by Gary Gibson
'Be careful, Hugh Moss, that these words remain here, for our people retain a very strong taboo against further racial engineering.'
'Of course. One moment, please.'
Moss turned and glanced down, signalling for the combat to begin. Da'ud let out an ear-rending howl, his bones audibly grinding as they and his muscles shifted into startling new alignments, his diamond teeth glittering brightly in the dim green light. Victor's muscles meanwhile stretched and bulged, sinews rippling under his flesh like steel cables, his jaws opening inhumanly wide.
Moss smiled as his two latest proteges came together. The fight did not last long, because, with his diamond teeth, Da'ud had the clear edge. He had engineered his body for speed and agility rather than brute musculature, and Victor was learning his lesson the hard way. Bright scarlet soon stained the Killing Floor and Victor lay gasping and screaming as Da'ud stared up at his audience, eyes shining with murderous fever, as he waited for Moss's signal to deliver the coup de grace.
Moss nodded, and Da'ud bent down, almost delicately slicing Victor's throat open with glittering razor-sharp incisors. Victor jerked and trembled for several seconds, then lay still for ever. The matting under his body was stained reddish black as Da'ud stood up, his face and shoulders daubed in scarlet. He let out an animal howl that was all the more disturbing for coming from an apparently human throat, before heading out of sight into the darkness of the doorway set into one side of the pit. The Queen's proxy spoke as Moss turned his attention from the spectacle below.
'You should know, Hugh Moss, that my primary reason for being here is because of the derelict. The Queen herself decided not to pursue the question of precisely how you came to know so much about it, in return for your help in gaining entry to its core systems. Yet your efforts so far have proven, frankly, negligible, and your claims of special knowledge didn't prevent valuable Bandati technicians from vanishing utterly while attempting to penetrate its interior. I'm sure you're aware there are means by which your "special knowledge" could be extracted directly from your skull?'
Moss's feral smile was stained yellow. Neither the proxy nor the Queen she served suspected he was entirely aware of what else they had hidden just a few light-years away, in a neighbouring star-system.
'The craft's defences indeed proved extremely formidable,' he replied. 'It seems to be in sporadic communication with someone – or something – elsewhere in this system. I believe it's being actively directed to resist any attempts at boarding it. And yet you've gone out of your way to keep back vital information that might have allowed me to achieve actual results. Perhaps you're in a mood to enlighten me now?'
'Yes,' the proxy replied, somewhat to Moss's surprise. Up till now, the Queen's failure to be in the least forthcoming had proved a constant irritation. 'Two humans arrived with the derelict and were taken to Ironbloom for extensive questioning. One of them proved cooperative, but the other, named Dakota Merrick, is unfortunately far from willing to cooperate. Yet both clearly have some means of controlling the derelict which we've so far been unable to ascertain.'
Dakota Merrick? How remarkable, thought Moss. Fate could be a subtle beast indeed. His hands tightened at his sides in anticipation.
'Then if one of them is cooperative, you already have what you need,' he replied, choosing his words carefully while his thoughts raced.
'Not so.'
Moss regarded the proxy quizzically.
'The other human – a certain Lucas Corso – has informed us of communications protocols designed specifically to communicate with the derelict. He claims to have had some success with these, and he also claims technology contained within the derelict is responsible for the recent, unexplained destruction of Nova Arctis. We have reason to believe he may be telling the truth. Further, he tells us that Merrick is somehow linked to the starship through cerebral implants. We've run some analytical scans on her, although so far we've avoided surgical intervention – at least until we have a clearer idea exactly what it is we're dealing with.'
Moss fought hard to hide his sudden excitement. He was finally being allowed access to the high-level records he needed – and perhaps, if he burrowed a little further, he might find the confirmation for those rumours that had first brought him to the Night's End system.
When Nova Arctis had been destroyed, he'd felt certain Trader in Faecal Matter of Animals had played a part in its death. So perhaps the Shoal's carefully maintained peace was finally unravelling after so very long.
'What else can you tell me?' he asked, straining to keep his tone level.
'Corso is apparently an expert in archaeo-cryptology, with a particular emphasis on Shoal communication languages. We're assuming for the moment Merrick is the one responsible for some of our setbacks. That would certainly support your thesis of outside interference, and would explain some of her behaviour when she believes she's unobserved. We can't rule out the possibility that we won't be able to make any more progress without her cooperation – willing or otherwise.'
Moss opened his lips wide in an apparent snarl, and then started to make the most remarkable barking sound. One of her attendants informed the startled proxy that he was 'laughing'.
'My, she does have you over a barrel, doesn't she?' he said, shaking his head. 'So why come running to me now? You already sabotaged my own efforts by not telling me everything I needed to know. Perhaps if I'd been the one to interrogate the two of them in the first place-'
'Merrick nearly killed you not so long ago, Hugh Moss. She told us that herself, while in a drug-induced trance. We… were concerned about your actions if we gave you direct access to either her or Corso.'
'You thought I'd take my revenge on her, even at the risk of losing my Perfumed Gardens after all these years?' He cast his gaze around the rusted and foliage-dense walls surrounding them. 'I like to think I'm a little more pragmatic than that.'
'Your point is taken,' the proxy replied, with maybe a hint of brittleness beyond the normal artificial tones of the interpreter. 'However, certain circumstances dictate-'
'What circumstances?' Moss barked.
'Certain circumstances dictate the need for haste. My Queen has therefore ordered that a new strategy, suggested by Corso, should be pursued. In the meantime, you will return with us once more to Ironbloom, and yourself interrogate Merrick. If you can't find some way to force her to cooperate with us, then she'll die… but not by your hands. And my Queen has also decreed that your failure would result in the immediate loss of her patronage and the confiscation of this facility, along with all your research materials.'
Moss smiled grimly. He glanced down at his clawlike hands, the sight of them hateful and disturbing in the way the skin stretched over the bones beneath. For a moment, his sense of self-loathing gave way to a sense of wonder; for the one thing he'd sought all these years was about to fall into his murderous grasp.
The Bandati Queen and all her kind could rot in hell for all he cared; what mattered more than anything was the derelict. If he could gain control of it, his greatest desire – the destruction of the entire Shoal species – might actually, finally, be within his grasp.
One Shoal-member in particular had featured in many of his revenge fantasies over the years. He'd got so close to him that time on Bourdain's Rock, so close… and then that bitch Merrick had stolen his chance to finally confront and kill Trader in Faecal Matter of Animals.
'Very well.' A smile of genuine pleasure twisted the corners of Hugh's lips. He enjoyed a frisson of pleasure in the knowledge that neither the proxy nor the Queen she served had any idea just how well they were serving his own aims. 'I can certainly give you results, but are there any limitations on my methods of interrogation?'
The proxy's reply was blunt. 'She's of no use to us unless you can find a way to extract the information we need.'
'Pick her brain apart, then. It'll kill her, but you'll have what you need.'
'But then it might also kill her before we get what we need. Y
ou well know such invasive measures are far from certain. Therefore see that you do not fail us, Hugh Moss.'
'I won't,' Moss replied, his smile still feral.
An exquisite plan of action was already forming in his mind. Seven By the next day, Corso had vanished from Dakota's cell.
Dakota sat up, coughing to clear her throat, and moaning softly as a fresh migraine headache committed assault and battery on the inside of her skull. And yet, for all that, it was once again quantitatively less debilitating than the last one.
She shook her head, feeling unusually drowsy as she glanced around the cell several more times. She was alone, and found she couldn't make up her mind exactly how she felt about that. She'd been angry with him earlier – more angry than she'd thought she could ever feel about another human being.
But at least there had been someone else there with her.
Her head felt so muzzy she was sure they must have drugged her into unconsciousness before removing Corso. Or, perhaps, Corso being snatched away after she herself had failed to behave like a good lab-rat was the most obvious explanation.
She crawled over to the lip just beyond the door-opening. Lying on her stomach with both hands gripping the edge, she stared down, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he'd taken the easy way out of incarceration and merely jumped.
She saw only the river, like a twisting silver mirror under the creeping light of dawn, winding its way between buildings huddled up against each other. Maybe he was down there, but she couldn't bring herself to believe he was even distantly capable of committing such an act of self-destruction.
What now? she wondered, pulling herself back inside and peering into the relative gloom of her cell, which seemed so much more austere and grim now Corso was gone.
She stared at the ambrosia pipe protruding from the rear wall and felt an overwhelming conviction that, with Corso gone, they'd have reintroduced whatever vile substance had previously kept her docile.
Back on the diet, then.
She suddenly felt the orbital facility above Blackflower come back into direct line-of-sight. In that moment she opened herself up to the derelict Magi starship trapped inside it, its presence settling once again into the circuitry of her implants like a weary traveller collapsing into the embrace of a familiar armchair.
Dakota closed her eyes and grinned like a cat. And to think the Bandati thought she was their prisoner! She was freer than her gaolers could ever imagine, for, even with her physical body trapped here for the moment, her mind could walk through the walls confining her at any time.
She rapidly fell into a half-trance as her mind joined more fully with the derelict. She could sense the shift and flow of information throughout the facility that contained it like a storm of fireflies circling a sleeping animal, while the gentler presence of the Piri Reis was still on board a Bandati ship docked within the Blackflower facility.
She became gradually aware that more machinery was being unloaded and carried inside the derelict. Dozens of Bandati were working at moving heavy equipment through fresh breaches in the hull, lifting chunks of metal and plastic off pallets and then assembling them in those few interior spaces to which they'd already gained entry.
The Bandati were further inside the derelict than they had managed before – far deeper than was acceptable.
Corso, damn him, had to be responsible.
She reached out to the derelict. It began to cut off the passageways the Bandati had already penetrated, isolating their exploratory teams, tearing both them and their equipment apart.
The last of them would be dead within minutes. But, even more than before, the need to escape – to find some way off Ironbloom before Corso could do any more harm – had become paramount to her.
Piri?
Her ship now made itself known to her as a dimly sensed but familiar presence. Her human brain wasn't up to imagining the insanely complex web the derelict had spun, subverting the communications systems of an entire solar system to its own end, despite being itself heavily damaged and running at minimal capacity.
‹Please note that arrangements are proceeding as expected, Dakota. According to Darkwater's maintenance records and supply schedules, a blimp train will pass close enough to your tower to be subverted without attracting undue attention, in precisely fourteen and a half hours.›
I'll be ready. How long have the Bandati been as far inside the derelict as they are now?
‹The first set of analytic equipment was assembled and placed within the derelict approximately three t-hours ago, Dakota.›
Damn Corso and his protocols.
You could have let me know before now, Piri. This is extremely bad news.
‹That was not possible, Dakota. You were removed from your current location and returned to it only within the last t-hour.›
What?
‹You were no longer in your cell. I tracked you to a large atrium at the centre of the tower within which you currently reside. Lucas Corso left your current location at the same time, but he does not appear to have been returned to his own cell.›
Shit. Corso told me they know we're communicating, Piri., you and me and the derelict. They did a better job of getting information out of the both of us than I'd realized. All that matters now is getting the hell out of here as soon as possible.
But there was no reply. The facility had once more passed back out of range around the far side of the moon it orbited. There was a last fleeting glimpse of the gas giant: ancient storm systems and vast parallel bands of brown and pale grey. Gone also were the faintly whispering voices of the self-aware entities that lay within the derelict's data stacks, eternally observing and recording, waiting for the return of the navigator, the one who could guide them… waiting for her.
No wonder the nascent Shoal Hegemony had been so terrified of the Magi when they'd arrived in the Milky Way. Any one of the Magi's vessels could have become a formidable opponent in itself, a force strong enough to destroy the Shoal; and the Magi had employed an entire fleet of such vessels.
Corso had told her the only reason she remained alive was because he'd convinced the Bandati she was still essential. But she'd refused to play along with his plans and now he was gone, so how long before they decided to get rid of her? How many hours or days of life did she have left?
As the sun rose behind the tower, Dakota lay sprawled in the centre of her cell, feeling lonelier than she could ever remember having felt. A Shoal coreship materialized in luminal space almost fifteen hundred light-years off its scheduled trajectory. It hung in the deep interstellar void on the edge of a nebula whose appearance was reminiscent of smoke bubbling over an undersea vent, with dim orange fire raging somewhere beneath clouds of tenuous gas spreading through an area almost a hundred light-years across.
Trader swam through the dense liquid core of the Shoal star-ship, finding his way unerringly in the absolute blackness with ease. The thousand-strong Shoal crew were just distantly sensed presences. He entered a control area, a metal sphere whose interior was studded with brightly lit instrumentation designed to withstand the crushing pressures of the deep-ocean environment.
The head of superluminal systems management was already there, but he departed without a word, swimming past Trader and out into the watery darkness – as they'd prearranged.
As far as anyone outside of a select elite was aware, Trader wasn't even on board this particular coreship.
So I am to be a sacrificial beast, sent to the slaughter, Trader in Faecal Matter of Animals mused. On the other hand, blame could extend in more than one direction.
The official explanation for this unscheduled stopover was a glitch in one of the forest of spines that protruded from the surface of the moon-sized craft. These spines projected a field that allowed the craft to slip into superluminal space, and a hundred different subsystems had detected a failure that, if left unattended, could have potentially catastrophic consequences for the vessel.
The reality, of course, was
quite different. Under Trader's guidance, a tiny craft with the outward appearance of an automated repair drone lifted off from the surface of the coreship's rocky crust, boosting away from the starship before orienting itself in the direction of the nearby nebula.
Programmed subsystems within the smaller craft came on as the coreship crackled once more with energy, slipping back into superluminal space. Similar energies began to burn around the tetrahedral hull of the repair craft, and it then made the first of a series of incremental jumps that rapidly carried it far into the depths of the nebula.
Beyond the nebula lay a greater void – a sparse field of stars and dust that intervened between two of the spiral arms of the Milky Way galaxy. On the nearest edge of this relative abyss lay an open cluster of approximately forty thousand stars that, over time, had been drawn out into a long snaking line of light by the gravitational pull of dense clouds of molecular hydrogen weaving in and out of it. These gas clouds were illuminated from within by stars both dying and being born, giving it the appearance of a burning serpent made of light.
The repair craft dropped back into luminal space, maintaining its relativistic velocity as it did so. Shaped energy fields fore and aft prevented random interstellar particulate matter from ripping the craft apart with the brute force of bullets smashing through wet paper. It felt the faint gravitational tug of a nearby birthing star whose light stained the clouds of hydrogen surrounding it a deep, hellish red.
Onboard comms systems busily transmitted encrypted tach-net signals barely distinguishable from random static. There were replies from deep within the cluster: other robot craft had already been dropped off by other coreships making their own unscheduled repair stops.
Once it had established contact, the repair craft became part of an instantaneous-transmission encrypted ad hoc communications network spread over an area encompassing several hundred light-years. Several days after it had been jettisoned from the coreship, the repair craft made a final jump to within a few AUs of another star, busy with Emissary communications traffic. And there it waited and watched with the mindless patience of an automaton. Occasional neutrino bursts, accompanied by sporadic dense comms traffic, made it clear that the rest of the cluster was far from unoccupied. A war of violent attrition was being waged throughout the dust – as it had been for long millennia.
