by Neal Asher
He raised his hand.
"Now, let's get to the other functions."
The process took a further hour, was sometimes confusing and sometimes exhilarating, especially when he connected to the AI grid and found out how much information lay but a thought away. He was run quickly through the tutorial contained within the aug and shown how to access its user manual. When the autodoc removed its nerve block and feeling returned to his head, Cormac waited impatiently for the clamps to be undone, then quickly sat upright.
"What can you tell me about this editing?" he asked.
The medic shrugged. "No more than that you were edited as a child. I rather suggest that's something you'll have to take up with your parents or guardians."
As he left that place Cormac was determined to find out more about whatever had been done to his mind, however, he knew that he would not be finding out for a while. Now he had another VR training session, followed by weapons practice, then tactical assessment training and analysis, and knew that after them, he would be falling exhausted into his bunk.
9
Cormac gazed at the crowds standing in the large waiting area of the editing clinic and briefly wondered where Dax had got to. Perhaps he had gone to the toilet, or to buy more cigarettes. Soon, he knew, they would enter Door Eight where a smaller waiting room was situated, then they would go into the editing suite itself, where a Golem nurse, telefactored from a local AI, would conduct the editing process on Dax. It would take some time, of course, because Dax was a medic, and much of what lay between his ears was too useful to lose. Ah, perhaps Dax was already in there being worked on… no, that couldn't be right, for they had remained in the smaller waiting room until the work was done… but that was in the past… it had already been done.
Cormac looked around, realised he was sitting, then glanced across at his mother who was sitting beside him doing something with her lap-top. She had a look of extreme concentration until she realised Cormac was gazing at her.
"I was just making sure I kept copies," she explained. "They're notoriously unstable in the carbon memstores they're using here." Then she paused, as if reviewing what she had just said, and cursed quietly to herself. After a moment she went on, "Are you all right now?"
Cormac had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. He just gazed at her, unable to articulate the weird déjà vu he was experiencing—the sensation of reliving memory, and being offended because memory wasn't matching up to reality. Hannah popped a memtab from the side of her lap-top and dropped it into the top pocket of her shirt, slid the device back into its carrycase and hung the strap from her shoulder. He continued staring at her while something tried to realign inside his head, then he abruptly realised that memory came after reality, not before it. They were not here with Dax—that was all in the past and Dax was, right now, many light years away on a world called Cheyne III.
"What?" he said, then after a long pause. "What happened?"
Hannah stood, her hand closing on his and pulling him to his feet. He felt a bit wobbly and realised he must have been asleep or something.
"You felt faint," she explained, "and this was the nearest place where you could sit down." They moved back into the aisle and started heading towards the exit. "Best I have you checked out," she added, "though it's probably due to the excitement of the last few days."
Cormac still could not quite get things clear in his mind. They'd seen off Dax at the runcible port in Paris, then returned by lev-train to Tritonia, but he couldn't remember if they'd returned to The Watts Hotel or were still on their way back there.
They stepped out into the street where his mother scanned about carefully before towing him off in the direction of The Watts. Yes, he remembered now. They had returned to the hotel to clean up and change, before heading out to try a local restaurant. He couldn't remember if they had eaten. It certainly felt to him like they hadn't.
"Weren't we going to get something to eat?" he asked.
Hannah came to an abrupt halt and gazed down at him. "Do you feel up to it? I thought it better to get back to the hotel for a rest…"
"I'm hungry," he complained.
She smiled a secretive smile then turned them right round again. Within a few minutes they came opposite a restaurant where the tables and chairs spilled out onto the street through the arched frontage. Inevitably, considering its location, this place served seafood. The holographic and moving sign above the arches depicted a crab holding a large gun in one claw with which it was blasting all about itself. The gun then, evidently, ran out at which point the crab began backing away from the human who now stepped into view—Jebel U-cap Krong—who advanced with a pulse-gun in one hand and a mine in the other. The crab ended up backing along a plank over a large cooking pot of boiling water, into which it fell when Krong jumped onto the back of the plank.
Cormac was mesmerized; he loved this place at once.
They seated themselves at one of the outside tables, whereupon they were approached by a metalskin android with a head like that of a platinum ant. Cormac immediately made his selection from the menu and the android said, "Good choice," then turning to Hannah, "Crab salad for you too, madam?"
* * *
Cormac adjusted his night goggles and gazed about for a moment, impressed at how well they worked for he could hardly distinguish his surroundings from how they had appeared during the day. Could this be a hindrance? Might he neglect to take advantage of concealing darkness because he was less aware of it? Then again, it might also not be a great idea to get complacent and assume all his enemies blind, for any of them could be sporting similar goggles. Nevertheless, he adjusted them slightly so his surroundings took on an unnatural tint, just to remind him that it wasn't day, then returned his attention to his companions. Not much of them was visible at the moment for like Cormac they all wore chameleoncloth fatigues, and until they moved it seemed three disembodied heads, six hands and various pieces of unconcealed hardware occupied this clearing in the woods.
Gorman, when wholly visible, just looked like a thick-set and brutal thug. He carried a lot of body weight, easily, his head was stubbled with grey hair, his neck bulging, his eyes grey and his teeth slightly crooked and yellowish. He smoked cigars, liked eating mouth-strippingly hot curries and drinking vast quantities of beer, but only when off-duty and relaxing. The rest of the time his appearance and general demeanour belied the speed of his mind, his reactions and the way he assessed the data coming in through the small flesh-coloured aug affixed behind his ear like some sort of growth. Travis was neat and lean and ridiculously good-looking, with jet black hair tied in a pony tail and startlingly green eyes. He grinned a lot and his sense of humour was distinctly odd. Crean's appearance was Asiatic, big-breasted and lush, dark-haired, dark-skinned and dark-eyed. It had taken a little while for Cormac to realise that, like Travis, she was a Golem. Gorman was so obviously human, and delighted in being so.
"These gods like to have their ugly pets along as a contrast," said Gorman, stabbing a lit cigar to where the two Golem were assembling a mosquito autogun.
Mills was the missing member. A Separatist sniper had hit him right in the head with an explosive bullet. It was Crean who got to the sniper first. Tore him in half and hung the bits from a tree. Cormac hadn't understood how Gorman seemed to be so accepting of Mills' death, until he learned from Travis that Gorman had been edited. This reminded Cormac of when his brother Dax went for editing during the Prador/Human war, and of the other events of that period, and of the drone he now knew to be called Amistad. He reached up and touched the bean-shaped lump of computer hardware behind his own ear. In his new aug he had files about Amistad he wanted to review at leisure, but with the VR training and now this fast deployment, he hadn't had a chance. Also, stored in the aug was a message he had been drafting to send to his mother, Hannah, asking why he himself had been edited as a child, and what memories were missing.
"So here's the plan," said Gorman.
Cormac made that odd unna
tural effort that called his inbox up in a frame that seemed to the right of his vision but actually wasn't in it, and saw that he had received one message. He opened it and studied a visual file showing a mug-shot of someone immediately recognisable: Sheen, one of the Separatists who had accompanied him during the raid on the Prador ship.
"Any problems?" Gorman asked.
"I'll let you know when you tell me the plan," Cormac replied.
Gorman grinned. "Okay," he said. "Agent Spencer wants her alive. Sheen is Samara's sister and is likely privy to much that went on at the top."
"Sister?"
"You didn't know that?"
"No, I didn't know that."
"Everyone else in the caves is dispensable." Gorman shrugged. "In fact, that's all they are. They've got no information we want nor do we want to bring them in for trial, since sentence has already been passed on them all." He studied Cormac carefully. "Can you handle this?"
Cormac nodded, but swallowed dryly. This was so different from killing those who had attacked you and intended to torture you. It seemed too cold, too harsh. Would he hesitate? Might he find it difficult to pull the trigger on someone unarmed, even if that person was a Separatist? He picked up his stubby machine pistol from where it rested on the ground beside him, then stood up. The weapon was perfect for this kind of work, being easily manoeuvrable in confined spaces and, unlike most pulse-weapons, its discharge was invisible. It also bore a fat silencer that not only absorbed the crack of the shot, but also broadcast an inverted phonic waveform that covered most impact sounds. The result was, in most cases, utterly silent and eerie killing. Its magazine contained two hundred bullets, each projectile a high-pressure explosive p-shell just a millimetre across and three long. All four of them carried weapons like this, and also wore pepperpot stun guns holstered at their belts for when they came upon Sheen.
"Okay," said Gorman, standing up. "Time to get bloody." He pulled up the hood of his fatigues, pulled across his face mask and slipped on his gloves. Via his aug Cormac instructed his goggles to respond to the recognition signal each of his fellows was broadcasting. Gorman immediately became visible again, as if clad in some orange suit—it wouldn't do for Cormac to end up shooting his own side because he couldn't see them.
The two Golem, also now apparently clad from head to foot in orange, had finished setting up the mosquito and now stepped back from it. The weapon abruptly stood up on its six silvery legs, disappeared for a moment, then reappeared as a red outline as it engaged its chameleonware and Cormac's goggles picked up its signal. It then abruptly targeted them each in turn, recognised them then moved on, finally falling into a routine of surveying the tree-covered slope leading down into the valley before them.
"I'm glad you're so confident of your programming, Travis," said Gorman sarcastically.
Cormac realised they'd onlined the gun without doing a test, an option considered risky until they were sure its recognition software was working properly. Travis glanced round at them, and Cormac imagined his usual maniacal grin under his face mask.
"I delayed the loading of its dust magazine," the Golem said. "If my programming had been wrong it would only have given you a bit of an electric shock."
"Nice," Gorman replied. "And it'll recognise Sheen when we bring her out?"
"Of course it will!"
Crean now spoke directly to Cormac. "Don't let him get to you. The chances of him programming a mosquito wrong are about the same as any of us getting hit on the head by a meteorite."
Gorman flinched, put a hand on his head, and peered up at the sky.
Nice little humorous exchange, just before the four of them went down into that valley, then entered the cave hideout to slaughter people.
"Let's go," said Gorman, and led the way down the slope. The two Golem strode along beside him for a moment, then abruptly headed off at speed. Cormac glanced back at the autogun, which was now loping along behind him and Gorman like a loyal hound. Checking the assault plan in his aug he saw that the two Golem were heading out wide on either side to come in above the cavemouth from either side of the valley. His own and Gorman's routes diverged ahead, so they would also come upon the opening of the cave from two different directions.
"Go forty per cent infrared," Gorman advised. "They're sure to have guards out here." He reached out and slapped a hand on Cormac's shoulder. "You come on any, you take them down nice and quiet before they can send a warning."
Now they parted company, the mosquito following Gorman. Cormac located himself on a map of the local area called up in his aug, then transmitted the data from that to a small screen display mounted in the upper surface of his gun, which shortly displayed a low lumen arrow pointing to his destination. The reason for them splitting up and approaching from four different points was precisely so that at least one of them would hit the expected guard outpost. They didn't want anyone positioned behind them when they finally went into the caves. Continuously checking ahead and moving swiftly and silently from tree to tree, he advanced. It was a small glow-worm luminescence that gave them away.
I've found some watchers, Cormac sent using the text function in his aug.
Can you take them? Gorman enquired.
Cormac adjusted up the infrared in his goggles. The small glow of heat was from an ancient style of lamp. Obviously it had recently been used and its filament had yet to cool down. Now, with infrared at a hundred per cent, Cormac could see the spotlight itself, the hide below it, and the glow of two bodies inside.
I believe so, he replied.
Belief is not sufficient, came Travis' interjection.
Quite, said Gorman. And make sure you check identification first.
Of course: one of those two could be Sheen.
Cormac raised the magnification of his goggles as he got down on the ground and began to crawl towards the hideout. He shut off the cooling function of his clothing so nothing would be visible from its vents should those ahead possess night goggles. Now they would not be able to pick him up in infrared, since his chameleoncloth fatigues also possessed a near perfect insulating layer, hence the need for cooling and vents. Immediately his temperature began to rise and he started sweating.
He worked his way carefully forwards, using as much cover as possible, avoiding twigs and patches of dry leaves, moving as he had been trained in a slow muscular motion that produced very little noise. He hadn't believed it possible to be so silent until training in VR, but this was his first time doing it for real, so he was as careful as he could be. In ten minutes he reached within five yards of the hideout. One of the figures was peering out through the front of the hide and by its bulk it was evident to Cormac this wasn't Sheen.
"At least it ain't raining," said a male voice from the hide.
Cormac reached forwards, pressed a hand against the tree directly in front of him, then using that to take his weight, slowly eased himself upright.
"Always fucking positive," replied a second male voice. "We get to spend the night out here with beezle grubs crawling up our arses and you're seeing the bright side?"
"It could be worse."
"Yeah, the coffee could be cold and there could be grit in my pie." The man paused for a moment. "Oh right. The coffee is cold and there is grit in my pie."
"Yeah, okay—
Two men, that meant Sheen wasn't here, so Cormac must kill both of them. For a moment he considered other aspects of his training—the stuff about an enemy being humanized, about maintaining an emotional distance—but he found, even having listened to these two talking, that he was utterly cold. Yes, these were two people with lives of their own, with kin, families, maybe wives and children, but he also knew that it was quite likely that had he been tied up before them that one of them would have been bitching about "grit in his pie" while going to fetch the blow torch. He soft-linked via his aug to his weapon, throwing up a targeting frame in his goggles, stepped out from behind the tree and walked forwards, bringing that frame over the head visibl
e before him.
"Hey, I think I see—"
Cormac pulled the trigger and his machine pistol shuddered and whispered. Pieces still glowing in infrared splashed out behind the man as most of his head disappeared. The other was now visible through the hole in the front of the hide, crawling quickly on hands and knees to reach for a pulse-rifle nearby. Cormac hit him once, slinging him against the back earthen wall, then centred the frame over his head as he tried to haul himself upright. The face, almost skull-like in infrared, cratered, and the top of his head lifted like a lid.
Cormac paused for a moment, took a slow easy breath, then again turned on the cooling function of his clothes. With a red mist rising from the vents about his waist, he moved to the side of the hide, found a door and kicked it open, then altered his goggles to optimum night function: everything clear as day. The man he'd hit second was still breathing, but in short little gasps, his right leg shivering and blood spreading on the ground underneath him. The other one was down on his knees, what remained of his head resting against the front wall of the hide, blood painting a stripe down the wall. There was brain tissue spattered everywhere, the odd piece of hairy skull and, grotesquely, one ear was stuck to the back wall. After a moment the one still breathing, ceased to breathe.
"The problem has been dealt with?" Gorman enquired through the verbal com function of Cormac's aug.
Cormac realised that Gorman had probably been monitoring Cormac's weapon so knew when it fired, how many shots were fired, and when it ceased firing.
"The problem has been dealt with," he replied, quietly, calmly.
"Continue to the cavemouth," Gorman ordered, "but stay alert—just because you've killed some guards doesn't mean there aren't any more out here."
Cormac stepped back out of the hide, then following the direction arrow atop his gun continued along his course. Oddly, he had felt no surge of adrenaline before the assault, and now wasn't shaking and didn't feel sick, which heretofore had been his reaction in violent situations, with the exception of that time when he had faced torture. "Stone Killer" was a description that occurred to him, but it seemed far too dramatic, he felt that maybe he was just becoming accustomed to the life….
