by Neal Asher
"If Harald seized power, that means he is capable of holding onto it, believe me."
"So you think this crisis to be limited to Harald's ambitions in Fleet?"
"No, like me, Harald does not want power for its own sake—he only wants it if he has a definite use for it. He has always been attracted to Fleet, and the idea of Fleet, and seeing it rendered impotent must gnaw at him. I suspect he's preparing to destroy Orbital Combine—so as to make Fleet the ascendant power, beyond Sudoria."
"But then what would he do with that power?"
Yishna bowed her head and considered. She felt sure Harald's aims were inward-looking—power and control within the system—but could see nothing beyond that. "I really don't know."
"Control of Sudoria itself?" Duras suggested.
"That seems logical, but I just don't see it as being of any real interest to him."
Duras frowned. "In three days we should arrive there, but I wonder if Fleet will even let us pass through." He stared at her directly. "You realise that which side actually caused these events is of little matter. That one of them wants conflict means there will be conflict, and there is very little Parliament can do about it."
"Yes, I realise that."
McCrooger
The other quofarl I named Flog. This name seemed appropriate because of its similarity in sound and meaning to his tank twin's name, Slog.
"I am not so sure that having two quofarl bodyguards just for me would go down very well on Sudoria," I suggested. There had been no Brumallians on Sudoria ever since the War, and even those encountered there during the War had not been seen often, since they were prisoners.
"You misunderstand me," said Lily. She pointed to the heavy chest containing all the evidence the Brumallians had collected. "They will accompany you at all times solely to carry the evidence."
With that, Slog and Flog hoisted up the chest and headed for the door.
Turning towards Rhodane, Lily added, "You, of course, will be going with him."
"I rather suspected that," said Rhodane, adding with a hint of bitterness, "You need a Sudorian on your side to add some veracity."
I felt this to be a distraction from my own point. "Excuse me, I did not misunderstand you about the bodyguard thing. I am quite capable of reading the subtext of your communications."
Lily hissed and rattled her mandibles. "It is the will of the Consensus that you be protected. Should Brumallians arrive at Sudoria with all this evidence, without one of your standing aboard, it is unlikely we would even be allowed to land—even with a Sudorian aboard." She gave a glance of acknowledgement to Rhodane. "Also, without you, it is unlikely we could get it to the direct attention of the Sudorian Parliament."
I decided to accept gracefully—mortal thoughts again—and followed the two quofarl from the room.
I still hadn't quite located where we now were in ReconYork. To begin with I had not expected so long a journey from the holding barge to the city head, and now wondered where we must go to reach that place where the spaceships were stored. This particular room opened onto a stair leading down the side of the central cylinder, and I stood for a moment wondering whether I was meant to climb or descend.
"We go up," said Rhodane, divining my indecision. "A workable vessel has apparently been moved to the surface." She added, "Fast work—I myself never got anything done so quickly." This then must have been the substance of one of her earlier conversations with Lily while I was studying the evidence.
"Perhaps their heart wasn't really in it," I suggested.
"Most certainly."
We climbed side by side, with the quofarl traipsing along behind.
"I thought he—"
"— was dangerous—"
"— and strong," muttered Slog and Flog.
I glanced back.
"Polity Consul Assessors don't—" began Slog.
"— have to carry their own luggage," finished Flog.
I turned and signed to them, "It's not my bloody luggage—it's all of yours." I finished with a gesture to encompass all of Brumal.
Their words descended into an indistinct grumbling and mandibular scraping.
As we ascended further, other Brumallians began to join us, many of them lugging bags and cases. Their conversation ran fast and excited, and I very often found it difficult to understand those few snatches that were audible, but surmised that this lot were the crew of the spaceship we were heading for. I also felt a strange kind of locus, a sense of those around me separating as a kind of encystment from the rest of the population. I was beginning to pick up the undercurrents and the feel of this society, yet now I was leaving it. I decided then, if I survived, to return here and learn more.
I assumed the top of this cavern was also the top of ReconYork, with open air just above, but I was very much mistaken. The stairway wound up through the few hundred feet of rock of the roof, then we left it through an arch leading into the base of yet another cavern. From there we traversed a pathway of crushed shell to a canal edge, where a barge awaited. Whilst the large group of Brumallians that had joined us clambered aboard, I gazed around wondering if this part of the city was the one I had first entered. No way I could tell. Finally we boarded and moved to the foredeck where a helmsman sat behind a triangular helm and archaic-looking controls.
"How long will we be on this barge?" I asked Rhodane.
"An hour and a half."
I moved back and plumped myself down with my back resting against the deck cabin. "Wake me up when we arrive. It's been a rather busy day for me and I need my rest."
I closed my eyes, expecting to find sleep a problem—ever since being infected by the Spatterjay virus I had never needed more than a few hours a night, and sometimes neglected even those. While I waited hopefully for sleep, it crept up behind me with a heavy club. The next thing I knew Rhodane was shaking me by the shoulder, and I opened my eyes to a Brumallian morning.
The spaceship crewmen made a considerable racket as they disembarked. I blinked, feeling listless and heavy and wanting to close my eyes again. I gazed at the back of my hand and flexed it. A scab lifted to expose scar tissue, pink and new, again something not produced by my body in a very long time. Heaving myself upright, I looked around.
Our barge was now moored by one bank of a watercourse perhaps a mile across. To my left it stretched to the misty horizon—a smooth gilded snake. To my right it seemed some structure had been built across it—docks or a pier—but on closer inspection I realised I was gazing upon the front end of an immense barge nearly a mile wide. Upon the deck of this rested one of the spacecraft I had seen below. It looked less like a living thing now., its surface a bland grey with many additional protuberances and steely triangular section bands caging its surface. Huge pylons reared around it, conveying immense pipes and elevators to various openings in its hull, and probably also preventing the vessel from rolling away.
We followed the crew ashore, then along a path running between the canal bank and a wide concrete road along which presently cruised a low heavy truck consisting of three carriages—probably carrying further supplies for the vessel. Beyond the road rose mountain slopes cloaked with forest cut through by many churned mud tracks, on one of which had been parked a large treaded vehicle. Was it pure luck or providence that made me upgrade the magnification of my eyes to take a closer look at this machine? In doing so I identified wide pincer jaws, a saw tongue and logs stacked behind. Then I spotted something sprawled in the mire before it: a Brumallian, the mud all around him bloody, half his head missing. Just back from him, by the machine itself, something glinted in the hands of a crouching figure.
Turning I shouted, "Get to cover!"
Rhodane looked at me blankly, and I then realised I had used my own language. As I stepped forward to push her down, a bullet smacked me hard in the back. I staggered forward, something spraying out ahead of me…pieces of me. Rhodane jerked back and made a horrible grunting sound, then dropped and rolled neatly over the
bank into the water. As I came upright another shot cracked viciously past. It is not a sound you forget and one I had heard many times before. Squatting, turning. A spray of automatic fire lifted two crew off their feet, chunks of their bodies flying away like confetti dropped before a fan. I forgot about mortality, vulnerability, and launched myself across the road. Hitting a hedge of green twigs and spade leaves, I pushed through to land between clumps of multiple trunks supporting a canopy like the scaled underside of a lizard. Shortly afterwards two figures crashed through to either side of me: Flog and Slog. They scanned around, peering down the sights of their heavy rifles—stooped low, bestial..
"This way," I signed, and ran diagonally upslope to the left, where lay the track leading up to that tree-felling machine.
We reached the track, but did not step onto it, since that would expose us out in the open.
"What have you seen?" asked Slog.
I signed, "One figure by a machine up at the top of this track." Delving into the front pocket of my dungarees I took out the gift Duras had given me, and loaded it. Slog grunted noncommittally, then set out upslope, Flog behind him. At no point did they take their eyes from the sights of their rifles—the weapons seemed sealed in place and they perfectly comfortable with them. I coughed, breathing raw, spat blood and mucus, then looked down at the fist-sized hole below my collar bone. Blood seeped, and raw flesh layered with purplish woody bands lay exposed. It felt numb, as such wounds had felt for me for a long time, but I knew this one would not heal in just a matter of hours, and that at some point it would begin to hurt like hell. I followed them.
The two quofarl obviously possessed some idea of the machine's location since, as we drew close, they began advancing one at a time, covering each other with professional care. Then there, glimpsed between the tree clumps, loomed open metallic jaws and that saw tongue. A whistling crackling caused me to fling myself to the ground. Pieces of brown and yellow bark rained down. I looked around for my companions but could see no sign of them, so crawled on towards the machine. A low drumming thump sounded. A tree clump exploded and a human figure spun away, loose-limbed and broken. A human figure—but not quofarl-shaped.
Reaching the forest edge, I dropped down onto the track and ran towards the logging machine, automatic held out in front of me. A figure darted out and, identifying it as one of the attackers, I tracked it across, firing all the time. Returning fire spewed up gravel towards me, then Slog appeared and hit the figure from one side. The attacker shrieked, slammed into the logging machine's cowling, and bounced away. Then, on all fours, Slog disappeared into the trees again. Running up, I glimpsed the man on the ground. He wore an insulated suit—Sudorian—one of his arms was missing and his throat was torn out down to the spine. More firing from all around. Back in the trees I crouched behind a woody clump.
Brumallian speech, mandibles only, a woodpecker clattering: "One left—do we want him alive?"
The reply, "Yeah."
That familiar sickening squirming began inside me, and looking down at my wound revealed the sensation to be utterly accurate, for my flesh was shifting and shuddering. More firing from an automatic weapon, followed by a thoroughly human bellow. I stood and headed towards the source of the sound, soon finding Flog suspending a Sudorian up off the ground by his ankle, and Slog standing to one side picking gobbets of flesh from his mandibles.
"How did we lose against these?" wondered Flog.
"They got lucky," Slog replied.
I found myself down on my knees, everything seeming to grow dark around me. Next I was hanging over Slog's shoulder, in such pain I felt sure I was dying. Then the blackness became entire.
— RETROACT 18—
Orduval —in the Desert
The corpse lay spread-eagled on the rock, anchor bolts driven through between the bones of the forearms and of the lower legs. It had been stripped naked, and had not decayed, but dried out—skin and flesh turned hard and woody, eyes sunk away. Orduval rapped a knuckle against the victim's chest and was rewarded with a hollow thunk.
A piece of history, he thought.
Here lay one of those who had dragged them into the War against the Brumallians and benefited as a result rather too much…initially. He, yes a he, had been bolted here to the stone probably seventy or eighty years before Orduval was born, and just after the economic collapse resulting from the first two decades of the War. He wondered who this person had been, an industrialist or one of the politicians in the pay of the industrialists? The collapse, he recollected, resulted in a putsch—the old oligarchy being ousted and replaced by people's representatives from the various Sudorian states, from Fleet and from the then-nascent Orbital Combine. Only the threat from Brumal had prevented a total collapse of the civil system too. Orduval now knew a great deal about all this, though some years back had not known nearly so much. But then, since being in the desert he had needed to learn how things were before the War, right from the beginning, so he could translate it in full, make it contemporary, enable people to understand. He remembered a conversation with Tigger, back then.
"It is almost as if I contain a surfeit of words, and that if I can write them all out of my mind I will find a cold centre point of understanding," he said.
"But these are not your words," the drone replied, dipping its muzzle towards the stack of book disks it had deposited on the floor.
"Yes, but I need to translate them and understand the underlying meanings in order to get to my words."
"Could it be that the cold centre point you seek is that star you once described to Rhodane as lying at the centre of your mind—the source of your fits. Are you not trying to write your way back to your previous condition?"
It had worried him at first how much Tigger knew about him, and he still felt uncomfortable with the idea that throughout his life this Polity drone had watched him and his siblings so closely. Tigger's contention also bothered him, for he still did not really know his own mind, or purpose.
"That is entirely possible, but I have to find out for myself," he replied. "Now, will you be able to connect me into the Sudorian net?"
The tiger shrugged. "Certainly."
Considering how much he had learnt since then, Orduval turned away from the dried-out corpse and began making his way back towards his cave. His history of the colonisation and the years leading up to the War, now published by the Ruberne Institute, had caused a media furore and questions to be asked in Parliament, and now there were those in the media prepared to pay a small fortune to anyone who could locate him. Tigger assured him that his netlink was untraceable with current Sudorian software, and that equally no one could trace him through the private account he had set up—that was until he withdrew any money from it. He did not need to.
Orduval estimated that his take on the War with the Brumallians would be ready for the Institute sometime soon, but he was finding himself distracted by the news of, finally, open contact with the Polity. Tigger had informed him long before that this was going to happen, but the content of and reactions to the communications Parliament published fascinated him. He had been living a hermit existence here and so, disconnected from his world, the reality of Tigger and the Polity did not seem so real until now.
Finally reaching his cave, Orduval saw the door standing open. For a moment he wondered if he had been discovered, and wondered too if he any longer considered that a problem. However, when he stepped into the cave he found Tigger waiting for him beside the desk.
"You must finish this," said the drone.
"I know I must—remember that surfeit of words?"
"Yes, I remember…but it is important that you finish this soon and get it into the public domain."
"Why the urgency?"
"You've been listening to the recordings and reading the transcripts of the communications between Parliament and the AI Geronamid?"
"I have."
"Then you must understand that contact between you people and the Polity will not co
ntinue to remain limited to this…conversation?"
"Yes, I see that."
"Publish your book, then…and perhaps you would like to include something from this." Tigger raised a paw holding a recording disk. He continued, "Already, much of what you have written throws an entirely new light on your old enemy, and the people of Sudoria are now utterly ready for that illumination. Opinion is changing fast, and people now indulge in painful speculation about culpability during the War. Some brave souls have even gone to Brumal to try and learn more about your neighbours. Your sister, Rhodane, is one of them."
"Yes, I found a news item about that." Orduval stepped forward and took the disk held out to him. "What is this?"
"You could make it the culmination of your book. This disk contains the schematic of The Outstretched Hand."
"The first ship we sent to Bruml."
"Yes, it also contains information obtained from Brumal: recorded footage of the arrival of that ship and subsequent events there."
"I think you can tell me a little more?"
"Look at the recordings, Orduval. To stretch a metaphor to breaking point: The Outstretched Hand contained a knife. It was a warship, and it did not approach Brumal with anything like friendship in mind."
Orduval felt gut-punched. He walked shakily over to the chair and sat down. He had suspected something to have been a little off about that first mission, but this?
"Why…now?" he asked.
"Sudorians need to know their real history, and to lose the long-fostered idea that they fought and won a just war. They need to know because, in no less than a year and no more than five years, the Polity will be coming here."
Orduval inserted the disk, viewed it…and then began to finish off the book that would change so much but, as always with paper and words, never enough.
— Retroact 18 Ends—
Harald
From the Admiral's Haven, Harald gazed out across near space. Four hilldiggers and various support ships were visible, as was the arms factory station Carmel, bearing a grim resemblance to a metallic skull hanging there in the void. All but three of Fleet's hilldiggers were assembled—two more of them were due any time now to join the eight already here. The remaining hilldigger, Captain Grange's Dune Skater, had suffered a major engine fault way out in the system—where Harald had earlier assigned it—and, unless the crew could repair that fault, it would take the ship months to limp home. So unfortunate that, Grange being a great friend of Dravenik and so utterly hostile to Harald.
