by Neal Asher
‘I don’t really care, just make sure it works,’ Pelter replied.
Stanton looked at him. This was not the Pelter he knew. Where was his acclaimed vanity? The man had spent a fortune on cosmetic alterations during the time Stanton had known him. He looked to Sylac to find the surgeon gazing back at him. He felt a sudden tug at his shoulder and a deep ache returned to his damaged arm. He glanced down and saw that the wound had now been welded shut.
‘I have work to do,’ said Sylac, ‘so I’d rather you did not sit there all day.’
Keeping a wary eye on the robot, Stanton slid from the chair. He flexed his fingers expecting more pain, but found none. Pelter moved to occupy the chair in his place as Sylac walked over, his cyber-arms opening out, the complex glittering fingers of their hands revolving. Pelter turned to Stanton. ‘There’s something I need to do, John. Meet you in the Starport Boulevard in two days, at the Saone, usual time. When I meet you there, I’ll want to know who he was and where he went,’ he added.
So that was it. ‘You’ll be all right?’ asked Stanton.
Pelter just stared at him for a moment, then turned away. Of course he would be all right. If Sylac had wanted them dead, they would never have got this far, and if he had wanted to kill them here, there was nothing John could do to prevent it. He watched for a moment as the robot shoved the nerve-blocker up against Pelter’s neck. Then he turned away and got out of there, wishing he could close his ears to the sounds that then proceeded.
* * *
Once free of Cheyne III, the shuttle’s antigravity was displaced by the thrust of ionic boosters. Through the portals, star-strewn space faded in to replace the last orange-and-blue phosphorescence of atmosphere. Cormac felt himself slowly sag into his seat as gravity of one G was eased on for the benefit of the passengers.
‘Come on, get that belt off. Time for a drink.’
Cormac released his belt and woodenly followed Blegg to the shuttle bar. As he watched the old man elbow other passengers from his path, he just stood back and waited. He was finding it difficult to keep himself under control, for he had suddenly acquired the almost overpowering urge to ask Blegg why he had such a ridiculous name.
‘I’ll have a large Scotch,’ said Blegg, then, turning to Cormac, asked, ‘You?’
‘Albion water, please.’
‘Barman! Two large Scotches!’
Cormac shook his head and studied the interior of the shuttle. The bar stood at the rear of this particular wing. Ten metres to his left was the bulkhead, behind which engines purred and the shuttle’s AI that controlled the craft with but a fraction of its ability. Beyond that bulkhead was the other thick-sectioned wing containing another thousand passengers. Too many lives here to entrust to a mere human pilot. Cormac returned his attention to the bar and watched as webbed hands poured out their drinks. A machine could have done that so much more efficiently. He took the drink Blegg handed him, and followed him back to their seats. As they sat down, Blegg gestured to the barman, a seadapt.
‘You know, a machine could do that job much more efficiently, but why should the shuttle company pay for the expensive hardware when people like him are prepared to do the job for the fun of it, for the free passage?’
Cormac stared at Blegg with deep suspicion. ‘I was told you are to brief me.’
‘Your arse is so tight I’m surprised you bother eating.’
Cormac sipped some of his Scotch to stifle his desire to reply.
‘Briefing,’ said Blegg.
Cormac looked at him and suddenly found himself gazing into eyes resembling nailheads. Suddenly the sounds all around him receded, and something cold touched his spine. A new voice then spoke in his mind.
Cormac drank more of his Scotch.
Is that you?
‘Of course it was me,’ said Blegg. ‘Did it sound like the usual silicon moron? Now think about what I just told you.’
Cormac immediately accessed a runcible tech site and began downloading figures. Something black encroached at the edges of his vision, and everything he had been pulling in was corrupted. He saw files just fading out and draining away. Then something thumped inside his head, and the connection was gone. He experienced an hallucination, part visual and part tactile. A twisted illusion. He was groping about inside his own head, lost and panicking. A hand slapped on his shoulder and pulled him back.
‘I said,’ said Blegg, ‘think about what I just told you. Think.’
Cormac stared again into those eyes. He felt the tug of power there and he made an effort of will.
He did as Blegg suggested, and applied the simple mental calculating techniques he’d been taught longer ago than he cared to remember. Figures started to come up and, after rechecking, he started to put together a nightmare scenario. And somehow, because he had worked this out for himself, it all seemed more real.
‘Anyone coming through would have done so at near light speed,’ he said, and in his mind’s eye—that facet he normally used for downloaded images—he saw what must have happened.
Cormac looked at Blegg, but Blegg had turned away from him, watching as one of the other passengers walked by. As he began his reply, he slowly swung his gaze back to Cormac.
‘Before it was destroyed, the Samarkand runcible AI managed to transmit for point three seconds. Major structural breakdown, not detected in time to prevent reception. A runcible technician by the name of Freeman came through. He most certainly would have known nothing about it. Thirty megatons, conservative.’
‘Sabotage?’ said Cormac, as those nailhead eyes locked on him.
‘It seems likely. You’re aware of runcible safety parameters?’
Cormac nodded, then asked, ‘Are we talking mega-death here?’
‘No, the Samarkand runcible was upside and located on a cold world.’
‘What sort of figures?’
‘There were ten thousand nine hundred and five people on Samarkand, including AIs. The few Golem androids there would have been close to the explosion, and would almost certainly have been destroyed along with the runcible AI. As for the rest . . . the world was being terraformed by bleed-off from the runcible buffers. It will almost have returned to its original state by the time you get there.’
Cormac nodded and absorbed that information. There might be survivors. There might. ‘Did Samarkand serve a colonized world?’
‘Not really. The nearest colonized world is the planet Minostra: twelve light-years away, with its own planet-based runcible. Samarkand is a way-station world for the influx to the centre of the Polity. We were lucky in that, if in little else.’
‘My mission?’
‘One of investigation. You’ll travel from Minostra on a starship that has the unfortunate name Hubris. It’s going there to set up a stage-one runcible to bring the rest of the runcibles through, and to search for survivors, though it’s unlikely there’ll be any. We have to know what happened there. I don’t have to tell you how important this is.’
‘I know. If someone has found a way to sabotage runcibles . . . Could it be Separatists?’
‘There’s that possibility.’
Cormac leant back in his seat, sipped at his Scotch, but found he had finished it. Blegg took his glass.
‘No, I . . .’
‘Ian Cormac, it is time you learnt what it is to be human again.’
Blegg went to the bar and Cormac turned to watch him. The seadapt barman served him immediately, even though there was a crowd waiting. Blegg said something to him and the barman laughed, the gill slits on each side of his neck opening and closing as he did so. Blegg shortly returned with two fresh drinks. Cormac took his and stared into it doubtfully.
‘It’s said you do not have internal augmentation—that you link with AIs in some other manner,’ he said, without looking up.
Horace Blegg chuckled. ‘A lot is said about me, but don’t concern yourself. Your primary concern is this mission. For its duration you’ll be without direct information access.’
Cormac felt something lurch inside him. It was a confirmation of something he had been expecting, something that was overdue, yet it was something he could not visualize at this moment.
‘Why . . . surely there will be a transmitter on the ship?’ he said, perhaps trying to delay the inevitable.
Blegg shook his head. ‘In the service of Earth and the Human Polity you have been gridlinked for thirty years now. Studies show that nearer twenty years is the safe limit psychologically. Your ability to comprehend the spectrum of human emotion has been impaired, and it is imperative that it should not be. Without it, your usefulness becomes . . . less.’
‘I am becoming dehumanized, is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Your recent mission has shown this.’
Cormac considered his complete misjudgement of the situation with Angelina. He reached almost instinctively for access. It flooded through the wiring in his skull, with all its reassuring excess of information.
‘I see,’ he said, suddenly feeling more confident. ‘But by taking away my information access, do you not impair my efficiency another way?’
‘It’s our opinion we’re removing an impairment.’
‘Wouldn’t someone else be better?’
Blegg smiled. ‘You’re just right for this mission.’
Cormac sat back in his seat and studied the man. It was said he was immortal, a telepath, and that he could wear any guise. Cormac was completely aware that he was being manipulated, but how he just could not see. He reckoned that when he did find out, the surprise would be a nasty one. That was how it usually went. He closed his eyes and tried to bring some stillness to himself, before asking his next question.
‘Sleep,’ said Blegg, almost as if reading his mind. ‘These shuttles run slowly for our purposes, but at least there will be time for you to rest, and to consider.’
Who the hell are you telling to sleep?
He managed to ask that one question before blackness came down on him like a falling wall.
3
Dark Otter: amphibious lifeform found on the planet Cheyne III in the Aldour belt. Gordon gave these creatures this name because of their similarity to the otter (lutra) family of Earth (for more information on the otter, refer to ‘Earth’, subsection ‘Extinct Species’, heading ‘Carnivores’, reference 1163), though this similarity is superficial, and only noticeable in the creature’s juvenile form. Physiologically they are closer to the Terran amphibians and go through a similar, though inverted, metamorphosis. Its juvenile stage ranges in size from one centimetre to three metres. It then changes into the limbless pelagic adult. There are three sexes: male, female, and egg-carrier. Egg-carriers up to fifty metres in length are reported to exist, which is something of an anomaly because they are supposed not to survive the hatching of the eggs inside them. A more definitive study than the one in Gordon’s memoirs is required.
From Quince Guide, compiled by humans
The Meercat was too heavy for the AG units it was carrying, but that made for an exhilarating ride. The catamaran smacked wave-tops and left a scudding machine-gun wake as the shuttle turbine mounted between the hulls got it up to speed. The cabin, mounted just above and ahead of this ancient engine, was an elongated ellipse secured by struts made of the same carbon fibre as the hulls and the rest of the structure. The bottom half of it was opaque and the top half a dome of welded-together panes of chainglass. Overall the vessel was the same dull grey as the waves it sped over, a deliberate effect created by the photoactive paint smeared thickly on every surface. It was a cheaper alternative to chameleonware, and the choice of many who did not want their activities scrutinized.
Inside the cabin there was a distinctly unpleasant atmosphere. Arian Pelter was a both depressing and threatening presence seated in one of the acceleration chairs. Captain Veltz would have rather not taken on this job, but he knew what happened to people who refused the likes of the Separatist leader. He had often enough found their remains inside the dark otters he caught.
‘This should be the area,’ he said with a glance at Geneve. He hoped to Christ she’d keep her mouth shut now. She’d already pissed Pelter off by asking too much about the source of the transponder signal and he now looked ready to kill.
‘I still have no signal,’ Pelter said through gritted teeth.
Veltz shut down the throttle, then eased off the AG—no point in wasting power. It would be a waiting game for a little while yet. He turned and looked at Pelter, trying again not to show any reaction to what he was seeing.
A square-section pipe protruded from Pelter’s left eye, curved round back on itself to lie along the side of his head, above his ear, where it connected to an ugly grey aug, anchored behind the ear itself. Around that eye the skin was pink and new and obviously a graft. His eyelids were sealed round the pipe.
‘As I said,’ said Veltz, after clearing his throat, ‘those egg-bearers go deep, and can stay down for half a day or more. We just have to wait. You won’t get the transponder signal at that depth, and even if you did we wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.’
Pelter looked at him with his remaining violet eye. Veltz wondered just what sort of mill he had been put through. Pelter was scarcely the kind to get into anything dangerous without a train of his thugs to back him up. Maybe there was a power struggle going on amongst the Separatists. Maybe Veltz was making a bad move here by helping Pelter out. It had just seemed a good idea not to refuse at the time.
‘How do you know it’s still in this area?’ asked Pelter.
‘They’re territorial. They always stay put,’ replied Veltz.
‘Unless they’re driven off by a younger contender,’ interjected Geneve.
Pelter turned and glared at her. ‘I’m speaking to Veltz. When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it, otherwise keep your mouth shut or you will find yourself wearing a very special smile. Is that clear?’
Geneve seemed set to rebel until Veltz gave her a panicky warning look. She subsided and he quickly began speaking to fill the uncomfortable silence.
‘That doesn’t happen very often. Only when the egg-carriers are getting old. This one here is in its prime, as far as I can recollect.’
He had actually no idea what the egg-carrier in this area was like, as he concentrated his hunting activities further out to sea. He just kept envisioning that ‘smile’ Pelter had referred to. It was what they normally did to traitors: cut away their lips and cheeks, before bringing them out here to throw them alive into the sea. Again, Veltz had seen the evidence.
‘Let’s hope your recollection is not in error,’ warned Pelter.
Veltz turned back to his controls, re-engaged AG, and turned on the turbine. It was more for something to do than to serve any purpose. Sod the power wastage. He could understand how Geneve wanted to join in, sitting there with her thumb up her arse, and eager to use the sophisticated targeting equipment run by the console in front of her. Abruptly she stood up.
‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ she said, and ducked through the bulkhead door into the rear half of the cabin. Pelter watched her go with that dead expression on his face. Veltz could feel sweat pricking his forehead. He almost cried out with relief when the device Pelter clutched let out a beep and drew the Separatist’s attention to its narrow screen.
‘East,’ he said, ‘about two kilometres.’
‘Geneve! Get back in here!’ Veltz bellowed as he wound the turbine up to full power. The catamaran slammed forward with enough force to press Veltz and Pelter back into their chairs. In the galley Geneve swore, and there was a clattering sound. Veltz eased off on the acceleration when the catamaran was at a speed he felt comfortable with. He had never found the top speed. Just as the AG was insufficient for the Meercat, the turbine was far too much. Two such turbines had b
een capable of boosting into orbit a shuttle weighing ten times as much as the catamaran.
Geneve hurried back into the cabin, all thoughts of coffee forgotten. She plumped down in her chair and fixed her lap strap across, before hinging a targeting mask across her face. She took hold of the control handle on her console. A low droning came from below the cabin as the harpoon gun lowered. Cable-feed motors quickly cycled up to speed.
‘You should be getting sight of it shortly,’ she said.
Veltz could see the ribbed wake of the carrier. He too secured his lap strap, then looked at Pelter until he had his attention before nodding towards the distant disturbance. Pelter got out of his seat and walked up to stand behind the two of them.
‘I see it,’ he said. ‘Just don’t miss.’
Veltz decelerated as they closed on the visible signs of the egg-carrier. Pelter stumbled, then quickly got back into his own seat and strapped himself in. Veltz made sure the Separatist did not see the satisfied grin he allowed himself at that moment.
‘Go port and past,’ said Geneve.
Veltz eased the Meercat over and followed her instructions. He reduced AG so the water acted as a brake. The harpoon whined and thumped as Geneve moved the control handle.
‘No good. Come back on the other side,’ she said.
Pelter glared out at the monstrous creature as it breasted the swell in what seemed the slow-motion leaps of a giant slug. The core of hate and explosive anger in him seemed to be reaching a nexus. He would have some satisfaction here with at least some kind of kill, some kind of pain, in recompense for the pain he felt. Here he would find something to damp out the image, which kept replaying in his mind, of the narrow barrel of that thin-gun only centimetres from his face.
