by Gary Gibson
‘So it’s not like I’m carrying the whole of his thoughts and memories inside me. He can’t . . . take me over, or anything like that?’ He had to force the words out.
She laughed. ‘Hardly. You can’t just dump a copy of someone’s mind into a living, breathing human body with pre-existing cognitive structures.’
‘But that’s what he did, isn’t it?’
‘True, but the outcome is proving far from beneficial for either party.’
‘The Sandoz Clans do it, don’t they? And you. You’re a Councillor. If you die, you can be reborn in a clone body.’
‘Yes, a clone body, heavily modified with an in situ lattice of its own from the moment of its inception in a growth tank. The clone body must be created from your own DNA as well.’
‘And I don’t have a clone-body ready to jump into.’
‘Precisely. And unless I can find a way to retard this thing’s growth, all you have to look forward to, I’m afraid, is madness followed by death.’
Luc stared at her, a sick feeling building inside him. ‘Isn’t there anyone else in the Council you could talk to in confidence about this? Someone who understands how lattices work?’
‘Well, there’s Rowena Engberg, and also Cutler Suszynski. They developed the lattice technology together. Engberg still runs the clinic that engineers all of the Council’s lattices. Unfortunately, they’re both loyal Eighty-Fivers. They’d hand both our heads to Cheng on a plate in a flat instant if we approached them.’
‘The Ambassador knew I was there, at Vasili’s service. He could see me. He said my lattice is far in advance of anything the Tian Di can make.’
De Almeida nodded distractedly. ‘Yes, you told me already.’
‘So where the hell could Antonov have got this thing inside me from?’
She said nothing, and he guessed she had no more idea than he did.
‘I asked you before for access to Vanaheim’s global security network. I think maybe it’s time you finally gave it to me.’
To Luc’s astonishment, she didn’t even argue or scoff at the request this time. Instead, she held a hand up towards him, palm out, and after a moment he saw a single bright flash of light, centred on her palm.
Suddenly he was aware of things he had never been aware of until that moment, and yet which felt as if they had always been known to him. The feeling was extraordinary – like stumbling across a part of his mind he had never noticed before.
‘Done,’ she said. ‘You now have limited access to Vanaheim’s global security, but that access is funnelled through me. I’ll be aware of everything you do.’
‘Limited in what way?’
‘It’s restricted to the Ambassador’s movements only. You’ll be able to see where he goes, and when. Give it a try.’
‘How?’
‘Picture him. The lattice will pinpoint his location and filter the appropriate A/V data to you.’
Luc closed his eyes and pictured Ambassador Sachs, as he had been on board the Sequoia. Within moments he found himself looking at a low, one-storey building spread across a few acres in the centre of a forest clearing.
‘I can see a building, but not the Ambassador.’
‘You’re seeing through the eyes of one of my micro-mechants currently in his vicinity. Just tell it to move in closer.’
He nodded and tried again.
The view jumped as the tiny machine lifted from its perch and swooped in low towards the building. Luc caught sight of a ground-to-orbit flier in the process of dropping onto a landing area to one side of the building, halfway between it and the trees. The sunlight passing through the craft’s AG field shimmered with rainbow colours.
The Ambassador emerged from the spacecraft as Luc watched, making his way towards a second flier parked at the other end of the landing area. He still wore his mirror mask and hood, even though he was alone – something which made him seem even more otherworldly than he already did.
‘Just how many of these micro-mechants do you have scattered all across Vanaheim?’ asked Luc.
‘A lot,’ de Almeida replied.
The viewpoint shifted again as the tiny mechant buzzed several metres closer. Luc saw the Ambassador board the second flier. It lifted up almost immediately, sending dead leaves spinning into the air as it ascended.
He’s in a hurry, thought Luc. Ambassador Sachs must have departed the Sequoia only shortly after he himself had. And now he was on his way somewhere else.
‘You’re telling me the Council seriously don’t mind you being able to see every damn thing they’re up to like this?’ he asked, keeping his eyes closed.
‘Apart from the Eighty-Five, you mean?’ She laughed dryly. ‘The system is set up so they’re aware if I’m watching, or can find out easily enough. That way I’m accountable for everything I do.’
So you say, thought Luc. The micro-mechant had lifted its lens to follow the flier as it dwindled into a deepening blue sky.
‘So what do you do if you need to know what they’re up to, but you don’t want them to know?’
‘I spy on them regardless.’
Luc opened his eyes and looked up at her. ‘And they’re seriously all right with that?’
‘If I can prove at a later date that it was necessary to do so, of course,’ she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Privacy is always respected, but there are times when such things do prove necessary. You can get up now,’ she added, standing back.
Luc swayed a little as he stood upright. He reached up to touch the side of his head, and when he brought his hand back down found it speckled with blood.
‘Somewhere I can wash up?’
She nodded towards a sink and tap a few metres away. ‘Over there.’
Luc ran lukewarm water across his stubbled scalp and down the back of his neck. He glanced up at a mirror over the sink and saw de Almeida putting her roll of instruments away, but started when he realized the exact same hunched figure still stood in the same corner he had seen it days before. He froze, chilled by the sight.
‘Zelia,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the creature, ‘I really want to know just what that thing is.’
De Almeida looked around, confused, then walked across the laboratory until she could see the same pathetic hunched figure.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘does that bother you?’
Luc turned from the sink to stare at her, appalled beyond belief. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s nothing. A criminal, a malcontent.’
Luc studied her features, entirely free of guilt or empathy. These are the people you chose to serve, he reminded himself.
‘Just tell me who he is,’ he demanded, his voice ragged. ‘He’s been standing there for . . . for days. What the hell could he have done, to deserve winding up like that?’
Her mouth pinched up. ‘Damn it, Gabion, these are people who’ve been sentenced to death. I can make good use of them this way.’
‘Make use of them?’ Luc laughed, but it was a dismal, half-choked sound by the time it emerged from his throat.
‘You don’t approve?’
‘Look at him! Doesn’t it bother you, to reduce a human being to something like that?’
‘Have you ever thought,’ she asked, her voice cold, ‘about the struggle the Tian Di faced in order to achieve as much as it did, over the centuries? Things like the CogNet, instantiation lattices, data-ghosting, or any of the hundreds of other networked symbiotic technologies that make our lives easier?’ She nodded towards the huddled figure. ‘This laboratory isn’t here just for show. The Council still supports original research into new ways to integrate flesh and machinery.’
‘There must be other ways to—’
‘Other ways?’ she barked. ‘It’s precisely that lack of insight, that refusal to commit to necessary sacrifices that tells me you could never be a member of the Council yourself. You’ve seen Ambassador Sachs, haven’t you? Whatever’s under th
at mask of his, it’s evident the Coalition has become a fully post-human society. We need to understand them and what they’ve become before their culture overwhelms our own because, let me assure you, their technology is far in advance of ours. That, right now, is the central focus of my research.’
She gestured towards the hunched figure. Luc looked on as, very slowly and carefully, it turned on the spot, its feet shuffling and scraping on the bare floor. He watched it lumber towards a curved balustrade set against a far wall, then slowly make its way down some steps and out of sight. Luc found it hard to contain his horror; it was difficult to believe that pathetic, shambling form had once been a person with a name and a history.
‘Where is the Ambassador now?’
Luc forced himself to turn back to de Almeida. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Ambassador Sachs,’ she repeated with obvious impatience. ‘You are still keeping tabs on him, aren’t you?’
Luc switched his attention back to the Ambassador. Instead of a visual feed, this time his lattice supplied a geo-locational tag attached to a virtual map of Vanaheim.
‘His flier’s headed north-west,’ he informed her.
‘Fine. Just keep an eye on him. Otherwise, I think we’re done here for now.’
‘The lattice,’ said Luc. ‘What’s the latest prognosis?’
She bit her lip, clearly mulling over an appropriate response. ‘It’s hard to be sure. But I’m feeling pretty hopeful I can delay its growth long enough to find some longer-term solution.’
Luc nodded tightly, unwilling to let her see how distressed her words really made him.
A mechant floated down next to her, a tunic jacket gripped in its manipulators. It laid the jacket across her shoulders.
‘I’ll call on you as soon as I have anything more of value,’ she said, stepping towards the spiral staircase that led to the upper floor. ‘A flier is waiting outside for you, one I’ve reserved for your sole use. You’ll be pleased to know you won’t need to hide inside any more crates in future.’
She quickly ascended the steps, disappearing into a shaft of light slanting down from the next floor up. Luc stepped towards the exit, but then paused, thinking of the eyeless ruin de Almeida had just sent downstairs.
It only took a few moments to descend the steps to the basement level below de Almeida’s laboratory.
He pushed open a door at the bottom of the steps, finding himself at one end of a long stone corridor with an arched ceiling. The air tasted damp and slightly mouldy, while junk and what looked like pieces of discarded laboratory equipment were piled untidily in deep alcoves set into the passageway on either side. He could hear the muffled thud of machinery from somewhere up ahead, the slate tiles beneath his feet vibrating faintly in time with the thuds.
The air grew rapidly warmer as he made his way along the passageway. After twenty metres or so it widened to accommodate several steel trestle tables, a few of which were covered over with blood-spattered sheets, almost as if Luc had stumbled across a battlefield hospital.
He came to a stop, seeing two mechants hovering over the naked body of a man that had been laid out on one of the tables. Another eyeless horror – not the same one, he sensed, that de Almeida had just sent down here – stood next to the unconscious man. This creature had needle-tipped machinery in place of fingers; its movements were slow and measured and, as Luc approached, it turned slowly to regard him with its uncanny blank gaze.
Dry-mouthed, Luc forced himself closer to the table. He now saw that the man lying there was being operated on. His skull had been cut open, black pits gaped where his eyes had once been, and much of his lower jaw had been removed. One of the mechants was engaged in manoeuvring a chunk of grey-blue machinery into place where his jawbone had been.
Luc staggered away and threw up in a corner.
He coughed, wiped his mouth, then pressed his forehead against the cool damp stone, breathing harshly. In that moment he heard a sudden, brief burst of static coming from behind him.
He turned to hear a second burst of static issuing from the machinery-clogged throat of the needle-fingered creature. After another moment it appeared to lose interest in him, turning its attention back to its comatose patient. Luc wondered if it had been trying to say something, assuming any kind of human consciousness was still trapped behind that savagely disfigured face.
Luc became aware of a slow, dragging shuffle, echoing from some way further down the corridor. Peering ahead, he saw the very creature he’d come looking for disappear into a shadowed alcove, not far from where the corridor came to an end.
Part of him wanted to turn back, to the world of daylight and air that didn’t smell of mould and disinfectant and death. His heart thundered inside his chest at the thought of going any farther. Worse, he had no idea how de Almeida might react if she discovered he had come down here.
But he had to know.
Making his way quickly to the same alcove into which the stooped figure had disappeared, Luc found himself at the entrance to a wide, low-ceilinged room. Instantly he was bathed in a blast of heat emanating from an open furnace at the opposite end of the room from him, the air shimmering violently from the heat. Rubbish was piled up on either side of the furnace door, while several more of de Almeida’s eyeless monstrosities worked steadily at shovelling it all into the flames.
He saw the stooped creature he had followed, outlined by the flames dancing in the heart of the furnace. At first he thought it would pick up a shovel and join its companions, but instead, to his unending horror, it climbed in through the open furnace door, burning like a torch as the flames caught at its ragged clothes. Apparently impervious to pain, it continued to move deeper into the furnace before slowly pitching forward.
The roar of the furnace grew incrementally louder for a second or two.
Luc heard a sound like the cry of an animal caught in a trap, then realized it had come from his own throat.
He took several steps backwards and stumbled against the wall of the passageway. His lungs felt like they had turned to ice despite the intensity of the heat.
The next thing he knew, he was back upstairs and halfway through the greenhouse attached to de Almeida’s laboratory. He kept going until he was outside, then collapsed against a low wall bordering a garden before again throwing up over some artfully arranged flowers.
As de Almeida had promised, a flier stood waiting for him, a blunt-nosed affair with a more utilitarian appearance than most, meaning it was probably used primarily as a goods vehicle. He staggered towards it as if drunk, climbing on board and barely noticing when it lifted up into clear blue skies.
He closed his eyes, but all he could see was that same stooped figure pitching forward into an inferno.
And maybe one day de Almeida will get tired of trying to help you, and turn you into another one of her monsters.
As he hugged himself, and the flier boosted high into the atmosphere, it came to him that he was going to have to try and save himself, although how he might do that remained beyond him. De Almeida was quite possibly psychotic, and the rest of the Council – those same people he’d given a lifetime of service to – were, judging by what he’d seen and heard, even worse.
But that didn’t mean he had any choice but to play along for the moment. He thought again of those terrible bright flames, and felt as if strips of gauze had been lifted from his eyes. The world seemed different now, had taken on a new and sinister edge.
Between that – and the long, painful quest to find out what purpose might lie behind Antonov’s surgery on him – all he could do was wait.
TWELVE
A couple of hours after rescuing Jacob, Jonathan Kulic guided his horse and cart into a small settlement on the edge of the forest, just as the sky began to redden towards dusk.
Jacob watched the landscape pass by from under the carpet Kulic had thrown over him in the rear of the cart. He kept the case he had recovered from his ship clutched tight against his chest. The settl
ement that Kulic called home was, to Jacob’s eyes, astoundingly primitive. Smoke spiralled upwards from thatched-roof dwellings, while candles and lanterns flickered from inside windows formed from heavy, puddled glass. There were farm animals in pens, and a stable with horses. It was a stark contrast to the spires of one of Darwin’s cities, glittering on the far horizon.
Kulic guided his horse and cart into a barn, then led Jacob into his home through an adjoining door. Kulic’s residence proved to be a single-storey affair of brick and plaster, with wooden floorboards that creaked with every step.
Jacob’s duty was to hide himself in one of these Left-Behind communities, and take advantage of the Coalition’s incomprehensible willingness to allow them to continue existing. From his conversation with Kulic throughout their journey from the coast, he had learned that the Left-Behind had become considerably more militant in their beliefs over the decades, having come to reject nearly every form of technology imaginable, up to and including previously accepted technologies such as the internal-combustion engine and electricity. The electric torch Kulic had used to aid him in his search through the deep forest was something he was forced to keep secret from his neighbours.
The only source of heat in Kulic’s hovel came from a heavy iron stove, with flames licking behind a narrow grate. Pots and pans hung from steel hooks above a table scattered with the ruins of chopped vegetables. Jacob stood close by the stove, warming his hands before the grate and trying hard not to breathe too deeply, since everything smelled of mould and animal shit. He wondered what the Darwinians, living as they did in their shining silver cities, made of it all when they gazed down at these disease-ridden hovels, clustered together in the mud and filth.
‘Once the beacon told me you were here, I spread it about that a cousin might come to visit me from New Jerusalem,’ Kulic explained as he closed the latch on the front door. ‘That settlement’s a long way away from here, a good four or five days’ journey on horseback. I thought it’d make as good a story as anything else.’
‘It’ll do,’ said Jacob, his attention still focused on getting warm. ‘It’s called a transceiver, by the way, not a beacon. Where do you keep it?’
