Owner 03 - Jupiter War

by Neal Asher

  ‘You don’t trust us, do you, Alan?’ she said out loud, but there was no response.

  Perhaps it was because he, being convinced he had moved so far beyond humanity, had persuaded himself that, at this remove, he could understand it so much better. But probably all he knew was little more than Var did: that the very naivety of worship made it more likely quickly to make the transition towards hate. Or was it that, in convincing himself that he had moved into a post-human state, he’d lost any connection with his humanity at all? Could it be that he considered the ebb and flow of human emotion beneath his notice, that he now thought himself untouchable, or even invulnerable? Var pressed a hand against her forehead as if to try and still all the possibilities whirling round inside there, or to try and steady herself.

  I must get this straight . . .

  There were those amongst the already chipped who were now plotting against her brother. He knew, of course, yet seemed utterly dismissive of their shenanigans, whatever they might be. He should never forget that the advances that had resulted in him, as he was now, were a human invention. He should never forget the power of human ingenuity and, should it be turned against him, he should never forget that he might actually die. Var felt that something needed to be done, which was why she had summoned Langstrom. She could not rely on her brother to deal with what seemed likely to be a growing problem amongst the chipped. She was determined not to turn into one of the worshipful, and thus one of those utterly trusting and dependent on their god.

  The airlock light was flashing, which meant Langstrom had arrived. As she stood up ready to greet him, another out-field thought occurred to her. Maybe her brother was just letting the rebellion develop so as to give himself a reason for extreme response? Was this what lay behind his distrust: did he realize that his intentions would be seen as a betrayal by those aboard his ship? She could not help but remember recent conversations with Hannah, when the woman had talked about her ultimate fear that Alan might decide the humans on board were a burden he no longer wished to shoulder, and therefore decide to dispense with them. She could entertain the possibility that he was merely watching and waiting for this rebellion to become overt – waiting for that excuse to be rid of them all.

  Langstrom stepped through first, followed by the repro Manuel, who apparently was steadily making himself indispensable as a secretary – a role rather belied by his physical appearance. Langstrom’s other lieutenants, who were chipped just as Langstrom was, were engaged elsewhere about the station – making enquiries and ‘shaking a few trees to see what dropped out’.

  ‘Varalia,’ Langstrom greeted her, dipping his head respectfully.

  This was the kind of acknowledgement she had been receiving from many, and she found it both annoying and flattering. Annoying because she suspected it was all to do with her family connection, but flattering because sometimes it seemed due to her for being in charge of the rebuild, and because of how she had seemed to make things all work so much better. And the operative word there was ‘seemed’, since she often felt that her performance had been more one of social engineering than actual engineering, and less that of a true leader and more of a figurehead.

  ‘You’ve got something for me?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve found out where the relay scramblers are being manufactured,’ he replied. ‘There’s a small factory in Arcoplex One, attached to a shop. It’s a private concern where they repair fones and are making replacement parts for fones.’

  ‘Private concern?’

  ‘Since your introduction of a salary for station work, the Owner has allowed vacant ship space to be rented out for such activities,’ Langstrom replied. ‘Commerce is growing. In Arcoplex One the shopping mall, which originally catered for the delegates living there, is gradually becoming occupied. We have people manufacturing clothing, jewellery and objects of art, as well as different kinds of alcohol, tobacco, cannabis products and designer drugs I’ve yet to have any guidance on . . . and, of course, this fone shop.’

  Var stared at him. She obviously knew about the Olive Tree and what was sold there, but had never considered where these new products were coming from. In fact, all she knew about Arcoplex One was that it served as accommodation for certain station personnel, and she hadn’t yet even been inside it.

  ‘Do you have any names?’ she asked.

  ‘The shop is run by a technician called Scarrow, but, as far as we are aware, he himself has no knowledge of the scramblers. However, he has two people working for him who, during their off-time, are producing them.’

  ‘There’s no way Alan cannot be aware of this. Who exactly are they?’

  ‘They’re personnel from Mars: one is a repro, so quite probably innocent regarding the purpose of the scramblers, while the other is someone who served under Rhone in Mars Science. The first individual is called Thomas Grieve, while the second is called Gilder Main.’

  Var digested that information in silence. Grieve had been one of those responsible for killing Martinez, and she had wanted to kill him in turn. However, there had just been no time then, and when she finally got round to making enquiries about him, she discovered that he had already undergone Hannah’s ministrations. She’d found him and spoken to him, even pushed him, but discovered only a child-like man with little recollection of his past and not the slightest bit of malice evident in him. So, in frustration, she’d left him alone. Gilder was someone she vaguely recollected, who had climbed his way up through Mars Science with his nose firmly wedged between Rhone’s buttocks.

  ‘Have you arrested them?’ she asked.

  ‘On what charge?’

  It was frustrating but, under Alan Saul, there was no law against secret communications. Var knew that because she had already checked. Under the Committee, there would have been numerous laws being broken and numerous reasons for arrest – not that the Inspectorate had ever required a legitimate reason for arresting and interrogating someone. Here, then, was one of the drawbacks of allowing people greater freedom. But, again, was that greater freedom intended to provide people with more rope with which to hang themselves?

  ‘I need to talk to Gilder privately,’ she declared through gritted teeth.

  ‘Obviously I cannot be involved in anything that infringes the law,’ explained Langstrom, straight-faced. ‘I can merely monitor some citizens, and there are restrictions on what I may do with the data obtained.’

  Langstrom patted Manuel on the shoulder, whereupon the repro took a data stick from his top pocket and set it down on a nearby surface.

  ‘It’s also noteworthy how the Owner allows cam dead spots to exist throughout the ship,’ Langstrom continued. ‘He explained to me how he did not want to monitor everyone completely all the time, since he is not the Committee, and how allowing a degree of illicit activity acts as a safety valve, creating the illusion of greater freedom.’

  Var eyed the data stick. ‘Thank you for the information, Commander Langstrom. It’s a shame that we cannot act on this matter, but the law here on board is the law.’

  He dipped his head in acknowledgement and headed for the airlock, pausing before stepping inside it to say, ‘I agree with the Owner about that safety valve, which is why I’ve reduced my patrols operating within Arcoplex One and only intervene when I see, via whatever cams are available, any situation getting out of control – which is rare.’

  The moment the two of them were gone, Var proceeded to view the contents of the stick. The dead spots were all detailed, and the position of Gilder Main was being updated in real time. Currently he was at work in Arcoplex Two and, checking his shift details, she saw that he would be finished there in two hours. She also noted how one of the dead spots was in the small factory operating behind the aforementioned fone shop.

  ‘Do you know what I’m doing, Alan?’ she enquired. ‘Or are you too blinded by your own belief in your omniscience?’

  She stared at her screen, not quite sure what to do next. However, leaving matters in the hands
of her superiors or depending on her subordinates had led equally to betrayal. So, one thing was certain: she had to do something.

  11

  Soft-fruit Practice

  There are those who assert that evolution is a directional thing and that, as we evolve, we are heading towards some omega point. This strange idea stems from the thoroughly erroneous perception of evolution having an aim beyond the brute survival of genes. It is a sign of philosophical, faith-based thinking infiltrating the thoroughly mechanistic facts regarding human biology. There is no data on evolutionary biology to warrant any faith in the idea that we are somehow ‘improving’. If living in trees and chucking bananas at each other became a breeding advantage, into the trees we would go for soft-fruit target practice. Evolution does not just stop, and the changes it makes in us are governed only by production of the next generation. It can be argued that, by physically altering our bodies and our minds, we are just part of evolution’s toolbox. Perhaps now the best cerebral implants shunt aside the biggest horns and the bushiest tail, and it might be that humans will eventually reach something akin to an omega point. But, equally, those same implants might prove a hindrance to obtaining a mate – a dead end – and the ones still up in the trees with the bananas will eventually be the winners.

  Earth

  ‘Admiral Bartholomew,’ enquired Serene, as the man’s image popped up in a small frame at the top corner of the main screen, ‘how much longer before you can undock?’

  ‘Once all the troops are aboard, which could be any time now, we can separate,’ he replied. ‘All our other supplies are in.’

  ‘And, thereafter,’ Serene continued, ‘how long until you can head out?’

  ‘If we run our vortex generators up to speed and forgo any further testing and diagnostics, then twenty-two hours.’

  ‘Keep me updated,’ Serene concluded and, after a moment, the small frame closed.

  Undocking the Command and the Fist from the construction station the moment the supplies and troops were aboard would shave off almost a day, but only if the drives functioned as predicted and there was no requirement to dock the ships again for further work. It was a risk Serene felt it necessary to take in light of the images she was now viewing.

  She’d seen just how fast things were progressing here on the construction station, but this development outpaced it tenfold. Saul was building his ship at a phenomenal rate. That skeletal ship had arrived in orbit about Jupiter just a few weeks ago and, despite a lack of clarity to the images because of the ionization thereabouts, the moment it plugged into the flux tube, activity aboard the craft had ramped up so high that its image in infrared showed clearly even beside Io itself. Now the outer skeleton was more than halfway enclosed with hull plates, while the interior had filled up rapidly – even the docking pillars being moved inside with the ease of shifting a few planks rather than thousands of tonnes of metal and the complex support technologies.

  ‘What have Tactical got to add?’ she asked without turning.

  Elkin stood silently behind her, along with her two aides. Calder was also present, but currently off studying something on one of the other consoles in the control room, as if he wanted to disassociate himself from this scene; while Sack was looming close, having detected the tension in Serene the moment she began viewing the video feed.

  Elkin replied, ‘They say that his ship still could be ready before the Command and the Fist are ready to launch.’

  ‘Still could be?’ Serene enquired, silently putting a call through her fone and linking it to the screen before her.

  ‘This progress is faster than anyone believed possible, so all base parameters have to be changed,’ Elkin stated. ‘It may also have some bearing on the coming conflict.’

  ‘Some bearing?’ remarked Serene acidly, noting that one of the aides was trying to attract Elkin’s attention. ‘That’s even supposing there is a coming conflict!’ She was starting to get angry now, receiving some intimation that things were beginning to spin out of control.

  Elkin had now taken note of something on her palmtop and frowned.

  ‘What now?’ Serene demanded.

  ‘I’ve just received a notification, ma’am, from security team leader Vaughan,’ Elkin replied. ‘Apparently our undercover operatives here were relocated with the . . . less trusted staff.’

  ‘And I need to know this why?’

  Elkin clammed up and, even though Serene had asked what had drawn Elkin’s attention, she felt no guilt about harassing the woman.

  ‘Well, you can tell team leader Vaughan— What is it?’ she snapped at Bartholomew, who had now reappeared in that tiny frame on her screen.

  ‘Ma’am?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘Do go on,’ she said acerbically.

  ‘I’m just letting you know that all the troops are now aboard, and we will be undocking directly,’ he announced stiffly.

  ‘Well, get on with it.’ Serene used the chair console to switch views to an exterior cam that showed the spinning-top shape of the Command, with the Fist bulking just beyond it. Already umbilicals were detaching and the scaffolds enclosing them were being whittled away by a veritable swarm of EVA units and robots. She allowed those images to calm her, but Calder’s abrupt arrival at her shoulder set her irritation level rising again.

  ‘You have something for me?’ she asked, wondering if he had come to present more irrelevant detail, which by now she realized seemed to be the resort of those around her when they understood that her mood wasn’t at its best.

  ‘We’ve received a communication from the Scourge,’ he said, sounding puzzled.

  She turned in her seat to look at him. ‘Look, the concerns of the crew aboard your tug are not exactly my priority right now.’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he agreed, ‘but this communication is not from them but from the Scourge itself. It seems there is someone alive aboard that ship. We just received a video file from someone called Clay Ruger.’

  Serene stared at him, struggling to fit this new information into recent events but just feeling baffled.

  ‘Clay Ruger?’ she echoed.

  ‘He was your political officer aboard that ship,’ Elkin interjected.

  ‘I know who Clay Ruger was . . . is.’ He was a man who should have died months ago, strangled once she sent the signal to his collar. And if he had somehow avoided that, then he was a man who should have died a short time afterwards when Alan Saul sent the Scour activation signal to all those aboard the Scourge, or when Argus Station’s warp bubble had brushed against the ship and torn it up. ‘Video file?’ she queried.

  Calder pointed to the icons ranged along the bottom of her screen. ‘It’s available there.’

  Suddenly her anger and her irritation were gone, and she found herself thinking clearly. It was as if this new information had hit a reset button in her brain. Clay Ruger had survived, which meant that, in some quarters, strangulation collars and Scour implant chips did not offer the degree of control she might have supposed. Abruptly she sensed danger all around her. Suddenly she understood how the arrogance of power could be an ultimate weakness. Glancing beyond Calder, she noted that, while her own security personnel were assembled here, the number of original Inspectorate enforcers had increased. She swung back to her screen and dragged a cursor down to the video icon, clicking it.

  Ruger gazed out at her from the screen. He looked pale and ill and very, very thin. She saw at once that he wasn’t wearing a collar and also noted shadowy movement to one side – he wasn’t alone.

  ‘This is Clay Ruger, the political officer aboard the Scourge,’ he said. ‘I need whoever records and first views this video file to get it to Serene Galahad as quickly as possible.’ He paused, wiped at his face with grubby fingers. ‘It will no doubt come as a surprise to you, ma’am, that I am alive. I can get into lengthy explanations about why, but would need to speak to you alone to give you the full detail. Let it suffice for me to say that Captain Scotonis, after having learned some
thing about the death of his family, turned traitor. Even as I boarded the Scourge, he took control of all readerguns and inducers, and so effectively gained complete control over me and his command crew.’

  Serene felt the skin on her back creeping as Ruger waved a hand dismissively. If Scotonis had learned about the source of the Scour, then his turning against her might be considered perfectly understandable. It seemed likely that Ruger also knew, but was being careful not to broadcast such knowledge.

  ‘The man was insane,’ Ruger continued. ‘He demanded that we free ourselves totally from Earth, and so ordered the removal of all implants and other security devices.’ Ruger reached up and touched his bare neck. ‘However, he said nothing of this to Commander Liang and his troops, because their loyalty to Earth was unquestioning. This was why he carried on through with the attack on Argus, just so he could get Liang and his troops out of the Scourge and onto that station, and there abandon them just as he did. Subsequent events killed most of those remaining, including the captain himself, and have wrecked much of this ship.’

  Serene paused the video to give herself time to think. Ruger was obviously making his excuses and hoping he could return to Earth without blame. Though his story was all very interesting, it was probably full of half-truths and outright lies, all of which would be uncovered in an adjustment cell on Earth, prior to his execution on prime-time ETV. Meanwhile, there were other things that now needed her attention – things that she had, in her arrogance, neglected. First and foremost was her personal safety.