Hilldiggers

by Neal Asher

Gneiss – on Corisanthe Main

  The station OCTs came here to the Blister to relax, as did security personnel and researchers. But that separation by definition of the groups within the station was something imposed by Orbital Combine and never really adhered to here aboard Corisanthe Main. This nil-gee area seemed a microcosm of the entire station, visibly displaying its oddities. The furniture within the Blister had been transformed beyond the exigencies of gravity and turned into baroque tangled sculptures in which the personnel lolled while drinking, eating, smoking strug and occasionally coupling. This exotic environment all surrounded a vaguely globular central swimming pool at the juncture of numerous cables, which also bound together the surrounding chaotic tangle. In the mass of water, naked figures swam, their features obscured by masks and breathers. People occasionally drowned there – a strange way to die aboard a space station – but Director Gneiss, who stood at the door viewing the scene, had never contemplated closing it down. He calmly surveyed the occupants of this area, and defined them, but not by their Combine titles. There the first-stage Exhibitionists, there second- and third-stagers. There Suffocant Supplicants, Endurers and Indolants. And over there was Dalepan, who had once been an Exhibitionist and had moved on to become a Cognizant. Of course, Gneiss had often felt the pressure to fall too easily into one of these groups. He resisted this and in the end his classification had remained simply ‘Station Director’ – a seeming subcult all its own.

  The Director launched himself from the grav floor of the corridor, rising up into the tangled and comfortable chaos. He grabbed a curved strut resembling the horn of some ancient beast, pushed himself through a structure seemingly fashioned of a giant’s bones, then settled down beside Dalepan, hooking his legs around the curving beam on which the Cognizant OCT rested with a hexagonal glass drinking cell, like a section from a large quartz crystal, clutched in his hand.

  ‘Director,’ said Dalepan lazily. ‘I would offer you alcohol but I know you’d never take anything likely to soften that shell you live inside.’

  ‘I thought Cognizants avoided that poison too?’ Gneiss observed.

  ‘I’m a neophyte, so I’m allowed my lapses.’

  ‘How generous of them.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dalepan rolled his eyes. ‘But returning to the subject of your shell, Director, how can any of us know if there is anything inside it?’

  Gneiss did not reply, that being a question he often posed to himself. He was also thoroughly aware that the drink Dalepan had been imbibing contained intoxicants beyond mere alcohol. He gazed steadily and coldly at the man, wondering if he would still be able to get any sense out of him, or even if he might be able to obtain more than sense.

  ‘What can I do for you, Director?’ Dalepan asked, finally sobering up a little under Gneiss’s wintry gaze.

  ‘The Polity is sending a Consul Assessor here,’ Gneiss replied.

  Dalepan pushed himself upright, as best he could in relation to the curving beam, set his drink cell spinning weightlessly beside his head, and obviously made some effort to return himself to a more sober state. This struck Gneiss as very unlikely to happen, since he had now recognized the seared plastic smell of a particularly powerful hallucinogen based on a combination of strug extract and a cortical stimulant. Dalepan probably even thought he was hallucinating both Director Gneiss and this conversation.

  ‘We use a slightly altered form of coconut oil on the surface of our pool.’ Dalepan pointed to where a swimmer frog-kicked his way through blue water. ‘It cuts down on evaporation and also increases refractivity.’ He gestured to a nearby cable. ‘Some of these are hollow, and through them water is removed, then cleaned and returned. If we left it untended and prevented swimmers from using it, this pool would soon turn stagnant.’

  Stagnant? Gneiss analysed the unfamiliar usage of the word, and shortly realized why it was unfamiliar. Pools never grew stagnant on Sudoria, for they evaporated long before that could occur. The Sudorian language still contained a lot of words like that, because they derived from Earth languages: words that now seemed surplus to requirements. Of course, such a word would find much use on Brumal, where pools lasted longer.

  ‘And why do you think this is of any interest to me?’

  ‘We are submersed in a stagnant pool, drowning, trapped.’ Dalepan fixed a pinpoint pupil gaze on Gneiss. ‘You more so than the rest of us.’

  ‘Someone to stir the water?’ suggested Gneiss.

  Dalepan nodded sagely then grabbed his drink from the air and took a pull from it. For a short while he seemed to be utterly unaware of the Director’s presence.

  ‘Do we need the water stirring?’ Gneiss wondered. ‘Many in Combine definitely want further contact with this Polity, but what about us here . . . and our charge? Should I contest this? Should I fight for the status quo?’

  Dalepan’s gaze wandered back to him. ‘Of course not – we’re suffocating in here and we need to find the way out.’ He focused on the Director completely. ‘We need to break our stasis – find a way to become fluid again.’

  Gneiss nodded and felt something ease inside him. It suited him that by doing nothing, by allowing those others in Orbital Combine to get what they wanted, he might at last be given the opportunity to become freely himself rather than have himself defined by a stubborn resistance to a manipulation he barely comprehended. He smiled to himself – a rare occurrence in itself. It seemed that things might be about to change, quite possibly in a radical manner.

  – Retroact 13 Ends –

  8

  Much to the disgust of Fleet personnel, many Sudorians have gone voluntarily to Brumal to study and better understand our old enemy. That they have even been able to do so is one indication of both waning Fleet influence and the increase in its perpetual search for a purpose. When Parliament voted for civilian researchers to be allowed to travel there, Fleet commanders could not argue against using warships for transporting those civilians, since the War was undeniably over. The request also enabled Fleet to find a new use for these vessels, and thus seek funding for their maintenance. This steady migration of researchers nearly ended when a typically naive faction of the Orchid Party detonated a nuclear bomb inside a Fleet ground base on Brumal, as a protest against Fleet oppression. Believing the indigenous population to have caused this explosion, the response of the captain of the nearest hilldigger was to launch a missile down into the nearest Brumallian town, incinerating its entire population of 5,000. This shamefully misguided act was then used by Parliament to prevent Fleet clamping down on further migration. A memorial stone was erected in memory of the personnel who died in the Fleet ground base. The burnt-out Brumallian town, however, was quickly filled in and, if you ask now, no one is entirely sure where it was located.

  – Uskaron

  Defence Platform One

  With puzzlement, Kurl studied his screens for a moment then raised his gaze to the thick glass window above which girded the entire operations room. Outside, in the black of space, he could just make out the shape of the hilldigger.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ asked Cheanil.

  Kurl grinned. ‘When Fleet start giving me notice of what they’ll do next, I’ll be sure to let you know. Until then I’m as bewildered as you are.’ He paused, checked his displays, then asked, ‘Who have we got out there?’

  ‘Dravenik on the Blatant. Last I heard he was on Corisanthe Watch.’ Cheanil studied something coming up on one of her screens. ‘Apparently he has been replaced there by Franorl on Desert Wind.’

  ‘Dravenik is next in line for Admiral,’ Kurl observed, ‘and apparently Carnasus has started wearing a cooling hat.’

  Cheanil glanced at him. ‘And what’s that got to do with anything?’

  Kurl leant back, shaking his head in irritation. ‘It may be nothing . . . I don’t know. Can you open a com channel to him?’

  ‘I am not sure the Commander would be best pleased. Maybe we should inform him about this, and he should speak to Draveni
k.’

  ‘Come on, Cheanil, I’ve been on this station longer than the Commander and I know what I’m doing. I’ll just make a polite enquiry.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Do you want to go and wake up Commander Spinister?’

  Cheanil grimaced, input the required information, and one of Kurl’s screens blanked for a moment before a channel-holding graphic appeared. Then that abruptly disappeared and a young man wearing a coms headset peered back at him. Kurl realized that this image was also computer-generated, since he was talking to a tacom.

  ‘Hello,’ said Kurl. ‘I’m calling from Defence Platform One, and am obviously curious about why you have positioned yourselves so close to us.’

  ‘I’ll pass you on to Lieutenant Crastus.’

  The screen blanked again, the holding graphic reappeared and remained in place for some minutes before the officer in question appeared.

  ‘You are calling from Defence Platform One?’ asked the Lieutenant.

  ‘I certainly am.’

  ‘And you wish to know why we are holding our present position?’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘Well . . . I did not get your name?’

  ‘Kurl.’

  ‘Well, Kurl, when Parliament decides Orbital Combine must be informed of every Fleet manoeuvre, then you will have every right to pose such questions. Until then, such questions are not only impertinent but a security risk.’

  Kurl shrugged. ‘I’m only asking what Commander Spinister will be asking Dravenik sometime soon.’

  ‘That is Captain Dravenik to you, civilian.’

  Tightly, Kurl replied, ‘It may have escaped your notice, but this is a military defence installation.’

  ‘Yes, though it would seem there are those who do not consider it as efficient as a hilldigger. For your Commander’s information, we are here for planetary defence as an added precaution since that Brumallian missile attack on one of our ships. This has been approved by Parliament. Thank you for your interest.’

  The screen blanked again.

  ‘Approved by Parliament?’ said Kurl, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. He glanced across at Cheanil, then looked at the display she was studying. One screen showed the present locations of all the personnel aboard the platform. ‘I guess I should inform the Commander,’ he added.

  Cheanil shook her head and began groping under her console for something. ‘No, I don’t think you’ll be doing that.’

  ‘Huh?’ Kurl wondered what she was now doing. If she was having trouble with her equipment, she should get Grant up here. Then again – Kurl checked her display – Grant was in the refectory with some of the other techs, and probably halfway through a bottle of kavis by now. ‘Why won’t I be doing that?’

  ‘Because you’ll be dead,’ said Cheanil, sitting upright and pointing at him the silenced handgun she had retrieved from under her console.

  ‘What do—?’

  The gun made a triple thunk and an iron fist slammed into Kurl’s chest hurling him from his chair. Lying on the floor, struggling for breath, he just could not believe this was happening. Cheanil came to stand over him, pointing the gun down at his forehead. Brief light ignited inside the barrel. It dropped a blackness on Kurl that would never end.

  Cheanil returned to her seat and pulled the two spare clips from where she had taped them under her console two hours earlier. She had rather liked Kurl and therefore regretted the necessity of killing him, but she did not feel the same about the others. Commander Spinister, the other officers and the station techs were all definitely and arrogantly Orbital Combine people. All of them felt that Fleet, which had kept the Brumallians from their throats for a century, was now obsolete. Cheanil felt that the ease with which Harald had organized her penetration of Combine, her promotion to coms officer aboard this station and her smuggling of arms aboard were all proof of how wrong they were. Though, admittedly, Harald was no ordinary Fleet officer.

  Cheanil picked up her console and checked its screen. With the radio link established to the station computer, she could now see clearly where everyone was, and thus plan her actions accordingly. Grant and eight other technicians occupied the refectory, Spinister and four others were in bed, and a four-person crew was conducting maintenance on the maser array outside. Cheanil entered the lift to the rear of the operations room and took it down to the living area. Stepping out she could hear Grant and the rest of them roaring with laughter or speaking with that stepped-up volume that bottles of kavis tended to provide.

  Entering her own quarters she quickly pulled out her case from under her bed, input its lock code and hinged it open. As she hoisted out the Fleet-issue disc carbine, power pack and spare magazines, she again wondered at Harald’s brilliance. Combine Security was by no means a pushover, yet he had gone through it like it just wasn’t there. There seemed something almost supernatural about his abilities . . . not that Cheanil believed in anything like that. Strapping on a harness to carry the power pack and the magazines, she considered this further affirmation of Fleet superiority, and some sign of just what Fleet could achieve under the right leadership: in other words Harald.

  Cheanil plugged in the carbine’s power lead and watched the indicator lights on the weapon step up to optimum. Selecting a magazine of fragmentation discettes, she slotted it into place underneath the tongue-shaped barrel, and felt a whirr as the load backed up to the breech. She took a slow, calming breath then opened her door and peeked out. No one in the corridor. Another check of her console revealed that one of the techs had retired from the drinking session and returned to her quarters. Hopefully she would have collapsed into drunken sleep, but Cheanil would have to be careful since the doors to those quarters would be at her back. Walking quietly she advanced down the corridor to the refectory entrance and looked inside. Grant and the rest were playing cards, some of them were smoking strug and tobacco, and thankfully, at tables drawn together and cluttered with bottles of kavis and bowls of snack-beetles, they all sat as a close group.

  ‘Cheanil!’ Grant spotted her and began to stand.

  Cheanil replied by stepping inside and opening fire, drawing her weapon across. Twenty discettes hissed from the flat barrel, unravelling into razor peelings of metal as they travelled. Two of the group, sitting with their backs to her, slammed forward, their heads disappearing in a shower of brain and bone. Three next to Grant shot backwards, their chairs toppling over, pieces of gory flesh, broken glass and game cards hailing beyond them. Grant’s guts and most of his backbone exploded out behind him, and he hurtled back to land in two separate halves. Only one man now remained alive – still sitting at his chair at the table, his mouth gaping. He had time only to glance down to see his entire arm missing below the shoulder before Cheanil fired again. Then he, his chair and part of the table turned into a cloud of bloody splinters that coated the wall behind.

  ‘Will you please keep the noise—’

  Turning, Cheanil notched down the firing rate and triggered once. The woman, who only yesterday had tried to proposition her, slammed back inside her sleeping quarters, leaving an extended star-shaped splash of blood and flesh particles along the corridor wall. Cheanil checked her in passing: no need for another shot. Now for those hopefully still asleep.

  Heading back down the corridor, Cheanil called up a new display on her console: this one showed the locking code to each set of quarters – obtained by another of Harald’s wonderfully intricate programs. Three died on their sleeping mats, the fourth as he was vomiting kavis and snack-beetles into his toilet. Saving Commander Spinister for last, Cheanil was disappointed to find him still in his bed. It seemed to her that she should at least say something.

  ‘Commander,’ she began. ‘Commander, I’ve come to wake up both you and Orbital Combine.’

  He turned over and stared up at her bleary-eyed. ‘What are you doing in here, Cheanil?’

  ‘I just told you.’ She raised her weapon.

  His arm came round and up. Someth
ing fisted her kidney and spun her back from the doorway. Recovering, she fired back blind into the room, then kept firing as she staggered towards the door again. Spinister managed to rise to one knee before she finally spread him all over the walls. Stepping back, she gasped and looked down at the hole that had been ripped through her just above the hip.

  Damnation, she should not have been so unprofessional.

  Four yet to deal with. Cheanil wiped blood from her console screen and saw they were still outside, working on the maser. Even if they came in now, it would take them half an hour to unsuit. It meanwhile took her a quarter of an hour to find a medical kit, plug her wound and seal it under a sticky patch, and then inject a local anaesthetic and anti-shock drugs. Returning to the control centre she took the weapons-control chair – the Commander’s place – and on one screen viewed the four figures gathered around the maser. They were all inside the forty-foot-wide dish, replacing some of the reflective cells. It was a minor job, however, that would not affect the functioning of the weapon. Cheanil plugged in her console and, using more of Harald’s programs, took control. A small test burst to check positioning of the central unit was all she required. Cheanil watched the sudden frantic motion of the four figures. Their suits grew fat and taut, and by the time steam and smoke burst from developing leaks, the four were no longer moving. Micro-waved above boiling point, their own fluids impelled them tumbling away from the station.

  Now Cheanil opened a secure communications channel.

  ‘I am in position,’ she said, ‘though I am injured and estimate I will only remain useful to you for a maximum of five hours.’

  Harald gazed coldly at her from the screen. The image was a recorded one, animated to suit his words, since she knew he would really be communicating with her via his coms helmet. ‘Disappointing, Cheanil. How did you manage to get yourself injured?’

  ‘I allowed myself a moment of grandstanding, and for that I apologize.’

  ‘Very well. It is fortunate that the timing I require should still be within that period. Tune into the media channels and keep watch. I will try to contact you again, but if I am unable to, I confirm that you must attack immediately after our retaliatory strike against Brumal.’