Pandora's Star

  ‘Old folly; you can never destroy knowledge. Even if we were to succeed and blow the Second Chance to pieces, they’ll build another, and another, and another until one is finally completed. They know how to build them, therefore they will be built.’

  ‘I expect you’re right, unfortunately. But destroying the Second Chance will be a severe blow to the Starflyer. It wanted the starship built, you know.’

  ‘I know. I received the shotgun message.’ Adam stared out at Castle Mount for some time. ‘You know, castles once had a purpose other than symbolism; they used to hold the invaders at bay and keep the kingdom safe. We don’t build them any more.’

  ‘We need them, though, now more than ever.’

  ‘What a pair we make,’ Adam said. ‘The optimist and the pessimist.’

  ‘Which do you claim to be?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  *

  To the mild dismay of his staff, Wilson always arrived in the office at around half past seven in the morning. With management meetings, training sessions, interviews, engineering assessments, media reports, a one-hour gym work-out, and a dozen other items scheduled every day he didn’t leave until after nine most evenings. He took lunch at his desk rather than waste time going to the excellent canteen on the ground floor. His influence began to percolate through the whole starship project and, with it, his enthusiasm. Procedures were tightened under his relentless directives, policy became clear-cut and effective. Pride settled around the complex, driving the crews onward.

  Every week, Wilson met up with Nigel Sheldon to perform their ritual inspection tour of Second Chance. They arrived at the gateway, and kicked off into the assembly platform. Both of them pointing at and gossiping about some new section of the huge ship, acting like a pair of schoolkids.

  All of the plasma rockets were installed now, along with their turbopumps and power injectors. Big reaction mass tanks were being eased into cavities along the ship’s central engineering superstructure, dark grey ellipsoids whose internal structure was a honeycomb maze of tiny sacs.

  ‘It’s the ultimate slosh-baffle design,’ Wilson explained as the two of them glided along the assembly grid above the central cylinder. ‘The sacs can squeeze out their contents no matter what acceleration manoeuvre we’re pulling and, while we’re coasting, they hold the fluid stable. If only we’d had that on the old Ulysses we’d have saved ourselves a lot of mechanical trouble, but materials technology has come a long way since those days.’

  Nigel held on to one of the platform grids, pausing directly above an egg-shaped tank that was being gently eased into position by robot arms. Construction crew and remote mobile sensors were swarming round it like bees to their queen. ‘How come we’re not using hydrogen? I thought that gives the best specific impulse for rocket exhausts.’

  ‘When you’re talking chemical reactions, sure. But the plasma rockets operate at such a high energy level they break their working fluid down into sub-atomic particles. The niling d-sinks we’re carrying pump so much power in, this plasma is actually hotter than a fusion generator’s exhaust. With that kind of efficiency, cryogenics is a waste of time. Of course, in an ideal world we’d be using mercury as the propellant fluid, but even that has handling problems, not to mention cost and sourcing for the kind of volume we’re looking at. So what we’ve wound up with is a very dense hydrocarbon. It’s almost pure crude oil, but the chemists have tweaked the molecular structure so it remains liquid over a huge temperature range. Given the type of near-perfect insulation we’ve got cloaking the tanks, the thermal support we have to provide for the fuel is minimal.’

  Nigel gave the tank a thoughtful look. ‘I always used to think rockets were dead simple.’

  ‘The principle is as simple as you can get, it’s just the engineering which is complex. But we’re doing our best to reduce that; modern techniques allow us to do away with whole layers of ancillary systems.’

  ‘I heard you’ve instigated a design review board.’

  ‘Final design approval, yeah. I prefer that method to the multiple steering committees you’d set up.’ Wilson let go of the grid, and pushed off so he was drifting along the length of the starship towards the life-support wheel. ‘It gives the project an overall architecture policy.’

  ‘I’m not arguing. This is your show now.’

  They passed over the wheel section. The internal decks were clearly visible now, with decking and wall panelling fixed to the stress structure, showing the internal layout.

  ‘We should start fixing the hull in place by the end of next month,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Not too much slippage, then.’

  ‘No. You gave me a good team. And the unlimited funding helps.’

  ‘Actually, it’s not unlimited, and I’ve noticed it’s still rising.’

  ‘That was inevitable, but it really should have plateaued now we’re entering the design freeze point. We’ve already started to make a few modifications to the central cylinder to accommodate the expanded stand-off observation period of the mission. The upgraded sensor suite is finishing its alpha-analysis stage, it should be out to tender soon. And we already have the engineering mock-ups of the class three and four remote probe satellites. They’re being assembled for us at High Angel by Bayfoss – we’re up to capacity here, and they are the experts. Most of your exploratory division geosurvey satellites are built by them.’

  ‘Sure.’ Nigel took another look at the crew accommodation decks, where an atmospheric processor had been secured in place, still wrapped in its silver packaging. ‘Man, I still can’t get over how big this beauty is. You’d think . . . I don’t know, we could build something neater by now.’

  ‘A one-man starship?’ Wilson asked in amusement. He waved a hand at the front of the cylinder. ‘You helped design the hyperdrive engine. I’ve owned smaller houses than that monster.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I ought to go back and take another look at the basic equations.’

  ‘You do that, but I’m telling you a car-sized starship will never catch on. I want something big and powerful around me when I go exploring the unknown.’

  ‘Man, oh man, Freud would have had a field day with you. Now, how’s it going with the crew selection?’

  ‘Hoo boy,’ Wilson grimaced at the memory. ‘The actual crew squad has been finalized. We’ve got two hundred and twenty who’ll start their second phase training next week. We’ll select the final fifty a month before launch. The science team is a little tougher; we’ve passed seventy so far, and Oscar’s office is trying to sort out the rest of the applications. It’s the interviews that are taking up so much time, the Commonwealth has an awful lot of highly qualified people out there, and we need to put them all through assessment and psych profiling. What I’d like is a pool of about three hundred to choose from.’

  ‘Ah.’ Nigel stopped himself above the rim of the life support wheel, watching a constructionbot fixing a decking plate into place. ‘Have you considered taking Dr Bose with you?’

  ‘Bose? Oh, the astronomer who saw the envelopment. I think I remember Oscar mentioning he’d applied. He’d certainly got a lot of sponsors. Do you want me to check if he got through the assessment?’

  ‘Not as such, no. The thing is, my office is getting a lot of enquiries about him, as is the Vice President.’

  For a moment Wilson thought he meant the vice president of CST. ‘You mean Elaine Doi?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a bit awkward. Every time the media want a comment on the envelopment they turn to Bose, which is understandable. The trouble is, he cooperates with them. All of them. When the guy sleeps, I’ve no idea. But anyway, in the public eye he’s most strongly associated with the project. It’s a position he’s exploited superbly.’

  ‘Wait a minute here, are you telling me I’ve got to take him?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that if you were planning on taking an astronomer, you could do worse. For an obscure professor from a back-of-beyond planet, he’s certainly a
goddamn expert self-publicist.’

  ‘I’ll tell Oscar to review the file, if that’s what’s bugging you.’

  ‘That’s good. And I hope there won’t be any ageism in the selection process?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just that the professor is, er, kind of closer to his time for rejuvenation than you or I . . . or anyone else you’re considering. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus wept.’

  *

  The plantation where Tara Jennifer Shaheef lived was on the far side of the mountains that rose up out of the northern districts of Darklake City. Even with a modern highway leading through them, it took the car carrying Paula and Detective Hoshe Finn a good three hours to drive there. They turned off the junction at the start of a wide valley, the car snaking along a winding local road. The slopes on either side were heavily cultivated with coffee bushes, and every row seemed to have an agriculturebot of some kind trundling along, tending the verdant plants. Humans and buildings were less prominent within this landscape.

  Eventually the car turned into the plantation, a wide gated entrance with a white stone arch above the road. Cherry trees lined the long driveway, leading up to a low white house with a bright red clay tile roof.

  ‘All very traditional,’ Paula commented.

  Hoshe glanced out at the arch. ‘You’ll find that a lot on this world. We do tend to idolize the past. Most of us had settler ancestors who were successful even before they arrived, and the ethos lingers on. As a planet, we’ve done rather well from it.’

  ‘If it works, don’t try and fix it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He showed no sign that he’d picked up on any irony.

  The car halted on the gravel in front of the house’s main door. Paula climbed out, looking round the large formal gardens. A lot of time and effort had gone into the big lawn with its palisade of trees.

  Tara Jennifer Shaheef was standing in front of the double acmwood doors underneath the portico. Her husband, Matthew deSavoel, stood beside her, an arm resting protectively round her shoulders. He was older than her by a couple of decades, Paula noticed; thick dark hair turning to silver, his midriff starting to spread.

  The car drove off round to the stable block. Paula walked forwards. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ she said.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Tara said with a nervous smile. She nodded tightly at Detective Finn. ‘Hello again.’

  ‘I trust this won’t be too upsetting,’ Matthew deSavoel said. ‘My wife had put her re-life ordeal behind her.’

  ‘It’s all right, Matthew,’ Tara said, patting him.

  ‘I don’t deliberately make this difficult,’ Paula said. ‘It was your wife’s family who wanted this investigation kept open.’

  Matthew deSavoel grunted in dissatisfaction and opened the front door. ‘I feel like we should have a lawyer present,’ he said as he walked them through the cool reception hall.

  ‘That is your prerogative,’ Paula said neutrally. If deSavoel thought his wife was fully recovered he was fooling himself badly. Nobody with three lifetimes behind them was as twitchy as Tara seemed to be. In Paula’s experience, anyone who had been killed, accidentally or otherwise, took at least one regeneration post re-life to get over the psychological trauma.

  They were shown into a large lounge with a stone tile floor; a grand fireplace dominated one wall, with a real grate and logs sitting at the centre of it. The walls had various hunting trophies hanging up, along with the stuffed heads of alien animals, their teeth and claws prominently displayed to portray them as savage monsters.

  ‘Yours?’ Hoshe asked.

  ‘I bagged every one of them,’ Matthew deSavoel said proudly. ‘There’s a lot of hostile wildlife still living up in the hills.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a gorall that big before,’ Hoshe said, standing underneath one of the heads.

  ‘I wasn’t aware Oaktier had a guns and hunting culture,’ Paula said.

  ‘They don’t in the cities,’ deSavoel said. ‘They think those of us who tend the land are barbaric savages who do it purely for sport. None of them live out here, none of them realize what sort of danger the goralls and vidies pose if they get down to the human communities. There are several political campaigns to ban landowners from shooting outside cultivated lands, as if the goralls will respect that. It’s exactly the kind of oppressive crap I came here to get away from.’

  ‘So guns are quite easy to get hold of on this planet?’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Tara said. She made a big show of flopping into one of the broad couches. ‘You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to get a licence, even for a hunting rifle.’

  Paula sat opposite her. ‘Did you ever hold a licence?’

  ‘No.’ Tara shook her head, smiling softly at some private joke. She took a cigarette out of her case, and pressed it on the lighting pad at the bottom. It gave off the sweet mint smell of high-quality GM majane. ‘Do you mind? It helps me relax.’

  Hoshe Finn frowned, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Did you ever possess a gun?’ Paula asked.

  Tara laughed. ‘No. Or if I did, I never kept the memory. I don’t think I would, though. Guns have no place in a civilized society.’

  ‘Most commendable,’ Paula said. She wondered if Tara was really that unsophisticated, or if that was something she wanted to believe post-death. But then, most citizens chose to overlook how easy it was to get hold of a weapon. ‘I’d like to talk about Wyobie Cotal.’

  ‘Certainly. But like I told Detective Finn last time, I only have a couple of weeks’ memory of him.’

  ‘You were having an affair with him?’

  Tara took a deep drag, exhaling slowly. ‘Certainly was. God, what a body that kid had. I don’t think I’d ever forget that.’

  ‘So your marriage to Morton was over?’

  ‘No, not really. We were still on good terms, though it was getting a bit stale. You must know what that’s like.’ There was an edge of mockery in her voice.

  ‘Did you have other affairs?’

  ‘A couple. Like I said, I could see where it was heading with Morton. Our company was doing well, it was taking up more and more of his time. Men are like that, always obsessing about the wrong things in life. Some men.’ She extended a languid hand out to deSavoel, who kissed her knuckles indulgently.

  ‘Did Morton know about the other men?’

  ‘Probably. But I respected him; I didn’t flaunt them and they were never the cause of any argument.’

  ‘Did Morton have a gun?’

  ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. We had a good marriage.’

  ‘It was coming to an end.’

  ‘And we got divorced. It happens. In fact, it has to happen when you live this long.’

  ‘Did he have a gun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. Why would you chose Tampico?’

  ‘That’s the place I filed the divorce from, isn’t it? Well, I don’t know, I’m sure. The first time I heard about it was right after my re-life when the insurance investigators were asking me what happened. I never even knew the place existed before.’

  ‘You and Cotal bought tickets there. You left with him four days after your last memory dump in the Kirova Clinic’s secure store. Why did you run off with him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I remember meeting him, it was at a party, then after that it was just for the sex, really; and he was fun, enthusiastic the way only first-lives can be. I enjoyed him, but I always found it hard to believe I gave up my life for him. It was a good life Morton and I had here.’

  ‘You weren’t the only girl Cotal was seeing.’

  ‘Really? Somehow I’m not surprised. He was gorgeous.’

  ‘You’re not jealous about that?’

  ‘Irritated, is about as far as it goes.’

  ‘Did Wyobie have a gun?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ She appealed to her husband. ‘Please.’

  ‘Come now, Chief Investigator,’ deSavoel said l
oftily. ‘There’s no need to take such a line. Wyobie Cotal was also killed.’

  ‘Was he?’

  He gave Paula a weary grin. ‘I sincerely hope not. Yet, I fear it is so. This is not pleasant for my wife, to raise such spectres again after she has accustomed herself to a complete body loss.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Paula said. ‘To make sure it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Again?’ Tara’s voice rose in alarm. She stubbed her cigarette out. ‘You think I’ll be killed again?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. It would be most unusual for a killer to strike at you twice; and you have been alive for over twenty years this time. Please don’t concern yourself about the possibility. So, Wyobie didn’t have a gun?’

  ‘No. Not that I remember.’

  ‘You mentioned other affairs. Were you seeing anybody else at the same time as Cotal?’

  ‘No. Wyobie was quite enough for me.’

  ‘What about enemies, yours or Cotal’s?’

  ‘I must have fallen out with many people, you do over a hundred years, but I can’t think of any argument or grudge that would warrant killing me. And as for Wyobie, nobody that age has enemies, not ones that kill.’

  ‘His other girlfriend might have been angry enough.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Tara shuddered. ‘I never met her. Do you think that’s what happened?’

  ‘Actually, no. If you and Wyobie were killed, then it certainly wasn’t a crime of passion, or at least not a spur of the moment slaying. As yet, we don’t know where and when you were killed. To throw up that much uncertainty takes planning and preparation. Other than your ticket there’s no real proof you ever went to Tampico.’

  ‘The divorce,’ deSavoel said. ‘That was filed on Tampico. And all Tara’s things were sent there.’

  ‘The divorce was lodged with a legal firm, Broher Associates, on Tampico. It was a pure data transaction. In theory it could have been filed from anywhere inside the unisphere. As for your effects, Tara, they were sent to a Tampico storage warehouse for seven weeks, then removed by your authorization into a private vehicle. The insurance company investigators were unable to trace them. What I find interesting about that is your secure memory storage arrangement. There isn’t one apart from the Kirova Clinic, not on Tampico, nor on any other Commonwealth planet as far as the investigators could find, though my Directorate will start double-checking that now. And you would have made one, everybody has a secure store they can update for precisely this reason: re-life. The ticket, your effects shipped out there, your divorce, it’s all evidence you were settled on Tampico. But to me, the lack of a secure memory arrangement calls the whole Tampico episode into question.’