The Voyage of the Sable Keech s-2

by Neal Asher

  Something huge churned the water directly above her, as a shape, vaster than any heirodont, turned. Gazing up at the enormous hull, she tried to control her fear, her overpowering urge to return to feed in the island shallows and… something else. Then recognizing the smaller hull being dragged around in the wake of the larger one, she threw all her effort into launching herself from the bottom, using her skirt of blow-water jets to force herself higher. She was thirty metres down from it when the smaller hull began to draw away. With one more jet, she snaked out her longest tentacle and snagged the ship’s rudder. Then, her grip failing, she pulled quickly closer and whipped out another tentacle. Now the sea was roaring past her and she could not understand how the ship could be pulling away with such force. Another tentacle, then another two. Drawing herself in, utterly exhausted, she clamped her skirt around the hull and sucked down to stick there. In a moment she would reach up to see what she could find. In a moment though, after just a little rest…

  * * * *

  Sniper observed that Vrell’s ship was taking the slowest route into orbit, climbing steadily around the planet rather than going straight up. The Warden’s sat-eyes were everywhere above the ascending ship, and above them Vrost maintained position. The ship came lumbering up out of the well, its gravmotors continually going on and off, sometimes dropping it back many kilometres, and the fusion drive partially igniting then extinguishing.

  ‘Does he think Vrost is going to believe that wounded bird act for even a moment?’ asked Thirteen. The little drone had purposely fused itself into place on Sniper’s armour, and now resembled some baroque marine encrustation.

  ‘There’s a double bluff here somewhere,’ Sniper replied. It was all an interesting game with ostensibly only one outcome. Once clear of the planet, Vrell’s spaceship would be obliterated. Sniper, staying low over the sea just behind the escort of drones and armoured Prador surrounding the ship, was trying to fathom what was really going on.

  ‘Then perhaps he thinks he can manage a U-space jump before Vrost gets a chance to smear him across the sky?’ Thirteen suggested.

  ‘Vrell’s options are limited. More likely he hopes to ram Vrost’s ship—to go down fighting. That’s what an adolescent Prador would do,’ said Sniper.

  ‘But Vrell is an adult.’

  ‘Take a look at this,’ said Sniper, transmitting some image files across to Thirteen. The little drone fell silent, its coms shutting down as it applied its system space to study the images. Could Vrell properly be described as an adult, or even a Prador at all? Thirteen could decide that for itself after viewing what Sniper had obtained from the camera in the drone cache of Vrell’s ship. Sniper felt the images indicated otherwise, just as they had for these armoured creatures ahead, for one of them had been driven from its armour in that cache. Sniper tried some more surreptitious scans, but again could not penetrate their defences. What was going to happen here seemed almost foregone, and it seemed his prime task now was to gather intelligence by whatever means.

  ‘Sniper, what are you doing?’ the Warden abruptly asked.

  In reply Sniper sent the images to the AI as well.

  After a pause the Warden replied, ‘I see, you wish further confirmation. My own attempt to probe that Prador armour resulted in the destruction of both it and its occupant. What are you hoping to achieve here?’

  Sniper now sent a snippet from a lecture he had recorded several centuries ago. ‘During any conflict, combatants tend to drop their guard in matters not directly related to that same conflict.’

  ‘Yes, Sniper, I have fifty thousand hours of recorded intelligence briefings available to me. Why do you think I now have every one of my sat-eyes deployed in the area?’

  ‘It’s not just that,’ the old drone finally replied. ‘Something else is going on here. And when I’ve figured out what that fucking Vrell is up to, I might be able to find some further opening.’

  ‘Very well. Keep me informed.’ The Warden withdrew.

  Sniper continued cruising behind the pack, trying every subtle scan he could manage. He began to wonder if, for the benefit of ECS Intelligence, he should bring one of those armoured Prador down once the shooting started, and squirrel it away for later examination. Analysing recorded events, however, he realized that was not viable. As well as the one indirectly caused by the Warden, similar minor fusion explosions had occurred both under the sea and in the air during the earlier attack upon Vrell’s ship—doubtless the result of armoured individuals getting damaged beyond hope of recovery, and therefore self-destructing. Vrost would not be leaving any of his troops behind intact, not even as anything more than radioactive gas.

  It was while he was running a narrow-beam microwave scan that Sniper incidentally noted a disturbance in the water below him. He peered down to see something speeding along underwater. At first he suspected a heirodont, but it was travelling too fast. Just as he redirected his microwave scan downwards, the object broke the surface, revealing itself as one of the armoured King’s Guard. It had probably just self-repaired on the ocean bed and was now hastening to rejoin its comrades. Suddenly he realized that his scan was not being blocked, so redirected all his scanning gear downwards just as the Prador emerged from the ocean. Sniper found he was getting everything. The images from the camera in the drone cache had provided much information, but now scanning across the spectrum gave him so very much more. Momentarily shutting off his AG, he dropped down beside the armoured entity and probed deep, mapping the architecture of the armour and the entire external and internal anatomy contained within it. His recording of its brain structure would surely be invaluable to forensic Polity AIs. He then recognized scan returns similar to those obtained from Spatterjay wildlife. This Prador was infected by the virus, which had wrought its evident mutations.

  Suddenly the Prador turned towards him, then like a woman realizing her blouse is undone, began buttoning up its screens. Too late. Sniper now knew the shape of the beast. And the physical sample he retained inside himself from the drone cache gave him its genetic blueprint. The secret was out.

  It was only as the armoured Prador sped away that Sniper realized something else about that individual, and he began laughing to himself over the ether.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Thirteen, reopening com.

  ‘Yes, do tell,’ interjected the Warden, rather sharply.

  ‘In good time,’ said Sniper. ‘In good time.’ Then he locked the Warden out.

  * * * *

  As she sat viewing the comscreen on her desk, Olian Tay felt more than pleased with her new incarnation as president of the Bank of Spatterjay. The huge wealth she was accumulating enabled her to pursue her life’s work; her museum. It just kept on growing as new evidence of Hoop’s rule here was unearthed. Items were also turning up on other worlds, for which mostly she was able to outbid the competition, and now, with the recent detente between the Polity and the Third Kingdom, she was able to purchase some things directly from the Prador themselves. Currently her bid for a man-skin coat once worn by Jay Hoop’s wife, Rebecca Frisk—who was floating in her preserving cylinder just outside the door—was the highest. She was also very excited by the possibility of actually travelling to the Kingdom to view at first hand Frisk’s erstwhile home on a Prador world. Everything was going wonderfully well. Till she heard the sawing explosions.

  Olian stood up and walked around her desk. At that same moment the two skinless Golem currently serving out their Cybercorp indenture with her, and whom she had named Chrome, both of them, because she could not tell them apart, pushed themselves away from their normal stance at the walls.

  ‘What was that?’ she wondered.

  ‘It sounded like the blast of an energy weapon,’ one of the Golem replied succinctly.

  ‘Then I suggest you both arm yourselves. We’re closed to any withdrawals at present and I would like us to remain that way.’

  One of them palmed the lock to a wall cabinet and opened it. He took out a riot gun
and tossed it to his companion, then selected a Batian carbine for himself. As the two of them headed out into the foyer, Olian followed just in time to hear a hideous shrieking from beyond the twin doors accessing the museum. The Golem paused and glanced round at her; at her nod they opened the doors and went through. After a moment she stepped after them, then quickly to one side where she groped back to thumb the touch-plate right beside the pillar containing David Grenant. The lights came on.

  The far doors into the museum were still closed, but there was obviously something wrong. By the statue of the Skinner loomed what appeared to be some metallic edifice, and the floor all around it was scattered with debris. She looked up and noted a large hole through the ceiling, then down again as that edifice screamed and extended wide metallic wings. Turquoise fire flashed between it and the statue. Olian threw herself to the floor as a boom resounded, followed by the sound of something collapsing.

  Blinking to clear her vision, she looked up to see the Skinner statue was now a pile of smoking rubble. The other thing turned—and she now recognized the Golem sail whose arrival on Spatterjay had been the source of much speculation. One of her own Golem zipped back past her, and back into her office, returning with a heavy-duty laser of the kind normally mounted on a tripod.

  ‘We may not be able to stop him,’ the Golem warned, before darting off back into the museum.

  At that point the other skeletal guard stepped out from his hiding place behind a thrall display case and started firing explosive shells at the Golem sail. Hitting one after another, his shots drove the sail gradually backwards but seemed to cause no damage. The intruder’s eyes glowed and then a particle beam swept across the room, chopping off the Golem’s legs before striking the display case. The Golem collapsed. Nothing happened to the display for a moment, but even tough chainglass could not withstand such abuse. It emitted a screeing sound escalating out of human hearing range, then flew apart in a glittering explosion. Olian quickly crawled backwards into the foyer, closing the doors behind her. Flinching at the sound of another case getting wrecked, she returned to her office and took a seat behind her desk.

  Punching controls on her console she said, ‘Warden, I seem to have a little problem here.’ When there came no reply, she tried routing through the planetary server, then glared at the holding graphic on her screen. It meant the Warden was not answering calls.

  From inside the museum, closer now, came the thrumming snap-crack of a laser firing. Olian closed her eyes and shook her head. This made no sense at all. What would a Golem sail want here? She began to stand up, then checked herself. If two Golem guards could do nothing, then there was nothing she could do either. Sitting down again, she grimaced upon hearing the foyer doors being ripped off their hinges, then ducked down as her own office door exploded inwards. She peered up over her desk just as the Golem sail loomed through, sat upright, flicking smouldering splinters from her jacket, then finally looked up.

  ‘Yes, what can I do for you?’

  The sail just stood there, half extending its wings, then drawing them back. Its mouth opened and closed as if it had lost the power of speech, and that dangerous glow advanced and retreated in its eyes.

  ‘Olian Tay,’ it finally said.

  ‘Yes, I am. You do realize we are closed today?’

  ‘Olian Tay… open the safe.’

  Oh right, Olian thought, a bank robbery.

  * * * *

  Erlin had learnt that the Sable Keech’s engines were steam-driven—the steam pumped directly from fusion-powered water purifiers—and, being Polity tech, could run at full speed almost indefinitely. The ship would therefore reach the Little Flint far ahead of schedule. Even so, she wondered if any of the reified passengers would survive to see that place.

  Stooping over one tank, she observed its gross contents, studied readouts and sighed. Some of the reified passengers would never again inhabit their own bodies, and others were irretrievably dead. This one, for example, had just been turned into an organic broth by his nanochanger. Even his bones were gone. All that remained were his reification hardware and memcrystal, and even they were under attack.

  Erlin keyed a certain sequence into her console, and watched as the opaque fluid began to swirl, then bubble. It was risky to just dump the contents of a tank like this, as though it was unlikely the nanites could survive in the surrounding environment—being specialized and with special requirements—some of them might. The liquid began to steam, the smell of it horribly like cooking stew. When she was finally satisfied, Erlin keyed in another instruction and the tank began to drain. But even now the liquid was still dangerous, which was why it drained into a purification plant in the bilge, where the water was evaporated off and the residue treated with diatomic acid.

  Erlin had drained three similar tanks only this morning, and retrieved three memcrystals. The crystals themselves she externally flash-sterilized before scanning them for active nanites. One was corrupted—some mutation of the nanites from the individual’s nanofactory eating into the crystal. Fifty-seven reifs had gone into the tanks, and thus far not one of them had attained resurrection. Fourteen in fact had been flushed into the purifier, and only nine of their memcrystals remained intact. Were she a reif herself, she would not think those good odds at all.

  Erlin looked around. Forlam was still here—a Hooper with whom she felt a reluctant kinship—and she recognized Peck and one or two others of Ambel’s crew scattered about the large room, carrying out tasks she had assigned to them. Still no sign of the Captain himself, though.

  She walked over to Bloc’s tank and peered inside. There was a lot of detritus floating around in the water, even more lying in a silty layer at the bottom, but she could see fresh new skin down one leg, where one large sludgy scab had fallen away, and a flexing pink hand. She checked the displays and confirmed that Bloc was undergoing download. He was near to resurrection now, and his memcrystal downloading to his organic brain. His control unit, attached to that crystal, was no longer within his mental compass. It seemed doubly ironic to Erlin that the one here most deserving to remain dead looked the most likely to live. Turning away she spotted a certain individual entering the Tank Room, and suddenly felt horribly guilty—a child knowing she has done wrong. He crossed the room and loomed beside her.

  ‘An interesting and adventurous rescue attempt, I hear,’ she managed, her mouth dry as she turned to him.

  ‘It had its moments,’ Ambel replied. He studied her closely. ‘Did you need rescuing?’

  ‘A sail performed that task when the danger was greatest to me.’ She shrugged. ‘Subsequent dangers were not so immediate. Bloc had no wish to harm me, just control me, and I doubt there was much even you could have done about giant waves and Prador spaceships.’ She knew she was avoiding his implicit question.

  ‘I asked you if you needed rescuing,’ he said again.

  She turned back to him. ‘I don’t think so.’ She waved a hand at the chainglass tanks all around them. ‘I am busy now, and will be busy for some time to come. Who can say what will happen then? As you once told me: I need to accumulate years.’

  Ambel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Ron tells me there’s a nice bar just forard of here. You’ll join me there later?’

  ‘I will.’ Erlin returned to her work and he moved away, calling out the occasional question to those of his crew who were scattered about the room. His implicit question had been, ‘Do you want to die?’ She felt she did not, realizing that a giant whelk had taught her that lesson, and that her time here aboard the Sable Keech had only confirmed it. But she knew that such a feeling could be deceptive. Was her unconscious even now planning her next suicide attempt, or had she at last, having passed her quarter millennium, crossed some watershed?

  * * * *

  Janer smiled to himself as he brought the submersible up against the jetty. Wade, moving slowly across the sky suspended from his grav-harness, must have been experiencing some difficulties for Janer to overtake him. That
was good, for Janer could now do what he suspected Wade would not. Ahead, just before pulling in, he had observed Zephyr spiralling down to Olian’s island. Now, staring at the screen, he registered expressions of confusion from Hoopers peering down at the vessel in search of its mooring ropes. He touched the anchor icon on the control screen, and heard the double thumps of four harpoons, trailing anchor wires, fired from the sub to the left and right, angled down into the seabed. Four reel icons then appeared, with an overlay of a top view of the submersible and the nearby jetty. He ignored the icons, touched the sub picture and dragged it across to the jetty. The anchor wires adjusted themselves accordingly, slackening on one side and pulling taut on the other, drawing the vessel up against the adjacent support beams. Janer then abandoned his seat and climbed out.

  Now the Hoopers appeared to be less interested in finding mooring ropes than in something else that was happening inland. Others were emerging onto the decks of their ships to peer in the same direction.

  As he stepped down onto the planking, Janer queried the nearest of them: ‘What happened?’

  The Hooper, a bulky woman who had lost all her hair and compensated for that with a white skull tattoo of writhing snakes, glanced at him. ‘Explosion, back at Olian’s.’

  Janer immediately broke into a run.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ the woman called, but he ignored her and kept going.

  Wade would be setting down on the island very soon, but what would the Golem do then? Zephyr had already killed two organic sails, and was now blowing things up. That meant the time for negotiation and metaphysical discussion was over. Janer did not want to bet Spatterjay’s whole economy and biosphere on Wade’s reluctance to act. Entering a street lined with stalls, he drew his gun. All around, Hoopers and a few Polity citizens were stepping outdoors to see what all the commotion was about. He dodged between them and soon caught sight of the entrance to Olian’s museum. Hoopers were gathered there around the closed, and firmly bolted, doors. Janer ran up behind them and pushed through.