by Neal Asher
Further disturbances follow, one of them only a few millon miles away from him. How did they get here so fast? But, even as he poses himself the question, Vrell knows the answer. Vrost threatened the Polity and conducted an assault on Spatterjay which, though not actually a Polity world, does come partially under Polity aegis. Doubtless the Polity AIs made their own threats, and also made their own preparations. Though they were unable to get warships to Spatterjay in time, they must have sent warships on an intercept course to tally with Vrost’s predicted departure route.
It seems unlikely to Vrell that Vrost’s attack did not cause casualties on Spatterjay, so these ships must be here for some payback. Vrell now has a serious problem for, though repairs can continue whilst his ship travels through U-space, there is still much that cannot be done to the exterior hull within that continuum. Surfacing into the real again, he will still be vulnerable–will in fact almost certainly be obliterated by ships now close enough to be able to trail him wherever he might go. There seems only one dangerous solution left, that being to take this ship where, by treaty, neither Prador nor Polity warships are allowed to venture. It is also a place where he might find further much-needed supplies, for certainly his own kind will be there watching for an attack, just as Humans watch there for the same reason.
Inputting coordinates to the disembodied mind of his vessel, Vrell gives the order for his ship to immediately drop into U-space, despite the fact that, with repairs ongoing, he will lose some of those suits still busy out on the surface of the hull.
As the dreadnought drops out of the real, he remembers the Human name for his new destination: the Graveyard.
The Prador border stations have been in position long enough for light reflected from them to reach the present position of the Gurnard. In fact, powerful telescope arrays in the Polity can detect them, and even deeper within the Polity other arrays can look over seven centuries into the past, to the time when these stations were being constructed. At forty-eight light-years away, resolution here is good enough for Gurnard to provide a clear image of the nearest station, and Orbus now studies that image.
‘Utility overcame aesthetics,’ he observes with a grimace, knowing exactly what will be scuttling about inside those massive constructions.
‘That started back during the war,’ remarks Sniper, ‘with the ships.’
Orbus turns to gaze at the drone. At first he hoped to avoid Sniper up here on the bridge because, though the drone can traverse most of the ship’s corridors, it previously couldn’t fit through the bulkhead door leading into here. However, Sniper has made short work of that problem by cutting out both frame and door, bringing up materials from the ship’s hold, and then rebuilding it all so that now the original door sits within an even larger one.
‘Really,’ says the Captain.
‘Most of ’em, deliberately constructed in the shape of their makers, were built before the war, or up to about halfway through it,’ Sniper explains. ‘When the Second King twigged we weren’t gonna roll over and die, he must have decided that sticking to the crab shape was a waste of metal. A lot of the later ones were still that traditional shape, but only because a lot of their shipyards didn’t get a chance to retool. Elsewhere they didn’t stick to it as strictly, and their stations were built without their egos governing the blueprints.’
‘Thank you for the history lesson,’ says Orbus flatly.
‘Not a problem,’ Sniper replies. ‘But there’s something else to chew on.’
‘That being?’
‘Oberon ordered these stations built, and he may not love the Prador form as much as the rest of his kind…or, rather, the kind he once used to belong to.’
Orbus returns his attention to the station.
It bears some resemblance to a titanic brass vase just hanging in vacuum, but many extrusions and incrustations adorn its surface, and certainly what blossom from its mouth are not flowers. This collection of long straight cylinders, scaffolds and square-section pipes is in fact an array of near-c rail-guns, particle cannons and wide-spectrum lasers. Perpetually powered by the tidal forces exerted by the brown dwarf it closely orbits, this defence station can throw out missiles and energy with a destructive potential more often associated with solar flares than with anything built by a sentient race. Such a station would of course be useless should any attacker choose to bypass it through the U-continuum.
Grudgingly, since Thirteen is currently down in the Medbay with Drooble, and since he knows he should get himself on a civil basis with Sniper, Orbus asks, ‘So how does it stop ships travelling through U-space?’
Sniper points a tentacle towards the screen. ‘The same grav-generators running off that brown dwarf are used to power a big-fuck series of USERs.’
‘USERs?’
‘Underspace interference emitters,’ the drone explains. ‘We do it by rattling a singularity in and out of a runcible gate. Here they go for the bang method. The moment they detect a U-signature within twenty virtual light-years, they invert a U-drive inside a high-powered grav-sphere. The disruption wave through U-space knocks any attacker back into the real. Bit silly, and all for show really, like the Maginot Line.’
Orbus nods, because he has read enough history to understand that reference. Why would the Polity, should it want to attack, send its ships into the Prador Kingdom this way? The Graveyard only extends between where Polity and Kingdom converge, and the main concentration of defence stations is here only. Just as the Nazis circumvented the Maginot Line, so could the Polity go around all this. But of course the reverse applies too and the Polity defence stations on the other side of the Graveyard can equally be bypassed. The whole point is display: each side reminding the other of just what kind of weapons could be deployed, and how many billions might die should they once again go to war.
Orbus knows that the stations on both sides regularly conduct drills and test firings. It seems all very much like the sabre-rattling of the twentieth century, at the very beginning of the nuclear age: the atomic tests that were not really to see if the bombs worked but simply a message: ‘We’ve got this, so watch it.’
‘But this isn’t why we’re here, is it, Gurnard?’ Orbus asks.
The image on the screen fades and is then shunted aside by another. Into view slides a small dark moon orbiting far out from a frozen planet not much bigger than Earth. With the distances involved here, the sun they both turn about looks only a little larger than the other near stars. The moon itself possesses no particularly distinguishing features; like so many trillions scattered throughout space it is just a ball of rock turned dusty and grizzled by appalling reaches of time.
‘There are indications of a landing on the surface, which is somewhat remiss of the occupant here,’ the ship AI lectures. ‘Deeper scan reveals underground caverns of unusual orderliness.’
‘Do you reckon they’ll fall for all this?’ Orbus asks.
They had made it generally known aboard Montmartre, as those resident there cleared up the mess and fought each other for ultimate control, that the Gurnard was heading out this way to search for wartime artefacts before moving on to the next Human population centre in the Graveyard. They’d meticulously scanned one entire world, numerous asteroids and moonlets, and even discovered a small cache of munitions which, just to keep up the façade, it had been necessary for them to take aboard. Coincidentally, Prador-hating drone and Old Captain would now stumble on a secret Prador station…
‘It’s not a case of whether they’ll fall for this,’ says Gurnard. ‘The Prador will know, after this next encounter, that ECS is stomping on its infiltrators in the Graveyard. However, because ECS has sent no military ship, no treaties have been broken so they cannot respond militarily.’
‘But they can respond covertly,’ says Sniper. ‘Beside their other agents here there’s descendants of Prador refugees in the Graveyard…so you can bet someone’ll be on our arses soon enough.’
Orbus turns and gazes at the drone. ‘Ref
ugees in the Graveyard?’
‘Yeah, there’s a few renegade adults–descendants of families who escaped when King Oberon started clearing house,’ Sniper replies. ‘Some of ’em still want to get back into favour and return to the Kingdom, and others will reckon it a good idea to get into favour even if they intend staying here. Remember, all Prador believe the war unfinished business.’
‘So what’s the difference between them and the likes of this one?’ Orbus gestures at the screen.
‘Very speciesist of you, Captain,’ quips Sniper. ‘Just because every Prador every Polity citizen has met is a murderous conniving shit doesn’t mean they all are.’
Gurnard explains, ‘Prador like the one at Montmartre and the one below have all installed themselves secretly, and are all directly supplied with weapons and materials from the Kingdom. They have been covertly establishing a foothold here, a dangerous foothold that puts them closer to the Polity than our rulers can tolerate. However, the other Prador established here have shown no inclination to do more than keep their heads down and survive.’
Whilst they speak the moon draws closer on the screen, expanding to nearly fill it. Checking the instruments available to him, through the controls in the arms of his Captain’s chair, Orbus sees that the Gurnard now sits geostationary above it. He stands, turns and walks back, circumventing Sniper and stepping out into the corridor leading down into the ship. The big drone turns with deceptive silence and drifts along behind him like a huge steel spectre.
‘I’ll want to be armed this time,’ remarks Orbus.
‘There is a small armoury inward of the docking ring in “A” segment,’ Gurnard replies, its voice now issuing from the walls. ‘Iannus and Thirteen will meet you there.’
Orbus has spent much time wandering about this ship and he knows precisely where A segment lies within the docking ring, but cannot recollect seeing an armoury there. It also occurs to him that this description ‘small armoury’ might well mean that there is also a big one aboard.
‘I’ll meet you down on the moon,’ says Sniper, abruptly taking a side route to another area of the docking ring and to an airlock he uses to exit the ship. He, of course, has no real need of the contents of an armoury.
Soon, after taking a few twists and turns of corridor and descending a spiral stair installed in what was once a drop-shaft, Orbus steps out to where Thirteen and Drooble wait in a featureless corridor. Inspecting the crewman, Orbus wonders if Drooble will be safe handling weapons. Though there is now no visible sign of the massive wound in his side, he still looks a little…odd. But then Orbus cannot recollect a time when Drooble did not look a helmsman short of the full crew.
‘So where’s this armoury?’ the Captain asks.
‘Thirteen says it’s here.’ Drooble grins and bangs a fist against the blank wall, and, almost as if in response to this, the wall divides vertically and begins to part. Soon lights come on within the room lying beyond, and Drooble steps inside.
‘Looks like everything is ready for you, Cap’n.’ Drooble waves his little finger towards a massive, heavily reinforced spacesuit supported in a framework.
Inspecting this item, Orbus notes designs with a nautical theme etched into its surface. This is all entirely in keeping with the rest of the Gurnard, but the sheer size of the suit indicates it was made for an Old Captain–probably for Captain Ron when he held the post Orbus now occupies.
‘Ceramal and diamond-fibre composite plated with nanochain chromium,’ pipes up Thirteen, while hovering right above the suit. ‘Just what Sniper’s covered with.’
As Drooble meanwhile goes over to a rack of proton carbines and makes a selection, Orbus reaches out and presses a control on the front of the suit. With eerie silence the thick chainglass visor withdraws up into the helmet, which in turn hinges back, while the chest plate and groin armour open like double doors, as do the hams of the legs. The rest of the armour of the arms and legs expands on shiny rods. It is all ready for him to step inside and, now it is open, Orbus sees that the suit’s layers are nearly three inches thick in places. He hesitates only for a moment, then turns his back to it, reaches up and grips two bars of the support frame positioned around it for this purpose, heaves himself up and first inserts his legs. Next, as if putting on a coat, he inserts his arms, and the spacesuit methodically draws closed around him.
Orbus steps away from the framework, the suit feeling as light on him as his own clothing. He realizes it possesses motorized joints and wonders why, since he is hardly a weakling. The visor remains open and, raising his arm, he inspects the pretty much standard control panel set into it. On a small screen he can call up information about his air supply, suit diagnostics, the external conditions, and all this and much other information can be transferred to a visor display. Carefully pressing the buttons adapted to his now huge but still oddly sensitive fingers, he checks a few things and finds that the suit’s assister motors are of a design called Lamion.
‘Lamion?’ he enquires.
‘Standard assister motors don’t even match the strength of an Old Captain,’ the drone Thirteen informs him, as it drifts down before him. ‘Lamion motors use nano-scale molecular interactions between microscopic layers of ceramic–they can multiply your strength by up to four times.’
‘So whoever designed this suit had encounters with armoured Prador in mind,’ the Captain observes. ‘I wonder how long ago this was all planned. I wonder if Captain Ron was the one originally intended for this job.’
Drooble has now loaded himself with a proton carbine, a solid-state hand laser and a bandolier of grenades. There is no suit for him here since the standard suits provided aboard will do him fine. Studying the other contents of the armoury, Orbus looks for suitable weaponry to complement his present outfit, and there it is, resting down beside the support framework. He stoops and picks up the huge shiny carbine with a multiplicity of barrels. A heavy power cable trails from it, the plug at its end perfectly designed to fit into the socket positioned just over the captain’s hip. He plugs it in and his visor slams instantly closed. Cross-hairs appear on it, shifting as he moves the gun itself. A side-menu lists a selection of firing modes: laser, particle cannon and a selection of projectiles ranging from inert to high explosive.
‘Rail, inert,’ he says, and the cluster of barrels turns. He rests his sensitive forefinger against the trigger and points the weapon at Drooble, who abruptly backs away, but not without an expression of horrible anticipation.
‘Disarm, now,’ Orbus adds, then unplugs the power cable and rests the weapon across his shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’
Drooble follows his Captain back out into the corridor, his expression now one of disappointment. Orbus wonders if the man is disappointed at not being shot, or by his own wish that he had been, but it is difficult enough for him to sort out his own emotions without getting into those of his deranged crewman. Why, for example, is he himself sweating, and why does he now feel a sickness in his guts almost like hunger?
The trip down to the surface is marked only by Drooble’s constant litany of complaints as he struggles into a spacesuit with the appearance of a diving suit from Jules Verne’s novel Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. Orbus brings the shuttle down on the floor of a valley between mountains of grey stone cut through with striations of white like hoar frost. Because of the sheer size of the suit Orbus wears, they necessarily depart the shuttle one at a time through the airlock.
‘Something odd here,’ comes Sniper’s voice over the suit radio.
They bounce easily up a nearby slope to enter what is ostensibly a natural cave mouth, where in Orbus’s visor light amplification kicks in. Hissing between his teeth he peers down at the recognizable footprints of sharp Prador feet in the ochre dust. As Gurnard noted: it is remiss of the occupant here to leave signs of a recent landing on the surface, and just as remiss to leave signs like this if its mission is supposedly covert. Advancing into the gloom, he swings his multigun across to align the visor
cross-hairs over Sniper, as the drone revolves to face them.
‘Looks like he’s already had some visitors.’ Sniper gestures with one tentacle to the back of the cave where a ceramic airlock door, its exterior disguised with a layer of rough stone, lies in two halves on the floor. Beyond this the inner door is gone, as is the intervening airlock chamber itself.
As they cautiously make their way in, Orbus immediately notes severed trunking clips, now empty, along one wall and the many similarly empty cavities intended to hold some sort of equipment. The s-con cables and fibre-optics have been torn out of here, other hardware also removed. The rock also bears molten scars, blast craters, laser burns, and the distinctive jagged grooves cut by rail-gun fire.
‘Abandoned?’ wonders Thirteen, poised over one blast crater.
‘Someone hit this place hard,’ says Sniper. ‘Dunno if anyone here would have been capable of doing any abandoning.’
‘Bugger,’ says Drooble, gazing with disappointment at his proton carbine.
Orbus also feels a leaden disappointment, though countered by an odd sense of relief. Will he ever know what he really wants? Will any of his emotions ever be unambiguous?
A thorough exploration of all the caves reveals the same story throughout: most of the equipment that must have occupied these spaces is now gone. Orbus begins to notice how this place was stripped selectively. Ceramics and plastics were left behind, but just about every scrap of metal taken. He notes bolt-holes in floors where reactors were once mounted, what seems likely to have been a storage cave, and empty bolt-holes in regular patterns across the floor where even the racking was looted. Other holes and fixings indicate where armouring was previously fixed around certain deep chambers. Apart from the few aforementioned scraps, only one other thing remains: this place’s erstwhile resident.
