by Neal Asher
‘We’re not gonna survive seven minutes,’ Thorn observed, firing one of the last two antimunitions packages.
The explosions were close, shock waves veering the boat in its course and shrapnel clattering against the cabin. Thorn pulled the visor aside in time to see a missile tumbling end over end into the sea beside them, and detonating just under the waves.
‘Seven AGCs, and it looks like all of them have launchers.’ Thorn slapped the targeting visor back into place.
‘Jarv,’ explained Stanton, ‘we’re going to bail out. Thorn, empty that carousel. We’re going.’
Thorn took the cursor to each missile selection, rattling the firing button on each, then removed the visor and reached for his seat straps. Stanton was already through the door into the hold by the time he had his straps undone. Soon the two of them were moving back to the entry hatch. Thorn glanced to the rear of the hold, where the carousel was clicking round, and heard the missiles launching one after the other. Following Stanton down, he squinted through spray driven up by the outriders chopping through the wave tops. The two men jumped at the same time. Travelling at the same speed as the catamaran, Thorn hit the sea and bounced – the water feeling about as welcoming as concrete. Next, he was into it headfirst, whiteness all around him and copper salts bitter in his mouth. At his first breath on coming to the surface, he saw the catamaran already fifty metres away – missiles still launching from the rear of its cabin. The missile that then hit it, he did not see.
The central cabin just disappeared, like a balloon being burst by an orange explosion. Caught in the blast, one outrider went straight up into the air, then dropped like a dolphin having reached the summit of its leap, and disappeared. The remaining outrider, its tractor drive still functioning, motored on, towing a tangle of smoking wreckage.
‘Perfect timing,’ said John Stanton from behind him.
Thorn sculled round to the mercenary and grinned at him, before looking beyond to where the pursuing AGCs were now coming into sight. Soon the seven vehicles were hovering over the still motoring wreckage of the catamaran. From one of them another missile stabbed down and destroyed even this. Then the attackers nosed out across the area.
‘Shit,’ said Thorn. ‘You reckon they know we got out?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Stanton.
Thorn shot him a look of annoyance, then began hyperventilating, ready to dive under the waves. Stanton seemed amused by this. Thorn was just about to submerge when a double sonic boom shook the sky, and there came a roar as of a giant steel beast. A blast of hot wind hazed the area with sea spray and a shadow blotted out the sky. The AGCs turned and fled, like crows driven away from a road kill, and Thorn gazed up at the trispherical ship as it descended, cables dropping from an underside hatch.
Stepping from the shuttle, Cormac looked around the bay and wondered at why it was so empty. Such a huge area had plenty of space for other shuttles, of which, judging by the number of ships outside, there needed to be many, yet there was none here but their own. He had begun to get an intimation of something not quite right when out of one of the row of drop-shafts to the rear of the bay emerged the welcoming party.
The two men were suited in grey businesswear and wore black intensifier eye-bands and executive polished-chrome augs. They preceded soldiers uniformed in light combat armour, with helmets which extended down one side of their heads – containing military coms and augs no doubt – and carrying pulse-rifles. But all these seemed inconsequential compared with what came up out of the shaft behind them, passed to either side of the group, and swung round in front. Here were two large polished cylinders floating vertically, with weapons mounted at each end. They were heavy-armour AI drones – very new and very dangerous. Even the Occam Razor did not have anything like this aboard. Cormac glanced back and noticed that the bay’s armoured doors were drawing closed. He initiated Shuriken as the three Golem accompanying him moved out to either side of him.
‘Probably come for the docking charges,’ Gant suggested to Cento.
Cormac glanced at Gant. ‘Who are these?’ he asked.
‘Could be anyone,’ the Sparkind replied. ‘There’s about a hundred private armies here employed by various corporations. More likely though that these are Elysium Security – each corporation provides a percentage of its own forces for overall security.’
‘Got some serious weaponry,’ noted Cormac, indicating the drones.
‘They are ship drones built for Earth Central Security,’ said Aiden.
Cormac turned to the Golem. ‘Any communication?’
‘They are somewhat . . . terse,’ Aiden replied.
The drones reached them first and floated out to either side of them, turning to the horizontal as they did so, training their weapons on the four of them. Each drone, Cormac noted, possessed a missile-launcher and an APW – antiphoton weapon – obviously whoever had sent this welcoming committee was taking no chances. The soldiers halted smartly while the two leaders advanced and came to a halt five metres from Cormac. The one on the right, who was bald, quite obviously boosted, and had skin the colour of orange cheese, carefully surveyed Cormac and his companions.
‘Welcome to Elysium,’ he said, at last.
‘Interesting that you chose those words,’ said Cormac, eyeing the drones. ‘I don’t feel particularly welcome.’
‘We are always cautious here,’ the man replied. ‘And we become especially cautious when paid a visit by an ECS dreadnought. What business do you have here?’
The man’s companion, who was shorter, not so heavily built, and had long black hair spilling across his shoulders, showed a set of chrome teeth in a grin. ‘Lons here is always a little blunt,’ he said. ‘But you must understand that many living here have interests that they wish to preserve.’ He moved forwards, with Lons trailing a step behind him, and held out his hand to Cormac. ‘Alvor,’ he said, clasping Cormac’s hand in a sweaty grip.
‘Ian Cormac.’
Both men’s expressions abruptly hardened, but Alvor continued: ‘I’m surprised you would want to come here. But now that you are here, if you would accompany us?’ He turned and gestured towards the drop-shafts.
‘I think you are misconstruing the purpose of my visit. I’m here solely because Elysium is the only place on my present route to possess a runcible facility,’ said Cormac.
‘Unfortunately I am not the one this needs to be explained to.’ Alvor was now surveying Cormac’s companions. He went on, ‘Also, because of certain security considerations, your friends will unfortunately have to remain here meanwhile.’
Cormac raised his hand to silence Gant, who had been about to protest, and asked, ‘Who do I need to explain this to, and what are these “security” considerations you mention?’
Lons replied with, ‘We’ve no objection to Golem here, except of course when they are Golem Twenty-sevens disembarking from an ECS dreadnought. Then we become suspicious.’
Alvor shrugged. ‘Dreyden is understandably nervous of such company.’
‘Dreyden?’ Cormac asked.
Alvor stared at him for a long moment before going on, ‘Our employer has been the de facto ruler of Elysium for some years now – of which ECS must be well aware?’
‘Well, I’m not,’ said Cormac. ‘As I said to you, my business here relates only to this place’s location – nothing else – and I can’t be expected to remember the name of every tinpot autocrat, since hundreds of them rise and fall in every decade around the edge of the Polity.’ The two men frowned at this, but Cormac continued, ‘I’ll now accompany you to see this Dreyden, but meanwhile my companions will continue with the real purpose of our visit here.’
‘Are you sure about that, Agent?’ Gant asked him.
Cormac glanced at him. ‘If I’m not back here with you when you’re ready to leave, and if I haven’t communicated with you . . . then you’ll know what to do.’ He glanced coldly at the two grey-suited men. ‘I’m sure Captain Tomalon would be more than willing
to give his weapons a test run.’
‘Unfortunately Dreyden does not want ECS Golem running about this place unsupervised, so they must remain here,’ said Alvor.
‘And how do you intend to make them remain here?’ Cormac asked.
Alvor glanced at the two huge drones, and winced as if it was painful for him to even mention their presence.
‘Let me put it another way,’ Cormac went on. ‘Is this Dreyden prepared to murder ECS Golem androids out of no justification other than his paranoia? When all they will be doing is going over to the runcible facility to await someone’s arrival?’
Alvor put his fingers against his aug, as he obviously received further instruction. ‘The arrival of whom?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Not that it concerns you greatly, but a Polity scientist, that’s all,’ Cormac replied, starting to feel irritated now.
Smoothly Alvor went on, ‘If that is their only purpose here, then you’ll have no objection to them being accompanied, then?’
‘No objection, just so long as there are no more delays,’ said Cormac. Then, to his three companions, ‘No screw-ups. This place is for another day.’
Cormac waved a hand in the direction of the drop-shafts, and began heading in towards them. The two grey-suits fell in beside him, and the attendant soldiers parted before him, then closed behind.
Upon reaching the shafts, Cormac glanced back to note that the two drones had remained with the Golem – obviously human soldiers were not considered sufficient accompaniment for those three. Alvor punched a code into the touch-console beside one of the shafts, then stepped out to where the irised gravity field wafted him upwards. Cormac quickly followed. As he was dragged up he felt that familiar slight tugging each time he passed a floor and, counting thirty of such sensations, realized he must be nearing the top of the station. At one point there was a pause in his ascent, before he passed ‘Restricted Area’ signs, and thereafter the sides of the shaft were striped orange and black – the universal colours of danger. At the required level, he stepped out behind Alvor into a vestibule before twin wooden doors. The floor of this space was slabbed with alternate white and translucent-red stones – probably of alabaster and artificial ruby. Suspended from the ceiling by ominously heavy cables was a standard design of security drone, but with an APW bolted underneath. It observed him with matt-black visual receptors and turned to track his progress as he followed Alvor to the door. Glancing back, he saw that only Lons had joined them – the soldiers having departed the shaft somewhere below. No doubt Dreyden considered them unnecessary now Cormac was within his internal security system.
At the doors, Alvor turned and held out his hand. ‘Your weapons.’
Cormac pulled his thin-gun and tossed it across to the man. As Alvor caught and inspected this, Cormac unstrapped his shuriken holster, then handed it across. With raised eyebrows Alvor studied the weapon before pocketing it.
‘Interesting,’ he said, before turning to lead the way in.
Beyond the doors was a glass lock, and through this Cormac saw a huge biodome with a roof constructed from hexagonal panes of chainglass, through which sunlight was reflected from a pylon-mounted mirror on top of the station. Following Alvor through the glass door when it hissed open, he found himself beginning to sweat in the humid atmosphere inside the dome. All around grew tropical plants: cycads, tree ferns, orchids, and other adapted or exotic species. To his right a stand of cyanids reared up into shadow, their sharp blue leaves like huge machete blades, metre-long flower pods open to expose intricate yellow convolutions like the surface of a brain. A low creaking attracted his attention towards his left, where a plasoderm’s circular grey seed case slowly opened and oozed the flattened worms of jelly that were its slime-mould spore carriers. Seeing this last plant – a native of Callorum – immediately raised Cormac’s suspicions. However, he knew that samples of such plants were always in circulation, and could be easily obtained by an enthusiast. He told himself not to have such a nasty suspicious nature.
‘Friend Dreyden has an interest in botany, I take it?’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ grunted Lons, revealing even more of his charm now he felt himself to be more in a position of power.
‘Donnegal Dreyden was an expert in the fields of biomechanics, botany, linguistics, and political science before he focused his full attention on metallurgy, and subsequently formed Alliance Smelters,’ said Alvor – quoting straight from the manual, Cormac felt – before gesturing ahead to a building that seemingly acted as a wide pillar supporting the centre of the biodome, and then leading the way over to the metal stairs that spiralled up its side. Lons trudged along behind them, resentment more than obvious in his mien.
At the top of the building, the stairs terminated in a balcony ringing a circular and luxuriously appointed apartment. Entering it, Cormac scanned the fortune in antiques gathered here – there was even what looked like a preruncible computer resting on a replica Louis XIV gate-legged table – then brought his attention to the man rising from a single screen and simple console positioned in one corner. This individual, on cursory inspection, could have passed for one of Alvor’s or Lons’s associates. Closer inspection revealed that his businesswear was Armani and his aug a Sony 5000. He was thin and his hatchet face looked tired – with shadows under his eyes and those eyes red-rimmed. His movements were jerky, and slightly unsure, as in someone who is withdrawing from some drug. On standing, he took a cigarette from the box on the table beside him and tapped it on his wristcom, before putting it into his mouth. He lit it with a small laser igniter set into a heavy ring on his forefinger.
‘Ian Cormac,’ he said. ‘I knew a day like this would come, but I did not expect it so soon.’
‘That day being?’ asked Cormac, advancing into the room as Alvor and Lons moved back to stand by the balcony door.
‘Drink?’ Dreyden asked, gesturing to a nearby cabinet.
Cormac contained his impatience and nodded briefly, watching while Dreyden poured two whiskies from a crystal decanter, then added rainbow spheres of cips ice. Taking the drink proffered, he felt disinclined to sample it.
‘You know, it’s taken me two years and about a billion New Carth shillings to get this place organized.’ Dreyden led the way to a seating area and plumped down in an armchair. Cormac perched himself on the edge of a sofa, placing his drink on a coffee table, the top of which was a polished slab of green tourmaline, apparently found on the asteroid that had made Dreyden his first billion, or so said holographic text scrolling round in the mineral.
‘And this is relevant to me how?’
Dreyden drew hard on his cigarette. ‘Because you’re Earth Central Security, and don’t tell me that ECS doesn’t intend to subsume Elysium.’
‘Maybe so, but that has nothing to do with why I’m here,’ Cormac replied.
Dreyden looked doubtful as he went on, ‘You know, because of the security service I formed here, crime is down to Polity levels and the standard of living is very high. In fact higher than on many Polity worlds. A lot of people here are making a lot of money.’
‘Admirable,’ commented Cormac dryly.
‘If ECS come in here then many people will die. They’ll fight to keep you out; they like things the way they are,’ Dreyden told him.
Cormac twirled his glass on the tourmaline and noted that the biggest smelting complex in Elysium was Drey-den’s property – apparently it could turn a million tonnes of asteroidal steel into foamed-metal construction members in less than a solstan day. Cormac was impressed, but no less irritable and bored.
‘You’re not listening to me,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to conquer your little empire, Dreyden.’ He looked up. ‘Though I may yet give the matter some consideration if I’m delayed any longer.’
Dreyden stood, and Cormac observed the beads of sweat dotting his brow. The man was twitchy – either angry or scared – as revealed in his sneering tone when next he spoke.
‘I have something to s
how you,’ he said.
With weary impatience Cormac followed him to the centre of the room, then up yet another spiral stair leading to a platform positioned directly below the chainglass roof. Climbing through the hatch and onto this platform, they came into a smaller glasshouse protruding up from the roof itself. All around, they had a perfect view of Elysium. Dreyden gestured to the ships crowding the floating docks, then beyond them to where the Occam Razor was clearly visible.
‘Big bastard, that ship, but it probably doesn’t mass much more than the asteroids we regularly bring in,’ he said. He now pointed to the habitats and smelting complexes that formed almost a tangled wall in space beside them. ‘You know, we don’t have Separatists here because essentially most of Elysium is not actually in the Polity. Though being upon the Line as we are, we share many of the benefits of Polity membership. It’s a situation we do not really want to change, either through annoying you people by harbouring criminals or by pushing for full membership.’
‘Your point?’ Cormac asked.
Now Dreyden indicated the huge sun mirrors. ‘I have complete control over those now. The grabship captains have to buy time on them from me, as do those corporations that own the few furnace satellites that I myself do not own,’ Dreyden said.
Cormac remained silent, waiting for the man to make his point – he now had some intimation of what that might be, but he wanted it clearly stated.
Dreyden went on, ‘It only takes a minute to shift the focus of those mirrors. You can’t see from here, but there is a ring of them, each capable of covering its nearest partner within a matter of seconds. They can also cover all possible approaches to our . . . community.’
