The Night's Dawn Trilogy (366 page)

Ralph switched the suite’s focus to the red cloud. Its edges were still arched down to the ground, sealing the peninsula away
from the rest of the planet. Dusky random wave shadows rolled across the pulpy surface. He thought they might be more restless
than usual, though that could well be his imagination. Thankfully, there was no sign of that peculiar oval formation which
he’d seen once before. The one he absolutely refused to call an eye. All he really wanted was one glimpse through; to reassure
himself the peninsula was still there, if nothing else. They’d had no data of any kind from inside since the day Ekelund had
brought the cloud down. No links with the net could be established; no non-possessed had managed to sneak out. A final sweep
with the flyer’s sensors revealed nothing new.

“Take us back,” he told Cathal.

The flyer performed a fast turn, curving round to line up on Fort Forward. Ahead of it, the giant Thunderbirds continued to
swoop down out of the western sky, delta heat-shields glowing a dull vermilion against the starfield backdrop. That aspect
of the build up, at least, remained unchanged. Cathal landed them inside the secure command complex, along the southern side
of the new city. Ralph trotted down the airstair, ignoring the armed Marine escort which fell in around him. The trappings
of his position had ceased to register as special some time ago, just another aspect of this extraordinary event.

Brigadier Palmer (the first person Ralph had promoted) was waiting outside the door to the Ops Room. “Well?” she asked, as
they walked in.

“I didn’t see anyone waving a white flag.”

“We’d know if they wanted to.” Like a lot of people involved with the Liberation, especially those who’d been on Mortonridge
since the start, she considered herself to have a connection with the possessed hidden behind the red cloud, an awareness
of attitude. Ralph wasn’t convinced, although he acknowledged the possessed exerted some kind of psychic presence.

The Ops Room was a long rectangular chamber with glass walls separating it from innumerable specialist planning offices. Completing
electronic systems integration and connecting their architecture with Ombey’s military communication circuits was another
triumph for the overworked Royal Marine engineering corps, though its rushed nature was evident in the bundled cables hanging
between consoles and open ceiling panels, air conditioning which was too chilly, and raw carbon-concrete corner pillars. Its
floor-space was taken up by cheap corporate-style desks holding consoles, AV projectors, and communication gear. Right now,
it was full to capacity; over fifty officers from the Royal Navy were collaborating with an equal number of Edenists; the
next largest contingent was the Confederation Navy with twenty; while the remainder were drawn from various participating
allies.

They were going to be the coordinators of the Liberation, the human analysis and liaison between the ground forces and the
controlling AI back in Pasto. A failsafe against the maxim: No battle plan survives contact with the enemy. Every one of them
stood up as Ralph Hiltch entered. That, he did notice. Together they had spent the past few weeks planning this together,
arguing, pleading, contributing ideas, working miracles. They’d learned to cooperate and coordinate their fields of expertise,
putting aside old quarrels so they melded into a unified, dedicated team. He was proud of them and what they’d accomplished.

Their show of respect rekindled several of his suppressed emotions. “I’ll keep this short,” he told the hushed chamber. “We
can’t pretend this is going to solve the problem possession poses to the Confederation, but it’s a damn sight more important
than a propaganda war, which is what some reporters have been calling it. We’re fighting to free two million people, and we’re
battling to bring hope into the lives of an awful lot more. To me, that’s more than worthwhile, it’s essential. So let’s make
our contribution a good one.”

Amid scattered applause, he made his way to his office at the far end. His desk gave him a view down the whole length of the
Ops Room, providing he craned his neck over the stack of processor block peripherals connected to his main desktop console.
While he was datavising the array for strategic updates, his executive command group joined him. As well as Janne Palmer who
was the Chief of the occupying forces, there was Acacia, the Edenist liaison, an elderly woman who had served as ambassador
to Ombey for five years. He’d also drafted in Diana Tiernan to act as the army’s technical advisor, helping to filter the
scientific reports on the possessed which were flooding in from across the Confederation. Cathal completed the gathering,
still holding his post as Ralph’s assistant, but now with the rank of lieutenant commander.

When the glass door slid shut, isolating them from the noise from outside, Ralph requested a security level one sensenviron
conference. Princess Kirsten and Admiral Far-quar joined them around the white bubble room’s table. “The deployment’s going
remarkably well,” Ralph said. “All our principal front line divisions will be in place at zero-hour.”

“My occupation troops are effectively ready,” Janne said. “There are a few minor hitches, mostly logistical. But given the
amount of materiel involved, and the different groupings we’re attempting to coordinate, I’m happy. We’re well within estimated
parameters. The AI should have the bugs knocked out by morning.”

“The serjeants are also ready,” Acacia reported. “Again, there are some hitches, mainly with transport equipment, but we are
committed.”

“Admiral Farquar?” Kirsten asked.

“All space based assets are functional. Platform orbits are synchronized, and the voidhawks are reaching apogee. It looks
good.”

“Very well,” Kirsten said. “God help me for this, but they’ve left us with no alternative. General Hiltch, you now have full
command authority for Ombey’s military forces. Engage the enemy, Ralph, evict them from my planet.”

______

Standard military doctrine was, somewhat inevitably, fairly unimaginative. Every kind of tactic and counter-tactic had been
attempted, practised, and refined by generals, warlords, and emperors down the centuries until there was little room for mistake.
So even though Mortonridge was unique from a philosophical standpoint, it could be defined in military terms as a large scale
hostage/siege scenario. Given that assessment, the method of resolving it was clear cut.

Ralph wanted to isolate the possessed in small groups. They were vulnerable like that, capable of being overwhelmed. To achieve
it, their communications should be broken, denying them the ability to regroup and mount any kind of counter-attack. Harassment
should be constant, wearing them down. And, if possible, he wanted them deprived of the cover provided by their red cloud.
In summary: divide and conquer. An ancient principle, but now aided by the kind of firepower which only modern technology
could provide.

______

Ombey had four and a half thousand low orbit Strategic Defence platforms. Their orbital vectors were orchestrated to provide
a constant barrier above the surface, similar to the way electrons pirouetted around their nucleus. For the Liberation, all
that had changed. Navy starships had taken over the low orbit protection duty, leaving the platforms free for an altogether
different task. Their elaborate inclinations had been shifted, ion thrusters firing for hours at a time to clump them into
flocks of twenty-five. Now they formed a single chain around the planet, with an inclination tilted at just a couple of degrees
to the equator. One flock would pass over Mortonridge every thirty seconds.

Sensor satellites had been manoeuvred into the gaps between the platforms, ready to provide the Liberation Forces with an
unparalleled coverage of the peninsula once the red cloud had been broken apart. Admiral Farquar used them to watch the dawn
terminator sliding over the ocean towards the lowering band of red cloud. Tactical overlays showed him the positions of the
landing boats heading in for the beaches. Far overhead, the flotilla of voidhawks had passed apogee, and were now hurtling
downwards, accelerating at eight gees.

In one hour, dawn would reach Mortonridge’s eastern seaboard. The Admiral datavised his command authority code to Guyana’s
SD control centre. “Fire,” he ordered.

______

Though they never knew it, the Liberation forces very nearly won in the first ninety seconds. The initial flock of SD platforms
sent seventy-five electron beams slamming down through the upper atmosphere to strike the red cloud. They were aimed along
the north/south axis of the peninsula, and defocused, so that at the point of impact they were over fifty metres across. The
intention wasn’t to pierce the red cloud, just to pump it full of electrical energy, the pos-sessed’s one known Achilles Heel.
Each beam began scanning from side to side, in gigantic ten second sweeps that took them from coast to coast.

Then the second flock of platforms slid up over the horizon and into range. Another seventy-five beams speared down. There
was a ten second overlap before the first flock was out of range.

______

Annette Ekelund let out a single shriek of agony, and dropped helplessly to her knees. The pain was incredible. A shaft of
blue-star sunlight flung down from a height greater than heaven lanced clean through her skull. It didn’t just burn her stolen
brain, it set fire to her very thoughts. That part of her spirit which communed so gladly with the others on Mortonridge was
the treacherous conductor. The part which created the shield of cloud and gave them all a subliminal sense of community. Her
belief in whatever humanity has survived the incarceration of the beyond. And now it was killing her.

She abandoned it in its entirety. Her scream twisting from pain to wretchedness. All around her, the other souls were shrinking
away from each other, withdrawing into self. The last sob burbled out from her lips, and she flopped limply onto her back.
Her body was freezing, shaking in shock. Delvan and Soi Hon were scrabbling in the dirt somewhere nearby, she could hear their
whimpers. She couldn’t see either of them, the world had gone completely black.

______

Every possessed across the Confederation was instantly aware of the strike. Pain and shock reverberated through the beyond.
Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, they felt it.

Al Capone was underneath Jezzibella when it happened, adopting a complicated position so that her breasts were pushed into
his face while he could still bend his knees for the leverage to give her a damn good shafting. Her laugh was halfway between
a giggle and a moan when the mental impact knocked him with the force of a wild hockey puck. He convulsed, shouting in pained
panic.

Jezzibella cried out as his frantic motion twisted her arm, nearly dislocating her shoulder. “Al! Fuck. That fucking hurts,
you fucking dickhead. I told you I don’t do that sado shit, fuck you.”

Al grunted in confused dismay, shaking his head to clear the weird dizziness foaming inside. He was so disoriented, he fell
off the side of the bed.

For the first time, Jezzibella actually caught a glimpse of Brad Lovegrove’s natural features beneath the illusion. Not too
different to Al, they could almost be brothers. Her anger faded at the sight of him grimacing, limbs twitching in disarray.
“Al?”

“Fuck,” he gasped. “What the fuck was that?”

“Al, you okay, baby? What happened?”

“God damn! I don’t know.” He looked round the bedroom, expecting to see some kind of bomb damage, G-men storming through the
door.… “I ain’t got a clue.”

For Jacqueline Couteur the invisible shockwave almost proved fatal. Strapped onto the examination table in the demon trap
she couldn’t move when her muscles spasmed. Her vital signs monitor alerted the staff to some kind of seizure, at which point
her conscious defence against the electric current they were shunting through her body began to crumble. Fortunately, one
of the more alert team members shut the power off before she was genuinely electrocuted. It took her five or six minutes to
recover her normal antagonism, and prowess.

On patrol a million kilometres above New California, Rocio Condra lost control of the distortion field, letting it flare and
contract wildly. The big hellhawk tumbled crazily, its bird-form imploding in a cloud of dark scintillations. Gravity inside
the life-support cabin vanished along with the quaint steamship interior. Jed, Beth, Gerald and the three kids suddenly found
themselves in freefall. Then gravity returned in a rush, far too strong, and in the wrong direction, making one of the bulkhead
walls the floor. The surface swatted them hard, then the gravity failed again to send them flying across the cabin in a tangle
of limbs and screams. Stars gyrated savagely beyond the viewport. Another wash of gravity sucked them down onto the ceiling.

In Quinn Dexter’s case, it was his first setback on Earth. He had just arrived at Grand Central Station to take a vactrain
to Paris. Not the original station building on Manhattan, the island itself was actually abandoned and flooded, but New Yorkers
were sentimental about such things. This was the third such edifice to carry the name. Buried nearly a kilometre below the
centre of dome five, it formed the hub of the arcology’s intercontinental train network.

Once more he had secluded himself within the ghost realm to avoid any risk of detection. That was when he began to notice
just how many ghosts haunted the station and other subterranean sections of the vast arcology. Hundreds of them drifted mournfully
amid the unseeing streams of commuters. They were drab despondent figures, staring round at the faces that rushed past. There
was so much longing and desperation in their expressions, as if every one of them was searching for some long lost child.
They were aware of Quinn, gazing at him in bewilderment as he strode through the main concourse on his way to the platforms.
In turn, he ignored them, worthless creatures incapable of either aiding or hindering his crusade. They really were as good
as dead.