by Neal Asher
‘I guess…’ said Shafer.
The monitor staggered out of the ruins of the latest building the raptors brought down. He looked to the far end of the street where one of them hovered, then turned and ran in the opposite direction. It began shooting up the street behind him. He kept going, past buildings burning inside like furnaces.
‘Okay, he’s heading for the square now,’ said Grade. ‘All units close in and ring-fence him. I’ve updated you all on tactical so you know what to do.’
Logan ran on down the street, paused by a scattering of burned human bodies, gazed at them blankly then ran on when the raptor coming behind opened fire again. He stumbled out into the Square – lawns here patterned about a central monument. Glancing aside he saw running refugees, and looking around he saw pillars of smoke rising from Godrun.
‘You deal with the Devil and the price can be high,’ he muttered.
He turned to head to the right but another raptor appeared and turf erupted in front of him. He glanced to the left and saw yet another of the things rising up over the buildings, and he moved on. Soon he leapt a small garden, rounded a pond and headed towards the monument. Here stood a statue of a big wide-shouldered and heavily adapted man – a man who looked like one of his parents might have been a praying mantis. On the pedestal the name read: Trader John. He stopped beside it, resting a hand on the cold stone, and eyed the raptor down on the lawns ahead – battle-armoured mercenaries piling out and spreading into a line. To his left and to his right the other raptors were also landing and spewing mercenaries. The same behind.
Logan drew his pulsegun, took aim at those approaching behind and began firing. Return fire slammed him back against the monument. He staggered forward again, shots slammed him back again, his weapon trashed and issuing discharges. He discarded it and just stayed where he was. A moment later Grade was standing before him.
‘So John employed mercenaries to do his dirty work,’ he said.
Grade shrugged. ‘He has the funds.’
‘And you have done my work too.’
Grade tilted his head, curious.
Logan gestured to the devastated town all around. ‘This place does not deserve to exist. You’ve done a good job here.’
‘Apparently so, then,’ said Grade.
‘It’s a shame you won’t live to collect your fee.’
‘Really?’
Logan thrust himself up, horribly fast. Grade triggered the weapon he held and stepped smoothly aside. Logan staggered past and turned, a glowing cylinder embedded in his chest. It pulsed, issuing waves of white fire that spread over his body like the burning edges of fuse paper. He stood shuddering, power discharging from his legs into the ground. Then the cylinder went out and Logan just froze, smoke rising from him. Then he went over, crashing to the ground like a falling tree.
Holding the weapon Grade had returned to him, Trader John watched the raptor depart. He then turned and trudged up the ramp, which his house had lowered on the Flat, and inside, his two guards close behind. Walking through the plush corridors of his home, he came to a door and rapped on it. Emily exited and walked meekly a pace behind the guards as he moved on.
‘Come see our Earth monitor,’ he said.
They entered his main living area. John walked over, dropped into his steel chair and put the weapon down on a surface beside it. Emily paused to look at a sheeted figure lying on the floor, before taking her place on one of the sofas in the lounge pit, folding her legs underneath her.
‘Stand up, monitor Logan,’ said John.
The figure on the floor moved, then stood, the sheet falling away. The two guards lowered their weapons from port arms and pointed them at him.
‘But he’s not human,’ Emily said, her words devoid of emotion.
‘Doesn’t look it, does he?’
Heavy manacles bound Logan’s wrists and his clothing hung in rags. His upper torso lay bare and his trousers were in tatters. This exposed his loss of skin and flesh. It was gone from his right arm from wrist upwards, from his shoulder and across his chest. Gunfire had stripped one leg too, and a portion of his scalp was missing. This exposed his ceramal bones, corded white electro-muscle and various interior mechanisms.
‘Is he an android?’ Emily asked.
‘No,’ said John. ‘He is in fact partially human – a cyborg.’ He pointed. ‘Do you see, on his skull?’
Emily studied the monitor more closely. ‘Induction thrall.’
‘That would not work if he was an android,’ John explained. ‘It does work because there is a human brain inside that metal skull.’ After a pause John continued, ‘Logan, look up.’
Logan shuddered, jerked his head from side to side, then up. He gazed at Trader John blankly, then transferred his attention to the woman, his mouth moving silently.
‘Emily,’ he finally managed.
She turned to John. ‘He knows me?’
‘Perhaps you’ll understand better if he wears his real face.’ Trader John allowed himself an ugly smile. ‘Logan, return your face to its base setting.’
Logan’s face changed and for the first time Emily showed real emotion. Her mouth opened in shock.
‘Emily Trepanan,’ said Trader John. ‘Meet what is left of your husband, Enders Logan Trepanan.’
John now stood up and walked over to Logan, grabbed hold of his face in one clawed hand and turned it, staring at him closely.
‘I dealt with you once and now I’ll deal with you again,’ he said. ‘But what satisfaction do I get from that? You can die, but you can only feel pain if you choose to do so.’
‘I can feel satisfaction,’ said Logan. ‘Your operation here is over, and you will not be leaving.’
John stared at him and clattered his mandibles. He stepped back, fingering the mass of scar tissue on his chest. He looked round. ‘Emily, come here.’
Obedient to his will, Emily stood and walked over. As she did so, John operated a control at his wrist, bringing over a hoist in the ceiling and lowering a wire with a hook. Placing this through a hole in Logan’s manacles he hoisted him up into the air. He then stepped to Emily and put his arm around her.
‘I think I will fuck your wife now,’ he said. ‘Afterwards I might kill her in front of you.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? She’s not so interesting any more – too long under the thrall and they lose their… novelty.’
Logan just hung there, watching them go. Once they were out of sight he looked up to his hands, reached down with one finger and pressed one of the touch pads on his palm. Green light flickered on his face and he gave a tight smile.
‘She’s here in his house,’ he said. ‘You can take the gloves off now.’
Sting sat atop a boulder on a mountaintop looking down at Godrun. He focused on particular areas, putting frames over whatever interested him and magnifying the image. First, he studied the town square. Here the mercenaries had erected a scaffold and were leading some people towards it at gunpoint. He focused on faces and identified them. ‘Jangler Edmondson: murder, enslavement, torture – guilty. Mine-owner Jefferson: murder, enslavement, torture, theft, perjury – guilty.’ Not finding one innocent amongst them, he watched as the mercenaries strung them up, then swung his attention elsewhere.
Putting a frame over a raptor, he analysed it: miniguns, seeker missiles, particle cannon, anti-munitions lasers, EMP disruptors, ceramal impact armour, super-conducting impact foam… He snorted dismissively and turned his attention to another raptor, then concentrated on the individual who had stepped out of it.
Chinnery Grade: multiple murder, insurrection, terrorism, torture…Guilty. Sentence: death. Sting rattled his feet against the stone impatiently, extruded his Gatling cannons then retracted them, sighed and then tilted back.
‘Patience, drone,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Tactical considerations first.’
He now observed mercenaries driving a crowd of people towards the outskirts, occasionally shooting in the air. Crosshair
s appeared over every mercenary, then winked out. Sting spread his effector wings and rose from the boulder, revolving slowly in mid-air, picking out the other two raptors. Frames and crosshairs multiplied around them, then again went out. Words appeared in his vision: Assessment Complete.
‘Gloves off,’ he muttered.
He tilted and roared down towards Godrun.
Logan hung from the wire utterly still, then raised his head and looked around. Trader John was coming back. The big arthrodapt returned to the room – his ever-present guards following him – and stood gazing out at the Flats, elbow supported by one hand and claw against his cheek.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘About revenge…’
He lowered his hand and operated his wrist control, lowering Logan to the floor. Another stab with one claw opened the manacles. Without looking back, he began heading towards the exit. ‘You will follow me.’
Logan turned and trudged slowly after him, but the guards came up swiftly behind him and took hold of each of his arms. They walked him behind John through the rich corridors of the house, then down a ramp and outside. Here stood Emily. She rubbed at her arms and her expression was puzzled as she searched her mind for memories. She turned.
‘I’m cold out here, John,’ was all she said.
Trader John smiled nastily. ‘Don’t worry, that won’t be for long.’ He swung round towards Logan. ‘You know, when you shot me, I came the closest to death I have ever been.’
Logan watched him steadily and said, ‘Death is not easy to define. There was not much left of me when they pulled me out of the river.’
‘Yes… quite.’
‘You were alive when they took you to the city hospital,’ said Logan. ‘It was some time before I was found…’
John waved a dismissive claw. ‘Fuck that,’ he spat. ‘You nearly killed me and I made you pay, now you, and Earth, are screwing my operation here and you have to pay again… but apparently I cannot hurt you.’ He gave a cruel smile. ‘However, under the thrall you must obey my every word.’ He waved another hand and the two guards released Logan.
‘Is that the only way you can command people, by controlling their minds?’ asked Logan.
Trader John retained his smile as he drew a knife from his belt. He tossed it down on the ground before Logan.
‘Mind control has its satisfactions,’ he said. ‘Now pick up that knife and gut your wife.’
Sting spat two missiles, one after the other, and tracked them down. The first struck the top of the building, demolishing it. The raptor parked there, rose up on the blast, then engaged its effectors and turned, issuing missiles of its own. The second missile struck it in the belly and blew a glowing hole. The raptor slammed back into the building opposite smashing a hole in the wall, then peeled out and crashed to the street.
‘I bet that hurt,’ commented the drone.
Cruising on, the drone fired lasers from its body ports blowing up the missiles the raptor had fired, turning them into hot explosive streaks across the sky. He then fired three more missiles, which hurtled out towards the other raptors already launching into the air. Two exploded before reaching their targets – taken out by anti-munitions – the third blew the tail off a raptor and it fell, spinning.
‘I’ll attend to you later,’ said Sting.
More missiles came hurtling back and Sting dropped behind a building at the last moment. These struck the face, blowing a glowing hole. One of the raptors came in towards this, then rose up to go over the building. Sting came out through the hole, tilted upright and opened up with Gatling cannons into its underside. It shuddered under multiple impacts shedding debris, then abruptly tilted and shot to one side. The drone extruded another weapon and hit it with the royal blue of a particle beam, tracking it. The thing glowed and smoked, pinned by the beam, which finally punched through. The raptor hit the street burning and bounced along it, coming to rest on the steps of the demolished council building.
Amazingly, two people rolled out of the thing, flaming. They came upright with extinguishing gas from their body armour putting out the flames. Sting hit them with one Gatling cannon – two short bursts and they disappeared.
Shots from below…
The drone took fire, bullets ricocheting off his carapace, then tilted, observing mercenaries further along the street. Targeting frames bloomed over them, with identification tags, and his lasers stabbed out, turning human beings into hot explosions of blood and flesh. Briefly, as they disappeared, the words ‘Sentence Executed’ appeared over each.
Then a missile struck him, flinging him back. He hit the top of a building, bounced and fell down into the street beyond hitting the road on his back.
‘Fuck,’ he said, flipped over onto his feet and shook himself.
The tailless raptor now rose into sight, firing with everything it had into the road. Sting shot in hard reverse, turned and fired three missiles down a side street, then went in hard reverse down the street opposite. He rose up and the tailless raptor rose up before him. They hit each other hard with Gatling cannons, but then the three missiles shot up out of a street behind the raptor, looped over and hit it all at once. It blew to pieces.
‘Okay, just one more,’ said the drone, now revolving in the air.
Further shots hit him, and bounced off. Almost negligently, he targeted mercenaries and took them out. Cruising across the town, he put frames over those herding citizens along, narrowed the focus of his lasers and killed them with head shots. He cruised in over the square and dealt with the mercenaries there likewise.
‘Come on – don’t be shy.’
The fourth raptor came at him from underneath, firing all its weapons. He spun nose down, fired with all his own and accelerated towards it. The raptor shed debris, but nothing seemed to affect the drone as he took slugs and lasered missiles before they hit him. He and the raptor crashed head-on then fell into the street and bounced apart.
Again, on his back with his legs in the air, Sting said, ‘What a rush!’ And flipped upright. Turning now to face the wrecked raptor, he waited. Eventually a door banged open and a man stepped out. His armour was smoking and broken in places, glowing in others. He had lost his helmet and the human part of his face was bloody.
‘Chinnery Grade,’ said Sting. ‘Always the best for last.’
Grade spread his hands. The drone surged forwards, sting looping over and jabbing. It impaled Grade and lifted him, shrieking and smoking orange vapour, then flipped him away. He thumped to the ground, inert, vapour rising from him still, his skin blackened.
‘Sentence executed,’ the drone added.
Logan stood still for a long moment, fighting the thrall. He then squatted and took up the knife.
‘I cannot, yet, disobey your instruction,’ he said. ‘But the thing about such a degree of control is that you must be precise in your instructions and, more importantly, tell your slaves what they cannot do.’
Logan held out his hand and pressed a finger against one of the touch controls on his palm. The tracking green light on his thrall turned to amber, then to red, and then went out. Emily gasped and went down on her knees, and reached up with a shaking hand to her thrall. Its lights were also out.
Logan allowed himself a nasty smile then turned and drove the knife straight in through the armour of one guard, lifting the man off his feet. He turned him and threw him at the other guard, sending them both crashing to the ground. The second guard then tried to rise and bring his weapon to bear but Logan kicked him savagely in the head, knocking away his helmet. The man looked up at him, stunned. Logan punched him twice, hard, caving in his face, then snatched up his weapon. He turned then to face John.
Trader John was just standing with his arms folded. Logan watched him in puzzlement, then glanced across at his wife. He held out a hand. ‘Emily…come here.’
She looked up at him, her expression unreadable, then reached up and detached the thrall from her head.
She then swung her attention to John as she climbed to her feet. After a moment she turned away and fled waveringly towards the ramp.
‘Emily!’
She ignored him and entered the house, moving out of sight.
‘Like I said,’ said John. ‘They lose something under the thrall.’
Logan swung back towards him, really angry now. ‘Fuck you!’ he spat and then opened up with the weapon. Explosive shells hit Trader John, wreathing him in fire and blew him back across the Flat. Finally, he spun round and went down, still smoking and burning. Logan stared at him and then dropped the weapon. He stared at the mobile house, all his dreams about rescuing his wife now dust. Then he took a breath and followed her inside.
‘Emily?’ he called, gently, nervously.
He came towards the main room.
Explosive shells hit him in the back throwing him into the room. He crashed down and a big hand reached down, hauled him up and slammed him hard into the wall. And Trader John was there delivering punishing blow after blow.
‘How?’ asked John, ‘Did you think I was repaired?’
The earlier shots had burned and blown away most of Trader John’s arthrodapt exterior. Exposed now was his metal body, its electro-muscle and internal devices. He threw Logan hard against the wall again, then pounded him into it. Stepping back, he slapped a hand against his own chest and said, ‘And this, believe me, is the best that money can buy!’
Logan flung himself forwards to fight back, but John hammered into him again. Logan was outmatched. As he rained blow up blow on Logan, Trader John continued:
‘Yes… you are… right,’ he said, punctuating his words with further blows. ‘It is stupid… to rely… on thrall technology.’ He paused to stab a finger at Logan. ‘But it is equally as stupid to think yourself invulnerable.’
‘Quite right,’ said a voice behind.
There came a thump and a flash. John turned with bright fire traversing his body like the smouldering edge of fuse paper, a glowing cylinder pulsing in his back. He tried to reach it, but then finally froze and crashed to the floor. Emily walked up to stand over him, holding the weapon with its ring-shaped magazine.
