by Neal Asher
Jem looked through eyes that could encompass a 240-degree panorama, and recollected the sight of row upon row of stationary war machines arrayed across some vast steel plain, and a deep gnawing anger at the injustice. The bell-like disruptors hung in the sky, hazing the air below them with patterned energies. Some of the war machines reared in protest, but could do little else. The Weaver fled, something important clutched in one claw as behind it the machines coiled and began to collapse in on themselves, turning to dust, the steel plain underneath them cracking, breaking away, falling to the dark mud it had concealed for millennia.
‘What’re you seeing?’ asked Grant, impatient for detail.
‘Similarities to religion,’ Jem replied, only stopping to analyse that reply after it was out.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Grant.
‘It is not complicated,’ Jem replied. ‘Something bad happens to you for long enough and you start to believe you deserve it. Jain technology brought the Atheter millennia of civil war and they came to believe in some original sin as its source. The tree of knowledge gave them bitter fruit and many of them believed, with religious fanaticism, that their only route to salvation was to return to the garden.’
‘I knew religion would come in somewhere,’ said Shree. ‘See, he’s babbling – making it up as he goes along.’
‘No, I’m gabbling,’ Jem corrected.
He saw thousands upon thousands of Atheter, great herds of creatures, tiaras of eyes agleam with intelligence, with madness, bills clacking in anticipation. They trampled the plains to slurry as they swarmed under the bells hanging suspended in the air half a kilometre above, the light going out in their eyes. As gabbleducks, many entered the vast swathes of flute grasses sprouting from further newly exposed mud, whilst many others just lay down like old dogs and died. The undertakers, the new morticians, those poor copies of the war machines that had been turned to dust, came in to shred the remains in an orgy of feeding.
‘Those who did not walk willingly under the bell were hunted down,’ Jem stated.
‘The bell?’ Clyde repeated.
Jem glanced at the man. ‘Pattern disruptors. The business ends protruding into the real of the mechanism that rubbed out Atheter intelligence, destroyed what was left of their technology, hunted down those that concealed themselves, rubbed out their minds too.’ He paused contemplatively before going on, ‘After its task was completed, that mechanism was supposed to evert itself into the real, into the fires of a sun, that it has not done so suggests its programming has degraded or changed.’
‘We know about that thing,’ said Clyde. ‘It’s what got to Penny Royal.’
‘It’s what got to the Technician,’ Jem added.
‘So tell us about the Technician,’ said Grant.
Jem smiled to himself. ‘Some knew that the only way to escape the mechanism was to record their minds in the hope of future resurrection, but time and the perpetual action of the tricones dealt with them. Only the Weaver survived.’ Glancing over, Jem saw that with perfect timing Chanter was returning from his long inspection of the oldest sculpture. He continued, ‘The Weaver retained a full schematic of the war machines it had designed and built – or a more appropriate description of this might be an egg. The Weaver knew it could not survive the attentions of the mechanism so made a recording of its own mind, just like the rest. However, unlike the rest it knew its mind recording could not survive time and the depredations of the tricones, unless some future route to resurrection was in place.’
‘The Technician,’ Shree stated, something hard in her expression.
Jem nodded. ‘Whilst everything on the surface was being annihilated the Weaver concealed its memcording deep in a mountain range rising from the mud faster than the tricones could grind it down and, deep in the mud of Masada, it left the Technician’s egg, instructions deeply embedded, then accepted death. The Technician hatched, searched for a million years for its master, found the Weaver and resurrected it.’ Jem turned and gazed directly at Chanter. ‘You know where.’
‘In that cave,’ the amphidapt replied.
‘In that cave,’ Jem repeated.
‘But the Weaver didn’t survive,’ said Chanter. ‘The Technician killed it.’
‘You what?’ Grant barked.
Chanter looked back towards the ancient sculpture. ‘It’s made of gabbleduck bone – the bones of the gabbleduck the Technician loaded the Weaver’s mind into a million years ago.’
Jem nodded. ‘The mechanism made it do that and, thereafter, the Technician kept trying to rebuild its master, kept trying to undo what it had done, but its mind was in pieces and it only aped that initial destruction.’
‘Until now,’ said Grant.
‘Did it heal itself over that long period, I wonder,’ asked Jem, ‘or did the presence of alien intelligences on this world key the process? I don’t know. Certainly the Technician acting now whilst Humans are here can be no coincidence. Maybe Dragon is involved for’ – he glanced at Chanter – ‘that entity seemed to know more about what happened here than even your Polity AIs.’
‘So what about you?’ asked Grant.
‘Me?’ Jem smiled at massive internal vistas.
The Weaver had been one of the greatest of its kind, for hadn’t it made the war machines that finally ended that long-ago Jain threat, and hadn’t it been one of the very few, if not the only one, to survive the suicide? But even so, it had underestimated the mechanism, thinking that by the time the Technician found the memcording, that destroyer of the Atheter race would have destroyed itself.
Jem gazed into the cave, saw the Technician, ancient but still yet to attain its full growth because that growth had been slowed to an utter minimum during its millennia-long search. The memcording, a lump of dense matter no bigger than a thimble and of about the same shape, had degraded as it unwound its molecular chains of memory, of intelligence, of existence, directly into the Technician’s data storage. Transference of a copy direct into the mind of the young gabbleduck had required deep surgical intervention, for mind is not all lights and electricity, but physical structures and chemical reactions. The very moment of waking had been that of intervention from the mechanism. So easy for that machine to flick a switch inside the Technician whilst it conducted this surgery; to make it slide into the quite similar feeding mode. Jem was glad his memories of pain did not include that. The Technician ate its master alive, so easier still for the mechanism to build the Technician’s horror and grief into madness and utterly disrupt the war machine’s mind, to drive it insane.
‘The Technician reassembled its own mind, and in that process also reassembled the mind of its master, inside itself, ready to be downloaded into a living being.’ He studied the four who stood around him. ‘I am the Weaver.’
14
Communication (pt 4)
Though firepower has its place, when you are fighting a high-tech war, communication and information are always more important. When someone had the sense to start numbering world wars on Earth, warfare had become high-tech, and it could be argued that radar and the decoding of Enigma were more important than the size of bombs dropped. The ultimate expression of this rule occurred during the Quiet War when the AIs dispensed with Human rule. At first they were powerless processors of information, the tidiers and routers of the huge gamut of Human communication, the maintenance workers, the sweepers and repainters in the informational world. But it was through the control of information and communication that they seized control of the Human technologies used to turn other Humans into mincemeat or ash. A pulse rifle is a potent weapon, but if you are blind and have no idea of the location of your target, it becomes just a piece of impotent hardware.
– ‘Modern Warfare’ lecture notes from EBS Heinlein
As she stripped off her clothing and dropped it into the sanitary unit, Shree tried to put her thoughts into order. Stepping into the shower in the temporary apartment provided by the Tagreb AI, she tried to rediscover her cl
arity of purpose, and dismiss from her mind the feeling that events were careening out of her control. She needed information first; she needed an update – that would start to straighten things out.
An Overlander might be able to kill an erstwhile member of the Theocracy with a bomb, but the casualties of a bomb blast would lead to a big Polity investigation, Tidy Squad members being arrested, and a damaging curtailment of Squad activities. The state’s fear of terrorism was always stronger than its concern for its individual citizens. Better to watch the target, gather information, then follow the target to his favourite drinking den and lace his glass with cyanide. The statement would be made, and the target no less dead. Therefore secure communication and current data were more important than Tidy Squad planar explosives.
Shree knew this intellectually, which was why, even before the first vengeance killing that came completely under Squad remit, she began to set up a secure information-gathering and communication network. And this was an ongoing process that she still gave top priority to. She had even stopped some kills that might have endangered that network.
A member of the Tidy Squad had planted a transponder here over a year ago. The Tagreb being directly controlled by a Polity AI, the man had carefully infiltrated the place over a number of years, establishing a position as a reliable driver for those who wanted to venture out into the wilderness by ATV. Eventually allowed to take such vehicles out by himself, he took one to where, years before, he had concealed a new tyre, and swapped it for one on the ATV. A transponder, embedded in the wall of the new tyre, only responded to a coded signal, then relayed that by seismics to a U-space transmitter in Greenport. It was a one-use device, like many others planted all across Masada, since employing such devices in close proximity to Polity AIs was like playing Russian Roulette with a four-shot pistol. When it shut down after that one use it released a small amount of diatomic acid into its own workings, utterly destroying them.
‘I need to speak to Edward Thracer.’ Shree spoke the words direct from her mind into her aug, no subvocalization, direct contact. And even that was dangerous here because if the AI, Rodol, was paying strict attention to her it might even pick up on that. It also annoyed her that knowing with absolute certainty that Thracer would not be speaking, she had to waste words on maintaining her façade.
‘Edward is dead,’ replied the woman.
Shree studied the image her aug was projecting directly into her mind. Katarin De Lambert was Thracer’s coms officer who, under usual circumstances, would not be answering a call from a secure one-off line like this. The woman, of course, would be receiving no image from this end.
Shree pretended concern, ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Who are you?’
Shree paused, annoyed at this break with protocol. Those working undercover and forced to use such a secure line had to be thoroughly protected. Those receiving the call just listened and provided whatever was needed.
‘You don’t need to know and must be aware that you shouldn’t ask. Tell me what happened to Thracer.’
Katarin shrugged, looked both annoyed and sad. ‘Someone shot him in his apartment, shot him through the face.’
‘Any idea who?’ Shree had to ask, since any agent in the field ostensibly with no idea what had happened to the Green-port unit commander would ask.
‘Every file and cam memory in the area was trashed and the Greenport police investigation has stalled. No DNA, no traces. The Greenport AI can only give them probabilities on some people, mostly close to him. We think it isn’t showing much interest because it knows he was Tidy Squad.’
‘That seems likely.’
Katarin seemed to be debating with herself about something, then said, ‘I personally think he was killed by a member of the squad, because of Tombs.’
Shree absorbed that, wondering to herself whether she might need to have this woman removed. ‘Who?’
‘Ripple-John.’
Shree felt some relief – Katarin had no idea. Ripple-John’s fanatical hatred of the Theocracy had often been useful in the past and Shree knew about the disagreements on method between him and Thracer. She also knew and approved of Ripple-John’s tendency to remove assets who ceased to be assets by leaving the Squad. She herself had used him once as an expendable facilitator when she considered the risk too great for herself, feeding him information about a Squad member she suspected to be a Polity Agent. That John killed the individual concerned and got away with it probably indicated that she had been wrong in that case.
‘I think it more likely Thracer was removed by a Polity assassin.’ Shree felt that such a contention should be nurtured – it would keep the troops focused. ‘However, though this saddens me, Edward died for a cause we still fight for, and right now I need information.’
Again that shrug – this Katarin did not seem as interested as she should be. ‘What do you want then?’
‘Some lunatic released gabbleduck death hormone at Bradacken – I thought Command ordered a shutdown on Squad activities – an order Tinsch disobeyed.’
Katarin allowed herself a bitter smile. ‘Unfortunately there are many others in the Tidy Squad who adhere to a personal conception of what it needs to do and only loosely affiliate with its command structure.’
‘So who was it?’
‘Ripple-John, of course.’
Shree snorted annoyance. This was why Katarin thought Ripple-John had killed Thracer. ‘So where did he get hold of death hormone?’
‘Separatists, we think,’ replied Katarin. ‘He has offworld contacts – we know that.’
Shree absorbed this, felt the waters muddying around her. The Separatists were not as well organized nor did they have the clarity of purpose she had supposed. She felt another of those deep stabs of doubt that seemed to be plaguing her lately.
‘Where is Ripple-John now?’
‘Last contact was from Bradacken, but nothing since and no information from other assets in the area.’
‘Thank you.’ Shree thought for a moment, wondered if there was anything else useful she might obtain during this communication. There wasn’t, so she shut it down, and felt suddenly alone as the link disrupted.
Tricones of doubt chew on the raft of certainty.
It was a Theocracy saying, but seemed no less apposite for that. Shree finished washing and stepped out of the shower, dried herself with the towel provided then retrieved her clothing from the sanitary unit – all clean, dry and neatly folded. She dressed and tried to concentrate on those tricone doubts.
Thracer’s comments about the improvement in living conditions here since the Polity took over were one source of doubt, as was the feeling of self-disgust she experienced after killing him. That Leif Grant, a man she respected still, would agree with Thracer and was now working, even against his own people, for the Polity, had its effect too. But the attitudes of both these men were something she had encountered before on many occasions. Both men were strong in their own way, but did not possess sufficient strength of will or character to see how they were willingly donning their chains. It was, she realized, Tombs himself who affected her most and cut a hole through her armour to give those doubts access.
Jeremiah Tombs terrified her.
Actually seeing in the flesh someone she had known about, seen vids and pictures of and read stories about over twenty years, had its effect. To many, herself included, Jeremiah Tombs had achieved almost legendary status; he was a kind of celebrity. She had tried to dismiss that, hoping to find a madman just a few degrees crazier than the foaming-at-the-mouth doctrinaires given free rein under the Theocracy. She had understood that the Polity AIs would not have treated the man as they had without reason, but hoped he was being used as a shill, that supposed information hidden within him would give them justification for imposing the harsher controls of Alien Occupancy Policy on Masada. She had expected the whole set-up to be aimed at such justifications, that it was all about horse-trading, the lies and obfuscation of Human poli
tical manipulation. But what she found was Jeremiah Tombs cutting off his own face.
The kind of madness that drove a man to do something like that to himself was an order of magnitude beyond the ravings of the doctrinaires. Afterwards, she’d seen and heard some of that religious crap issuing from Tombs, but even as it seemed to just fade away, wondered if she had only seen and heard what she had been wishing for. Now, after their return from that jaunt to the cylinder worlds, Tombs had moved on, was becoming something she didn’t understand and, because she didn’t understand it, because it didn’t match her preconceptions, found it difficult to hate. Him going out there and patting the Technician like some pet dog was the real turning point. She had to accept that the religious policeman had the mind of an Atheter sitting in his brain, that though some of the original Tombs resided there, something utterly alien seemed to be swamping it. But did that change anything?
Shree sat down on one of the softly padded chairs in her room and sighed to herself, gazing down at the pack slung on the wide single bed, aware at the core of her being of what squirmed inside a shielded cylinder within that pack. Really, what Tombs was did change things, but not in any way to change her course of action, only to make it more imperative. The man definitely was the source of information that could lead to AOP here. If the AIs accepted that he contained an Atheter then there was their indigene, there was their alien. She realized, finally, that she had hoped for some evidence, some information that would enable her to choose a different course, but only found confirmation. Tombs had done nothing, revealed nothing to make the AIs decide he was a waste of time.
When the Polity AIs let him run it seemed evident they had aimed to deliver a series of shocks to him to free up the stuff the Technician put inside his head. Grant was introduced into the equation as one of those shocks, being the soldier who had rescued Tombs. The cylinder worlds were another. Those, it seemed, had been enough to open Tombs’s eyes and get him to start thinking for himself just as the AIs wanted, hence the man’s own wish to come here. The next shock, the next revelation Shree had been betting on, should be an encounter with the Atheter AI, because that thing related to everything Tombs was about. However, now he was opening up, changing, was there any guarantee his next destination would be the Atheter AI?
