Creation Machine

by Andrew Bannister

  Alameche looked at the little machine for a long time. ‘Causal,’ he said. ‘I see. That implies a tool. And most tools are also weapons. So it could be powerfully destructive?’

  ‘Apocalyptically,’ Eskjog agreed. ‘See why people are interested?’

  Alameche stared at the screen for a long time, only tearing his gaze away when his eyes blurred with strain and the images of the Inner and Outer Spin began to weave round each other in a rather suggestive optical illusion. He blinked the image away, and looked at Eskjog. ‘Well, I’m certainly interested,’ he said. ‘Let’s take it from there, shall we?’

  Obel Moon

  BY THE TIME they reached the bottom of the Shadow Stair the sun was halfway to the zenith. The early mist had burned off, and the air was warm and sticky. The sweat that had frozen in Fleare’s clothes when she was climbing the Tower had thawed, and the material clung to her unpleasantly. She turned to Muz. ‘Do I smell?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘Could be. Depends on your point of view.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t bother me any more. I’m a cloud of nano-machines now, remember?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ She moved away from the centre of the narrow street they were on, and flattened herself against a wall as they approached a corner. She felt Muz nudge in behind her. ‘Why are we stopping?’ he asked.

  ‘Ssshh!’ she whispered frantically, and pointed towards the corner. ‘Near the Rotten Gate. The way out to the Second Circle. There are surveillance cams from here on.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now Muz was whispering too. ‘Element of surprise, yes?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Only, there’s something you need to know.’

  Something about the voice made her turn. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s about the surprise thing.’

  Her stomach fluttered. ‘What about the surprise thing?’ As she said the words, she felt the shape of the answer.

  ‘It might not be a surprise. You remember the thing I absorbed?’

  ‘Horribly. So what?’

  ‘Well, it had an audiovisual feed.’

  ‘Ah.’ She looked away for a moment.

  ‘Yes. Ah.’

  ‘Well, thanks for telling me so quickly.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have made any difference.’ Muz sank towards the ground, and instinctively she found herself sinking into a crouch to keep level with him. ‘The feed was real-time. I couldn’t stop it. If anyone was watching, they saw me closing in. Then there would have been a half-second blank. Since then I’ve sent in an edited feed that looks normal, but I doubt if anyone’s fooled.’

  ‘So, we’re rumbled?’

  ‘Probably. Not certainly. On the plus side, it’s better than being kebab meat. On the down side, we should expect company. You’d better ramp up.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Fleare rose from her crouch. Then she looked down at Muz. ‘Edited, you said. How edited?’

  Muz rose slowly. ‘Mainly I took out the conversation. Right now it shows you standing staring at nothing.’

  ‘But what else could it show?’

  ‘Well, anything, I suppose.’ He was level with her face now; she felt looked at. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  She tried to suppress her grin, and failed. ‘Show them something to distract them,’ she said.

  ‘Oooo-kay. I think I know what you mean. Are you still going to ramp up?’

  She nodded, and then turned a little so that she could stare out over the jumbled rooftops towards the Rotten Gate, and the Second Circle that lay beyond it. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Even more so.’

  ‘Want me to get the gate?’

  ‘Nah.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll do it. I need the exercise.’ She waved a hand vaguely towards the Second Circle. ‘You go and enjoy yourself.’

  Most of what was now called the Monastery was not, strictly, Monastery. The original Tower, the First Circle and the fortified wall that ringed it were surrounded by a set of six more, roughly concentric, circles of later parasitic development that straggled down towards the Plains like ripples on a dusty pond. These circles ranged from less than a hundred to more than three hundred metres in thickness, and each had originally only one gate to the next. The Rotten Gate led from the First to the Second Circle, the Supplicant’s Gate from the Second to the Third – set on the opposite side, as was each successive gate. Even though the total radius was only just over a kilometre, to go from the Open Gate in the Seventh Circle to the Rotten Gate in the First one had to walk nearly ten. In a world of land warfare it would have been an excellent defence. For the whole seventeen-thousand-year history of the Monastery it had been made irrelevant by routinely available powered air flight, and the building had relied on far more subtle and devastating means of defending itself. The only function of the Circles seemed to be to make life awkward for its inhabitants.

  Fleare stood just inside the Rotten Gate. After a giggling conference about false AV feeds, Muz had dissolved back to vapour and slipped through to try to do something troubling to the Monastery security systems. A few of his particles remained, nestling in a tight cloud just inside her left ear to act as an audio link. It was silent at the moment; presumably he was busy.

  Fleare realized that she was grinning, a wide stupid grin that she couldn’t shift. She was ramped up, fizzing with energy, system flooded with bespoke chemicals, reaction speeds tuned up to better than four times standard, altered muscles loose and ready. She hadn’t bothered since she had been at the Monastery. It wouldn’t have done any good; even like this, her chances of staging a solo breakout were less than one in three. Not good enough.

  But now she wasn’t solo, and it was good to be back. She stopped fighting the grin.

  There was a soft, distant boom, and then a sharper, louder one. The furrowed stone floor shivered, and her enhanced hearing picked up shouts, confused and panicky. The air began to smell of ozone and burning plastics. Muz was obviously having fun. Fleare grinned a bit more. Then she backed slowly up the corridor.

  The doors of the Rotten Gate were twice her height, of age-blackened timbers with iron fastenings that could have been as old as the Monastery. They were locked and barred, a final physical defence that spoke straight to the ancient hindbrain.

  Fleare dropped into a sprinter’s crouch, paused for long enough to take two deep breaths and launched herself. She took three strides to get up speed, then leapt with feet forward and legs bent, arms raised to cover her face.

  Her sandals slammed into the doors at chest height. As they made contact she kicked her legs straight. The impact threw her backwards; she landed ten metres away and rolled upright, shaking her head. Then she took stock.

  One of the doors had burst clean off its hinges and lay flat beyond the gate. The other hung, twisting. Fleare looked at it, tutted and gave it another kick. It fell in a crash and a cloud of dust. Fleare nodded to herself and picked her way carefully over it, brushing dust from her robe.

  She heard explosions, first singly and then in a stuttering series of twos and threes. Fleare frowned. It sounded more like weapons fire than casual vandalism. If Muz had arranged reinforcements, he hadn’t mentioned it.

  She waved a hand at her ear and whispered: ‘What’s going on?’

  There was nothing. She swore under her breath and patted her ear with the flat of her hand so that her hearing thumped. ‘Muz?’

  There was a sound like angry raindrops. It became words. ‘Shit, that was loud.’

  ‘Sorry. What’s going on?’

  ‘Got company.’

  ‘Expected?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’ There was a pause, and Fleare heard static and shouting voices. Then Muz’s voice cut back in. ‘Look, are you through the gate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyone around?’

  ‘Not in sight.’

  ‘Fingers crossed it’ll stay like that. Get to the security bl
ock. I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Okay.’ Even as she spoke she sensed that he had tuned her out.

  The security block was a few hundred metres away. Fleare compressed her lips and began to run, keeping to the edge of the wide street and dropping to a crouch as she passed the blank, empty windows of the abandoned buildings. The distant explosions were getting more frequent, and now she could hear the hisses and pops that meant someone was using energy weapons. The ground shook constantly and the air smelled of smoke and ozone.

  The street was narrow near the gate, but broadened the further downhill it went, and the tall, irregular buildings of schist and sandstone gave way to more modern, although still very old, structures of foam stone and cinder blocks. Fleare preferred the claustrophobia of the older streetscape; the wider spaces made her feel thoroughly exposed. On an instinct, she slowed, then stopped and ducked into a doorway. As she did, something stung her cheek. She raised a finger to the place and held it out for examination.

  Blood. Her cheek was bleeding. Which meant . . .

  Pock!

  A puff of dust kicked off the corner of the stone porch, barely an arm’s length away. Fleare launched herself into a flat sprint that took her along a snaking path out into the middle of the broad street and across to the other side, while the ground exploded in a line of angry little craters behind her. There was some kind of statue sticking out from the building opposite her. It was on an arched base; she threw herself under it, crashed painfully into the wall at the back, rolled as upright as the space allowed and slapped her ear. ‘Muz!’

  ‘Ow. What? Don’t shout.’

  ‘I’m not. All right, I am. Under attack, big time! Some sort of geriatric bullet thing. You were supposed to distract them. What the fuck did you do?’

  ‘Nothing! Well, apart from showing them a lot of very good porn. Kept them happy for a while. But now something’s triggered a legacy defence system. It wasn’t me. At least, I don’t think so. Are you under cover?’

  ‘Yeah, for the moment.’ The ground beneath the monument was raw earth; she scooped up a handful and threw it out towards the middle of the street. It landed in a deafening rattle of prehistoric gunfire. ‘Surrounded by automatics, though. Muz, get me the fuck out!’

  ‘Okay. Working on it.’ There was a pause. ‘Okay, Plan B. No, wait, fuck, okay, Plan C.’

  ‘Muz!’

  ‘Sorry. Plan D. Definitely. Listen, can you draw some fire near you? Um, as near as possible? I’m patched into the Monastery automatics but I need a fix. Plus-minus a couple of metres should do it.’

  ‘This had better be necessary.’ Fleare bit her lip, scooped another handful of earth and lobbed it gently out of the statue base. It landed in a straggling arc less than two metres from the statue. Fleare crouched and covered her head.

  The ground in front of her exploded in a shatter of dust. Through the ringing in her ears she heard Muz. ‘Got it! Coming in. Ah, shit, wait. Look, sorry . . .’

  ‘What?’

  But then her body buzzed and her sight darkened and things stopped mattering.

  She woke up on a hard floor somewhere that smelled of oil. Her head ached. She risked opening an eye, winced at bright light, and closed it again.

  ‘Ah. Glad you’re awake. Feel okay?’ It was Muz’s voice.

  Fleare forced both eyes open and looked around for him, but there was no one there. She was alone in a small room with plain metal walls. ‘What happened? And where are you?’

  ‘I had to, ah, expedite things. And you’re in a decontamination room just in case. This ship’s a little cautious; it thinks I’m contamination. I’m outside the door. I’ll be with you in a minute. Sorry.’ The voice didn’t sound apologetic.

  ‘Expedite?’ Fleare propped herself up on one elbow. It hurt. She shook her head carefully. ‘I feel like something hit me.’

  ‘You probably do. Stun field. As I said, sorry.’

  Fleare got to her feet. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘Yes. Look, it wasn’t part of the plan, okay?’

  ‘Oh really. Not even Plan D? So why’d it happen?’ She wanted to stare accusingly at something, but the room was featureless. She selected a corner at random and glared up at it.

  ‘We got jumped. Some kind of fleet. A lot of small agile stuff and something much bigger that stayed a long way out. The small stuff might have been slaved to one control source, judging by the playback. Anyway,’ and the voice gave a stagey sigh, ‘we had to pull you out in a big hurry. Too fast for explanations; the best bet was to stun you, stick you in one of the Monastery’s own escape pods and sling you into low orbit.’

  Fleare shook her head again. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘You’re telling me that a whole fleet got itself under the nose of the Monastery tower without triggering the big fireworks? When you had to sneak up on it disguised as a smoke cloud?’

  ‘Yup. They should have been boiled into plasma. They weren’t.’

  Fleare frowned and rubbed cautiously at an aching leg. ‘Which means what?’ she asked. ‘Be simple, please. Thinking hurts.’

  ‘Okay, fair enough. Three options. One: the fleet was brought in by the Strecki and the Monastery decided not to interfere.’

  Fleare thought back to her conversations with the Monastery AI. ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘Lodgers or not, the sociopathic old fucker would have torched them in a heartbeat.’

  ‘That’s our analysis too.’ The voice paused as if gathering its thoughts, and Fleare had long enough to wonder who the ‘our’ was. ‘Option two: it was all the Monastery. That makes sense, in a way. It’s got plenty of out-of-the-way corners where it could have kept a slaved fleet, and it would explain why the fleet didn’t get boiled away into space.’

  Fleare considered that. ‘Possible,’ she said, ‘although I can’t see why it would do that. What’s option three?’

  ‘Ah. Option three’s the interesting one, if not all that probable. Let’s assume that the Monastery stayed out of things because it did know the fleet was coming – had its blessing, in fact – but the fleet wasn’t Strecki?’

  ‘But why would some random battle fleet turn up just as you did? I mean, you didn’t whistle them up, did you? Oh, wait.’ Fleare stared at nothing for a second. Then she grinned. ‘You said interesting? Embarrassing, for my money.’

  ‘Why so?’ The voice sounded frosty.

  ‘Do the maths.’ Even through the headache Fleare was beginning to enjoy herself. ‘Just a standard mercenary fleet costs a million a minute. You said this one looked like it had central control. Maybe from the one major unit you managed to notice. That costs what? Ten times more?’

  She waited for a response but none came. She went on: ‘So that means, someone with a shitload of cash knew you were coming and decided to join in. Ha! Busted!’

  When it spoke the voice was quiet. ‘So think it through. Who’s the someone?’

  Fleare frowned. ‘Who knows? Someone with big funds and big influence. Someone who knew you were coming. Someone . . . oh.’ She fell silent, staring at the floor. A knot formed in her stomach.

  ‘That’s right.’ The voice was gentle. ‘Someone wealthy and influential, who knew we were coming, because they had an interest in you.’

  Fleare felt her lips set into a bitter line. ‘Daddy,’ she said.

  ‘As you say. Daddy.’

  Fleare went on staring at the floor for a while. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Not at all. I hope not, to be honest, if only because I’d rather it was someone with a bit less clout.’

  ‘Yeah. So do I.’ Fleare chewed her lip. She was sure, no matter how she tried to be naive instead, but she wasn’t going to give in that easily. ‘Well, when you find out it wasn’t him, let me know, will you? Otherwise, keep it to yourself.’ She stood up, driven by the need to be not here. ‘Now, Corporal Leader Muzimir fos Gelent – assuming I’m decontaminated, is someone in charge here?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve always wanted
to say this.’ She drew herself up. ‘Take me to your leader!’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. Listen, you need a wash. Come on.’

  The rest of the ship was – surprising. Fleare brushed a creeper aside. ‘You said this was an Orbiter.’

  ‘It is. It’s orbiting.’

  ‘It’s full of jungle.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’

  ‘Yes it is! Look!’ She waved an arm around. ‘Trees! Hanging things! Insects! Hot! Jungle!’

  ‘No it isn’t. First, this is Meridian-Tropic Humid-Zone Triennial Forest. Not jungle. Second, the Orbiter isn’t full of it. There are seven other habitats, all different.’

  ‘Right.’ Fleare kept quiet for a few paces, while clouds of insects hissed around her. Then she shook her head. ‘No, I am going to ask. Why?’

  ‘The ship collects habitats. It looks after them.’

  ‘Not that. I meant why are we using it? And whose is it?’

  ‘The answer to the first question is that it was hanging around nearby and it said yes. As for the second, it isn’t really anyone’s any more. I guess it’s its. The guys that had the Monastery before the Strecki? They used it for corporate hospitality, but since they left it’s been at a loose end.’

  ‘Loose end? But the Strecki have been here for, what, a mil?’

  ‘A bit over.’

  ‘Wow.’ Fleare shook her head. ‘The long view. No wonder it needed a hobby.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, to be honest there’s more to it than that. A few years ago it chose a home planet; almost like a retirement hobby. It helped out, got into ecology, that kind of stuff. There were loads of rare species. Then the planet got Hegemonized.’

  ‘Is that a word?’

  ‘It is now. The planetary leadership thought they were taking out a long-term mortgage on some moons full of minerals. In fact there was some micro-print. They were tying their whole planetary GDP for the next century into a leveraged corporation owned by one of your father’s companies. A couple of years later someone sent them a bill for interest. The bill was the same size as the whole net worth of the planet and the moons put together.’