by Neal Asher
‘King Oberon wants Vrell dead because, through him, Polity AIs might learn about virally infected Prador and come to understand Oberon’s nature,’ says Gurnard.
‘Wait a minute,’ says Sniper. ‘What about this being a possible seizure of Graveyard territory or the first moves in an attack on the Polity?’
‘Though that idea was mooted,’ Gurnard observes, ‘it has now been dismissed. If Oberon wants to seize Graveyard territory he would do better to just seize it without warning, and the same rule applies to any attack on the Polity. Therefore leading Polity AIs have now gone back to first causes: Oberon wants Vrell dead, and the fact that he has positioned himself, and a portion of his forces, at the border inclines those AIs to now believe there is some time factor involved here. Oberon wants Vrell out of circulation fast, and is perhaps not prepared to wait until he decides to venture outside the Graveyard.’
‘Time factor?’ asks Orbus, looking up again.
‘Vrell has shown himself to be very dangerous indeed but we still cannot see how a virally infected Prador could pose a real danger to Oberon. Unless, of course, some other factor is involved. Earth Central believes there is something else about Vrell, something else about this whole situation, that is not entirely clear yet.’
The ship lurches abruptly, the screens greying out, then Orbus feels his brain trying to turn inside-out as the vessel drops into underspace.
‘How long will it take us to get there?’ Orbus asks.
‘With the current U-space geometry, just twenty minutes.’
Orbus nods, stands up, and abruptly departs the bridge. Doubtless, once they arrive, Gurnard will try communicating with Vrell, and just maybe things will proceed without too many problems thereafter. However, Orbus does not really expect things to go so easily, and so heads directly to the docking ring to find his armoured spacesuit. Upon his arrival in the suiting room, he gazes at the thing still folded into a strange sculpture on the floor and seemingly waiting for him. He steps into the boots and the suit starts to fold itself up around his body, quickly enclosing him, whereupon he steps over and picks up the multigun that keys into the suit. Pausing for a moment, he studies the weapon, then thoughtfully puts it down again whilst opening com through the suit itself.
‘Where are those multiguns that can deliver sprine?’ he asks Gurnard.
The ship AI’s reply is prompt this time. ‘I’ve just sent a guidance package to your suit, so follow it down into the hold.’
Orbus’s visor abruptly closes up, whereupon an arrow starts to blink down in the bottom corner. He follows it to the exit from the suiting room, then down a corridor leading towards the zero-gravity hold area. He pauses for a moment at the doorway into that large dark space, peers at quadrate frameworks packed with mysteriously wrapped cargoes, and begins checking his suit controls for the gecko function of the boots, or the impeller jets. There is no need, however, for out of the shadows comes one of those disconcerting earwig handler-robots. Clasped in its pincers is a package, a long, brushed-aluminium case, and he presents it. As Orbus takes it, the handler opens its pincers wide with a loud snap, then turns and jets itself back into its benighted home.
In the corridor outside the hold, Orbus opens the aluminium case to reveal a multigun inside, secured in shaped foam, with all its auxiliary devices, spare ammunition and necessary power packs. He begins hanging the spares on his belt, then pauses to inspect a tubular magazine: Sprine MXC–explosive needle bullets containing sprine. Checking over the multigun he also finds an option for firing a beam of magnetically accelerated sprine dust, but the rest of the weapon’s functions are much the same as those of the one he left behind in the suiting room. He takes it up and heads back towards the bridge.
‘I see you are taking precautions,’ Sniper observes as he re-enters.
Ignoring the comment, Orbus heads for his chair but, peering at it, realizes that wearing this spacesuit he won’t fit. Instead he lays the multigun down on it, and turns to gaze at the greyness currently displayed on the screens. After a few minutes it flickers, and again Orbus experiences that horrible twisting sensation as the Gurnard surfaces into the real. A beat, and then the stars to one side are blanked out by a massive explosion.
‘Evasive manoeuvres,’ announces Gurnard flatly.
‘Are you speaking to Vrell?’ Orbus enquires.
No reply.
‘He’s a bit busy now,’ Sniper observes, as the ship lurches and the still visible starfields spiral. Something silvery flickers past one of the eye windows, and a boom echoes deep within the ship. Orbus feels grav fluxing underneath him.
‘A suit might be a good idea at that,’ says Drooble, standing up only to be flung sprawling as the ship lurches again.
‘Vrell is not talking,’ explains Gurnard, voice still monotone.
Orbus, still perfectly in balance, his suit motors and now the gecko function of his boots keeping him upright, turns to Sniper. ‘How good is your chameleonware?’
‘The best,’ Sniper replies.
‘Good enough to cover me as well?’
‘I guess.’
Orbus turns to Drooble, as the man drags himself back to his seat. ‘You have the bridge, Iannus.’ Back to Sniper, ‘You and I are going to find an airlock.’
Sniper turns and, with all speed, shoots out of the rear of the bridge. Orbus snatches up his weapon then runs after the drone, his suit again compensating for balance and powering him along so that, even with grav fluctuations, he runs smoothly.
‘I cannot stay here for much longer,’ announces Gurnard.
‘When we’ve gone, pull back, but try to keep track of him,’ Orbus replies, swerving to keep up with Sniper as the drone heads for an unfamiliar part of the docking ring. ‘I’m presuming you have some sort of negotiating package from Earth Central concerning this amnesty?’ Soon they pass through a cargo tunnel into an empty shuttle bay, the door automatically clanging shut behind. As soon as pumps begin to suck out the air, Orbus’s suit visor slams shut.
‘I do,’ Gurnard replies through his suit com.
‘Transmit a copy to Sniper, and to the memspace of my suit.’
‘Done.’
A little icon lights up down at the bottom of Orbus’s visor, blinks for a moment and goes out.
‘You sure about this?’ Sniper asks.
‘As sure as I can be about anything,’ the Old Captain replies.
Sniper’s tentacles enwrap his body and draw him close, as grav shuts down and the interlocking crenellations of the doors begin to pull apart. Then they are outside, falling through night, the Gurnard veering away just as the beam from a particle cannon scours past it. Momentarily they hover in the light glare of Gurnard’s fusion motors, then comes massive acceleration, which Orbus feels even in such a protective suit, as Sniper pulls them clear. The Gurnard folds out of existence, and Orbus finds himself hurtling down towards a Prador dreadnought that looks like it has been sent out too early from its construction yard.
‘This is going to be rough,’ Sniper informs him. ‘I can’t use my engine until we’re in real close, so we’ll hit hard. Your suit should be able to handle it, and you might be able to as well.’
A massive scaffold spears up past them, and a great wall of brassy metal hurtles up like the top of an elevator. Fusion flame, blinding, and Orbus feels himself being compressed into one side of his suit. Momentary corrections from steering thrusters next, then, rather than hit the wall of exotic metal, they slam into scaffolds and tension cables, Sniper’s shell taking the brunt of the impact. They crunch down in a maze of twisted metal, to finally land in a ninety-degree conjunction between something like a sheet of riveted steel and a wall composed of diamond-shaped chunks of foamed porcelain. Sniper’s tentacles star out all about them, holding them in place as the Prador dreadnought makes another one or two vicious manoeuvres, then zero-gravity gradually returns. Orbus just lies there thinking that only a tap will be necessary to remove him from this outer garment now. His who
le body feels as if it has been smashed to jelly.
9
Even the Prador have their myths and legends, but they are very different from those that Humans propagate. They do not have gods, demons and fairies, nor has any past Prador been deified. Until the war ended and some cultural contact became allowed, it was assumed they had no conception of the supernatural. Now we know there are things Prador can fear even more than their own fathers. The Golgoloth is such a creature: an eternal monster who holds Prador young for ever captive, and in some vampirish manner slowly feeds on them to extend its own life. This is an odd myth and one wonders why young Prador so fear this creature, for it could cause them no more sorrow than their fathers already do. The adult male of any family fulfils amply the role of some spiteful god, with his power to kill on a whim or even to sentence his children to eternal hell.
–From HOW IT IS by Gordon
Ensconced once more in the Captain’s Sanctum, Vrell studies in minute detail the data recorded about the intruder ship, and comes to some immediate conclusions. Though to all intents the unknown craft seems like a cargo hauler with a rather odd and inefficient design of hull, it is clearly something more than that, for it possesses particle cannons and rail-guns which, just by measuring their bulk and positioning within the hull, Vrell surmises are of up-to-date Polity design. Almost certainly the ship is a covert Polity vessel and therefore its crew and AI work for Earth Central Security. But why did it come here?
Though armed, the vessel could not hope to match Vrell’s dreadnought, and it did not even try, instead running and U-jumping away just as quickly as it could, once having delivered its packages. Vrell, now somewhat more paranoid since his problems over the message he earlier received from Oberon, immediately consigned the one information package to secure processing space. Now taking every precaution available, he slowly and carefully opens it, studying its basic structure before going anywhere near its content. The thing seems fine–simply a message recorded in Prador com code–so finally Vrell listens to it, his mental finger poised on the off button.
‘I am the artificial intelligence aboard the ship you are presently firing upon and, of course, knowing your history I understand your paranoia. I bring you a message direct from Earth Central itself. The ruling intelligence offers you amnesty and sanctuary within the Polity, but obviously with some provisos. You must there obey Polity laws and you must give up your vessel, since we cannot have a fully armed Prador dreadnought travelling at will within Polity space. You must allow Polity AIs to study you for a period of no more than one Solstan year, during which time all your needs will be provided for and you are assured those investigations will not subject you to any discomfort. After that time you will become a free citizen of the Polity, provided with funds equal to the value of the vessel you hand over.’
Vrell listens to the message four or five times, then lays it out as Prador text for further study. Sending instructions to the mind controlling the dreadnought, he turns the vessel round rather than fleeing to some other location, as had been his intention. This offer requires further investigation for, though he still aims to exact some sort of vengeance for King Oberon’s shabby treatment of him, it might still be a good idea to leave some other options open. The offer, he realizes, is not a bad one, but what about guarantees? And of course, more importantly, what about the other two packages? What about the war drone and armoured Human who have just boarded his ship? What are their intentions?’
Vrell turns to his screens, observing interior scenes throughout the dreadnought whilst simultaneously processing data through his shell-welded control units. The drone’s chameleonware is very good and Vrell would not have known the two were aboard were it not for their violent impact with part of the ship undergoing repair, and thus constantly monitored, and their subsequent penetration of another area of the ship he is also constantly monitoring: that section where the mutated third-children reside. The drone and the Human are currently moving through tangled superstructure, and seem to be showing no inclination to hide themselves. They are conversing, too, so Vrell decides to listen in.
‘Do you think he’s spotted us yet?’ asks the armoured Human.
‘Almost certainly,’ replies the drone, now moving into an area where the ship eyes can finally get a clear view of it.
Vrell feels a sudden disquiet, for he recognizes this drone as the one called Sniper. It is the one that once, in a previous drone shell, knocked his father’s ship out of Spatterjay’s sky and which later, in its present form, managed to penetrate that same ship and rescue some of the Human prisoners Vrell had seized. But this is also the drone that detected him returning to Vrost’s ship and yet gave no warning to Vrost. Vrell is ambivalent in his feelings about this Sniper, but certainly this is a dangerous drone that must be taken very seriously.
The drone continues, ‘If he didn’t detect us smashing into his ship, then almost certainly one of the ship eyes will have picked us up by now.’ Sniper points precisely at the eye Vrell is watching them from. ‘Like that one.’
‘So what do you reckon his reaction will be?’
‘He’ll either try to talk or try to kill us,’ Sniper replies. ‘My money’s on the latter option, so I’m guessing he’ll send some of the crew after us.’
‘But the ship’s crew is dead.’
‘Yup, but despite that they seem quite active.’
‘What?’
‘I’m guessing some sort of control program operating their armour. We’ve got dead Prador wandering about this ship in mobile coffins.’
‘Oh, that’s nice.’
‘There’s also some nasty-looking things in this section of the ship, which are now starting to close in on us. I’m not entirely sure what they are.’
At hearing this, the Human checks the controls on his complicated-looking assault rifle, then holds it up in readiness, swinging it perpetually to cover any possible approach. Vrell checks through other eyes in the same area and sees that mutated third-children are indeed closing in, then returns his attention to the two intruders. Studying the Human intently, Vrell realizes that, though the man wears a bulky powered spacesuit, that does not fully account for his size. However, there is no facility for any kind of deep scan at the Human’s current location, so he cannot be sure. Yet, from what he understands of Human behaviour, Vrell realizes this man seems very ill at ease, despite being physically big, armed and armoured, and accompanied by a lethal war drone.
He studies the face he can see through the visor, but it is just a Human face, and they all look the same to Vrell. He considers opening communication with the two, but abruptly scotches that idea. By just watching and listening he might learn more. Perhaps, at some point, they will think he does not know they are aboard, and so say something more revealing. Certainly, once the mutants attack, Vrell will learn more about the armament they carry, which he cannot do simply by scan until they reach a part of the ship where intensive internal scanning is available.
The first mutant third-child ascends from below, its multiply jointed legs easing out of a circular duct so as to then heave its soft body out, till it pops like a cork coming out of a bottle. Vrell notes that though its body and legs resemble those of the one he captured, the rest of it is at wild variance. Its head is a long spike with eyes running all down the sides, it has sprouted leech mouths underneath it where its legs join its body, and it possesses a whiplike, two-pronged tail.
‘What a horrible fucker,’ says the man, immediately directing his weapon towards the monstrosity. ‘But there’s something a bit familiar about certain parts of it.’
‘The number of legs is the same as a Prador’s,’ Sniper observes, ‘and those things underneath it look suspiciously like leech mouths.’
The creature orientates itself, then hurtles towards them, leaping at the very last moment towards the Human. One of Sniper’s tentacles sweeps out and bats it to one side, where it hits hard against a canted wall. The thing quickly unpeels itself, and
merely attacks again. Again Sniper smacks it against the wall, and again it starts to unpeel itself.
‘This could get rather repetitive,’ says the drone.
‘Well, it’s obviously hostile,’ the man observes.
‘Orbus, your speed of comprehension is blinding.’
Orbus.
It takes Vrell a moment to dredge up the memory and to realize why that name is so familiar. In that same moment, Orbus fires his weapon, its beam setting cutting the attacking creature in half.
Orbus was the captain of that sailing ship Vrell attacked on Spatterjay, capturing him and his crew to use as slave labour to repair Father’s spaceship. He is an Old Captain, of course, so that accounts for his size.
‘Look at the bugger now,’ says Orbus.
The two severed halves are still moving, folding in on themselves to produce two creatures but with a lesser complement of legs. And now other mutated third-children begin to appear and hurl themselves towards the newcomers. Sniper lashes out with all of his tentacles that are not gripping the twisted wreckage around them, sending the creatures crashing into the surrounding darkness. As the first of them begin to return, he opens up with a powerful laser, but even that takes a couple of seconds to render each of their assailants inert.
‘Let me try something,’ says Orbus, quickly making an adjustment to his weapon.
The next mutant to attack–a repellent creature whose legs are making the transition into tentacles, and whose body has become squidlike and sports two trumpet mouths surrounded by a ring of eyes–he shoots just once with some sort of explosive bullet. Detonating inside the creature, the bullet tears a gaping hole, but still that should not be enough to stop it. However, the creature clings to wreckage, utterly still for a moment, then it begins to shiver. Black fluid oozes from it, and its shivering turns to violent convulsions that actually tear it apart.
Vrell studies the images appearing on his screen with renewed interest. He knows at once what Orbus has used. He knows about sprine, but possesses none and knows nothing about its basic formula. Orbus fires again, and again, leaving disintegrating creatures clinging all about the pair of them.
