Orbus

by Neal Asher

  ‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here,’ says Sadurian, easing herself to her feet.

  The two armoured third-children hoist up their equipment and advance on the corpse, the droge rising again to dog their footsteps. First they use long electric probes to ensure that she is actually dead, then they open compartments in the droge to take out further tools required for the task. With hydraulic cutters they snip away her underarms to expose more of her underside, then they wield carapace saws, vibroblades and their own motor-assisted claws to pull all this covering away, and with careful cutting expose her internal egg sacs.

  This operation has become all but routine over the last eighty years, and though there is much other work to do involving viral mutation and the raising of tank-grown Prador young, Sadurian now finds plenty of time to speculate about the Prador Third Kingdom.

  Oberon’s usurpation of the Second King’s rule brought the Prador/Human war to an end, and certainly Oberon and his children are the glue that holds this insane species together within the new kingdom, but what about before? Oberon received his viral infection from the planet Spatterjay, a place unknown to the Second King until the war with the Humans actually began, which meant that previous monarch seemed likely to have been a normal Prador. So what was the particular glue that held the Second Kingdom together, and the First Kingdom before it? What enabled such vicious and destructive creatures to build both a civilization and a technology to take them to the stars?

  The whole thing remained a mystery to her until her fiftieth year within the Prador Kingdom. Then she learnt how simple historical circumstances had resulted in the First King, but then the Second King rose to power because of the machinations of a legendary being called The Golgoloth, which is a name still used to terrify Prador children.

  3

  Those who wonder why naturally exoskeletal creatures would want to clad themselves in yet further layers of armour obviously do not understand the psychology of adolescent Prador. Humans want to own their own homes, which they will furnish and decorate to their own taste; on more primitive worlds they will even put locks on the doors and windows, install home defences and alarms. But adolescent Prador do not have homes as such. For them the territory they can call their own lies within their own shells, and can only be extended by adding extra layers. Aware of their tenuous hold on life, they forever strive to build up their mobile defences and therefore gladly rather than reluctantly accept the armour provided for them by their controlling parent, and so believe themselves just that little bit safer. Each armoured Prador is its own fortress; yet each has a back door open to that same controlling parent–a door that is invariably used.

  –MODERN WARFARE lecture notes from E.B.S. Heinlein

  Sniper clings tight to the great scaly flank of the Gurnard, with Thirteen affixed by his tail to his shell. At first Sniper could not understand why the ship’s AI did not inform the vessel’s captain of their presence but, after scanning that shuttle as it headed over to Montmartre, he now understands.

  ‘I don’t suppose he’d be overjoyed to see me,’ says the big drone.

  ‘That is my own assessment of the situation,’ replies Gurnard.

  Back on Spatterjay, Sniper once saw Captain Orbus from a distance as he himself, still in his old drone shell, was trading illegal artefacts on the Island of Chel. Knowing the Captain’s reputation, he did not bother approaching him to check if there was anything he might buy or sell. During his ten years as Warden of Spatterjay, Sniper had gained access to Polity files on Orbus and found them very interesting reading. The man was a sadist and though little evidence was available, seemed more than likely to be a murderer too. Later, rehoused in his present form, Sniper was ordered to search an area of the ocean for a particular Golem android the Polity AIs were worried about, and Captain Orbus’s ship, the Vignette, lay within that same search area. The Captain, not being the most stable of characters, rejected Sniper’s request to be allowed to search his ship, in fact objecting most strongly with a pulse rifle and flexal bullwhip. Sniper, always robust in his response to that kind of objection, left the Captain tied by the ankles to a cross-spar with his own bullwhip. Of course, later he rescued Orbus and some of his crew from Vrell’s spaceship as it surfaced from the ocean depths, but Sniper doubts that the Captain is the kind to take that favour into account, even if he had been in any fit condition to know what was going on.

  ‘But he’s all recovered now?’ Sniper enquires.

  ‘Apparently,’ says Gurnard. ‘According an assessment of him, made by the other Old Captains, the traumatic events he suffered on Spatterjay have allowed him to recover his sanity. Perhaps that is a debatable point, for it seems likely his mental illness was abating anyway, and those events just expedited the process.’

  ‘So he might be okay with me?’

  ‘He may no longer be fighting the nightmares of his past, and he may no longer be submerged in that sick world he created for himself on the Vignette…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He might indeed be regarded as sane, but that does not guarantee he has suddenly turned non-violent and sweet-natured.’ The AI pauses as if considering something else. ‘I think it best he does not know about you for the present. However, I think it will be a good idea for you to be ready to back him up–as it seems likely that the situation here is more dangerous than one might suppose. I want you to locate the Prador carapace we are here to collect, and probe that station thoroughly–assess the true situation there. I cannot get clear readings because there’s too much exotic metal armour in the way.’

  ‘An Old Captain who needs back-up?’ exclaimes Thirteen disbelievingly, and is instantly shushed by Sniper over their private channel.

  With a shove of his tentacles, Sniper now propels himself away from the Gurnard’s hull. Twenty yards out, he engages his chame-leonware, whereupon he and Thirteen disappear from sight. Under the effect of that shield, he fires off simple chemical propellant thrusters and speeds towards the station.

  ‘Dodgy,’ says Thirteen, coming back on that private channel to Sniper.

  ‘Bloody right,’ Sniper replies. ‘That Gurnard is up to something, and it ain’t just about collecting some shit for a museum.’

  ‘No Polity warships allowed here,’ Thirteen observes. ‘Nor any Prador warships either.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Sniper.

  Of course, he has been manipulated. Any AI of sufficient ability could have predicted how Sniper would react to being called in for ‘assessment,’, and that he would rapidly be using his contacts in the illegal artefacts trade to find a way offworld. That same AI would probably be aware that the Gurnard was the only ship currently in orbit about Spatterjay which was taking on such cargo. Sniper is now precisely where some Polity AI wants him and, that being so, some sort of shit is about to hit the fan, because no AI will employ Sniper if a talent for diplomacy or advanced macramé is required. He focuses his attention on the station lying ahead and studies it intently.

  Montmartre, though essentially a conglomerate of junk built up over centuries, has certainly been refined in recent years, bound together more securely, rebuilt in sections, combined into more of a single unit. Its main body is essentially spherical–now even more so since large segments of Prador exotic metal armour have been affixed around the outside–but with spindleward towers and one long extrusion at the equator containing carrier shells converted into docking facilities. Sniper avoids the carrier shells, because most of the station sensors cluster about them, and heads instead directly towards one of those sections of exotic metal attached to the main body. A couple of squirts of his thrusters soon bring him to a near-standstill in relation to the station, and he stretches out one tentacle to grasp the edge of what was once a laser com port in the Prador ship this expanse of brassy metal was salvaged from. He pulls himself in, drags himself across the surface like some huge space snail, and peers over the rim of the armour.

  Support frameworks curve from the armour’
s edge right round to the next segment of armour nearly half a mile away. Sniper surmises that the intention here is to eventually cover the entire station with this stuff, as and when it becomes available. Directly below this rim lies the curve of an old bubble unit, then other curves, as well as interconnecting tunnels, the occasional converted spaceship, or even a section of some other space station: in fact a great complex of airtight habitats folded into this one ball and secured with bubble-metal beams. There are also signs of further construction in progress–the intervening spaces being gradually enclosed.

  ‘Ooh, looky looky,’ says Thirteen.

  ‘What?’

  The little drone detaches from Sniper’s shell, impelled by compressed air jets, and settles down to the edge of the armour. His seahorse tail then divides, one half of it grasping a nearby bolt head, the other tapping against a casting flash along the edge of the armour section. ‘That shouldn’t be there.’

  Sniper ups his magnification and studies the line running along the armour edge. It is ragged and sharp, but if this huge chunk of metal was retrieved from some wreck, that ridge should have been neatly ground away because, when being installed on a ship, these sections must butt up against each other with micrometric precision.

  ‘Could have been a dreadnought under construction,’ Sniper suggests.

  ‘I suppose,’ Thirteen replies grudgingly.

  Sniper now pulls himself across the armour’s edge, and worms down into the station structure just as far in as he can fit himself. Once past the layer of exotic metal, he finds it easier to scan deep into what lies ahead, and there finds things much as expected. Even the scan shielding covering many areas, so that they appear very hazy under scrutiny, is entirely in keeping with the kind of people who live or trade here. Doubtless the Prador carapace currently resides in one of those shielded areas, and it will be difficult for the drones to see what happens to the Captain should he enter one of them.

  ‘Looks like a lot of dirty secrets in there,’ remarks Thirteen, presently linked into and riding on Sniper’s more powerful scanners.

  ‘Looks like you’ll have to go inside,’ Sniper rejoins.

  ‘Yeah,’ says the little drone, ‘I thought so.’

  Scanning in his immediate vicinity Sniper locates the positions of all the nearby station sensors and personnel. Below the bubble unit lies a very large enclosed area divided into accommodation for tenants, and an internal street lined with shops and other commercial establishments, behind which stand warehouses, but not the storage facility they seek, for this warehousing seems entirely packed with crates of spaceship components. Numerous blind spots are available, and Sniper chooses an apparently little-used tunnel connecting the warehousing to a large shop rising five floors tall.

  ‘Over there,’ he says, indicating in memory space that location to Thirteen. ‘You shouldn’t have too much trouble since there are free drones aboard.’

  ‘Right,’ says Thirteen doubtfully.

  Sniper reaches out and sets the spatulate end of one of his two larger tentacles against the bubble-metal beam presently blocking his progress. The edge of the spatula begins vibrating at high speed, microscopic chainglass teeth running round it on a series of threadlike belts. Throwing out a stream of powder, it slices easily through the beam just there, and then at a point lower down. Sniper moves the cut-out section to one side and drifts on through, before replacing it behind him and fixing it in position with a squirt of vacuum-hardening epoxy. Cutting through two more beams similarly, and bending off to one side a duct containing fibre optics, he finally arrives above the connecting tunnel.

  ‘Okay, inside,’ he orders the little drone.

  Thirteen sighs, but knows precisely what is required. Sniper withdraws his head and tentacles inside his big nautiloid shell, in order to make a space for his companion, and Thirteen positions himself within the mouth of the shell. Now Sniper presses that same mouth down against the roof of the tunnel, initiating a gecko seal about the shell’s rim and pumping air into the cavity Thirteen now huddles inside. This is to bring the pressure in there up to the same as that found within the tunnel, because station sensors are especially sensitive to any changes in air pressure, since any such variance aboard a space station is always a serious matter. Thirteen meanwhile coils himself up tight whilst Sniper uses that spatulate tentacle to cut through the tunnel wall and lower a disc of it down inside. Thirteen uncoils and floats down inside the tunnel.

  ‘Find Orbus and stick with him,’ Sniper advises. ‘I’ll stay in contact and keep watch, but I’m also going to have a nose-around myself.’

  ‘If I get too close to him, he might recognize me.’

  ‘Not a problem so long as you stay out of reach of that bullwhip of his.’ Sniper pulls the disc back up into place, and starts applying an epoxy that sets quickly in atmosphere. Floating on AG, Thirteen drifts off down the tunnel below, muttering to himself.

  Within the cramped space, Vrell touches a control on the side of the toolbox, whereupon it settles to the floor and unfolds to display its varied contents. Now studying his surroundings more intently, the Prador begins to identify the purpose of the superconducting cables, the ducts containing fibre optics, the computer components and other hardware here. He reaches out and takes up a small diamond saw, chooses one particular duct and, with extreme care, cuts through its casing, removing a yard-long section to expose the mass of fibre-optic cables inside. Many of these are colour-coded, and from his memory of the ship’s schematics he picks out those he does not need and eases them to one side. Fifteen cables remain. Next he takes up a ring-shaped external optic interface and plugs its own optic feed into his harness CPU, before snapping open the ring and closing it about the first cable. Prador computer language–blocky hieroglyphs–begins running diagonally across his mask’s screen, and after studying these for a moment he realizes they aren’t encoded, so this optic is not the one he requires. Taking a moment more to study the glyphs, he sees that this feed is simply data running into the Sanctum from the ship’s engines. He selects another cable and checks again, this time to report on the status of five of the ship’s fusion reactors. The eighth cable is the one he is after.

  The computer code now running across his mask is supposed to be unbreakable, but he long ago learnt that there is no such thing as an unbreakable code. Vrell does not even bother copying it to his CPU memory, just memorizes it himself and applies his intellect to it. He runs code-breaking programs in his mind, discarding elements of them and altering them as he goes along. Eidetically clear in his mind is the Prador language, which includes text, sound and pheromones, and he runs perpetual comparison between the code and his language’s structure. This takes him an hour, and he wonders if he has cracked it as fast as Polity AIs would manage the same chore. Thereafter, Vrell does not even apply a translation program through his CPU, but simply reads the code directly. First he samples back to the moment he began memorizing and replays the communications in his mind.

  ‘…likely he is in that armour,’ Vrost has just finished saying.

  ‘We can’t go in there yet–it’s too hot even with armour,’ comes the reply, along with a pheromonal signature identifying the Prador concerned. Vrell sees how the Spatterjay viral mutation has distorted the signature from the norm. This is something he would never have spotted from the outside if he were a normal Prador receiving communications from one of the Guard. Obviously they translate their signatures for any com outside their own family, so as to keep their real nature hidden.

  Next comes a data packet Vrell translates as readings from air samplers. Vrost must have studied this for a moment before saying, ‘Trace organics, but they could come from the Guard incinerated in there. I want you to try and find anything remaining of that suit and take direct samples.’

  ‘There won’t be anything left.’

  Vrell is surprised at this comeback. Obviously the King’s Guard–these mutated second-children–are allowed more of a free rein than n
ormal Prador, since conversations between second- and first-children of the latter kind usually consist simply of orders and direct obedience.

  ‘If you are concerned about losing more of your unit,’ says Vrost, ‘do not be. We are all dead anyway–because, with that nanite aboard, this ship will not be allowed back into the Kingdom and, since we know it slowly penetrates glathel seals, the extent of our lives is limited to three hours.’

  Interesting. Vrell knows the nanite can penetrate some porous substances–but glathel seals? He does a high-speed analysis incorporating his knowledge of the hard rubbery substance his kind employ to make airtight seals, and comes to a rapid conclusion: the nanite cannot penetrate a static seal, but will work its way down through the laminated layers of that same substance while it is in movement, precisely as it is now being moved in the joints of the armoured suits worn by the Guard.

  ‘Why then is it necessary for us to find out if he is inside that suit?’ enquires the King’s Guard. ‘In two hours this ship, and we along with it, will cease to exist.’

  Ah, thinks Vrell, Vrost himself hopes to find some way of surviving. For the seals about the Sanctum just might all be intact, he surmises, and are certainly static.

  ‘Because our father so instructs,’ replies Vrost. ‘Do your duty.’

  Their father: King Oberon himself.

  This particular communication closes down and for the ensuing hour only routine information packages are exchanged. From these Vrell puts together a mental image of the search now in progress: the Guard being sent one after another into the area devastated by the fusion-reactor explosion, then sickening in the perpetual sleet of radiation and withdrawing to find somewhere to curl up and die. Then, in present time, comes a communication Vrell recognizes as channelled through an exterior route.