by Neal Asher
‘You are still Orbital Combine’s representative in matters concerning the Polity and the Consul Assessor.’
‘Aren’t such matters rather irrelevant at the moment?’
‘One would have thought so, but we have just been contacted by someone supposedly approaching on a Brumallian ship – which we cannot yet trace – who claims to be the Consul Assessor. You will deal with this as you see fit, Yishna, because right at the moment I’ve enough problems.’ His image winked out, but a holding graphic up in one corner of her screen gave Yishna a link to the exterior com channel. She hesitated before reaching up to touch it. Could this be some new devious plot of Harald’s? Abruptly she stabbed the graphic with her finger, and sat back.
The figure appearing on the screen before her she quickly recognized as David McCrooger, but not the same seemingly indestructible individual she had met. In some ways the look of him reminded her of Orduval, for he seemed to be ravaged by some terrible illness. She quickly began to assess what she was seeing. This could easily be a false image, of course, but why make him look so diminished? She answered her own question: because that changed image of him would be the more believable one. So, apparently he was aboard a Brumallian ship? Maybe her brother had laid hands on one and was trying to use it to penetrate Combine defences . . .
‘Yishna Strone,’ said the image before her.
‘And you would have me believe you are the Consul Assessor?’
‘Yes, I would – and as a matter of urgency.’
‘When responding to urgency it’s easy to make mistakes.’
He stared at her, then gave a tired smile. ‘I could repeat verbatim all the conversations we had last time we met, and you could then assume they were recorded by Fleet personnel. So what can I say now to convince you?’
‘Well, let’s start with those same conversations, shall we?’
He looked to one side. ‘I recall you asking me what would be our policy on imprisoned sentients, should we intercede here, and the question seemed rather important to you. I explained to you how amnesty is granted in the case of corrupt totalitarian regimes, though those guilty of capital crimes would be checked for socio- or psychopathic tendencies.’ Now looking at her directly, he went on, ‘I finished by telling you that intercession was unlikely. I wonder if I truly answered your real question, because though humans are sentient, not all sentients are human.’
Was it him? ‘Director Gneiss tells me you claim to be now aboard a Brumallian ship, yet we can detect no such vessel within transmission range.’
‘We’ve used Polity technology to conceal the ship.’ For a long moment he gazed at her expectantly.
‘We?’
‘Myself, the Brumallian crew – and your sister.’
The screen view expanded to encompass Rhodane. Yishna felt a tightness in her chest, and suddenly did not know how to react to this.
‘Why . . . what are you doing here?’ she demanded of her sibling.
Rhodane replied, ‘Well, currently we’re busy dodging both incoming projectiles from Fleet and defensive fire from Combine. As you can imagine, Yishna, revealing our position now is not something we feel inclined to hazard, since Combine automated defences would zero in on us immediately. What we want is for you to give us a safe corridor down to the surface of Sudoria.’
‘Why?’
‘Firstly, to deliver me safely to my destination,’ said McCrooger, ‘and secondly, so I can deliver to your Parliament some crucial evidence of Fleet’s recent manipulation of events.’
‘I think we’re already past the point where such evidence might be considered to have any relevance.’
‘Relevance to Sudorians,’ he replied.
‘So you would like Combine to allow a Brumallian ship safe passage down to the surface of Sudoria – something that never happened throughout the War nor since?’
‘The simple answer is yes,’ insisted McCrooger.
‘We wouldn’t be able to do so without consulting Parliament, and I suspect their answer will depend on the quality of the evidence you offer. We need to see it first, and assess it.’ Yishna leant forwards to check the tactical readouts. Another fusillade was on its way in, its main focus on Platform Two, but with enough strays elsewhere to take out any undefended ship. ‘It should be possible for us to give you a corridor to Corisanthe III – Oversight Committee permitting.’
McCrooger shook his head. ‘That’s not an option. Your side is the main opponent of Fleet, so allowing you access to the evidence we bring would destroy its veracity.’
‘Then I remain reluctant to let you through. This could be merely Brumallian opportunism. That ship of yours could be carrying fusion or biological weapons – just what we built our defence platforms to prevent reaching the planet’s surface.’
‘Then perhaps someone should board us to check? Perhaps yourself?’
‘One individual alone boarding your ship is unlikely to find anything cleverly concealed.’
‘True, but we both know that you are capable of probing concealment of the kind that is not merely physical.’
Yishna wasn’t so sure she agreed with that, but the idea of just getting away from Corisanthe Main, even to board a Brumallian ship, definitely appealed to her. She put that channel on hold, then put through a call to Director Gneiss. A second holding graphic appeared, and drawn-out minutes passed before Gneiss replied.
‘Yes, what is it?’ he said, distracted, inward-looking.
Since the Director looked a little impatient, Yishna reported the recent conversation as quickly as she could.
‘The decision is yours’ – he glanced aside, probably at another screen, then turned back to her – ‘since you’ve now been raised to probationary membership of the Oversight Committee. Your area of expertise is defined as all matters relating to Polity contact.’
‘But allowing a Brumallian ship through is surely a security matter?’
‘Is it? We all know who’s culpable in recent events, and it certainly isn’t the Brumallians. Uskaron’s book cast the reasons for the War with them into extreme doubt, and that’s been reinforced by our own studies of Brumallian society. We’re agreed that an attack from them is very unlikely, and it seems clear they’re now bringing evidence to show their innocence in current matters. You yourself must decide what to do.’ His image blinked out.
Shortly afterwards the details of a safe corridor leading down to Sudoria appeared in its place. Yishna flicked back to the other channel.
‘I’m sending you coordinates for a safe corridor. You’ve one hour to reach its entry point, where I’ll join you. Then, when I’ve ensured you’re carrying nothing nasty aboard, you’ll enter the corridor and proceed down to the surface.’
McCrooger nodded briefly, and Rhodane smiled, before Yishna cut the link. Then, using the touch-screen, she quickly created a list of items from stores. Next she opened another link. ‘Dalepan, are you aware of my new status?’
‘I am,’ the OCT replied, ‘as it’s just gone up on all the public message boards.’
‘Very well. I’m sending you now a list of items I want placed aboard the shuttle at Dock Three.’
Dalepan studied the list for a long moment. ‘Am I allowed to ask why you need these particular items?’
‘We’ve got a Brumallian ship coming in to land on Sudoria – protected by Combine weapons. The Polity Consul Assessor is aboard, but I’m to check it’s not carrying anything else we wouldn’t want arriving down there.’
‘I see then the purpose of the scanners, though you’re unlikely to find any concealed biologicals. However, I fail to see the purpose of item six.’
‘Insurance,’ Yishna replied.
‘But not the kind to ensure your safety.’
Perhaps she was being overly paranoid – being aboard Corisanthe Main tended to produce that effect. She eyed the item he referred to: one of the megaton-range stealth mines that had earlier destroyed the hilldigger Slate – quite enough to vaporize a Bruma
llian ship while sitting in its docking bay. After a moment she transferred the mine’s detonation code to her baton, which she then detached from its slot in the console before her, and placed in her pocket.
15
The Sand Churches arose almost certainly because of the oppression during the time leading up to the War. However, even then they were regarded as the lunatic fringe by the majority of the population. During most of the War itself, the Churches made few advances, the numbers joining them rising hardly at all. It was only in the last decade of the War that their memberships increased, along with a growth in belief in the supernatural (hence the rise in the irrational belief in this Shadowman). This is puzzling. Why, when it seemed we were on the road to victory, did this swing happen? Religion flourishes under oppression and in ignorance, but in those last ten years Parliament was not oppressive and ignorance was a luxury we could not afford. I freely admit that I have no answers to this.
– Uskaron
Harald
Weapons fire rumbled through Ironfist and, on the selected screens before him, the view of Sudoria kept blanking out as ship’s defences intercepted some intervening missile or mine, filling surrounding space with blinding EM radiation. He sat with his hands resting on the arms of his chair, enthroned at the centre of a growing storm, and in a small part of his mind wondered if he should really be enjoying this so much. But he dismissed that thought and focused on Platform Two, as a fusillade of coil-gun missiles began to arrive there.
Multiple explosions filled space over to one side as the first projectiles slammed into some buoys, the debris from those impacts knifing towards the platform. Then finally some intact projectiles got through to detonate against the shields, momentarily throwing the curving menisci into view. Harald observed a couple of explosions aboard the platform, doubtless shield generators overloading, but the remaining shields held and not one projectile succeeded in reaching the platform itself. He had not expected otherwise, and once the fusillade ceased he observed a cruiser coming out of cover to launch another cloud of buoys, whilst under the entire defence umbrella other ships began moving in to resupply the defence platform. The fleet would have to move in closer now, so the hilldiggers could effectively employ energy weapons and atomics. When that time arrived, in about another three hours, it was going to get vicious.
‘Captain Ashanti, begin your run on Corisanthe III. I am hoping it won’t be necessary for you to destroy the station, just keep it nailed down.’ On his eye-screen Harald watched Wildfire and Resilience begin their departure from the main body of the fleet. ‘All other Captains, on my lead we concentrate our attack on Platform Two. Harvester, Stormfollower and Musket will strafe from close orbit, until I give the order for them to make their run on Corisanthe II. When ready, myself and Franorl will begin our atmosphere-level attack.’
Another channel blinked for his attention, and he opened it to see a small fleet of Combine cruisers moving out to flank the hilldiggers. This struck him as a brave but rather pathetic response.
‘Franorl, deal with that, would you.’
Desert Wind began to turn. There was no visible sign of the ship using its coil-guns but Harald knew, from tacom channels, that Franorl had already opened fire. One of the five cruisers flew apart, strangely without producing even a hint of flame, another tilted and began to drift away. Two of them turned and began heading back for cover while the last one closed in on its drifting fellow cruiser. Harald watched them intermittently over the next half an hour, also switching occasionally to views of other Combine activity, and to monitor Wildfire’s run. As the rescuing cruiser docked with the crippled one, both cruisers abruptly disappeared in a massive explosion. Harald just sat there, mystified, until he started checking recorded telemetry. Evidently Franorl had launched a slower-moving nuclear missile which had just arrived. Comparing the timings, Harald realized Franorl must have fired the missile during the rescue attempt, and not in the initial fusillade. He suddenly did not know how to react to this, since he found he did not consider such an action . . . quite honourable. Next he felt a sudden contempt for himself. How could he quibble about matters of honour considering what he himself was doing? He abruptly stood up, checked timings and realized that, unless Orbital Combine came up with something unexpected, he had a few hours yet now to spare. Everything else could be handled by the ship’s automatic weapons and by its highly trained crews.
What am I doing?
This question only recurred to him at moments like this, when he was tired and when action of one kind or another ceased for a small while, and as always his reply to it was that he was fighting for the survival of Fleet. Though an inadequate answer on an intellectual level, he felt its truth in his gut and that was enough. Surely he should get some sleep now, but the need for it had left him directly after he killed Carnasus. Perhaps he should do his rounds of the ship, make himself visible, inspire confidence . . . Almost without thinking about it, he called up internal views of Ironfist and began checking operations. When he realized what he was doing, he deliberately shut down his tacom helmet and control glove, removed them and dropped them into his chair.
The Bridge was all activity as he stepped down into it. Many of the crew shot glances at him, then returned their attention instantly to their consoles. Though the ship’s defensive armament was firing automatically, there was plenty to occupy everyone, particularly damage control since, though nothing major had got through, Ironfist was perpetually sustaining damage from debris.
His two guards falling in behind him, he approached the crewman monitoring the ship’s manifest. ‘Status?’
The man shot out of his chair, not having seen the new Admiral approaching. He was young, probably still a teenager, and stood there with his mouth open, the look on his face of one who expected to be berated.
‘What is our present internal supply status?’ Harald asked.
The youth took a deep breath. ‘We have used only four warheads.’ He glanced at his screen. ‘Capacitance is at sixty per cent, and we can keep the reactors running at this rate for eight days . . . Admiral. Though we’ve been losing shield generators,’ he gained confidence, ‘we’ve more than enough at the present rate of breakdown. The greater problem is getting them installed quick enough. And we now have less than a quarter of our stock of coil-gun missiles remaining.’ He brightened. ‘But supply ships are already on their way from Carmel with new stock.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harald. ‘Return to your duties.’
‘I think we’ll check the engine galleries now,’ he told his two escorts.
The lift section behind the Bridge, his means of getting to any of the four rail lines, was obviously very busy. By one of the lifts waited a damage-control crew with a lev-plate loaded with high-pressure sealant guns and a welder, stacked on top of sheets of hull metal, and out of another lift, just arrived, stepped a couple of officers and some crew, most of them immediately hurrying off in different directions. However, one of the officers stopped before Harald, then turned and fist-saluted over his side arm. Only the fist did not remain a fist as it opened, closed again and drew. Harald found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. With a vicious crack that barrel disappeared behind its own flame. Harald felt the bullet strike his temple, felt his own skull breaking open. The force of impact snapped his head aside and spun him round. Then he felt nothing.
McCrooger
The explosions we saw on the screen, around Sudoria and around the hilldiggers now approaching that world, seemed a distant thing that I could not help viewing with some detachment. What brought home the horrible reality was the occasional thwack, followed by flashing yellow lights denoting a hull breach, as some piece of debris travelling at thousands of miles per second slammed right through our ship. This being an organic vessel, the holes punched through its hull were closed up rapidly, but that did not dispel the vulnerability I felt. The ship might be able to heal itself easily, but if one of those pieces hit me . . .
�
�She is due to arrive shortly,’ said Rhodane, ducking into the quarters I shared with Slog and Flog, who as usual lately were off lurking around the spin-section hub where Tigger had subsumed our ship’s AI. I swung my legs off the bed and stood up a little shakily. It had been another one of those horrible disturbed sleeps, and everything around me still looked slightly distorted. ‘How are you?’ she added, studying me carefully.
I’d never spoken to Tigger about the distortion and the nightmares, because they seemed too personal, and having to admit that, as well as my body falling apart my mind was too, seemed just a bit too much to bear. But I chose to speak to Rhodane about it now because of some obscure desire to ‘clear the decks’ before our next ‘action’. It is a good thing I did, because her reply was the key that started things sliding into place and interlocking in my mind.
‘I’m not great,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been having some twisted nightmares ever since I arrived in this system, and some of them even while I’m awake.’
She gazed at me for a long moment, her expression giving away nothing, then said, ‘But you did not experience them on Brumal?’
I thought about it. A lot had happened to me on Brumal, but nothing like that. It struck me now that it had been my only normal time here in this system. ‘No, not on Brumal.’
‘I told you it was an oasis of sanity,’ she said. ‘That’s where I finally found mine – and the change I’ve since undergone has helped me hold onto it,’ she frowned, ‘though sometimes my anger at Sudoria returns, and I wish I could raise the rest of the Brumallian ships to attack whatever will remain when Fleet and Combine have finished with each other.’ She paused speculatively. ‘I think the Consensus blocks the cause of those nightmares. Shared sanity?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
I absorbed that information then revealed, ‘Sometimes there’s a dark figure. It tried to be my father, but that facade did not last. I feel it’s trying to say something to me, but just doesn’t know how.’
‘So the Shadowman is not the Sudorian conscience,’ she stated obscurely.
