The Gabble and Other Stories

by Neal Asher

  He could jump.

  Thank you for that.

  Simoz drew his thin-gun and held it in his right hand, retaining his shock stick in his left. Standing close to the edge of his platform, the man did not jump, but withdrew something from one of his pouches and pointed it at Simoz. No time to react – Simoz had not expected personal armament here. Something slapped his leg and he peered down at the ugly dart buried in his thigh. It consisted of a glassy blade with feathery flights, with two testicular sacks pulsing between the two.

  Neurotoxin.

  Simoz’s leg went completely dead and gave under him. He grabbed the dart and pulled it free, black poison dripping from its hollow point. He fired upwards blowing a lump out of the edge of the platform above, driving his attacker back out of sight. Two more shots blew holes straight through the upper platform, but his choudapt attacker abruptly jumped over the edge. Simoz fired at him again as he hurtled down. One shot took a lump from the man’s shoulder and tore away a plate of exo-skeleton. Without apparently noticing his wound, the man landed solidly, his clawed toes driving into the material of the platform. Simoz snap-shot at him as the numbness spread to his other leg then edged up to his sternum. The shot missed.

  ‘Earther!’ the choudapt snarled and flung himself forward. Simoz shot again and had the satisfaction of seeing an arm cartwheel away as his attacker fell back off the platform, then his own arms went dead and his vision faded.

  Simoz.

  …

  Simoz.

  I hear you.

  That is good.

  Is it?

  Yes. Had there been no immediate response from you …

  What?

  You would have been dead.

  How damaged am I?

  The neurotoxin has caused extensive nerve damage. I am now controlling all your autonomous functions.

  What about my unautonomous ones?

  I am using myself to establish links across the damaged areas.

  My feet are hurting.

  …

  That’s better.

  Re-establishing visual cortex.

  Simoz blinked as his vision returned, but there seemed to be something wrong with it. Though everything was sharper it also seemed somehow false. He blinked again and tried to move his arms. They responded to him, but yet again there seemed to be something wrong – some feeling of disconnection. Levering himself upright, he attempted to stand, but only got halfway before falling flat on his face.

  Something not quite right here.

  There is a disparity of function. Try again.

  Simoz finally managed to stand. As he stood there swaying, his hands suddenly seemed to catch on fire. He screamed and abruptly sat down.

  I must use one hundred per cent of my function. Disconnecting from cerebrum.

  Mike, no, wait!

  The burning in his hands became a deep soreness, a tingling, numbness, then went away completely. Warily Simoz stood again and checked his surroundings. Everything seemed to be working perfectly now, only inside him there lay a terrible emptiness.

  Mike?

  …

  Mike?

  Simoz nodded to himself, then stooped and retrieved his weapons. He was alone in the anchor root, and especially aware that no corpse without an arm lay here on the floor where the platform had come to rest.

  I don’t know if you can hear me, Mike, but this has to be Separatist terrorism. Why else would someone be wandering about with a neurotoxin weapon?

  Simoz stepped off the platform and walked to where an arm lay in a pool of watery blood. He circled until he found a smeared area of the same then followed the dripped trail into a side-branching tunnel of the anchor root, stepping warily on slippery floor under the blue luminescence. The biolights were restless on the ceiling and it was because he was keeping half an eye on them that he did not immediately see the choudapt. There came a low whickering sound and Simoz ducked before he knew why he was ducking and glanced behind him to see one of the neurotoxin darts bouncing across the floor. He fired reflexively at a half-seen shape, then pursued when that shape rose from the shadows at the side of the tunnel and fled.

  Damnit Mike, this is the only way. You didn’t give a precise location for that encysted choud. I’d bet this bastard knows where it is.

  Before rounding a corner in the tunnel Simoz slowed to a walk, since he had no wish to run straight into one of those darts, and glancing back had the dubious pleasure of seeing biolights dropping from the ceiling and scuttling towards him. Not allowing himself panic, he reached into his pocket, removing a shock grenade the size and shape of an acorn. He then edged to the corner and carefully peeked round, guessing the dark shape squatting in the shadows to be the choudapt. Simoz flipped the cap on the grenade and tossed it round. A white flash followed by lots of electric sizzlings ensued. Glancing back at the biolights that were approaching he flipped a grenade in their direction too, closing his eyes against the flash. He opened his eyes to see biolights scattered across the floor of the tunnel, their legs in the air and the luminescence they emitted faltering, then he stepped round the corner.

  The choudapt lay sprawled across the tunnel. Simoz advanced on the man and kicked away the tubular dart thrower lying next to his outstretched left hand. The stump of his right arm had some sort of bio field-dressing over it, as did the wound in his shoulder, and he was breathing raggedly. Simoz squatted down next to him and removed the shock stick from his pocket. He altered a setting on its thumb wheel and touched the end of it to the choudapt’s neck. The low buzzing convulsed the man and he immediately opened his eyes and started to move, but froze as the barrel of Simoz’s thin-gun pressed against his forehead.

  ‘Separatist?’ asked Simoz.

  The man just sneered at him. Simoz altered the setting on his shock stick and touched what he assumed to me the man’s most sensitive area. Judging by the screech that followed he guessed he had been right.

  ‘Separatist?’ he asked again.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man.

  Simoz noted the slight distraction in the man’s expression. Keeping the shock stick to his groin he turned and shot the biolight that had been creeping up behind. Before the man could react Simoz had his thin-gun back in his face.

  ‘The parasitic fungus, where did you get it from?’

  The man showed an inclination not to answer. Simoz made that inclination go away. When the man had stopped screaming he seemed more inclined to cooperate.

  ‘We got it from a preserved choud exported before the retrovirus was used here.’

  ‘Is it just you here? No, silly question. You’d only lie. I want you to stand very slowly and carefully, then very slowly and carefully I want you to walk to the encysted choud.’

  The man looked at him blankly for a moment, then obeyed. Simoz tried to analyse that blank look, knowing that somehow he had made a mistake here.

  ‘What was the plan? You knew someone would be here with the retrovirus at some point. Or is this just the usual terrorism?’

  ‘Yes, terrorism. It works.’

  Now that, Mike, was a lie. I wonder what’s really happening here.

  ‘Just show everyone what big guns you’ve got and they’ll do what you want?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the choudapt.

  ‘Okay, stop there. Turn round.’

  The choudapt halted and turned. He was grinning.

  Simoz continued, ‘The fungal form has been altered to counter the retrovirus, but you knew that the virus would be altered to suit. You also knew that at some point it would be released here. So the question is: what result are you after?’

  The choudapt’s palps moved in what Simoz could only assume to be a rude gesture.

  ‘You won’t get out of here,’ the choudapt said. He nodded back down the tunnel. ‘It won’t just be the biolights. Every piece of biotech will be after you. Right now the lifting platforms have ceased to function.’

  ‘You know, I’m carrying the virus in my body.
The fungal parasites would die very quickly,’ said Simoz.

  ‘Then release it.’

  ‘I see … turn and continue walking.’

  Mike, do not release the virus. Whatever happens, do not release it.

  As they reached the end of the tunnel Simoz tossed a shock grenade behind him to deter the pursuing biolights, which had now been joined by some armoured multi-legged thing whose function he could not guess. The choudapt led him through another tunnel, a narrow tunnel that seemingly terminated at a wall, but then the wall parted before him. In the place beyond the choudapt turned to Simoz, who peered past him at the second choudapt crucified by woody growths to the wrack wall. This other one opened crusted eyes but did not speak.

  ‘Tarin controls the Wrack city. He controls every fungal parasite and therefore all the biotech here. Go on, Earther, release your virus – kill them all,’ the first choudapt said.

  ‘I see,’ said Simoz. ‘You’ve undermined all the biotech. If I release the virus what happens?’

  ‘You destroy the Wrack and kill a hundred thousand people. We claim extreme incompetence on the part of ECS and recruit a million to our cause.’

  ‘Then I won’t release the virus.’

  As he said this he heard the wall opening behind him. Without looking he shot behind himself and heard a bubbling squeal.

  ‘You’ll die either here or on your way out and some one else will come and release the virus here. We win all ways.’

  ‘You don’t,’ said Simoz.

  The choudapt had time only to raise his remaining arm. The thin-gun coughed, the side of the man’s head opened like a hinged lid and a haze of bone and brain splashed out behind him. He staggered back and fell at the feet of the encysted choudapt, Tarin. Simoz now turned and fired twice, splashing luminous blood up the walls. He tossed a shock grenade out into an encroaching wall of chitinous legs, glowing bodies, and hints of armour. The wall fell in chaos and he counted the last two grenades in his pocket. Then he turned, walked forward and stepped over the dead choudapt to look into Tarin’s eyes. There was a ripping sound as Tarin opened his crusted lips.

  ‘No win…Earther,’ he said, spittle running from the side of his mouth.

  Knock once for yes and twice for no. Are you hearing this, Mike?

  Simoz’s stomach muscles clenched twice and he grinned at his doctor mycelium’s little joke.

  You have to go in, Mike, and take over. This was always a possibility: you have to leave me even if that means you leave me to die.

  There was a long pause then his stomach muscles clenched once.

  ‘I always win,’ said Simoz.

  The choudapt Tarin opened his mouth to make some reply. Simoz didn’t wait for it. He slammed his hand over that crusted mouth.

  Goodbye, Mike, he managed before his legs went numb and the sight faded from his eyes. As he fell he could feel his hand bonded to the choudapt’s mouth. The thin-gun fell from the numb fingers of his other hand before a pool of blackness filled his skull.

  …

  Simoz.

  …

  Simoz.

  9

  ADAPTOGENIC

  Another murder-louse made its scuttling charge, its trilobite body holding level as a pointer on me as its multitude of legs found purchase on the weed-slippery rocks. I watched the creature with a crawling sensation in my guts as it reached the perimeter. There was always the horrible suspicion that this time one might make it, this time I’d end up as a paralysed egg-carrier or diced by those grinding mandibles. But no, with admirable and reassuring efficiency the Tenkian strobed from its tripod and the louse became a messy explosion of legs, carapace and pink ichor. This is, of course, adding to my problems. Every louse the autogun splatters means more food to attract more lice. They are coming with greater frequency now. Soon I’ll have to move the crate to a cleaner area, try to find somewhere to hide it, where it won’t be swept away. There’s enough power left in the gun’s batteries for it to follow on its impellers … A cleaner area … In a day or so all areas on this side of the planet will be swept clean. I face choices; the lice, drowning, or ceasing to be human. Why the hell am I worrying about the crate? I really wish I’d missed that auction.

  *

  ‘Good morning Mr Chel,’ said the two-and-a-halfmetre-tall two-hundred-kilo monster who worked as security guard for Darkander. I gave Jane a look of long-suffering and stood still while I was scanned for comlinks or any of the other equipment Darkander considered an unfair advantage.

  ‘You are clean, Mr Chel.’

  My chip card was next and the monster took it from me between a finger and thumb like the grab on a cometary mining ship. After a moment he returned it.

  ‘Your credit is good, Mr Chel.’

  After she too had been checked out Jane joined me. I smiled mild approval at her cool.

  ‘Is it always like that?’ she asked, tucking her card into one of the many pockets of her coverall.

  ‘Always. No extra information access. No comlinks and no AIs. Darkander is very strict about it.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit discriminating?’

  ‘Some free AIs once took him to court on those grounds. They lost out on a protection of antiquities law about two centuries old. He then pointed out to them that should they bring another action and win he would be forced to close down. They left him alone. Anyway, what do you think?’

  Darkander’s is an anachronism. It is a huge scan-shielded warehouse where all manner of items are stacked haphazardly and sold by lot. There is no computer bidding, no microsecond business transactions. Starting from lot one everything comes under Darkander’s wooden hammer. It is a place for human experts with a relish for competition, an eye for bargains and deals, and a dislike of paying taxes. People like Jason Chel. Me.

  ‘Now, I’m not going to point anything out to you, as I’m often watched. Anything that takes your interest mark on the list, then come back to me when you’ve finished. I’ll tell you how high to go.’

  Jane smiled then swayed off amongst the chaos of goods. As I watched her go I felt a degree of discomfort. I’d promised her this visit some time ago, when I’d been drunk, and had since tried very hard to get out of it. Well, now she was here. Hopefully she wouldn’t cause too much harm. I slowly followed her in and allowed my gaze to wander casually to the objects I was after. There was a box of what looked like pre-runcible tiles, probably from the belly of a shuttle, a Thrakework sculpture of Orbonnai skulls, something that looked like the shell of a mollusc – I hadn’t a clue what it was, but was prepared to risk a few credits on it – and finally there was the Golem Six android, which after my cursory inspection the day before I felt sure had the mind of a Three or Four. This last item was the one I really wanted. Made before the twenty-third revision of the Turing Test, these Golem were much in demand. Of course, now the auction was starting I did not look too closely at it, I instead showed a great deal of interest in some chainglass blades which were quite obviously faked to look like Tenkians.

  The bidding started off with the usual lack of alacrity as Jane rejoined me.

  ‘Let me see,’ I took the note screen from her and studied the items she had marked. To my annoyance I noted she had marked the tiles. ‘I think we’ll have a cup of coffee. These’ – I tapped the stylus against the lot number of the tiles – ‘won’t be up for a while, and they are the first on your … list.’

  I had decided to be generous.

  We sat sipping our way through a cup of coffee each as the auction progressed. At the lot before the tiles we sauntered out, and as soon as this was sold we moved into Darkander’s view. The short bald-headed man who was reputed to be a multibillionaire flicked a glance in my direction and tried to start the bidding at five hundred. I caught hold of Jane’s arm before she could raise it. The figure Darkander suggested dropped in fifties until it was fifty, then started to rise again in twenty-fives. Jane began to bid, and as she did so I looked to see who she was bidding against. When t
he figure reached four twenty-five I nudged her.

  ‘Drop it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re out of your league here and that’s about all they’re worth.’

  The bidding continued to the figure of five seventy-five.

  ‘See the fat little guy over there?’ I directed Jane’s attention to that individual. ‘He’s the agent for the Ganymede runcible AI. It probably wants to give its containment sphere that old-world look.’

  The mollusc shell was next but no one made a bid. It went into the next lot, which appeared to be a collection of all sorts of junk, but I’d seen a really old digital watch lying in there and had not expected a chance at it. I swore to myself for not going for the shell straight away, but I just wasn’t paying attention. On this next lot the bidding was tried at fifty then dropped to ten. No one went for it so I gave Darkander the nod. ‘Going once,’ he told me. ‘Going twice.’ I couldn’t believe it. I saw the runcible agent glance at me suspiciously and begin to raise his hand. He was too late, for the hammer went down. ‘Sold to Mr Chel.’ I managed to keep a straight face.

  ‘Good?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Yes, very good … I think.’

  The Thrakework sculpture went to the woman in black. She’d always had a taste for the macabre. I bid against her a couple of times, but when I saw that wild look come into her eyes I gave up. I knew her of old.

  There was half an hour before the Golem was to come up for auction, so with a nod to the lady – she didn’t see, she was fumbling with her death’s-head charm and staring at the sculpture with a horrible avidity – I went to authorize the credit transfer for my buy, and leaving Jane to her own devices, took the boxes out to my Ford gravcar.