Hilldiggers

by Neal Asher

  Yishna could feel herself flushing with anger. ‘Hardly you; I should think you were still pissing your bed when Fleet destroyed Brumal.’

  He swung at her again, but this time Yishna raised both her forearms, scissoring them with his wrist between. Bones broke with a satisfactory crunch. She grabbed and pulled him into her and, turning, spun him over her hip into two of the guards behind her. Still turning she raised her foot off the ground and cannoned it into the temple of another guard. To her left: a weapon being raised. Leaping in close, she drove the heel of her hand into that guard’s nose, and he flew backwards over the table. Behind her, the others were recovering. Probably she would be gunned down as she went for them, but—

  The door slammed open. ‘Enough!’ bellowed Pilot Officer Clanot. ‘Lower your weapons!’ Struggling to his feet the Lieutenant did not seem to be listening, as he tried to draw his side arm left-handed. Clanot drew his own weapon, stepped in close and brought it down hard against the side of the man’s head. Now Duras entered, followed by two more crew and a third figure Yishna recognized at once.

  ‘You four, return to your berths right now!’ Clanot ordered. He reholstered his gun, his hand shaking. As the four guards exited, he turned to Yishna, keeping his gaze fixed firmly upon her face. ‘Please clothe yourself, Yishna Strone.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had joined the Exhibitionists,’ said Dalepan. The Ozark containment technician, clad in a spacesuit, leant back against the door jamb with his arms folded.

  Yishna shot him a wry look and began to pick up her clothing.

  ‘It is precisely this kind of behaviour,’ observed Duras, ‘that causes people to fall out of sympathy with Fleet.’

  ‘They will be punished,’ said Clanot, gazing down at the unconscious Lieutenant.

  ‘Will they? After we have left this ship?’

  Clanot looked up. ‘There are those in Fleet who do not like what is happening now.’

  ‘Not nearly enough of them.’

  ‘Yes.’ Clanot looked down again.

  Now once again dressed, Yishna tossed her belongings into her bag and shouldered it. ‘It’s time for us to depart, I think,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’m very much afraid it is,’ Duras replied.

  Orduval

  He gazed out at the setting sun, its light hazed above the desert like angel dust, and a weary sadness infected his mood as he reviewed recent events. His book had very much changed public – and thus parliamentary – opinion about the Brumallians and about Fleet. He understood how the effect of its publication had killed Fleet’s political manoeuvring to have the U-space link closed down, and that, without that same effect, Fleet would have had the power to prevent the Consul Assessor coming here. But in the end it had been too late, for he calculated that if he had published it five years earlier, things would have been very different now.

  ‘Oh, Harald, what are you doing?’ he asked the desert, but the question was rhetoric into the abyss, for he knew the answer.

  Had public opinion been swayed only a little more against Fleet and in favour of the Brumallians, Parliament would not have returned to Fleet its wartime prerogatives, and Fleet would not then have been able, without consultation and a vote, to bomb a Brumallian city. On such little things turn catastrophic events.

  Orduval wished Tigger would return, but supposed the Polity drone was wrapped up in business more important than keeping Orduval informed. He did not himself believe the Brumallians had launched the attack that resulted in the Consul Assessor’s death. He understood that many on Sudoria did not believe it either, and like him could not decide which of the two, Fleet or Combine, was the guilty party. Tigger could tell him, and had already told him so very much.

  ‘I have finally ascertained the cause of your debility, and I am amazed,’ Tigger informed him during their last meeting, just before the drone’s departure for Brumal.

  ‘If you could explain?’ Orduval suggested.

  ‘You knew I was coming today, even though I did not tell you I would be coming.’

  Orduval felt a moment’s bewilderment. Yes, Tigger was right. He had turned off his console, put it to one side and walked out here fully expecting Tigger to be waiting – and never questioned that impulse.

  ‘Some structures in your brain are sensitive to U-space,’ the drone explained. ‘Interestingly, the first fit you ever experienced happened precisely on one of the occasions when I arrived back here from Brumal.’

  Orduval knew that Tigger contained in his sphere part a U-space drive which he used in order to zip back and forth between the two worlds.

  ‘So it’s all your fault,’ he wryly suggested.

  ‘Not entirely. My arrival on that occasion may have triggered the first feedback loop that resulted in your fit, but the weakness was already there, and such a loop inevitable.’

  ‘I feel a bit more explanation is required.’

  ‘So do I. Far in the past, on Earth, there used to be a long-running debate, often quite heated, concerning so-called psychic powers. Those being the ability to see into the future, to move objects by thought power, to read minds or communicate from mind to mind. It was only some years after the advent of U-space technology that the debate was partially resolved. Most psychic phenomena were then found to be related to a brain configuration that made them sensitive to U-space, and theoretically able to cause localized phenomena related to it.’

  ‘Theoretically?’

  ‘Cases of the strictly mental phenomena have been documented, but none has been documented regarding the physical phenomena.’

  ‘So I am in some way sensitized to U-space, and this causes my fits – a phenomenon you say is already known about in the Polity. Why then are you amazed?’

  ‘Because the structures in your brain grew from your DNA blueprint, as do most basal structures in most human brains – meaning nature not nurture. Everything that forms afterwards is nowhere near so dramatic.’

  ‘Biology is not my main interest, but I do know enough to understand that.’

  ‘Without her knowledge, I visited your grandmother Utrain, and sampled her DNA. What I found there led me to a rather risky penetration of Corisanthe Main, where I managed to obtain a stored blood sample taken from your mother. I discovered that the difference in your DNA, resulting in those unusual brain structures, cannot be accounted for by your ancestry.’

  Orduval nodded slowly to himself, realizing that at some level he already knew that someone had tampered with his DNA.

  ‘This is something I must investigate further,’ Tigger told him, ‘but now I must prepare for the arrival of the Consul Assessor.’

  Their conversation continued for a while, as it always did, while they discussed current events and Orduval’s eventual return to Sudorian society. But he felt himself to have shuddered to a bit of a halt, contributing only little to the conversation as on some other level his mind chewed over the latest information. After Tigger departed he returned to his cave and sat and thought for a while, then opened up his console and began to use programs provided by Tigger for research, in order to penetrate Corisanthe Main. He began looking at the time when his mother had first arrived there, and speed-read files feverishly, looking for some clue to what dangerous genetic experiments Orbital Combine had been conducting then. For two days and two nights he found nothing, and began to realize that his conjecture about experiments might be wrong. Then he found something significant – right near the end.

  Combine claimed that a fumarole breach was merely when an energy surge from the Worm knocked out a piece of equipment, and like everyone else he had always accepted this. Now a simple manifest transference showed that Fleet occasionally boosted cargo crates, for Orbital Combine, towards the sun. Tracking this manifest back to source, because he thought Combine might have been destroying evidence, he discovered the crates contained equipment damaged by fumarole breach on Corisanthe Main. For a while he tried to believe that he had genuinely discovered the concealment of eviden
ce, but from previous reading he knew that the crates did indeed contain such affected equipment. Why such caution about equipment merely damaged by an energy surge? Obviously fumarole breaches were something more than Combine was admitting to.

  We were conceived during a fumarole breach. Tigger had told him how that conception, according to heavily edited and often hidden station records, had actually taken place inside Ozark One during the said breach. He wished Tigger had been here to ask more about this. He wished he’d asked the drone about fumarole breaches before, but it just hadn’t seemed so important then.

  Now the implications terrified him and he knew he must find out more, yet felt a terrible reluctance to do so. He now had to talk to someone, perhaps Yishna. Yes, it would all become clear . . . somehow. Orduval would have liked to share with Tigger this strange discovery, but the drone would not be returning any time soon. Orduval closed up his console and began to pack those belongings he felt he would need, then finally set out across the boiling sand. He had a tram to catch, and a story he needed to tell.

  Harald

  It was an awesome sight: including Ironfist, nine hilldiggers were now parked around Carmel, the gaps between them no more than a few miles wide and support ships scattered throughout like glimmer bugs about a herd of sand cows gathered round their barn. Harald regretted that he could not see the view entire, only through the quartz windows of the Admiral’s Haven and on his eye-screen. Apparently Polity ships were not limited like this, or so he understood from what had been learnt from the Consul Assessor and from information imparted via the U-space comlink. Their Polity ships carried panoramic windows fashioned of the same chain-molecule glass as the spherical vessel in which the U-space comlink had arrived. Aboard them it was also possible to enter a virtuality from which ships could be viewed via external probes, so to the viewer himself he seemed to be standing out in vacuum. Harald had already instructed Jeon to allocate some of her research staff to investigate such possibilities. He considered further the implications.

  Chainglass was very strong, stronger in fact than some of the hull metals of older Fleet ships. But lasers could pass through it, as could other radiations further along the electromagnetic band. Also, no matter how strong such a window, by inserting one in a hull you created a weakness. So did this mean their ships were not often involved in conflict, or else possessed some shielding technology that rendered strength of hull irrelevant? Or were these just passenger ships being referred to – information about Polity warships being deliberately withheld? Harald suspected all this was something Fleet would be learning about in years to come. But not yet, not until he had done what needed doing.

  He turned away from the Haven windows and headed for the stair leading down into the Bridge. The two guards who stood below, armed with disc carbines, stepped aside as he descended and alertly eyed the surrounding Bridge. Like many other personnel in Fleet they were eager to show their loyalty and demonstrate the quality of their service to him. Such dedication was admirable, within limitations. The two guards fell in behind him as he headed for the exit. As he left the Bridge, the two guards manning the door also fell in behind. He did not really like having such an armed retinue, but in the present situation, and with him having known enemies inside Fleet, an attempt on his life was not unlikely. And on this particular occasion their presence might be very necessary.

  He took a lift down to the ship’s forward transport station, then took one of the egg-shaped carriages, travelling between three evenly spaced rails, along the length of the ship’s body to the docking area amidships – the mile-long journey, in nil gee, taking only a few minutes. He pushed himself out, weight returning over the gravity floor of the platform. Here one could gain some perspective of the sheer scale of Ironfist. There were four sets of similar rails for the entire length of the ship, two located below and one beside this one. Alongside each of these ran continuous platforms, and spaced every few thousand feet along these were lift stations to take people and cargo up and down to other levels. The rail lines below were not used for people, since those ran to and from the ship’s docking area, shifting fuel for the engines, fuel for the reactors and various ship’s transports, munitions, supplies of food and water, and numerous spare parts. Gazing at these over the platform rim, Harald observed crates being loaded into a large cargo cage and guessed they contained the tons of optic cable required for refitting some of the engineering sections of Ironfist. Another cargo cage, just arriving, held some huge item of machinery to be hoisted from the ship. Checking via his headset, he discovered it was a worn-out generator destined for Carmel, where it would be fully reconditioned.

  A lift arrived and Harald strolled across the platform towards it. After a moment out stepped Captain Franorl accompanied by four others, two of whom were armed guards marching one other man between them. The fourth man strolled to one side, appreciatively studying his surroundings. Like Franorl, he was clad in the foamite suit of a Captain.

  Franorl and Harald approached each other with a degree of wariness, fist-saluted then clasped hands. Harald eyed Franorl’s two guards and then their prisoner. His own guards had quietly moved out to either side, to give them a clear view.

  ‘So at last we are here,’ said Franorl. ‘I did wonder if we would make it.’

  ‘You should have more confidence in me,’ said Harald.

  ‘Oh I have confidence in you, Harald, but fate can deliver some mean injustices.’

  ‘I’ve never believed in fate,’ said Harald, ‘but let us consider injustice, and its opposite.’

  Franorl nodded minutely, then turned, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the other Captain. ‘Let me introduce Jalton Grune, the new Captain of Ildris’s Resilience’ – he waved a hand at the prisoner – ‘and Captain-in-Waiting Orvram Davidson.’

  Grune smiled and nodded. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Admiral.’

  ‘Admiral,’ said Davidson, fist-saluting over the empty holster at his hip.

  In utter contrast to Grune’s quiet confidence, Davidson stood very correctly, and he looked frightened. This was perfectly understandable. The man had been utterly loyal to Ildris and supported his Captain’s objection to Harald assuming the Admiralship, and being brought here under guard would certainly make him suspect the worst. Grune, however, was a supporter – a fanatical supporter.

  ‘Well, let’s not draw this out any longer than necessary,’ said Harald. He drew his gun and let it hang down beside his hip. ‘What do you have to say for yourself, Davidson?’

  ‘Do you give me your permission to speak freely?’ asked Davidson. He looked stunned, as if this was all happening too quickly. Perhaps the man had expected a court martial before all the other Captains, and some chance to prove his innocence.

  ‘I do, though you should be aware that all of this is being recorded.’

  Davidson glanced upward, noting the sensor heads set in the ceiling high above. He again focused on Harald. ‘I have very little to say. My Captain, as you know, was not an advocate of your assuming the position of Admiral. He was subsequently poisoned aboard Carmel, which I imagine suited you quite well—’

  ‘Yes, that poisoning,’ Harald interrupted. ‘Fleet has an unfortunate history of some personnel using such methods to climb the promotion ladder. The removal of Ildris has placed Grune here in the Captain’s chair, and moved you another step closer to it. As Admiral, I can no longer countenance such methods.’

  ‘I would not murder my own Captain,’ said Davidson. His face was pale now, and despite this area of the ship being cool, he was sweating.

  Harald shrugged. ‘I possess incontrovertible evidence – supplied by Station Supervisor Harnek.’ It had taken Harald little time to track down the incriminating evidence, somewhat longer to surreptitiously bring it to Harnek’s attention.

  ‘Yes,’ said Davidson, a touch of a sneer in his voice. ‘I suppose you do.’

  Harald could see the man was ready to do something drastic, perhaps try to
grab a weapon, so it was time to wrap this up.

  ‘Under Fleet law, in an emergency, I, as Admiral, possess certain powers, which I intend to exercise now.’

  As Davidson began to turn, Harald raised his gun and fired once. Davidson staggered back into one of his guards. Pieces of flesh and blood were spattered over his suit. The guard pushed him away, then after a pause Davidson straightened up, wiping a hand down his face and smearing the blood further. He turned and gazed down at Grune, who now lay quivering into death on the floor, with half of his head missing.

  ‘What . . .? I don’t . . .?’

  ‘You have my deepest apologies, Captain Davidson,’ said Harald. He nodded to one of the guards. ‘Return his side arm.’

  The guard handed the weapon to Davidson, who took it but just stared down at it in confusion.

  Harald holstered his own weapon and continued, ‘As I said, I will not countenance murder as a method of climbing the promotion ladder. Harnek’s evidence proved to my satisfaction that Jalton Grune poisoned Captain Ildris. This subterfuge was necessary to extract him from Resilience without having to send in a combat team and risk bloodshed there. He was showing a reluctance to come at my invitation until the matter of Ildris’s death could be resolved.’ Harald nodded to Captain Franorl. ‘Franorl here went aboard to arrest you, informing Grune that we now possessed sufficient evidence to accuse you of the murder. Franorl being very persuasive, Grune then lost his reluctance to come aboard.’

  Davidson looked up. ‘But he was one of your keenest supporters.’

  ‘I will see Fleet kept clean and pure and sharp as a dagger,’ said Harald. ‘I will have no dirt in it. You, Davidson, return to your ship, set it in order and be prepared to receive my instructions, and to obey them.’

  Davidson straightened up, saluted, then after a moment turned on his heel. Franorl still gazed at Harald expressionlessly. He possessed more sense than to grin triumphantly or laugh uproariously while the sensor heads recorded these images.