The Gabble and Other Stories

by Neal Asher

  ‘I didn’t want to speak to you at a distance, since even using your codes an AI might have been listening in,’ she said.

  After a brief pause to grate its mandibles together, one of the hexagonal boxes attached underneath it spoke, for some reason, in a thick Marsman accent. ‘Our codes are unbreakable.’

  Jael sighed to herself. Despite having fought the Polity for forty years, some Prador were no closer to understanding that to AIs no code was unbreakable. Of course all Prador weren’t so dumb – the clever ones now ruled the Third Kingdom. This first-child was just aping its father, who was a Prador down at the bottom of the hierarchy and scrabbling to find some advantage to climb higher. However, that father had acquired enough wealth to be able to send its first-child off in a cruiser like this, and would probably be able to acquire more by cutting deals with its competitors – all Prador were competitors. It would need to make those deals, for what Jael hoped to sell, the father of this first-child might not be able to afford by itself.

  ‘I will soon be acquiring something that could be of great value to you,’ she said. Mentioning the Atheter memstore aboard Kobashi would have been suicide – Prador only made deals for things they could not take by force.

  ‘Continue,’ said the first-child.

  ‘I can, for the sum of ten billion New Carth shillings or the equivalent in any stable currency, including Prador diamond slate, provide you with a living breathing Atheter.’

  The Prador dipped its carapace – perhaps the equivalent of someone tilting their head to listen to a private aug communication. Its father must be talking to it. Finally it straightened up again and replied, ‘The Atheter are without mind.’

  Jael instinctively concealed her surprise, though that was a pointless exercise, since this Prador could no more read her expression than she could read its. How had it acquired that knowledge? She only picked it up by running some very complicated search programs through all the reports coming from the taxonomic and genetic research station on Masada. Whatever – she would have to deal with it.

  ‘True, they are, but I have a mind to give to one of them,’ she replied. ‘I have acquired an Atheter memstore.’

  The first-child advanced a little. ‘That is very interesting,’ said the Marsman voice – utterly without inflection.

  ‘Which I of course have not been so foolish as to bring here – it is securely stored in a Polity bank vault.’

  ‘That is also interesting.’ The first-child stepped back again and Jael rather suspected something had been lost in translation. It tilted its carapace forward again and just froze in place, even its mandibles ceasing their constant motion.

  Jael considered returning to her ship for the duration. The first-child’s father would now be making its negotiations, striking deals, planning betrayals – the whole complex and vicious rigmarole of Prador politics and economics. She began a slow pacing, spotted another ship louse making its way towards her boots and went over to step on that. She could return to Kobashi, but would only pace there. She played some games in her twinned augs, sketching out fight scenarios in this very room between her and the two Prador, and solving them. She stepped on four more ship lice, then accessed a downloaded catalogue and studied the numerous items she would like to buy. Eventually the first-child heaved itself back upright.

  ‘We will provide payment in the form of one half diamond slate, one quarter a cargo of armour scales and the remainder in Polity currencies,’ it said.

  Jael balked a little at the armour scales. Prador exotic metal armour was a valuable commodity, but bulky. She decided to accept, reckoning she could cache the scales somewhere in the Graveyard and make a remote sale by giving the coordinates to the buyer.

  ‘That’s acceptable,’ she said.

  ‘Now we must discuss the details of the sale.’

  Jael nodded to herself. This was where it got rather difficult. Organizing a sale of something to the Prador was like working out how to hand-feed white sharks while in the water with them.

  I gazed out through the screen at a world swathed in cloud, encircled by a glittering ring shepherded by a sulphurous moon, which itself trailed a cometary tail resulting from impacts on its surface a hundred and twenty years old – less than an eyeblink in interstellar terms. The first settlers, leaving just before the Quiet War in the Solar System, had called the world Paris– probably because of a strong French contingent amidst them and probably because ‘Paradise’ had been overused. Their civilization was hardly out of the cradle when the Polity arrived in a big way and subsumed them. After a further hundred years the population of this place surpassed a billion. It thrived, great satellite space stations were built, and huge high-tech industries sprang up in them and in the arid equatorial deserts down below. This place was rich in every resource – surrounding space also swarming with asteroids that were heavy in rare metals. Then, a hundred and twenty years ago, the Prador came. It took them less than a day to depopulate the planet and turn it into the hell I saw before me, and to turn the stations into that glittering ring.

  ‘Ship on approach,’ said a voice over com. ‘Follow the vector I give you and do not deviate. At the pick-up point shut down to minimal life-support and a grabship will bring you in. Do otherwise and you’re smeared. Understood?’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ I replied.

  Holofiction producers called this borderland between Prador and Human space the Badlands. The people who haunted this region hunting for salvage called it the Graveyard and knew themselves to be grave-robbers. Polity AIs had not tried to civilize the area. All the habitable worlds were still smoking, and why populate a space that acted as a buffer zone between them and a bunch of nasty clawed fuckers who might decide at any moment on a further attempt to exterminate the human race?

  ‘You got the vector, Ulriss?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied my ship’s AI. It wasn’t being very talkative since I’d refused its suggestion that we approach using the chameleonware recently installed aboard. I eyed the new instruments to my left on the console, remembering that Earth Central Security did not look kindly on anyone but them using their stealth technology. Despite ECS being thin on the ground out here, I had no intention of putting this ship into ‘stealth mode’ unless really necessary. Way back, when I wasn’t a xenoarchaeologist, I’d heard rumours about those using inadequate chameleonware ending up on the bad end of an ECS rail-gun test firing. ‘Sorry, we just didn’t see you,’ was the usual epitaph.

  My destination rose over Paris’s horizon, cast into silhouette by the bile-yellow sun beyond it. Adjusting the main screen display to give me the best view I soon discerned the massive conglomeration of station bubble units and docked ships that made up the ‘Free Republic of Montmartre’–the kind of place that in Earth’s past would have been described as a banana republic, though perhaps not so nice. Soon we reached the place designated and main power shut down, the emergency lights flickered on. The main screen powered down too, going fully transparent with a photo-reactive smear of blackness blotting out the sun’s glare and most of the space station. I briefly glimpsed the grabship approaching – basically a one-man vessel with a massive engine to the rear and a hydraulically operated triclaw extending from the nose – before it disappeared back into the smear. They used such ships here since a large enough proportion of their visitors weren’t to be trusted to get simple docking manoeuvres right, and wrong moves in that respect could demolish the relatively fragile bubble units and kill those inside.

  A clanging against the hull followed by a lurch told me the grabship now had hold of Ulriss Fire and was taking us in. It would have been nice to check all this with exterior cameras – throwing up images on the row of sub-screens below the main one – but I had to be very careful about power usage on approach. The Free Republic had been fired on before now, and any ship that showed energy usage above the level enabling weapons, usually ended up on the mincing end of a rail-gun.

  Experience told m
e that in about twenty minutes the ship would be docked, so I unstrapped and propelled myself into the rear cabin where, in zero-g, I began pulling on my gear. Like many visitors here I took the precaution of putting on a light spacesuit of the kind that didn’t constrict movement, but would keep me alive if there was a blow-out. I’d scanned through their rules file, but found nothing much different from when I’d last read it: basically you brought nothing aboard that could cause a breach – this mainly concerned weaponry – nor any dangerous biologicals. You paid a docking tax and a departure tax. And anything you did in the intervening time was your own business so long as it didn’t harm station personnel or the station itself. I strapped a heavy carbide knife to my boot, and at my waist holstered a pepperpot stun-gun. It could get rough in there sometimes.

  Back in the cockpit I saw Ulriss Fire was now drawing into the station shadow. Structural members jutted out all around and ahead I could see an old-style carrier shell, like a huge hexagonal nut, trailing umbilicals and docking tunnel connected to the curve of one bubble unit. Unseen, the grabship inserted my vessel into place and various clangs and crashes ensued.

  ‘Okay, you can power up your airlock now – nothing else, mind.’

  I did as instructed, watching the display as the airlock connected up to an exterior universal lock, then I headed back to scramble out through the Ulriss Fire’s airlock. The cramped interior of the carrier shell smelt of mould. I waited there holding onto the knurled rods of something that looked like a piece of zero-g exercise equipment, eyeing brownish splashes on the walls while a saucer-shaped scanning drone dropped down on a column and gave me the once-over, then I proceeded to the docking tunnel, which smelt of urine. Beside the final lock into the bubble unit was a payment console, into which I inserted the required amount in New Carth shillings. The lock opened to admit me and now I was of no further interest to station personnel. Others had come in like this. Some of their ships still remained docked, while others had been seized by those who owned the station to be broken for parts or sold on.

  Clad in a coldsuit Jael trudged through a thin layer of CO2 snow towards the gates of the Arena. Glancing to either side she eyed the numerous ships down on the granite plain. Other figures were trudging in from them too and a lucky few were flying towards the place in gravcars. She’d considered pulling her trike out of storage, but it would have taken time to assemble and she didn’t intend staying here any longer than necessary.

  The entry arches – constructed of blocks of water ice as hard as iron at this temperature – were filled with the glimmering menisci of shimmer-shields, probably scavenged from the wreckage of ships floating about in the Graveyard, or maybe from the surface of one of the depopulated worlds. Reaching one of the arches, she pushed through a shield into a long anteroom into which all the arches debouched. The floor was flat granite cut with square spiral patterns for grip, and a line of airlock doors punctuated the inner wall. This whole set-up was provided for large crowds, which this place had never seen. Beside the airlock she approached was a teller machine of modern manufacture. She accessed it through her right-hand aug and made her payment electronically. The thick insulated lock door thumped open, belching vapour into the frigid air, that froze about her and fell as ice dust. Inside the lock the temperature rose rapidly. CO2 ice ablated from her boots and clothing, and after checking the atmosphere reading down in the corner of her visor she retracted visor and hood back down into the collar of her suit.

  Beyond the next door was a pillared hall containing a market. Strolling between the stalls she observed the usual tourist tat sold in such places in the Polity, and much else besides. There, under a plasmel dome, someone was selling weapons, and beyond his stall she could hear the hiss and crack of his wares being tested in a thick-walled shooting gallery. There a row of food vendors were serving everything from burgers to alien arthropods you ate while they were still alive and which apparently gave some kind of high. The smell of coffee wafted across, along with tobacco, cannabis and other more esoteric smokes.

  All around the walls of the hall stairs wound up to other levels, some connecting above to the tunnels leading to the arena itself, others to the pens and others to private concerns. She knew where to go, but had some other business to conduct first with a dealer in biologicals. Anyway, she didn’t want the man she had specifically come here to see to think she was in a hurry, or anxious to buy the item he had on offer.

  The dealer’s emporium was built between four pillars, three floors tall and reaching the ceiling. The lower floor was a display area with four entrances around the perimeter. She entered and looked around. Aisles cut to a central spiral stair between tanks, terrariums, cages, display cases and stock-search screens. She spotted a tank full of Spatterjay leeches, ‘Immortality in a bite! Guaranteed!’, a cage in which big scorpion-like insects were tearing into a mass of purple and green bones and meat, and a display containing little tubes of seeds below pictures of the plants they would produce. Mounting the stair she climbed to the next floor where two catadapts were studying something displayed on the screens of a nanoscope. They looked like customers, as did the thin woman who was peering into a cylindrical tank containing living Dracocorp augs. On the top floor Jael found who she was looking for.

  The office was small, the rest of the floor obviously used for living accommodation. The woman with a severe skin complaint, baggy layered clothing and a tricorn hat sat back with heavy snow boots up on her desk, crusted fingers up against her aug while she peered at screens showing views of those on the floors below. She was nodding – obviously conducting some transaction or conversation by aug. Jael stepped into the room, plumped herself down in one of the form chairs opposite and waited. The woman glanced at her, smiled to expose a carnivore’s teeth and held up one finger. Wait one moment.

  Her business done, the woman took her feet off the desk and turned her chair so she was facing Jael.

  ‘Well, what can I do for you?’ she asked, utterly focused. ‘Anything under any sun is our motto. We’re also an agent for Dracocorp and are now also branching out into cosmetics.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Jael, ‘if I note that you’re not the best advert for the cosmetics.’

  The woman leant an elbow on the table, reached up and peeled a thick dry flake of skin from her cheek. ‘That’s because you don’t know what you’re seeing. Once the change is complete my skin will be resistant to numerous acids and even to vacuum.’

  ‘I’m here to sell,’ said Jael.

  The woman sat back, not quite so focused now. ‘I see. Well, we’re always prepared to take a look at what … people have to offer.’

  Jael removed a small sample tube from her belt cache, placed it on the desk edge and rolled it across. The woman took it up, peered inside, a powerful lens clicking down from her hat to cover her eye.

  ‘Interesting. What are they?’

  Jael tapped a finger against her right-hand aug. ‘This would be quicker.’

  A message flashed across to her giving her a secure loading eddress. She transmitted the file she had compiled about the seeds gathered on that dusty little planet where she had obtained her real prize. The woman went blank for a few minutes while she ran through the data. Jael scanned around the room, wondering what security there was here.

  ‘I think we can do business – once I’ve confirmed all this.’

  ‘Please confirm away.’

  The woman took the tube over to a combined nanoscope and multispectrum scanner and inserted it inside.

  Jael continued, ‘But I don’t want money, Desorla.’

  Desorla froze, staring at the scope’s display. After a moment she said, ‘This all seems in order.’ She paused, head bowed. ‘I haven’t heard that name in a long while.’

  ‘I find things out,’ said Jael.

  Desorla turned and eyed the gun Jael now held. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want you to tell me where Penny Royal is hiding.’

  Desorla chuckle
d unconvincingly. ‘Looking for legends? You can’t seriously—’

  Jael aimed and fired three times. Two explosions blew cavities in the walls, a third explosion flung paper fragments from a shelf of books and a metallic tongue bleeding smoke slumped out from behind. Two cameras and the security drone – Jael had detected nothing else.

  ‘I’m very serious,’ said Jael. ‘Please don’t make me go get my doctor’s bag.’

  Broeven took one look at me and turned white – well, as pale as a Krodorman can get. He must have sent some sort of signal, because suddenly two heavies appeared out of the fug from behind him – one a boosted woman with the face of an angel and a large grey military aug affixed behind her ear, the other an ophidapt man who was making a point of extruding the carbide claws from his fingertips. The thin guy sitting opposite Broeven glanced round, then quickly drained his schooner of beer, took up a wallet from the table, nodded to Broeven and departed. I sauntered over, turned the abandoned chair round and sat astride it.

  ‘You’ve moved up in the world,’ I said, nodding to Broeven’s protection.

  ‘So what do I call you now?’ he asked, the whorls in the thick skin of his face flushing red.

  ‘Rho, which is actually my real name.’

  ‘That’s nice – we didn’t get properly acquainted last time we met.’ He held up a finger. ‘Gene, get Rho a drink. Malt whisky do you?’

  I nodded. The woman frowned in annoyance and departed. Perhaps she thought the chore beneath her.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Rho?’ he enquired.

  ‘Information.’

  ‘Which costs.’

  ‘Of course.’ I peered down at the object the guy here before me had left on the table. It was a small chainglass case containing a strip of chameleoncloth with three crab-shaped and, if they were real, gold buttons pinned to it. ‘Are those real?’

  ‘They are. People know better than to try cheating me now.’

  I looked up. ‘I never cheated you.’