by Neal Asher
‘Seems like an odd request,’ he observes.
‘Who are we to question the King?’ Gurnard replies.
Externally, Sniper knows he looks only a little different from before, the only evidence of his recent travails being tentacles still missing, and damage to his shell still evident in its distortion despite him having sprayed it with a chrome analogue, but internally he has changed drastically. Next to him lies a pile of technological junk: fried optics, cracked crystal, the melted components of a rail-gun, several lasers, a particle cannon and com hardware, cracked ceramic remnants of his fusion engines, unrecognizable slag that was once hardfield generators, and the remains of his underwater drive, along with numerous cyber-motors and sections of tentacle. Also here lie two dismembered earwig autohandlers, and various open plasmel component boxes. He has removed all the damaged components from inside himself, but found few suitable replacements for most of them from the cannibalized machines. Numerous raw voids gape inside a body once packed solid with state-of-the-art hardware, mostly of the lethal kind.
He feels naked.
‘Why me?’ Sniper asks, engaging his gravmotor to lift himself from the floor and using his tentacles to tow himself over to the door that opens into the Gurnard proper. ‘You could send them over using an autohandler, or else he could send one of what have now become his Guard.’
‘I asked just that, but he wasn’t very forthcoming,’ says Gurnard. ‘Perhaps a royal arrogance has settled upon him along with the crown.’
‘Prador don’t go in for jewellery,’ Sniper grumps, as he waits for the bay to pressurize. Once the pressures equalize, the door whumphs up off its seals and slides aside, and Sniper propels himself inside the ship, taking the familiar route down from the docking ring towards the cargo section. Shortly after, he passes through atmosphere doors, entering a zero-gravity hold space filled with inert gas and, with a flip of his main tentacle, sends himself drifting down an aisle leading through the quadrate frameworks. Over to his right, he sees the two halves of the crate in which he and Thirteen were stowed away, now carefully secured in place as if ready to receive them again. All along one wall of the hold, earwig-shaped autohandlers stir as if uncomfortable with rumours of what happened to two of their fellows in the ship above.
Finally Sniper draws to a halt beside three horizontal cylinders resting side-by-side, enviro-control consoles attached to their upper surfaces. His scanning abilities being severely limited now, he reluctantly prods at the controls on each console to check the condition of each cylinder’s living contents. Those contents all seem fine and squirmy.
‘Which one should I take?’ Sniper asks.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Gurnard replies. ‘Having just transferred over a huge sum in diamond slate to Charles Cymbeline, with the proviso that the profits will be shared with us, Vrell now owns the entire cargo of this ship.’
Vrell is thus paying back Cymbeline for the small part that the reification played in getting him on to the metaphorical Prador throne, but mostly he is rewarding Sniper, Thirteen and Orbus, and Gurnard for their crucial role. This makes the drone feel a lot better about boarding a Prador ship without his usual complement of weapons. He detaches one of the cylinders from its webbing straps and propels it back along the aisle. Once reaching the grav-sections of the ship, he engages a maglev unit on its underside, whose controls he programs so that the cylinder will follow him like a faithful dog. Then he finally passes through an airlock and into a wide docking tunnel–into Prador territory.
Three very battered members of the Guard await him in the docking tunnel, armoured as usual but carrying no visible weapons, and he feels something like a sympathetic severed-limb ache from his own missing weapons.
‘You are to accompany me,’ announces one of them.
Sniper recognizes the voice. ‘That you, Frordor?’
‘It is I,’ says the Prador.
‘Glad you made it,’ Sniper replies, realizing he actually is glad. The severed-limb ache recedes a little as–accompanied by just Frordor, while the other two remain behind obviously to watch the tunnel–he enters a large Prador airlock, then the King’s ship itself.
Things seem very busy inside, as Sniper notes a party of again rather battered-looking Guard escorting another of their kind, whose armour is clean and polished.
‘Who’s that?’ Sniper asks.
‘Ship Captain,’ Frodor replies.
He must be the Captain of one of the five surviving dreadnoughts that are also docked to the King’s ship, alongside the Gurnard and the Golgoloth’s vessel. Sniper wonders if captains like this one, and soldiers like Frordor, yet know that their father, King Oberon, is dead. He also wonders if Vrell will even tell them, for it seems, according to Gurnard, that few of the Guard actually have any idea what their father looked like, and in his present position, Vrell should have no trouble disposing of any of those possessing inconvenient knowledge. It is the usual Prador way, politics and murder being nearly indistinguishable concepts in their multiple eyes.
Some way ahead of Sniper and Frordor, the Captain and his escort reach a set of enormous doors. Sniper notices the Captain crouching slightly and picks up on the creature’s apprehension. Perhaps this is the first time he has ever been summoned to an audience with the King himself, which as Sniper understands it, was often a terminal affair. The doors grind slowly open on dazzling whiteness within, and the first party enters. They then remain open until Frordor and Sniper reach them and enter too, then close resolutely behind them.
Sniper glances up at the weapons positioned in pits high in the walls, but notes with some surprise that these aren’t tracking anyone’s progress. As he and Frordor follow the other party, he glances through another set of open doors into a large room that seems to have recently seen quite a bit of action. He sees wrecked equipment, torn-up floor and dents in the walls. Prador bloodstains are everywhere, and through them some suspiciously large ship-lice scuttle delightedly. A section of wall also appears to have been chopped out. No actual body parts visible though, so someone has at least done a bit of clearing up.
Next they enter a short tunnel that debouches into an area recently opened out, for Sniper can see where walls have been removed. An extent of white floor terminates at a wide viewing gallery equipped with enormous windows, which the drone assumes are comprised of some sort of chainglass rather than being massive electronic screens. Before these Vrell patrols restlessly below a raised platform, occasionally closing his harness mask across, probably to keep a sharp eye on everything around him -for miles around him. Much of the rest of the room is occupied by the Guard–like Frordor–who judging by the state of their armour are those that fought the Jain out in vacuum. All are grouped in ranks leaving a wide aisle to the viewing gallery. Near the front the dreadnought Captain joins his four fellows–a singularly shiny group. Then, Sniper notes something else to one side of the raised platform. It is the section of wall that has been removed from the room he passed earlier, with a pair of huge mandibles embedded in it, and resting below it lie pieces of the carapace of some immense creature.
‘We go here,’ indicates Frordor, leading Sniper over to a small group that stands utterly distinct from the rest assembled in this room. Here are the Golgoloth’s surviving children, but amidst them the drone spies Orbus, with Thirteen hovering at his shoulder, and some Human woman flanked by two small chrome-armoured Prador.
‘So you survived again,’ says Orbus cheerfully.
‘Most of me,’ Sniper replies. ‘So what’s going on here? We about to see Vrell settling some old scores?’
Orbus nods. ‘That’d be my guess.’
As Sniper settles to the floor, and instructs the cargo cylinder to park itself beside him, Vrell abruptly flips his harness mask aside and folds it down to his harness, before leaping up on to the platform in one fast fluid movement. It seems he will now make his inaugural address.
‘All but a few of the Prador here,’ begins Vrell, his voice a
mplified to carry clearly to everyone, whilst Thirteen runs a constant translation for Orbus, and maybe the other Human, ‘will never grow to be adults. Not because your father kept your maturity chemically suppressed, but because the Spatterjay virus will never allow you to mature. However, every one of you here has been subject to Oberon’s pheromonal and psychological control.’
There comes a great deal of shifting and clattering within the crowd, and Sniper finds out the reason for disturbance when Frordor swings towards him.
‘This is not Oberon?’ the Prador asks.
‘I dunno.’ Sniper decides to be economical with the truth. ‘I was out there in vacuum with you.’
Frordor swings back to gaze at Vrell, and Sniper notices just about every member of the assembled Guard reflexively groping for weapons they do not now carry. Still, they are all armoured and Vrell is not. Unless he has some hidden defence, they could tear him apart in an instant.
‘Your father, in our Prador terms, treated you well. Despite your enforced loyalty, you all have power and property, and want for only that thing you cannot have: adulthood. Now that your father, King Oberon, is dead, after having sacrificed his own life to defeat the Jain’–Vrell waves his single claw down towards the grotesque exhibit, and from the chunks of carapace resting below the embedded mandibles there arises a hologram of the fearsome creature they once composed–‘I, your new ruler, King Vrell, merely demand loyalty, and though it was within my power to enforce it directly through systems within your suits, I have shut down that option. Instead I demand loyalty in return for the benefits your positions grant you, in return for committing resources towards research that might finally lead to a way to raise you all to adulthood. And I demand that same loyalty to me for the good of the entire Prador race.’
The shifting and clattering amidst the Guard rises to a tumult, and Sniper wonders if some of them are about to rush the platform. Sniper suspects that, to ensure loyalty, Oberon used some kind of hormonal generator within each suit of armour, and perhaps some sort of continuous subliminal enforcement through each suit’s electronics. So if Vrell has now shut these down, surely there are those here even now contemplating snatching power away from him? Then, again, the ultimate enforcement of loyalty is the fusion device inside each suit, of which Vrell has doubtless assumed control. Still, Vrell seems to be making a very dangerous gamble, and Sniper just hopes he understands Prador psychology–or rather the psychology of these Prador mutants–a lot better than Sniper does. ‘Loyalty’ as such is something that he reckons has to be enforced amidst this vicious species.
‘You know how to signify your acceptance,’ says Vrell. ‘And I will prove to you my trust.’
Huh?
‘Not sure I get that,’ says Orbus.
‘Me neither,’ says Sniper.
Orbus turns to the woman. ‘Sadurian?’
The Human woman’s face twists into a strange smile and she shakes her head in amazement. ‘You have to remember that many of those here are very old, aware that they are not true Prador, and are therefore not so hard-wired by their biology. Many of them have even acquired some wisdom.’
A Prador Captain, one of those in polished armour, abruptly steps out from the ranks and into the aisle, to directly approach Vrell’s dais. The Captain draws to a halt and stands rigid and, after a moment, there comes a clonk and a hiss as the upper carapace of his armour separates from the lower, rising on silvered rods to then hinge back and reveal the monster within. This is no fast-eject routine, so the mutated Prador spends some time in withdrawing his legs, claws and underhands from their enclosing metal. Sniper studies the creature with interest. It looks soft, the head rising on a short, curving neck looks like that of a blind bird, while its legs bow under the weight of a bunched-up body that only gradually straightens out its kinks.
Vrell abruptly drops from his platform, flipping his mask back across in the meantime. He must have sent some instruction to the open armour, for sounds issue from within it as he approaches. He rears over it, reaches inside with his single claw, and pulls out some heavy coin-shaped component, which he takes over and places directly below the slowly fading hologram of King Oberon.
Vrell turns to address the naked mutant. ‘Your armour’s software has now been reformatted, though your personal data retained. You can check for yourself the status of the internal conditioning system–that system you have been aware of for over a century, Captain Vertos, and have been trying to overcome for as long.’
The blind birdlike head dips and turns to inspect the suit it has so recently departed. After lengthily studying some items within, the head dips in acquiescence again, and Captain Vertos climbs back into his armour. By the time the armour closes again, a queue is forming behind him, third in line being Frordor himself. Over the ensuing hours, Sniper observes a grotesque range of mutated Prador, and watches that stack of coin-shaped fusion bombs continue to grow and grow. Then, after the last two–the two small ones wearing chrome armour, one of whom needs assistance from the other for, despite its armour possessing all its legs, it does not–all gathered within this large room have become free for the first time in their entire existence. Sniper realizes that those assembled here are by no means all of the Guard, but just a representative few. Countless others are yet to be freed.
He wonders, too, what the major Polity AIs will make of all this: of mutated Prador, any of whom might turn into Jain super-soldiers, being thus freed of the devices that can destroy them at once. Then, again, this same possibility applies to every Human Hooper on Spatterjay, and they don’t walk round with bombs permanently strapped to them.
‘I offer choice,’ says Vrell, once again back up on his platform. ‘Now you can choose to either obey me or disobey me. You can choose to serve me or betray me. But, now that you have choice, you must be thoroughly aware that all choices have their consequences. I can no longer kill any of you in an instant, but choose to go against me and you may long for so speedy a death.’
‘Ah, that’s a bit more like it,’ mutters Orbus.
‘Carrot, then stick,’ agrees Sniper. ‘The former is for the older and wiser ones, the latter for those–like most Prador–who only understand the stick.’
‘And now I shall offer another individual a choice,’ says Vrell, raising his head to gaze towards the distant tunnel mouth, as even now a figure comes into view.
So that’s the Golgoloth, Sniper guesses.
The crippled Prador hermaphrodite is limping along, trailing various tubes and wires, still surrounded by the members of the Guard that apprehended it. These Guards are all heavily armed and Sniper doubts that Vrell has released his control of them at all. They escort the Golgoloth before Vrell, and then all but two of them move back into the crowd. The two that remain close in on the creature and grab hold of its claws and misshapen carapace.
‘And what choice might you offer me?’ asks the Golgoloth, turning one palp-eye towards its children, who instinctively bunch together and back off a little.
‘You possess knowledge and wisdom I will find useful,’ says Vrell. ‘You either choose to serve me or choose to die.’
‘I never choose to die,’ replies the ancient creature.
Again the Golgoloth peers at its children, no doubt coveting various parts of them, since some of those on its own body now possess an unhealthy hue and doubtless will soon be in need of replacement. Whilst the hermaphrodite is thus distracted, Vrell again drops from his platform. He shoots forwards and brutally stabs his claw right in beside the Golgoloth’s mouth, where some of the recent repair remains weak. Shell crumbles and the creature shrieks, struggling between its two captors. Vrell grabs a rim of broken shell and wrenches it aside, exposing wet flesh underneath, now leaking green ichor.
‘You said I could live!’ the Golgoloth clatters.
‘Yes, I did,’ Vrell replies. ‘I did not say how.’
And, now understanding, Sniper extends one tentacle to punch code into the console of the cargo cy
linder and, after a moment, a hatch slides back. Inside lies a slimy bunched tangle of Spatterjay leeches, each measuring about a metre long. Now exposed to air and the possibility of prey, they begin to writhe more vigorously. One tubular, thread-cutting mouth probes up out of the mass, searching for flesh to bore into, for chunks of it to swallow down. All these horrible things are saturated with the Spatterjay virus. In fact they share a mutualism with the virus, for they spread it to turn their prey into a forever reusable food resource. It is the bite from one of these things that gave Orbus his endless life, gave the same to Vrell and King Oberon, and by proxy to all of the Guard.
Sniper wraps a tentacle around the more adventurous of the leeches and tugs it free, its body stretching to twice its previous resting length. Its tubular mouth grinds against the metal of his tentacle, producing a noise like eggs being crushed. With another tentacle, Sniper snaps the cylinder shut. He then engages his gravmotor to rise off the floor, and propels himself over to the Golgoloth.
‘It might kill me!’ The Golgoloth is in panic and, even armoured as they are, the two Guard have a problem holding the ancient creature steady.
‘This is the only life you will now have,’ says Vrell. ‘You will no longer extend your own existence by dismantling your children.’
Sniper lowers the leech towards the raw flesh exposed beside the Golgoloth’s mouth. The leech itself, sensing something more digestible, abruptly snaps its tube mouth away from Sniper’s tentacle and stretches it towards that tempting flesh. A horrible keening issues from the Golgoloth as the leech mouth bores its way in, and green blood gouts around it. Sniper considers just letting the leech go. It would then bore right inside the Golgoloth, chewing through flesh and organs until sated, which is no more than the hermaphrodite deserves. However, in doing so, it might kill the Golgoloth before the virus has a good chance of taking hold. The end result would still be a living creature, but one without the mind that Vrell wants to use. Sniper pulls the leech free and observes a lump of Prador flesh sliding down the length of its attenuated body.
