by Neal Asher
Aiden said, ‘But I see no reason why I should not accompany you.’
‘You would not—and that is because you’re not in possession of all the facts. You’ll stay with the AGC. That’s a direct order.’
There was no answer to that, so none was given.
Fifty minutes of flying brought them to a position directly above the given co-ordinates. Cormac brought the car down to twenty metres above ground level, then looked down at the cave mouth. It was a ragged rent in the side of a mountain, but easily accessible. He landed the vehicle a short distance away.
Before he left the car, Cormac reached back and said, ‘Give me your thermal scanner, Aiden.’
The Golem handed it over: a grey box the shape of a soap bar, with a single screen and ball control. Cormac turned it on the three of them, and saw how little of a reading he got from Aiden. There were separate heat sources at his chest and groin, but the rest of his body was almost invisible. Mika and Thorn were statues of molten glass on the screen. Cormac moved the ball control and the area covered by the screen expanded. Positions relative to the sensors on the end of the scanner were given in metres, in three dimensions. He tilted the scanner and saw that these measurements did not change. The device was keyed to a ground level, then. He nodded with satisfaction and put the scanner in his pocket. When Aiden moved to hand over Thorn’s proton gun, which lay on the back seat, Cormac held up his hand.
‘I won’t be needing that,’ he said, and got out of the car. In silence they watched him go. He walked away with the rucksack slung over one shoulder: a tourist out for a brisk hike.
As he reached the cave mouth, Cormac ran a quick diagnostic on shuriken. It might have been damaged by the android, or by the seeker bullets. The miniscreen pointed out a slight aberration in the programming sequences, and some minimal damage to the chainglass blades. Both defects were acceptable. The blades were still more than serviceable, and he reckoned the source of the slight aberration was Tenkian himself. No way had he programmed shuriken to intercept seeker bullets, then hang in the air like a bristling terrier.
Cormac entered the cave.
A rush of creatures that he at first took to be bats fled past him. A close inspection of them showed him that they indeed had batlike wings—but seemingly no body or head. There was also something insectile about them. The cockroaches and burrowing beetles on the floor of the cave were terran, but the blue-metal centipedal creatures that seemed to be preying on them were from somewhere else entirely. Cormac trudged on through fallen bodies like dry leaves and turned on Aiden’s scanner.
It indicated that there was something large about fifty metres ahead, and twenty metres further down. He advanced cautiously, wondering if he had been foolish to refuse the proton gun. He had not wanted it because shuriken seemed capable of dealing with anything the Maker might put in his way, and a proton weapon might well have brought the roof down on him. He paused for a moment and opened his rucksack. The box he took out was from Thorn’s kit—he suspected it had belonged to Gant. He opened the box and took out one drone light, initiated it, then tossed it into the air. It ignited and shot off ahead of him.
The drone light bobbed down into darkness, and Cormac caught a glimpse of mirrored reflection. He halted and punched a particular attack program into his shuriken’s holster, then took it out and tossed it into the air in front of him. It spun up and hung there, revolving like a metal-saw, but with its blades moving in and out as they had after it had destroyed the seeker bullet that had Cormac’s name on it. Cormac viewed it with suspicion: it was not supposed to do that. Tenkian, again. No one really knew what the weapon-smith did with his microminds, but it was often said that some of his weapons developed minds of their own, so to speak. Just so long as shuriken did its job, Cormac would be happy.
Twenty metres more and Cormac saw a flailing of chrome legs—as the drone light shot to the side of the tunnel and went out. He halted and listened at the dark. There was no alternative. He reached down to the holster and felt his way to the enable button. He pressed it and listened to shuriken whir away from him.
Only a few seconds after shuriken had gone there was a crashing from the darkness, and a familiar sound as of an air-compressor starting. He heard a scrabbling, the crash of a heavy body going down, then the metal-saw whine of shuriken striking. Sparks flared in the tunnel ahead and in their light Cormac caught a glimpse of a nightmarish shape. The sparks went out, flared again with a second strike, then a third, a fourth. When the only sound he could hear was the sound of those strikes, Cormac advanced, sending another drone light ahead of him.
The creature that lay dismembered on the tunnel floor resembled the one in the shaft on Samarkand only in that it was silvered and had insectile legs. Cormac realized immediately that the Maker had taken as its template the same centipedal things he had previously observed. Sure now that the creature was not going to be getting up again, he hit the recall on shuriken. It poised over the body with its blades going in and out, as if wondering whether to disobey and hit it again, but then it returned to its holster. Cormac plucked the drone light from the air, punched a different setting on it, and sent it out at a constant twenty metres ahead of him. A glance at the scanner showed some anomalous readings not so far ahead and a bit below: the Maker. He advanced.
* * *
Thorn stared up at the cave mouth and swore creatively, then pushed his hand against his stomach and winced. Mika had done an excellent job of knitting his intestines together, but no way was he in any condition yet to go potholing. He turned to her.
‘We shouldn’t have let him go alone,’ he said.
‘He gave orders and instructions, which amount to the same. Let me pose a question to you: would you disobey him?’
It did not sound like a question from Mika’s lips, more like some sort of didactic exercise.
‘I know what you mean,’ said Thorn. ‘He’s all perfectly logical and reasonable mostly, but you know that he could quite logically and reasonably cut your throat, then wander off to find himself a cup of tea.’ He turned to his other companion. ‘Aiden, couldn’t you follow him in at a distance.’
‘He specifically ordered me to stay here. He is an agent of Earth Central Security, and we were told to put full trust in him and obey him. This was at the request of people we respect, as we otherwise have always been taught to question all orders. Cento and I did some checking and found he was gridlinked for ten years more than is normally acceptable, simply because he had become almost indispensable to Earth Central. The runcible AIs rank him not far below Horace Blegg.’
Thorn nodded. ‘Blegg . . . we always used to hear about him. He’s something of a legend. There’s those that don’t believe he exists. I wasn’t so sure myself . . .’
Aiden looked at him and said, ‘Perhaps I cannot impress on you enough just what it means to have that kind of approval from the runcible AIs. The records on Blegg go back beyond the first runcible AIs. It is rumoured he is over four hundred years old, which is somewhat strange, but it is certain he has now been working for Earth Central for two hundred years. Ian Cormac has only been an agent for seventy-three years, yet he too is ranked so high.’
‘I guess we should stay here then,’ admitted Thorn.
Mika said, ‘In the Life-coven we are taught to read people. I will wait here. I will wait on Ian Cormac.’
* * *
Cormac programmed the CTD and shoved it down amongst the decaying bat-things, then he turned and watched the light retreating into the depths of the cave. He nodded his head contemplatively, then looked down at the sprawled dracoman. It was Nonscar, lying prone as if in slumber, but with its eyes open. Cormac studied it for a while, then spoke into his comunit.
‘Viridian, did you get all that?’
‘There was some interference. I am having trouble holding your signal through that rock.’
‘Very well, I’ll repeat: we go through to the stage-one runcible, and I want all information access to
the containment spheres closed off. The Maker will follow us in, and there’ll be a detonation at the other end. The next transmission will be to the stage-two runcible—when it’s set up—but only on my signal.’
‘Affirmed.’
‘I’m leaving the cave now. The blast will occur in twenty-five minutes. We didn’t have this conversation, so don’t let it out on the grid.’
‘Affirmed.’
Cormac looked down at the dracoman and clapped his hands.
Its slotted pupils flickered and it let out a hissing breath. After a moment it stood up and looked around. Cormac clapped again, then turned away. The dracoman followed him from the cave.
As soon as they were out into the light, Cormac broke into a run. The dracoman lengthened its stride to keep up, its motion bearing a strong resemblance to a running ostrich. As they came to the AGC, Cormac waved the others inside. They obeyed in silence, Mika and Thorn shuffling over to make room for the dracoman.
‘Take us up immediately. We’ve got about twenty minutes before they blow. I want to be well away by then. Maximum speed, and step on it.’
Aiden took the car up into the sky in a steep climb. They were all thrust back into their seats as he used full AG and the boosters.
‘What happened? I would have thought it would have killed them . . . the dracomen,’ said Thorn in a strained voice.
‘Found him unconscious, a little way inside. Scar’s dead though. Maker killed him. Don’t know why this one was left unconscious.’
‘Levelling . . . Three hundred kilometres per hour. Four hundred,’ said Aiden.
‘What speed will this thing do?’ asked Cormac.
‘It’s restricted to five hundred on manual, a thousand on AI guidance. They don’t like people breaking the sound barrier here.’
‘A thousand is quite enough. You’re an AI, so take us up there.’
‘City ordinances restrict the—’
Cormac took his chip card from his pocket and waved it in Aiden’s face. He then pushed it into a slot in the onboard computer. A sexy voice spoke from the speakers.
‘Manual governors are offline. All city controls are denied. It would be inadvisable to proceed.’
The gentle ting of a bell sounded after the voice, then the voice repeated itself, only faster this time. By the third repetition that same voice had become the shriek of a hag, and the ting a discordant clank. The computer moaned and something death-rattled inside it.
‘That’s illegal,’ said Thorn.
‘So’s detonating a CTD on an inhabited planet,’ said Cormac.
Aiden shoved the control stick forward. In less than a minute the AGC was travelling at 1000 kilometres per hour. A quarter of an hour later they reached the runcible complex.
Aiden brought the car down in the empty AGC park, as close to the installation as he could. As they climbed from the car, Cormac glanced at the clock on the dash and then looked to the east.
‘Come on, we’ve got to find a screen.’ He ran into the complex surrounding the runcible installation. The others hurried along behind, Thorn with a little help from Aiden.
The embarkation lounge was eerily empty for a place so often busy. The people who had been here previously were well away now, and no doubt swearing about antimatter-containment fields and incompetent AIs. Cormac ran over to a bank of screens, speaking into his comunit all the while.
‘Viridian, can you get it up on there? I want to see this.’
‘I have surveillance drones two kilometres above the area.’
The screen flicked to a view down onto the Thuriot mountains.
‘The explosions will be well contained. There may be very little evidence of them. Two minutes and counting.’
And with that a voice, softer than that of the AI, began to read off the seconds.
‘One-nineteen, one-eighteen, one-seventeen . . .’
‘When this hits,’ said Cormac, ‘we run for runcible B5, which is open right now to the stage-one runcible on Samarkand.’
Thorn asked, ‘Will the detonations be enough to get it running? I mean . . . can we be sure it will run for the runcibles?’
‘We can’t be sure. If it doesn’t run this time, we come back with greater force and do the same again.’
‘I still don’t see how we—’
‘Hadn’t you better get to the runcible now, Thorn? I don’t want you dragging behind,’ said Cormac, and turned and eyed the soldier coldly. Thorn returned that hard gaze for a moment, then bowed his head and moved away. Aiden went with him.
Cormac turned his attention to the dracoman. ‘Nonscar, go with them.’
The dracoman moved away also.
‘—eighty . . . seventy-nine . . . seventy-eight.’
While Cormac watched the screen, Mika studied him surreptitiously. The questions Thorn had been asking were pertinent in the extreme. She sensed the reason that Cormac had not answered them properly was, not because he could not, but simply because he did not want to. He knew what he was doing; that, she felt, was enough.
‘Bringing the drone in lower,’ said Viridian.
The view rapidly changed to one where trees and mountainsides became distinguishable. Mika was sure she was now seeing the same area they had recently quit, one mountainside appeared to be the one with the cave mouth in it.
‘—twenty-one . . . twenty . . . nineteen . . . eighteen . . .’
Mika could see the tension building in Cormac’s muscles. What was he seeing? What was it he wanted to see?
The seconds counted themselves out. The probe appeared to bob, but it was the mountains that shook. Dust and debris hazed everything for a moment, and then white fire jetted from the flank of one mountain, pinpointing the position of the cave mouth. Cormac glanced at the time display in one corner of the screen.
‘Come on . . .’
More seconds dragged past. Then suddenly part of the mountain blew away and the incandescent Maker surfaced, jetting fire in every direction. Trees exploded into burning flinders and boulders were blown to dust. The screen whited out.
‘Probe destroyed,’ explained Viridian. ‘I am withdrawing all other probes.’
Mika saw a fleeting quirk of a smile cross Cormac’s face.
‘Dramatic,’ he remarked. Then said, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
* * *
Fantastic light cut in a slow arc across the sky, and grounded at the distant runcible installation. There the finned cooling towers were haloed in St Elmo’s fire. Jarvellis leant forward on the controls of the private AGC Pelter had stolen and shook her head in wonderment. After a moment the light winked out, and by contrast the day seemed unreasonably dark.
‘Now, that you can explain in a minute,’ she began. ‘But first tell me about that shit Pelter.’
Stanton smiled at her. He couldn’t stop smiling at her. When he’d come upon the grounded shuttle and seen her climbing out, he thought he’d finally flipped. But now, every minute, he was realizing it was true. And whether that applied to him having flipped or her actually being here he did not know, or care.
‘He’s dead. I think they’re all dead,’ he said.
‘Did you see them die?’
‘I saw Pelter—and I checked afterwards. He had that agent cold from about four metres back with a pulse-gun. Shit, I’ve never seen someone move so fast. I think Pelter winged him, before he freaked. He blasted away at the tree the agent ducked behind, then he seemed to lose it, and started backing off. The agent stepped out after that, calm as you like, and shot him. When he was gone I took a look. Hole right through the centre of Pelter’s forehead and out the back.’
‘Good. What about the others?’
‘I think Mennecken and Corlackis got hit by an APW. I found some bits of Dusache stuck to the launcher, and Svent got hit in the crossfire between the agent and Pelter.’
‘That’s it, then,’ said Jarvellis and sat back. She appeared as wasted as Stanton felt. With what she’d been through, he wasn’t the
least bit surprised. He looked at the flat material over her left breast.
‘Now I think we get off this planet and find somewhere safe. Somewhere . . . peaceful and sunny. We’ll get you that reconstructive surgery as well.’
Jarvellis looked at him tiredly. ‘There’ll be people hunting for us here,’ she said, ‘and we haven’t got a ship anymore. How exactly do you think we’ll get away from here?’
Stanton reached into the back of the AGC, brought a briefcase forward and laid it on his lap. The briefcase was battered, its framework showing through at the corners, and there were suspicious-looking spatters spread across it. Even so, the Norver Bank logo was still visible on it.
‘I reckon we’ll find a way,’ he said.
At last Jarvellis managed to respond to Stanton’s smile. She decided she’d give him the other news once they were somewhere safe—and when Stanton had lost any inclination to run.
29
Of course, criminals are people who have not received the correct moral education. They are people who have not enjoyed the opportunities of the rest of us. We should pity them, and as a society we should look after them. Punishment is not the answer. It only worsens an already bad situation. If we execute people, this apparently makes us just as bad as them . . . Bollocks . . . In the earlier years of the millennium this was always considered to be the case. The insanities of ‘political correctness’ blinded many to plain realities: if you execute a criminal, he won’t do it again. Punishment of the criminal is good for the victims, if they are still alive. Why should we, as a society, look after and re-educate them when we hardly have the resources to do this for law-abiding citizens? Nowadays we have grasped these realities, so murderers and many recidivists are mind-wiped. We have not ceased to execute people because we are more ‘civilized’, but because that would be a waste of a perfectly useful body. And there are many personalities waiting in cyberspace (AI and uploaded human) for another crack at living in the real world.
From How It Is by Gordon