by Neal Asher
"The process will take approximately half an hour," she told them. "Perhaps you would prefer to wait in comfort outside."
"Is there a problem?" Hannah asked.
"Every case is different," the nurse replied. "With someone of Dax's training and experience more care must be taken not to lose much of value."
"So if he'd just been a normal soldier," Hannah said, "it would have been quicker. I'm not sure I find that comforting."
The nurse's expression lost its sugary smile, which was replaced with something more complex, more human. The AI must now be paying full attention through this telefactored Golem. "The simple reality is that experience of complex surgical techniques for dealing with injuries caused by some of the new weapons being deployed is more important than knowing how best to gut a Prador."
"I see," said Hannah, and with her hand still tightly gripping Cormac's, headed for the door. Soon they were ensconced in the vestibule waiting room, Hannah getting drinks for them from the vending machine.
"Will he be all right?" Cormac asked, as he took out his p-top and opened it.
She paused for a moment, just staring at the front of the machine as it produced coffee for her and chilled pineapple juice for him. When the drinks were ready she took them up and turned.
"Yes," she replied, "he'll be all right." She stared at him for a long moment before placing the drinks on the low table then taking the seat beside him. "But I wonder about the morality of editing out bad memories of war."
"But we were attacked," said Cormac, "so surely survival questions come before moral questions?"
She stared at him with a raised eyebrow and a slightly unsure expression—the one she always wore when he said something too "adult."
"Exactly," she said.
He was not quite sure what she meant by that, nor entirely sure he'd understood what he himself had just said. He shrugged and quoted something else he'd recently read too: "War is Hell," and returned his attention to his p-top.
But Hannah would not let this go. "Is it worth winning a war if you become worse than the thing you are fighting?"
Cormac thought long and hard about that one, then replied, "But you can become good again, which is not an option if you're dead."
"You're too young to follow this," she said dismissively.
Cormac picked up his juice to take a drink, rather than disagree with her.
Half an hour later the door opened and Dax strode out, straighter and somehow more substantial now. He was smiling, and though he looked tired he did not look so strained.
"That's it," he said. "The cancer is cut out."
Cormac piped up, "Hasn't the cancer got a right to live too?"
His mother gave him a poisonous look.
* * *
City patrol—it was just the kind of job the AIs would give to those whose loyalty was questionable. They were here to help the local police, whose force was nowhere near up to strength and so were struggling to control the persistent organised crime in the city which, according to Agent Spencer, kept money flowing into Separatist coffers. However, their help only consisted of showing a presence on the streets, and providing trained military back-up on the few occasions required, and nothing else.
"You'd think we'd be in the clear by now," said Yallow, not in the least impressed with this duty. "If I didn't know he was up for a mind ream I'd do it to him myself with a rusty knife." She was even less impressed with Carl.
"It's statistics," said Cormac. "The AI probably knows we weren't involved in whatever he was up to, but a small element of doubt is enough for it to assign us duties away from the ship." He added, "I don't see that guard duty there, even if available, would be any better."
"Yeah, I guess."
"In fact we've more chance of some action here."
Yallow grunted noncommittally. They had been patrolling for six hours and were now heading to the rendezvous with their replacements. The only excitement in that time was seeing a drunk vomiting down a drain before passing out.
Because of their neophyte status their chances were remote of getting any «action» that wasn't strictly controlled. The incident with the Prador inside the ship had been an aberration, apparently not to be repeated until they had gained sufficient experience. This bugged Yallow even more because of the threat of insurgency two hundred miles north, of firefights in the skarch forest up that way, of reconnaissance, of search-and-destroy missions and rumours that illegal arms traders were operating in the area. She wanted to be there, since that was the environment she had trained for, and she wasn't even getting a sniff of it. Here they were patrolling along nearly empty streets, powerless to search any suspicious characters, ordered not to go near known Separatist bars or other gathering places, only to respond when asked for help either by a member of the public or by the local police.
Cormac desperately wanted to tell her about his secret mission, it burned inside him, but he knew that if he opened his mouth his discharge papers would quickly follow, probably shortly after Agent Spencer had tap danced on his face. Maybe he could get Yallow included in any future action if, in fact, he was going to be involved in anything more. The chances seemed slim—Spencer had remained out of contact for some time and Olkennon had answered his queries with "Just do the job you trained for, and don't even hope to know what happens with those CTDs."
At the end of the street awaited two grunts little different from themselves. Nothing to report, of course, and as they departed, Yallow's "Be careful in there," was greeted with snorts of derision. In a relaxed mood they began the twenty-minute trek back to the military township. The gravcar dropping out of the sky like a brick ahead of them came as something of a surprise.
Recognising the vehicle Cormac said, "Agent Spencer."
Olkennon poked her head out of the passenger window. "Get in. Now."
Yallow glanced queryingly across at Cormac. He shrugged. What did he know, he was just as much a grunt as she was. Unshouldering their weapons they climbed into the back of the vehicle. Spencer, who was driving, immediately launched the vehicle into the sky while Olkennon peered back at them.
"We're going off-planet very shortly," she said. "It's now become too much of a risk for you to remain here."
Cormac guessed she wasn't referring to Yallow.
"What's happened?" he asked.
Olkennon gazed at Yallow for a moment, then shrugged and returned her attention to Cormac. "Carl escaped."
"Fuck," said Yallow, "and that's enough reason to move us out?"
The car now abruptly descended and, while she brought it in to land in the middle of the township, Agent Spencer glanced back and spoke to Yallow. "You'll be apprised of the reasons for your departure after you're aboard the transport."
"Go and pack up your own and Cormac's kit and head over to the depot—a car will be waiting for you," Olkennon ordered. "You have permission to remain armed until you're aboard the transport out of here."
Yallow gazed at her unit commander, then switched her attention to Cormac. Her look said it all: he would have to update her soon or she would be seriously annoyed. Cormac remembered the bruises from last time she'd been annoyed with him, though he had given as good as he got. She climbed out of the vehicle and headed off to their quarters amidst the composite domes.
"He escaped?" he asked. "How the hell could he escape?"
Spencer took the car up again, then in a moment brought it down beside the hospital. Olkennon climbed out, but Spencer remained at the controls.
"Out," she said to Cormac.
He just cleared the car as it launched into the sky again.
"Come on," said Olkennon.
Finally reaching Carl's room, Olkennon punched in the code as before and led the way through the door. The bed was empty—shellwear discarded on tangled sheets. Cormac did not understand why he had been brought here. Olkennon walked around to the other side of the bed, gesturing Cormac over. As soon as he stepped round beside her she pointed down at an o
bject on the floor.
"Medscan didn't pick this up," she said. "It's very sophisticated for a twenty-three-year-old recruit and certainly confirms Carl was more than that."
Cormac prodded at the flap of rubbery material with the toe of his boot. It looked like a thick piece of skin.
"The body has been removed," Olkennon added.
"Body?"
"What you are seeing there is what covers my kind, though the newer of my kind. It's Golem syntheflesh, but unlike mine this has imbedded chameleonware." She stooped and picked up the piece of synthetic flesh and dropped it on the bed. "A medic came in here to check on him, to make sure the shellwear was still keeping him unconscious. Apparently it was not. We don't know for sure what he had concealed underneath this." She gestured at the flesh. "But something transmitted a localized virus that froze all systems connected to his room."
"You were using a nerve-blocker to keep him unconscious," suggested Cormac.
"Yes—it knocked that out too."
"He killed the medic."
"Broke her neck then took her clothing," said Olkennon bitterly. "Then he just disappeared."
"Why did you bring me here?" Cormac asked.
"Because you have earned the right to know." Olkennon seemed chagrined for a moment. "It also seems likely, judging by your recent performance, that you'll be offered the chance to train as an agent, and seeing this sort of thing forms part of your education."
Cormac nodded, shrugged his pulse-rifle's strap more firmly on his shoulder. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Really, he didn't think he was ready for that kind of advancement.
"Head back and link up with Yallow," Olkennon instructed. "Whether you tell her about all this is entirely up to you."
Cormac turned and headed out, his head buzzing. Carl would probably rejoin the Separatists here and once that happened they would know Cormac was not his partner. From then on he would become a target and a danger to those around him. This was why they were being moved out, and he didn't suppose Yallow would be too pleased about it.
Within five minutes he reached their quarters, in time to see Yallow dragging out two heavy packs. He walked over, put down his rifle while hauling on his pack, then once again hung the rifle from his shoulder.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked, as she hoisted up her own pack.
Cormac paused for a moment. How to explain all this?
"Olkennon showed me how Carl escaped," he said. "He killed a medic. I think she showed me this to drive home that Carl certainly isn't my friend. I think the AI was watching—checking my reactions. They still don't trust me because I was in that trench with Carl."
The lies spilt so easily from his mouth, and they were simpler than the truth. Perhaps he was cut out for agent training.
"But the AI didn't need to observe me?"
"I don't know, Yallow, I'm not an AI," he said. "Let's go."
As they marched off towards the main transport depot in the camp, Yallow was silent and contemplative, and kept glancing at him as if hoping to catch something in his expression. He maintained a slightly bewildered and angry mien, and after a little while she seemed to accept what he had told her.
"I still don't understand why we have to go," she said.
"Trust, I think," Cormac replied. "I guess they just can't afford to trust us on a world with this much Separatist activity." He glanced at her. "Or rather they can't afford to trust me—you just get to come along for the ride. I'm sorry."
Yallow grimaced
The hydrovan that slowly cruised past them was not a particularly uncommon sight, it being one of the bland green and beige vehicles used for carting about ECS equipment. It slowed ahead of them, pulled over and stopped, whereupon the back door popped open a crack.
The vehicle emitted a stuttering crackle, which for a second Cormac thought was produced by its exhaust, but Yallow just disappeared from his peripheral vision. He turned, seeing her sprawl loose-limbed. Her uniform looked untidy—torn and frayed—then she made an odd grunting sound and the blood began to soak through. In seeming slow motion Cormac hit the quick release on his pack then threw himself to one side, unlimbering his pulse-rifle. He shouldered the ground, rolled with the weapon clutched against his chest, came upright with it up against his shoulder and fired into the back of the van. The pulses of ionized aluminium cut a punctuated line across the back doors. Something thumped at the ground by his feet, and flew apart with a loud crack, the blast sending him staggering, then around him things detonated in the air punching what felt like needles through his exposed skin. With one hand going down on the ground he shook himself, tried to push himself into action, but couldn't get his breath and seemed to be gazing down a pipe at his hand.
Neurotoxin stun grenade, he realised, as the ground came up into his face and his consciousness fled.
"They would have been removed," said Samara. "After our first attempt they would have been removed."
Cormac blinked. She seemed to be drifting about before him and though sure she had said something a moment before, he could not remember it. He felt terrible: where his body wasn't numb it was afflicted with horrible bone-deep ache. He tried to move, but the only result of that was a sudden hot sweat.
"Wha?" he managed.
Something pressed against his neck, and hurt. From that point a wave of chill spread both up into his head and swiftly down his right arm to his fingertips, which felt as if each nail had been rapped with a hammer. In his chest the sensation was not unpleasant, until it encountered his stomach and seemed to close a hand around it. Abrupt nausea ensued and he vomited, just managing to turn his head so it didn't go into his lap, and seeing a couple of boots retreating he blearily peered up at Pramer, who was capping a syringe. Now, becoming a bit more aware of his surroundings, he realised he was tied naked to a chair in some cramped building with charred walls.
"Where were the tracers?" Samara asked.
"In the casings," someone replied—the voice somehow familiar, "We left the casings in the hole and took the antimatter flasks only."
"Are they okay?"
"Couldn't find anything, but we photo-etched the outside of them anyway."
"What about him?"
Cormac abruptly realised that Samara was standing right in front of him and that the one she had been talking to was somewhere behind. To his left Samara's other heavy stood cradling his flack gun. A wound dressing covered his hand and his face bore that shiny look often left by inferior doc-work. It was he who answered, not the other voice.
"His uniform was full of them, and there were microscopic ones imbedded in his skin," said the heavy. What was his name? Skyril, that was it. "While we were in the sewer we removed them, along with his uniform, then gave him the full-saturation EM to kill any others we might have missed. The search parties were above ground and couldn't get to an entrance into the sewers quick enough. In fact, when they did try to move fast they ran straight into a couple of sticky mines. Seemed to make 'em less enthusiastic."
Full-saturation EM to kill any bugs planted on him, Cormac realised. Then his mind drifted for a moment, before a hand connected hard with his face, snapping his head round.
"Are you listening, soldier?" Samara enquired.
He focused on her, almost grateful for the slap because it seemed to have shaken something into place in his mind.
"I'm listening," he replied, and further studied his surroundings.
The charred walls and the roof of plasmel sheets told him very little about his location, however, the big ceramic manhole cover behind where Samara was now standing indicated major drains below, so he was probably in the city. Hadn't someone said something about sewers? Behind the manhole cover was a heavy wooden door with a screen mounted upon it showing the feed from a pin-cam obviously positioned outside. All he could see there though was a brick wall with what looked like blackened roof beams resting up against it. To the right of the door a narrow worktop extended along the wall, two s
wivel chairs before it and further screens upon it. He recognised some city scenes, which seemed to confirm his location.
"So you know," she said, "that no one is going to be coming to rescue you, and that no one is going to be tracing those flasks. It didn't work, soldier. ECS fucked up and now we've got the tools to really hurt them."
Cormac tried to think fast, it wasn't easy. "So they played me," he said.
Samara just stared at him.
"But you've got what you wanted, which means you still owe me," he tried.
She continued staring at him, a nasty smile starting to twist her features. Someone else's hand rested on his shoulder and a mouth came down close to his ear.
"Cormac," said a now utterly recognisable voice. "I think she knows you're not my partner."
Carl.
Then the memory of Yallow sprawled bleeding on the ground hit Cormac in the guts.
Carl continued. "But knowing that, I really, really want to know whether ECS chose you because you were conveniently positioned, or whether you, like me, are not quite what you seem." Carl reached up and grabbed Cormac's chin, dragging his head round so they were face-to-face. "You see, if it's convenient positioning, I'll know ECS had no suspicions about me until the fuck-up at the ship and I will consequently know that our method of penetrating ECS military remains sound. However, if you're an agent, that means they've been on to me for some time… and we really need to know about that."
The hand released and Carl retreated. His neck vertebrae clicking, Cormac turned his head to peer behind. Work-benches back there. Carl, dressed in an army maintenance technician's overalls, began loading instantly recognisable antimatter flasks into a large brushed-aluminium case. Cormac brought his focus back to Samara.
