The Line of Polity

by Neal Asher

  ‘Maybe Dragon . . .’

  Gant grimaced.

  Cormac shrugged, wished he hadn’t, then looked to one side. Apis was not in his seat. He tried looking back, but his neck hurt too much. ‘They okay?’ he asked.

  ‘In the back,’ Gant explained. ‘Let me help you.’

  Gant undid his seat straps and, using his supporting arm, Cormac got unsteadily to his feet, then took the oxygen pack Gant was holding and carefully slung its strap over one shoulder.

  The back of the craft was in utter chaos – part of the floor was torn open, and seats had come away from their mountings; mud blackened many surfaces, having been sprayed up through this hole; and the air itself was hazy with smoke. Scar was not present; Mika stood, with her face masked, strapping on an oxygen pack; Apis had meanwhile opened a number of lockers, and was hauling out bits of equipment. There seemed to be plenty of it, certainly, but Cormac couldn’t see any way they might transport it. He noted that the young Outlinker had an oxygen bottle, similar to Cormac’s, clipped on the back of his exoskeleton, its nozzle obviously compatible with the exo’s universal adaptor.

  ‘Where’s Scar?’ he asked.

  Gant pointed to the ceiling of the craft. ‘Up there, having a look.’

  ‘That’s good, though I suspect he’s not going to see a lot. Now, as far as I see it, we’ve got to get to help before our oxygen supply runs out.’

  ‘Help being?’ Gant wondered. ‘I don’t think the Theocracy are going to greet us with milk and cookies.’

  ‘What help we get from them might not be willingly given, but we’ll have it all the same. No, we have to get ourselves to this Underworld and, from what I understand of it, the way to get there is through those mountains we overflew on the way in.’

  At this Apis spoke up: ‘Those mountains are now two hundred kilometres away.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was going to be easy,’ said Cormac.

  ‘There are also other aspects of this place which may make things difficult,’ added Mika.

  ‘Delight me with the news,’ said Cormac.

  ‘Obviously, knowing where we were coming to, I accessed the Occam’s files concerning the ecology of this place.’

  ‘Let me guess: the full set of flesh-eating monsters?’

  ‘In most cases that is correct,’ she agreed. ‘Though in one case the creature concerned is probably capable of eating metal as well.’ She glanced at Gant. ‘No offence intended.’

  ‘None taken, I’m sure,’ Gant replied.

  Cormac turned to inspect the stuff Apis had pulled out of the lockers. ‘Okay, let’s see what we can take and get moving. Even though the Theocracy currently has enough problems with Dragon, they still might send someone out here to investigate.’

  Cormac soon had confirmation that they had no shortage of supplies – it was just a question of how much they could carry, and what items to select. When Scar returned inside, and bluntly informed them that the fire – having used up all the air that had spilt like a pool around the lander – was dying, Cormac realized that they would not need oxygen for the dracoman – the lack of it outside obviously not having bothered Scar in the slightest. Slightly puzzled, Cormac asked him, ‘Why did you need oxygen on Callorum?’

  ‘Didn’t,’ Scar replied. ‘Just didn’t want to change for the cyanide.’

  Cormac glanced at Mika, and saw her staring with fascination at the dracoman, then looking round for the equipment she had brought.

  There were enough large army backpacks for one each. They filled one with oxygen bottles, and Scar hefted this huge weight with ease. In three other packs they distributed food, medical supplies, power packs, heat sheets, and anything else they could think of that might be of use for what lay ahead. In the final pack – taken up by Gant, after he had replaced his clothing with some found in a locker and donned a thick flak jacket that concealed his loss of syntheflesh – they put all of the equipment Mika had transferred from the Occam. Cormac was not sure what use it would be, but he was certain the Life-Coven woman would possess some items in there that were at the forefront of Polity technology, and should therefore not be discarded. Only as they were leaving the vessel did it occur to Cormac that it had been more than just a landing craft; most certainly it had been designed for the insertion of ground troops. This was an item of information he filed for future reference.

  Outside, the fire had run its brief course, and now only steam was rising from the heated ground. If this had been on Earth, the flames would have become an inferno amid the dry dead stems of the surrounding vegetation. But fire needs oxygen, and here that was a sparse commodity. Walking over to Apis, he had the boy show him the air indicator on the wrist of his exoskeleton. There was oxygen in the atmosphere, but only enough to slow the process of suffocation for a human being. Cormac removed his mask and sniffed at the air, which was redolent with a smell like baked potatoes. Gazing round, he realized this came from the seared tubers of the plants. Reaching the point where the flute grass stood tall again, he turned and led the way back down the swathe the landing craft had cut through it. That way lay habitation, and that way lay the mountains. He wondered if they would get to see either.

  Tersely, Thorn told them all what Dragon was – though he knew Stanton and Jarvellis had heard the story before, and Fethan looked unsurprised. What Lellan and Polas had just seen invalidated any disbelief they might have felt. There was almost an embarrassed silence after he had finished speaking, until Lellan said, ‘What does it matter what this thing is, and what . . . some part of itself did in the past? It’s destroying the laser arrays, and to my mind that makes it the best ally we have ever had.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Thorn. ‘But will it stop at the arrays?’

  Lellan glanced down at Polas. ‘That probe in position yet?’

  Polas checked his instrumentation. ‘Few more minutes yet.’

  Thorn said, ‘You know, there’s obviously a bigger picture here.’ Lellan gazed at him speculatively, and he went on, ‘Back on Cheyne III, I had a brief but intriguing conversation with the Cereb AI. It told me I might be required for another mission, as an Outlink station had been destroyed and one of the Dragon spheres might be involved in that. I wonder if that station was Miranda – it being the nearest one to here.’ Thorn paused, seeing how pale Lellan had suddenly become.

  ‘Did you say Miranda might have been destroyed?’ she asked.

  ‘Might have been, yes,’ said Thorn, trying to interpret the looks being exchanged.

  Lellan grudgingly explained, ‘We have a U-space transmitter now.’ She glanced at Stanton and Jarvellis before going on, ‘But it’s a long haul to broadcast into the Polity from here, and Miranda was to be our relay and signal booster. We’ll have to scan the carrier signal about, until we find a capital ship close enough to do the same job.’ She paused and rubbed tiredly at her face. ‘Go on, tell me more about your bigger picture.’

  Thorn waited for further explanation, then said, ‘Before I go on . . . tell me, what exactly are you sending by U-space?’

  ‘A cry for help: including five thousand hours of sealed recording of what goes on here.’

  Thorn thought about that until Lellan prompted, ‘Bigger picture?’

  Thorn continued, ‘All I thought was that there are other things to factor in. Your Theocracy uses Draco-corp augs, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What?’ said Lellan.

  Stanton interjected, ‘I’ve seen them before, when I was with Pelter – and for some reason they freaked him out – but they’re available all across the Polity now. If there was a problem with them, surely they’d be made illegal.’

  ‘Dracocorp is an Out-Polity corporation that was set up by Dragon’s agents. All augs that come into the Polity, whenever ECS can track them down, are checked for subversion access. As far as I know, nothing has been proven, because their technology is so damned complex.’

  ‘So what are you getting at?’ Lellan asked.

  ‘I’m just pointing ou
t these things: an Outlink station possibly destroyed by Dragon, a lot of Dracocorp augs around here, and now Dragon up there destroying laser arrays. You may be benefiting now, but I’d guess that what is being done is not specifically for your benefit. Of course’ – he fixed his attention on Stanton – ‘if the station destroyed was Miranda, then it’s likely someone else might be turning up here.’

  ‘Who?’ asked the man.

  ‘Ian Cormac – he usually gets called on when there’s any shit involving Dragon.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stanton, his face expressionless.

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ asked Lellan, looking from one to the other of them in confusion.

  ‘For Masada, quite probably, but not necessarily so for me,’ said Stanton.

  Before Lellan could ask anything more, Polas interjected, ‘I’m getting a picture now.’ The man was operating a small toggle control, and each of the screens showed views over the curve of Masada, then space, and the face of Calypse. ‘There,’ he said, pointing at one of the screens.

  Dragon loomed clear on the horizon, and Polas pushed his control forwards to take the probe closer. As it slowly drew in, the picture kept juddering, and when asked about this Polas replied, ‘Automatic avoidance – it’s dodging debris.’ On two occasions thereafter they saw drifting clumps of titanic wreckage, fires glowing inside them, gases spewing away.

  Closer to Dragon, and a flash of light blanked the screen. It then came back on to show a spreading ball of fire and debris – and one less laser array.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Lellan. ‘We’ve lived under those for too long.’

  ‘God in Heaven,’ said Polas. He was operating other controls, calling up views all around as the probe accelerated towards Dragon. Radar images came up, spectral displays – he seemed to be trying every instrument the probe possessed.

  He turned to Lellan. ‘EL-24 and 26 next,’ he said.

  ‘How much of a hole has it made for us?’ she asked.

  Polas removed his hands from the controls – perhaps because they were shaking so much.

  ‘Talk to me, Polas,’ said Lellan.

  He turned to her, with a stunned expression, then stared back at the screen when it blanked yet again. ‘That was EL-26. One more to go, and that’s it.’

  Lellan still hadn’t quite grasped what he was telling her. Her expression showed irritation, confusion, then slowly dawning realization.

  Polas nodded.

  ‘It’s destroyed . . .’ He blinked at the screen as it flickered off then back on again. ‘It’s destroyed all forty-six arrays. There’s nothing but wreckage up there now.’

  13

  ‘In the predawn light Brother Serendipity stood at the bounds of Agatha Compound and turned to address his three companions. “You have served me well these three days, and should know that in that service you have served God and his Prophet: For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?”’

  The woman made a slight whimpering sound as she suppressed a laugh. The Brother stood to one side of the tall boundary stone, with his arms spread wide and a beatific expression on his face. The three creatures looked at each other with expressions that were completely unreadable. The gabbleduck then lifted what could loosely be described as a hand up to the side of its head and, with what could equally loosely be described as a finger, scribed circles in the air.

  ‘As the sun rose over the compound, Brother Serendipity said unto his companions, “You shall come with me to share in this glorious day!”’

  Now the three creatures moved in around the Brother, almost concealing him with walls of flesh, bone, claws and teeth.

  ‘“Here, from my trial in the wilderness, I come to claim my birthright. I shall smite the morlocks in their dank caverns and I shall rise up over my brothers and rule from the sky!” said the Brother. “That would be a good place to rule from,” said the heroyne, sharpening his beak on the side of the boundary stone. “This boy could go far,” added the siluroyne, sharpening his claws on the other side of the stone. “Shame,” concluded the gabbleduck, whose teeth and claws were always sharp.’

  The boy didn’t get it for a moment, until he saw the picture of the creatures pulling apart the Brother like a piece of naan bread. He then grinned with delight and pointed at the picture.

  ‘Gabbleducked,’ he asserted, not without a degree of craftiness in his expression.

  The woman looked at him warningly, then finished the story.

  ‘And thus our story ends with the moral: You can have your cake and give it away, but never turn your back on a gabbleduck.’

  The night sky was bright with shooting stars that burned long courses through the oxygen-bereft air. Occasionally, distantly, some larger piece of wreckage would make it to the ground, and there then would be a flash and a boom as of gunfire on a distant battleground.

  ‘Dragon is nothing if not thorough when it decides to destroy something,’ commented Mika.

  ‘It always works on a huge scale,’ said Cormac, taking a sip from the tea Gant had made out of a packet he’d found amongst their supplies. Cormac and Mika were sitting on their packs whilst watching this display; Apis stood a little apart from them, his head tilted to the sky; and Gant and the dracoman were out ‘taking a little recce’, as Gant put it.

  Cormac nodded to the Outlinker boy. ‘You notice how all his hatreds are directed towards the Theocracy here and against Skellor on the Occam. He hasn’t had a bad word to say about Dragon, yet the creature destroyed the General Patten and killed many of his kin.’

  ‘I had not noticed that,’ agreed Mika, studying the boy.

  ‘It’s an attitude prevalent throughout the Polity – since Samarkand, and probably before, Dragon has been viewed as more a force of nature than a being in its own right. It’s too huge and unfathomable for most people to see it otherwise. You might just as well hate a hurricane or a volcano.’

  ‘I think I understand that: even with scientific objectivity, one cannot help but feel awe. It is godlike in its power and size, and its rather Delphic communications only make it seem more so. There is also its immortality: you once destroyed one Dragon sphere, yet Dragon still lives,’ Mika replied.

  Apis turned towards them now, and walked back over. As he seated himself on his own pack, Cormac thought that behind his visor the boy looked rather unwell.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Gravity,’ confessed Apis. ‘This exo damps out most of the effects, but I can still feel it pulling on me. I’m tired, even though I’m not working.’

  That was not actually what Cormac had been asking about, but he let it ride. ‘We are all tired,’ he said. ‘I’d like to stop for sleep, but . . .’ He gestured at his oxygen bottle.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mika, glancing at Cormac. ‘I thought, being an agent, you would have been . . . adjusted.’

  Cormac considered that: many people, especially in Earth Central Security, had the function of their bodies adjusted so sleep was, at worst, necessary only for a few hours, and then not every night. When he had been gridlinked, he himself had been such a person. After losing his link, he had then deliberately sacrificed the rest of his augmentations. Blegg, his boss in ECS, had been right about the dehumanizing effects of gridlinking, but had not gone far enough: for in Cormac’s opinion all augmentations dehumanized. And, furthermore, Cormac found that with human weaknesses he operated more efficiently. This was actually psychological, and he knew that it too could be adjusted, but he felt that in the end people had to draw the line and decide for themselves just how much they wanted to remain themselves. Because of his previous experience of gridlinking, Cormac did not want to fool with his own mind, so he drew his line long before many others drew theirs.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not adjusted – and I’m tired.’

  Mika reached into one of the pockets of the pack she was sitting on and pulled out a reel of drug patches, each one on the same paper backing strip no more than a
centimetre wide. Catching the reel Cormac tore off one section, removed the patch, discarded its backing strip, and reached inside his shirt to press it against his torso. Then, holding up the reel, he nodded his head to indicate Apis.

  ‘No,’ said Mika.

  ‘Why not?’ Apis asked.

  ‘Your system is not used to the constant drag of gravity, especially your heart, so using stimulants might be suicidal. Anyway, you probably will not need any sleep. The nanites building up your musculature and adding density to your bones will also be clearing out toxins.’

  ‘But I feel tired,’ Apis protested.

  ‘Psychological,’ replied Mika, tapping her head with her forefinger.

  As the stimulant scoured away the fuzzy coating that seemed to have been thickening over everything for the last few hours, Cormac was glad to have it confirmed that it had, after all, been a good idea to lug along Mika’s equipment. He himself had refused to use a nanite booster treatment so that he could handle the higher gravity on Callorum, a treatment that would have required him spending forty hours in a tank. Luckily for Apis, Mika had an interesting device with which she could manufacture nano-machines to her own specifications – a device Cormac was not sure was entirely legal within the Polity – and those specifications, he had since learnt, owed much to her study of the hybrid Skellor had created. The Outlinker himself now had a few varieties of those machines beavering away inside him, building muscle, bone, and all those other structures required for a body to handle gravity. Of course, Mika had to make only one mistake and they might end up having to pour Apis out of his exoskeleton. However, the alternative was that the point eight gee on this planet would kill him over time. Thus far the only detrimental result of this treatment was that the boy was forever hungry. Cormac watched him as he fingered the touch-pad on his neck ring, to draw his visor down into his chin rest so he could begin stuffing another meal bar into his mouth.

  ‘If I’d known there’d be such a celebration of our arrival, I’d have put on my dress uniform,’ said Gant, striding out of the darkness with Scar at his side.