Hamilton, Peter F – Mindstar Rising

protection blanket. Greg let his gland start its secretion again, beginning to get

a feedback from the technicians’ emotional clamour. It was the first time he’d ever encountered the space industry. These People were devoted. It went far beyond job satisfaction. They shared an enormous sense of pride, it was bloody close to being a religious kick. The Merlin had finally settled on its cradle inside the orbiter’s payload bay. As the overhead hoist withdrew, the mobile platforms converged, allowing the huddles of whiteSuited technicians to begin the interface procedure. The pallet which would deploy thc spacecraft in orbit was primed, attachment struts clamped to load points, power and datalink 80 PETER P. HAMILTON unibiicals plugged in. Monitor consoles were hive-cores of intense activity. Greg nodded down at the little robot probe and its posse of devotees. ‘What happens next?’ ‘We mate the orbiter to the top of the booster. After that the barge will dock with the airstrip. Your launch window opens at half-past eight, lasting six minutes.’ The payload bay doors hinged shut, bringing Greg one step closer to Zanthus. And it still didn’t seem real.

From Oscot’s deck the western horizon was a pastel-pink wash flecked with gold; the east a gash into infinity, not black, but dark, insubstantial, defying resolution, a chasm you could fall down for ever. Greg watched the crescent of darkness expanding as the Atlantic rolled deeper into the penumbra; occlusion slipping over the sky, giving birth to the stars. There was no air movement at all, dusk bringing its own brand of Stasis. The world holding its breath as it slid across the gap between its two states. Greg was wearing a baggy coverall over his new flightsuit. The coppery coloured garment fitted him perfectly, a one-piece of some glossy silk-smooth fabric, knees and elbows heavily padded. It had a multitude of pockets, all with velcro tags; small gear modules adhered to velcro strips on his chest -atmosphere pressure/composition sensor, medical monitor, Geiger counter, communicator set. He’d even been given a new company cybofax, capable of interfacing with Zanthus’s ‘ware, which was in the big pocket at the side of his leg. There was also a lightweight helmet, which he felt too self-conscious to put on before getting into the Sanger. The first real stirrings of excitement rose as he led the security team towards the waiting tilt-fan at the prow, the realization that he was actually going into space finally gripping. Oscot’s deck- was a bustle of tautly controlled activity. The ever-present grumble of the thermal generators’ coolant water was being complemented by the lighter braying of mobile service units. Five Lockheed YC-55 Prowlers were already on the deck. They were ex-Canadian Air Force stealth MINDSTAR RISING 81 troop/cargo transports. Their shape was a cousin of the original B2 bomber, a stumpy, swept bat-wing, with an effipsoid lifting-body fuselage; the entire surface had a radar-nuffifying matt-black coating. There were no roundels, not even serial numbers. True smugglers’ craft. Greg watched as the sixth rose silently up out of its day-time sanctuary, an old oil tank converted into a split-level hangar. The big elevator platform halted at deck level with dull metallic clangs which rumbled away into the gloaming. The stealth transporters seemed to draw a thick veil of cloying shadow around themselves, eerily other-worldly. Sean Francis caught Greg staring. ‘Neat machines. Yes?’ ‘I didn’t know you still used them,’ Greg said. ‘Sure. Their avionics are a bit outdated now, but they’re more than adequate to infiltrate Scottish airspace. That’s our main target, their PSP is pretty shaky right now. It’ll only take a small push and they’ll fall.’ Greg watched large pallets of domestic gear systems being loaded through the Prowlers’ rear cargo doors. ‘You build all that stuff here?’ ‘Yes. It’s a pretty broad range – crystal players, home terminals, microwaves, fridges, bootleg memox albums – that kind of thing. Our sister ship, Parnell, churns out more of the same, along with a whole host of specialist chemicals for our microgee modules up at Zanthus.’ ‘So Event Horizon only has the two cyber-factory ships left out here now?’ Greg asked. ‘That’s right. There used to be nine of us out here a couple of years back, but the rest have left now. They’re docked in the Wash outside Peterborough. Their cyber-systems are being stripped out and reinstalled in factories on land. All part of the Event Horizon legitimization policy. They were all gear factories, except for Kenton and Cosellow, those two used to specialize in producing the actual cyber-systems themselves. Real top of the range stuff; all our own designs, too. The old man kept research teams going ashore in Austria, they provided us with the templates; good enough to match any of the Pacific Rim gear. Bloody clever that.’ ‘Oh?’ PETER F. HAMILTON 82 ‘Don’t you see? Philip Evans has built up a capability to expand the company at an exponential rate. The cyber-systems are that sophisticated. All he needs is raw material, and financial backing. The factories will multiply like amoebas, yes?’ ‘You sound like you’re happy with Event Horizon.’ ‘Christ, I mean totally. Philip Evans is a genius. Event Horizon has so much potential, you know? A real crest-rider. And I’ve done my penance out here, ten years’ bloody hard graft. When Oscot docks I’m going to be in line for a divisional manager’s slot.’

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