by Neal Asher
ANTARES BASE
Var backed off and scanned the interior of the crawler. Gisender’s knapsack lay beside her seat, so Var hoisted it up on to the console and opened it. Inside she found a flask, empty, and a lunchbox, empty too, both so prosaic and pathetic, but also a data disc. She powered up the crawler’s com screen, glad to see it still working despite the bullet holes torn through the console, popped the disc out of its case and inserted it into the slot below the screen. It whirred up to speed and immediately a menu appeared. For the moment she ignored it, reaching down next to pick up Gisender who, now dried out like a mummy, was as light as if made of balsa, and carried her into the rear of the crawler. She placed her gently down on the floor, her body reclined on its side since it had frozen in the sitting position, and found a tarpaulin to cover her.
“I’m sorry,” she said and, as tears started to well in her eyes, she turned away angrily and re-entered the cockpit to occupy Gisender’s seat, and there began scanning the menu.
Var assumed there must be some problem with the crawler’s computer or the disc itself, for the file containing personal messages directed to base personnel was empty, as were the other files containing software updates, Govnet search results and even the latest shipment manifest. However, some files were full: eyes-only stuff for Ricard, which she could not access, and the one containing the latest announcement from Delegate Margot Le Blanc—the usual weekly lecture that all base personnel had to sit through in the community room. Var opened it and let it play.
Le Blanc blinked into existence on the screen. As usual she was seated at her wide, polished and empty desk in her office in Brussels, above her head the space-exploration logo affixed to the wood-panelled wall behind her: a space plane penetrating the ring chain of the united world, all its links differently coloured to represent the various regions of Earth. The woman looked grave, but then that was nothing unusual, and Var felt a sneer appearing on her own face—such as she could never allow herself while watching such a broadcast within view of Ricard or any of his staff. Above desk level, Le Blanc wore a tight grey jacket straining at the buttons over her matronly running-to-fat body and a short-collar blouse, whilst out of sight she doubtless wore a neatly matching skirt and sensible shoes. An Inspectorate brooch cinched her blouse at the throat, but she wore no other jewellery, no make-up, had her hair in a page-boy cut, and a white and utterly utile fone in her ear. Her hands were neat, but meaty, the nails unvarnished. It seemed to Var that cloning technology must be more advanced than she had supposed, for many women in the upper echelons of the world bureaucracy looked just like Le Blanc.
“Citizens of Antares Base,” she began, as she always did, but this time how she continued was very different. “It is with a heavy heart that I address you today. Most of you, having been away from Earth for five years, and some for even longer, will be unaware of how circumstances have changed here. When you departed upon your great venture on behalf of the people, you left an Earth blossoming under the auspices of Committee rule.”
“Yeah, right,” said Var who, like many on the newest complement of technical staff for the base, had been secretively accessing the Subnet before her enforced departure. That was just about the time that the Inspectorate nuked Chicago and, as Var’s fellows were waiting at Minsk to board their space plane up to Traveller VIII where she awaited them in a holding cell, when the Committee had announced the restructuring of the East Saharan irrigation project. “Restructuring” always meant something had gone drastically wrong, so that probably meant starvation in the North African sprawls, along with rioting and the deployment of Inspectorate military.
“However,” Le Blanc continued, “the forces of chaos and disorder are never completely vanquished and are always ready to take advantage should the opportunity present. Dissidents and revolutionaries are ever ready to try and destroy the socialist dream; ever ready to sacrifice the lives of the people on the altar of some ridiculous, selfish ideology. These people have been working against the Committee for some time and, though they have on the whole been defeated, some of their plans have come to fruition and have caused…problems.” Here Le Blanc paused to shift about in her seat, as if she were suffering from haemorrhoids. “Of course, they can never win, and the damage they can cause to a society as strong as ours will always be minimal, but because of their actions, some restructuring is required.”
There it was, that word: restructuring.
“Because of the activities of these mentally subnormal people, we, the Committee, have decided, for the good of the people, to reallocate world resources. This is merely a momentary impediment, and I can guarantee you that we shall once again progress beyond it. Once this is behind us, further Traveller spacecraft can be constructed and supply lines can be re-established. Meanwhile—”
Var hit the pause button and just stared at the little screen. Further Traveller spacecraft can be constructed? What the hell happened to VII, VIII, IX and Messina’s ego-trip project the Alexander? She felt a horrible frustrated anger at this, for she had overseen the construction of the Traveller VIII and had been overseeing the construction of IX and the Alexander when they pulled her. She set the communication running again.
“—it is certain that you will face some hardship whilst you are maintaining humanity’s foothold on another world, but I am sure you will do so with the fortitude of true citizens of Earth. Some of you will find your final resting place in the red soil you labour upon, but be assured that your sacrifice will never be forgotten.” Le Blanc held up her fist. “Solidarity, citizens. With great regret I must now close down all communications while I and my fellow delegates focus our energies on the problems we face here. I leave you with the blessings and felicitations of the Committee.” The image blinked out to be replaced with the United Earth logo. Stirring music ensued; it was Holst, The Planets Suite, “Mars.”
“You fucking bitch!” Var exclaimed, but wondered why she should be surprised.
Right from when she had arrived here, five Earth years ago, things had been going wrong. Those who had been due to return on Traveller VIII had discovered that their space plane, the plane that had deposited Var and her fellows on the surface, did not have enough fuel to lift off again. Traveller VIII meanwhile had swung round Mars and, without delay, headed back to Earth. The delivery of new supplies had also been a fuck-up. Yes, the tonnage had been shipped, but half of the things they most needed here had not. Instead of the required soil biota, furnaces and replacement injectors for the fusion reactor, they’d received two shrink-wrapped shepherds and a tonne of aerofan spindles. This had been ascribed to the usual bureaucratic fudge which could be corrected with the next delivery, but, no, it seemed things were already winding down even then. This was how projects got abandoned: increasing screw-ups as each government department involved withdrew, until the inevitable announcement of restructuring, reallocation or, in this case, “We’re going to leave you to die now, sorry and all that.”
“Bitch!” Var repeated, then her attention strayed to a com light blinking on the console. “Miska?” she queried. Still no response via the coded channel they had been using, so perhaps something had gone wrong with that and he was now trying to talk to her through the crawler’s com. She hit the respond pad, but it wasn’t Miska’s face that appeared on the screen.
“Ah, at last,” said Ricard. “Miska shut down your com channel, and has been reluctant to provide me with the code.” Ricard turned to look down to his right. “Haven’t you, Miska?”
Var heard Miska’s voice followed by a fleshy thump—probably an enforcer’s boot going in. Ricard swung his gaze back to Var.
“You killed Gisender,” was all she could say.
“It was necessary to neutralize Gisender until certain protocols were in place.” He paused, shrugged. “Hard decisions have to be made, Var. With your expertise, this is something you must understand.”
Var let that go for the moment and instead asked, “So you didn’t think we
needed to know Le Blanc’s last message?”
“As I suspected, you’ve seen it. That’s unfortunate.”
“How long, exactly, did you think you could keep it from us?” Var asked.
“As long as necessary. Such an announcement might have led to incorrect behaviour, and even disorder.”
“Incorrect behaviour,” Var repeated woodenly. “We could all die here and you’re still fretting about that. Are you fucking mad?”
“And disorder, Var,” he said gravely. “Disorder could lead to the destruction of government property—property it has cost billions to transport here. It is my remit to ensure this base remains functional and staffed, ready for when the supply route is re-established.”
“You are fucking mad.”
Ricard continued obliviously, “Certainly, some downsizing will be required and the assigned status of present personnel will have to be re-evaluated.”
“There are no Travellers coming, Ricard. We’ve been left here to die!”
He nodded mildly. “The old Travellers are presently being recycled through the Argus bubblemetal plants, but new vessels should be available in between fifteen and twenty years.”
Var sat back hard, as if he’d punched her. Only now, as she really thought about it, did she realize what Ricard was implying. They all knew that, with present resources, the 163 people here—now 162—could survive unsupplied for only about five years. But it seemed Ricard had received private orders, and had made his own calculations. Downsizing? The only downsizing she could think he might be referring to was a reduction in the number of people using those resources. So, when he talked about re-evaluating status he meant deciding who he could afford to kill.
But if he thought their time here could be extended to ten or fifteen years, using such methods, he was still seriously mistaken, or had been seriously misled. Doubtless some Committee apparatchik had told him that a small complement of personnel could survive here, and when that small complement started to die, as they inevitably would, they would use up fewer resources and be less likely to damage any of that government property he had mentioned. The Committee clearly wanted to keep the Mars foothold open, the Mars base available. Staff weren’t so important, since replacements could be selected from a pool of billions.
“Surely you know you’re being lied to,” she said. “If we have any chance of survival here it’s with all personnel working on the problems we face.”
“Don’t you see?” he said. “Incorrect thought already, and yet you are an intelligent person who has only just viewed Le Blanc’s communication.”
Var stared at him for a long moment before saying, “So I’m guessing my status has just been downgraded.”
Ricard smiled cheerfully. “Certainly not! You are a valued member of the Antares Base staff, whose knowledge will be essential over the coming years.”
“But Gisender wasn’t,” she spat.
He shook his head, his expression mournful. “Merely a computer and power-systems technician—the kind of person who was useful while resources were abundant, but who would soon have become surplus to requirements.”
That really brought home to Var his cluelessness. He simply had no real idea about the necessities of survival here. Gisender had been exactly the sort of person they needed, someone who could actually repair things rather than merely head down to Stores for another plug-in replacement. Var also had no doubt that Ricard considered himself and his executives and enforcers to be utterly essential, even though they were people with skills generally limited to micromanaging and bullying.
“So,” he continued, “I want you to return here to Hex Three, without informing anyone of your…discovery. To that end I’ve sent someone to bring you in.”
Even then she saw it, striding out from behind Shankil’s Butte and heading towards her, kicking up little puffs of dust each time its two-toed feet thumped down on the peneplain. It seemed Ricard or his men possessed more technical skill than she gave them credit for, because one or more of them had assembled a shepherd and, in some ultimate expression of reality imitating art, a machine like something out of H. G. Wells’s War of the Worlds was coming to seize her—out here on the surface of the world that gave it birth in that writer’s imagination.
EARTH
In the terms of the society in which Saul found himself, he was a sociopath, though perhaps that might be considered a normal condition in a society that so easily eliminated its innocent citizens. But then who was innocent? Just by following the dictates of selfish genes in an overpopulated world, people were effectively killing each other. Yes, the Committee had turned killer as it expedited the coming resource crash, but that crash in and of itself wasn’t the product of either this political doctrine or that; it was the product of people—manswarm—endlessly breeding. Saul often felt great self-doubt, considering himself a killer without conscience, somehow damaged and not sane, but assured himself that this must have been how he was before, probably made that way by training, indoctrination, something external.
It was a comforting illusion of his that, as the product of civilization, he had once been civilized, and that to become a killer had required some traumatic twisting of his psyche. But, whatever way he looked at things, he knew that to succeed in his aims he must be even more ruthless than those now preparing to cling to power while billions died. It seemed a rather extreme demand on oneself.
It took Saul only a few moments to find an undamaged console, and then a chair not soaked with blood. A couple of those working in here had been wearing machine pistols like the one he had just used, and having deprived them of these weapons, he laid them down on the console and gazed outside.
Some people were standing about in stunned groups, the odd individual pointing towards the monitoring room, but he noted enforcers clad in body armour and grey camo-fatigues beginning to respond—running towards him. To give himself just a little more time, he picked up one of the weapons and fired at one approaching group, not particularly aiming. Carbocrete and earth erupted beside them and they ducked for cover behind a cell block. He fired again, here and there, sending others scurrying for cover, then sat down and opened his briefcase.
After unfolding his laptop on top of the console, the screen instantly bringing up Janus’s ammonite icon, he used a coil of optic cable to plug it into a nearby port, then waited a second until the icon started blinking.
“Are you good to go?” he enquired.
“I am,” Janus replied.
Immediately a loading bar opened up at the bottom of the screen, as the portion of Janus contained within the laptop began to load itself into the system here. Saul rattled his fingers on the console for a moment, then spotting some further movement down below, picked up a machine pistol and emptied its entire clip in that general direction. However, further out within the complex he saw another troop of Inspectorate enforcers cross the gap between two buildings. They were carrying armourglass shields and heavy assault rifles, and perhaps all that now slowed down their further response was not yet knowing if any hostages were being held here. Doubtless the cams above his head would soon apprise them of the facts, then, given the chance, they would attempt to turn this monitoring room into a pepperpot.
“I am in,” Janus informed him, its icon now appearing on every unbroken screen.
“Cam system first,” he suggested.
“Already done,” Janus replied.
“Is there a central locking system?”
“Yes, to all cells. However, three cells in maximum-security block A7 also need to be manually unlocked.”
“Well, open up everything you can,” Saul instructed, more just for something to say than anything else, for he knew that Janus would already be doing so. Even now, cell doors would be popping open all across the complex, with prisoners looking up in fear of another visit from their tormentors, but finding no one there. Some such prisoners, he knew, would just crouch inside their cells, too terrified to avail themselves of the op
en doors. Others would take the chance though, knowing that trying to escape would not make things any worse for them.
“ID implant codes located,” Janus informed him. “I am deleting prisoner IDs from the readergun system now, and simultaneously uploading staff IDs.”
“Have you found the one I described?” he asked.
“There are four who come close to your description.”
