The Line of Polity

by Neal Asher

  ‘Why this, then?’ Thorn gestured first at the screen, then at the hold.

  ‘Because I have scores to settle and debts to repay.’

  Thorn stood and moved to the door, and Stanton walked with him to the ship’s living quarters. They entered an area laid out like any planetary house, with a kitchen and eating area, and for the second time Thorn studied his surroundings with some surprise. Most ships possessed automatic food dispensers, yet Lyric II had both this and a small galley, which was an expensive option. He felt a surge of nostalgia at the smell of grilling bacon, and also had to swallow a surge of saliva.

  ‘How do you get down to the surface of the planet without being detected?’ he tried.

  Stanton went over to check the grilling bacon. Jarvellis, who was going through the complicated process of grinding real beans for a filter coffee maker, glanced at her man with interest – no doubt wondering how much he was prepared to tell this ECS agent.

  ‘Take your shower now, then we’ll talk while we have breakfast. Your clothes are in there.’ Stanton pointed.

  Thorn moved through into the bathroom of this thoroughly domestic section of the ship, and was further surprised to find luxuries more commonly associated with the huge holiday cruisers found in populous systems like Sol’s. There was a shower set over a wide tub big enough to take two people comfortably, and though the shower itself had the usual ultrasound settings and air-drying heads, there were big fluffy white towels on a heated rail nearby. Obviously these two enjoyed their comforts, but comforts like these on a spaceship cost a lot of money.

  He pondered the probable source of that money, and recalled the findings of the investigation on planet Viridian. They had revealed that, though the Separatist mercenary Pelter had destroyed the original Lyric, Jarvellis had escaped and managed to rejoin her lover Stanton on Viridian itself. But Pelter’s money – some millions in the form of etched sapphires – had never been recovered. It would now seem there had been enough for them to buy a larger trispherical ship like this one, and have it fitted out to their requirements. Thorn found he could not resent them their windfall, for Stanton’s betrayal of Pelter had enabled agent Cormac to kill the rogue Separatist and concentrate on the larger mission in hand – which was investigating the Samarkand disaster. It was then that Cormac had encountered the alien called the Maker, and finally learnt of the legendary Dragon’s responsibility for the destruction of all life on Samarkand. With the Maker he had connived in inflicting a suitable punishment for this crime – one which reduced the first Dragon sphere to orbital debris.

  When he stepped into the shower, Thorn was further surprised when a shimmer-shield came on around the edge of the bath. As he luxuriated in needle jets of hot water, soaping himself down with a rough bar of real soap, he was puzzled to note a couple of toys sitting on the edge of the bath: a small submarine, of the type used in the strange sea inside Europa, and a dark-otter – both obviously operated by a small remote affixed to the porcelain-effect tiling along the adjacent wall. Neither Stanton nor Jarvellis struck him as the type to play with these sorts of toys; he imagined their toys would be of either the erotic or the lethal kind.

  After his shower, he found his clothes waiting in an automatic cleaner inset in the wall. All the blood and filth had been removed, and rips invisibly repaired. It was almost a relief to recognize that this had been entirely done by machine – he could not stand the mental image of either of the other two sewing up his trousers with a needle and thread, since it would mean they were entirely insane. Over disposable underwear, he donned the same fatigues, white shirt, and denim jacket he had been wearing when Lutz and Ternan had taken him to meet Brom. Then he pulled on his favoured leather boots – special issue to ECS, and so hard-wearing that they normally only required replacement for the same reason their possessor might require the replacement of a foot. Suitably clad he moved out into the eating area to be presented with a plate of bacon, egg, garlic-fried mushrooms and a large mug of real coffee. Stanton and Jarvellis, he suddenly decided, had made the successful transition from criminals into saints.

  ‘You asked me how we intend to get down to the surface of the planet undetected,’ Stanton said. ‘We’ll tell you this, and anything else you want to know, if you’re prepared to throw in with us – to help.’ Before Thorn could reply, Stanton held up an eggy fork to silence him and went on, ‘Before you answer that, there’s some things you need to know. You already know what the situation is on Masada, but what you perhaps don’t realize is that Polity agents have already been distributing the electronic ballot, and filtering in what technical support they can for the rebellion. Masada is probably no more than a few years away from sub-sumption.’

  ‘How have they been getting stuff in?’ Thorn asked.

  ‘It’s not entirely closed there,’ Stanton replied. ‘The Theocracy manufacturing base is not efficient, so they trade luxury proteins and food essences in exchange for tools and equipment – and wherever there’s trade there’s smuggling.’

  ‘I see,’ said Thorn – and he did see. If the Polity supported this rebellion, then it was his duty to do the same. He would first have to confirm what Stanton was telling him, but otherwise saw no problem about throwing in his lot with them. In fact he quite looked forward to the prospect as, from what he knew about Stanton, the man was a consummate professional. ‘If what you say is true, then I’m with you. It is in fact my job.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice,’ said Jarvellis, staring directly at Thorn. ‘Of course, if you betray us in any way, one of us will kill you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Thorn, grinning at her.

  She tilted her head in acknowledgement, then with a glance at Stanton went on, ‘We have chameleonware.’

  ‘That won’t cover an AG reading,’ Thorn observed.

  ‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘But it can blur it for over a quarter of a kilometre, and the Theocracy don’t have anything sophisticated enough to pick that up. Our only problem really is the braking burn, as this ’ware isn’t sufficient to cover the heat signature and ionic trail that leaves.’

  Thorn considered what she had just told him. Polity chameleonware could never cover AG readings, which was why, for a hidden descent onto a planet’s surface, ECS used stealthed dropbirds to glide on in.

  ‘Is this the same ’ware as they used on Brom’s barge?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ Stanton replied. ‘I was there making the second payment for it, which was why there was no tight security around me, and why I could do what I did.’

  ‘I thought you were there after Deacon Aberil Dorth?’

  ‘Coincidental. I’d intended to get him on Masada all along.’

  ‘I guess I was lucky he was there, then. Perhaps if you hadn’t been intent on demolishing Brom’s barge, you wouldn’t have released me.’

  ‘Oh, I intended to fuck Brom over anyway. Poisonous insects like him are best stamped on quickly,’ Stanton replied.

  Thorn studied him for a long moment. What were this man’s motivations now? Before the events on Viridian, his only apparent motivation had been money. Why had he changed so much since then? Thorn let the thought go – he never felt inclined to analyse too closely someone else’s character, just as he never felt inclined to ask similar questions of himself.

  ‘Do you know the original source of this chameleon-ware? Brom was a little reticent about it and, as you know, I never really got a chance to ask him about it later.’

  ‘Separatist research base – and before you ask, no, I don’t know where it is. They apparently have a topflight biophysicist working for them. He was also the one who made Brom’s poisonous little toy. I only got a name: Skellor.’

  Thorn vaguely recalled something about that name – something in connection with another operation. That being the case, he supposed ECS had – or were about to – put a terminal brake on the man’s activities.

  Thorn turned to Jarvellis. ‘You were telling me about the heat signature and ionic trail.�
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  Having finished her breakfast, Jarvellis sat back with her mug cradled in her hands before her. ‘Well, most of it we are doing now, shielded by Calypse. The rest we do in atmosphere over Masada itself.’

  ‘How the hell do you cover that?’

  When she told him, Thorn thought perhaps these two were a little insane.

  10

  With methodical determination and without much resort to the use of knives and forks, the boy munched his way through his dinner. Sitting at the table beside him the woman sipped distractedly at a cup of coffee and studied the open book propped on her knee.

  ‘And thus it was,’ she said, ‘that Brother Serendipity was sent out to find his fortune amongst the compounds, but by the evil of the morlocks was driven out into the wilderness.’ The woman snorted and muttered, ‘Morlocks, my arse.’ Then continued with, ‘Upon the first day of those three numbered by his oxygen supply, he came upon the young heroyne starving in the flute grass.’

  The woman glanced across and saw that her audience was more intent on trying to spear a broiled shellfish than on the story. She continued anyway, ‘“Please feed me for I have been abandoned and I am hungry,” the creature begged. “Why should I feed you when, with strength, you could eat me?” asked Brother Serendipity. “I give my word,” the heroyne replied. “Swear your word in the name of God and in the name of his prophet Zelda Smythe,” the Brother demanded. So the heroyne swore and Brother Serendipity gave it one third of the meat cake the old woman by the . . .’ The woman stopped and closed the book to check the front cover. It still read Mortal Tales and still bore a picture of a gabbleduck eating a priest, just like her son was tucking into his bread soldiers.

  She shrugged and went on:‘Thus it was that the heroyne followed him into the night and no other creature attacked him. The Brother’s piety and goodness of heart had saved him.’

  The woman made a gagging sound and scrolled the text down further.

  The Reverend Epthirieth Loman Dorth stood in the viewing room of his tower, gazing out upon the canted ceiling of the Up Mirror of Faith, and thought that this must be how God felt. Stepping closer to the bulging windows of Polity chainglass, he stared down into the vast well of the Faith cylinder world into which the Up Mirror reflected sunlight, and observed the swirls of cloud over the wondrous buildings and vast gardens contained therein, which blurred and faded down to the bright eye of the Down Mirror at the far end of the world. With a light touch through his aug – his Gift – he received the impression of thousands of communications being conducted against the strong background swell of prayer throughout the upper channels from the Friars of the Septarchies: this being the way they had found, at last, to prevent the mind of Behemoth from invading their own. When the creature had first come with the gift of its augs, it had seemed an envoy of God, but they had soon seen the ambivalence of its generosity. The biotech devices gave them great power to communicate, to control, to understand, but enabled the creature itself to slowly assert its will over them through the upper channels. Now the Friars prayed, day and night in shifts, thousands of them, to keep the mind of Behemoth at bay.

  When he heard the door hissing open behind him and the stamp of feet as the soldiers halted and came to attention, he did not turn. A brief probe told him who was there, and why they were there.

  ‘Is he ready?’ he asked, seeking verbal confirmation as, even with the protection of prayer, the Gift was not to be trusted.

  ‘He is, Hierarch,’ said one of the men.

  Loman turned, relishing that title, but also wondering if Major Claus was seeking advancement. The man stood with two subordinates, all three of them well armed and armoured. Claus was immaculate but for blood spattered up one leg; however, the others wore filthy and torn uniforms. All three of the men looked bone weary, but at least they could still stand upright, and in that had the advantage over many of their fellows. It had been a long hard struggle, but well worth the prize.

  ‘Claus, do not call me Hierarch until after my investiture. It would be best to let the Council continue with the illusion that they have retained some power. ‘Now, let’s go and see to Amoloran’s . . . disinvestiture.’

  The three fell in behind him as he exited the tower room. Loman glanced sideways and noted how Claus had moved in close to his left – the position of an advisor and one who shared in the ultimate position. He considered sending the man a pace or two back, then rejected the idea. The reality of the power game was that you needed the army on your side and, thus far, Claus had served a purpose, though he would be removed when the time was right.

  ‘Reverend, I should also let you know that your brother has returned from Cheyne III with bad news: Brom has been killed and his organization is broken,’ said Claus.

  Loman hesitated at the head of the spiral staircase which wound down beside one glass wall of the tower, as he checked this news through his aug. ‘No matter, there will always be others to fight the Polity on our behalf and they will never have sufficient reason to come here once Ragnorak has done its work.’ Glancing at the Major, Loman saw that the man looked dubious and wanted to make some comment on that. Loman went on, ‘It is all planned for. We are the Chosen, and we will not fail.’

  ‘As you will, Reverend,’ said Claus, which was not entirely the wholehearted response Loman would have liked, but that was probably due to the Major’s weariness.

  Feeling generous Loman went on, ‘After Ragnorak, I feel that you will have much work to do on the surface, Commander Claus.’

  They descended the stairs to the large chamber Loman had chosen for his own investiture later, and as they did so, he could not help but speculate on how much this tower of Amoloran’s had cost in precious resources. Every step was a grav-plate, every one of the tower’s fifty floors was tiled with them, and the security system – as he well knew – was particularly advanced. Of course that system had not proved sufficient when the power lines leading from solar panels mounted below the Up Mirror had been severed. It had been remiss of Amoloran to rely too heavily on the Gift – the men he, Loman, had sent to cut the power had been recruited from the surface, so were without augs to be detected; and, with a sufficient promise of future influence, the Septarchy Friars had clogged other channels that might have given things away.

  Only half of the Council were present: those others who had supported the previous hierarch either taking their own lives maybe at that very moment, or, if they had the wealth to possess such, fleeing in their own crafts. The four hundred soldiers Claus had led in here were currently arrayed around the walls, or scattered through the crowd that was now, very quickly, growing silent. Loman moved out into the open space rapidly cleared at the foot of the stairs and gazed around. Many private channels were open, but he did not feel inclined to force his way in to them, as he knew what most of these people would be thinking. In the end it did not matter what they thought or discussed, just so long as they obeyed.

  Set up at the back of the room was the pillar and the frame and he noticed how many Council members of questionable loyalty were glancing at this device nervously. After a moment, one member of the crowd broke away and approached to drop on one knee and take up Loman’s hand. The Reverend Loman gazed down into the expressionless face of his brother.

  ‘You return at an opportune time,’ said Loman.

  ‘I would have come sooner, Reverend, but Brom was cowardly and was hesitating to send his people against the Cereb runcible. And he hesitated too long,’ Aberil replied.

  Loman beckoned him to rise to his feet and opened a private link with him. ‘You were sent on a fool’s errand anyway. Supplying Separatists gives the Polity an opening through which they can reach us. We must not overextend ourselves and we must be patient.’

  Aberil replied, ‘Amoloran was without focus or sufficient faith, and he would have destroyed us with his foolishness. You have done the right thing, brother.’

  ‘I have done what is required of me by God.’

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nbsp; ‘As do we all.’

  Loman waved Aberil behind him, to his right side – a position Aberil took with some alacrity. Now Loman turned to Claus. ‘Let it be done,’ he said.

  Claus gave the signal to his men at the back of the chamber, and the crowd parted as Amoloran was marched out, guards supporting him on either side as his legs kept giving way. The old man looked bewildered and terrified – as was only right. Loman noted with some distaste the bright yellow urine stains down the front of the disposable coverall he had earlier been dressed in. The guards dragged him to the frame and began tearing away his coverall as Loman advanced to stand before him. Amoloran resisted them, but to no avail, and soon he was naked and fighting only the obdurate metal that held him cruciform before the crowd.

  Tilting his head towards Claus, Loman asked, ‘Did he have a way out?’

  Claus held out his hand, in the palm of which rested three small translucent capsules. ‘Implanted under his fingernails. He also had a nerve jammer concealed in his neck jewel – and this.’ Claus held out a beautiful tool of old stainless steel – a spoon with its edges honed sharp.

  ‘You think he would kill himself with a sculping tool?’ asked Loman. ‘I think that gouging out his own eyes would not have been the way he would like to go.’

  Claus shook his head and pointed at the tool. ‘Neuro-toxin in the handle, to be pumped through micropores in the edges, your reverence. Primarily used to cause pain, but there’s the option to pump out the full amount, so one cut would cause instant death.’

  As he hung the tool on one of his own belt hooks, Loman nodded to himself: this was always how it happened – those of high rank always had a way to kill themselves should the situation require it, and always realized too late when that situation occurred. Himself, he had similar nerve-poison capsules implanted under his fingernails, and he would use them before it ever came to this for him.