Gridlinked

by Neal Asher

  ‘You are all right,’ she said, even in this circumstance not prepared to ask a question. Cormac sat upright and looked down at his chest. It was flawless. Cell-welding left no scars, at least not on the body. He nodded to her. She smiled briefly at him, then turned to Carn.

  ‘It’s not pain and it’s not physical function,’ she said, resuming a conversation they had been having as Cormac had come in.

  Carn opened and closed his silvered hand. ‘I’ve lost PU contact. All I get is normal sensation.’

  Cormac glanced at him. So that’s what his hand was. The necessity of using separate instruments on the artefact must have been annoying for him, all for the sake of a glove. Cormac swung his legs over and stood up. He took up his shirt from where he had tossed it, and pulled it on. He could see that he was now completely dismissed from Mika’s attention, and that she was totally focused on Carn. He left her to attend to him.

  The drop-shafts were still out of commission, but that was not too much of a problem aboard a ship. It merely meant there was no irised field to drag him to his destination. He had to step into the shaft, where he became weightless, and shove off the inspection ladders in the direction he wanted to go. The trick, as with all weightless manoeuvring, was not to get up too much speed. Soon he stopped himself at the required level and headed for the recreation room, which had now become the centre of operations. He passed through corridors where robot welders were at work, and other areas where technicians had stripped panels away from the walls and were swearing in their own particular jargon. In some areas the gravity was somewhat changeable, which was more worrying than it being completely out. A fluctuating gravplate could quite easily smear a person across the floor. When he arrived in the recreation room he found only Thorn and Chaline. Chaline was watching a tablescreen. It showed a scene across the hull of Hubris. The ship was crawling with robots like cockroaches. Thorn was sprawled asleep on a couch, a flask lying on its side on the table next to him, with a half-full glass of Scotch next to it.

  ‘How are things going?’ Cormac asked Chaline.

  Still watching the screen she said, ‘Seventy hours and we should be fully secure. Hubris won’t be able to go supralight until we get a new engine housing from Minostra. The ram-fields are down.’

  Cormac nodded, then said, ‘I walked over some fluctuating grav out there.’

  Chaline did not look round. ‘No, you didn’t. You walked over gravplates with a fluctuating power source. We had a little bit of a panic with one of the generators and had to shut it down.’

  Cormac decided to ask no more concerning the damage. The list would just go on and on.

  ‘Hubris, what’s the situation with Dragon?’ he asked as he walked over to the catering unit.

  ‘Dragon is in orbit seven hundred kilometres ahead of us. There is some activity on its surface,’ the ship replied.

  At the catering unit Cormac said simply, ‘Coffee,’ as the machine now recognized his voice and would provide it exactly how he liked. He inspected the cup of white sludge it had provided, then fully keyed in his request. Another one to add to Chaline’s list. When he finally got the drink he was after, he returned to Chaline’s table and sat down.

  ‘Right, tell me, what’s the activity?’

  The screen changed to show Dragon, and Chaline looked at Cormac in annoyance. He shrugged apologetically, then returned his attention to the screen. Ripples were travelling all round the surface of the alien.

  Hubris said, ‘One hour ago there was an energy emission directed away from the Andellan system. It was full-spectrum lased light. The reading was in the giga-joule range. If the same pattern is being followed this time round, another emission will occur in fifty-four minutes. I am moving the ship to the other side of the planet, and have left just one observer probe.’

  At that particular moment Cormac felt he would rather be on the other side of the galaxy. Was Dragon getting ready to destroy them? If it was they were in serious trouble.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I am also picking up emissions across all spectrums. Some of them have some internal logic and mathematical coherency, but I have not as yet been able to translate. These emissions are directionless.’

  ‘OK,’ said Cormac, and the screen flicked back to the scene Chaline had been observing. He studied her and noted how she was deliberately keeping her face free of expression.

  ‘All yours,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, then pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘Unfortunately some of us have work to do.’

  Cormac made a gesture of appeasement, but Chaline walked away. He couldn’t decide if she was angry or amused. Involvement, he thought, trying not to feel guilty. He sat there sipping for the next few minutes, then called up again the scene from the probe.

  Dragon was rippling even faster now, and its spherical shape was being distorted.

  ‘Hubris, are you sure we’re safe here?’ he asked.

  The AI’s reply was succinct. ‘No.’

  The fifty-four-minute mark passed. Sixty minutes was reached, sixty-five . . . The flash momentarily blacked out the picture from the probe. When it came back, Dragon was spherical again, the ripples moving across its surface just as Cormac had first witnessed.

  ‘Hubris, where did that one go?’

  ‘The planet’s surface. Imaging in . . . the probe has it.’

  The picture showed a spreading black cloud with hellish red fires at the centre of it.

  ‘That was Mount Prometheus,’ said Hubris.

  Cormac shook his head in amazement. Enoida Deacon would not be displaced from her niche in the history books, but what the hell was Dragon doing?

  ‘I have picked up something from Dragon. It’s in all human languages.’

  ‘Let’s hear the English version then.’

  Dragon’s voice boomed from the speakers. ‘Escaped! Escaped! Criminal! Bastard! Damn! Fuck! Fuckit!’

  Cormac sat there with his mouth open. So that was what Dragon was doing—it was having a tantrum.

  20

  Chameleon: How often there is confusion and misuse of the extensions of this word. The ‘chameleon-wear’ refers only to clothing made from the photoreactive fibres developed by ECS in 2257. It is merely an effective form of camouflage, and does not render the wearer invisible. It just blends said wearer in with his or her background. The ‘chameleonware’ is a different matter. It is hardware that, using field technologies, can bend light round an object, blank out heat signatures, blur air disturbances, and make said object radar and sonar inert.

  From Quince Guide, compiled by humans

  Pelter took one pass over the lake before banking the bird and coming on in. The screen, set to infrared, showed him all he needed to see, in pastel shades of blue and green like the negative of a colour photograph. He applied the aerobrakes and noted small contrails that revealed the wings, but that was no problem at this altitude. Through Mr. Crane’s eyes he studied the collapsed bulk of Stanton lying on the floor, and considered how to kill him. His enjoyment at wiping out that arrogant ship captain had quickly faded. Now he surprised himself with the acknowledgement that Stanton’s death was not something he wanted to see. The mercenary had to die because of his intended betrayal, but he had been a good friend for some years. There was a bitter taste in Pelter’s mouth as he watched the lake come into sight. In his aug he called up an image of Stanton and slipped it in to the requisite slot of a program in Crane’s command module. It was the same program he had used for Tenel and many others. He would set it running when he felt ready, and then did not have to watch.

  The whistle of the wind across the skids as he lowered them was the loudest sound heard during their long flight to land. The next cacophony was when those skids hit the surface of the lake. Pelter glanced back and saw the foaming wake, and that was all right as well, for anything they did now would be beneath the notice of the runcible AI—or, rather, anything they did from now up to the p
oint when they started using proscribed weapons. Pelter eased the bird round and directed it to the shore of the lake. The land beyond rose not much above the surface level of the lake. In the distance there was a collection of boulders, and beyond that was what Pelter knew to be the beginning of a huge forest, though of what type he did not know. The highest items nearby were reeds and sedges growing at the edge of the water, apart from the dropbird itself. Only a couple of blasts of the compressed-air impeller were required to push the bird through the reeds and onto the squelchy shore. Pelter unclipped his belt and looked round at them.

  ‘A few solstan hours until sunrise,’ he said. ‘We’ll rest until then.’

  ‘What about him?’ said Corlackis, stabbing a finger at Stanton.

  ‘In the morning,’ Pelter replied, then eased his seat back into a rest position and closed his eye. The four behind did the same. He watched them through Mr. Crane’s eyes before eventually allowing himself to rest completely.

  * * *

  His body felt like a block of lead on the soft ground. He felt sick and his shoulder hurt, and a tiny blacksmith was making horseshoes inside his head. This was worse than the worst of hangovers. The smell of peat filled his nostrils and he tasted earth in his mouth. Opening his left eye he got a low view of palegreen ferns sprouting from the black soil. Beyond them some thick green growth was smeared across the ground. For a moment he had absolutely no idea where he was, or what was happening. When memory returned, he discovered it was possible to feel worse than he already felt.

  Jarvellis.

  Stanton heaved himself up onto his elbows, then puked yellow bile. Pain lanced his skull at every convulsion. In a way that was preferable to the other pain.

  ‘Give him another shot,’ said Pelter.

  Stanton just managed to look round as Corlackis squatted by him and pressed an injector against his neck. He felt the stuff go in and immediately start to kill his nausea. The pain in his head started to fade also. He felt he might be able to stand now, but just didn’t want to. The other pain had expanded to fill every space.

  ‘Get up, John,’ said Pelter.

  Stanton tried to feel angry, but found he just couldn’t find the energy for it. He pushed himself to his knees, then unsteadily to his feet. Mennecken and Svent were sitting on a crate unloaded from the dropbird. Dusache was leaning against the bird itself, grounded on the shore of the lake. A curious sight, as he seemed to be standing at an impossible angle. Corlackis stepped aside and Stanton was looking at Pelter, who had Mr. Crane at his back. No chance to hit him, Stanton thought. Of course, given the opportunity he would kill Pelter, but he knew he would not be given that opportunity.

  ‘His knife,’ said Pelter.

  Corlackis reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a plastic-wrapped package. It hit Stanton on the chest, and fell to the ground. He continued to stare at Pelter.

  ‘It’s your knife, John. Pick it up and return it to its sheath.’

  Stanton did as he was told. What was the game now? Him with a knife up against Crane?

  ‘Give him his gun as well.’

  Corlackis looked askance at Pelter, before reaching into his jacket and taking out Stanton’s pulse-gun.

  ‘Take the charge out first, Corlackis,’ Pelter said, when the gun was about to be handed over. Corlackis pulled the charge and handed the gun to Stanton. Pelter held out his hand and Corlackis handed him the charge. Pelter turned and threw it out across the bleak moorland. Stanton tracked its progress and saw it land amongst a rare mass of the green growth. A cloud of objects shot into the air where it landed. Stanton took that as a sign of his present luck. The charge had probably landed in a nest of this planet’s equivalent of hornets.

  ‘I don’t know what it was you intended, but that you intended something with Jarvellis I have no doubt. I trusted you, John. I even liked you,’ said Pelter.

  Stanton said, ‘You like no one but yourself, Pelter, and even that has changed. Look at what you’ve become.’

  Pelter reached up and touched his face, realized what he was doing, and snatched his hand back down. Behind him Crane eased forwards. Stanton noted that the briefcase was on the ground. So that was the way it was going to be. What use would he have for a pulse-gun or his knife?

  ‘Because I thought you were a friend, John, I’m letting you go. Just go—get out of my sight,’ said Pelter.

  Stanton looked around. He was certainly dead. He wondered if Pelter would even let him get to his gun’s charge before sending Crane after him. He holstered his gun, turned, and set out at a jog across the spongy growth. Already the survival instincts that had got him through many a bad situation were taking over. He almost felt ashamed of them, but did not have the strength to resist. In a minute he reached the spread of green growth. Helicopter seeds, not hornets, were scattered all about. The charge was caught in an intersection of two thick leaves, which had the appearance of molten plastic. He took it up, drew his gun, and slapped the charge into place. Glancing back he saw that only Dusache, Corlackis and Mr. Crane were in view. Corlackis was now holding a laser carbine, its butt resting on his hip. The message was plain. Stanton turned and headed for the distant forest, picking up his pace all the time.

  The further he got from the lake the firmer became the ground underfoot. Ferns and the other weird green growths were displaced by what appeared to be low heather. Between the growths of this were narrow animal trails. Stanton reached a cluster of three monolithic boulders and rested his hand against the crystalline and fossil-etched surface. A glance back showed him no action at the lake. Some of them were standing watching him, but from this distance he could not identify which of them. He ran on. He had to keep up his speed and get as far away as possible, before Pelter got bored and sent Crane in pursuit. Then, again, maybe he would not? Stanton snorted at this momentary flash of uncharacteristic optimism.

  The trees of this forest had to be some kind of coniferous adaptation. As he drew closer Stanton saw that they had the shape of pines, but bore translucent red fruits the size of a fist. Closer still and he saw needles that were flat blades, and trunks that had the appearance of sections of laminate wood. Running between these square-section trunks, he glanced back. A tall figure was loping towards him from the lake. It surprised him how much reserve he managed to call up from his boosted muscles.

  On through the trees, the fallen needles a crunchy grey carpet underfoot. Stanton considered pulling his pulse-gun and triggering it under his chin. He did not know what Pelter had in mind, so that option would at least be quick. He rejected the idea. The gaps between the trunks were wide, and the ground an easy surface to run across. Stanton scanned for somewhere to hide, then wondered why the hell he was doing so. Crane would hear his ragged breaths, even his heartbeat. Ahead he heard the sound of rushing water, and accelerated when he thought this might offer him a chance of escape. Beating up-slope now, he glanced back. No sign of Crane, but the android might be circling round. Stanton could not change his course now. In a straight run he stood no chance: Crane was faster than him and just did not need to rest. The river was his only hope. Soon he crested a ridge and saw the heavy swirl of glassy water below. The roar came from his left. He jogged down the slope to where stone slabs shelved the edge of the water. Here the conifers were displaced by blue oaks, their acorns scattered on the ground like bird’s eggs. A glance back gave him more impetus. Crane was loping along under the conifers, kicking up masses of needles at every step as his huge weight sank into the ground. That was it: the weight! When he reached the slabs, Stanton turned and drew his pulse-gun. It had its full charge: over fifty shots. He aimed very carefully and pressed down on the trigger.

  White fire cut a stuttering stream between Stanton and the android. Crane was taking another loping step as it hit, and the fusillade flung him back, thumping into the front of his coat, smoke and flame and pieces of burning cloth flying in every direction. He landed and slipped, shots still hitting him, and then he went over on h
is back. A few seconds at most it had given Stanton. He did not wait to see if the android would get up. He knew the answer to that as he dived into the river.

  The water was icy, but Stanton hardly noticed. He struck out with a powerful crawl stroke downstream. Behind him there was a huge splash. He glanced back and saw a hat floating on the surface and found himself grinning maniacally at that. Crane had tried to follow him, neglecting to take into account the fact that he was made of case-hardened ceramal. Stanton hoped the water was deep. He swam harder, a sudden vision in his mind of Crane striding along the riverbed after him. Ahead of him the roar grew in volume. Happy day: a waterfall. He tried to strike out for the edge of the river, but the current was too strong now. It dragged him to a green-slimed lip of stone and tipped him over into white water. He went feet first, hoping thus to absorb some of the impact of whatever might lie below.

  A cold, deep pool greeted him, and he was dragged and tumbled through water fizzing like tonic. Gasping he came to the surface beyond the fall, and looked back again. Something hit the water hard behind him. He looked ahead, to where the river spread wide over slabbed stone, then struck out—only to have his hand slap down on that stone. A few strokes and the water was too shallow to swim in. He stood, drew his gun, and waded as quickly through the water as he could. He slipped at almost every step. Perhaps now was the time to put the gun under his chin. One shot was all he needed, and he had about ten left. A glance behind showed him a bronze hand coming up out the water and snatching a hat from the surface. Crazy android. Mr. Crane walked up out of the pool, straightening the brim of his hat. Stanton turned and faced him.

  There was nothing to say. Pelter might be watching through Crane’s eyes, or not, but Stanton was damned if he was going to beg. He was damned if he was going to give up either. Trying to recover his breath he waited for Crane, his gun down at his side. Crane looked from side to side in that curious birdlike manner.