by Neal Asher
‘Hubris, display anything you have on gridlink withdrawal . . . please,’ he said.
The screen flickered and one word appeared: Searching . . .
In a couple of seconds a number of file headings appeared. He sat down at the console and with unpractised fingers began to work through each file. What he read there only confirmed things he already knew: long-term linking was much like drug addiction, and like drug addiction it could be broken with willpower, with inner strength. The situation as it stood was unacceptable, and Cormac intended to rectify it. He sat with his fists clenched until there was a knock at the door. It might have been only a few seconds; it might have been for minutes. He unclenched his fists, wiped the screen and stood.
‘Enter,’ he said.
The woman who came through was tall and classically beautiful. She had luxuriant black hair, skin that seemed unnaturally white, a ripe and muscular figure only just covered with clinging body suit, thin but perfect features and striking green eyes. Only she was not a human woman.
‘You are NG2765?’ Cormac asked.
‘I am Jane.’
‘My apologies, I did not know your name . . . but you are a Golem Twenty-seven?’
Jane smiled evenly, and then looked with a raised eyebrow at the lurid pot plant Cormac had shoved behind the sofa. Cormac swallowed annoyance: the Golem series was too damned good. In a way he preferred the other makes; the ones that appeared less human and less than perfect.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I require assistance. It was the science officer’s suggestion that you be assigned to me.’
Damn it! Why did he feel so uncomfortable? He had to remember she was an AI-run machine, albeit an extremely sophisticated one.
‘What kind of assistance do you require?’
Cormac took a slow breath and wondered if his hands were shaking again. He did not look. ‘I wish you to accompany me to the surface. I am without information access and there are many questions . . .’ He realized, even as he was saying it, that it was wrong.
‘Have you considered an aug? Mika could fit you one.’
Cormac clamped down on a sudden surge of longing. No, an augmentation would be no good. It would be like having alcohol instead of heroin. He had to beat this. ‘I will not have an aug,’ he said.
Jane nodded thoughtfully, then said, ‘You will be going down with the investigative team, I presume?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, any questions you may wish to ask me might as easily be addressed to them. Many of them have augs, and Chaline has recently been gridlinked.’
Cormac shook his head. Chaline gridlinked? He did not want to get anywhere near how that made him feel. He focused on the problem at hand. How could he tell this . . . woman that without information access he found it difficult to talk to people? To real live people. He did not feel . . . superior. He had wanted a thinking machine, yet the only ones on the Hubris were the ship’s AI and the Golem androids. There wasn’t a lowly drone robot or metal-skinned android in sight. They were all stored away for emergency use.
‘Please, hold yourself in readiness,’ he said, his jaw locking up. ‘That will be all.’
Jane smiled, nodded, and left him. He stood there feeling gauche and confused. He had expected something else. She was too human.
* * *
Beyond the angled windows of the shuttle bay, Samarkand was a yellow onyx marble wrapped in filaments of white cloud and Andellan burned with a distant cold light. Thus would Sol appear from an orbit just beyond Jupiter. Only because this was a very uncrowded area of the galaxy could the sun be distinguished from the other faint stars. This was a remote place: a place where help would always come too late.
Cormac pulled on his coldsuit and wondered if he would find anything unexpected down there. Survivors, for example. Even from here the brownish ring of the ground-zero was visible at the centre of the planet—a cankerous iris—Hubris being poised over it, geostationary. He turned as Chaline came up beside him.
‘For our initial study we’re putting down outside the accident site. There’s an undamaged heat-sink station on the edge of New Sea. We might be able to get some information from the submind there, though we get no response from it on the usual channels.’
She looked at him warily with wide green eyes as she tied back her curly black hair. Her features were very fine and her skin black as obsidian. When he first saw her, he thought her black skin a cosmetic effect or alteration. It came as a great surprise for him to discover it was natural, not even an extraterrestrial adaptation. It made a change from the olive-brown of the run of humanity, or the luridly dyed skins of members of the runcible culture, and it was unusual to come across any of the old-Earth racial types this far out. Blegg was an exception, in every area.
‘Yes, OK,’ he said, his thoughts still on the subject of ‘race’ and groping after answers from a link that was no longer there.
With the explosion of the human population across the stars, the gene pool had been thoroughly stirred. There had been a song, something about ‘chocolate-coloured people by the score’. Really ancient. Cormac had not understood it until he had learnt from his link what a ‘score’ was, and that chocolate had once come in only one colour. The song had been right in one sense: the ‘melting pot’ had occurred, but now, with adaptation and alteration, skin colour was spread across the spectrum and was the least of differences between human kinds.
‘We can’t bring down the runcible until we find out what happened to the one here. Your concern is who. My concern is how, as my command area is mostly runcible installation,’ she said, studying him dubiously.
‘Of course,’ he said, and turned back to the window. He sensed her standing at his shoulder for a moment, then turning away to rejoin the others. Was he so short with her because she was linked? Was he that petty? Christ, where was his self-control?
Two of the group behind him were Earth Central soldiers. He could assume command of them whenever he needed, but for the moment he left them to operate independently. They had the training. Crisis would stratify the command structure. He wondered if the set-up had been Blegg’s idea: to give him time to readjust. He turned and surveyed them all as they fixed and clipped up their coldsuits, and he noted how the two women avoided his gaze. The soldiers seemed oblivious to his attention.
As the last seal was closed and hoods were pulled up, Jane entered the shuttle bay. She still wore her clinging bodysuit. For a moment Cormac had thought she might not be coming. Then he remembered: what need did she have of thermal protection? He strapped on his face-mask and put up his hood before joining her and the others. He felt more comfortable that way. People, damned people. He noticed Chaline give Jane a strange look.
‘We can board now,’ said Chaline.
The wing was a small carrier, its span only 150 metres or so. It sat on the polished floor of the bay like a grounded raptor. Once they had entered it and taken their places, Cormac was glad to see Jane move to the fore and take the pilot’s chair. He felt foolish in her presence. She left the doors between the cockpit and passenger area open. This gave them all a good view through the chainglass screen. Cormac sat and Chaline sat down next to him. He noted that he was the only one wearing his mask. He removed it and studied the people with him—hardened himself against the urge to just shut them out.
The two soldiers were both big, fit-looking men. Brezhoy Gant, the one who was sitting beside the door, was either completely shaven or just naturally hairless. Cormac noted that his skin had a slightly purple tinge, and wondered if some ancestor had used adaptogens. He felt a return of that empty feeling when he realized that if he wanted to know he would have to ask—politely. Patran Thorn was an evil-looking man with a Vandyke beard and hooked nose. Cormac thought he had an appearance more suitable to someone wielding a cutlass than the high-tech, cold-adapted weaponry he was carrying. Mika, the other member of the party, was crew. She was a medical and life-sciences officer, and was along in the
unlikely event they might find survivors. She was a diminutive woman, who appeared little more than a girl, and was a complete contrast to Chaline. Her hair was pale orange and closely cropped, and her skin was very pale. Her eyes were the demonic red of an albino. She looked fragile, whereas Chaline looked vigorous. But Cormac had seen the tattoo on the palm of her hand and knew that she was Life-coven from Circe. She had his respect, as did all who graduated from that secretive place.
‘I wonder why Jane isn’t wearing survival gear?’ Chaline asked of anyone.
This annoyed Cormac. She had a link; why didn’t she use it?
‘She has no need of it,’ he said.
Chaline looked at him as if he was an idiot. Cormac was about to say more, but closed his mouth before he could cram his other foot in it. Of course, he should have realized. Androids normally tried very hard not to display what they were, so Jane was going down onto the surface dressed as she was, only for his sake—to give him the comfort and crutch of knowing he was with a machine. Cormac felt horribly embarrassed, then in turn extremely angry. It was about time he started thinking for himself, about time he regained some independence. What had he lost? Just a voice in his head that could answer a few questions—information as easily obtainable from any console. He no longer had that facility now, so he would make do with what he did have. He leant back in his seat and strapped himself in. The shuttle shuddered as the gravity in the bay went off, and they all lifted against their straps. Under air-blast impellers, the shuttle began to drift towards the irised door at the end of the bay.
‘Chaline.’ He turned and faced her directly. No more masks. ‘Jane is not wearing survival gear so that I might be more aware of her unhumanity . . .’
Don’t overplay it. This woman isn’t an idiot.
‘I was gridlinked, previously.’
Chaline stared at him for a moment until realization hit her. ‘I see . . . Hence the . . . console.’
Mika spoke up then. ‘You were linked for a long time.’
It was a statement, not a question. Life-coven did not often need to ask questions.
‘How long?’ asked Chaline.
‘Thirty years. You lose sight of humanity in that time—and certain manual skills.’ He tried a tentative smile.
Chaline smiled back and nodded. ‘The opinion was that, as an agent of Imperial Earth Central, you were too high and mighty to associate with mere runcible technicians and crew.’
‘My apologies,’ said Cormac. It was autonomous politeness, and he saw that it was taken as such.
Ahead of the shuttle, the door irised open on a shimmer-shield: a direct offshoot of Skaidon tech. The shuttle passed through it as if through the skin of a bubble.
‘Acceleration,’ said Jane. If she had listened in on the conversation, she showed no sign. The conversation had been low, but not beyond her hearing. Few sounds were.
The slight thrust pushed them back into their seats, and Samarkand slid to one side of the front screen. Andellan came into view, tracking a black spot across the screen as the chainglass reacted to blot out damaging UV.
Chaline spoke again, obviously a rehearsed speech. ‘As acting science officer I am directing this, and you are along as an advisor, though I know you have veto and can assume command in a crisis. However, I would like to know, do you have any idea as to what we may find?’
Cormac considered for a moment. This was a thought that had been occupying him in those moments when he had not been feeling sorry for himself. He cleared his throat and concentrated on turning his unspoken thoughts into spoken words.
‘Well, we might get something from the submind at the heat-sink station, but I doubt it. The destruction of the runcible AI will have . . . damaged it. That’s the problem with centralized processing. Any information it might have retained will be badly scrambled. What we need to get a look at is the buffers, if there’s anything left of them.’
‘Sabotage?’ wondered Gant.
Cormac looked across at him. ‘That is considered likely.’
Gant nodded ponderously and removed a packet from the top pocket of his coldsuit, and from that a thin white tube that he placed in his mouth. He held a small chrome device up to it and a small flame flickered into life. Cormac realized with a feeling of shock that the tube was a cigarette, and Gant was smoking. He had not seen anyone smoke since he was last on Earth, twelve years ago. It had been all the rage then. He noted that Mika and Chaline were eyeing the soldier with fascination. Gant was aware of them all watching him as he puffed out a fragrant cloud of tobacco smoke.
‘Sorry.’ He removed the packet and offered it. Mika and Chaline refused, not offensively—there was no social ostracism of those indulging in this now harmless habit—but with surprise. Obviously they had never been to Earth. Cormac accepted both a cigarette and Gant’s lighter to light it. It was only another method of communicating.
‘Thank you.’ He lit the cigarette and drew on it, then in a tight voice went on with, ‘You know, out here these things are not often seen?’ He held up the cigarette. Gant shrugged and leant back, after retrieving his lighter. The comment did not seem to bother him.
‘I take it you come direct from Earth?’ said Cormac.
Gant nodded. ‘Yeah, Ukraine—fifteen hundred kilometres from the original Samarkand.’
‘Fifteen hundred,’ Cormac repeated.
‘Yeah,’ said Gant, studying the tip of his cigarette. ‘You know it was established by Uzbeks and was a major stopping point on the Great Silk Road. That’s why this place was named after it: it was also a stopping place, a way station. I always wanted to see what it was like.’
Cormac was not sure if he was talking about the ancient city or the planet. He also wondered what was buried underneath that rambling. He left it.
‘Your friend?’ Cormac looked across at Thorn, who was gazing out a window, his expression pensive.
‘English.’
‘A long way to come.’
Cormac drew on his cigarette and stifled a cough. A very long way to come. There was something more to these soldiers, if Central was prepared to send them all this way. He entertained a suspicion.
‘You’re Sparkind.’
Gant grinned at him, and Cormac repressed the urge to swear. Blegg had made this as difficult for him as he could without compromising the mission. It seemed that everything he needed to know he would have to learn. He suspected this might be Blegg’s idea of a recovery programme from Cormac’s gridlinking.
‘What are Sparkind?’ asked Chaline.
Gant’s face fell.
Cormac explained, ‘Kind of soldier. They have a certain reputation.’
Mika said, ‘They dealt with the situation on Darnis; twelve of them against a unit of cyborgs and a small army. The name is the same as that of an ancient race of fighters.’ Her expression was blank.
Gant’s smile returned. ‘No, they were called Spartans—and we don’t live like them,’ he said.
Mika frowned. She obviously did not like to be found wrong.
‘How many of you are there on the Hubris?’ asked Cormac.
‘Just one group,’ replied Gant.
Four of them. Not inconsiderable. What was Blegg expecting?
Gant continued. ‘The other two are Golem Thirties.’ He was still smiling.
Cormac tried not to let his annoyance show. This was information he should have received long ago. Had he been gridlinked, of course, he would have already known. He also reckoned he would have directed things with all the sensitivity he had shown on Cheyne III. Damn Blegg.
* * *
Samarkand grew and grew until an arc of it filled the screen; frozen oceans of a sulphurous yellow edged with shores of pure malachite; rolling mountain ranges that seemed made of desert sand. Chaline pointed out a spreading stain of reddish-green across the surface of one ocean. It issued from one point on the shore.
‘Heat-sink station,’ she said. ‘The colouring is from adapted algae. They should surviv
e the freezing process and start oxygenating, once the seas thaw out.’
‘That will take a lot of energy,’ Cormac observed.
‘Well, you’ve seen how much energy one human body can carry in.’
She looked to the side, where the brown ring at the edge of the blast-site could be seen. It was just coloration to the level ground and over a nearby range of hills, from fallout—from the heat flash. They all knew that nothing could have survived within it. Cormac pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then turned to the two Sparkind.
‘What was your brief,’ he asked, ‘exactly?’
Thorn said, ‘Quite simple, my friend, we are here to make sure nothing . . . military gets in the way of re-establishing runcible link. Beyond that, we were told to do whatever you tell us to do. There was a briefing that, for this initial survey, only Gant and I would be needed, and that further orders from you might be . . . lacking.’
He gave a crooked grin, to which Cormac could not help but respond.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Only that the other two were to hold themselves in readiness. I suppose you don’t need the big guns yet. Anyway, they were orders that were surprisingly lacking in detail. I hope that what detail there is doesn’t conflict.’
‘It won’t,’ said Cormac, and clamped down on his frustration. He had learnt nothing. Only two for the initial survey. Where or when would all four be needed? Cormac cursed Blegg’s reticence. It seemed to him now he had only been sent here to learn something which was probably already known, and to be rehabilitated. He did not like playing this sort of game.
