The Line of Polity

by Neal Asher

  ‘Come on, slugabed, you’ve slept long enough I think,’ said Fethan.

  Feeling a sudden flushing of guilt at her unaccustomed laziness, Eldene quickly sat up in bed and observed the old man unshouldering first a rifle then a heavy backpack and depositing them on the floor. Now finding she was completely naked, she realized Fethan must have undressed her after she had collapsed into this bed last night. Embarrassment added to her discomfort.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’ she asked, clasping the clean pale blue sheets about herself, and noticing how filthy were her hands in comparison.

  ‘About half as long again as you’re used to.’

  Wiping a hand over her face Eldene studied her surroundings with somewhat more attention than previously. That this – the largest and most airy room she had ever slept in – should be found underground was a constant surprise.

  Fethan pointed to an arched entrance over to one side. ‘There’s a shower in there with hot water and other luxuries you could easily get accustomed to. You’ve got an hour before we set out again, so you’d best get moving, girl.’

  Eldene glanced in the direction he indicated, but felt little inclination to get out of bed naked – even if the old man had undressed her last night.

  ‘Where are my clothes?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Threw ’em away,’ he replied. ‘There’s some new kit in this pack for you.’

  ‘What’s the hurry? And where are we going?’

  Fethan stepped over and sat on the edge of her bed. ‘A ship’s just come in with new supplies, and I thought you’d like to see it. It’s not far to go, but Lellan’s limiting the number of trips out to visit it in case the activity is spotted, so this’ll be our only opportunity.’ He then abruptly stood up, perhaps finally realizing why Eldene seemed uncomfortable. ‘Did you get all that Carl was telling you when we arrived here?’ he asked.

  ‘Some of it,’ Eldene replied, for she had been almost dead on her feet whilst Carl lectured her.

  ‘So do you remember where tunnel seventeen is?’

  ‘Where the river comes in?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Fethan. ‘If you’re interested, be there in one hour.’ He grinned slyly and headed for the door. As soon as he was gone, Eldene kicked the covers back and went to use the shower. She had to stay with Fethan, for without him she just did not know what to do – this was perhaps the most difficult aspect of going from a life of virtual slavery to one that offered choices. In the shower, she was delighted to discover the hot water, scented soap, and large warm towels, though she could not spare the time to luxuriate. She washed quickly and methodically, dried herself thoroughly, then hurried over to the backpack he had delivered. Before opening it, she picked up the rifle – the same sort as those carried by Lellan and the others – and inspected the thing. She doubted this was Fethan’s own, and left here by mistake – she was coming to realize that Fethan did not often do anything without purpose – so he must have specially left it for her. She dropped the weapon on the bed, and tried not to wonder what the provision of this object might mean about her life from now on.

  Inside the pack she found underwear and fatigues that she quickly donned, noting how no allowance had been made in the dimensions of the shirt for a scole, and felt fiercely glad of that fact. Also in the pack were a quilted jacket, oxygen pack and mask, cooking equipment, a sleeping bag, and various other items of survival – some of which she did not recognize. Fethan had said the ship was not far away, so taking up the breather gear and jacket only, she left the rest of the pack’s contents and set out. She also left the rifle where it was.

  The pillartown was a source of greater wonder to Eldene than the familiar ponds and fields on the floor of the cavern. Vaguely she had memories of several-storied buildings, from her orphanage childhood in the capital, but those were memories of dismal grey boxes stacked one upon the other, and joined by toll-tunnels where you must pay to breathe the air. She knew that there were parks and larger spaces, but they were the province of high Theocracy – the proctors, soldiers and priests – not gutter trash like herself. Here the buildings were so utterly different: every floor had wide viewing galleries and balconies open to the cavern air, plants grew in every available niche and were obviously carefully nurtured, the floors everywhere felt soft – and always there was light.

  Eldene headed for one of the high-speed lifts Fethan had earlier demonstrated to her, and was soon walking out through the pillartown’s lobby. Here was where food and domestic goods were distributed, and she could see stalls stretching endlessly in every direction. All around her there were people – uncowed people who were not waiting for the discovery of some minor infraction of Theocracy rules and the consequent punishment. Outside the building, Eldene covered the short distance down to the river, and then followed a path along the bank to the entrance to tunnel seventeen. She broke into a run once she saw that Fethan, Carl and Lellan were already waiting there, so arrived amongst them panting.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Lellan, as soon as Eldene arrived, and led the way through an armoured door, then along similar tunnels to those they had arrived through. As they ascended, and breath became short, Eldene shuddered as for a second she felt she was returning to her old life. Realization that this was not so came as a flush of joy.

  Tunnel seventeen opened out onto a narrow path cutting across a scree slope, then down a trail etched between platforms of stone that almost seemed to have been placed on purpose – though for what purpose was unknowable – into a valley that might have been the continuation of the one where she had fled the hooder yesterday. However, this path made her feel very much safer as it was cut into stone rising twenty metres above the rustling flute grasses.

  Soon the valley turned a corner, and the river glimpsed through greenery terminated in a lake – whether flowing into or out of it was not clear, the river being glassily still.

  Lellan, who had been speaking quietly into her mike, glanced back towards Fethan as they approached the lake. ‘Well – she’s down on that further shore.’ She wore an amused expression as she pointed vaguely.

  ‘Chameleonware,’ said Fethan. ‘Risky.’

  Lellan’s amusement evaporated. ‘Sometimes you are just no fun at all.’ She continued leading the way.

  Eventually their path descended in long steps to the point where the lake connected to the river. They had to walk a short way through flute grass that was chest-high and now throwing out dark red side-shoots, creating a tangle that required some effort to push through, then came to a shoreline of flaky shale scattered with pieces of white bone, like driftwood. There was a tide-line of empty jewel-like mollusc shells, and the shore hissed underfoot when they stepped on it.

  ‘What is that noise?’ Eldene whispered to Fethan, subsequently wondering why she was keeping her voice low.

  ‘Small water lice. They feed on animalcules washed down the river to here.’ This also answered her question about which direction the river flowed.

  As they reached the boulder-strewn further shore of the lake, Eldene turned her attention, only momentarily, to a nasty-looking creature squatting on a half-submerged rock. As she turned back to look where she was going she let out a yelp of surprise and abruptly stepped back into Fethan. Suddenly, where there had been only empty shore, there now stood two men and a woman, standing before what seemed to her a huge trispherical spaceship. She felt nothing but confusion, and would have run if Fethan had not held on to her.

  ‘The ship was hidden,’ he said close to her ear. ‘It projects a field that, amongst other things, bends light around it and makes it invisible. We just walked inside that field.’

  Eldene calmed herself and studied the three individuals who stood waiting. They did not wear face-masks, so either they were like Fethan, or some other fabulous Polity technology was at work here. Lellan walked up to one of the men – a thickset ginger-haired individual who appeared to be quite capable of tearing someone’s head off – and with her
arms akimbo, glared at him.

  ‘We’d almost given up on you. What the hell have you been playing at, John?’

  The man rubbed his face, causing the field that contained air over his nose and mouth to shimmer.

  ‘Dorth was on Cheyne III, so I paid my last visit to friend Brom, who was hosting him,’ explained Stanton.

  ‘Did you get him?’ asked Lellan, her tone suddenly avid.

  ‘No, he’s back here. But Brom’s out of the picture now.’

  Lellan bowed her head in disappointment.

  Meanwhile, Fethan had sidled up to the other man. ‘ECS?’ asked the old man, and Thorn nodded in reply. Fethan went on, ‘Thought so – it’s the company you keep.’

  Eldene could not help but feel an outsider in all this. She resolved to not remain so for very long.

  It was howling in his head, trying to penetrate the now frantic shouting of the Septarchy Friars – a looming hot ophidian presence. He did not need Aberil to announce, ‘Behemoth is here.’

  Through the wide chainglass window extending across the front bridge of the lead Ragnorak tug, they could only see Calypse and a distant feeble glow on the moonlet called Flint where, only minutes ago, there had been a shipyard and a population of thousands. In front of the pilot and navigator – in the tank displaying the relative positions of just about every object in the Masadan system – a new object, outlined in red, was moving away from the devastated shipyard. Seated in the couch especially provided for him, on a recently installed grav-plate floor, Loman leaned forwards to peer more closely at this tank.

  ‘What is it doing?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘It’s coming insystem on a realspace drive of some kind,’ Aberil replied, gazing at the instrumentation before the seated navigator, where he floated at the man’s shoulder – outside the influence of those few plates provided for Loman. ‘The fleet is embarking from Hope, and preparing to U-jump on your order to attack.’

  ‘How long before they can jump?’ Loman asked.

  Aberil closed his eyes for a moment and, when he opened them, said, ‘Thirty-eight minutes.’

  ‘Tell them to only prepare.’

  Aberil glanced at him. ‘We cannot allow Behemoth to get close to our cylinder worlds. It must be destroyed.’ Loman stared at him until he added, ‘Hierarch.’

  Loman continued to stare, feeling panic rise up inside himself. It had always been accepted that Behemoth would run, after Miranda had been destroyed. Had it not come out here to hide from the Polity in the first place?

  ‘The General Patten was the biggest and most advanced ship we had, yet Behemoth tore it apart without using the weapon it’s just used to destroy the Flint complex. What do you think the fleet could do against it?’ he asked.

  ‘They could slow it, Hierarch,’ suggested Aberil.

  Loman stood up, walked to the edge of his grav-plates, and stared up at the chainglass screen. He placed his fingers against his aug and tried to find something amid the racket blocking or obliterating the channels. It did not take him long.

  ‘Amoloran! Amoloran!’ something bellowed over the ether.

  ‘Listen to me,’ Loman sent back. ‘I am the Reverend Epthirieth Loman Dorth, Hierarch of Masada. Amoloran is dead. What do you want here, Behemoth?’

  Suddenly the static faded and Loman felt himself to be standing in a vast chamber. The screen he gazed up at now seemed to have translucent scales all across its surface; a sharp astringent smell filled his nostrils, and he felt uncomfortably warm.

  ‘You closed me out with prayer, and I could have destroyed you then. You destroy an Outlink station, and for this the Polity blames me. Now you have hurt me, and for this you will pay,’ Dragon told him.

  ‘You were not hurt by any order of mine,’ Loman replied. ‘You attacked a ship sent on a mission by Amoloran. Those in that ship turned on its engines and burnt you, and for that you killed them all. There is no payment to be made.’

  ‘Oh you will pay,’ Dragon replied.

  ‘Hierarch, it’s turned towards us,’ said Aberil.

  With some difficulty Loman severed the link, blinking away the strange after-effects from his vision, and turned to his brother. ‘What?’

  ‘It just changed course. It’s heading towards us.’

  Loman felt his mouth turn dry and a brass hand clench in his guts. ‘Send the fleet,’ he said, and unsteadily returned to his couch.

  ‘Would it be possible to hit Behemoth with Ragnorak?’ he silently asked Aberil.

  ‘No, Hierarch. Ragnorak is designed for static targets, and Behemoth would just move out of the way.’

  Aloud, Aberil continued, ‘It’s accelerating.’

  In silence, Loman watched the display unfolding in the tank, then a display on one of the control screens fed through from the targeting gear on Ragnorak. There all he saw was a small, slightly distorted sphere growing slowly larger against a background of blackness.

  ‘How long will it take to reach us?’ he asked.

  ‘At this rate, just over the hour,’ Aberil replied.

  ‘So the fleet will get to it first?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But then what? Loman considered how brief would be his reign as Hierarch. There had been briefer ones, but never with such possibilities of great achievement. He closed his eyes and thought that perhaps this was their reward for dealing with one who had obviously been an emissary of Satan, not God – this was their punishment for not recognizing the difference. Members of the crew at the instrumentation around him were now mumbling prayers. In his mind, he slowly began to recite all the Satagents – but now with his eyes open, and all expression erased from his face. He was on the fifth one, just like Amoloran, when Aberil broke the gloom on the bridge.

  ‘The fleet has gone into underspace.’

  Loman groped for some sort of reply. They might succeed in stopping the creature, but it seemed very unlikely – something that could tear apart a warship like the General Patten and could destroy something as huge as the Flint complex in a matter of seconds would take some stopping.

  He was about to speak again when something slammed into him through his aug – tearing open a link in a way he’d always thought impossible.

  ‘How so obviously you are not Polity AIs, and how slowly your ships enter underspace. With your pathetic fleet all around you, Reverend Epthirieth Loman Dorth, look to your world!’

  ‘What . . . what do you mean?’

  The only reply was fading gargantuan laughter.

  ‘Behemoth has dropped into underspace. It has gone,’ said Aberil.

  Loman sat back and very carefully closed down the channels that linked him to the U-space transmitter on this ship, and thus through to the cylinder worlds. He did not want to listen to the millions dying.

  It was a brief U-space jump, yet it seemed interminable.

  ‘Not too bright, are they?’ opined Gant, staring at the console out of which had been relayed Dragon’s exchange with the Hierarch.

  Cormac shrugged and was about to make some comment, but Apis intervened, ‘Dragon seemed about to attack that device. What happened?’

  Cormac explained, ‘It looks like their ships need to get up speed first to drop into underspace . . . they can’t do a standing jump. But Dragon can.’

  Apis looked thoughtful for a moment as he closed the clasps down the front of his exoskeleton. ‘Perhaps they are not used to making war on something that fights back.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Cormac, now gazing up at the pterodactyl head that was still hovering above them. ‘You lied about your ability to drop into underspace, so am I now to believe your story about these people using the mycelium you provided to destroy Miranda?’

  ‘It is true,’ Dragon replied briefly.

  ‘Okay, I’ll accept that for now, but do you suppose for one minute that the Polity would ever forgive you the slaughter of the population on Masada or in those cylinder worlds?’

  ‘I am dying.’

  �
��I see, so you intend to go out in bloody style.’

  ‘I will live.’

  ‘Any remote possibility of a straight answer?’

  ‘I will destroy only their laser arrays.’

  Cormac glanced around at his companions. It was with a total lack of surprise that he saw Mika holding some sort of instrument up to one of the draconic tentacles. Scar was poised in the air – a reptilian statue. Gant had his foot hooked under the back of one of the seats and once again clutched his APW to his chest.

  Cormac returned his attention to Dragon. ‘What about us? What do you intend for us?’

  The head suddenly dropped down so that it was poised right before Cormac. ‘If I kill and destroy, your Polity will kill and destroy me. You will let me live, Ian Cormac. For how I will now help you, you will let me live.’

  ‘I might when I figure out what the hell you mean when you say you are “dying” and “will live”. I’d have thought a creature of your capabilities would have learnt how to communicate clearly by now.’

  The head swung so that it was directed towards Scar. In response the dracoman hissed and seemed ready to attack. Dragon merely said, ‘He will know – when it is time.’ With that it abruptly withdrew towards the airlock, tentacles detaching and slithering away after it; the great plug of tangled flesh drew back into a living cavern beyond, and the airlock began to close. The screen they had been observing now showed only something dark and organic, which shifted slowly.

  Cormac paused for a moment, then said, ‘Get strapped in. I think the shit’s about to hit.’

  Seconds later they felt Dragon surface from underspace and, ahead of the lander, curtains of skin began to part. Cormac hunted across the controls until he managed to adjust the setting of one of the lower screens to infrared, to obtain the view he required. Now they could all see a tunnel opening ahead, and going into huge peristalsis. The craft slid forwards twenty metres, and slammed to a halt with a dull boom – then again, as another stretch of tunnel opened. Five times this happened, until through the main screen they saw a vague circle of luminescence. With competent precision, Apis reached down and reset the screen Cormac had previously adjusted – back to its normal view overlooking one side. Then they were out, and falling towards the gleaming arc of a world, starlit space fading to blue on that arc, and hanging nearby a huge machine-gun-magazine satellite, gleaming in bright sunlight. In the rear-view screen Dragon loomed huge against the stars, a distorted sphere across which now passed ripples of light, as over a pool of water containing fluorescing bacteria into which a stone has been cast.