by Neal Asher
‘I needed someone to solve my reproductive problem,’ Oberon replies. ‘Prador possess neither the elasticity of mind required nor the ability to distance themselves from such research work.’
‘But in solving your problem, the Human becomes a problem itself?’
‘Not really,’ replies the King, ‘since the Polity AIs have been aware of my condition for some years.’
This is news to Sadurian and seems to confirm some of her own speculations about why the King might be lurking here, by the Graveyard. She folds her arms and waits. That the Polity AIs know about the King makes it more likely he will allow her to return to the Polity, yet being privy to conversations like this one might not be healthy.
‘So in destroying Vrell your ostensible purpose of preventing Polity AIs or others finding out what he is, and thereby revealing what you are, is actually a lie.’ The Golgoloth is right on the button of course, but why, Sadurian wonders, is the King even speaking to this creature?
‘I think that you know that already, Golgoloth. I take it you have located Vrell, and that this coincidence you mention somehow concerns that fact?’
‘Astute as ever, O King. Observe.’
A small collection of screens blank down in one corner of the main array, then flicker on again to show a big bulky Human with his back resting against a glassy wall.
‘A Hooper,’ says Sadurian, peering at the man curiously. She herself has taken great interest in the work of one Erlin Taser Three Indomial on the planet Spatterjay–the woman who revealed much about the virus’s lifecycle. One day she intends to go there herself, simply to closely study Hooper Humans like this.
The King swivels his monstrous head round to gaze at her, and she wishes she’d kept her mouth shut. Though they converse with the clatter and bubble of Prador speech, the conversation between these two creatures seems easy and relaxed, and that puts her off her guard. Best to keep silent and remember her true position in Prador society. She lives simply at the King’s will, when otherwise she would be considered little more than food. Very highly paid food, but lunch nonetheless. The King returns his attention to the screens.
‘As my Human has noted: that is a Hooper. I also recognize this human as being involved in killing one of my agents in the Graveyard. He is an Old Captain by the name of Orbus. Perhaps you can elaborate on why he now appears to be a prisoner aboard your ship?’
‘Because he was with my other captive, Vrell.’
‘You have him?’
‘I have him.’
The lower screen image changes to show a black mutated Prador. Sadurian studies Vrell intently, noting the differences between him and Oberon. The King is obviously a lot further along than Vrell, and has been deliberately forcing mutations on his own body for some years, yet Vrell’s appearance does not match that of the King when the latter was the same age. Sadurian knows that for sure after being allowed to study the King’s personal physiological files.
‘Then why is he still alive?’ asks the King.
‘Whilst I was still considering your offer, certain complications arose,’ says the Golgoloth.
‘Explain,’ the King clatters, and Sadurian takes one careful pace away from him. When the King uses single-word interroga-tives like that, it usually means he is getting pissed off, which in turn usually results in blood spattered on the walls.
‘I drove Vrell’s ship down onto a planetoid so as to facilitate my extracting him from it, since I knew that, wanting him dead, you would want proper evidence of his demise. However, I did not even need to extract him for, along with this Orbus and a Polity drone that was subsequently destroyed, he fled his ship–pursued by some distinctly strange creatures.’
‘Creatures?’
The King’s mandibles snap open on the final clonk of the Prador word and he rises up slightly, his big ribbed body now tense as that of a scorpion about to strike. The lower screen image changes yet again, this time to display some sort of cyborg insect.
‘Identify,’ Oberon instructs.
‘Vrell’s ship has been taken over by these creatures,’ the Golgoloth explains. ‘And it is apparent that they were once members of the Guard, but somehow transformed by the Spatterjay virus into what you see. Presumably the virus is working with some ancient alien genetic tissue it holds, but that would not explain how these things are able to wield advanced technologies. Perhaps you, Oberon, should now “identify”.’
Oberon settles back with a sigh that seems to have some elements of pain in it. ‘It has happened,’ he intones.
‘What, precisely?’
Oberon raises his head. ‘You clearly did not look deep enough into the viral store, if all you found was alien genetic material.’
Sadurian cannot help herself. ‘Quantum mem-storage–the mind of a soldier, or perhaps the minds of many soldiers.’
‘As the Human says,’ declares the King.
The Golgoloth shudders as if those words possess a physical force, then speaks very slowly as it, no doubt, ransacks its ‘ganglion’ storage. ‘And that being so…considering the likely age of the virus in its present form, these soldiers were created by one of the three extinct races: the Jain, the Csorians or the Atheter.’
‘Discount the last two,’ Sadurian interjects. ‘You’re not up-to-date on recent research.’
‘Why?’ asks the ancient hermaphrodite.
‘Because the genetic sample I’ve been studying does not come anywhere close to matching that of those we now know to be the descendants of the Atheter–the gabbleducks of Masada. Nor does it match pieces of genetic material recovered by fossil genome techniques from what Polity AIs are sure is the body of a Csorian.’
‘The Jain, then,’ the Golgoloth continues. ‘The ones who liked to rearrange solar systems and even destroyed a few suns. Something very dangerous has been unleashed.’
‘Yes, it has,’ replies the King, ‘and now I must destroy it.’
Sadurian feels the world shift and the walls seem to distort all around her. Prador shielding is not as good as that on Polity ships, but in either case she knows instantly when any ship she is aboard has shifted into U-space. The Golgoloth fades from the main screens, but the picture of the Jain still hangs in place.
‘I wonder what they looked like before they started changing themselves…before they advanced enough…’Sadurian wonders aloud.
Oberon just swings that great head of his towards her again.
Sadurian thinks it politic not to add:…before they could change their physical form at will…just like you, King of the Prador.
Gurnard regrets the death of Iannus Drooble, but it is not for AIs to limit the free will of Humans, even if they make stupid choices and get themselves killed. AIs only limit that free will when it might result in others dying.
‘We cannot rescue Orbus,’ says Thirteen, perching with his tail wrapped round one arm of the Captain’s chair, ‘or Vrell either.’
Gurnard could not agree more. With Sniper down, and quite possibly destroyed, there is no one now to send to the rescue, and going up against so large and obviously powerful a vessel would be suicidal. Such an effort would most likely only increase the chances of the two captives dying. All Gurnard can do therefore is watch, and again send out a request for advice.
The larger chunk from the big ship out there is heading back to the main ship with Orbus and Vrell now aboard. However the other splinter sent out to prevent the Gurnard getting any closer remains on station. Still no idea where that big ship comes from, and less idea what those creatures down on the planet are. Initially the AI assumed the big ship used some kind of U-jump–like it did with its missiles–to put alien assault troops aboard the dreadnought, but subsequent events have shot that theory down.
‘Any word from Sniper?’ Thirteen asks.
‘Nothing,’ Gurnard replies, contemplatively, whilst trying to analyse some particularly odd readings it is picking up on local com. ‘Nor have I received any response from the Polity fleet stati
oned at the border.’
‘That seems a bit strange.’
‘Perhaps they are still analysing the data.’
The local com is laser-based, and Gurnard is only intercepting a small portion of it, but even that is enough to realize it is dangerously loaded with informational life. Gurnard now recognizes it for what it is: this is splash, overspill from a computer warfare laser. Triangulation along the length of its own ship’s body gives Gurnard the source of the splash and thus the laser’s true target: that splinter deriving from the big ship out there. Analysis of how the laser is being deflected reveals that the beam is playing along the length of the splinter from somewhere down on the planetoid. If the attacks made upon the larger shuttle portion of that ship were not enough, this confirms the hostility of those life-forms below. Gurnard wonders if the crew of that big ship knows what is going on.
But then, before the AI can speculate further, it receives an urgent exterior request to open a U-com channel. All the codes are correct and it seems, from data accompanying the request, that it is opening from a distant location, via the runcible network and the Polity fleet. Gurnard accepts the request and allows Thirteen to listen in.
‘The data you dispatched is interesting,’ says the entity at the far end of the channel, and Gurnard feels for a moment as if it has tried to open conversation with a couple of individuals on the side of a mountain, and the mountain itself has replied. The ship AI knows instantly that this is no normal AI speaking; this is Earth Central itself.
‘Interesting in the sense of an old Chinese curse?’ Gurnard suggests.
‘Quite possibly,’ concurs Earth Central. ‘Due to the sensitive nature of relations between the Polity and the Prador Third Kingdom, we have been disinclined to initiate any large-scale intervention in this matter and, despite your data, this disinclination remains unchanged.’
‘We’ve got a massive unidentified vessel, possibly of Prador manufacture, here within the Graveyard,’ Gurnard observes. ‘And we’ve got alien assault troops that seemingly have appeared out of nowhere.’
‘Let me clarify matters for you: that large alien vessel is the property of a creature called the Golgoloth, a being that fled the usurpation of the Second Kingdom.’
Gurnard receives a data package and absorbs its contents instantly, now knowing precisely what this Golgoloth is, and also learning that Earth Central and the sector AIs have known about the creature for centuries.
Earth Central continues, ‘It seems likely that, despite the Golgoloth having previously been hunted down by King Oberon, it is now acting as his agent in this matter.’
‘And those aliens down there?’
Another data package arrives, from which Gurnard learns in great detail about the Jain soldiers the Spatterjay virus holds at its core. The ship AI also studies with interest the results of data extraction from the Jain quantum storage: about how these soldiers can alter and adapt their bodies at will, how they are hostile to any but those in their own squad, how certain elements of the knowledge held in storage have yet to be properly interpreted even by autistic-savant forensic AIs. However, these scientific details are not all of the data Earth Central is providing. Gurnard also learns about the long and troubled deliberations, between Earth Central and the Sector AIs, about what exactly should be done. On numerous occasions the whole planet of Spatterjay has come close to annihilation at their hands, so what held the AIs back? The answer was a reluctance to destroy such a unique source of data about the Jain, rather than any question of morality regarding planetary destruction and genocide.
‘You will not intervene here,’ says Gurnard. ‘Yet what is now happening here is precisely what you feared.’
‘As of this time, intervention is not required.’
‘But if no action is taken against them, they get a chance to grow stronger.’
‘But action is being taken. King Oberon, in his capital ship, along with twenty of the most advanced Prador dreadnoughts, is already on his way.’
Gurnard isn’t entirely sure this means the situation has got any better.
‘So what should I do?’
‘Though you were formerly employed by Earth Central Security, that employment is now considered at an end, and you are once again a free agent,’ Earth Central replies. ‘My advice, therefore, is that you get out of there just as fast as you can. Our border defence stations will let you through, if you do this right now. However I cannot guarantee that they will let anything pass through later on.’
The channel closes.
‘Ever get the feeling you’re just a pawn on a chessboard?’ Thirteen asks.
‘Often,’ Gurnard replies.
‘So what’s the real agenda here?’
‘My guess if that if King Oberon deals with this problem the Polity gets a bit of a negotiating advantage, what with him being the one to have broken their treaties. However, if things get out of control, Oberon might end up dead and quite a few of his major ships could be smashed up, then the Polity moves in to finish off the Jain–after which it has another kind of advantage.’
‘For attack?’ suggests Thirteen. ‘Attacking the Kingdom?’
‘No,’ Gurnard replies. ‘I’ve information about this Golgoloth now, and about how that creature is basically what held together the Second Kingdom, and further data on how Oberon alone is what holds together the Third Kingdom. Remove both of them from the equation, and Vrell too, since he might become as capable as either of the other two, and the Prador will start attacking each other again, and the Kingdom will fall apart.’
‘Then, I suppose,’ says Thirteen, ‘after letting them tear each other apart, ECS goes in to clear up the mess.’
‘Neat, don’t you think?’
‘Not very moral.’
‘Whoever accused us AIs of morality?’ Gurnard wonders.
‘So we run now?’
‘Of course not.’
Gurnard returns its attention to the splinter of ship still visible out there. The attempts at computer warfare have ceased, and it is now turning away to head back towards the father ship. Perhaps it has managed to fend off those attacks, but if otherwise Gurnard suspects it will be seeing the results of that failure quite soon.
14
The residents of Spatterjay, the so-called ‘Hoopers’, range from the toughness of a heavy-worlder to, in the case of the Old Captains, something stronger and more difficult to waste than the most advanced combat Golem. However, luckily for us, as with ancient fictional characters like Achilles or Superman, they’ve got one critical weakness, and in their case it is sprine. This poison, refined from the bile of the oceanic leeches of Spatterjay, kills the virus that grants them virtual immortality combined with the strength to rip arms out of sockets, and, since the viral fibres pierce every cell of their bodies, this leads to complete physical breakdown. So a man capable of tearing out a bulkhead door with his bare hands can be killed by the prick of a needle. Had there been no weakness like this I doubt that Hoopers would have been allowed to range so freely throughout the Polity. As it is, the security services of every Polity world store caches of sprine weapons–bullets, particle beamers and sprine gas–all kept ready to bring down one of these supermen should he go rogue.
–From HOW IT IS by Gordon
The splinter ship the Golgoloth shed in order to keep that Polity vessel at bay, is tardy in returning to the main ship, but the old hermaphrodite is not surprised, for many of the computer systems and the ganglia inside the splinter are very decrepit. Upon its return, it will be time to run a diagnostic and then perhaps discard old pieces of the Golgoloth’s former children’s minds, and load their data to new tissue. Many of its children still ensconced in their frames within the main ship are ready for harvesting to that end.
‘King Oberon is coming here,’ warns the Golgoloth, now eyeing its two captives.
‘Great,’ says Orbus. ‘Should I wash and change, do y’think?’
‘I think the King is only concerned ab
out what creatures wear when it is armour,’ the Golgoloth replies, meanwhile focusing on Vrell’s reaction.
The mutated Prador shows little indication of fear, so perhaps he has simply given up. However, he is looking much healthier now, his soft new white legs having grown visibly during the last hour, so that they now nearly reach the ground. And, anyway, the Golgoloth suspects that ‘giving up’ is not in the young mutant’s mental lexicon.
‘Did the King send you here from the Kingdom?’ Vrell abruptly asks.
The Golgoloth appreciates that: Vrell is still trying to gain an advantage.
‘I have been in practical exile in the Graveyard since the fall of the Second Kingdom,’ it replies.
‘But, like other Prador here, you seek to gain favour.’
‘It is not quite like that.’
Vrell clatters and bubbles with Prador laughter. With some amusement itself, the Golgoloth realizes that, not having the option of some physical form of escape, Vrell is now trying the psychological route. This might be interesting, but again other exigencies must be considered.
The Golgoloth’s surroundings shudder as if in sympathy with that thought, as the shuttle segment, which it used to get down to the planet, slots neatly back into place in the father ship. The hermaphrodite now returns its attention to its screens and sensors to monitor the rest of the docking procedure, before switching over to the greater data-flows of its main vessel in order to scan the planetoid. There is some sort of disruption down there, a heavy chameleonware effect aggravated by the murk the Golgoloth created with the weapon used to block those green lasers, for its detectors cannot now locate the dreadnought. However, if the thing launches from down in a gravity well, the Golgoloth feels confident this will cause sufficient disruption to reveal it, no matter what concealing technology is being used. The Golgoloth loads the known coordinates of the dreadnought to one of its U-jump missiles, and lets the ganglion that the missile contains run the required calculations to fling itself down the gravity well. This should take just a few minutes.
