by Neal Asher
THELDON GAZED BACK FOR a second to where the survivors of Sauros were setting up camp on the mountainside, then turned and negotiated his way down what was once the course of a stream between stands of charred vegetation. He needed a deep pool to take the emergency manifold and there was none around here, the water having been evaporated literally in the heat of battle.
Even though the differences between heliothant and umbrathant were a few minor genetic ones, but mostly a question of loyalties, Theldon had found it difficult to infiltrate the upper echelons of the Heliothane Dominion. It had in fact taken him fifty of his one hundred and twenty-five years of life, and just when he was in a position to strike a blow that would obliterate New London, and the threat that it posed, Goron had shut down his console. He would have liked to have acted even earlier, but only during the chaos of the attack could his own penetration of abutment control have gone unnoticed. He damned himself for not sticking entirely to his job, and warning them of that first incursion because that error had certainly been what had roused Goron’s suspicions. Now fifty years of sycophancy were wasted and ten years of being subordinate to Cowl’s previously unknown primary agent.
Palleque.
They’d brought him back wounded for an interrogation. Theldon was unworried that his own presence might be revealed by Palleque, for the identities of Umbrathane agents or Cowl’s agents were never revealed to each other, precisely for this reason. What had worried him then was just how long it was taking for that interrogation to start. And now … now Palleque was Goron’s great friend and a hero to the Heliothane. Palleque had always been a double agent and this was something Cowl needed to know because that, and the fatalistic way Goron had reacted to the torbeast’s attack, made Theldon feel this whole situation stank.
At last, out of sight of the vast flow of the torbeast pouring into the wormhole, Theldon saw the glimmer of water between some rocks. Heading down, he scanned desperately for a deep pool, but none was yet in evidence. Then, thankfully, it appeared before him: a deep pool right by a seared pile of vegetation that must have been washed down here in an earlier flood. He hurried towards it, having no doubt that Goron’s people would be hunting for him even now. Perhaps Cowl could somehow divert an outgrowth of the torbeast into depositing one of its active scales—or maybe Cowl possessed some other method of retrieving his loyal agents.
At the pool Theldon went down on his knees and observed the floating bodies of blue-skinned newts amid the scum of burnt leaves and twigs. Plunging his hand into the water, he found it still warm and thought about the other kind of heat that would still be in this area. Certainly some of the citizens of Sauros would be excising tumours from themselves in the immediate future and having to run anti-cancer enzymes through their bodies for years to come. But whatever technology they had would now no longer be available to Theldon himself. Cowl would have something, though, and Theldon, with his tough genetic structure resulting from Umbrathane breeding programs and direct genetic manipulation, would be able to survive any melanomas for quite a few years yet. He sat back and shook water from his hand, then he pressed the finger and thumb of his right hand into his left forearm. The lump embedded in his muscle became visible through taut skin and, as he kept on the pressure, a fistula developed and began to ooze plasma. He pinched the flesh hard and a flattened white spheroid, a centimetre across, popped out of his arm. He inspected the thing for a second, then tossed it into the pool.
In the Jurassic he had established a permanent manifold set deep and out-ofphase in granite, just like the one Palleque had supposedly been caught using. That was all well and good, as the device extruded layers of vorpal crystal through the surrounding rock with which to blur the tachyon signal and thus hide itself from detection. The only problem was that once the egg had been placed, it took a number of days to develop and become usable. Growing one in water was quick but risky, as the chances of detection increased by an order of magnitude.
The spheroid sank about half a metre below the surface and there, with one twitch, expanded to twice its previous size. It then frayed around the edges, and all movement in the water surrounding it ceased as it set itself in a fastpropagating jelly. It then began to grow the hard tentacular arms of the manifold, like sulphate crystals dumped in a solution of isinglass. In seconds it was ready and he pressed his palm against the pool’s now rubbery surface: like an attacking squid the manifold rose to bind with his hand. After a moment Cowl’s beetle face looked up at him from the depths.
‘Sauros has been evacuated,’ Theldon said without preamble. ‘Was Palleque really your primary agent?’
‘He was,’ Cowl replied.
‘Then know that he was a double agent. Goron gave him a displacement generator before the torbeast’s attack and now it seems they are the greatest of friends.’
Pain shot up Theldon’s arm from the manifold and he found he could not pull his hand away.
‘It’s true!’ he protested. ‘Something more is going on! I’m sure Goron expected things to happen as they have.’ The pain eased and Theldon took an unsteady breath. He went on, ‘I don’t know what they think to achieve, but you have been out-manoeuvred.’
Cowl’s head turned sideways, and for a moment Theldon got a hint of nightmarish shapes deep down in the pool.
‘The beast will not stop,’ said Cowl. He turned back. ‘The killer … my sister …’
Abruptly the connection broke, and the manifold sank and slowly broke apart. Theldon withdrew his hand and looked disbelievingly at the still pool. No chance of rescue now. Cowl had given him nothing, not even a chance to ask for help. Theldon turned and looked back the way he had come. Maybe he could still salvage something. Maybe, during the chaos of the torbeast’s attack, what he had tried to do could be put down to panic … inexperience.
Theldon was halfway back along the course of the stream when Palleque spotted him, and folded up the scope of the Heliothane rifle he was carrying. Theldon did not even see the source of the shot that punched a finger-width hole through his chest and blew his spine out of his back. There were never any maybes in this conflict, and very little room for doubt.
ABOVE COWL’S CITADEL THE weird shapes of incipient horror continued their hideous dance. Cowl stood utterly still before his vorpal controls, his hands hanging slack against his sides. When Makali and her compatriots entered the sphere, he still did not move until Makali’s second, Scour, spoke—before she could stop him.
‘Have we killed them? Have you done it?’ he asked eagerly.
Cowl turned slowly, then stalked towards them. Eventually he came to stand still and silent before Scour. Makali herself did not move, knowing the danger of this moment. Those Umbrathane whom Cowl had brought back to his citadel were here on sufferance and under his absolute autocratic rule, being viewed by their ruler with the same contempt with which he viewed all humankind. Any who had been there for some time knew when to keep their heads down—for if Cowl suffered any kind of reversal he would take it out on those nearest to him.
Finally Cowl’s voice issued, as if out of the air, ‘The assassin escaped to the sea. Bring Aconite to me.’
‘About time we dealt with that bitch,’ said Scour.
Makali winced. As Cowl backhanded Scour and sent him sprawling, Makali willed her second to just stay on the floor and make no further move. But he was new to this part of citadel and still retained all his Umbrathane pride. He moved his hand to the butt of his handgun, his face twisting in a sneer as if about to say something.
None of the seven Umbrathane saw Cowl cross the intervening space. He was just there, jerking Scour high into the air, ripping and tearing at him. Then Scour arced away, trailing his own intestines, and hit a lambent transformer before sliding, burning and screaming, to the floor. None of the other six moved or spoke while Scour’s screams turned to groans as he cooked, unable to drag himself out of the thermal containment field around the machine. Cowl stood amongst them utterly still, as oily smoke drifted
across the sphere’s interior. This stillness went on interminably, until Makali relaxed the tension gripping her body and slid her hand down to her belt, just a short distance from her own hand weapon. Cowl immediately spun round towards her, and for a moment she thought she would now die like Scour had.
Sibilant hissing drew in to Cowl, from the shadows amid the machines, and expressed from that entity in words: ‘I do not give orders twice.’
Catching the attention of her companions, Makali twitched her head towards the exit, and the five of them began backing out of the sphere. Makali followed them, pausing at the exit.
‘The torbeast?’ she asked, knowing she was now risking her life.
Cowl hissed again as his face covering began to open up.
Makali fled.
IF ASKED WHO SHE trusted, Polly could only suggest Nandru with certainty, since his fortunes were now utterly tied to her own; and Ygrol, maybe, because he was utterly ingenuous. The word ‘trust’ did not apply to Tacitus because, though always honest and utterly straight with the others, he also coldly informed them that he was loyal unto death to Aconite, and cared not one whit if the rest of them lived or died. Cheng-yi she felt was the kind of dog you daren’t turn your back on, and Lostboy she included in her general assessement of Aconite, for most of what rested inside his skull the troll woman had put there. The heliothant herself Polly considered too complex a being to either trust or distrust. Tack she trusted even less than the Chinaman, and when she spotted her erstwhile killer sneaking out into the damp night, she took up her taser, and the Heliothane handgun Aconite had provided for her, and followed him.
Rain was now steadily pouring from a dark sky, but it was a warm downpour and Polly relished it as she fixed her mask across and tied her hair back.
Now then, is there something Mr U-gov arsehole has neglected to tell us? ‘Well, I don’t think he’s out here to smell the roses, Nandru,’ Polly replied.
I wonder what it’s to be: some sort of doublecross, or is he still going after Cowl?
‘We’ll find out soon enough.’ Polly set off after the half-seen figure. The light robe Aconite had provided him with was much more easily visible than the black skin-tight clothing Polly herself wore, but nevertheless she found what concealment she could. However, Tack did not look round once as he plodded stolidly into the night.
Polly tracked him down the hill, then up one bank of the river. She ducked down behind a low boulder when at one point he halted, turning his masked face up into the rain. She noticed that his fists were clenched at his sides, then she watched him bow his head and bring the fists up and crush them against his temples. Still he did not turn round, but after a moment moved on.
Migraine? Nandru suggested.
Polly did not answer, for just then Tack abruptly turned aside and she lost sight of him. Hurrying up to the point she had last seen him, she spotted a narrow watercourse leading away from the river bed, cut down through stone. Following this, she kept catching glimpses of him ahead of her. For a second time he disappeared, but then a dim light ignited somewhere in the watercourse, and she finally came upon a tent lit up from the inside.
Perhaps he don’t like company.
Much as she appreciated how much Nandru had helped her, she sometimes wished she had an antidote for his verbal diarrhoea. She studied the tent for long-drawn-out minutes, but no movement was apparent inside it. As she considered turning round and heading home, there came a muttered curse from the interior. Leading with the barrel of her handgun, Polly ducked down and pressed through the entrance.
Tack was sitting cross-legged at the rear of the tent behind a suspended chemical light. To his left lay an empty pack and on the ground to his right, rested a Heliothane carbine. He made no move for the weapon as she entered. When Polly moved to where she could more clearly see his face, she saw that his mask was off revealing a cold, blank expression. She removed her own mask to sample the air, and saw, down in one corner of the tent, some insectile oxygenating device.
‘I’m sorry I tried to kill you,’ Tack said emotionlessly.
He’s sorry. Well, that cuts no mustard on my fucking beef.
‘Go away, Nandru.’
Well, excuse me.
Polly felt the presence of Nandru fade as he took the other option now available to him: shifting his awareness into Wasp.
‘Are you really?’ she sneered at Tack.
He looked confused for a moment, pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead, then went on, ‘I killed Minister LaFrange, Joyce and Jack Tennyson, Theobald Rice and Smythe. I cut off Lucian’s fingers one by one until he told me the file-access code at Green Engine, and then I gutted the guard who tried to stop me breaking in there.’ Then he looked up, staring past her as if at something beyond the wall of the tent and beyond this time. ‘The bomb in the protest meeting against U-gov killed forty-eight people and maimed twelve.’
He fell silent, and she knew he was enumerating further killings and tortures in his mind.
‘Why did you come out here?’ she asked, uncomfortable with the ensuing silence.
His gaze tracked across to her. ‘I needed to think.’
‘Nice thoughts you have,’ she observed.
He flinched. ‘How could they be otherwise? I’ve led such a nice life.’
‘But it wasn’t exactly your fault,’ Polly conceded.
His stare was blank. ‘Yes, I accept that I had only as much control over my actions, before the moment Cowl took my mind apart, as any other machine. But that doesn’t help. It was me who planted that bomb. It was me who raped the teenage daughter of a certain terrorist, to force him to come after me. It was me who led him into a trap and blew his kneecaps away, me who worked him over with scopolamine, a scalpel and pliers, until I had extracted the required information. And it was me who then tied a kerbstone to him and dumped him off the New Thames Barrier.’
‘Did he deserve it?’
‘She didn’t.’
Polly was at a loss. She had followed him here expecting the man to be involved in something nefarious—and perhaps to have the satisfaction of putting a cluster of explosive bullets in his back in repayment for past intended hurts. But this was something else, though what she did not yet know. Maybe he truly felt remorse, or maybe that was just what he wanted her to think.
‘So you have suddenly become such a moral human being?’ she queried.
Tack snorted. ‘It’s not morality—it’s empathy. I cringe when I remember the things I did. I can still hear the sound of the wirecutters going through Lucian’s fingers and the sounds he made. I can remember the girl’s fear, then disbelief, then pain, every word she said to me while she begged for mercy, and I can see how I destroyed something essential.’
Polly sat back and crossed her legs, wondering at her own reaction. She had never killed anyone, but she had caused pain because of her lack of empathy. As for morality, previously she had never known the meaning of the word.
‘Aconite told me that’s the true mark of a criminal,’ she murmured.
‘Cruelty?’ Tack asked.
‘No, lack of empathy. The true criminal cannot conceptualize the experiences of his victims. He cannot feel their pain, or in any way understand their trauma. The true criminal is not a social creature. We were discussing her brother at the time.’
Tack shook his head. ‘In U-gov terms, I was not a criminal. I was merely their agent—the ungloved hand of their justice.’
‘They were the criminals,’ said Polly. ’What they did to you was in many ways as bad as the things you inflicted on others. They suppressed your humanity and made you their absolute slave.’
‘Knowing who to blame doesn’t make me feel any better. There’s a grey area … Why didn’t I kill that terrorist cleanly rather than let him drown?’
‘Perhaps you felt his actions justified that punishment?’
‘Perhaps.’
Polly gazed at him for a long moment as he stared at his hands. ‘Tell m
e,’ she said. ‘Tell me all those things you did.’
He looked up at her, a faint smile twisting his features. ‘Catharsis?’
‘Maybe.’
And so, in terse, leaden sentences, Tack told her. When he had finished, Polly reached out and pressed her hand down on his.
‘Where do we go from here?’ Tack asked.
Confused by what she was feeling, Polly leaned forwards and kissed him on the lips. For a moment it appeared he did not know how to respond, then he reached out to press his hand against the back of her head, returning the kiss with a kind of desperation.
Sorry to break up this romantic moment, but a shitstorm just arrived.
Polly sometimes wished Nandru had a face she could slap.
20
Modification Status Report:
That pain again. Perhaps I should have removed him at the foetal stage and continued his growth in the tank as I did with Amanita, but in me there is the abiding instinct to nurture my creation. Perhaps it is only that I should have made some modification to my womb to withstand the abrasion of his hardening carapace. Blood tests have shown that, unlike his sister, he is not poisoning me. His prematurely developed immune system is so alien it does not seek to attack his mother, whereas hers was just human enough to recognize the vessel that contained it. But there’s something … I am reluctant to run another scan, as that process in itself can be damaging to delicate tissues, and truthfully I do not want to find out if there is anything going wrong.
Damn … it’s just not stopping … getting worse … must scan … must …
AS HE RAN THE whetstone along the edge of his gladius, Tacitus could see that Cheng-yi was angry. The man was angry at Polly’s continual rejection of him, angry at the low regard in which Aconite held him, and now he was angry that all his hard work to teach mahjong to the Neanderthal was paying off—for Ygrol was beating him. But the Chinaman would not start getting openly offensive—he’d tried that once with Ygrol already and suffered concussion for the following three days. The Neanderthal tended to react either with smiling delight or with his club. There was no middle ground.
