He activated his suit’s force field as he went into the airlock. Team C and three of team A were already waiting on the fuselage grid which skirted the outer lock. Dudley took care to anchor himself before pulling his manoeuvring pack out of its storage bin. It was McCain Gilbert himself who held the pack steady while Dudley pushed his arms through the straps. The unit stuck itself to his spacesuit, plyplastic straps contracting around him.
‘You all right?’ Mac asked. His helmet was very close to Dudley’s, allowing him to peer through the faint silvering.
‘Sure.’ However blasé he tried to sound, the reality of being out in open space within an alien star system was making his heart judder. The telemetry would be available to Mac. Dudley looked round to find the reassuring bright star that was Second Chance. Seeing it shining against the starfield made his breathing a little easier. He searched further, trying to find familiar star patterns amid the strange constellations.
Team C began jetting over to the Watchtower a hundred metres away. Dudley held Emmanuelle’s manoeuvring pack as she shrugged her way into it. Receiving a thumbs up in gratitude. He enjoyed that, it made him feel like a fully paid up member of the team.
‘Right, that’s everybody out,’ said Frances Rawlins, the leader of team C. ‘Make sure you’ve secured your equipment bag before you leave the shuttle. You can freeflight in your own time. Head for the beacon they’ve put up on the alien station. We’ll regroup there, and move on in.’
Dudley made sure the cylindrical bag was fastened to his belt. The others were slowly lifting off the fuselage grid. Tiny squirts of white gas puffed out of their manoeuvring pack nozzles, just visible in the dusky light of the distant star. His virtual hand gripped the pack’s joystick, and he tilted it forward. The gas produced a dull rushing sound, vibrating against his back. But his boots left the grid, and he was floating away from the shuttle. Once again his heart went yammering as adrenaline cut loose into his bloodstream. He couldn’t believe he was actually doing this. There was a holiday he’d taken on his first life when he’d signed up to go paragliding; trusting himself to a sheet of fabric and praying the straps held as he and the instructor jumped off the top of a mountain. The rush of tension and exhilaration which hit him simultaneously when he saw treetops below his feet was like nothing he’d ever known. Now here it was again, far more intense than the first time.
As before, he forced himself to relax into the inevitable. It just took a while to convince his body there was actually nothing wrong, that the suit and the manoeuvring pack were working fine and taking care of him. Inside the helmet he was grinning like a madman. His free virtual hand tapped a microphone icon, then keyed in a privacy code.
‘I’m approaching the strange alien station we’ve called the Watchtower. All of us agree now that it was misnamed. This is no guard outpost, simply the sad remnants of an industrial facility that was damaged during a conflict that went nuclear. I can’t help but feel regret that all the effort and cost which went into establishing such an enterprise should fall victim to this primitive lack of emotional control. Although the Dyson aliens have accomplished so much, and I concede some of their technological accomplishments exceed ours, I hope they can still learn from the way our society resolves conflicts and disagreements.’ That would go down well back home. Always make the audience feel slightly superior.
The course graphic inside his virtual vision showed him heading off to one side of the beacon. He corrected. Over-corrected. Then had to tip the joystick firmly the other way. This was exactly what his skill training memory instinctively warned him against. He just couldn’t integrate that knowledge at an autonomic reflex level. So he wobbled his way forward, gas burping from every nozzle of his manoeuvring pack in a seemingly random pattern, and keeping a cautious eye on his relative velocity.
Frances Rawlins was easing her way in through the gap beside the beacon as he finally came to rest just above her. The other members of team C followed. Dudley looked round eagerly once he was inside, but the compartment was some-thing of an anticlimax. A simple box of blue-grey metal, flooded with vibrant pools of light by the suit beams. Nothing to hint at alien-ness.
‘Now we’re inside I can’t emphasize enough to use caution,’ Frances said. ‘The Ops office is watching out for us individually, but they can’t compensate for every mistake. The only solution is don’t make any. We’re not in a race, we’ll keep searching round until we’ve acquired the data which the captain needs, so don’t rush anything. Now, teams B, D, and E have already explored down to level five, and radially they went as far as sections A3 and A8 on your chart. They’ve placed comrelays to cover that area, but when you go beyond them you need to set up your own, these walls are an effective block to our signals. Do not allow any communication dead zones, especially in the connecting tunnels. We stay in contact the whole time, understood? Okay, you’ve got your assignments. Move out.’
Dudley studied the topography of the 3D chart in his virtual vision, matching it to the big tunnel entrance on the compartment’s wall. An orange line snaked through it, detailing his route. He brought the inertial guidance on line, aligning it with the beacon.
‘You ready?’ Emmanuelle asked.
‘I think so.’ He was staring at the black gulf that was the entrance to the tunnel they were going to have to use to get down to level five. It was nearly three metres in diameter. Thus indicating the Dyson aliens may be bigger than us – idiot. But not so small as to trigger claustrophobia. At least, not straight away.
On the other side of the compartment, Frances was already hauling herself into a tunnel that snaked its way over to section A8. Dudley drifted over to the tunnel his chart indicated, and gripped the side of the entrance to steady himself. His suit lights cut straight through the gloom, revealing a tube whose carbon composite walls were mottled with hairline fractures and coarse blisters. It started to curve downwards about five metres ahead, with a gentle twist to the left. He pushed his feet lightly off the compartment floor, allowing his legs and torso to slide up until he was level to the entrance, then pulled himself forwards into the tunnel. ‘And into the unknown.’
*
‘Sir, we’re being signalled,’ Anna called out. ‘Sensors are showing both laser and microwave transmissions directed straight at us. Originating from Alpha Major orbit – the moonlets.’
‘Son of a bitch,’ Wilson grunted. ‘Are you sure? Could they just be aligned on something beyond us?’
‘I don’t think so. There is nothing behind us. All three beams intersect here, and they’re holding constant. We’re definitely the target point.’
Wilson quickly called the signals up on his console screens. Even after the RI’s best filtering they came up as a jumble of sine waves and fractal patterns. ‘Is this the same stuff they transmit to each other?’
‘Yes, sir. It looks like it.’
‘So they might not realize we are aliens?’
‘They must have a good idea we are not native to this star system,’ Tunde said. ‘After all, now the barrier has come down, they’ll be expecting some kind of communication or contact from the species which put it up. They would be watching.’
One of the visual sensors was trained on a laser beam coming from a worldlet around Alpha Major. A single ruby dazzle point that obscured much of the planet’s delicate wrapping of fusion flame. Wilson stared at it with a growing concern that he might just have been underestimating the Dysons. ‘They’ve been looking for us, or at least an alien ship, since the barrier went down?’
‘That would be the logical thing for them to do, yes.’
‘So if they haven’t got hysradar, how the hell did they find us?’
‘Our hyperdrive wormhole creates a great deal of gravitonic shock, and it also has a strong quantum signature. On top of that there will be neutrino emissions from our fusion reactors.’
‘Small ones,’ Antonia said immediately. ‘I’m keeping the fusion systems a couple of per cent above breakeven.
The niling d-sinks are our primary power source, but they’re very well shielded.’
‘Captain, this entire planetary system is overflowing with advanced technology,’ Tunde said. ‘And if they really are as conflict-driven as we suspect, they will have a great many sensor systems. I’m really not surprised they have detected us.’
Wilson was drawn back to the main portals, both of them showing an unaugmented visual image of the Watchtower. His initial concern was now turning to real worry. ‘Anna, give me a hysradar sweep. Is there anything out there?’
After a few initial scans of the Watchtower they’d switched off all of their active sensors, keeping all emissions to a minimum in a bid to achieve silent running. It was his choice again to remain inconspicuous; quietly gathering data until they were ready to make contact. A strategy which would allow them the upper hand.
‘Oh shit,’ Anna exclaimed. ‘I make that eight ships heading straight at us.’
*
Dudley had followed the tunnel all the way down to level seven. He’d passed a lot of junctions where subsidiary tunnels branched off. The whole network was like some kind of root system twisted into a knotted corkscrew configuration. Winding his way down, he began to appreciate just how extensive the tunnels were in a way the virtual vision 3D chart never quite conveyed. As he progressed he became convinced they were pipes rather than corridors. There was simply too much of them to be used as passageways by the Dyson aliens. Not that he could visualize what kind of pipes they were. They had no valves or pumps, nor mounting pins where such units could have been. His best guess was that they used to be lined by a cellular sleeve, or a variant on electromuscle, which had subsequently been stripped out along with everything else. The contact teams had so far been singularly unsuccessful in recovering an artefact of any value.
He glided out from the tunnel into a level seven compartment shaped like a slice of cake. It didn’t have any hatchways, only more tunnel entrances. He touched his boots down on the rumpled floor, allowing the sole cilia to grip the flaking surface. The open space was a welcome relief from the confines of the tunnel. Emmanuelle came out behind him, flipping her fingers against the edge as she passed, to turn a lazy circle before placing her boots firmly on the floor. Dudley was already sticking a comrelay to an empty mounting block.
‘This has been cleaned out,’ Emmanuelle reported. ‘No direct connection to other compartments.’
‘Okay,’ Oscar said. ‘Tunnel entrance three leads down into the rock itself. We don’t have an accurate plan of it after twenty metres or so; the deep scan can’t penetrate any further. You guys want to check it out for me?’
‘We can manage that,’ Dudley said confidently. At last, some real uncharted territory.
‘All right, proceed with care. Don’t forget the comrelays.’
Dudley wanted to say something like, of course we won’t, but it lacked professionalism. In fact Oscar’s calm voice in his ears was reassuring. You can always depend on Oscar. It was a pleasant psychological safety net.
He ordered his boots to release the floor, and pushed himself towards entrance three. With his suit lights shining down into the slate-grey interior it didn’t look any different to the dozen others he’d already passed, it was curving away counter-clockwise. ‘Start recording the route,’ he told his e-butler, and pulled himself in.
After fifteen metres the surface changed from the usual tough carbon composite to a thin aluminium skin, dull with age, and cracked to reveal rock directly underneath. The curvature tightened, becoming regular. Dudley stuck a comrelay to the wall. Twenty-five metres later, he had to use another.
‘According to my inertial guidance, this is a spiral,’ Emmanuelle said. ‘We’re descending almost along the rock’s axis.’
‘Oscar, is there a hole anywhere on the rock surface?’ Dudley asked. ‘Anything that could be the other end?’
‘Difficult to say. There are a few fissures that could be openings. This is why we need you guys.’
‘Thanks.’
After a couple more twists, they came to the first junction. It was a straight tube seven metres long. Dudley shone his suit lights down it.
‘It just leads to the other side of the spiral, like a short cut.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Emmanuelle said. ‘The angle is wrong. Hey, you know what, I bet this whole shaft is laid out like DNA. Two spirals running parallel, with cross links between the two.’
‘You could be right. Oscar, I’d like to try something. If we put a comrelay at the other end of this link, then we might be able to pick it up if there’s another cross link below us.’
‘Go ahead Dudley, it’s worth a try.’
Dudley zipped through the short length of tunnel, happy at how easy he was at moving himself about in these conditions. The skill training memory was finally settling in – along with his natural aptitude, of course. He stuck the comrelay inside the second spiral, and hurried back.
*
Wilson stared at the small triangles inching their way across the big portal’s tactical display. Digits flickered around each one, delivering yet more bad news. The lead ship was eighty-two million kilometres distant, and accelerating hard at eight gees. It was going to reach them in just over three hours. That was bad enough, but what he really didn’t like was that it hadn’t flipped over to decelerate.
All eight ships had launched from the moons or inhabited asteroids of the outermost gas-giant, three AUs distant, the closest centre of any alien activity. If that lead ship didn’t decelerate at all, it was going to have a relative velocity of over seven and a half thousand kilometres per second when it reached them. No human machine had ever reached a fraction of that speed in real space. Even now, he could see it on the visual display as the Second Chance’s main telescope tracked it, the fusion drive a streamer of near-invisible violet fury stretching for hundreds of kilometres behind a scintillating golden sphere. Every stray gas molecule and charged particle impacting on the force field was dying in a burst of radioactive splendour, contributing to the coronal hue around the ship. If it hit the Second Chance or the Watchtower at that velocity, the explosion would briefly rival a solar flare.
‘Only ships five and seven have flipped,’ Anne said. ‘They’re decelerating to rendezvous. Falling a long way behind the others. And three more have left the gas-giant on an interception course for us. I think we’ve also got about fifteen on their way from Dyson Major; it’s a little early to be sure but their vectors are matching up.’
Wilson nodded silently as he absorbed the tactical situation. Given their vectors and positions, all eight ships in the first flotilla must have launched from various bases over a period of several hours. They were well spread out. There was no doubt about their destination, even if it was only a flyby. As for their intent . . .
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Oscar, pull the contact teams out of the Watchtower right now. I want them back on board Second Chance in half an hour.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tunde, I’m trying to think of any possible peaceful or scientific value from a flyby at the kind of speed the lead ship will have.’
‘There isn’t any, sir, there can’t be.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say. This is territorial. They might even think we’re from the species which put up the barrier, in which case we have to assume the worst. If they do not slow down, we will withdraw from this system. I’m not going to risk our lives and this mission in an attempt to make contact under a combat situation. Hyperspace, I want an immediate flight path for our return to the Commonwealth, ready to initiate on my command.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Anna, we’re going to attempt data contact with the first flotilla. If we can’t understand them, maybe we can get them to understand us. Start transmitting our standard preliminary contact package. Use every frequency they’re squirting at us. If nothing else we have to tell them we’re not the ones who put up the barrier.’
‘Capta
in,’ Oscar called.
Wilson missed having Oscar on the bridge, although he grudgingly acknowledged the executive officer was by far the best person to be running the exploration of the Watchtower. But he knew immediately from Oscar’s tone something had gone wrong. ‘Yes?’
‘We’ve got problems. Two members of contact team A have dropped out of communication.’
*
‘This one is at a different angle again,’ Emmanuelle said.
They had both stopped beside the fifth cross link, shining their suit lights into it. Once again, it was a straight tunnel opening to a spiral shaft. They suspected there were more than two spirals, possibly four or five.
‘I think we should stick to this shaft,’ Dudley said. ‘Let’s find out where it goes before we start plotting the rest.’ According to his inertial guidance display, they were already a hundred and fifteen metres below level seven of the alien station. They hadn’t managed to get a signal from any of the additional comrelays he’d placed at the cross links above, so they didn’t really know for sure what the topography was. ‘Oscar, can we carry on?’
‘Yeah, keep going. It’s the most interesting aspect of the station we’ve come across.’
Dudley pushed off again. There were enough bumps and irregularities in the aluminium sheath for him to grip and use like a ladder, pulling himself along. He was keen to see where it led now. He had a gut feeling that this was important. It was different to the rest of the station. The aliens must have used it to feed something in, or out. This had a purpose. Once they knew what it was connected to, they would have the first key, a way in to decrypting the alien culture. And I found it.
He moved forward eagerly, his suit lights sliding over the ancient corrupted metal. Seeking understanding.