Gridlinked

by Neal Asher

  Pench stood and stretched, walked to the edge of the compacted papyrus jetty and tilted his head. The sound was like that of one of the old shuttles taking off. After a moment he nodded to himself. Of course: Veltz’s boat. Sounded like he was thrashing it. Perhaps one of those bastard ECS Monitors was onto his operation.

  He squinted out to sea and scratched at his bushy beard. Nothing in sight yet. He walked to the end of his dock and looked back down the swathe of other docks. Parel had walked out on Dock B to see what was going on as well.

  ‘Thrashing it a bit, ain’t he?’ Parel shouted.

  ‘Monitor after him, guaranteed,’ Pench shouted back, and then turned to squint out to sea again.

  The drone was deep, with an undertone that told him something was working at its limit. Pench could only pick out the Meercat because of the flashes of white water behind it. It was really moving. It wasn’t properly a boat, but a very low-flying aircraft, and it was now coming straight at him. Pench glanced along the cluttered dock, then back at the rapidly approaching catamaran. He should dive into the water and get down as deep as he could. That was his only chance, but somehow he just couldn’t get his legs moving. Paralysed, he stared straight into the blurred eye of the turbine and knew it was just going to eat him up. His gaze flicked up to the cabin, and he knew for a moment that feeling of displacement that comes with nightmares. The Meercat, ten metres from Dock A, hit a floating papyrus bale and cartwheeled. Pench watched it scream above him and felt the draught of the turbine intake tugging at his overalls. He watched it take out Docks B to F as it disintegrated, and he watched the turbine, free at last, leap into the sky and arc out over the papyrus fields.

  Pench walked back down his own dock, his legs weak, and a strange taste in his mouth. He went into his little hut and called in an emergency. The police and various members of the emergency services that turned up ten minutes later found him sitting on his dock with his back against Auto Handler Three. None of them believed his story about the headless woman driving Veltz’s boat, but it would become an oft-repeated legend.

  4

  Pulse-gun: To call a weapon this is comparable to describing the wide range of pre-runcible weapons as ‘bullet guns’. The name is inadequate and misleading. There are many kinds of pulse-gun. A laser could well be described as such because it fires rapid pulses of lased light. The pulse in all cases describes the packet, and not the form of the energy itself. Ionized gas or aluminium dust pulses are usually confined to handguns, and electromagnetic pulses—because of size constraints—to larger weapons. Some more esoteric weapons do fire microwave and ultrasound pulses. It is worth remembering that within these parameters there is huge variation in effect, ranging from level of stun to the size of the hole.

  From The Weapons Directory

  Cormac assumed that the Cereb police station was a small affair because here so much was visible to the omnipresent runcible AI, and crime was, mostly, not an option. A portico, with a hemispherical roof of ribbed ceramal, protruded from a building little different from those surrounding it, all with their mirror-glass windows and false-brick or stone façades. The portico was supported by pillars and completely open. Inside it, against the pillars, stood service consoles for those who did not want to take their problem as far as a human officer. As he stepped inside, Cormac noted telltale signs in the construction of the roof. There were armoured shutters up there, ready to slam down at any moment. Maybe small did not necessarily mean inefficient or unready; Cheyne III was, after all, a world that had seen a lot of Separatist activity. He walked to the mirrored door of the station and slapped his hand against it once.

  ‘ECS agent Ian Cormac. Scan me and get confirmation from the runcible AI,’ he said. It was only after he said it that it hit him: had he still been linked, this door would have been already open and everything would be ready for him. But this was how it would be from now on. Could he take it? He was glad when the door slid open almost immediately.

  Cormac walked into a foyer tiled with a local marble he had noticed before. It struck him as unfortunate that it was white with blood-red swirls across it. Along two walls were rows of decidedly uncomfortable looking chairs, and on the walls behind these chairs were active and inactive posters showing still and moving pictures of criminals, recorded crime scenes, proscribed weapons and, for some reason he could not fathom, some rather strange adaptations. At the back of the foyer was a large, apparently wooden, panel door. Cormac knew that the wood was probably a skin over case-hardened ceramal.

  ‘Scan confirms that you are carrying a thin-gun and an active attack weapon. Please remove these items, place them on the floor, and move back four paces,’ said a rather hoarse female voice. Cormac looked up at the ceiling and observed a curious light fitting. It was a bulbous disc with a half-metre diameter and flat edges on which complex patterns and small lights flickered. Swivelling underneath it was a short chrome cylinder with cooling fins all around it. The disc was attached to the ceiling by a thick rod of ceramal, and down this rod ran ominously thick cables.

  ‘I take it you haven’t had confirmation of my identity from the runcible AI yet,’ he said.

  ‘Place your weapons on the floor and move back four paces,’ the security drone replied.

  ‘I presume,’ said Cormac, wincing slightly at the sound of security shutters closing behind him, ‘that you wish me to place my weapons on the floor so you can make them safe—that is, melt them into slag?’

  ‘This is my third request. Place your weapons on the floor and move back four paces,’ said the drone.

  Cormac clicked a button on his shuriken holster. No doubt the drone saw this, because it began to emit an AC hum. Cormac wondered just what its reaction speed was. He knew it would go for the shuriken in the first instance, and that would be its mistake. As he readied himself, the AC hum abruptly cut off. Behind him the shutters clicked open.

  ‘Agent Cormac, welcome to Cereb police station,’ said the drone, and the wood-skinned door opened before him. He looked towards the bulky, uniformed woman who came through.

  ‘You were taking a little bit of a risk there, weren’t you?’ she asked him. Her voice was similar to the drone’s, but not quite identical. He studied her. Because her uniform, with its impact-absorbing layers and buried mesh, effectively concealed her physique, she appeared fat. By the heavy muscles that he could see supporting her head, and by the shape of her hands, Cormac guessed her to be a heavy-G adaptation.

  ‘Who might I be addressing?’ he asked.

  ‘First Constable Melassan, and you are the famous Ian Cormac of ECS, or should that be notorious? Aren’t you getting a little too high-profile for undercover work?’

  Cormac smiled to himself and paused for a moment before replying. ‘Let me answer your first question first: I was taking a calculated risk,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’d have been stunned,’ said Melassan.

  ‘And I must say no to you. I would have launched my . . . attack weapon, and your drone here would have focused on it, assuming it to be the greatest threat. It would then have been locked into destroying something very reflective moving at the speed of sound. And while it was working that one out, I would have killed it with this.’ Cormac removed his thin-gun and held it out to her.

  She took it and inspected it. ‘ECS issue. Very neat,’ she said and made to hand it back.

  ‘No, keep it,’ he said. ‘I won’t be able to take it through the runcible.’

  She nodded and pocketed the weapon. ‘I still don’t understand why,’ she said.

  He looked down at her and became suddenly quite aware that, though she was two heads shorter than himself, she did possess the capability of snapping him in half if he allowed her to get hold of him. He held up his arm and pulled down his sleeve to expose the shuriken holster.

  ‘This is a Tenkian. It is worth a great deal of money, it has sentimental value, and it has saved my life on many occasions. I would not have it casually destroyed because of
an identification error. I owe it at least that,’ he said.

  ‘AI?’ she asked him.

  ‘Borderline. There has been dispute about the issue. What kind of Turing test do you use on a throwing star that does not speak?’

  She watched his arm as he lowered it, then returned her attention to his face. She gestured with her thumb, then turned and walked through the door. Cormac followed her into an open office laid out with desks for three occupants. She headed for the one nearest the window, but rather than seek sanctuary behind it, as he had expected, she sat on it and faced him with her arms crossed.

  ‘Well, what can we do for you, Agent Cormac?’ she asked.

  Cormac pulled round a swivel chair from one of the other desks and sat astride it. ‘It is more a case of what I can do for you. I have come here to register my testimony with the Cheyne III police and make available to you certain . . . closed ECS files.’

  ‘Concerning?’

  ‘The Separatist cell on Cheyne III that has been responsible for just about every . . . incident here for the last five years, and, as I recollect, such incidents would include the flame-bombing of the Eriston police station two years ago. It is of course the case that Separatists consider anyone other than themselves to be collaborators. As for police who enforce Polity law . . .’

  ‘No need to labour the point,’ said Melassan. She pushed herself up from her desk and went round to sit behind it. As Cormac pulled his chair over, she activated a console to her left. In front of him a section of the desk turned over to show a plate with the impression of a human hand in it. From beside this an arm rose out of the desk with something like a pair of binoculars at its end. Cormac placed one hand in the impression, and with his other hand pulled the binoculars up to his eyes.

  ‘Confirmed retinal scan, palm print, and DNA profile. Testimony of Ian Cormac, Agent 1X1G of Earth Central Security, Cereb runcible AI is online, First Constable Melassan witnessing.’

  After that single statement Melassan nodded to Cormac, and he began, ‘This is the sworn testimony of Ian Cormac, Agent 1X1G of Earth Central Security. Prior to this testimony, and taken in conjunction with it, I release ECS evidence files Cheyne III Sep. twelve to fifty-four, and all my files pertaining to Angelina Pelter. Now, I think that for this testimony it would be best for me to begin with Angelina’s brother, one Arian Pelter . . .’

  * * *

  Pelter wore the grey businesswear of one of the millions of faceless executives who travel from system to system with bland indifference. He carried his bank-supplied briefcase like many of said executives. But he had his blond hair tied back in a ponytail so that his augmentation and optic link were exposed for all to see. His appearance was not any more unusual than that of many people around him, some of whom looked positively weird. Yet people avoided him, stepping from his path and looking back once they were past him. Something about getting anywhere near this individual made them uncomfortable.

  Pelter stopped at the Café Saone, at the furthest end of this boulevard that teemed below an illusory sky. He sat on a hard stool, placed his case on the glass-topped bar, and thought again about the killer of his sister. Why was it that an image of the man holding that thin-gun to Pelter’s face seemed to be permanently imprinted on the vision of his missing eye? He could not shake this illusory presence, and it made Pelter constantly angry. Where was the bastard now, he wondered. The runcible on Cereb was working continuously, and hundreds passed through it every solstan day. Was he already gone?

  ‘Coffee,’ he said indifferently, and without looking round. A three-fingered chrome hand placed a cup of coffee next to him and snatched up the shilling he tossed on the glass. Stanton, who had seen Pelter arrive and was coming towards him, saw the aug and optic link and nearly turned away, but his own particular honour, combined with the promise of a million New Carth shillings, kept him walking.

  ‘Executives don’t pay with cash,’ he said, taking the stool beside Pelter. ‘What have you had done, Arian?’

  ‘Who the fuck is he, John?’ Pelter asked, his voice flat and without acknowledgement of Stanton’s question.

  Stanton surveyed the area, then glanced at the metalled android that was frying burgers only a couple of paces away from them, behind the counter.

  ‘Not here. I’ve got a room,’ he said.

  Pelter was off his stool in a second and walking from the café. Stanton took up the case he had abandoned and quickly went after him. The android cleared the untouched coffee, and wondered if it would ever understand humans: always in such a hurry.

  * * *

  Cormac leant back for a moment and looked across the desk at Melassan. At first she had found it difficult to hide her joy at all the wonderful evidence revealed by the files he opened for her and for all the Cheyne III police on the planet below. As that evidence had mounted up, with its descriptions of punishment killings, of the ‘disappeared’, and the sadisms for which there was simply no excuse, that joy was replaced by a kind of grim determination.

  Cormac sipped some of the water she had provided. ‘After their fiasco of an attempt to wipe out the dark otters, Sayber, Tenel and Pelter made the decision to call in some professional help. That help came first in the form of an Out-Polity mercenary called John Stanton. Of Stanton’s past I know very little, other than to say he appears to have worked for many Separatist groups and was just not around when said groups were brought down. He has no Separatist leanings himself. He is simply as I described him: a mercenary. His lack of fanaticism makes him less dangerous than the likes of Pelter, even though he is boosted and quite capable of murder. His professionalism makes him more dangerous in that he can guide the likes of Pelter into more effective actions.’

  * * *

  ‘I had to call in a lot of favours on this one, and it took money, real money, Arian,’ said Stanton, wearily lowering himself into a director’s chair and rubbing at his itching arm. You expected that itch if you went to a cheap bone-welder, but cheap was not a word he would have applied to Sylac. He tolerated it and hoped that that was all it was: an itch. He watched Pelter pacing up and down. He noted that the Separatist had his hair tied back as if he was proud of his facial mutilation.

  ‘I don’t care how much it cost so long as we got answers,’ Pelter spat.

  ‘He’s top-line: a fully gridlinked ECS agent by the name of Ian Cormac. I guess you could say that leaves our pride intact.’

  Pelter turned on him and grabbed the front of his jacket. He pushed his head in so close they were nearly nose to nose. Stanton smelt something slightly putrid and pulled his face back.

  ‘Pride! You think I care about pride! He cut her head off, John! He cut her fucking head off!’

  Stanton waited until Pelter released him and returned to his pacing before wiping the spittle from his face. Pelter had not cared that much for his sister. They had been alike in that: too self-involved for such emotion. Stanton wondered what it was that was really bugging the man.

  ‘Do you recognize the name?’ he asked.

  Pelter stopped pacing and looked at him. There was nothing in his expression for a moment, then realization dawned. ‘Aster Colora . . . Shit! He’s the one who went to Aster Colora. That Dragon thing! He took out our entire network there. Well, that seals it: he dies, and I see him die.’

  To emphasize his point Pelter kicked over a small coffee table before slumping into the short sofa next to it. He put his hands behind his head and interlaced his fingers there.

  ‘Crane will be with me—and some of the boys. We’ll find the fucker,’ he said.

  Stanton looked askance at him. ‘Crane’s dangerous, you know that,’ he said. The single eye fixed on him in reply. Stanton felt compelled to go on. ‘I don’t think it’s too much of a problem working out where Cormac’s going. The problem will be getting to him,’ he said.

  ‘Go on,’ said Pelter.

  ‘You haven’t heard? It’s on all the news channels,’ said Stanton.

  ‘I’m g
etting impatient, John.’

  Stanton stood and walked over to the wallscreen. He expertly tapped the small touch-console below it and stepped back. A headline flashed up as the news story he wanted came online.

  Samarkand runcible disaster

  Stanton watched Pelter as the story unfolded with its ersatz graphics and scenarios. No one yet knew how bad it was, they reported, but it was definitely bad. Pelter’s expression was avid. Stanton knew that he wished this could be put down as a Separatist action; personally he doubted that possibility. Separatist organizations just did not have the clout to cause something as devastating as this. The highest they usually achieved was the detonation of a tactical atomic in a city, and after that ECS would come in and wipe them out, every last one of them. Stanton would take their pay up to the point when they started planning something like that, then he would make himself scarce. As the news story closed he wondered if he might be getting near to one of those points now.

  ‘You think he’ll go there?’ Pelter asked.

  ‘He went straight out on the first shuttle to Cereb, so he’s on his way there. I’d say he must have been recalled, else he would still be here mopping up the mess.’ Pelter fixed him with that look again.

  Stanton quickly went on. ‘The nearest runcible to Samarkand is on Minostra. That’s where any rescue or clear-up operation will be run from. We should easily be able to confirm that he went there. Just a little money in the right pocket.’

  ‘Very well,’ Pelter said. ‘We need something more than a few handguns and explosives.’