Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

With the lightware cruncher’s processing operations suspended, the personality package began to wipe all the programs and files it found stored in the unit’s memory. Access codes were changed. A new sequence of operating routines were loaded. The package’s highly compressed data planes expanded into the empty lightware. Julia’s reconstituted mentality came on line.

She started to assess the airship’s ‘ware architecture, spreading her presence through the datanet, burning into ancillary processor cores. The bridge’s ‘ware was her first priority, gaining complete command of her new domain. New channels were opened and safeguarded, data flowed back into the lightware cruncher.

The Colonel Maitland’s flight control systems were plugged into a broad range of sensors and cameras distributed throughout the fuselage. Radar and the satellite uplinks were useless, swamped by the tekmerc’s jammer. She studied the optical circuits, pulling their codes out of memory cores, then started to look around.

External camera, portside fuselage. The Messerschmitt hovered level with the gondola. A laser rangefinder pulsed every second, helping it to maintain its stand-off position exactly. Eight armour-clad figures were left swung out between it and the Colonel Maitland. Each of them identical, factory moulded; left hand controlling a jockey-stick, right hand holding a Lockheed rip gun. Two wavering columns of hot compressed air streamed out of the jetpack nozzles, behind and slightly below the shoulders. As she watched, one of them disappeared through a hole in the side of the gondola.

Internal camera, gondola lower-deck crew lounge. The lounge had been ravaged by the rip bolt, loose chairs hurled at the walls, composite walls cracked and buckled, carpet smouldering. Glass lay underfoot, the door twisted in its frame.

Two of the armoured figures were standing inside, Lockheed rip guns raised cautiously, covering the open doorway. Helmets blank bubbles of metal. A third swept through the hole, jetpack efflux stirring up a mini-hurricane of wreckage as he settled on the uneven decking.

External camera, upper tail fin. The ruined landing pad, pitiful remains of the Pegasus spewing out thin plumes of smoke. Two of the Colonel Maitland’s crew, dressed in silvery fire-suits, were surveying the scene. They kept close to the edge of the pad, giving the Pegasus a wide birth as they shuffled along, testing the deck sheeting before each step.

Julia called up a structural schematic and systems status review from the bridge’s flight control ‘ware. The central gasbag, below the landing pad, had been badly lacerated. Helium was escaping at a critical rate. The bridge crew had ordered a near-total ballast dump to compensate. Water from tanks and the swimming-pool was venting out of the gondola as fast as it could be pumped.

The Colonel Maitland’s geodetic framework was drawn in fine blue lines, gasbag suspension rigging a jumble of green cobwebs. A large, roughly oval, area of fuselage struts around the landing pad and hangar had turned red, fringed in yellow. The landing pad itself was mostly black; a lot of the stress sensors’ optical cables had been cut in the explosions, leaving gaps in the picture. Maintenance drones were inching along the longitudinal frames, inspecting individual struts for fractures, supplementing and refining the data from the sensors, filling in the true status of the black zones.

The damage assessment was reassuring. The basic framework was bearing up under the redistributed loading. Power to the contra-rotating fans was being reduced, relieving as much pressure as possible until the upper fuselage frames could be repaired.

She accessed the bridge’s memory cores and discovered that the maintenance drones communicated with the flight control ‘ware via laser links; the entire geodetic framework was dotted with interface keys.

Internal camera, gondola stairwell. Greg and Suzi were moving to the upper deck. Suzi was brandishing her Browning in one hand, pulling Greg along with the other. She looked as if she was walking directly into a hurricane blast, face furrowed with concentration, teeth bared, every step an effort. Greg was moving like an unplugged junkie. Julia recognized the thousand-metre stare; his gland was active, dissolving the real universe.

Structural schematic. A patch of the gondola’s upper-deck hull changed to red, shooting out a ripple ring of yellow. The red centre snapped to black. Another rip-gun bolt. Electrical lines were cut, fibre-optic links severed. Compensator programs assigned priorities and rerouted power and data.

External camera, portside fuselage. One of the armoured tekmerc squad had broken away from his colleagues, charging towards the gondola much too fast. He cannoned into a cabin through the gap in the hull which the rip gun had made, arm just catching the edge.

Internal camera, gondola upper-deck cabin. The armoured figure spinning chaotically, bouncing off walls and ceiling. Legs and arms thrashing about, splintering the composite. He wound up jammed into a corner, jetpack still firing, boots a metre off the ground. The Lockheed rip gun fell from his gauntlet. His legs began a running motion in midair, toe caps hammering deeply into the bulkhead.

Julia brought additional processing power on line for that. Armour malfunction? Some sort of flying phobia? There was no rational explanation.

Internal camera, gondola lower-deck crew lounge. The remaining nine members of the squad were all assembled in the lounge. Their movements were sluggish, forced, the same as Suzi.

One of them pointed his rip gun at the mangled door. Fired. Fire alarms howled in protest throughout the gondola.

The squad clattered out into the lower-deck central corridor, heading for the prow. A couple of the Colonel Maitland’s cabin crew were in the central corridor, a steward and a maid. Both of them listless and drowsy. They gawped at the approaching tekmerc squad.

“Where is Charlotte Fielder?” one of the squad asked. His amplified voice was loud in the confined space of the corridor, menacing.

The steward looked about, his face white. “She might be with Fabian Whitehurst, in his cabin, or hers. I’m not sure.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Where is Jason Whitehurst?”

“In his study.” The steward pointed a wavering hand down the corridor towards the prow. “That way.”

Four squad members stepped forward.

“You will show these four where Fabian Whitehurst’s cabin is.”

The steward jerked his head in terror.

One of the squad reached out and grabbed the maid. She screamed.

“Be quiet. You come with us to the study.”

She began to snivel. The armoured figure jerked her along, nearly lifting her off the floor.

Julia accessed the Colonel Maitland’s radio gear, letting the raw signals flow directly into the lightware cruncher. The white-noise howl of the Messerschmitt’s jammer dominated every frequency. She began to slot in filter programs. The tekmerc squad had to have some way of communicating.

She found a string of digital pulses in the UHF band, and refined the filter programs to kill the last of the jammer interference. A decryption program was loaded into the circuit.

Tekmerc squad inter-suit radio communication.

Tekmerc one: “…know what the fuck’s happened to Chad. Those psychic freakos are beating the hell out of each other somehow. You know how it is with them.”

Tekmerc two: “God, it’s like my head’s on fire. There are corridors everywhere, like a bloody maze.”

Tekmerc one: “No, there aren’t. Fight it, turn up your photon-amp brightness. There’s only one corridor.”

Tekmerc two: “Sure thing, Leol.”

Julia identified Tekmerc one as Leol Reiger. Her own abridged memories contained a concise security file on him.