Peter F. Hamilton - The Neutronium Alchemist

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PETER F. HAMILTON – The Neutronium Alchemist
Part I - Consolidation
Contents
Cast of Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part II - Conflict
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Timeline
Part I - Consolidation
CAST OF CHARACTERS
SHIPS
LADY MACBETH
Joshua Calvert; Captain
Melvyn Ducharme; Fusion specialist
Ashly Hanson; Pilot
Sarha Mitcham; Systems specialist
Dahybi Yadev; Node specialist
Beaulieu; Cosmonik
OENONE
Syrinx; Captain
Ruben; Fusion systems
Oxley; Pilot
Cacus; Life support
Edwin; Toroid systems
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Serina; Toroid systems
Tyla; Cargo officer
VILLENEUVE’S REVENGE
André Duchamp; Captain
Desmond Lafoe; Fusion specialist
Madeleine Collum; Node specialist
Erick Thakrar; Systems specialist/CNIS undercover agent
UDAT
Meyer; Captain
Cherri Barnes; Cargo officer
FAR REALM
Layia; Captain
Furay; Pilot
Endron; Systems specialist
Tilia; Node specialist
ARIKARA
Meredith Saldana; Rear-Admiral, squadron commander
Grese; Lieutenant, squadron intelligence officer
Rhoecus; Lieutenant, voidhawk liaison
Kroeber; Commander
BEEZLING
Kyle Prager; Captain
Peter Adul; Alchemist team physicist
HABITATS
TRANQUILITY
Ione Saldana; Lord of Ruin
Dr Alkad Mzu; Inventor of the Alchemist
Parker Higgens; Director Laymil project
Oski Katsura; Laymil project electronics division chief
Kempster Getchell; Laymil project astronomer
Monica Foulkes; ESA agent
Lady Tessa; ESA head of station
Samuel; Edenist intelligence agent
Pauline Webb; CNIS agent
Father Horst Elwes; Priest, refugee
Jay Hilton; Refugee
Kelly Tirrel; Rover reporter
Lieria; Kiint
Haile; Juvenile Kiint
VALISK
Rubra; Habitat personality
Dariat; Horgan’s possessor
Kiera Salter; Marie Skibbow’s possessor
Stanyon; Council member
Rocio Condra; Possessor blackhawk Mindor
Bonney Lewin; Hunter
Tolton; Fugitive
Tatiana; Fugitive
ASTEROIDS
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TRAFALGAR
Samual Aleksandrovich; First Admiral Confederation Navy
Lalwani; Admiral, CNIS chief
Maynard Khanna; Captain, First Admiral staff officer
Motela Kolhammer; Admiral, 1st Fleet commander
Dr Gilmore; CNIS research division director
Jacqueline Couteur; Possessor
Murphy Hewlett; Confederation Marine lieutenant
KOBLAT
Jed Hinton; Deadnight
Beth; Deadnight
Gari Hinton; Jed’s sister
Navar; Jed’s half sister
AYACUCHO
Ikela; Owner of T’Opingtu company, partizan leader
Liol; Owner of Quantum Serendipity
Voi; Ikela’s daughter
Prince Lambert; Captain starship Tekas
Dan Malindi; Partizan leader
Kaliua Lamu; Partizan leader
Feira Ile; Ayacucho SD commander, partizan leader
Cabral; Media magnate, partizan leader
Mrs Nateghi; Lawyer
Lodi Shalasha; Garissan radical
Eriba; Garissan radical
Kole; Socialite
Shea; Prince Lambert’s girlfriend
JESUP
Quinn Dexter; Messiah of the Light Bringer sect
Lawrence Dillon; Disciple
Twelve-T; Gang lord
Bonham; Disciple
Shemilt; Disciple, SD commander
Dwyer; Disciple, system specialist
PLANETS
NORFOLK
Louise Kavanagh; Refugee
Genevieve Kavanagh; Refugee
Luca Comar; Grant Kavanagh’s possessor
Marjorie Kavanagh; Louise’s mother
Mrs Charlsworth; Kavanagh sister’s nanny
Carmitha; Romany
Titreano; Possessor
Celina Hewson; Louise’s aunt
Roberto Hewson; Louise’s cousin
OMBEY
Ralph Hiltch; ESA head of station, Lalonde
Cathal Fitzgerald; Ralph’s deputy
Dean Folan; ESA G66 division
Will Danza; ESA G66 division
Kirsten Saldana; Princess of Ombey
Roche Skark; ESA director
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Jannike Dermot; ISA director
Landon McCullock; Police commisioner
Diana Tiernan; Police technology division chief
Admiral Farquar; Royal Navy; Ombey commander
Nelson Akroid; Armed Tactical Squad captain
Finnuala O’Meara; Rover reporter
Hugh Rosler; DataAxis technician
Neville Latham; Exnall’s chief inspector
Janne Palmer; Royal Marine colonel
Annette Ekelund; Possessor
Gerald Skibbow; Refugee
Dr Riley Dobbs; Royal Navy personality debrief psychology expert
Jansen Kovak; Royal Navy medical institute nurse
Moyo; Possessor
Stephanie Ash; Possessor
Cochrane; Possessor
Rana; Possessor
Tina Sudol; Possessor
NEW CALIFORNIA
Jezzibella; Mood Fantasy artist
Leroy Octavius; Jezzibella’s manager
Libby; Jezzibella’s dermal technology expert
Al; Brad Lovegrove’s possessor
Avram Harwood III; Mayor of San Angeles
Emmet Mordden; Organization lieutenant
Silvano Richmann; Organization lieutenant
Mickey Pileggi; Organization lieutenant
Patricia Mangano; Organization lieutenant
Gus Remar; Rover reporter
Kingsley Pryor; Lieutenant commander, Confederation Navy
Luigi Balsmao; Commander Organization fleet
Cameron Leung; Possessor blackhawk Zahan
Oscar Kearn; Captain Organization frigate Urschel
KULU
Alastair II; The King
Simon, Duke of Salion; Chairman security commission
Lord Kelman Mountjoy; Foreign Office minister
Lady Phillipa Oshin; Prime minister
Admiral Lavaquar; Defence chief
Prince Howard; Kulu Corporation president
Prince Noton; Ex-president Kulu Corporation
NYVAN
Gelai; Possessor, Garissa genocide victim
Ngong; Possessor, Garissa genocide victim
Omain; Possessor, Garissa genocide victim
Richard Keaton; Data security expert
Baranovich; Organization lieutenant
Adrian Redway; ESA head of station
OTHERS
CONFEDERATION
Olton Haaker; Assembly President
Jeeta Anwar; Chief presidential aide
Mae Ortlieb; Presidential science aide
Cayeaux; Edenist ambassador
Sir Maurice Hall; Kulu Kingdom ambassador
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EDENISTS
Wing-Tsit Chong; Edenism’s founder
Athene; Syrinx’s mother
Astor; Ambassador to the Kulu Kingdom
Sinon; Syrinx’s father
1
It seemed to Louise Kavanagh as though the fearsome midsummer heat had persisted for endless,
dreary weeks rather than just the four Duke-days since the last meagre shower of rain. "Air from
the devil’s cookhouse," the old women of the county called this awful unbreathable stillness which
blanketed the wolds. It complemented Louise’s mood perfectly. She didn’t feel much of anything
these days. Destiny had apparently chosen her to spend her waking hours doing nothing but wait.
Officially, she was waiting for her father, who was away leading the Stoke County militia to
help quell the insurrection which the Democratic Land Union had mounted in Boston. The last time
he’d phoned was three days ago, a quick, grim call saying the situation was worse than the Lord
Lieutenant had led them to believe. That had made Louise’s mother worry frantically. Which meant
Louise and Genevieve had to creep around Cricklade manor like mice so as not to worsen her temper.
And there had been no word since, not of Father or any of the militia troops. The whole county
was crackling with rumours, of course. Of terrible battles and beastly acts of savagery by the
Union irregulars. Louise tried hard to close her ears to them, convinced it was just wicked
propaganda put about by Union sympathisers. Nobody really knew anything. Boston could have been on
another planet as far as Stoke County was concerned. Even bland accounts of "disturbances,"
reported on the nightly news programs, had ceased after the county militias encircled the
city—censored by the government.
All they could do was wait helplessly for the militias to triumph as they surely would.
Louise and Genevieve had spent yet another morning milling aimlessly around the manor. It was a
tricky task; sitting about doing nothing was so incredibly boring, yet if they drew attention to
themselves they would be given some menial domestic job to do. With the young men away, the maids
and older menservants were struggling with the normal day-to-day running of the rambling building.
And the estate farms outside, with their skeleton workforce, were falling dismayingly far behind
in their preparations for the summer’s second cereal crop.
By lunchtime, the ennui had started to get to Louise, so she had suggested that she and her
sister go riding. They had to saddle the horses themselves, but it was worth it just to be away
from the manor for a few hours.
Louise’s horse picked its way gingerly over the ground. Duke’s hot rays had flayed open the
soil, producing a wrinkled network of cracks. The aboriginal plants which had all flowered in
unison at midsummer were long dead now. Where ten days ago the grassland had been dusted with
graceful white and pink stars, small shrivelled petals now skipped about like minute autumn
leaves. In some hollows they had drifted in loose dunes up to a foot deep.
"Why do you suppose the Union hates us so?" Genevieve asked querulously. "Just because Daddy’s
got a temper doesn’t mean he’s a bad man."
Louise produced a sympathetic smile for her younger sister. Everyone said how alike they were,
twins born four years apart. And indeed it was a bit like looking into a mirror at times; the same
features, rich dark hair, delicate nose, and almost Oriental eyes. But Genevieve was smaller, and
slightly chubbier. And right now, brokenly glum.
Genevieve had been sensitive to her moodiness for the last week, not wanting to say anything
significant in case it made big sister even more unaccountably irritable.
She does idolize me so, Louise thought. Pity she couldn’t have chosen a better role model.
"It’s not just Daddy, nor even the Kavanaghs," Louise said. "They simply don’t like the way
Norfolk works."
"But why? Everybody in Stoke County is happy."
"Everybody in the county is provided for. There’s a difference. How would you feel if you had to
work in the fields all day long for every day of your life, and saw the two of us riding by
without a care in the world?"
Genevieve looked puzzled. "Not sure."
"You’d resent it, and you’d want to change places."
"I suppose so." She gave a sly grin. "Then I’d be the one who resented them."
"Exactly. That’s the problem."
"But the things people are saying the Union is doing..." Genevieve said uncertainly. "I heard
two of the maids talking about it this morning. They were saying horrible things. I ran away after
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a minute."
"They’re lying. If anybody in Stoke County knew what was going on in Boston, it would be us, the
Kavanaghs. The maids are going to be the last to find out."
Genevieve shone a reverent smile at her sister. "You’re so clever, Louise."
"You’re clever too, Gen. Same genes, remember."
Genevieve smiled again, then spurred her horse on ahead, laughing gladly. Merlin, their
sheepdog, chased off after her, kicking up whirling flurries of brown petals.
Louise instinctively urged her own horse into a canter, heading towards Wardley Wood, a mile
ahead. In summers past the sisters had claimed it as their own adventure playground. This summer,
though, it held an added poignancy. This summer it contained the memory of Joshua Calvert. Joshua
and the things they’d done as they lazed by the side of the rock pools. Every outrageous sexual
act, acts which no true well-born Norfolk lady would ever commit. Acts which she couldn’t wait for
them to do again.
Also the acts which had made her throw up for the last three mornings in a row. Nanny had been
her usual fuss the first two times. Thankfully, Louise had managed to conceal this morning’s bout
of nausea, otherwise her mother would have been told. And Mother was pretty shrewd.
Louise grimaced forlornly. Everything will be fine once Joshua comes back. It had become almost
a mantra recently.
Dear Jesus, but I hate this waiting.
Genevieve was a quarter of a mile from the woods, with Louise a hundred yards behind her, when
they heard the train. The insistent tooting sound carried a long way in the calm air. Three short
blasts, followed by a long one. The warning signal that it was approaching the open road crossing
at Collyweston.
Genevieve reined her horse in, waiting for Louise to catch up with her. "It’s coming into town!"
the younger girl exclaimed.
Both of them knew the local train times by heart. Colsterworth had twelve passenger services a
day. This one wasn’t one of them.
"They’re coming back!" Genevieve squealed. "Daddy’s back!"
Merlin picked up on her excitement, running around the horse, barking enthusiastically.
Louise bit her lip. She couldn’t think what else it could be. "I suppose so."
"It is. It is!"
"All right, come on then." Cricklade manor lurked inside its picket of huge geneered cedars, an
imposing stone mansion built in homage to the stately homes of an England as distant in time as in
space. The glass walls of the ornate orangery abutting the east wing reflected Duke’s brilliant
yellow sunlight in geometric ripples as the sisters rode along the greensward below the building.
When she was inside the ring of cedars, Louise noticed the chunky blue-green farm ranger racing
up the long gravel drive. She whooped loudly, goading her horse to an even faster gallop. Few
people were allowed to drive the estate’s powered vehicles. And nobody else drove them as fast as
Daddy.
Louise soon left Genevieve well behind, with an exhausted Merlin trailing by almost a quarter of
a mile. She could see six figures crammed into the vehicle’s seats. And that was definitely Daddy
driving. She didn’t recognise any of the others.
Another two farm rangers turned into the drive just as the first pulled up in front of the
manor. Various household staff and Marjorie Kavanagh hurried down the broad steps to greet it.
Louise tumbled down off her horse, and rushed up to her father. She flung her arms around him
before he knew what was happening. He was dressed in the same military uniform as the day he left.
"Daddy! You’re all right." She rubbed her cheek against the coarse khaki-green fabric of his
jacket, feeling five years old again. Tears were threatening to brim up.
He stiffened inside her manic embrace, head slowly tipping down to look at her. When she glanced
up adoringly she saw a look of mild incomprehension on his strong ruddy face.
For a horrible moment she thought he must have found out about the baby. Then a vile mockery of
a smile came to his lips.
"Hello, Louise. Nice to see you again."
"Daddy?" She took a step backwards. What was wrong with him? She glanced uncertainly at her
mother who had just reached them.
Marjorie Kavanagh took in the scene with a fast glance. Grant looked just awful; tired, pale,
and strangely nervous. Gods, what had happened in Boston?
She ignored Louise’s obvious hurt and stepped up to him. "Welcome home," she murmured demurely.
Her lips brushed his cheek.
"Hello dear," Grant Kavanagh said. She could have been a complete stranger for all the emotion
in his voice.
He turned, almost in deference, Marjorie thought with growing bewilderment, and half bowed to
one of the men accompanying him. They were all strangers, none of them even wore Stoke County
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militia uniforms. The other two farm rangers were braking behind the first, also full of
strangers.
"Marjorie, I’d like you to meet Quinn Dexter. Quinn is a... priest. He’s going to be staying
here with some of his followers."
The young man who walked forwards had the kind of gait Marjorie associated with the teenage
louts she glimpsed occasionally in Colsterworth. Priest, my arse, she thought.
Quinn was dressed in a flowing robe of some incredibly black material; it looked like the kind
of habit a millionaire monk would wear. There was no crucifix in sight. The face which smiled out
at her from the voluminous hood was coldly vulpine. She noticed how everyone in his entourage was
very careful not to get too close to him.
"Intrigued, Father Dexter," she said, letting her irony show.
He blinked, and nodded thoughtfully, as if in recognition that they weren’t fooling each other.
"Why are you here?" Louise asked breathlessly.
"Cricklade is going to be a refuge for Quinn’s sect," Grant Kavanagh said. "There was a lot of
damage in Boston. So I offered him full use of the estate."
"What happened?" Marjorie asked. Years of discipline necessary to enforce her position allowed
her to keep her voice level, but what she really wanted to do was grab hold of Grant’s jacket
collar and scream in his face. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Genevieve scramble down off
her horse and run over to greet her father, her delicate face suffused with simple happiness.
Before Marjorie could say anything, Louise thrust out an arm and stopped her dead in her tracks.
Thank God for that, Marjorie thought; there was no telling how these aloof strangers would react
to excitable little girls.
Genevieve’s face instantly turned woeful, staring up at her untouchable father with widened,
mutinous eyes. But Louise kept a firmly protective arm around her shoulder.
"The rebellion is over," Grant said. He hadn’t even noticed Genevieve’s approach.
"You mean you rounded up the Union people?"
"The rebellion is over," Grant repeated flatly.
Marjorie was at a loss what to do next. Away in the distance she could hear Merlin barking with
unusual aggression. The fat old sheepdog was lumbering along the greensward towards the group
outside the manor.
"We shall begin straightaway," Quinn announced abruptly. He started up the steps towards the
wide double doors, long pleats of his robe swaying leadenly around his ankles.
The manor staff clustering with considerable curiosity on top of the steps parted nervously.
Quinn’s companions surged after him.
Grant’s face twitched in what was nearly an apology to Marjorie as the new arrivals clambered
out of the farm rangers to hurry up the steps after their singular priest. Most of them were men,
all with exactly the same kind of agitated expression.
They look as if they’re going to their own execution, Marjorie thought. And the clothes a couple
of them wore were bizarre. Like historical military costumes: grey greatcoats with broad scarlet
lapels and yards of looping gold braid. She strove to remember history lessons from too many years
ago, images of Teutonic officers hazy in her mind.
"We’d better go in," Grant said encouragingly. Which was absurd. Grant Kavanagh neither asked
nor suggested anything on his own doorstep, he gave orders.
Marjorie gave a reluctant nod and joined him. "You two stay out here," she told her daughters.
"I want you to see to Merlin, then stable your horses." While I find out just what the hell is
going on around here, she completed silently.
The two sisters were virtually clinging together at the bottom of the steps, faces heavy with
doubt and dismay. "Yes, Mother," Louise said meekly. She started to tug on Genevieve’s black
riding jacket.
Quinn paused on the threshold of the manor, giving the grounds a final survey. Misgivings were
beginning to stir his mind. When he was back in Boston it seemed only right that he should be part
of the vanguard bringing the gospel of God’s Brother to the whole island of Kesteven. None could
stand before him when his serpent beast was unleashed. But there were so many lost souls returning
from the beyond; inevitably some dared to disobey, while others wavered after he had passed among
them to issue the word. In truth he could only depend upon the closest disciples he had gathered.
The sect acolytes he had left in Boston to tame the returned souls, to teach them the real
reason why they had been brought back, agreed to do his bidding simply from fear. That was why he
had come to the countryside, to levy the creed upon all the souls, both the living and the dead,
of this wretched planet. With a bigger number of followers inducted, genuinely believing the task
God’s Brother had given them, then ultimately their doctrine would triumph.
But this land which Luca Comar had described in glowing terms was so empty, kilometre after
kilometre of grassland and fields, populated by dozing hamlets of cowed peasants; a temperate-
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climate version of Lalonde.
There had to be more to his purpose than this. God’s Brother would never have chosen him for
such a simple labour. There were hundreds of planets in the Confederation crying out to hear His
word, to follow Him into the final battle against the false gods of Earth’s religions, where Night
would dawn forevermore.
After this evening I shall have to search myself to see where He guides me; I must find my
proper role in His plan.
His gaze finished up on the Kavanagh sisters who were staring up at him, both trying to be
courageous in the face of the strangeness falling on their home as softly and inexorably as
midwinter snow. The elder one would make a good reward for disciples who demonstrated loyalty, and
the child might be of some use to a returned soul. God’s Brother found a use for everything.
Content, for the moment, Quinn swept into the hall, relishing the opulence which greeted him.
Tonight at least he could indulge himself in decadent splendour, quickening his serpent beast. For
who did not appreciate absolute luxury?
The disciples knew their duties well enough, needing no supervision. They would flush out the
manor’s staff and open their bodies for possession: a chore repeated endlessly over the last week.
His work would come later, selecting those who were worthy of a second chance at life, who would
embrace the Night. "What—!" Genevieve began hotly as the last of the odd adults disappeared inside
the manor’s entrance.
Louise’s hand clamped over her mouth. "Come on!" She pulled hard on Genevieve’s arm, nearly
unbalancing the younger girl. Genevieve reluctantly allowed herself to be steered away.
"You heard Mother," Louise said. "We’re to look after the horses."
"Yes, but..."
"I don’t know! All right? Mother will sort everything out." The words brought scant reassurance.
What had happened to Daddy?
Boston must have been truly terrible to have affected him so.
Louise undid the strap on her riding hat, and tucked it under an arm. The manor and its grounds
had become very quiet all of a sudden. The big entrance-hall doors swinging shut had acted like a
signal for the birds to fall still. Even the horses were docile.
The funereal sensation was broken by Merlin who had finally reached the gravel driveway. He
barked quite piteously as he nosed around Louise’s feet, his tongue lolling out as he wheezed
heavily.
Louise gathered up the reins of both horses and started to lead them towards the stables.
Genevieve grabbed Merlin’s collar and hauled him along.
When they reached the stable block at the rear of the manor’s west wing there was nobody there,
not even the two young stable lads Mr Butterworth had left in charge. The horses’ hooves made an
almighty clattering on the cobbles of the yard outside, the noise reverberating off the walls.
"Louise," Genevieve said forlornly, "I don’t like this. Those people with Daddy were really
peculiar."
"I know. But Mother will tell us what to do."
"She went inside with them."
"Yes." Louise realized just how anxious Mother had been for her and Genevieve to get away from
Daddy’s friends. She looked around the yard, uncertain what to do next. Would Mother send for
them, or should they go in? Daddy would expect to talk with them. The old daddy, she reminded
herself sadly.
Louise settled for stalling. There was plenty to do in the stables; take the saddles off, brush
the horses down, water them. She and Genevieve both took off their riding jackets and set to.
It was twenty minutes later, while they were putting the saddles back in the tack room, when
they heard the first scream. The shock was all the more intense because it was male: a raw-
throated yell of pain which dwindled away into a sobbing whimper.
Genevieve quietly put her arm around Louise’s waist. Louise could feel her trembling and patted
her softly. "It’s all right," she whispered.
The two of them edged over to the window and peered out. There was nothing to see in the
courtyard. The manor’s windows were black and blank, sucking in Duke’s light.
"I’ll go and find out what’s happening," Louise said.
"No!" Genevieve pulled at her urgently. "Don’t leave me alone. Please, Louise." She was on the
verge of tears.
Louise’s hold tightened in reflex. "Okay, Gen, I won’t leave you."
"Promise? Really truly promise?"
"Promise!" She realized she was just as frightened as Genevieve. "But we must find out what
Mother wants us to do."
Genevieve nodded brokenly. "If you say so."
Louise looked at the high stone wall of the west wing, sizing it up. What would Joshua do in a
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situation like this? She thought about the layout of the wing, the family apartments, the
servants’ utility passages. Rooms and corridors she knew better than anyone except for the chief
housekeeper, and possibly Daddy.
She took Genevieve by the hand. "Come on. We’ll try and get up to Mother’s boudoir without
anyone seeing us. She’s bound to go there eventually."
They crept out into the courtyard and scuttled quickly along the foot of the manor’s wall to a
small green door which led into a storeroom at the back of the kitchens. Louise expected a shouted
challenge at any moment. She was panting by the time she heaved on the big iron handle and nipped
inside.
The storeroom was filled with sacks of flour and vegetables piled high in various wooden bays.
Two narrow window slits, set high in the wall, cast a paltry grey light through their cobweb-caked
panes.
Louise flicked the switch as Genevieve closed the door. A couple of naked light spheres on the
roof sputtered weakly, then went out.
"Damnation!" Louise took Genevieve’s hand and threaded her way carefully around the boxes and
sacks.
The utility corridor beyond had plain white plaster walls and pale yellow flagstones. Light
spheres every twenty feet along its ceiling were flickering on and off completely at random. The
effect made Louise feel mildly giddy, as if the corridor were swaying about.
"What’s doing that?" Genevieve whispered fiercely.
"I’ve no idea," she replied carefully. A dreadful ache of loneliness had stolen up on her
without any warning. Cricklade didn’t belong to them anymore, she knew that now.
They made their way along the disconcerting corridor to the antechamber at the end. A cast-iron
spiral staircase wound up through the ceiling.
Louise paused to hear if anyone was coming down. Then, satisfied they were still alone, she
started up.
The manor’s main corridors were a vast contrast to the plain servant utilities. Wide strips of
thick green and gold carpet ran along polished golden wood planks, the walls were hung with huge
traditional oil paintings in ostentatious gilt frames. Small antique chests stood at regular
intervals, holding either delicate objets d’art or cut crystal vases with fragrant blooms of
terrestrial and xenoc flowers grown in the manor’s own conservatory.
The outside of the door at the top of the spiral stairs was disguised as a wall panel. Louise
teased it open and peeped out. A grand stained-glass window at the far end of the corridor was
sending out broad fans of coloured light to dye the walls and ceiling with tartan splashes.
Engraved light spheres on the ceiling were glowing a lame amber. All of them emitted an unhealthy
buzzing sound.
"Nobody about," Louise said.
The two of them darted out and shut the panel behind them. They started edging towards their
mother’s boudoir.
A distant cry sounded. Louise couldn’t work out where it came from. It wasn’t close, though;
thank sweet Jesus.
"Let’s go back," Genevieve said. "Please, Louise. Mummy knows we went to the stables. She’ll
find us there."
"We’ll just see if she’s here, first. If she’s not, then we’ll go straight back."
They heard the anguished cry again, even softer this time.
The boudoir door was twenty feet away. Louise steeled herself and took a step towards it.
"Oh, God, no! No, no, no. Stop it. Grant! Dear God, help me!"
Louise’s muscles locked in terror. It was her mother’s voice—Mother’s scream—coming from behind
the boudoir door.
"Grant, no! Oh, please. Please, no more." A long, shrill howl of pain followed.
Genevieve was clutching at her in horror, soft whimpers bubbling from her open mouth. The light
spheres right outside the boudoir door grew brighter. Within seconds they glared hotter than Duke
at noon. Both of them burst apart with a thin pop, sending slivers of milky glass tinkling down on
the carpet and floorboards.
Marjorie Kavanagh screeched again.
"Mummy!" Genevieve wailed.
Marjorie Kavanagh’s scream broke off. There was a muffled, inexplicable thud from behind the
door. Then: "RUN! RUN, DARLING. JUST RUN, NOW!"
Louise was already stumbling back towards the concealed stairway door, holding on to a
distraught, sobbing Genevieve. The boudoir door flew open, wood splintering from the force of the
blow which struck it. A solid shaft of sickly emerald light punched out into the corridor. Spidery
shadows moved within it, growing denser.
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Two figures emerged.
Louise gagged. It was Rachel Handley, one of the manor’s maids. She looked the same as normal.
Except her hair. It had turned brick-red, the strands curling and coiling around each other in
slow, oily movements.
Then Daddy was standing beside the chunky girl, still in his militia uniform. His face wore a
foreign, sneering smile.
"Come to Papa, baby," he growled happily, and took a step towards Louise.
All Louise could do was shake her head hopelessly. Genevieve had slumped to her knees, bawling
and shaking violently.
"Come on, baby." His voice had fallen to a silky coo.
Louise couldn’t stop the sob that burped from her lips. Soon it would become a mad scream which
would never end.
Her father laughed delightedly. A shape moved through the liquid green light behind him and
Rachel.
Louise was so numbed she could no longer even manage a solitary gasp of surprise. It was Mrs
Charlsworth, their nanny. Variously: tyrant and surrogate mother, confidante and traitor. A
rotund, middle-aged woman, with prematurely greying hair and an otherwise sour face softened by
hundreds of granny wrinkles.
She stabbed a knitting needle straight at Grant Kavanagh’s face, aiming for his left eye. "Leave
my girls alone, you bloody fiend," she yelled defiantly.
Louise could never quite remember exactly what happened next. There was blood, and miniature
lightning forks. Rachel Handley let out a clarion shriek. Shattered glass erupted from the frames
of the oil paintings down half the length of the corridor as the blazing white lightning strobed
violently.
Louise crammed her hands over her ears as the shriek threatened to crack open her skull. The
lightning died away. When she looked up, instead of her father there was a hulking humanoid shape
standing beside Rachel. It wore strange armour, made entirely of little squares of dark metal,
embossed with scarlet runes, and tied together with brass wire. "Bitch!" it stormed at a quailing
Mrs Charlsworth. Thick streamers of bright orange smoke were belching out of its eye slits.
Rachel Handley’s arms turned incandescent. She clamped her splayed fingers over Mrs
Charlsworth’s cheeks, teeth bared in exertion as she pushed in. Skin sizzled and charred below her
fingertips. Mrs Charlsworth mewed in agony. The maid released her. She slumped backwards, her head
lolling to one side; and she looked at Louise, smiling as tears seeped down her ruined cheeks.
"Go," she mouthed.
The grievous plea seemed to kick directly into Louise’s nervous system. She pushed her shoulders
into the wall, levering herself upright.
Mrs Charlsworth grinned mirthlessly as the maid and the burly warrior closed on her to
consummate their vengeance. She raised the pathetic knitting needle again.
Ribbons of white fire snaked around Rachel’s arms as she grinned at her prey. Small balls of it
dripped off her fingertips, flying horizontally towards the stricken woman, eating eagerly through
the starched grey uniform. A booming laugh emerged from the clinking armour, mingling with Mrs
Charlsworth’s gurgles of pain.
Louise put her arm under Genevieve’s shoulder and lifted her bodily. Flashes of light and the
sounds of Mrs Charlsworth’s torture flooded the corridor behind her.
I mustn’t turn back. I mustn’t.
Her fingers found the catch for the concealed door, and it swung open silently. She almost
hurled Genevieve through the gap into the gloom beyond, heedless of whether anyone else was on the
stairs.
The door slid shut.
"Gen? Gen!" Louise shook the petrified girl. "Gen, we have to get out of here." There was no
response. "Oh, dear Jesus." The urge to curl into a ball and weep her troubles away was
strengthening.
If I do that, I’ll die. And the baby with me.
She tightened her grip on Genevieve’s hand and hurried down the spiral stairs. At least
Genevieve’s limbs were working. Though what would happen if they met another of those... people-
creatures was another question altogether.
They’d just reached the small anteroom at the bottom of the spiral when a loud hammering began
above. Louise started to run down the corridor to the storeroom. Genevieve stumbled along beside
her, a low determined humming coming from her lips.
The hammering stopped, and there was the brassy thump of an explosion. Tendrils of bluish static
shivered down the spiral stairs, grounding out through the floor. Red stone tiles quaked and
cracked. The dimming light spheres along the ceiling sprang back to full intensity again.
"Faster, Gen," she shouted.
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摘要：

file:///F|/rah/Peter%20F.%20Hamilton/Hamilton,%20Peter%20F%20-%20The%20Neutronium%20Alchemist.txtPETERF.HAMILTON–TheNeutroniumAlchemistPartI-ConsolidationContentsCastofCharactersChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chap...

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