War Factory: Transformations Book Two

by Neal Aher

  “You’ve just condemned over fifty thousand people to death in a supernova blast,” he said.

  “Not quite,” the AI whispered, and then with an unnecessarily violent wrench took the Black Rose under too.

  SPEAR

  So, the Lance was a wreck and Riss and I had been rescued from imminent destruction by Sverl, who had sent us into firing range of Cvorn’s ST dreadnought in the first place. It was all just a little puzzling.

  “Perhaps, if you would explain what you want with us?” I suggested.

  The chain-glass box holding Riss now stood open and Sverl was peering inside. After a moment, he reached in to take hold of Riss, then with the drone’s inert form hanging from one claw, he headed over to a low work surface on which various clamps had been mounted. He dumped the snake drone there, then moved back, as a multi-manipulator robot immediately descended like a spider on a thread from the ceiling.

  “I check all information pertinent to my interests,” said Sverl, “but only when I was updating from Flute, did I learn about the assassin drone Riss—and this object.” Sverl gestured with one claw to Penny Royal’s spine, now in the claws of a second-child. He was placing it in a series of clamps at one end of the work surface.

  “I still don’t understand what you intend to do here,” I said.

  “The spine, as you are aware, contains copies of the essential formative memories and mental patterns of most of Penny Royal’s victims,” said Sverl.

  “I wasn’t sure,” I said. “Riss tells me there is quantum entanglement involved—that the spine is linked to my mind and to another location that might be Penny Royal. I wondered if it was just a relay for information stored elsewhere.”

  “No, those memories are here,” said Sverl. “The spine contains more than enough storage for that purpose, and there is no reason for the memories to be relayed. I would suggest that Penny Royal is influencing the order and intensity of the memories you experience. But most importantly, it is using the spine to keep apprised of your location, mental state and what actions you intend to take.”

  I should have dumped it in a sun, I thought . . . Shouldn’t I?

  “I still don’t know, however, what this has got to do with Riss,” I said.

  “The spine contains those memories, but it also contains the technology for manipulating them, erasing them, cutting, pasting and, most importantly, transferring them,” Sverl explained. “It is a key that will unlock Riss’s mind, penetrate it as it was penetrated once before by this same technology—perhaps by this same piece of Penny Royal.”

  “So the fact that we are all together, now—does this mean what you intend to do was planned by the AI?”

  “Planned, foreseen, caused . . .”

  The robot had now lifted up the snake drone and fixed it into the series of clamps in line with those holding the spine. I noted that it firmly fixed the drone’s head and had used retractor hooks inside a metal ring to pull open its mouth, right in front of the sharp end of the spine. Also noting that the clamps holding the spine were on slides, it didn’t take much imagination for me to guess where it was going to end up.

  “It seems to me that Penny Royal is overcomplicating the solutions to the messes it made,” I suggested.

  “Yes,” Sverl agreed, “if we are to be simplistic.”

  “So why such complications?”

  “I could think of many possibilities,” said Sverl. “The simplest solution to a problem is not always the best one and can often exacerbate it. Consider the history of your own race. When you fed the starving and that resulted in dependency and resentment, the governments concerned reneged on their responsibility, causing war and then further starvation. When you destroyed autocratic regimes, you caused more death and suffering than the regime itself, and often ended up with something worse. Your violent revolutions never resulted in anything better, and your revolutionaries always turned into the thing they despised.”

  “You seem pretty sure of that,” I said.

  “I’ve been studying the human race for a century.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, not sure how to respond to that. “So how have complicated solutions been better?”

  “Penny Royal could have reversed the changes it made to Isobel Satomi, but she would have still been in a position of higher power in the Graveyard, still running her brutal coring trade. Instead the AI lured her and her organization to destruction at Masada, in the process altering the balance of power on that world and essentially freeing the Weaver, the Atheter, from Polity restraint.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Depends where you’re standing.”

  “On the Rock Pool,” I said, “Penny Royal could have murdered Cvorn and the Five under the ocean, and that would have been the end of that problem.”

  “Yes, but the shell people would still be pursuing their doomed experiment. I would still be as I am and a threat to peace between the Polity and the Kingdom.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s still overcomplicated.”

  “Perhaps Penny Royal likes complicated.”

  “There is that . . .”

  “And this is only if we are to suppose that cleaning up its messes is the black AI’s singular intent.”

  “What else?”

  “The problem with having a greatly expanded capacity for thought is that all possibilities expand. In truth, my best answer has to be that I don’t know.”

  I returned my attention to Riss while the door opened behind and the second-child took the chain-glass box out and away. The robot had attached a multitude of optics and power cables to the rear of the spine and now that object was slowly being propelled point-first into the drone’s mouth. I watched this for a moment, then walked over and sat on one of the saddle seats the prador hauled themselves over—the object pocked with pit controls fit for prador digits. I wondered if Sverl used it, because I saw no sign of manipulatory hands underneath the jaw of his big skull.

  “Is this going to damage her?” I asked.

  “No—in essence it will free the drone from some constraint, because to extract the memories I will need to break the AI lock placed upon her.”

  “And afterwards?” I asked. “I know that you have no liking of assassin drones made in that shape.”

  “I do have no liking,” Sverl agreed, “but the war is over. I am, however, not entirely sure the drone is happy with that. I will necessarily have to employ some restraint.”

  “How long is all this going to take?” I asked.

  “Many hours.”

  “In that case I would like to see my ship, if I can,” I said. “Is Flute still alive?”

  “You can see your ship,” said Sverl. “As for Flute, I don’t know—you’ll have to find out.”

  “Then I want to speak to Trent Sobel,” I added, “without him trying to kill me.”

  “Of course you do,” said Sverl, “because another piece has to slot into place. Trent Sobel is not the man you knew any more and is unlikely to try to kill you or anyone else. He will in fact need your help.”

  Sverl gestured with a claw and the door opened behind me. “Bsectil will take you.”

  “This way,” said one of the first-children, turning towards the door, which was opening again.

  Bsectil led me along the corridor to a smaller version of the door into Sverl’s sanctum, which he entered, instructing me to wait outside. I peered in through the open door and saw a chamber I presumed to be this creature’s abode. Again, it didn’t follow the usual prador style. The walls were certainly lined with some rocky substance, but inset in these, all around, were numerous aquariums, backlit and filled with squirming life. Curious, I moved closer to the door to get a better look.

  Over to one side lay a work area with benches and prador tools all standing around a central object. Was this first-child fashioning some sort of machine? Fascination drew me in despite Bsectil’s instruction to wait outside. No, here was a representation of Isobel Satomi part w
ay through her transformation into a hooder. Judging by the collection lying across the work surface, Bsectil was fashioning this sculpture out of a variety of natural gemstones. This was art, something which was supposed to be totally absent in the Prador Kingdom. And, what was more, the lack of this had been cited by the Polity as the ultimate proof of prador barbarity.

  Turning my attention to the other side of the chamber, I saw more conventional prador equipment: racked weapons akin to Gatling cannons and particle beamers. There were also heavy work tools which could attach directly to a prador’s carapace or their additional armour. The first-child had deposited himself on a ring of supports amidst this hardware and was shedding his armour. With a clattering sound, his visual turret expanded in segments, then with a crump the carapace separated along a line just above the leg sockets and rose on polished rods. This detached from the forward rods and hinged back on the rear two. Now revealed was the whorled and stony top half of the first-child—looking very much like that of the second-child I had seen.

  Next, with further clattering sounds, the armour about the creature’s legs and claws expanded and separated, driven apart on similar, smaller polished rods. The prador rose out of this exoskeleton, levered up by an object like a large shoehorn which hinged up from inside. Extracting his legs and claws in the process, he got a grip on the surrounding armour, then heaved himself out completely, landing on the floor like a dropped toolbox. He was a little unsteady at first, struggling to get his balance on distorted legs. I examined the speaker grille for a translator and spotted the aug attached to the side of his visual turret.

  “That was chafing,” Bsectil said.

  I supposed that armour designed for a normal sort of first-child would chafe on something like this. I realized then that I was seeing a very ancient first-child indeed. Such creatures were usually dispensed with, in some nasty manner, at a relatively young age. Kept in a chemically maintained adolescence, they started to become immune to that suppression at some point. As I understood it, their fathers killed them before they inevitably began to transform, despite that suppression, into adults. Or perhaps that was all wrong. Perhaps their fathers killed them before they turned into something halfway, such as this.

  “Do you want to be an adult?” I asked.

  “No,” Bsectil replied, “Father has never offered us the choice. But he knows we are more than capable of freeing ourselves. Also, the physiological changes could now kill us.”

  I realized my mouth was hanging open and closed it.

  “You’re not really like any prador I’ve known, or known of,” I eventually managed.

  “Maintained in adolescence, we still grow,” said Bsectil. “Even if we could transform into adults, we would devolve.”

  “I see.”

  The first-child waved a claw towards his artwork. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s very good,” I replied, “though I’m in two minds about the choice of subject. Is it your first? Usually prador are so . . . practical.”

  “It’s my first—Father wouldn’t let me do him.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Now, your ship . . .”

  Bsectil headed over to the door and I followed him out. As he led the way through the corridors of the ship, we passed another of those distorted second-children.

  “What about them?” I asked. “Do they grow in permanent adolescence? Do they have an interest in things other than the practical?”

  “Not enough brain mass, though with augmentation it’s possible,” said Bsectil. “Father considered allowing them all to move to the next stage—to change into first-children. But again, the physiological change might be lethal. Bsorol is researching possibilities that you may understand, since they involve adaptogenics and nano-packages.”

  “We might be able to reverse the damage caused by constant chemical suppression, allowing ganglion growth in our lesser kin and physical independence.”

  I jumped, because Bsectil had not spoken the last words—they had come direct through my aug. I began running diagnostics and found that the device was reinstating, but it had also linked into the computing of Sverl’s ship.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Bsorol,” the voice replied.

  “Does Sverl know I’ve access to ship’s computing and that you’re talking to me?” I asked. “I don’t want to end up brain-fried.”

  “He suggested it,” said Bsorol.

  “Yes, I did,” Sverl interjected. “I see another piece of the puzzle slotting into place. Your expertise will not be sufficient to help Trent Sobel.”

  At this point, we had halted by a door that was grinding open.

  “You always stop short of a full explanation,” I said.

  “You will see,” said Sverl.

  I let that go because now, with my aug functioning once more, I was receiving something down the channel that had previously connected me to Flute. It was an odd whining sound and large chunks of corrupted code. Meanwhile, Bsectil took me through a short tunnel and finally into a hold space similar to the one where Riss and I had arrived.

  The Lance was here and, though it was a mess, with holes punched through it, I took comfort in the fact that its structure still looked solid. The nose armour was heat-rippled where the second railgun missile had struck. And, where the particle beam had cut through the middle of the ship, a section of hull was missing, revealing the charred interior. Airlocks and maintenance hatches stood open, also showing the black charring inside. Where the first railgun missile had struck, taking a huge chunk from the rear, five second-children were at work. They were clad in armour bristling with motorized tools, accompanied by a swarm of Polity maintenance robots. They had removed damaged armour, detached the fusion drive and were currently in the process of removing the U-space drive. I surveyed the pile of wreckage extracted by the workers, and then noted a big grav-sled piled up with new materials. Sverl was as good as his word.

  “Rebuilding or setting up a U-space drive is usually the province of shipyards,” I noted.

  “We can build or rebuild them onboard,” Bsectil replied. “Father is currently designing drives for U-jump missiles and U-space mines—and preconscious AI minds to control them.”

  I didn’t like the prospect of prador controlling that kind of tech. But then Sverl was different, wasn’t he? I made no comment, instead waving towards the second-children at work on the ship. “Is it safe to go inside?”

  “There is no lethal radiation, all systems have been shut down and remaining munitions and power supplies have been stabilized.”

  “What I meant,” I explained, “was that I don’t want to end up on the rough end of a second-child claw if I enter my ship.”

  Bsectil swung towards the workers here and clattered something. After a pause, one of them clattered something back.

  “You will be safe,” Bsectil told me. “They are not entering the ship just yet anyway.”

  I walked over to gaze up at the particle-beam hole through the side, but there was no way for me to reach it. However, as I scanned around for some other way of entering, Bsectil came over and lowered one claw to the floor beside me.

  “Climb up on me,” he said.

  I gazed at the creature. I had been responding to him as if he was human or AI—a Polity citizen. However, every time I stopped to think about what he really was, the behaviour of this Bsectil, and, in turn, Sverl, left me numb, shocked. Every personal memory I had involving the prador, along with every new additional one, confirmed them as vicious amoral killers. Yet, here was Bsectil offering to act as a stepladder up into my ship. In addition, Bsectil’s only change from a normal prador was age, augmentation and the influence of Sverl. Just like all my fellow soldiers in the war, I had always considered prador killers by nature. Yet now, as I clambered up Bsectil’s claw and onto his back, it occurred to me to wonder just how much was down to nurture.

  Inside, a blackened ruin confronted me and it took me a while to g
et my sense of direction. Memory also made itself felt as I re-experienced the slow death of a man caught inside a ship just as ruined as this, but I suppressed it with ease. When I finally found the remains of the corridor leading to the rear of the ship, I realized that part of my confusion was due to the grav orientation here. The grav-plates in the floor of the hold now dictated “Down.” The corridor, in relation to that floor, actually sloped up from the ruination that had been my bridge, living area and laboratory. I climbed upwards, using as steps the distorted grid of the floor where charred grav-plates had dropped out. As I went, I considered just how indestructible that spine must be to survive what had hit here.

  By the time I reached the turn into Flute’s chamber, the damage was not so severe, and the angle of the floor was no problem as long as I used the wall on one side as support. Reaching the entrance to the ship’s cortex, I wondered how I would climb the sloping floor there to get up to Flute. However, there was no need. An impact had flung Flute’s container from its two clamps and it now lay easily accessible amidst the wreckage that had piled in the lower corner of the chamber. I made my way to him and studied the damage to his case.

  It was dented, cracked open in one place, and from there issued a steady stream of cold vapour. After removing my suit glove, I passed my hand over this. Maybe the case’s own power supply was keeping Flute’s ganglion frozen, or maybe I was too late. I peered in through the chain-glass porthole but could only make out the glint of occasional lights inside. Certainly, something was still powered up. I tried my aug channel, but the corrupted data had dissipated and now all I got was that previous fizzing. Maybe the case’s transceiver had been damaged. There was only one way to find out.