by Neal Asher
"Well, it didn't get away unscathed," said Gant.
They all looked at the view projected on the screen in the bridge pod. The Dragon sphere hung, apparently lifeless, in space — a damaged moon of glittering jade and charcoal. A large segment of it had been charred, and huge black bones protruded into the void like the ruins of some vast cathedral. Around it orbited shed scales and other fragments of its body that had broken away, and this debris was now settling into an orbiting ring. There were no other signs of movement.
"The damaged area is highly radioactive," said Tomalon.
Cormac glanced at him then around at the others seated in the arc of command chairs. The presence of such chairs told him how old the Occam Razor was, since obviously it had been built when such ships required pilots, navigators, gunners and the like, and in subsequent refittings the chairs had not been removed. Tomalon's presence told him that the Occam Razor's AI was also old, for the newer battleship AIs did not require human captains to implement or make judgements on their decisions. It was not that AIs were now more trustworthy; it was simply because humans no longer controlled the Human Polity.
"Only the damaged area is radioactive," said Mika.
Tomalon did not deem this as a question, so Cormac asked of him, "Is that so?"
"Yes, it would appear to be the case. And that is not normal."
Cormac studied Tomalon. While all of them were looking at the screen, the Captain turned his head aside, his eyes unseeing opaque, and his mind linked to the ship's sensors.
Mika said, "This means it is either dead or has shut down its circulatory system to those areas. Any living creature receiving a radioactive wound soon ends up with the rest of its body contaminated as well."
"It has a circulatory system?" asked Cormac.
"Yes — though what circulates is not blood as we recognize it. Much more complex. Dracomen have the ability to consciously alter what their circulatory system carries, so we can presume Dragon has the same ability. I would very much like a sample of that substance now."
I bet you would.
Cormac turned his attention to the dracoman who had come up with Mika from Medical. Scar stood behind the chairs — he found human seating arrangements difficult — his attention fixed firmly on the screen. Cormac wondered just what was going through his head. Scar possessed curiosity, and the need to survive, but few recognizably human motivations beyond that, and that kilometre-wide sphere of living matter out there was the twin of the one that had created him.
"If your hand was exposed to that level of radioactivity, what would you do?" Cormac asked him. Mika turned and inspected the dracoman with intense curiosity. Scar's gaze slid to Cormac.
"What level?" the dracoman asked.
Cormac nodded to the screen where Tomalon had obligingly supplied the figures.
"Cut it off. Grow another," said Scar after inspecting those figures.
Mika's eyes widened in shock. Cormac hoped she had now learnt just how informative direct questioning could be.
"And if the contamination affected more vital organs?" he asked.
"Isolate organs. Drop to minimal function. Grow more."
"Do you think this is what this Dragon sphere is doing?"
By now, most of those on the bridge were staring at Scar. Even the Captain had come back from the ship's sensors and was watching. Aiden and Cento had turned as one to watch and listen. Gant, moodily slumped in his chair, was the only one with his attention still on the screen. He seemed to be trying to outstare Dragon. Scar was a long time in replying.
"Maybe," he said finally.
"What alternatives are there?"
"Dying," said Scar.
They all turned back to look at the screen, except for Mika, who was fiddling with some instruments in the top pocket of her coverall and gazing speculatively at Scar. No doubt the dracoman was in for another battery of tests, and it was lucky for Mika that he did not seem to mind.
"What does deep scan of the undamaged areas reveal?" asked Cormac.
Tomalon's eyes went opaque again and he spoke consideringly.
"There are signs of life, but I cannot tell if they are normal or not."
"The temperature would be a good indicator," suggested Mika.
"A range between twenty and thirty Celsius, nominally twenty-two a metre under the skin," said Tomalon.
"I would say it is not dead, or has died only recently," said Mika, checking figures on her laptop. "It would take some time for it to cool, as it is well insulated. But if it had died shortly after its attack on the Masadan ship, its temperature would be well below twenty by now."
"Send an all-radio-band signal to it. See if we get a reaction," said Cormac.
"Is that a good idea?" asked Gant, still staring broodingly at the screen. "Wouldn't it be better to stick a missile in it, then move off?"
Cormac had already considered that, but there were things to learn, and even a fully capable Dragon sphere would not have been much of a problem to the Occam Razor.
"Things to learn," he therefore said simply.
"Rise in temperature in a lobular structure at its centre," said Tomalon.
"The brain," explained Mika.
"I'll speak to it," said Cormac. "Send my voice." Tomalon nodded to him and he continued, "Dragon, this is Ian Cormac. Please respond."
On the screen, there were signs of movement. Tomalon brought up another view, this one close to the edge of the damaged area: pseudopodia were breaking from a scaled plain of fleshy blue eyes directed towards the Occam Razor.
"Cormac," said Dragon — and that was all it said for some time.
"Dragon?"
"I… listen… you will kill me now?"
"Not unless that's what you want."
"Vengeance!"
"For what?"
"The engines…"
"What about the engines?"
"They turned them on."
"This is how you were damaged?"
Silence.
Cormac asked, "Is there any way we can help you?"
Silence.
"Dragon, why did you attack the Masadan ship?"
"Vengeance!"
"Please explain."
"You will help me?"
"If I can."
"They used it on the station."
"Station Miranda?"
Silence.
"Are you talking about the mycelium?"
"They used it on the station."
"Did you provide them with it?"
"Yes."
Cormac looked around at the others in surprise. He had not expected so direct an answer. Dragon was the antithesis of Mika: whereas she disliked asking questions, Dragon disliked answering them.
"Why did you provide them with it?"
Silence.
"How did they tell you they were going to use it?"
"Prevent runcibles on Masada."
"So you attacked their ship because they did not use the mycelium for its intended purpose? Is this what you are saying?"
"Blamed me! Vengeance!"
Cormac glanced at Tomalon and made a cutting gesture with the edge of his hand.
"Communications link cut," said the Captain.
"What a load of bollocks," said Cormac. He looked to the others. "What do you think?"
"It could be true," said Mika. "This is not the same sphere as the one you destroyed at Samarkand. They are not all necessarily hostile. It could be this area is its hideaway and it considered the Masadans its allies."
Cormac made no comment on that. Mika had her reasons for looking as kindly on Dragon as he himself looked unkindly. He glanced to Cento and Aiden.
Aiden said, "It would be interesting to know what Dragon was to receive in exchange for the mycelium — and if it received it."
"Yes." Cormac nodded approvingly: clear thinking is thinking necessarily separated from glands and all the other paraphernalia of humanity. He turned to Gant.
"I agree, grudgingly," said Gant. "It
s attack may have been because it received no pay-off. It's doubtful Dragon would care that much about how the mycelium was used. We know human life means nothing to it."
Mika said, "You are still judging this Dragon sphere by the actions of the one at Samarkand. You have to remember that the four of them separated twenty-seven years before."
"Does it matter?" asked Gant. They all looked at him and he shrugged. "The Masadans destroyed the station — all the evidence points that way — and this Dragon sphere had given them the mycelium. If they had used it on a runcible, there would still have been deaths. I say put a missile in it."
A definite point.
"I think you are overreacting," said Mika, staring at Gant analytically. "You have not yet recovered from your death."
Low blow.
Gant took that in good humour, but Cormac could see that he was formulating a slap-down retort. But much as he would have liked to see the results of such a confrontation, there was work to do. He cut in with, "The situation in the Masadan system is my main concern and anything I can learn about that situation, before jumping into it, I will be glad of. For this reason: no missile."
"And what will this 'jumping in' involve?" asked Gant, grinning.
"You will all be briefed when I consider the time right." And when I know what the fuck I'm going to do.
The bay was large and crowded with shuttles flown in from the huge conglomeration of ships outside, and with small ships like Lyric II. As he walked down the ramp from his ship, with a small flat briefcase held close to his side, Stanton watched another ship — this one a sharp metallic cone — easing in through the huge shimmer-shield that prevented air, people and ships from exploding out into space. Quickly catching up with him, Jarvellis linked her arm through his and gestured back towards Lyric II. "You know, friend Thorn will see we've taken on more cargo when we do wake him," she said.
Stanton nodded as he observed the cone-ship swinging into its allocated docking area. "Tough," he said. "I just don't want a Polity agent stepping on my heels — especially here." Gesturing to another ship nosing in through the shimmer-shield — this one a flattened ovoid of red metal with stubby wings terminating in ion engines the shape of caraway seeds — he continued, "Another one. I think about half the ships here I already saw at Huma, running arms for the Separatists."
"As did we too," Jarvellis pointed out.
"As did we," Stanton allowed, "but we learnt better. I don't reckon Dreyden quite realizes just how nasty the Polity can get."
Jarvellis squeezed his arm. "Of course he does, darling. He knows it's just a matter of balance. He knows that somewhere there's an AI comparing the likely loss of life here if there was a Polity takeover against lives lost as a consequence of the illegal arms trade. I would also guarantee that this place is scrutinized very closely — and at least here the Polity can do that quite easily. Out-Polity dealing is a little more difficult to keep track of."
"I'd have gone Out-Polity," said Stanton, "if I didn't know for damned sure the Polity want me to have these particular items." Stanton remembered how the dealer on Huma, after selling him the bulk of Lyric II's cargo, had then told him how the drug manufactories could only be obtained here — and that other special items could also be obtained here. Stanton also remembered the watchers in the streets of Port Lock on Huma — Golem every last one of them.
Jarvellis said, "I think you credit them with far too much deviousness — when you have ships capable of wasting planets, you don't have to be devious, just careful not to step on something you might have wanted to preserve… Ah, here come those charmers, Lons and Alvor."
Stanton looked across at the two men making their way towards him. Whatever could be said about their charm or otherwise, Stanton knew that these two men were consummate professionals. As he understood it, Dreyden, having climbed so high, was beginning to realize just how far he could fall, and was becoming a bit twitchy about the possibility of Polity intervention here, and starting to clamp down on the arms trade. These two men maintained the fragile balance despite Dreyden's often idiotic meddling: they allowed enough arms to be passed on to the Separatists to prevent Elysium becoming a target, but kept the quantity supplied low enough to keep ECS from doing anything drastic against them.
"Good to see you," he said to Lons, who as always stayed a few paces back from Alvor and acted the silent heavy — a position that led people to make the misguided assumption that he was secondary to Alvor and less intelligent. Stanton, however, knew that they had equal standing below Dreyden, and, if anything, Lons was the sharper of the two. Lons nodded, and Stanton turned to Alvor who always did the talking.
"Alvor," he said.
"Good to see you, John Stanton. And as always it is a pleasure to see you, Captain Jarvellis," said Alvor, grinning his chrome grin.
"I can't say the pleasure's mutual," said Jarvellis. "But I think you are already aware of that."
Stanton knew that these two had a history, but what lay between them was not hate, just a kind of lazy bickering. Had it been hate, he would have wanted to know why, and then would probably have to kill Alvor.
"Do you have my cargo ready?" said Jarvellis.
"Of course. The main package can be loaded right now." Alvor looked pointedly at the briefcase Stanton carried. "And the two extra items you ordered are with Dreyden, who would like to extend his hospitality."
Stanton considered suggesting Jarvellis should stay with the ship, when he saw her expression, but knew she would refuse.
"Then we accept," said Stanton.
Alvor grinned again, and rested his forefinger against his aug in a somewhat effeminate gesture. "And so your main cargo is on its way. Will we require locking codes?" he said.
"Lyric will handle it," said Jarvellis.
The two men turned to keep pace, as the four advanced across the bay.
"Oh yes, you have an AI on this ship," said Alvor. "Do you trust it?"
"More than I'd ever trust you," replied Jarvellis.
"That's nice," said Alvor as they moved on out of the bay.
"I am dying."
Cormac was alone in his cabin when Dragon told him that. He was lying on his bed transmitting through the submind. No doubt Tomalon would be listening in, but there was not much Cormac could do about that, nor wanted to.
"Is there no way we can help you?"
Silence.
"There is a very good xenobiologist on this ship and the bioscience facilities are the best." Cormac thought his offer faintly ridiculous. Got any wound dressing that's a quarter of a kilometre wide? And how about ten thousand gallons of unibiotic?
"Why would you want to help me?"
"Why not?"
"You avoided the contract killers."
Ah.
"It was you then, not your fellow I killed at Samarkand — or the other two?"
"They are far from here."
"Did you organize things through the Masadans?"
Silence.
"How long until you die?"
"I will have vengeance first."
"What are you waiting for, then?"
"Take me there."
Cormac chewed that one over. "You've lost the ability for trans-stellar flight."
"Yes."
"Why should I help you kill people?"
Silence.
"What would you do if we transported you to Masada?"
"Destroy until destroyed."
"And how much damage could you do?"
"Enough."
"I couldn't be a party to such indiscriminate destruction."
"Vengeance!"
"You're repeating yourself, but your impulse could serve my purposes."
Silence.
"We could transport you there. In return, I would want you to only attack orbital facilities. This we can enforce. You are aware of the capabilities of this dreadnought?"
"I am aware."
"Specifically, then: geostationary over the populated area of Masada are las
er arrays. Destroy them — only them. Is it agreed?"
"Agreed."
Cormac cut communication.
"You trust this creature?" asked Tomalon.
Cormac kept his annoyance from his voice. "No. But if it attacks anything other than the laser arrays, we can destroy it and be lauded as saviours."
"And after it has destroyed the arrays?"
"Likewise. The crew of that Masadan ship, I have very little concern about, but I'll not soon forget those Outlinkers that died out there."
Skellor gazed from one to the other of the two individuals he had killed: one Golem and one human. As he subsumed the experience of their lives — their knowledge and understanding, and anything else that might be of relevance to him — he could not help but make comparisons. The heart of the Golem's mind, once he had discarded layers of emulation programs, was all logic and clarity and thoroughly documented storage of life-experience and knowledge. The heart of this Cardaff's mind, however, was something that snarled and had to be immediately erased — life-experience and acquired knowledge sitting in layers over this primal animal. As — in the quartz-matrix AI that was an extension to his own mind — he sorted all that he had acquired, he began to feel disappointment. Increasingly he found himself discarding irrelevancies until very little was left. All that remained were a few experiences, all that these two knew about the Occam Razor, and memories of places to which he had never been. So much dross stored by both Golem and human mind alike.
Moving to the nearest console, Skellor pressed one grey hand down on it and let the filaments flow down into its workings. Soon he found what he was searching for and the console came back online. He gazed at the screen showing the thirty Separatist prisoners. They were conferencing through their augs: probably trying now to decide what best to do for the cause. Skellor berated himself for the surge of contempt he felt — they had been useful to him, and would be useful again. With a thought he initiated the program that downloaded the information virus he had been working on into the Jain substructure that interpenetrated his body and was also an extension of himself. The Dracocorp augs had been a very useful tool for the Separatists and now for himself they would become a useful tool. Having an organic basis made them so much more accessible.
