Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

Sean Francis’s face appeared on the cybofax screen. “Ma’am. You’re all right, yes?”

Julia sucked in her cheeks. “Yes, so it seems. Sean, order a complete evacuation of all personnel in the second chamber, miners, technicians, supervisors. Absolutely everyone, they are to use the emergency capsules. I want them out fast.”

Sean looked shocked. “What’s happening?”

“The alien will be entering the second chamber soon. And while I think of it, make sure the orb foundry plant crew evacuate as well. Then clear every spacecraft within a five-hundred-kilometre radius of New London, and that includes all the cargo tugs and personnel commuters. Everything, understood?”

“My God, if it’s that dangerous shouldn’t I order a full-scale evacuation?”

“It’s not dangerous,” Julia said quickly. “Just very, very big.”

“Big,” Sean mouthed silently. “All right, I’ll initiate the procedures now.”

“Thank you, Sean,” Julia said. “And have Maria power up my Falcon. We’ll be at the southern hub docking complex in five minutes.”

“You’re leaving?” Sean asked. It wasn’t quite an accusation.

“Certainly not. I’m reserving a grandstand seat; after what we’ve been through we’ve earned it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Julia sat beside Greg, and slipped her arm through his. She was effervescent. It was a lovely sight, he thought, like watching time in retreat, her face smoothing out.

“How about you boys?” Julia glanced up at Rick and Victor, tip of her tongue caught between her lips. “You coming?”

Victor and Rick exchanged a nervous glance, not quite sure how to react to this teasing, girlish Julia.

Greg chuckled at them, and allowed her to haul him to his feet. Muscles creaked in protest, but she was right, he couldn’t miss it. At least somebody had got what they wanted out of all this.

Space was full of bright orange sparks, a wide cyclonic circle spinning out of New London’s northern hub like some giant Catherine wheel display. The Falcon glided smoothly towards them, maintaining a steady two-kilometre separation distance from the bulk of the asteroid.

“Just how many people have you got building the second chamber?” Rick asked. He was floating parallel to the cabin roof, gawping out at the pyrotechnic armada of emergency escape capsules.

Julia clucked her tongue, concentrating on the data the processor nodes were feeding her. “About three and a half thousand all told. The capsules can hold up to eight people. They’ve launched most of them.”

Maria snorted. “A thousand vomit comets, the mind boggles.”

Greg tightened his grip on the back of her chair. Maria had been grumpy since they left New London’s southern hub docking crater. He got the impression she didn’t like being crowded out like this. The four of them hanging on behind her, peering out through the slim, graphic-laden windscreen.

“How are we doing, Sean?” Julia asked.

“The emergency capsules are all clear,” Sean’s voice reported. “But there are fifteen reported cases of broken limbs, and numerous minor injuries. We very nearly had a panic situation after all the rumours which have been circulating. Our second chamber schedule has been ripped to pieces. It’ll take weeks to get back to full operational efficiency. Some of the gear just isn’t designed for instant shutdown, yes?”

“There is no schedule any more, Sean. So don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so, ma’am,” he said in a tired voice. “We’ve suspended traffic movements around the asteroid, apart from yourself. How soon before we can start picking up the emergency capsules?”

“As soon as they pass the five-hundred-kilometre limit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The sparks around the edge of the expanding circle were dimming and going out.

“Where do you want to watch from?” Maria asked.

“Take us round to the northern hub crater,” Julia said. “But not too close.”

A flurry of purple lines swept across the windscreen. Greg heard the reaction control thrusters fire. The Falcon was sliding up level with the shoal of emergency capsules, the sunlit length of the mirror spindle crept into view round the northern end of the asteroid.

“I’ve got damage reports coming in from the second chamber’s environmental maintenance section,” Sean called. “Five hydrocarbon storage tanks have been breached, massive fluid loss.”

“Don’t send any repair crews down to them,” Julia said.

“But-”

“None, Sean.”

“There’s another three tanks gone,” a note of frustration was clogging Sean’s voice. “We’re going to lose them all.”

“You won’t,” Julia replied, imperturbable.

“Jesus Christ, the command centre reports a rotational instability. The centre of gravity is shifting in the second chamber.”

“Sean, please. Nothing is going to harm New London.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Julia-” Victor began.

Her hand came down on top of his. “It’s all right, Victor, really.”

“OK.” He nodded with obvious reluctance.

Greg wanted to say something, do something to reassure Victor and the people back in the asteroid. Julia’s faith was unshakeable, but it was all internal, noncommunicative. He’d believed himself, of course, when the alien had slithered past him, although there was no real way to convey his conviction. Just hang on and pray Julia could deliver, once again.

The emergency capsules’ solid rockets had all burnt out, leaving their white and green strobes winking against the backdrop of stars as they deserted New London.

Another burst from the reaction-control thrusters halted the Falcon’s drift. They were keeping station fifteen hundred metres out from the mirror spindle. It sliced the starfield in half, an open silver-white gridwork six kilometres long, with the tubular sand duct running down the centre. The foundry plant at the end was a shadowy profile lost in the mirror’s umbra, red strobes flashing silently around its empty capsule hatches.

The Falcon rotated around its long axis, bringing the northern hub crater into view.

“Now,” Julia said reverently. Her hand was still clamped over Victor’s, dainty knuckles whitening.

Greg could see right down into the crater; it was larger than its southern hub counterpart, a couple of kilometres across, a deep conical bite out of the rock. The sides were smooth black glass, streaked with ash-grey rays. It was inert now, but it must have been a good approximation of hell while the electron-compression devices had gnawed it out.

A backscatter of stale light from the big mirror illuminated the sloping walls. The concave floor was three hundred and fifty metres wide, covered with a ribbing of pale metal braces that held down the spindle bearing, a fat gold foil-covered ring containing the superconductor magnets which suspended and rotated the spindle. The sand duct ran straight through the middle of the ring, disappearing into a jet-black bore hole in the crater floor.

“We’ve lost every datalink into the second chamber,” Sean said. “And that includes the foundry plant. But something is tapping the power lines, the load is one hundred per cent capacity. We’re having to powerdown some of Hyde Cavern to cope.”

“Thank you, Sean,” Julia sang. “It’s important you maintain the power supply. The drain will only be for a few hours.”

Greg couldn’t move his attention from the spindle bearing. Intuitive expectation was building up inside him, despite the vestigial neurohormone hangover, the rosy glow before the dawn. Maybe Sinclair wasn’t so brain-wrecked after all.

Just outside the spindle bearing ring a small circle of the crater floor cracked open, palpitating like a minor earthquake, then crumbled inwards. Greg’s shout died in his throat, his view was inverted, which threw him for a moment; but the floor of the crater was vertical to the asteroid’s rotational gravity. The debris should have rolled down the crater wall and fallen out of the lip, instead it had fallen horizontally.