Nova War s-2

by Gary Gibson

  Thank you, she sent to the skies, but it was already too late. Both the derelict and the Piri Reis had passed into Blackflower's dark side, and thus temporarily out of range.

  'Dakota!'

  The way Corso said her name this time, it sounded like a warning.

  She stood and turned to face him once more, her heels only millimetres from the chasm of air filling the void between the Hive Towers. In her mind's eye, she imagined she looked like a diver about to make a leap from the high board.

  'There's something you're not telling me,' she challenged him without preamble. 'I don't know what it is, but there's something. And we can't afford secrets, not here.'

  He squinted at her in shock, his expression suddenly blank. She almost smiled. It was like confronting a kid with his hand still inside the cookie jar.

  'Maybe you could tell me what you were doing there just now, Dakota. I was watching and… I saw what happened to that airship.' He licked his lips nervously. 'Did you make that happen?'

  'At first I thought they put us together so they could spy on us while we talked. But there haven't been any interrogations since you appeared, and you're telling me the ambrosia is safe to drink and, the funny thing is, it is. And I can't help but wonder how you could have known that?'

  Corso rubbed his palms across his face as if trying to erase the expression of alarm that had appeared there. 'Dak, do you know how close you're standing to the edge? Come back in. Please be reasonable.'

  'Reasonable?' She could hear the bitterness in her tone. She glanced down at her feet, realizing that, without consciously thinking about it, she had shuffled slightly backwards. She was standing just outside the cell now, looking in, balanced on the lip of the tiny platform, one hand on the frame of the door-opening.

  'You like to think you're a reasonable man, but when it comes down to it all you do is follow the path of least resistance, right, Lucas?'

  'Make your point, Dakota,' he snapped, finally sounding angry.

  She crouched down, reaching behind her to feel the edge of the lip. A cool wind blew over her bare skin. 'Tell me exactly what you gave the Bandati before they stuck you in here with me. Or was that all your idea?'

  He stared at her in silence, looking guilty as all hell. For Dakota, it was as good as an admission of complicity with her tormentors.

  Despite her still-weakened state, Dakota started to lower herself over the rim of the lip, reaching out to her right to take a grip on one of the rough grooves of the tower wall, her flaccid muscles protesting as she did so. Her feet briefly kicked at air before finding a toehold, and she wondered if she would die if she let go – or if the Bandati had a contingency plan if either of them looked ready to commit suicide.

  Corso stepped forward, half-crouching, his arms extended as if he were about to rush forward and make a grab for her. 'Stop this, Dakota! Just come back in here, for fuck's sake, please.'

  Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it was about to drum its way out of her chest. Terror mixed with a strange giddy joy, the two emotions somehow intermingled. 'The whole time you've been in here with me, you've hardly been able to look me straight in the eye, not for one second. Whatever it is you've been holding back, now's the time to tell me.'

  'You'll die, you crazy fucking bitch!' he yelled, his anger finally asserting itself. 'Look at you, you're half-starved, you can't think straight. For God's sake, let me help you back in, okay?'

  'A couple of weeks ago you were ready to kill me and steal a starship you wouldn't even have been able to fly without me. I don't trust you, Lucas, so just tell me what you're up to.' She began tensing her arms as if she were about to let go.

  And realized, with a certain distant horror, that she might actually be prepared to do so.

  She heard a distant roaring, not unlike a waterfall, and blackness scrawled its way across the corners of her vision. She felt lightheaded, the metal surface of the ledge taking on a curiously soft, rubbery quality…

  … hands were pulling her back inside, Lucas Corso's breathing harsh amid words and curses spilling out of his mouth in a jumble as he braced himself against the door frame, one foot wedged against it while he half-kneeled to reach her. She held onto him tight, suddenly all too conscious of the void beneath her kicking feet, and was pulled back into the suddenly welcome confines of their cell.

  She sprawled face-down on the floor and watched as he scrambled backwards, gasping from the sudden exertion of saving her life – again.

  'Try not to make a habit of that,' he wheezed. 'I have bad enough nightmares nowadays as it is.'

  'Tell me,' she whispered, cheek still pressed against the steel floor. She closed her eyes, and waited.

  A moment later, she heard him sigh. 'They already know you're in communication with the derelict,' he muttered, almost too quietly for her to hear.

  She blinked. 'And?'

  'They've been trying to get inside it. I offered them my help.'

  'Of all the stupid, idiotic-'

  'Shut the hell up!' he shouted, rising up and looming over her. 'They already know you're the one making it so hard for them to get inside the derelict, or even the Piri Reis.'

  She laughed weakly. 'Whatever the Piri's doing, it's got nothing to do with me,' she retorted. 'Sounds like you're quite friendly with those things that were torturing us, Lucas. Funny you never mentioned that to me until now.'

  He shook his head, speaking more quietly now. 'They wanted to kill you once they knew about the protocols I'd developed. But then I told them you were still the key, and how they couldn't get the derelict to cooperate without your help.' He tapped his chest. 'I'm the only reason you're still alive, Dakota. And the only way either of us is going to stay alive from this point on is if they think we're both useful to them.'

  She stared at him with a deep sense of loathing. 'So, what next? You told them you could talk me into helping them, is that it?'

  'What was I meant to do, stand by while they murdered you? Look, we both talked. When the torture didn't work, they relied on the drugs to get information out of us. They showed me recordings where I'm talking about my work, about how I could get them inside the derelict. I don't remember saying any of it, but I talked, all the same. We both did, Dakota.'

  'The first derelict you found back in Nova Arctis tried to kill you when you tried to use the protocols on it. Did you tell them about that?'

  'Only because that damn Shoal-member in your head interfered!' Corso snapped back. 'That… thing sabotaged all my work, entire months of it. Look,' he said, his voice taking on a more pleading quality, 'the Bandati still have good relations with the Consortium. If we can help them get control of this derelict, then we can both go home, and then I stand a chance of helping swing a better deal for the Freehold – and maybe for the whole human race, once we understand how to replicate the drive technology.'

  She chuckled and shook her head. 'You've had plenty of time to say all this to me before, and instead you've just been skulking around saying nothing. What were you doing, just looking for the right moment?' She shook her head in disgust. 'I think maybe you should have just let me fall.'

  His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. 'You've been granted a privilege no other human being alive has ever enjoyed. You've seen inside a civilization as old as the stars, Dakota, and it's wrong to keep all of that to yourself. It's an act of, of… tremendous hubris to think that you and you alone deserve to. Humanity should be the judge of what you know. Meanwhile I don't know how far we can trust the Bandati, but I'm willing to try – even if you aren't.'

  For a moment she was ashamed of her anger at him. Neither of them had asked to be swept up by the events that had recently taken place.

  So she closed her eyes and ran away once more, opening her mind to the greater presence that suddenly emerged from beyond the bright limb of a moon almost one hundred and forty million kilometres away, far from the current torment of her physical body.

  The derelict was still wa
iting for her, as it always would wait for its navigator. Six The Fair Sisters moved serenely along the path of their respective orbits, the pair of them more or less evenly matched in diameter, atmospheric composition and albedo, but separated from each other by some hundreds of millions of kilometres of empty space. Dakota, still trapped in a high tower on Ironbloom, had not yet realized that by linking these two worlds with a common name, the Bandati were also commemorating a battle between Darkening Skies and Immortal Light that had taken place in that very system some millennia before.

  As was the case in the majority of colonized systems with an emphasis on industry, robot scoops routinely dived into the upper atmosphere of the two gas giants in order to dredge helium three for use in fusion-based power systems. Once they had their fill, these simple-minded machines would boost back out of a deep gravity well, before heading for one of the hundreds of similarly automated refineries that orbited the many moons of the Fair Sisters.

  One of these orbital refineries, however, was not what it seemed.

  It floated high above Blackflower's pocked landscape, which still bore the scars of a strategic encounter between the massed forces of the two Hives so long before. The transmissions that frequently passed between the refinery and Ironbloom utilized the same encryption employed by the highest echelons of Immortal Light's royal court. Further, the refinery was far larger than the rest of its ilk, and boasted a variety of defensive weaponry out of proportion to its apparent intrinsic value, along with a newer section that had been put under gravitational spin.

  It was also occupied. Hugh Moss sent one of his newer bead-zombies to greet the Queen of Immortal Light's proxy, once the incoming cruiser had settled into the docking facilities. While he waited, he stood by a railing surrounding a deep, oval pit that had become known, to those who lived – and more frequently perished – within the Perfumed Garden, as the Killing Floor.

  The air was damp and humid, the rust-streaked walls of the converted refinery now half-hidden behind dense greenery, while insects and small bio-engineered winged creatures constantly darted here and there. Water dripped from the uneven surface of the ceiling and the light was dim and grey-green, the combined effect giving the illusion to those few visitors to the Perfumed Garden that they were underwater.

  Moss wore a long, thick coat deliberately left open over his emaciated, naked body so as to better feel the cool dampness of the air against his mottled and heavily scarred flesh. Relatively fresh welts wriggled across his narrow chest and torso, mementoes of an unpleasant encounter quite recently.

  Two men circled each other warily at the bottom of the pit as Moss gazed down upon them. Each moved in a low crouch, keeping their distance as they circled, and waiting to see who might make the first move when the right time came.

  Of the two, Da'ud Anwar had risen from the gutter, working as a hired thug for an extortion racket in Nairobi before being given the choice of immediate execution or joining a prison mining operation on a prospective colony world. From there he had lied and cheated his way onto a coreship before developing a taste for extortion and assassination. He had eventually learned of the Perfumed Garden, the place from which the most highly valued assassins within the Consortium originated, and found his way there, as some few very determined ones always did.

  Victor Nimitz was already an assassin of some repute, but one who had been sent to kill Hugh Moss specifically. He was not the first to be sent on this quest and – Moss knew for sure – would not be the last. A variety of physical and psychological torture had been used to first destroy Nimitz's mind, and then carefully rebuild him into the efficient and vastly improved killing machine that now prowled the floor of the pit.

  If he survived this contest, the remade Victor Nimitz would be repaying those who had sent him on his mission by killing them all.

  Both men had benefited from Moss's extensive knowledge of extreme body modification. Da'ud Anwar had chosen to model himself on a Terran wolf; his internal musculo-skeletal structure had been altered so that his bones could unlock one from another, allowing him to morph his body into remarkable new configurations. He was, for instance, able to stretch and alter his limbs in such a way that he could run on all fours with surprising speed. His teeth had been removed and replaced with sharpened diamond flakes; a modification that allowed him to rip out another man's throat with startling efficiency. Da'ud had even extended the morphology to his tongue, so it was now long, black and eel-like, and the poison it secreted could kill any other human he encountered within seconds.

  Da'ud's present opponent had taken a different approach. Victor's muscles could inflate in seconds, so that what at first appeared to be a human being of normal musculature could rapidly increase in size and – for a limited period only – physical strength. His sweat carried deadly neurotoxins. His jawbones had been replaced with titanium, and the flesh that covered them altered to enable him to stretch his jaws wide like a snake and crush an opponent's head in their grasp.

  As Da'ud glanced upwards and caught Moss's eye, there was a certain admiration in their exchanged glance; something that might even be called love. Victor's expression remained bright but blank, for he was little more than a walking automaton now, really, and Moss already had a good idea which of the two engineered warriors would win this battle. And yet this knowledge was coloured by the awareness that Da'ud, assuming he survived this contest, had every intention of confronting Moss himself at the earliest opportunity.

  And that would never do.

  Moss spared Da'ud a brief smile; he had faced similar challenges quite a few times before and survived all of them – and more. If Moss's thinking was correct, Da'ud would win this fight, more by virtue of his intact intellect than anything else, and the relatively robotic Victor would most probably lose.

  Or, if he was wrong, Victor would kill Da'ud and thereby solve a potential problem for Moss. Either way, Moss had carefully engineered and nurtured the two men's rivalry in the hope that precisely such a face-off as this one would occur.

  Victor's body tensed in a way that signalled he was ready to attack. Moss then withdrew a dagger from the inside pocket of his long coat and tossed it down onto the floor of the pit. The blade struck the absorbent matting covering the floor fairly near Victor, its hilt wobbling slightly from the impact.

  Two pairs of glittering eyes stared unwaveringly up at Moss with a mixture of respect, awe, terror and hatred.

  'Wait,' Moss ordered quietly. A moment later, the Queen of Immortal Light's proxy, along with a select group of the Queen's own councillors and advisers, entered the chamber that contained the Killing Floor. The Queen's proxy was young, fed just enough of the gene-morph secretion produced by the Queen herself to keep her stand-in both enormously fat and effectively immortal, but without achieving the gargantuan scale of the real thing.

  This proxy – if she was lucky and proved herself sufficiently loyal – might get the chance to found her own Hive in some distant future millennium. For the meantime, however, she served the same Queen that had mothered her and all the other citizens of her Hive; and although not as large as the Queen herself, the proxy was still of sufficient girth to warrant a field suspension platform all to herself. She appeared to float into the room on a platter of coloured light, the field-generator itself hidden under the vast folds of fat that composed most of her bulk. The Royal Councillors walked on either side of her.

  Shortly after the Queen of Immortal Light had granted Hugh Moss shelter within the Night's End system, he had made a point of carrying out surgery on his body that would allow him to interpret the scent-speak on which the Bandati so regularly relied. He easily picked up the air of imperious aloofness his visitor evinced.

  'The proxy of her imperial ruler, the Queen of Immortal Light, gives you greetings,' one of the Councillors spoke into a gently glowing interpreter hovering directly before his mouth parts. The Councillor then glanced towards the ringed pit, and continued: 'She also wishes to know the nature of t
he entertainment you intend providing for us.'

  Moss bowed slightly, and gestured down towards Da'ud and Victor, who still waited patiently. 'This, my dear proxy, is the method by which I test the results of my continuing research,' he explained, listening carefully to the tick-tack sound of a simultaneous translation into the Bandati dialect. 'As you already know, my creations are much in demand.'

  'These are your newest assassins, then?' the proxy asked him directly, clicking breathily into her own interpreter.

  Moss knew that every word, every nuance, was being transmitted to the actual Queen of Immortal Light via instantaneous tach-net transmission. As the proxy spoke, the alien entourage moved forward until it encircled the railing above the pit.

  'Yes, my dear proxy,' Moss replied, his ghoulishly thin lips drawing back over the brilliantly shining shards. 'I and my creations represent a prime resource: the finest assassins and warriors that ever lived and breathed.'

  'Then what's the point of wasting them by setting them to murder each other like this?'

  'If my assassins can't defend themselves from each other, then they don't deserve to leave this place alive. They would have proven themselves inferior. My purpose is to refine the flesh into something far superior to the apparent sum of its parts – which is why the very few who get to leave my gardens can demand such high prices from their prospective employers.'

  The Queen's proxy shifted to afford herself a better view of the two assassins waiting in the pit below, the movement causing her field platform to tilt slightly. 'I think, Moss, I understand you after a fashion. You are the least humanlike human I have ever encountered. You don't think like the rest of your brethren.'

  'I'll guess that you're alluding to my interest in bioengineering.'

  'I believe you know the history of our Grand Reformation in some detail?'

  'Of course. And your Queen's interest in developing further alterations to your own species reflects my interests. Her approval of my… suggestions on how to re-engineer the weakest elements of your society has led directly to her esteemed patronage these past several years. I have much to thank her for.'