by Neal Asher
The probe shot across towards the big golden lozenge of the new dreadnought named Micheletto’s Garrotte II. There a fast-retracting hardfield decelerated it a few miles out from the hull. The hardfield then went out and an access port opened. The probe next used its own chemical drive to take it towards that port. Meanwhile the other probes were launching and on their way towards the other ships.
“Really?” asked Garrotte.
“Really,” the Brockle confirmed. “We have to stop Penny Royal entering Layden’s Sink because that will actually cause the temporal rift. The black AI has been trying to convince us that we must let it go, but in reality is trying to cause catastrophic damage. Do you not see that this is exactly what Penny Royal has always been about?”
The probe was now inside the dreadnought and Garrotte was inserting a physical optic connection. Having learned from its takeover of High Castle, the Brockle was aware of how dangerous this situation could become, and how easily it could fail at taking full control of this fleet. Elements of chaos now needed to be introduced.
“Why does Earth Central believe we have been penetrated?” Garrotte asked.
“Penny Royal is maintaining its distributed being in U-space,” lectured the Brockle. “How likely do you think it is that you have not been penetrated?”
“I see.”
“The data in those probes will confirm when I release them,” said the Brockle. “Stand by.” It put the com channel to Garrotte on hold. Now the prador.
Already it had studied the deal struck between the Kingdom and the Polity. Having learned that the renegade prador Sverl had effectively been turned into an AI, the king had not been happy at all. That Sverl was a renegade prador-turned-AI in control of a wartime Polity factory station made things somewhat worse. But then events had moved on. Reviewing previous communications between the king of the prador and Earth Central, the Brockle was surprised at the intelligence the former demonstrated. As the situation had changed, with Room 101 being turned into a sphere, the king had grasped the situation at once and immediately made a shipyard tug available—had in fact suggested the solution. With the sphere dropping into U-space, its signature indicating its destination as Layden’s Sink, and then being apprised of what was going on at the Well Head, the king had quickly grasped the implications of that too, and also agreed to stand down.
“I am sorry for the delay,” said the Brockle to the large armoured prador now appearing in internal visual spaces. “We have a serious problem.”
“You are the High Castle AI?” said the prador.
“I am.”
“Polity orders were for you to take over control of the Polity fleet after Sverl had been dealt with, or in the event of matters . . . becoming more complex.”
Noting the emphasis, the Brockle replied, “Matters have become considerably more complex. I have evidence that three attack ships here—” the Brockle selected three at random and sent their locations to the prador—“are definitely now under the direct control of Penny Royal, while there are others that may be. You are aware, for example, that the AI of the Garrotte was once a captive of that AI? I have dispatched probes under the guise of direct physical data transport to all ships, but the probes contain subminds of a forensic AI called the Brockle, which will attempt to deal with the problem.”
Already energy readings from the prador ships were changing and their formation shifting yet again. The previous cut in communications had made them wary of their allies, but now they were fully orienting towards a fresh danger and readying their weapons.
“And why are you informing me of a problem that is now essentially a Polity one?” enquired the prador.
Garrotte was now urgently trying to get in contact. The Brockle opened communications again to deliver a warning: “I don’t like this at all,” the erstwhile forensic AI said. “That prador formation does not bode well.” It simultaneously but separately said to the prador, “I am informing you because, though I have ordered a shutdown of coms between the Polity fleet and you, the subverted ships may try to open com. This will be an attempt, using the computer worm Penny Royal used to take over those three ships, to seize control of your fleet. Be utterly aware that this worm is capable of being transmitted piecemeal at narrow bandwidth.”
“I know it doesn’t bode well—that’s why I was trying to get in contact,” said Garrotte.
“We do not have AIs aboard to be usurped,” the prador observed.
“But you do have first- and second-child ship minds that are equally as vulnerable,” the Brockle told the prador, while simultaneously telling Garrotte, “Pull your attack ships in—flat wheel formation in response.”
“Understood,” Garrotte acknowledged.
All the probes had now arrived and been taken aboard the Polity ships. All those ships were making physical connections to the probes in an attempt to download the data they contained, but of course there was no data there—just collections of units conglomerated into subminds that were more powerful than the Brockle’s original self aboard the Tyburn, while the remainder of the forensic AI was now somewhat reduced, but still a writhing ball fifteen feet across.
“Then it is time for us to depart,” said the prador.
“Meaning I cannot call on your assistance?”
The subminds were studying the ships they were aboard, finding ways to shut down internal scanning and security around them and designing appropriate attacks. Perpetually updated on this, the Brockle itself noted that the problem with the attack ships was accessibility. They were so packed with hardware that there were hardly any spaces to worm through. However, the submind designated number six found the answer: the ship-mind ejection ports. To access such a port would require the sacrifice of one unit each—converting a large portion of its meta-material mass into a catalytic thermic lance. All the Brockle’s subminds in the attack ships began preparing themselves for this.
“This is getting a little fraught,” said the prador, obviously acknowledging the change of formation in the Polity fleet. “If the assistance you require entails firing on Polity ships, I think not. The king is all for mutual cooperation when it suits both our interests, but actions that could be misinterpreted and lead to war, are not in our interests. This is something you will have to deal with alone.”
The main problem with the dreadnoughts was the distance of the subminds from the ship AIs. The Brockle was amused to see that the solution to that was again the ship-mind ejection tube. It seemed their concern for their own survival was the weakness to be exploited in both cases. The subminds were ready, and it was therefore time to set the whole plan in motion.
“I’m afraid the indications are that Penny Royal has also penetrated the prador fleet,” it told Garrotte, while to the prador it said: “Then I bid you goodbye,” briefly amused by its own underlying meaning there as it sent its instructions to the U-space missiles.
The massive extended teardrop of the King’s Guard lead ship, gleaming gold and the peak of prador weapon technology, bucked, briefly expanded at its waist, and simply blew apart in an explosion that glowed borealis green in the pink-champagne light of the hypergiant. The Brockle thought this beautiful as, still hurtling in towards the two ship formations, it initiated the internal structural force-fields that were a requisite for a firing of the High Castle’s gravity-wave weapon. Meanwhile, what appeared to be a prador kamikaze materialized just a few hundred miles out from the Polity fleet and fired up a fuser drive, its speed ramping up under thousand-gravity acceleration.
The Polity formation broke, ships slamming immediately into similarly massive accelerations as they scattered. They could take out the kamikaze, but guessed the thing was a planet-breaker loaded with CTDs that would detonate once their anti-matter vessels were ruptured. Shooting the thing was about as smart as shooting at a grenade sitting on a shelf across a room.
The second apparent kamikaze appe
ared from sunward, changing the ship scatter pattern, while the second Polity U-jump missile blew the tail from a second King’s Guard ship and sent it tumbling. The first kamikaze detonated, its explosion surprisingly weak. And now the ships were responding to attack. Particle beams lanced out from the prador ships and splashed on sudden scalings of hardfields. Swarms of railgun missiles filled intervening space.
Antiquated, thought the Brockle, as it fired its gravity weapon.
“Take them out!” it then ordered the Polity fleet.
The gravity wave hit: a space-time ripple passing through two prador ships and wrenching them into twisted wrecks. One of them blew open lengthways on a disc-shaped explosion. The High Castle’s gravity wave firing appeared ill-aimed and ill-timed, because it continued, somewhat weakened, straight into the Polity fleet. It wasn’t enough to kill ships, but it did cause damage and disruption. However, one attack ship disappeared in a bright flash, its substance fading like shadows—one of the hardened CTD cases that should have protected it from the gravity wave must have possessed a fault. The Brockle felt the pain of its submind there expiring. Meanwhile its other subminds were now out of their probes and heading for those ship-mind ejection tubes.
Firing now from the Polity ships as white lasers stabbed out to incinerate railgun missiles, then switched to particle beams as it became apparent that some of those missiles were prador exotic metal. But still, it was no contest. Two of the attack ships began peeling off splinter missiles, which then blinked out of existence. Three prador ships, one after the other, bucked, briefly expanded, then exploded like petrol-filled balloons. The rest of their formation began pulling away and, as another two ships were simply annihilated, the Brockle felt two attack ships fall under its control.
“We can let them go,” said Garrotte, calm, forgiving, and utterly unaware as yet of the submind now cutting through the locks on its escape hatch.
The Brockle contemplated the remaining eleven prador ships. They had their hardfields up and were withdrawing just as fast as they could. They were just seconds from U-jumping away, their drive fields actually managing to overcome local disruption, but they were totally vulnerable to U-jump missiles and could be destroyed in a moment. What to do? Did allowing them to go undermine the Brockle’s story about them having been taken over by Penny Royal? Would it be best for them just to disappear and thus delay news of what had happened here getting out?
As the remaining four attack ships fell under its control, the forensic AI realized it did not matter. Whether AIs that were under its control knew it had lied was irrelevant and, as for the news getting out, the Brockle knew that the prador ships would have been constantly relaying data to the Kingdom.
“Yes, let them go,” it agreed.
“What the—” began Garrotte, then a submind unit silenced it by severing optics, while the other wrapped around it and injected nano-fibres. A moment later the other dreadnought fell.
Done.
In virtuality the Brockle sensed eight AI ship minds like tumours in the loose spread of its being. As it steadily took them apart, completely supplanted them, absorbed them, they became part of its being. It wasn’t murder because, in a sense, they still existed.
“Now we go to Layden’s Sink,” it said, much expanded now, confident.
There was no reply.
16
Spear
I saw the shuttle buck then lift off the ground on a plasma explosion. Further missiles struck even as it rose, tearing it apart. A wall of fire and debris hurtled towards me, first engulfing Sepia. I stood paralysed, taken straight back to my death on Panarchia, then a moment later felt something hard slam into me and heave me aside. I thumped down behind one of the standing jags of metal, with Riss coiled around my torso as the fire and debris parted around the jag, but then swept me up. I tumbled in a chaos of burning metal and shattered stone, but around me Riss was a blur deflecting the worst of it.
Finally I sprawled on my back in dusty grey, trying repeatedly to aug through to Sepia and only getting error messages. I remembered how when we first encountered Mr Pace, I knew I was putting her in danger. Now . . . Riss uncoiled from me and slid to one side, peering up through the swirling dust. I sat upright, brushing away rubble and some lethal-looking chunks of metal. A moment later my visor display informed me of a couple of sealed suit breaches that would need attention while its medical monitor noted that the bleeding from my right leg had been stopped, but would also need attention. I loaded data from the suit to my aug and got detail: there was a sliver of something in my calf muscle, and it must have been very hard that it penetrated my suit. I stood, carefully, but there was very little pain—the suit had pressure-injected a nano-bead analgesic.
“He’s landing,” said Riss.
I felt a surge of sickening anger. Yes, during the war I’d killed prador, but I’d never killed a human being. Even when I’d had the opportunity and been perfectly justified in doing so, as in the case of Isobel Satomi, I’d avoided it. But right now I was prepared to kill.
“Flute,” I said, that connection opening easily. “Hit that ship.”
“I cannot,” Flute replied with a wail. “You’re enclosed!”
He sent a visual feed and I gazed through his sensors down towards us. Nearly half the planetoid now sat under a hardfield dome. I put a frame over an object down on the surface and focused in, studying Mr Pace’s ship, a cloud of dust blowing out around it as it settled. Next I transferred the frame to the glowing remains of our shuttle and searched the surrounding area. I could see no space-suited figure there nor could I pick up any feeds from Sepia’s suit.
“Fucking Penny Royal,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Riss.
“What do I do?” queried Flute, now apparently calmer.
“Just stand by,” I replied, then turned to Riss. “I need to get to Sepia.”
Riss swung round to look at me, then just froze for a moment before saying, “This way.”
I hesitated, bracing myself, and asked, “Is she alive, Riss?”
“I can’t tell at this distance,” the snake drone replied, still heading away.
I scanned the ground I could see around myself. “Riss, where the hell is the spine?” Then, before she could reply, added, “Never mind.” As I stomped after her I could sense the spine ahead and knew I could locate it in zero visibility. I opened up my connection to it again and suddenly felt lighter, more confident, but still angry. I used it to probe for Sepia’s aug, but below the error messages was just fizz.
“Mr Pace,” I said to Riss, to distract myself from the terror of what I might find when I reached Sepia.
“Hasn’t left his ship yet.”
I felt Riss was keeping something from me. Perhaps she did know what had happened to Sepia. I felt no inclination to push her because the longer I didn’t know . . .
Riss led me through settling dust and clearing smoke, which was now thin enough for me to see the burning remains of the shuttle lying some distance away. When I ran a program in my aug to sort that out because perspective was difficult on such a little world, it told me those remains lay over a mile away. As visibility continued to improve I saw the crater we had landed by, but no sign of Penny Royal.
We came at length to the edge of an area of smoking ground lying between us and the remnants of the shuttle. Just to one side of Penny Royal’s crater, jabbed into hardening lava, was the spine. Gazing at this area, I assumed Mr Pace must have tried to shoot at Penny Royal too and the railgun shot or shots had deflected here. I tested the ground ahead with one foot, found it firm and began to make my way across. By then my leg was beginning to hurt and my suit kept warning me of another bleed. I turned the warnings off.
“He’s left his ship,” said Riss.
Right . . .
Only as I approached the spine did I think to delve again into its connection with Mr P
ace. Immediately I was seeing through his eyes and sensing his thoughts as he ran, in great long lopes through a metal forest—his gaze fixed on a distant cloud of dust and smoke. I grabbed the object and tried to pull it from the lava, but it resisted—stone hardened around it to glue it in place. For one brief moment I wondered if Penny Royal was enjoying some obscure joke here because, well, the spine was a bit like a sword . . .
I reformatted it, changing its profile, and pulled it from the ground, moved on over the magma with Riss streaming along beside me like something molten herself. I kept on a straight course towards the remains of the shuttle. The thing was utterly in pieces and the surrounding area ripped up so it was difficult for me to figure out where I had been standing, let alone where Sepia might be.
“She’s here?” I asked. “That blast threw me over a mile away.”
“Trapped against that,” said Riss, rising into the air and pointing with her ovipositor. I looked over towards one of those jags of metal and after a moment recognized it as the one Riss had thrown me behind. I began heading towards it, but through another’s eyes I could now see myself: Mr Pace was heading towards me, fast, from behind.
“Any explosive gel left?” I asked casually.
“None at all,” Riss replied.
Through the spine, I was a multitude again, as I had been at Room 101 when the robot had attacked us aboard the Lance, and time slowed all around me. I began turning, while calculating vectors, even as Pace hurtled in, drawing back one stony hand to stab it through my body. I let go of the spine, snapped a hand round, grabbed his wrist and pushed down as I bowed, throwing him. Even though I’d diverted most of his impetus I still sprawled on the ground, feeling as if I’d been clipped by a ground car. Mr Pace tumbled through the air beyond me and slammed into a chunk of the shuttle’s hull, tipping it over in an explosion of sparks and fragments of hardened breach foam.