Dark Intelligence

by Neal Asher

  Trent had been right about her ceasing to expand her organization while she searched for a cure. But she wondered if he’d known about the pin cams and been diplomatic about her other failings. She acknowledged that her disgust at the changes she’d been undergoing, complemented by an over-reliance on her haiman augmentations, had led her to isolate herself from the plain muscle and firepower available to her. Now she found herself here, trapped alone in her spaceship and in danger of falling foul of a two-bit shell-world gangster—of the kind she’d once have squashed without a thought. It was humiliating, and it could not be tolerated.

  However, now she could act; now she could hunt.

  She had briefly considered contacting Morgan again and having him bring reinforcements here. Then she thought about putting Moray Firth back in orbit while Morgan dropped a bomb on Carapace City. But no, that might piss off the mysterious father-captain here. Though prador had no particular love for humans of any kind, they definitely wouldn’t appreciate humans bombarding one of their worlds. And, like all father-captains, Sverl was sure to be sitting inside a warship. A better idea would have been to bring down forces to raid the city, wiping out Stolman’s petty organization to deliver a powerful message to similar wannabes like him.

  But better still, she’d decided, to deal with him herself. Wasn’t she capable?

  One part of her wasn’t sure, the other part was utterly certain.

  Stolman had a large and lethal-looking Golem at his disposal. According to the conversation she had overheard, it was also a Penny Royal Golem. Whether that made it more or less dangerous she wasn’t sure, but she was fairly sure Stolman was controlling it through his own aug. It was therefore highly likely that she’d be able to subvert his control over the thing with her own haiman abilities. And, that aside, she was now much harder to kill than a human being, and Golem, though incredibly tough, were still susceptible to proton cannon fire.

  With a mechanical clattering, Isobel swept out of the bridge and headed back through the Moray Firth, excitement rising. She stopped to attach her speech synthesizer and then pulled a hover trunk out of storage and activated it. Into this went explosives ranging from those that could bring down a building, to anti-personnel grenades like the ones Trent had carried. She put in a rocket bundle: six armour-piercing missiles she could fire remotely from the trunk and mentally guide to their targets. Then, just for good measure, she added extra power supplies and reloads for her shoulder-mounted proton cannon and pulse-rifle. Anything else? Yes, there was something else and, just like the proton cannon, she found it still gleaming and unused. The mosquito autogun shrugged out of its packaging once she accessed and instructed it. Then, taking delicate steps, it walked over to the hover trunk and folded itself inside. That would have to do—there was no room for anything more.

  Isobel felt the trunk would help for appearance’s sake, but she also put her grav-harness back on and took a shoulder bag filled with some of her portable wealth. The more such items she took with her, the more she would look like an intelligent technical being rather than an escapee from a zoo. This would lessen the chances of someone deciding to open fire on her. Just to complete her ensemble of harmlessness, she folded down both her weapons on their mountings and put shrink coverings over them—two discs of polymer composite that closed up into black casings. These wouldn’t prevent her using the weapons, but would make them look less lethal. It was the difference between someone walking into a space port with a holstered gun, rather than one in hand.

  She exited her ship through the usual airlock, broadcasting to the watchers that she was leaving, adding, “I am highly adapted, so I don’t want any panic or unfortunate mistakes.”

  “We observe here,” someone replied.

  “I’m not a shellman,” she explained. “I’m something you may not have seen before.”

  “Bsorol makes us aware of your biological history, Isobel Satomi,” the voice assured her.

  Bsorol?

  Isobel dipped her hood to inspect the steady bleaching of her carapace. For a second she’d thought she was talking to one of the shell people here. But now, hearing that name, she analysed word order and emphasis, and realized she’d been talking to a prador through translation software.

  Once out of her ship, she scanned what passed for a space port here. Hers was one of three ships. The other two, though large, were still just shuttles. She noted a saucer-shaped one that looked to have come from one of John Hobbs’ salvage ships. There was also a brick-like object, the main detachable cargo section from an old Polity in-system hauler. The drive section, still up in orbit, would doubtless have been adapted to U-space travel. Scattered about the field were a couple of shellman guards and some standard humans unloading cargo from the hauler’s shuttle. All of them were looking at her, which probably meant they’d received a warning from the watching prador. As she gazed back, she suddenly found herself fighting a strong urge to chase after them. Instead, she dropped down onto all her legs and scuttled across to the terminal building. She was briefly irritated by the feel of hard stone and wished for something she could grip more readily, her hover trunk rushing to keep up.

  First, she went through a security arch where an automated voice issued her with a warning: “Deployment of any weapon in the terminal building will be terminal for you.” This statement was odd because, though a recording, it sounded as if it had issued from a prador translator. But surely prador did not possess a sense of humour? A short tunnel led her to a pressure door that hesitated before opening to admit her to the building. A few people were scattered inside, but not so many as when she’d come here with Spear. Some showed no reaction to her at all, some stared, while one woman let out a gasp and turned and ran at full pelt for an exit. This probably meant she had some knowledge of the hooders of Masada. Again the urge to give chase arose in her, and again she beat it down. Meanwhile, across and to her left, two prador stood watching.

  Both were clad in bulky armour. This was a blue-green she recognized as a Polity alloy, made some time after the war, based on metallurgy learned from the prador. She suspected it was one of these that she’d spoken to earlier. Choosing an exit to the car parks and taxi ranks, she began moving. One of the prador immediately centred a Gatling cannon on her and tracked her as she crossed the area. In response she kept her hood turned so she could draw cross hairs over the prador—the delay between thought and firing just microseconds. Was this a pointless gesture? What were her chances of survival if it were to open fire on her? Though she did have the body of a hooder, it was still weak compared to the adult form. Moreover, could even the latter survive a fusillade of prador alloy slugs, which were harder than diamond and heavier than plutonium? As she reached the pressure door exit and went through, her tension drained. She pondered on how if something had kicked off, nobody else in the vicinity—or indeed the building itself—would have survived.

  Ahead lay a small car park for hydrocars, with just a few vehicles present. A foam-stone road cut across nearby and here waited three taxis, their drivers sitting around a nearby table, positioned on a mound coated with blue-green mosses and sprouting fan fungus. They were playing a game involving dice and occasionally sipping from drinks through straws, which they inserted via holes in their breather masks. They all turned to look at her, then leapt out of their seats as she began to approach.

  “There is no cause for alarm,” she called. “I simply require a ride into Carapace City.”

  By the time she reached the table, two of the drivers were back in their cabs. This time she found it easier to resist the urge to give chase, because the other driver hadn’t fled. He was a squat fat amphidapt who looked like a by-blow of a man and a cane toad, clad in black trousers and shirt with a slick rubbery look, which was probably the only sort of material that could survive his damp warty skin.

  “What the hell are you?” he asked.

  “I am Isobel Satomi,” she replied.

  He tilted his head, considered
that for a moment while a long purple tongue protruded to lick over his right eyeball. Then he nodded. “You’re the gal who got screwed over by Penny Royal.”

  Isobel repressed the urge to grab him and remove his tongue. It was not the observation about her being screwed over that annoyed her, but being referred to as a “gal.”

  “How much to take me into the city?” she asked instead.

  “Ten muzil,” he said, casting an eye over her trunk as it settled beside her.

  She reached out with one thin black tentacle—the one with the pincers—and snipped the polymer coating over her pulse-gun. The coating shrivelled and dropped off. She raised it and aimed it at his face.

  “Try again,” she suggested.

  12

  SVERL

  Sverl gazed with distaste at the image of the single prador, expanded to fill ten segment screens, standing in the audience chamber adjoining his sanctum. Sfolk, who was one of Vlern’s brood of young adult males, was quivering with fear. Adults generally didn’t put themselves at the complete mercy of any other adult. However, Sverl had made sure that if any of Vlern’s brood wanted to present a request, they had to come here. It was a way of keeping them subjugated, which was necessary to prevent them running amok. They had done so when Vlern died, and would do again, given the opportunity.

  Vlern had joined Sverl shortly after he sank his dreadnought in the sea, seemingly of fellow feeling about the war’s end. Like other Graveyard prador, he had been intent on acquiring allies to avoid being picked off by the King’s Guard. Contingents of the Guard were still in the vicinity, hunting down such rebels. However, though Vlern had seemed perfectly sane and coherent in initial communications, the reality was rather different. He had been a very old prador, sans legs and mandibles. Dying nerve tissue meant he couldn’t take any more prosthetics either, and he was as mad as a tankful of reaverfish. He’d spent the ensuing decades here under the sea muttering to himself, being fed flesh paste and tank-grown child’s blood. Frequent interventions on Sverl’s part were required to keep him from sending his children against his neighbours—and to ensure he kept those same children in a state of arrested development. Some decades ago, Vlern stopped being able to eat properly and ended up choking on flesh paste. The first Sverl learned of his death was when one of Vlern’s five first-children, then making the transformation into a young adult, tried to take control of Vlern’s old destroyer to kill off his siblings.

  Sverl’s initial instinct had been to leave the first-child to it. But his second instinct, surely a result of his ongoing transformation, had been to stop any killing before it started. It was just so wasteful to allow the few prador here to start tearing each other apart. Using his single Golem and his children he intervened and took control of Vlern’s ship systems. The drive and weapons were then unavailable to the five, who were all transforming into adults. He divided living space on the destroyer for them, then divided up Vlern’s second-children, drones and other resources amongst them. All first-children and young adults had necessarily been required to fight their instincts during the war—so they were to behave or pay the penalty.

  Over the ensuing years, there had always been trouble from these five. The trade in human blanks they’d conducted was a case in point, blanks being humans cored of their brains and subsequently controlled by prador thrall technology. This trade might not have been so dangerous here where the Polity supposedly couldn’t reach, but it had brought some very unsavoury characters to this world. Their constant infighting and attempts to murder one another had often seemed about to get out of control. And one attempt to assassinate Sverl had resulted in the loss of one of his own children, which could never be replaced. Now there was more trouble on the horizon.

  “So tell me what you want,” he clattered, his on-screen image one of himself from over fifty years ago. It would not do to let any of the prador here see his true appearance, for they thought his behaviour alone dubious enough.

  Sfolk shifted his feet about and snipped at the air with one claw. He was frightened of Sverl’s reaction, but for the moment Sverl wasn’t angry at all. He was still slightly amazed that the five had come to an agreement and chosen one to present their request.

  “Our population only grows smaller,” said Sfolk.

  “Very true,” Sverl replied. “And as I recollect you and your brothers have played no small part in that.”

  Again the snipping. “You are wrong.”

  Sfolk wasn’t denying the truth of Sverl’s words, just expressing what many prador here now felt. Sverl just didn’t speak or behave as he should. Sverl was all wrong. It was also a protest from the young adult, because Sfolk clearly didn’t know how to approach the matter in hand with someone who didn’t feel like a prador.

  “Just get to the point,” said Sverl. “I promise I won’t crack your shell for anything you say now, but I will crack it if you continue wasting my time.” Of course Sverl hadn’t delivered a cracked shell for decades. If he felt the need to do so, he would send in his drone with the big manipulator arms, currently sitting in an adjunct to the audience room.

  “We want to go,” said Sfolk, now cringing.

  “Go where?” Sverl asked distractedly, glancing at those screens not occupied by Sfolk. Some interesting stuff was going on in the human realm and the petty politics down here were annoying him.

  “To the Kingdom.”

  Now Sfolk had Sverl’s complete attention.

  “You want to return to where you’ll be stripped of your limbs, attached to a grav-plate, then injected with hydrofluoric acid, before being skimmed out over the sea?” he enquired.

  The old king died like that, so rumour had it, and it was now the favoured punishment for renegade prador.

  “We are not our father,” Sfolk asserted.

  “True enough …” said Sverl.

  “Our children are not our children,” Sfolk added.

  Ah.

  So that’s what all this was about. The second-children Sfolk and his brothers controlled were in fact their brothers. They had no offspring of their own. Sverl emitted a very unpradorlike sigh and settled lower on his limbs, resting the tips of his claws against the floor. Perhaps it really was time for the likes of Sfolk and his sibling to go. Certainly, living here under Sverl’s regime, they were losing touch with the realities of the outer universe. If they truly thought they could go back to the Kingdom with protestations of innocence they were being very, very naive. Their father had been the rebel and they had been under the control of his pheromones when he rebelled, but in prador terms, thinking those excuses would work just made them a little bit crazy.

  Admittedly, it was possible that the new king, who had made some decidedly odd decisions himself, might give them amnesty. But that the five’s mindset even allowed them to think it was a possibility showed they weren’t fit to join prador society. That they supposed there might be justice or mercy there at all had to be Sverl’s fault. They had found it here and so expected it was normal, little realizing how human softness had infiltrated their world. But, of course they weren’t thinking straight. Sfolk’s last comment implied that they were thinking about what was completely lacking here: females.

  “Return to your ship,” said Sverl. “Tell your brothers that I am thinking about it and will give them a decision within five days.”

  Sfolk’s shock was comical. He had come here expecting to leave at least with a cracked shell if he managed to leave at all. In a way that was a good thing—it showed that Sverl’s rule over them had not completely killed their survival instincts.

  The audience chamber doors opened and Sfolk whirled round and departed, two second-children waiting to conduct him from the ship. Sverl waited until the doors had closed before switching the ten screens back to more interesting views, and began contemplating possible futures.

  Not counting Sverl, this enclave under the sea included seven adult males in total, plus their children in various forms. But there were no females
and as such it was a dead end. Sure, there seemed to be evidence that Cvorn—one of the other prador—had growth tanks. However, that just made the dead end an inbred genetic one. With the five new adults now wanting to leave, there was definitely going to be trouble. Why should Sverl fight it? He had himself been contemplating leaving to go in search of Penny Royal. For he was at last coming to appreciate that his feelings about that AI were far stronger than his attitude towards the Polity or the prador king—or even the war itself.

  In deep introspection, and with a degree of depression, Sverl continued gazing at his screens. Then he began to perk up as members of the local human mafia beat up another human. This was not uncommon and usually only evinced a passing interest from Sverl. But in this case the victim was a servant of Isobel Satomi who, in a way, Sverl felt might be a kindred spirit.

  Sverl had never quite been able to nail down when Satomi had visited Penny Royal—whether it was before or after Sverl himself—but similar results had ensued. She had asked for haiman abilities and Penny Royal had granted its own interpretation of her request. Penny Royal’s dubious activities were fairly well known to the prador nowadays and so it was generally avoided. Yet humans didn’t seem as cautious, even thought what it did was firmly embedded in their history and mythologies. A large proportion of the human race had once believed in supernatural beings—a belief that generally did not survive interstellar travel. Some had believed in entities who granted wishes—for which the price was always too much. One of these scenarios involved paying with your soul, a mythical form of consciousness that could survive the death of the body. Hence a human phrase, “Selling your soul to the devil.” But the whole idea of getting more than you bargained for was entrenched in their psyche with other cautious phrases like, “Be careful what you wish for.” This perhaps explained why the many stories about Penny Royal didn’t quite match up to the reality as Sverl had found it.