The Technician

by Neal Asher

  ‘Interesting,’ said Amistad.

  Sanders snapped her gaze across as the drone suddenly materialized, crouching on the terrace nearby, sting poised above its head glinting clear globules of fluid. It had obviously stung him; knocked him out.

  ‘What did you use?’ Sanders asked, heading over to pick up her towel and press it against her bleeding face. The wound was superficial – just a minute’s work for an autodoc.

  ‘There’s no name for it,’ said Amistad, ‘but it blots out memory in the short time it takes to work, which is just as required.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We let this run.’ The drone moved forward with silent grace for something so heavy and poised over Tombs, peering closely at him. ‘Nothing has been achieved by keeping him here. We must let him claw his way to reality by experiencing it, very directly – we let him discover the truth and, in the process, discover the truth about him.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ said Sanders.

  The drone turned towards her, then after a moment acknowledged that with a dip of its head.

  Jem woke with a start, flat on his back on warm tiles, and tried to collect the disconnected parts of his mind. Abruptly he remembered that at last their security here had become lax: somehow the nerve blocker preventing him from walking had been disconnected, and the guards, grown complacent having to watch over someone confined to a wheelchair, had absented themselves. Only Sanders stood in his way to the surface, the way out . . .

  Jem blinked, gazing up at open sky, then sat up and looked around. His thought processes realigned and he realized he had been mistaken about the rebel base. They really had moved him to an island, to another base actually on the surface. This could mean only one thing: there were traitors in the Theocracy who had somehow penetrated the scanning systems of the cameras up on the orbital laser arrays. Somehow those cameras were simply not being directed towards this place. Once he had made good his escape he must be careful who in the Brotherhood he informed about this. Perhaps it would be best to try and get a message directly to the Hierarch. Of course this wasn’t Heretic’s Isle, but that the Underground had expended so much in resources to create this place, this fiction, showed how important they considered their faith-breaking project.

  He stood, gazing down at the bloody knife in his hand, vaguely remembering forcing Sanders to take him to the surface . . . no, out here. His gaze strayed down, then along to the edge of the terrace where she lay slumped in a pool of blood against the low stone wall, a trail of blood leading across the tiles to her. Somehow she had managed to strike him, to knock him unconscious, but in so doing had ensured her own death. He felt a surge of grief, of regret, so much stronger than seemed reasonable considering all they had done to him here. He walked to stand over her. Her blond hair was stuck down in congealing blood which, despite the air here, remained bright red.

  ‘I’ve been adapted to this world now – Polity technology,’ her voice muttered in his head. ‘I can breathe here.’

  He recollected her standing before him, arms spread, wearing only a blue bikini. He shook his head to try and dispel the image, glimpsed the oyster knife still in his hand and with one jerky motion sent it clattering away from him, then stumbled to the steps leading down to the beach. He was gasping, labouring to breathe.

  Reaching up he clawed at the covering over his head, seeking to tear it off, but the thing was soft now and transmitted pain. They’d upgraded it, giving it a realistic look and a realistic feel, but he wasn’t fooled. It wasn’t his face. Then, as further memory returned, he abruptly snatched his hands away. Whether the thing was a prosthetic as Sanders had claimed or just there to conceal from him his own face was irrelevant. However, one of her other claims now surfacing in his mind was relevant. She had said that, like a scole, it supplied him with breathable air, though unlike a scole it would allow him to breathe for ten days, and here he was outside and breathing without a mask.

  He raised his wrist, studying the hand of his artificial arm. They’d made that more realistic too, even down to the hairs on the back of his hand. He transferred his gaze to his wristwatch, reached out to set a timer: a countdown of ten days. Unless they were lying about the extent of his oxygen supply, which seemed highly likely, that was how long he had to get back to the Theocracy.

  Move, I must move.

  He glanced back again at the corpse. Sanders was, to his best knowledge, the first person he had ever killed, and he could not believe that what he felt now was the same thing other killers felt. How could they kill again? As he headed down towards the beach, his legs unsteady at each step, it occurred to him that perhaps they had managed to make inroads into his faith, for surely, his faith being strong, he would not feel such regret on taking the life of an enemy?

  Beach sand sank soft under his slippers and, glancing across, he saw her fading footsteps leading up from the sea. How could such fading images be all anyone left to the world? How could those like Sanders believe that this was all there was? Heaven and Hell respectively awaited the faithful and the faithless.

  Sanders would be burning in Hell now.

  Jem flinched, a memory of pain so sharp to his perception, a brief image in his mind of her screaming, forever. He found himself on his knees in the sand. God had just allowed him a glimpse of Hell to harden his resolve, yet why did the very idea of what was happening to her now hurt so much?

  Move.

  He glanced aside, gazed at the object pulled up on the beach. He had no recollection of this boat being here before but perhaps, from his wheelchair, it had been out of his view. He forced himself on to his feet and stumbled over to peer down at the vessel.

  It lay five metres long, had a folded-up outboard of a design he did not recognize, twin propellers exposed. How so small, almost infinitesimal an engine could drive such large propellers and propel so large a boat he could not understand. He checked it over, saw that it must be supplied with power from the small cubic unit on the deck below it to which two thin wires ran. He tried the simple controls on the rudder handle and soon had the propellers whirling up to vicious speed, then he stepped back and studied the vessel again. In his weakened condition he doubted he could drag the thing into the water, but he must try. Any time now the guards might return and find Sanders, then they would be after him. With everything he now knew, they would be utterly determined to stop him returning to the Theocracy.

  Moving to the bow of the boat he detached a thin line from a post driven into the sand, tossed the line on board then grabbed the ring it attached to on the prow. To his utter surprise the front of the boat lifted with ease – it must be made of bubble metal, like a proctor’s aerofan. In a moment he dragged it into the sea, then with a shove propelled it from the shore before rolling aboard and making his way unsteadily to the seat at the rear.

  Only when the outboard was tilted back down again and those twin propellers foaming a wake behind did he think where to go. It seemed likely to him that though the island behind him could not be Heretic’s Isle, it did sit in the same crowded island chain. This meant he must head north to reach the mainland. He studied the position of the sun, the position of Amok vaguely visible over to his right, and realized he had no idea which direction was north. Only when his eyes strayed down did he see the small console set below the rudder arm and above the power supply and, inset in that, the compass and map display. The electronic map clearly showed him departing a crescent-shaped island named Heretic’s Isle. This had to be a lie, so he ignored it, gazing only at the compass, and set the boat on a course northwards. Still pulling away from the isle he glanced back at the building high above the beach, felt a terrible tightness in his chest and experienced a sudden blurring his vision. Reaching up he touched tears streaming down the covering over his head.

  Another lie.

  The Underground had not changed its physical appearance much over the last twenty years, but it was emptier now, and the wind sometimes issuing from the cave-borne central rive
r of Cavern Andromeda seemed to be mourning this desertion. Grant, having wended his way down the long stairway from the surface, walked through a shimmer-shield that was not a recent Polity import, but something bought at the cost of lives before the rebellion, from a trader in squerm essence in Zealos. It had always been a dangerous option to approach those who traded with the Theocracy, because the proctors were always on the lookout for such action, such a chance to kill rebels. They succeeded on this occasion too, only one surviving of the party of seven sent to collect the shield projector. Grant sighed. He always felt resentful stepping through that shield, since one of those who had not returned had been his brother.

  Trudging wearily down the path to Pillar Town Assos, Grant studied the crop ponds to his right, glancing first at the big blue robotic beetles crouching on the banks, then watching some stilt-legged thing like an iron heroyne stabbing down a beak to remove a deader, a dead squerm, from one pond – a task that Human workers had to do before so as to prevent poisoning of the water. These machines came from the Polity, as did the fusion reactor standing on the banks of the river providing power for the whole cavern, and for the oxygen generator squatting beside it. As always he tried to concentrate on the undisputable benefits now trickling in from that massive realm, and as always could not dismiss his feelings of disapproval.

  Entering the pillar town he crossed the lower coin of the building – an area once a weapons workshop but now being converted into a museum. Glass cases contained some of the weapons that had been made here, along with uniformed mannequins and old original-descent boring equipment – the collection gradually growing by the addition of other items of historical significance slowly being unearthed in abandoned stores. There were holographic interactives too, where people could experience a near-facsimile of past events. Grant had tried one once, and abandoned it in a cold sweat, swearing never to try that again. His memories were quite enough. Glancing round he noted that the only people here were parties of schoolchildren come to learn about their past. Beside the teachers other adults were few in number – the memories still raw for them too.

  At the end of the museum he climbed into one of a bank of elevators and ascended, finally stepping out into the upper coin and heading out to his apartment on the rim. A hand against the new Polity palm lock gave him access and, as was his habit, he made straight for his fridge, took out and uncapped a bottle of beer, then went out to his chair on the balcony.

  Grant perfectly understood his feelings of dispossession and had known for twenty years that he needed to resolve some things in his mind and move on. During that time he had mooched about from job to job, profession to profession – private security, aerofan manufacturing, ATV driver at the Tagreb, the Taxonomic and Genetic Research Base which was the centre of most Polity research on Masad, even tourist guide, and recently vacuum construction on Flint – but was never able to settle. Now, back here from Flint, it seemed no time had passed at all and memories twenty years old had not lost their immediacy. He needed to find a new direction now, not to sustain his existence, since the intermediate regime had assigned him a pension and this had later been confirmed by the planetary governor, but to give his existence meaning. He had fought the Theocracy for most of his life, and even now the gaping hole it had left remained open – the same rift that all soldiers returning from war found. He sipped his beer, then reached out and picked up a palmtop from the table beside him, which activated to the display he had been looking at prior to his trip to the surface: memory editing.

  Apparently, during their war against the alien Prador, soldiers of the Polity had edited their own minds to enable themselves to go on functioning. Upon his return he had discovered that some here on Masada, mentally damaged by the horrors of Theocracy rule and events during the rebellion, had also taken this option. A few surviving members of the Brotherhood had taken it too, as had many other believers trying to rid themselves of the burden of religious indoctrination. Perhaps he should get his head seen to. Perhaps he too should rub out the memories that kept him tied to the past, so he could at last step into the future he had been fighting for?

  No.

  He put the palmtop aside. That option just seemed too much like cowardice to him. He was the sum of his past. He was Commander Grant and so he would remain for the rest of his life, no matter if he never fought as a soldier again.

  ‘The editing techniques are much more refined now,’ said a voice. ‘You can actually retain memories, but have them scrubbed of emotional content. You can be reprogrammed to acceptance, have old habits excised and the pleasure and pain wiring rerouted.’

  Grant sipped his beer again, then glanced over to his left at a wide stretch of apparently empty balcony. ‘I’d say why don’t you use the door just like anyone else, but I’d have to have it widened.’

  Amistad appeared like a scorpion-shaped bottle filling with iron colour. The drone reached out one long claw towards him, then down, delicately closing claw tips on the palmtop and picking it up for inspection. ‘I knew someone whose mind was edited when he was a child – his mother trying to save him from pain. Only when he reintegrated those memories and that pain did he become whole.’ The drone put the palmtop down again. ‘I too edited my own mind to return it to sanity, and only after I’d gradually put back those cuts, absorbing the pain as I did so, did I find the way to my future self.’

  ‘Trite philosophy – I expect better of you, Amistad.’

  ‘Editing out pain edits out its lessons too.’

  Grant shrugged, sipped his beer. ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘Jeremiah Tombs is on the move,’ the drone told him. ‘After drawing some final penny mollusc shell, he regained his ability to stand up and then he escaped the sanatorium.’

  ‘Escaped?’

  ‘The only fiction we have created for him. He believes that he killed Sanders and escaped, and is on his way back to his Theocracy.’

  ‘He’s in for some shocks, then.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You think the shocks’ll unlock his skull?’

  ‘I do, but we need him to stay alive long enough for them to work.’

  ‘Should be simple enough for you.’

  ‘Yes, even though Tidy Squad assassins have been dispatched after him.’

  Grant glanced up at the drone. ‘I ain’t in disagreement with ’em.’

  ‘Neither is the runcible AI, which is why they’ve been allowed to operate for so long – some Humans are irredeemable.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, but you still ain’t explained why you’re here.’

  ‘I want you to guide and protect Tombs, and I want him to remember you,’ said the drone. ‘Your presence will help him find the gateway to sanity. He’ll reintegrate his pain and become whole, and at last we’ll find out what it was the Technician put in his mind.’

  ‘You seem confident.’

  ‘The mathematics of insanity,’ said the drone obscurely.

  ‘And you’ll tear his mind apart again.’

  ‘Do you accept the commission?’

  Grant glanced at his palmtop, finished his beer and put the bottle aside. ‘Of course I do – I need the work.’

  Shree Enkara gazed through her binoculars at the apartment building, noting the foamstone construction of the walls, flicking her gaze down to the cams positioned above the main entrance glassed in above the covered street, then to the logo on the box they fed into. Old security there: armour glass, static cameras, palm locks, the armed guard she’d earlier seen enter the building for his morning shift, and perhaps some extras Mulen had placed in and around his apartment and in the offices of Glaffren Shipping.

  Lowering her binoculars, Shree scanned across the rest of Zealos City. Lots of new buildings going up, lots of renovation, and many here were taking advantage of Polity technology becoming available. But of course Mulen, who now called himself Andrew Glaffren, had refused to have any of that godless stuff near him; refused the security drones and AI oversight
. He’d foolishly assumed that his new identity and new face would be enough, and not reckoned with the fact that the Zealos police, now with its large complement of ex-Underground rebels, was full of Tidy Squad supporters who had been feeding her and her comrades the information they required to . . . tidy up. Of course, Shree was fully aware that their freedom to act here would soon be curtailed as the Polity tightened its grip. She was also aware that the Polity AIs did not seem overly anxious to close down Tidy Squad activities – perhaps they did not entirely agree with their own policies.

  She closed up her binoculars and shoved them into her pack, hoisted that up to her shoulder then strolled over to the head of the stairwell leading down from the glassed-over roof. Mulen’s biggest mistake, the one that had made information on him easier to come by, was that he had not been prepared to give up the family business. Though he himself had gone on to special training for his position in the Theocracy, his family had owned numerous squerm ponds. They had lost half of those ponds – confiscated by Lellan’s intermediate regime – but retained the remainder which, now kept in business by Polity robotics Mulen did not seem adverse to, were bringing in a good income.

  The stairwell wound steadily down to the apartment building’s foyer, where Shree deposited her pack in a rental locker. The items it contained had been very useful on other occasions, but here she needed none of them, just her skin with its sprayed-on layer to prevent the shedding of skin cells and other DNA evidence, and her hands. Inside the public toilet here she checked her make-up in the mirror, brushed her ash-blond hair, making sure it covered the small crescent-shaped aug behind her ear, ran her hands down the clingy dress she wore, ensuring that the neckline was sufficiently low and that the slight translucency of the material made it quite evident that she wore nothing underneath.