We can’t outrun them.”

“Then maybe we can encourage them to keep their distance,” Cale said. He turned to Cressida. “Tell me about your pitons and grappling hooks.”

The centaur shook her long hair, which fell across her face. “Small tungsten spikes attached to steel cable. Self-guided. I hardly ever use them. Why? Are you thinking of landing on something?”

Cale was staring at the screen showing the external view. He said: “If we detach the pitons from their cables, we can use them as missiles.”

Cressida smiled approvingly. “Consider it done,” she said. She wormed out of her custom-fitted acceleration couch and down into the equipment bay beneath, using her extra legs as leverage in the tug’s narrow spaces.

A few minutes later, there were a couple of loud bangs and she reappeared.

“Torpedoes away,” she said.

Jeanette Berglund was still trying to access the cache of encrypted data downloaded from the Anastasia before the explosion, but it resisted everything she tried. She’d even attempted to purge it from the system altogether, only to see it shift to another file. Rubbing her tired eyes, she sat back with a yawn.

“Any luck?” Charbonneau asked, coming up behind her. Jeanette turned and shook her head.

“The encryption’s too good. I can’t get into it at all.”

“There’s activity within the files?” Charbonneau said.

She nodded. “Whatever’s in there is using processor time. It’s some sort of application but I don’t have any idea what it’s doing.”

“Has it affected any of the other files?”

“No, it just seems to be sitting there, biding its time.” The thought made her shiver.

Charbonneau scratched at his wrist where the symbiotech dressing ended. “I don’t suppose we can isolate that part of the memory core without crippling the ship?”

Jeanette curled a finger thoughtfully in a strand of her blonde hair. “It’s hidden itself among some of our most essential subsystems: life support, drives, navigation.”

She was just about to call up a diagram to show him, when red alarms flashed right across her console. A diagnostic told her the firewall erected around the data cache now lay in tatters and the corruption was spreading quickly through the whole system. After a couple of seconds, her screen blanked out altogether. Jeanette looked up - the rest of the screens on the bridge were also blank.

Charbonneau jumped to his feet. “What happened?” he said.

Jeanette looked up at him with fear in her eyes. “We’re locked out, we’ve lost control of the ship.”

The commander’s lip curled. All around was silent; even the background whisper of the air-conditioning was gone.

“Whatever this application is,” he said, “I think we can assume it’s hostile.”

Two hours after leaving Skyhaven, the Caspian was approaching the Anastasia. Fifteen hundred metres behind them, Dalby's shuttle shadowed their every move. A thin metal spike protruded from its heat shield just aft of the nose cone. Although it hadn’t compromised the hull, Dalby'”s ship would be unable to brave re-entry until the damaged section of shielding was replaced. Her pilot was staying far enough away to dodge any further missiles.

Ahead, through the Caspian’s compressed diamond windscreen, Cale could see the oblong of their destination. Through the vacuum of space, he could see every crag and crater on the Anastasia’s rocky surface. Only the gigantic fusion motors protruding from her stern gave away her true nature.

Cressida brought the Caspian around and matched rotation with the brightly lit hangar bay nestling at the Anastasia’s bow.

“We can’t just walk in the front door,” Cale said. “We’ll be arrested the minute our feet touch the deck.”

“What do you suggest?” Avril said.

He climbed out of his seat, reached into the locker under her couch, and pulled out two rolled-up pressure suits.

He said, “Do you mind if we use these?”

Cressida shook her head. “Go right ahead,” she said. “I’ll take Jasmine in through the main bay as a distraction.”

“Won’t they be waiting for you, too?” Avril asked. Cressida looked at Cale for the answer.

“I don’t know,” he said rubbing his throbbing temples. “My guess is they’re after us and they’ll leave these two alone.”

He looked at Jasmine, who was sitting with her head resting against the safety harness holding her in her couch. She’d hardly spoken during the flight, shrugging off all his attempts to comfort her.

Cale brushed up against Avril so he could talk privately in the otherwise cramped space.

“Anyway,” he whispered, “she’s in no fit state to do anything right now. Look at her, she’s in shock.”

Avril was about to protest but after following his gaze across the cabin, she let her shoulders slump.

“I don’t think we should abandon her, not until we know for sure what’s happened to Jason.”

Cale looked away and thought for a moment. “What else can we do?” he said. “At least if she’s under arrest, she’ll be safe from Black and Dalby.”

Avril folded her arms. “Don’t forget, those men at the spaceport were Guardians,” she said. “Maybe we should be careful who we trust.”

Cale remembered David Lear’s concerns over Council corruption. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

Suddenly, the pain in his head sharpened. He put the heel of his hand to his brow.

Stepping past him, Avril spoke to Cressida: “Can you wait here and rendezvous with the OTV from the Pathfinder? It should be here in about an hour.”

“No sweat. It’ll probably take that long to get docking permission from the Anastasia,” the centaur said.

“Great.” Avril turned back to Cale. “I offered Jasmine and Jason sanctuary on the Pathfinder,” she said. “I think it’s time I came good on that.”

Cale put a hand on her shoulder and kissed her on the forehead. Her skin was cool and her hair smelled of shampoo and tobacco smoke.

“Good work.” He handed her one of the pressure suits. “Now put this on,” he said: “We’re going outside.”

Patricia Lear watched Marcus Dalby prowling on the bridge of his shuttle. She’d already decided to arrest him as soon as they landed. Even if she could overlook his spying for a foreign government, she couldn’t ignore his involvement in the death of Jason Wiltshire. That had been a line she’d hoped he wouldn’t cross.

If the information in the locked files was as dangerous as he feared, she could understand his lack of scruples - but still could not condone his actions. Given the chance, she’d make sure he and Charlotte answered for their part in the young pilot’s death, and the consequent theft of the Dragonfly.

She looked at the Caspian, a shiny speck against the bulk of the Anastasia.

“What are they waiting for?” she said.

Dalby pointed to a blip on the scanner. “OTV from the Pathfinder,” he said.

“Do you think Bradley’s trying to get back to her ship?”

Dalby shook his head. “I don’t know what they’re planning. I just keep thinking that she’s Madelyn Walker’s clone. If she’s half as clever and devious as Walker was, we need to be prepared for just about anything.”

As Marcus watched the scanner, his eyes were wide and his breathing heavy, and for a moment, Patricia wanted to reach out to him. Then she turned away, caught between her personal and professional feelings.

“They’re moving.” Marcus said, pointing.

She glanced back at the screen. “It looks like you were right,” she said. “They’re headed for the OTV.”

“Are they?” Marcus increased the magnification on the forward view and a pair of smaller blips became the unmistakable shapes of two people in pressure suits. Tiny puffs shot out from the reaction thrusters on their backs as they drifted toward the Anastasia.

“Son of a bitch,” Patricia said, admiring Cale’s perseverance and ingenuity, remembering why she’d fallen for him, all those years ago.

A streamlined shape slid into the corner of her view, moving toward the two figures with a silent, shark-like grace.

It was the Dragonfly.

Patricia said: “What the hell does Charlotte think she’d doing?”

Dalby didn’t look up from his instruments. “Finishing the job,” he said.

After a flicker, all the screens on the Pathfinder’s bridge lit up with the same picture: a woman with dark brown hair and round spectacles that emphasised her thin features. For a second, Jeanette Berglund thought it was Avril, and then she noticed the face on the screens was a lot older: This woman’s hair was streaked with grey and her blue eyes were cool and unsympathetic as they swivelled around the bridge to appraise each face.

“What is this?” Charbonneau growled.

The woman tilted her head and spoke with a Scottish accent.

“Commander Henrik Charbonneau, I presume?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Madelyn.”

Charbonneau jumped to his feet. “Return control of my vessel,” he rumbled.

“I’m here to offer you a deal,” Madelyn said.

Charbonneau glared from under his shaggy brows. “I’m not interested in bargains.”

Madelyn smiled. “Oh, but I think you are,” she said. “You see, I know all about you, Commander. Your personal files are extremely revealing.”

Jeanette looked at Charbonneau and saw his face burning red.

“What do you want?” he said, slowly enunciating each word.

A sub-window opened beside Madelyn’s face - an old photograph of Charbonneau in dress uniform. Information scrolled across the bottom: names, dates...

“You spent thirty years in the aerospace industry,” Madelyn said, “both on Earth and the Moon. You worked as a contractor on a dozen NASA missions before Tanguy brought you in on the Pathfinder project. You were an engineer, but you pulled strings, cut deals and made threats to get yourself assigned as Mission Commander.”

Charbonneau looked down. “Those records are confidential.”

The sub-window disappeared. “The record shows you’re a man who knows an opportunity when he sees one,” Madelyn said.

Charbonneau brought a palm up to his brow to shade his eyes.

“What are you offering?” he said.

Madelyn raised her chin, and her tone became business-like.

“I want sanctuary on your ship, Commander, and I’m willing to pay well to get it.”

Charbonneau grunted, dropping the hand. “With what?” he said.

Madelyn removed her spectacles. “Commander, I believe I can offer you a way home.”

As she closed in on the spinning Anastasia, Avril’s rapid breathing echoed in her helmet. A final burst from her EMU thrusters, and then she flexed her knees to absorb the impact as her boots slithered on the rocky surface. Quickly following Cale’s lead, she hammered a spike into the rock and clipped a line to it. In order to produce a centrifugal force in its main chamber equal to about half Earth’s gravity, the Anastasia was rotating at around a hundred and thirty miles an hour, completing a full rotation every eighty seconds. Unless attached, anything on its surface would be thrown into space. Close to the axis of rotation at the bow, the speed was less obvious, but Avril knew she’d still need to be careful. If she lost her grip on the rock, she’d be lost. Her suit had manoeuvring thrusters but the fuel supply was limited and she didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

Around her, the jagged terrain was pitted with craters of all shapes and sizes. The horizon was close and sharply curved.

“What do we do now?” she panted, drifting slowly upward until the line stopped her.

“Just let me get my bearings,” Cale said. His voice was scratchy and loud in her headphones. He was a few metres away, looking around. The lamp on his helmet threw a wedge of light across the rocks.

She said: “What are you looking for?”

“An old unused Emergency airlock,” he said. “It’s around here somewhere.”

“So how come you know about it?” she said, and was surprised when he chuckled; the sound made her jump.

“Madelyn and I used to take clandestine walks on the surface,” he said.

A shadow passed over them. She leaned back and saw a space plane overhead, silhouetted against the looming crescent of the planet below. Nitrogen crystals puffed from its reaction thrusters as it drifted closer.

“It’s the Dragonfly,” she said.

Cale looked up. “She’s probably lining up to incinerate us with her exhaust,” he said.

Avril looked but couldn’t see his eyes in the shadow behind his faceplate. She said: “What do we do?”

Cale pointed to a deep crack in the rock a few metres away. “We find this airlock,” he said, “and we find it fast.”

Jason woke in the aisle of the Dragonfly’s passenger cabin without any idea how he’d gotten there. But he remembered being shot: the searing pain that lanced through his chest every time he breathed saw to that.

He heard a noise from the cockpit. Most of the overhead equipment lockers in the forward aisle were open, their contents strewn around as if as there’d been a hasty search, or violent manoeuvres. In the cockpit beyond, Charlotte Black leaned over the instrument console in her figure-hugging stealth suit.

There was a burst of static from the radio. He closed his eyes again and tried to listen.

Charlotte said: “I’m closing on Bradley and Christie now. Give the word and I’ll burn them off that rock.”

She made an adjustment and the plane turned. Jason wasn’t sure what was happening but if Charlotte intended to   incinerate Bradley and Christie, then it seemed likely Jasmine was also in danger.

And not only Jasmine, he thought, but the baby as well.

He rolled over onto his back and, using the arm of a couch, he pulled himself painfully into a sitting position. His left arm wouldn’t work. It dangled dead and heavy, a bloody mess. Ignoring it, he slid the fingers of his other hand toward the intercom panel. A glance toward the cockpit confirmed Charlotte was still busy with the controls. The hull thumped and popped from outside as manoeuvring thrusters changed the Dragonfly’s position. Without taking his eyes off her, he pressed a couple of switches to connect himself with the Dragonfly’s AI.

He was about to press his thumb to the DNA scanner to confirm the emergency override, when Charlotte spun around with her gun in her hand. When she saw his wounded state, she relaxed and lowered the weapon. He was far from dangerous.

“So, you’re still alive?” she said.

Jason tried to speak but coughed instead. He spat blood on the floor. He let his hand drop onto the scanner. There was a flash of light beneath his fingers, and the panel beeped with a successful identification.

Charlotte Black raised her gun.

“What are you doing?” she said.

Jason wiped blood from his lips. “This one’s for my father,” he said.

He tapped another control and the transparent emergency pressure barrier slammed down from the ceiling, sealing the cockpit and trapping her in. Enraged, she shouted and banged her fist against it. Safe now, Jason pressed a complicated sequence of buttons and the aged space plane shook along its length. Charlotte froze with fear in her eyes. She fired her gun uselessly at the barrier.

Jason sagged onto the floor. As his hand slid from the intercom panel, it brushed one of the in-flight entertainment controls and the cabin speakers came to life with the first bars of Puccini’s Humming Chorus from Madame Butterfly. Through the deck, he could feel the rumble of the Dragonfly’s engines as lateral thrust pushed the old plane sideways.

I’m dying, he thought. But the music was beautiful. It made him think of Jasmine and how long it had taken him to realise how lovely she really was.

Avril watched with appalled fascination as the Dragonfly twisted across the sky. She ducked as it passed overhead, then struggled to turn, so she could watch it approach the docking area at the Anastasia’s axis.

The plane struck the asteroid sideways, one wing digging in as its body cartwheeled around and impacted the rock. As the fuselage crumpled, its fuel ignited and the cabin blew apart in a searing fireball that shook the ground beneath Avril’s boots. And yet in the vacuum, there was no sound, which made the violence of the crash eerie and unreal.

Cale squeezed her arm, the pressure of his gloved hand faint beneath the layers of her suit. She turned toward him but he was staring at the crash site.

“What happened?” she said.

“Charlotte must’ve lost control,” he said. “Luckily for us. When those engines fired, I thought we were toast.”

Avril looked at the debris. The flames had died with the last of the plane’s oxygen, sucked away by the vacuum. All that remained of the Dragonfly were twisted metal fragments that lay scattered across the rock.

She shook herself. Cale was panting through her headphones as he clambered away over the crags to her right.

“I’ve found it,” he said, firing a line toward a nearby boulder and reeling himself in. She scrambled after him and he reached out to haul her down where she could get a handhold. When she was anchored, he pointed to a solid metal hatch two metres in diameter.

“Do you want to go in first?” she asked.

“We can both fit in there,” he said, “but it’ll be tight.” He dusted off a small cover and pulled it open to reveal the glowing buttons of a control panel. His fingers punched in a four-digit passcode and the hatch slid aside.

“Welcome to the Anastasia,” he said.

Avril pulled herself up into the lock, bracing her feet against its walls to avoid falling out. Cale joined her and closed the outer door. Then, once the lock had cycled, they shed their suits. The smart fabric pulled itself from around them like a receding tide, wadding itself into tight rolls beneath their helmets.

Cale stashed the suits in a locker and opened the inner door, which was in the ceiling because of the Anastasia’s spin. It swung aside to reveal a long, vertical shaft leading up through the rock. Steel rungs ascended into a shadowy darkness, punctuated every few metres by the glow of low-wattage light strips.

“It’s about five hundred metres,” he said, following her gaze. She turned to him; he was pale and his forehead was shiny with sweat.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” she said.

He shrugged: “I don’t know.”

“But how are you feeling?” She put a hand on his arm.

“Terrible,” he said. “But if we take this slowly, I should be okay.”

He stepped forward and began to climb. “We’ve got to do something,” he said over his shoulder.

15. The Ghost In The Machine

David Lear stood on the flagstones at the edge of the jetty looking out across the Anastasia’s central lake. Overhead, the sun tube was dimming toward late afternoon. A little way around to his right, a small knot of bison grazed, their great furred heads nodding as they cropped the grass. Beyond them, pine trees climbed the gently sloping hills leading up to the imposing cliff marking the cavern’s northern extremity. Train tubes radiated out like spokes from the main lines at the asteroid’s axis, travelling down the cavern’s northern wall in great sweeping curves to stations on the cavern floor itself.

He liked to be here at this time of day. The light reflecting from the ripples on the water and the fresh smell of the pine trees reminded him of British Columbia and the summers he’d spent there in a cabin by a similar lake. Those had been happy times. One year, he’d driven up to the cabin with Ana and a four-year-old Patricia. His daughter loved nature – the trees and the animals. He remembered sitting on the steps of the cabin with Ana’s head on his shoulder, watching her play. Even now, after so many years, he remembered the touch of his wife’s hair against his cheek and the way the sun looked like a burning coal as it dipped toward the lake’s dark water.

Eight months later, back in Montreal, Ana suffered a severe allergic reaction to her first anti-ageing treatment and died without regaining consciousness. To David, who woke from his own treatment invigorated and full of optimism, it felt like his life had broken in half. Grief crippled him for months. It seemed unfair the treatment that would extend his life by decades had so cruelly shortened hers. Even now, a century later, he still missed her every day. When he closed his eyes, he still saw her face and heard her voice. Time had done little to heal the pain.

“David?”

He turned, jolted. A woman in dark glasses walked toward him along the jetty with a purposeful stride. There was a multi-coloured graininess to her indicating she was a hologram. Somewhere inside would be one of the Anastasia’s remote maintenance drones, projecting her image.

“Can I help you?” he asked, annoyed at the interruption.

“It’s good to see you, David,” she said. The words were almost imperceptibly out of synch with the lip movements. He took a step backward and peered into her face. She reminded him of someone he couldn’t place.

Seeing his confusion, she touched her dark glasses with an index finger and they vanished in a burst of pixels.

“Madelyn,” he said. He looked her up and down, marvelling. She was exactly as he remembered her: slim, poised and determined. He resisted the urge to ask the obvious - he hadn’t turned Messiah into a multi-national aerospace giant by asking inane questions. Instead, he reached into his pocket for his pipe and clamped it between his teeth.

“What’s it like being dead?” he said, smirking around the stem.

Madelyn smiled, acknowledging his composure. “I keep busy,” she said. “What’s it like being the oldest man in the world?”

David lit the pipe, puffing it into life. “It gets a bit dull,” he said. After retiring from politics to become honorary President of the Command Council, he’d intended to divide his time between writing his memoirs and delivering history lectures at the University in Providence. But in practice, neither activity had been enough to hold his attention.

He let his shoulders sag.

“What can I do for you Madelyn?” he said.

Madelyn folded her arms. “I just wanted to warn you,” she said, “as one old friend to another.”

He clamped the pipe firmly between his teeth. “Warn me of what?”

“In the next few hours, I’m going to have to do something drastic,” she said. “I can’t tell you exactly what it will be. Suffice to say, it’s going to be important. And it’s going to involve moving the ship.”

David frowned. “Moving the Anastasia?”

“I can’t tell you any more,” she said. “I just wanted to give you a warning, so you’d be prepared when the time came.”

“But why do you want to move my ship?”

Madelyn looked him up and down. “A vehicle is only a vehicle if it goes somewhere,” she said, quoting from an old Messiah mission statement. She looked up at the curving landscape overhead. “Otherwise, it’s just a monument. It’s going nowhere and, at the moment, neither are we.”

“The Anastasia brought us all the way from Earth,” David said.

Madelyn rolled her eyes. “And you’re going to be satisfied with that, are you? A machine is there to be used, David. To leave it idle is wasteful, inefficient and self-indulgent.”

“And that’s why you want to move the ship?”

“It’s one of the reasons.” She peered over the edge of the jetty at the black mud and brown water. A breeze blew but it didn’t ruffle her hair. He came over and stood beside her, looking out at the sailboats.

“What are the others?” he said.

She smiled fiercely and said: “I’m planning for the long term, David. And I need your ship.”

He tapped his pipe’s bowl against his palm. “And what happens if I say no?”

She reached out, as if to put her hand on his shoulder.

“I know you too well,” she said. “And anyway, it’s my ship now.”

“What do you mean?”

She took a step away, looking up at the vast cavern surrounding them and spreading her arms wide. For a second, he imagined he could feel the ship’s power gathering around her. When she looked down at him again, her expression was strange, inhuman. He backed away. “Who are you, really?” he said.

Madelyn lowered her arms and tilted her head.

“Don’t you get it, David?” she said: “I’m the ghost in the machine.”

The shaft emerged in a storage area beneath one of the Anastasia’s monorail stations. Cale hauled himself up and rolled onto his back on the concrete floor. Avril knelt beside him, looking concerned. His muscles shook from the effort of climbing, dark spots popped in his field of vision and the pins and needles in his left arm were fading into a terrifying numbness. He tried to flex his fingers but they wouldn’t respond.

“Oh hell,” he said.

“What is it?” Avril asked, stroking his hair.

He coughed. “You’ll have to help me up,” he said.

She steadied him up a flight of stairs and through a number of empty rooms until they emerged onto the platform. His left arm was completely dead below the elbow now, and he cradled it with the other hand as they walked.

The station platform was deserted and reminded Avril of the subway stations she’d known on Earth. Softscreens on the walls cycled through images of Earth and Luna – desolate mountains and lush rainforests, azure oceans and dry, empty craters. Scrolling red letters on the message boards overhead announced the imminent arrival of the next train.

As she turned to look up the tunnel, she stumbled and almost fell onto the track, grabbing onto Cale’s shoulder to save herself. They swayed on the edge for a second, until he found the strength to pull her back, and they stood panting, still clutching each other.

“You have to be careful,” he said. “We’re close to the axis and the ship’s rotation’s throwing you off balance.”

She let go and stood on her own. A slight force pushed her back, toward the track. She pressed down with the balls of her feet, leaning back to compensate.

“Don’t worry,” Cale said. “You’ll get used to it in a minute, and it isn’t nearly as noticeable on the cavern floor.”

A few minutes later, a bullet-nosed carriage whispered into the station on a gust of warm air. Cale staggered aboard as the doors hissed open, and Avril followed.

The interior reminded her of public transportation everywhere, with cigarette butts and small scraps of litter on the floor under the seats, odd scribbles of graffiti on the walls and windows, and a stale smell that spoke of people, dust, and age. The stylised route map above the doors showed a complex branching of large and small lines underlying the asteroid’s landscape like veins and arteries. From what Avril saw, the trains were the primary link between the buildings on the cavern’s floor and the power plants and docking bays at either pole.

As the train slid from the station, the acceleration pushed her gently back in her seats. After a minute of that, they burst into daylight and followed the track in a long, swooping curve toward the cavern floor. A lush green landscape surrounded them, the rivers, lakes, and forests broken only by the sprawling towns. The pictures of the Anastasia she’d seen in magazines didn’t do it justice, couldn’t properly show the vast scope of the interior.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Cale said.

Avril looped her arm in his and wriggled close to rest her head on his shoulder. The material of his shirt was wet and smelled musty.

“I just realised how long it’s been since I last saw a tree,” she said.

A maintenance drone the size and shape of a ballpoint pen drifted up the carriage with its fans whirring to keep it aloft. It paused beside them in the aisle and projected a hologram of Madelyn Walker onto the seat behind theirs.

Avril blinked. Although she’d begun to accept the fact she was a clone, it was quite shocking to come face-to-face with her original. Although subtly aged and lined by a lifetime of experience, Madelyn’s features were unmistakeably the same as hers, except for the round spectacles and touch of grey in the hair. She raised a hand to touch her own cheek, half-expecting her "reflection" to do likewise.

“We meet at last,” Madelyn said. “I picked you up on a surveillance monitor when you entered the service tunnel.  Now, you must hurry. Dalby's shuttle docked a few minutes ago and Patricia Lear’s issued an APB. You’re to be arrested on sight.”

“What shall we do?” Cale said. He kept looking from Madelyn to Avril as if having trouble believing what he saw.

“Make your way to my old apartment,” Madelyn said “Most of the security personnel have been distracted by the Dragonfly’s crash and I’ll do what I can to divert the others. I’ve already hacked and re-configured the internal surveillance systems to ignore you.”

“You can do that?” he said.

Madelyn smiled. “I’ve been in the substrate for the last sixty years – I know my way around.”

Cale put a hand to his head and closed his eyes. Avril leaned close: “Are you okay?”

He took a deep breath and drew himself up in his seat. He said: “I’ll manage.”

“We could still get you to a hospital,” she said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Madelyn snapped. “There’s nothing they could do for him. Besides, you’re both wanted for murder.”

“It was self defence,” Avril said.

Madelyn took off her glasses and folded them in her lap. “Tell that to the Guardians,” she said. “They’re out for blood.”

Avril nodded at Cale. “In that case, I’m taking him to the Pathfinder.”

“You’ll never make it out of here without my help.”

“Are you just going to let him die?”

“Of course not.”

“Then help me.”

Madelyn sighed. “Come to my apartment,” she said.

Avril folded her arms. “Why?”

The train began to slow as they approached a large housing complex.

“I think I can cure him,” Madelyn said.

“You think so, do you?” Avril shut her eyes and clenched her jaw. She wanted to scream in frustration: she’d been running on nicotine and pent up tension since the explosion on the Pathfinder, four days ago.

“What do you want us to do at the apartment?” Cale’s voice was dry. Madelyn’s gaze flicked over to him.

“Using drones, I’ve assembled the equipment necessary to open the restricted files in my memory,” she said.

“What sort of equipment?” Avril asked, folding her arms.

Madelyn leaned forward. “The files are encrypted with a fairly standard DNA code-lock. As no part of my original body survived, and as you’re my direct clone, I need a tissue sample from you in order to access them.”

Avril clenched her fists and looked away. “So that’s what this is all about?” she said: “That’s why you attacked my ship?”

Madelyn hooked her glasses back on and sat back in her chair. “I needed to arrange things to get you here,” she admitted. “You’re the key to all this.”

Avril leaped to her feet. “Is that all I am to you?” she said. “Don’t you even care who I am, or how I feel?”

Cale grabbed her arm but she shrugged him off and ran down the aisle. When she reached the far end of the carriage, she stopped and pulled out a cigarette. Her hands shook so much, it took three attempts to light it.

When the latches had been secured, Nina Doroshkow popped the hatch and welcomed Jasmine and Cressida into the poky cabin of the Pathfinder’s OTV. Cressida was polite and soft-spoken but Nina had to struggle to keep from staring. Although built like a centaur, both sets of Cressida’s legs and hips were undeniably human, and her gracefulness was almost erotic.

In contrast, Jasmine Li looked dreadful. She floated listlessly in the cabin, pale, hardly aware of her surroundings, and ignoring Hernandez’s offers of help.

“Is she okay?” Nina asked. Cressida shook her head, placing a protective arm around her cousin’s shoulder.

“I think she’s in shock,” she said.

Nina led them over to a couch. “If Hernandez flies Jasmine back to the Pathfinder, do you think you could get me onto the Anastasia?” she asked as she helped make Jasmine comfortable.

“I suppose so,” Cressida said. “I guess you’ve got a kind of diplomatic immunity.”

“That’s right.” Nina glared at Hernandez who was about to protest. “Charbonneau told me to find Avril and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“In that case, I’m going with you,” Jasmine said. Her eyes were narrow and angry.

“Are you sure?” Nina said.

Jasmine stuck her chin out. “I want to know what’s so damned important they had to kill Jason to get to it.”

“You don’t know he’s dead,” Cressida said but Jasmine ignored her.

“I want to come,” she said.

Nina bit her lip, realising nothing she could say would change Jasmine’s mind.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Cale led Avril across the train platform onto an escalator leading up to a foyer on the accommodation block’s main street level. They’d only just stepped on when Madelyn’s voice called from his commcard.

“Guardian approaching,” she said from inside his pocket. “At the top of the stairs.”

He looked around but there was nowhere to hide. At the top of the escalator, in the main foyer, he saw the Guardian enter from a side corridor in black combat fatigues and a bulky flak jacket. Their eyes met and a flicker of recognition passed between them. When the man brought his rifle to bear, Cale’s training took over. He grabbed his own weapon and dragged Avril down into a crouch.

Shots clattered off the steel sides of the escalator and he returned fire, holding the gun above his head and waving it back and forth, spraying the foyer with bullets. The Guardian fell back and ducked into the corridor he’d appeared from.

Cale and Avril ran back down the escalator against the upward movement of the stairs. His dead arm flopped at his side and every breath seared his lungs. As they stumbled off the bottom, his legs gave way. More shots cracked off the walls and floor around him. Avril ducked back onto the platform and he crawled after her.

He panted into his commcard: “What’s he doing?”

“I have him on camera,” Madelyn said. “He’s trying to call for back-up but I’m jamming his signal.”

Cale hid between two steel benches. Beside him, Avril held her own pistol in both hands, staring grimly at the entrance to the platform. Cale checked his magazine. It was half empty.

“He’s coming down the stairs,” Madelyn said. Cale pulled his commcard out and the screen showed black and white footage patched from a security camera.

“Can you get a close up on his face?” Cale asked. Madelyn expanded the view.

“Damn.”

“What’s the matter?” Avril said.

Cale held the screen closer to his face. “I know this guy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, his name’s Jackson. We trained together.”

“He didn’t seem too pleased to see you.” Avril rested her elbows on the bench and squinted to aim her pistol at the platform entrance.

“He’s just doing his job,” Cale said, pushing her gun aside. “He’s got a wife and three kids in Providence.”

“What are you saying?”

Cale took a deep breath and tried to think. There had to be a way out of here that didn’t involve bloodshed.

He said: “Perhaps we can get another travel tube, go around him somehow?”

“There’s no time,” Madelyn said. “He’s at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Damn it.” Cale crouched lower. The platform beneath the bench was covered in dust and litter. He could smell the warm grease from the tracks.

“What do you want to do?” Avril said.

Cale’s sweaty palm slipped on the grip of his gauss pistol.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Hold your fire for a moment. Perhaps I can talk to him.”

Cressida switched control of the Caspian’s helm to let traffic control guide the old ion tug into the Anastasia’s rotating dock. On either side, the walls were lined with a honeycomb grid of pressure-sealed bays, docking gantries, and repair wells designed to hold and service craft of all shapes and sizes. Some of the bays held space planes with tiny figures in pressure suits crawling over their exposed internal components. Other bays held prospecting craft from the asteroid belt, their blocky hulls covered with cargo grapples and specialised sensor arrays.

With minimal bursts of the tug’s manoeuvring thrusters, they were guided to an opening. Ahead and to the right, Dalby's shuttle had already docked and discharged its passengers.

Cressida locked down her control panel and looked around the cramped cabin. Behind her, Nina drummed her fingers on the arm of her couch. Beside her, Jasmine sat straight with her unblinking eyes fixed on the forward view. Both women now wore identical olive green shipsuits with the Pathfinder mission patch on the left shoulder and the triangular logo of the Tanguy Corporation above the right breast. As Cressida looked from one to the other, she understood their tension. Her natural concern for Jasmine’s welfare had given way to nervous respect. Whatever these two women were planning to do, she pitied anyone foolish enough to get in their way.

As the Guardian eased down the escalator with his gun at the ready, Cale stood slowly. He held his good arm above his head. At his feet, Avril crouched against the wall between the benches, pistol drawn.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Jackson warned. The rim of his combat helmet shaded his face from the overhead lights and thick goggles hid his eyes.

“And tell your girlfriend there to drop her gun and stand up slowly, or I’m going to have to put a bullet through your head.”

Cale looked down at Avril: “Better do as the man says.”

Without taking her eyes off Jackson, Avril placed her pistol on the floor and straightened up. Jackson’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

“You weren’t really going to shoot me, were you?” Cale said.

The Guardian shrugged. “Just following orders,” he said. Transferring his weapon to the other hand, he lifted his wrist and tried to activate his commcard. When he found the channel still dead, his brow furrowed and he looked up suspiciously.

“So there’s no way you’re going to let us pass?” Cale said.

“No.”

Cale turned his head. A sudden flicker of movement in the tunnel mouth had caught his eye. Something small and silver shot from the darkness. It hit Jackson’s helmet, lifting the man off his feet, crashing him into the tiled wall in a clatter of equipment and armour. Expecting an explosion, Cale threw himself flat and covered his face with his hands.

When nothing happened, he looked up: Jackson lay dead, in a crumpled heap at the foot of the curved wall. There was a dent in the side of helmet and his neck was broken. Blood ran from beneath the helmet brim. A few metres away on the floor, a damaged maintenance drone twitched like a wounded animal, with smoke leaking from its cracked casing. Cale kicked it, sending it skittering across the platform and onto the tracks.

“Madelyn,” he said.

“There was no time,” said the voice from his pocket: “I did what had to be done.”

Cale snorted. He strode toward the escalator with Avril hurrying to catch up. He felt light-headed again. His eyes were burning as she drew alongside, and because she reminded him so much of the woman who’d just murdered Jackson, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

In his office on the Anastasia, David Lear looked at the image displayed on the main wall screen.

“So, it’s true?” he said.

“I’m afraid so.” A twelve centimetre tall image of Madelyn sat cross-legged on the mahogany desk in front of him. “I’ve counted four space planes en route from Providence,” she said, “all loaded with Guardians loyal to the Council.”

“How long until they get here?”

“The first will arrive in six hours.”

Lear tapped his pipe against his palm. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time,” he said. “What do you think they’re planning?”

Madelyn looked over the rim of her glasses. “My guess is Frank Nicholls has heard of your investigation and wants to silence you before you move against him.”

Lear drew a breath and raised his chin. He looked around his cavernous office. Pictures on the walls told the story of the Anastasia’s construction and journey from Earth. There were scaled-up plastic models of the machines that had excavated the central cavern and scaled-down models of the gigantic fusion motors that provided propulsion. High above, hanging from the bare ceiling, was the shuttle Helen Cherhill had used to make the first landing on Silversands, sic decades previously.

“But why now?” he said.

“I expect he’s taking advantage of Patricia being out of the way.”

David rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

“I guess you underestimated him.”

“No.” Lear slammed a fist on the desk and stood up. “He’s underestimated me. I’ve got supporters. I don’t intend to go down without a fight.”

Madelyn looked at him for a long moment, and then walked to the edge of the desk with hands clasped behind her back.

“That may not be necessary,” she said. She glanced to the side, as if consulting something he couldn’t see.

“I’ll know for certain in a few minutes,” she continued. “In the meantime, I need you to start contacting your supporters on the Freewheels and on the surface. Tell them to get here as quickly as possible.”

“But what about the Guardians? I can’t ask civilians to go up against those space planes,” he said.

Madelyn took her glasses off and polished them on the hem of her lab coat.

“Trust me, you won’t have to.”

The accommodation blocks were arranged around an atrium with balconies overlooking a central square. By ship time it was late evening, and the square was practically deserted. Only a few people moved among its palm trees and market stalls.

Following Madelyn’s instructions, they entered an elevator and proceeded to the thirteenth floor. As the doors hissed shut, Avril reached for Cale and buried her head in his shirt. He put his good arm around her.

“It’s okay,” he said, stroking her back.

Her shoulders shook with every deep shuddering breath. Then she pulled back to look up at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffing.

He forced a smile.

“No problem - It’s just been one of those days, right?”

“Right.” She wiped her eyes and smoothed down the front of her shipsuit.

“Let’s go and open those files and get some answers,” she said.

The elevator doors opened. Cale peered into the empty lobby before they started off along the carpeted corridor. His left arm dangled and brushed against the wall and he felt weak. Pins and needles stabbed at his legs and pains raced across his chest. He hoped Madelyn had a cure for the virus because he knew time was running out.

He hadn’t been in this corridor in years but the place was exactly as he remembered it. Without even bothering to read the passing door numbers, he led Avril straight to the apartment that Madelyn – the original, flesh-and-blood Madelyn - had occupied during the journey from Earth. He twisted the handle and the door swung open, the lights coming on automatically as the apartment’s systems registered their presence.

“Honey, I’m home,” he said, stepping over the threshold and looking around. Inside, it was exactly the same as it had been, apart from the pile of medical machinery in the centre of the rug. Even the softscreens on the wall showed the same pictures he remembered - the London skyline, the Scottish highlands and the Atlantic Ocean. He stood by the wall, taking it all in.

“Are you okay?” Avril asked, closing the door. He nodded.

“This place holds a lot of memories,” he said.

When they arrived at the accommodation complex, Marcus Dalby waited while Patricia Lear posted guards at the elevator and at every exit around the central atrium.

“Come on,” he urged, pulling on her elbow.

She broke away and glared.

“The Anastasia falls under my jurisdiction, Marcus,” she said. “You’re here on my sufferance. Don’t forget that.”

“Are you telling me to back off?” he asked.

“I’m telling you to watch your step.” She signalled two Guardians to follow her into the elevator. Dalby stepped in behind and they rode upward in silence, watching the backlit numbers count off the passing floors.

In the confined space, the Guardians took up a lot of room. Both wore standard issue black body armour and wide-brimmed combat helmets. They held lightweight assault rifles across their chests with gloved index fingers resting on the trigger guards. Standing beside them with his back against the wall, Marcus smelled gun oil, sweat and leather.

When the elevator arrived, the guardians stepped out first to sweep the corridor and make sure the way was clear. Patricia followed.

“Wait here and don’t let anyone through,” she told them. They saluted and took up position on either side of the elevator doors. Patricia drew her pistol and began edging along the corridor with her back to the wall. His stomach crawling with tension, Dalby followed.

Cale looked through the pile of medical supplies heaped on the rug in the centre of the room. There were scanners, hypodermics, and symbiotech sleeves.

“What are we supposed to do with all this?” he said.

Avril nudged a roll of bandages with her toe. “I’m sure Madelyn will tell us.”

On cue, the hologram appeared beside them. This time, Madelyn wore a white lab coat with her hair pinned back.

“We don’t have much time,” she said, rubbing her hands. “Let’s get to work.”

Cale put a hand against the wall to steady himself. “What do you need us to do?” he said.

Madelyn pointed to a laptop on the table in the corner of the room. “Firstly, I need Avril to go to over there and put her finger on the lock pad,” she said.

Avril slipped an arm around Cale’s waist. “I’m not doing anything until you tell me whether you’ve found a cure for the nanovirus,” she said.

Madelyn glared at her, and then turned to point at a hypodermic in the pile on the rug.

“This needle contains counter-agents to neutralise the virus,” she said. “Of course, I haven’t had the chance to test them...”

“It’ll do,” Cale said. Avril let go and he sat down on the futon. She crouched beside him and rolled up his sleeve. As she moved to get the needle, he could taste blood creeping up the back of his throat.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” she said, holding it over him.

“Go ahead.”

She kissed him on the forehead, and slid the needle into his arm. He winced and fell back full on the futon.

“Are you okay? How do you feel?”

“For god’s sake,” Madelyn snapped, “it’ll be hours before we notice any change. Now come over here and put your finger on this scanner.”

Avril fixed her with an angry glare. Then she stepped over and mashed her thumb against the lock pad. There was a flash of light as it sampled her DNA, and then she pulled her hand clear.

“Satisfied?” she asked. Madelyn nodded, staring straight ahead at nothing, looking thoughtful.

“Thank you,” she murmured and her image froze, broke apart, and then disappeared.

Cale closed his eyes and drew a deep, ragged breath.  Madelyn’s anti-viral serum was nothing more than the product of educated guesswork, but it was all he had. His head throbbed dully and he felt feverish. Avril came up beside him.

“I think the code worked,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes and – when he saw her - knew he’d never seen anyone more beautiful. She was his second chance – his redemption. He’d made such a mess of relationships in the past, driving Patricia away when he really wanted to settle down and start a family; failing Madelyn when she needed protection from the research that eventually killed her. With Avril, he had a chance to make up for some of that. She wasn’t his daughter, but he felt responsible for her.

Madelyn’s voice came from the entertainment system set into the wall. “Now I need you, Cale, to use your Guardian security clearance to connect me to the Anastasia’s drive systems.”

With Avril’s help, he staggered over to the laptop. To guard against hacking or viral infection, the processors controlling the Anastasia’s fusion engines and guidance systems were kept in a separate layer from the rest of the ship’s processing substrate. Nothing from within the substrate could access them. Only the authorisation of a senior crewmember, or a Guardian, could override the safeguards.

He pushed his thumb into the lock pad and typed in his eighteen-digit Guardian security code.

Suddenly he realised why they were both here: Avril’s DNA contained the key to the files, and his brain contained the codes to gain control of the ship.

A doubt crossed his mind. Up until now he’d been too busy to consider what Madelyn intended to do with the information she was trying to recover. Should he be giving her access to the engines? Was he doing the right thing?

His hand hesitated over the Enter key. He was about to ask Madelyn to explain herself when he heard the apartment door open behind him. He turned to see Patricia Lear step into the room. Her expression was grim and she held a gauss pistol in her hand. Marcus Dalby was behind her.

“Touch that button and you’re dead,” she growled.

Nina Doroshkow and Jasmine Li ran across the central square of the accommodation block. In the centre, they paused by a fountain while Nina tried to get a better fix on Cale’s commcard signal.

“This way.” She pointed toward a criss-crossing flight of stairs ascending the side of the atrium.

By the time they reached the first landing, Nina was gasping for breath. Even in the half gravity of the Anastasia’s cavern, she found the exertion exhausting. She checked her card again.

“Up another twelve levels,” she said.

Beside her, Jasmine slumped against the wall, pale and panting. “You go ahead,” she gasped.

“Are you sure?” Nina looked around, torn.

“Yes. I’m going to be sick. You go.”

Nina reached down and squeezed Jasmine’s shoulder. She said: “Remind me to tell you about my cousin, one day. She had triplets.”

“Step away from the terminal and put your hands in the air,” Patricia said. “I don’t want to shoot you but I will if I have to.”

Cale froze with his finger still hovering above the Enter key. He looked at his ex-wife. Her cheeks were pale but her hand steady as she trained the pistol on him. Beside her, Dalby pointed his gun at Avril.

“Please, Cale,” Patricia said. “Just do as I say. Step back and let’s talk about this.”

“What’s there to talk about?” he said. A knot of pain pulsed behind his left eye.

“Are you arresting us?” Avril asked.

“Shut the hell up,” Dalby snapped. He looked tense and scared.

“You may as well put that gun down, I’m going to press this button anyway,” Cale warned.

“Don’t be a fool,” Dalby said. “You don’t know what’s in those files any more than we do.”

Cale was so sick he could barely stand. He glanced to Avril, and then back at Patricia.

“Whatever’s in there, it’s important enough that Madelyn sabotaged the Pathfinder just to get Avril here to open it,” he said.

Dalby frowned. “Madelyn Walker’s dead.”

Cale lowered his hand a fraction. “She sure is.”

Patricia’s knuckles whitened on the trigger. “Don’t do it,” she warned.

Dalby raised his own weapon. “Oh for God’s sake, just shoot him,” he said, “because if you don’t, I will.”

Cale closed his eyes. Madelyn’s cure was working too slowly and he was sure the virus was about to take him. When he opened them, he saw Avril tensing to spring at Dalby. If she attacked him, she’d surely be shot. There was only one way to distract everyone long enough to give her a chance.

“Don’t.” Patricia took a step forward. Cale smiled at her and let his hand drop onto the console. As his fingers hit the button, Avril leapt. She slammed into Dalby and they fell together.

Cale didn’t see what happened next – something hit him in the chest and knocked him off his feet.

A Guardian blocked Nina’s path as she tried to enter the apartment.

“You let me through,” she growled. “There’s a member of my crew in there.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We’ve got orders to let no one in,” the Guardian said. The stitching on his jacket pocket identified him as Milson.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your orders,” Nina said.

She considered trying to force her way past but Milson was a foot taller than she was, and armed.

She was looking for another option when footsteps came up from behind. The Guardian looked past her shoulder and snapped to attention.

“What now?” she muttered, turning.

Flanked by four bodyguards, an old man with leathery skin and piercing grey eyes strode toward her.

“My name’s David Lear,” he said staring at the door.  “My daughter’s in there and I suggest you stand aside.”

Milson looked like he might protest. Then, under the pressure of David Lear’s stare, he took a deep breath and shouldered his weapon.

“Very good,” Lear said, motioning his bodyguards forward. He turned to Nina.

“Come, my dear,” he said, “There isn’t much time.”

“What’s going on?” Nina asked.

Lear smirked. “Mutiny,” he said.

Marcus Dalby lashed out from beneath Avril. His fist caught her ear and she yelled. She wrapped her fingers in his hair and smacked his head into a wall. After the third strike, he grunted and went limp. Shaking, she drew her gauss pistol and climbed to her feet.

Patricia Lear, pale and horrified, stood in the centre of the room.  As Avril watched, her hand dropped to her side and the gun fell from her fingers with a thud.

Cale lay on the floor with a bullet hole in his shirt. The carpet was red with blood. Shocked, Avril turned back but Patricia’s eyes were fixed on Cale.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” she said.

Avril ran over and punched her so hard that she fell back onto the futon and screamed. Avril raised a boot but lowered it when she saw Patricia’s broken nose. Instead, she dropped to her knees and grabbed Cale’s hand.

“I’ll get help,” she said.

His grip tightened. “It’s too late.” He squeezed. “I wish I had been your father,” he said.

She brushed his cheek. “Oh God, so do I.”

The floor shook and threw her sideways. “What the hell was that?” she said.

She looked down but Cale’s eyes were closed. She left him and crawled toward the pile of medical machinery in the middle of the room; something there could save him, she was sure.

In the far corner, Marcus Dalby moved. Blood ran down the front of his suit from a cut on his forehead.

The floor shook again.

“You stupid bastards,” he said, looking over at Avril. “What have you done?”

She pointed her pistol at him: “Shut up and don’t move,” she said.

He squirmed. “You don’t understand,” he said. “If the engines fire us down into the planet, we’re all dead.”

“Right now, that suits me.” She kept the gun on him with one hand while she rooted through the piles of medical equipment.

Madelyn, she thought. Where are you when we need you?

“What’s happening?” Henrik Charbonneau demanded, pointing at the image of the Anastasia on the Pathfinder’s bridge screen. Actinic spears of white light lanced from her stern.

“She’s firing her fusion motors,” Jeanette Berglund said.

“It’s all part of the plan,” said a copy of Madelyn Walker from a subsidiary screen. “Avril Bradley has succeeded in her mission. The locked files have been opened and I’m receiving information from the Anastasia’s substrate.”

“What information?” Charbonneau growled.

Madelyn considered her answer for a moment.

“It seems,” she said, “that the files contained a code.”

“A code to what?” Charbonneau’s patience was close to breaking point.

“To the wormhole gate,” Madelyn said. “Yes, it’s all coming back to me now.”

“The gate?” Jeanette asked.

“Yes. It’s the code that allows you to activate a specific wormhole, to choose your destination. The original Madelyn Walker deciphered it from the symbols carved into the gates.”

“My God!” Charbonneau said. “You mean you know how to navigate through the network?”

“That’s correct. Your mission is a success, Commander. Not only have you discovered a means to recontact all the scattered expeditions and colonies, you also have a way to return that information to Earth.”

“So, how do we use this code?” Jeanette said. (Usually a ship had to manoeuvre to within a few kilometres of a gate and bounce a radar pulse off it to activate the gate’s internal mechanism. All previous attempts to modulate the pulse to select a specific destination had failed.)

Madelyn smiled. “You don’t use it,” she said. “I do. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until we reach Earth. Longer than that, I suspect.”

“How do you mean?” Charbonneau said.

Madelyn removed her glasses and slipped them into her breast pocket. “Don’t you see? If I’m the only one who knows how to specify a particular destination, then I’ve suddenly become a very valuable piece of software. Every ship that leaves Earth will have to carry a copy of me.”

“And this is what you gain out of the bargain, a chance to copy yourself? To travel?”

“More than that, Commander Charbonneau.” Madelyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s my chance for immortality.”

By the time Lear’s bodyguards broke down the door, Avril was desperate. She’d done what she could for Cale but he was clearly dying. One confiscated her weapon while another inspected Cale. Two others checked on Dalby and Patricia. When they were satisfied the apartment was secure, they allowed David Lear and Nina Doroshkow to enter. Nina rushed over to hug Avril.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

Avril shook her head no.

“We’ve got to go,” Nina said. “I’ve got to get you back to the ship.”

Avril pointed to Cale. “Do something,” she begged. “Help him.”

Nina looked down. “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do,” she said. “Anyway, there’s no time. The Anastasia’s moving.”

Cale raised a hand and his eyes flickered around without focusing.

“I’m here,” Avril said, bending down. She took off her diamond brooch and pressed it into his hand.

The Anastasia shuddered.

Nina pulled Avril upright. “Avril, leave him,” she said. Avril, her hands and sleeves soaked in Cale’s blood, struggled against her.

“Get away from me,” she said.

There was a shimmer in the centre of the room and the hologram of Madelyn Walker reappeared. She looked down at Cale and her lips hardened into a line. When she raised her head, her eyes blazed with anger and her voice was so loud Avril felt it vibrating in the pit of her stomach.

“Get out!” Madelyn thundered. She strode over to Lear’s bodyguards. “I’ll be sealing this room in thirty seconds,” she said. “You must leave, right now.”

Nina tightened her grip on Avril’s arm. “You heard the lady,” she said.

“No,” Avril tried to shake her off, reaching for Cale.

The walls creaked as the starship shook with the power of its fusion engines. Using her height advantage, Nina finally managed to wrestle Avril out into the corridor. Behind them, David Lear attempted to lift his daughter from the futon. Madelyn pointed a finger at her.

“She stays,” she said.

Lear tried to argue but his bodyguards were already bundling him outside. He called to Patricia but she ignored him. She crawled off the futon and across the floor to where Cale lay on the carpet.

Avril caught a final glimpse of Madelyn Walker standing above Patricia and Cale as the door to the apartment shut, her face clouded with anger, her holographic fists clenched in rage. And then the door slid shut and Nina pulled her down the hall.

Already panicked by the firing fusion motors, the Anastasia’s population stopped in alarm and confusion as Madelyn’s voice boomed from every screen, commcard and speaker on the old ship.

“We’re leaving this system for points unknown,” she said. “It’ll be quite an adventure. Anyone wishing to join us is welcome to stay on board. I suggest the rest of you leave as quickly and quietly as you can. We’ll be passing through the wormhole gate in twenty-three hours, fourteen minutes and eleven seconds.”

Strapped into an acceleration couch aboard his commandeered shuttle, Harper Brown watched as the Anastasia began to pick up speed. Was this what Lear had been planning all along - Not a coup, but a getaway?

“Can we still intercept?” he said.

“Negative, sir.” The pilot, his features illuminated by the green glow of an instrument panel, pulled up a situation map on one of the screens. Harper knew the arrows attached to each ship on the map represented acceleration vectors, but he couldn’t tell any more than that.

“Why not?” he said.

The pilot pointed to the icon representing the Anastasia.

“They’re thrusting at ninety degrees to our present course. We don’t have the fuel to make the course change and match their acceleration.”

“We can’t quit now.”

“We have to, sir. This is a ground-to-orbit plane. We don’t have the reserves for an extended flight.”

Harper swore under his breath and took another look at the display.

“So where are they headed, the gate?”

“Yes sir, if they hold their present course.”

“Damn it, we should have brought extra fuel.” He rapped his gloved fist into the palm of the other hand.

“The Southern Cross carries drop tanks,” the pilot said, pointing to one of the other space planes. “She could probably catch them, but she’d leave herself without enough fuel to manoeuvre.”

Harper thought for a moment.

“No,” he said. “Contact the other planes, tell them we’re turning back.”

A control lit up on the comms system.

“Sir, we’re receiving a file transmitted from the Anastasia,” the pilot said. “It’s addressed to you.”

“To me?” Harper leaned forward. “Who’s it from?”

“Someone called Madelyn.”

The file appeared in a sub-window on Harper’s screen beside the picture of the accelerating starship. It contained a list of payments made to Frank Nicholls’s personal account, several of which were from DalbyTech subsidiaries. There were also monies from several shady front organisations, lobby groups, and a couple of the less-reputable Freewheels.

Harper whistled through his teeth.

“Trouble sir?” asked the pilot.

Without taking his eyes from the screen, Harper nodded.

He’d need to verify these records before he could issue a warrant for Frank Nicholls’s arrest, but it appeared the man with a reputation for honesty had been taking bribes from all sides. The DalbyTech payments were by far the largest and most incriminating – they dated from the time Marcus was awarded the Elevator contract.

Harper took a deep breath. Then he closed the file and opened a link to Guardian headquarters in Providence.

When Cale opened his eyes, Patricia Lear was bending over him but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. The dull roaring in his ears sounded like waves on a beach. He concentrated on her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she was saying. Her nose was swollen and bleeding. It looked broken.

Madelyn was standing on his other side, and she was angry. She loomed in front of Patricia, waving an accusing finger in her face.

“You killed me,” she said, “and now you’ve killed him.”

“Can’t you do something?” Patricia said. “Can’t you save him?”

Madelyn looked at the medical equipment piled on the rug.

“It’s too late,” she said.

Patricia put her face in her hands. “I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t.”

Cale’s eyes felt gritty and his throat was dry. When he coughed, both women looked down at him.

“It’s not her fault,” he said.

Madelyn took a step back: “What?”

“It’s not her fault.” The effort of talking left him exhausted. There was something cool, hard and smooth in his right hand and, with the last of his strength he lifted it to his face. It was Avril’s diamond brooch. He turned it in his hand so it refracted the overhead lights. Shadows had begun to dance at the corners of his vision. The brooch slipped and fell to his chest and the roaring in his ears returned. Now the waves were smashing against the shore. He saw Avril sitting by the hatch of the Thermopylae with the sunlight in her hair, looking so beautiful.

He scrabbled around for the brooch, terrified that if he lost it he’d lose her. But his awareness had already started to melt like a wisp of cloud in an endless bright blue sky, and he wasn’t sure where he was any more.

He felt the floor move under him, and then couldn’t feel anything apart from the pain in his chest.

“Avril,” he said. And died.

16. Silver Sand

As the Anastasia approached the wormhole gate, Avril, Nina, Jasmine Li, and David Lear sat beneath a large softscreen in the café overlooking the ship’s internal cavern. The screen showed live pictures relayed from cameras on the bow. Ahead, Tau Ceti was a wall of orange fire silhouetting the ancient gate.

For the last hour, Avril had been toying with her old, battered photograph of Cale and chain-smoking. Opposite her, Nina poured a third cup of coffee and Jasmine stared at her commcard, which projected a magnified view of Silversands onto the tabletop. The daylight side of the planet was grey and blue and smeared with ragged whorls of cloud. She didn’t lift her eyes from the image as the Anastasia picked up speed.

Avril tapped an ash into her empty cup; she wanted to share her grief with Jasmine but the words wouldn’t come. Jasmine was partially sedated but she still looked as if she’d aged several years in the last few hours. When she finally looked up, their eyes met for a moment. Avril did her best to smile and Jasmine nodded, as if she understood.

“What’s it like?” she asked. “Passing through a gate?”

Nina looked up. “It can be rough,” she said. “The ship gets shaken around.”

“Shaken?”

Avril tapped the edge of the photograph against the tabletop. “There are weird currents in there. You get buffeted from all sides,” she said.

Jasmine dropped her eyes again.

“Sounds like re-entry,” she said.

Nina smiled. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

“Either that,” Avril agreed, “or a rollercoaster ride through a furnace.”

Beside her, oblivious to everything except the softscreen above them, Lear fiddled with his pipe. His eyes were fixed on the growing ellipse of the approaching gate.

Nina picked up a sachet of soymilk and emptied it into her coffee. “Where do you think we’re going?” she asked.

Avril shrugged. “Does it matter?”

She was glad Nina had decided to accompany them.

Following Madelyn Walker’s announcement, the Anastasia had been a flurry of confused activity. The docking bays had been clogged as shuttles ferried evacuees away from the slowly accelerating ship. But there had been no reason for Avril or Nina to return to Silversands, and neither of them wanted to accompany the Pathfinder back to Earth; the only thing that made any sense was to continue what they’d been doing for the last ten years - Exploring.

Lear leaned forward. “Now that Madelyn can control the gates, she can take us anywhere she likes.”

Avril looked up at the screen and was struck by a vision of the future. In her mind’s eye she saw humanity spreading to the surrounding stars. Guided by Madelyn’s software, ships would expand into the universe the same way the cigarette smoke she exhaled expanded into the cool evening air around her. All the scattered and stranded expeditions, the isolated colonies, would be reunited. Silversands would no longer need to rely on randomly arriving lost ships for news from Earth. There would be trade and exploration. It would be a renaissance, a golden age.

She imagined a copy of a copy of a copy of Madelyn guiding the first ship to reach the galactic core. Behind her, all the stars would be turning chlorophyll green as planets and orbital biospheres fed off their light.

It was just a pity the price for this new freedom had been so high, Avril thought. Cale might not have been her father but she’d found herself beginning to love him all the same.

And he’d loved her. He’d died to protect her.

She took a deep breath. It wasn’t much, that fragile love, but it was all she had left to cling on to. Even though Natascha and Cale hadn’t been her parents, now she was rootless and alone.

She looked at Lear. He was worried about his daughter, but he was also excited by the prospect of the journey to come. Here, at what he’d thought of as the end of his life, he’d found the chance to be a pioneer again. And he had faith in Madelyn. She’d been his friend in the past and he was certain when she eventually unsealed her old apartment, Patricia would emerge alive. Chastened, maybe, but alive.

But Avril wasn’t so sure Madelyn could be trusted. The woman had manipulated them all from the start. She’d exploited the tension between Lear and Nicholls, attacked the Pathfinder, and turned all their lives upside down to pursue her own agenda.

Avril took another drag. These cigarettes were stronger than her usual brand and hurt the back of her throat. In her peripheral vision, she saw Madelyn moving toward them, her holographic body glowing in the cafe’s shady interior.

“We’ll be in the wormhole in a few minutes,” Madelyn said. “Perhaps you should think about finding somewhere to lie down? You know how violent it can be.”

“No,” Avril ground her cigarette into her cup and looked down at the photo of Cale, the wind in his hair and the warm blue sea behind him. “I think we’ll be fine right here.”

Madelyn tutted. “Don’t you at least want to know where we’re going?” she said.

Avril shrugged. “Right now, I don’t give a damn,” she said, turning away.

“I loved him too, you know.” Madelyn said.

Anger rose in Avril’s chest. “You just used him to get to me.”

“And I’m sorry.” Madelyn took a deep breath. “I know you’re grieving for him, but so am I.”

Lear cleared his throat and both women turned to him.

“There’s something you haven’t considered, Madelyn,” he said.

The hologram folded her arms.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

Lear pointed his pipe stem at the softscreen. “We still don’t know what happened to the race that built these gates. Maybe there are dangers out there you haven’t anticipated.”

Madelyn looked up at the approaching gate and her brow furrowed.

“Good point,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll find out. We’re certainly going to be doing a lot of travelling over the next few years. Who knows what we’ll find?”

Avril’s hands clenched into tight fists on the tabletop.  Nina reached across and put a reassuring hand on her forearm. “I think perhaps you’d better leave,” she said to Madelyn.

The hologram sighed and began to fade. “We’ll talk later,” she said as she disappeared, “when you’re all feeling better.”

Then she was gone and the four of them sat in silence as they approached the wormhole. Before them, the galaxy stretched out in all its promise and wonder, its scattered stars like grains of silver sand.

END.

The future is a foreign land

Where we will walk

On silver sand

- Anonymous

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I started writing the first draft of what would become this novel around the turn of the millennium, and finished it two years later. At the time, I had just turned thirty, quit smoking, started working in marketing for a large software company, and I had just bought a house with my fiancée. My life, which had been drifting aimlessly since university, had begun to acquire a sense of direction, and finishing the first draft of a novel—even a short one like this—felt like a huge step. Completing the manuscript meant writing was no longer something I simply aspired to do; now it was something I had proven I could do. And that made all the difference.

When Silversands was complete, I put it away for a few years while I learned how to write short stories. I had a few published online, and a couple in Interzone. Then, armed with what I’d learned, I returned to Silversands and produced the draft Pendragon Press published in 2010.

Since then, I’ve written half a dozen further novels; but I don’t think any of them would have come about if I hadn’t written this one first. You have to start somewhere, and looking back now, I can see Silversands addresses themes that have continued to preoccupy me in my later works: themes of love, loss, identity, memory, family, and artificial consciousness.

So, now the book’s back in print again, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who helped me write it in the first place. My fiancée (now my wife) Becky, for her patience and understanding, and for reading various drafts of the manuscript. My family, for their love and encouragement. The team at Interzone for picking up two of my short stories and giving me the confidence to go back and redraft this novel. Christopher Teague at Pendragon, for first publishing the book as a limited edition hardback in 2010. Terry Wiley, for kindly creating a brand new cover illustration for this new edition. And finally, Gemma Beynon and the rest of my supporters on Patreon, for their help in republishing this book.

Gareth L. Powell

Bristol

November 2016

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gareth L. Powell was born in Bristol in 1970 and still lives nearby. He began writing at school and was fortunate to count Diana Wynne Jones and Helen Dunmore as early mentors. After a number of small press publications, he sold his first professional short story to Interzone magazine in 2006. A short novel, Silversands, appeared in 2010 and was followed a year later by his first full-length novel, The Recollection.

Since then, he has written many further novels, including the Embers of War trilogy and the four-book Ack-Ack Macaque series, as well as somehow finding the time to produce two short story collections, the crime novella Ragged Alice, and the nonfiction guide About Writing.

His novels have twice won the British Science Fiction Association Award for Best Novel and have been finalists for both the Locus Award in the US and the Seiun Award in Japan.

He is also the first person to have had individual work shortlisted in the Best Novel, Best Short Fiction, and Best Nonfiction categories of the BSFA Award in the same year.

Gareth has given creative writing workshops and talks at UK universities and events, and has been a tutor at Arvon. He also spends a great deal of time helping aspiring authors on Twitter.

He has written nonfiction for The Guardian, The Irish Times, SFX, and Acoustic Magazine, and is a monthly columnist for The Engineer.

His work is published in French, German, Czech, Croatian, Italian, Russian, and Japanese, and he is represented in all professional matters by Alexander Cochran of the C&W literary agency.

He can be found online at: www.garethlpowell.com

If you have enjoyed this novel, please consider leaving a short review on Amazon, Goodreads, or other book-related website. Or maybe just mentioning it to your friends on social media.

Many thanks for reading!