Jack Four

by Neal Asher

  We eventually came to one of the channels. It stood about six feet wide and three deep before reaching water. The rhizome mat at ground level lay six inches thick – a tangle of tubers like massed brown snakes interspersed with off-white balls the size of a fist. Below this, metallic grey mud reached down to the water and formed the bed. What seemed to be fishes swam there, but when one of them reared its plug-cutting mouth out of the water I realized they were Spatterjay leeches. Marcus jumped the channel first. Following him, I nearly fell back into it because of standing grasses, until he caught and dragged me from the brink. I gazed down at the leeches and this triggered my speculation.

  The virus infected just about all humans resident on Spatterjay, but not only humans. Imported animals – livestock and pets – also became infected. Surely the same rule would apply here. The virus made humans and animals tough, rugged, practically immortal and, if not held in check, it could also turn all of them into monsters. What if droons, hooders or even gabbleducks were bitten by leeches? A moment’s thought made me realize that with their carapace armour, it was probably not possible for droons or hooders to be bitten. A leech might be able to bore through a gabbleduck’s tough skin but, having seen the previous gabble-duck’s reaction to the Jack, I wondered if their bodies might reject the virus. Still, the virus vector wasn’t only via the leeches. It could survive in the stomach, so any hooder or droon eating an infected animal, or even one of the leeches themselves, might become infected. The idea gave me the horrors until something else grabbed my attention.

  The wind parted the grass to reveal a low curve directly ahead. At first it looked to be some atmospheric effect, maybe a bank of cloud rising over the horizon, but as it loomed higher I recognized something solid. Closer still, the outline became clear as a shallow dome. My first thought was that Suzeal must have been lying about the position of the installation, because this looked artificial. Next, I could see that a line underscored it and this gradually revealed itself to be a jagged slab of composite, fifteen feet above the ground. It was supported by I-beams of punched-out bubble-metal, evenly spaced in X patterns, and crowding a dark space under the composite. At ground level in one or two places, the beams were attached to a lower slab of composite. It looked like a piece of space port landing slab, with a dome structure on top of it. I realized it had to be one of the circular areas I’d seen from afar, mistaking them for banyans. We halted there.

  ‘We should go up on top,’ I said, but Marcus walked into the twilight underneath. ‘Wait, there might be something useful up there.’

  He gestured peremptorily for me to follow. Feeling no urge to go my own way, I did so. As we moved steadily inwards, he kept inspecting the ceiling. He halted and pointed. A stubby cylinder, about a metre wide and half again as long, protruded from above, beside one of the Xs. He walked over with me at his shoulder and, dumping his load of sleer flesh, rapidly climbed the X to reach the cylinder. Smashing his fist into its lower corner, he bent it in, got hold of an edge and tore the cylinder down. With a thunk, what turned out to be a hatch popped out. He shoved it down on a hinge, reached inside and pulled. The contents of the cylinder slid out like an insect from a chrysalis and thumped down beside me. The legs wrapped in close to the body certainly looked insectile. The body, however, was a short cylinder while its head consisted of folded tool arms and scanning gear: A maintenance robot of some kind. I looked up again to see Marcus had inserted his top half into the cylinder. He scrabbled at something inside for a while, then came out. Climbing higher, he braced against the I-beam and kicked at the cylinder, bending it to one side and finally tearing it away from the composite. Obviously there had not been enough room for him to manoeuvre inside it. This revealed another hatch, which he thumped hard until it hinged up and crashed over to let in daylight. I struggled to follow him up, passing up the segments of sleer and then the pack.

  Flute grass detritus scattered the upper surface of the composite slab and had piled up against the snapped-off bases of pylons. Ahead lay the domed building, with walls about thirty feet tall and the dome on top of that. Large rectangular chain-glass windows ran round at two levels, some of them popped out, their sheets lying on the composite. There were doors at the lower level and up higher, with the remains of ripped-away steps running up the wall to them. We headed over and Marcus kicked open a door. Inside lay a short aisle then steps leading up; it seemed almost inevitable when we found a skeleton lying there. A woman I assumed, by the pink dress and high shoes. We climbed up further and found ourselves in a large apartment. Old and decaying furniture lay here, but numerous other items had been stripped out. Marcus walked over to a dusty mirror and wrote on it, the war, then began searching through the apartment. As I searched too, I thought about that.

  Yes, this place looked centuries old. The skeleton below lay half crumbled, while the dress and shoes had survived by dint of being tough and resilient artificial fabric. I kicked at a low table and it collapsed in pieces, the wood almost rotten to dust. We found nothing of any real use, or at least, nothing worth carrying. A door led out into a corridor, with further doors leading off into other apartments. After fruitlessly searching a couple of them, we moved deeper into the structure. We found control rooms and small factory units, a small park in which terran plants still grew below a glass roof in the peak of the dome. There we gathered the remaining apples which clung to the gnarled branches of a tree and Marcus bagged them up in a plastic sheet. A shopping arcade got me hopeful, but all we found was a pack Marcus could use instead of the sheet. A few more corpses punctuated our progress, but usually only in hidden places we searched. Surviving residents must have abandoned this place with their belongings and the shopkeepers with their stock. As it began to grow dark, we returned to the park. Here we gathered wood and, without fear, lit a fire on which to roast our sleer.

  ‘This place has been looted,’ I opined.

  Marcus nodded agreement.

  ‘Perhaps more than once,’ I added.

  He wrote in the dirt centuries then reached up to pull at one of his canines. I thought he was trying to communicate something by this, but with a sucking crunch the tooth came out and he discarded it.

  ‘You’re losing your mutation,’ I suggested.

  He just dug into his diminishing supply of garlic and ate another bulb. This seemed answer enough.

  In the morning we searched again, but in a more desultory fashion. It seemed to be getting on towards the time for our departure from the place, but I think both of us were reluctant to abandon this sanctuary. We walked into a gallery with mostly bare walls and some sculptures remaining – a large statue of some dignitary, rendered in iron and now rusty, had been left behind. Here and there screens must have once depicted something or other. Most were dead but one still ran a power supply and showed a repeating scene of a surfer. I had no idea why. One of the few paintings left showed an immense structure sitting on an ocean, scattered with low domes just like the one we were in. Marcus moved up to stand beside me.

  ‘This was a raft city,’ I said. ‘Probably hit from orbit with a prador weapon and broken up, then washed inland by a tsunami from other blasts.’ I shrugged. ‘Or maybe where we are now was once under ocean – the war might have altered the geology.’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘Time for us to move on,’ I said.

  He nodded again.

  While heading out of the dome, we found a garage-cum-workshop with a long work area running to a door to the exterior. Tools lay scattered everywhere, probably not of sufficient value to take. Much had been stripped out but other things remained. A grav-car lay in pieces, heavily damaged and collapsed from a hydraulic lift, while at the end stood two skimmers. These too had been partially disassembled. I headed over, just a second after Marcus. I didn’t hold out much hope because a working skimmer would surely have been taken, and these things had to be very old. The craft were ten feet long, their sides sloping inwards to central compartments behind curved screens
. A forward seat sat at a steering column with four seats behind. Both skimmers had their panels down, revealing grav-motors and a tangle of pipes and power feeds, all tightly packed.

  ‘Do you know anything about these?’ I asked, gazing at him.

  He made a sound now, either agreement or otherwise. After a moment he held up a hand and made a gesture I failed to interpret. I dredged my mind for data and realized I actually knew a lot about these things. I guessed maintenance of a vehicle was a necessary skill for a Polity agent. But again, they were ancient and the chances of doing anything with them meagre.

  I studied the things further, taking in their state. Corrosion-resistant metal and composites in some places had decayed, but ceramal and meta-material components were built to last – while the grav-engines were also vacuum-sealed as units. This was old Polity tech but still tough and durable. Maybe there was a chance.

  I stepped closer, thinking hard. If the grav-motors were shot, nothing could be done without specialized tools. If the grav-plane effect – basically steering – didn’t work I might be able to do something. Power supply? It could be liquid hydrogen running to a capacitor-battery, in which case we would have no luck since it seemed very unlikely any hydrogen would remain. But it might be the kind of vehicle that ran pure water through a metamaterial sieve to that battery, in which case we could get away with water less pure, at least for a while.

  I quickly started pulling open inspection hatches and panels. Some were corroded in place but Marcus soon tore them off, since we wouldn’t need them. It turned out that one ran on hydrogen and the other on water. After a while, I climbed up into the first and, just for the hell of it, tried the starter. A clattering sound issued from the back. The water pump should not have sounded like that, even without any water inside. But the fact it’d made a noise at all gave me hope. The other did nothing at all so I gestured to the one that ran on water.

  ‘It would save a lot of time if we could get this running,’ I said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said – it seemed he could manage some throat vocalization now.

  I stripped off my pack and took out my small collection of tools. I searched the garage, picking up other items that might be useful. Marcus went to the far end, I thought doing the same, until I heard a loud grating sound. He’d pushed the big sliding door halfway across, and then, with another heave, all the way to let in the daylight. I returned to the water-powered skimmer and made a further inspection. The panel over the pump already stood open and someone had debonded the pipe leading into the water tank. An old diagnostic device had been plugged in, but its screen was dead. The pump must have been the problem, I felt sure, and then wondered if the pump from the other car might be suitable. It was. It turned out the thing pumped liquid hydrogen at high pressure so its rating and seals were better. Water wouldn’t be a problem for it, though adjustments would be required. I took out the diagnosticer, leaving its optic still in place, and pulled out its battery tab for inspection. The one from my atomic shear looked as if it might fit so I tried it. The screen came on.

  ‘Yes!’ I thumped the cowling.

  Marcus, now standing behind me, took the thing out of my hand and peered at it. He carefully worked the touch screen with one hand, then handed it back. It seemed one diamond bearing had collapsed in the pump.

  ‘The other one.’ I pointed to the other skimmer.

  We walked round and peered into the open cowling, but the pump had been removed.

  ‘Fuck.’

  We searched the garage for a while, recovering more useful tools, but found no pump. Marcus finally grunted something and shook his head in irritation. He abruptly reached down to grab my shoulder to tow me after him, walked me over to the door and pointed. Visible directly ahead, some miles away, stood another of the domes. He pointed to this and then to another even further away to the right, then turned my head to face him. He pointed two fingers at his eyes then pointed at the domes again.

  ‘We go and look?’

  He shook an admonishing finger, pointed to himself. ‘You go and look?’

  He nodded, then pointed to my eyes and made a circular motion with his hand to encompass this dome, then pointed to the water-powered skimmer. Okay, he’d go and see if he could find a pump, or perhaps a working skimmer. I’d search here and prepare the vehicle. I wasn’t sure this was the best idea, but it was a plan, and he could certainly move faster over the terrain than I could.

  ‘Find a pump if you can, and a power supply – we may need to jump-start the sieve and battery. And tools, and—’ I clenched my fists in frustration. He patted me on the shoulder, then walked back with me to the skimmers. He dumped the contents of his pack and mine, taking both empty packs. With another squeeze of my shoulder, he simply jumped from the edge of the composite and disappeared at a fast run.

  So, I had a diagnosticer, some tools and the knowledge in my mind. That knowledge covered the vehicle, because it was quite simple, as well as straying into esoteric stuff about grav-motors. Staying practical, I first removed the pump and then went round plugging the diagnosticer into every socket available to it. The grav-motor needed balancing but that couldn’t be done without power. The device that drew accumulated rubbish from the sieve was itself full of rubbish. I took it out, increasing my collection of tools from the garage as I struggled with its fixings, then removed its clogged filters and replaced it. Without filters in the cleaning device, the sieve would shut down, but it’d take more than a few hundred miles before that happened. With all possible jobs done by mid-afternoon, I began to search the garage again meticulously. I found tools that would’ve been useful earlier and transported them back, as well as a collection of spares, but none for the skimmers. A storeroom was scattered with decaying boxes, mostly empty or containing parts for other vehicles, and there was a locked door at the back. I decided I needed to return to that door later, with the tools needed to open it, and then extended my search further.

  Nearby were two more garages, all completely empty of hardware – we’d been lucky to stumble into the one we did first. Apartments nearby were much the same as others we’d ventured into: stripped of just about everything of value and use. A chamber had some equipment remaining in place, with two columns, one from the ceiling and one from the floor, extending platens with a gap between that had contained an AI. Nothing remaining was of much use to me, though, being far too specialized, so I returned to the locked door.

  Numerous blows with a hammer exposed locking bars, which the shear went through easily enough once I’d returned its battery. But the thing began to falter on the last bar, and then died. I then felt very stupid because I’d used up the only battery available for the diagnosticer. Further hammer blows broke the bar, and the door led me into a stairwell which in turn went up to a door of decayed wood. I opened it with a kick. This gave into a small apartment, the ceiling being the low curve of the dome and a narrow window at one end admitting enough light to see by. Jackpot: the place hadn’t been looted. Food in forever-seal plasmel packs, bottles of drink that looked cloudy and dubious, but also wine and a bottle of bourbon sat in the cupboards. A selection of glass knives from a rack, clothing still usable, an envirosuit, and more items in other cupboards and boxes caught my eye. But with the light waning, I decided to give the place a proper search in the morning. Piling the loot onto the floor, I used a corkscrew on one wine bottle, taking that and some food and a glass back down to the garage.

  Sitting on the edge of the platform while the sun sank out of sight, I opened plasmel packs and feasted on sardines in tomato sauce and blue fruit in syrup, which the label told me was cerulean hogfruit. The strong flavours hurt my mouth, being so used to much blander fare. I drank some of the wine and didn’t like the taste, but decided the effect might be enjoyable. After the first glass it tasted better. Halfway down the second glass I began to feel really spaced out, though, and poured the remainder back into the bottle. The combination of such rich food and alcohol seemed to suck th
e energy out of my body and I stood, nearly staggering off the edge of the platform, before managing to straighten up and walk inside. Lying down on the floor beside one of the skimmers, flat on my back, I watched the ceiling try to revolve. That was all I remembered until morning.

  Thoroughly arid on waking, I drank water, ate some sleer and a couple of apples. As I walked out onto the platform, munching, I realized, by the shadow the structure was casting behind me, that I hadn’t woken with the dawn. I idly wondered where Marcus was, then asked myself why I expected him to return. If what the king had said was true, he was undoubtedly a character as bad as those who worked for Suzeal. Yet he had saved my life when there had been no necessity for him to do so, and I found I trusted him on an almost visceral level.

  What now? I returned to the hidden room to conduct another search. Food and drink I took down to the garage in a plastic crate, along with the envirosuit, knives and other useful items. The best and luckiest find, after my carelessness in getting through the door, was a selection of batteries, some of which fitted the diagnosticer and the shear. This find set me to work on the skimmer once more and I checked through everything again. Replacing a battery under the console enabled me to adjust grav-planing back to optimum, but it still didn’t supply enough power to balance the grav-motor.

  I thought about what else might be needed and walked out to the edge of the composite slab, coming to a stop over one of the channels directly below me. The vehicle would need water – that is, if Marcus was able to return with a pump. I grabbed a plastic bucket from inside, attached it to a long optic, and then came back out to dunk it down into the channel. It came up with a leech stuck to the outside, which I knocked away, and the cloudy water had other things darting about in it. A further search inside resulted in some rough card and insulation fibre, which I set up in a funnel. The water dripped through this into another container, surprisingly clear. It removed the worst of the dirt, but the minerals and salts in it would still eventually cause problems in the engine.