by Neal Asher
Time to go.
Sverl directed his attention towards the Weaver and saw it touching those mushroom-shaped controls around it and the things steadily folding back down into the platform.
“So that’s completion of payment?” he asked, through the system.
The Weaver looked up, dipped its head in a curiously human nod, then began to rise from the platform. He too was leaving now, Sverl could sense.
Within a few minutes Bsorol and Bsectil and the second-children had retrieved belongings from inside the hauler and, loaded with packages and weaponry, gathered out on the hull again to await instructions.
“Come on,” said Sverl, launching himself from the hull metal and engaging his internal drives, his children crowding behind him through the internal spaces of the sphere. He studied his surroundings, sure in the knowledge that in later years he would be able to recall everything here in perfect detail. In fact, loss of memory for him was now a matter of choice and not one of organic failure. Soon the runcible loomed into sight at the heart of the sphere, the Weaver bobbing in vacuum to one side of it and, on other levels, delivering instructions to its controlling AI.
Sverl accessed these, half expecting to be blocked. The runcible destination was Masada, so how did the Weaver intend to collect its starship—that final payment for what it had done for Penny Royal? Sverl was about to ask this but, before he could, the Weaver drifted forwards, and through the interface. Sverl now paused before that same interface and took one last look around in the sphere. He had supposed he would feel reluctance, but it was lacking.
“We’re heading into Atheter territory now, but on a Polity base and via one of their runcibles,” he said to his children. “Be on guard for any attack, but also be wary of overreacting.”
“We know how to deal with humans,” Bsorol replied.
“All of you?” Sverl asked.
Bsorol spun around on air jet thrusters and delivered staccato instructions to the second-children, who began fixing their weapons to clips and clamps on their armour, rather than brandishing them in their claws and underhands. Sverl watched this for a moment, then propelled himself towards the meniscus of the runcible gate. As he slid through, he felt the pull of grav on the other side and some field effect repositioning his exit point so he came through just above the floor, landing with a clatter.
Ahead, the Weaver had moved out to the centre of the floor and there squatted facing back towards the runcible. Sverl noted armed individuals shepherding the various civilian travellers and technicians out of the runcible chamber. He eyed the pulse-rifles and laser carbines they carried and wasn’t too quick to dismiss them from his attention. The Weaver had banned from the system the kind of military assets that might be a threat to him, and these looked to be the kind of armament carried by law enforcement officers. But Sverl wouldn’t be surprised if one or two of the hand weapons he was seeing were not quite what they seemed.
Many a curious glance was thrown in his direction as he appeared, but there seemed little in the way of fear. However, when Bsorol and Bsectil came through to move ahead of Sverl, shortly followed by the second-children, who formed a rearguard, the civilians departed with alacrity. This left twenty armed humans and Golem standing at the mouths of exit corridors looking very unsure, and doubtless requesting instructions over their comunits and augs.
“I see,” said a voice, “the erstwhile prador Sverl who has now, in such a curious manner, joined our ranks. Arrowsmith told me a great deal about you.” The voice was human and issued through the PA system here; Sverl guessed it was the Flint AI doing the talking.
“So where is he now?” Sverl asked.
“Down on the surface of Masada, keeping a close watch on the shell people, Trent Sobel and an erstwhile Penny Royal Golem called Mr Grey.”
“And how are they now?”
“Trent Sobel and his new squeeze are just travelling, Mr Grey sometimes with them, sometimes not. Some of the shell people have returned here to head out to other worlds. Some are attempting to join a dracoman community on the surface. Others have been wandering either aimlessly or straight into danger. Thus far four have been killed by hooders, two by mud snake and one by a heroyne. Masada offers many opportunities for the bored and suicidal.”
“To be expected,” said Sverl. In fact, he was quite surprised that so few had died. “And now perhaps you would like to get to the point you were aiming for in opening conversation with me.”
“Our friend here the Weaver is uncommunicative,” the Flint AI admitted, “as is the Atheter AI on the surface. I, and many others, would like to know your intentions.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Sverl had kept a large portion of his attention focused on the big gabbleduck, which had now heaved itself up and sauntered over to a com pillar. Plumping itself down, it reached out with the tip of one claw and with the appearance of intense concentration began working a console.
“We also have some concerns about some events observed from the Well Head,” the AI added.
“You know what Penny Royal is doing and you know the purpose of the sphere,” said Sverl. “I therefore assume that your present concerns are about something else.”
“The appearance of an Atheter starship demonstrably capable of annihilating a small fleet of modern Polity warships is certainly of some concern.” Then after a pause the AI added, “And now I’m wondering why the Weaver is inputting coordinates to a non-existent runcible.”
The Weaver sat back from the pillar and swung round to gaze at Sverl. A private com request came through and Sverl opened it. Instead of words, tactical data came through concerning the runcible chamber all around them. The walls turned transparent, with many areas targeted. Frames hovered over the weapons carried by the four Golem here, stats showing that these old-fashioned bulky-looking laser carbines were in fact gigawatt proton beamers. Concealed weapons in the walls were also highlighted: the curious tangles of cooling pipes that could hinge out in a moment and were in fact particle cannons, the dull heads of EMR pulse weapons and the series of grenade launchers inset in what looked like sump holes along the base of one wall. Sverl dispatched instructions to Bsorol and Bsectil. No weapons were brandished but all the children soon began shifting to orient themselves towards selected targets.
So what were the intentions of the AI and those Golem? It wasn’t difficult for Sverl to see what might be likely. The Polity had stuck to its own laws in respect of the Weaver but its AIs had not liked that Atheter’s bid for independence in acquiring a new war machine and in turn resurrecting that other one, the Technician. Sverl was all too aware that Polity law was somewhat arbitrary and the AIs stuck to it only so far. He could see how the idea of that same Atheter next acquiring a starship might tip them over the edge.
More data arrived from the Weaver: armour to be penetrated, power feeds and optics that needed to be cut. Deep under the floor of this chamber lay the armoured case of the runcible AI. Severing these feeds would isolate it from its own runcible.
“But if it’s cut off from the runcible, the runcible goes down,” Sverl sent.
“No,” the Weaver replied, delivering another data package.
Sverl studied a new design. He saw the optic connections and he absorbed blocks of code. He saw the two subminds he could subvert to gain access to extra processing space. He could take the place of the runcible AI. This was supposing any of them survived the fire fight that would certainly precede that act.
“I’m guessing the Weaver is inputting coordinates to a runcible that has yet to be activated,” he said.
“That was my thinking too,” replied the Flint AI. “Perhaps one located close to that Atheter starship?”
“I’m also guessing that Polity AIs think that it is not in their best interest to allow the Weaver to board such a ship?”
After a long silence the AI replied, “That has yet to be decided
.”
“I’m baffled,” said Sverl. “I’ve no doubt that you have many assets, including USERs and U-space mines positioned all around this system, but surely you’ve seen what that starship is capable of? Even though you might prevent the Weaver reaching it, I think it unlikely you can prevent the ship getting to the Weaver.”
The silence after that stretched interminably and was an answer in itself. Sverl felt he should have understood what the Polity AIs were contemplating. So involved had he been in studying the ways of negating the concealed weapons here and taking control of the runcible he had neglected to see the obvious. Atheter war machines and starships were a danger to the Polity but, with the resources it had available, they could eventually be destroyed. Such items given intelligent direction by a living Atheter were a whole order of magnitude more dangerous. The simple solution, for the Polity, would be to kill the Weaver.
“You should activate your hardfield,” Sverl sent.
The Weaver acknowledged this with a dip of his head, replying, “We wait.”
Blite
It had started talking to them as soon as Mr Pace was dead. The moment that happened, the cylinder of black glass that Blite had in his pocket had activated, turning warm. Taking it out, Blite had studied the lights flickering inside before feeling the wave of an intense scan routine passing through his body.
“You are now the captain of this ship,” said this ship’s controlling mind.
From the cylinder had come aug connection requests, which he had allowed. Data flooded in and Blite learned the nature of the mind: a living organism, the extracted and organically supported mind of a female prador, now using human language to communicate for the first time. The black cylinder was the ship’s key and it was now Blite’s, and would be his until he said otherwise, or did not perform as required. He mentally reached into ship’s systems and saw that he could control most of it, but still there were things he could not do.
“However,” the mind had continued, “you must deliver Mr Pace’s art collection to the buyer before you gain full control.”
“I see,” Blite had said, then linked into ship’s sensors to see what had happened outside. “We’ll discuss this further when we get back.”
He and Greer had left the ship and when he had told Spear that they would be following him to Panarchia, Blite was far from convinced they would actually be able to. Returning to the ship, he had spoken to the AI again.
“We want to go to Panarchia first,” he had said, checking coordinates in astrogation and finding that the mind had unearthed them first.
“Very well,” the mind had replied, immediately launching the ship from the surface of the planetoid.
Subsequent investigations during the journey revealed that the time limit for delivery of Pace’s collection was one year. At that point the mind would automatically take the ship to the buyer, who was located in Earth’s solar system, on Mars. Any attempt to interfere with the mind, or the systems it controlled, would result in hidden weapons being activated to kill him and Greer. Then ownership of the vessel would transfer to the buyer, who would get his art collection for free. Really, it would be best to do what Mr Pace had wanted: in return Blite would end up with a ship and a very large payment to his Galaxy Bank account for the collection. Later, when they surfaced from U-space, he learned that other restrictions applied.
“Surely you could have got us closer than this?” he had asked.
“I am not allowed to endanger the collection,” said the mind.
“Endanger how?” Blite had asked.
“Possibilities only when I made the jump,” the mind had replied.
The mind had then allowed the ship to head towards Panarchia on fusion while it “made further assessments.” It was frustratingly slow and Blite wondered if everything would be done there before they arrived, and suspected this was the mind’s intention.
“The dangers here are the presence of Penny Royal on Panarchia, the presence of an alien object heading towards Layden’s Sink and the proximity of an alien ship in conflict with Polity vessels,” it replied. “Now a damaged Polity ship is nearby and the possibilities are high that the alien vessel will pursue it.”
“No shit,” said Greer, who Blite had instructed to be included in any exchanges.
They were on the small bridge of the ship, with its holographic controls and consoles that looked as if they had been grown. Together they had watched the conflict out by Layden’s Sink and the subsequent arrival of the High Castle just light minutes away from them. Blite glanced a warning at Greer and opened a private channel to her aug.
“Say nothing about the Brockle,” he told her. “If our prador lady here learns about that we’ll be over Mars before you can blink.”
“I’m not stupid, Captain,” she replied. “Hey, just a thought here: Prador Lady is a great name for a ship.”
Out loud Blite said, “Why not take us closer to Panarchia? That’s where we want to go and I know you’re capable of making a short accurate jump like that.”
“I am still assessing dangers,” said the mind.
Assessing the dangers represented by the likes of Penny Royal would be like calculating pi—a never-ending task. He realized the mind might be stuck in a loop: unable to assess the risk of the unknowable and therefore unable to make a decision on it. This was probably why the fusion drive had been steadily closing down. How could he persuade it that Penny Royal was not a danger to them? He wasn’t at all sure of that himself. And on that matter things now changed drastically.
“Shit on a stick!” exclaimed Greer.
Blite stared, with his mouth hanging open, at the image on the screen. A moment before the screen had shown the High Castle. Now that ship was gone.
Amistad
Sailing on past, Amistad watched with satisfaction as the High Castle disintegrated and turned into a plume of plasma stretching for a thousand miles. However, he had detected the U-signatures from within that ship in the brief instant before its total destruction, and he detected other U-signatures far ahead. They could have been the signatures from U-jump missiles, but he suspected not.
That’s that, I’ve done my best, he thought. But now he had a bit of a problem. He was hurtling towards Panarchia at just over a quarter light speed, since he’d got off the well-hopper early, and, though he possessed fusion engines, he just did not have the available energy to kill that kind of velocity.
So what now?
He began making astrogation calculations. He had enough fuel available to divert away from Panarchia while punching a U-space signal back to the Polity. However, after his recent behaviour on Polity property, and after he had just tried to undermine Earth Central’s plan to give Penny Royal some serious motivation to destroy the Brockle, he could guess what kind of an answer he would receive, and it wouldn’t be kind.
Alternatives?
Perhaps he could divert slightly and use the atmosphere to slow him? He knew it was a vain hope as he made the calculations. To get him down to a reasonable speed the ablation of his armour and heat from atmospheric friction would burn him down to nothing. In fact, he calculated that to slow would require armour massing twenty times what he possessed. It was impossible. But what if he included swinging round other planets and moons in this system, radiating heat between atmospheric brakings as well as converting it to usable energy through his internal thermo-convertors? There were possibilities there. By swinging in-system and out, dunking himself in the frigid upper clouds of the gas giant here and scooping some of their content, he could bring his speed down. The drawback was that it would take over eight thousand years, by the end of which time he would be a pock-marked lump, sans limbs.
Then, of course, there were the ships here. The one lying ahead, travelling towards Panarchia, should be able to ramp up its speed to intercept him. However, he recognized the vessel and could see no r
eason why Mr Pace would show such altruism. That left the Lance, down on the surface. Would Thorvald Spear allow its second-child mind to take it up to run an intercept? Amistad sent a com request to the planet; to the Lance, to Thorvald Spear, and to the assassin drone Riss. Amistad had, after all, come here to help them. The response was immediate and he opened a channel, but it went into him hard and fixed itself, as undeniable as a harpoon. This was not who he had wanted to talk to.
“Hello Amistad,” said Penny Royal.
“Hello yourself,” Amistad replied, fighting to lever the barbs out of his mind.
“You were right,” said Penny Royal, “to be concerned about the ruthlessness of Earth Central.”
The black AI started riffling through his mind as if his defences were irrelevant. How had he ever thought himself superior or in a superior position to this thing?
“And you were aware of it? And are aware of its intended motivation for you?”
“Of course.” It then began checking through all his internal systems, hardware like his manufactories, running diagnostics and even initiating his hardfield projector and its backup briefly, to project ahead.
“So I didn’t need to come.”
“You came, as per plan.”
Amistad felt hollow.
“Doable,” said Penny Royal.
“What is?” Amistad asked tightly.
Again as if his defences were nothing, an information package slid into his mind. Before he could even attempt to consign it to secure storage or block it in any way, it opened. Expecting further intrusion via the package, Amistad prepared himself to wipe portions of his mind, burn out internal systems, direct internal viral attacks, but the package was a schematic and conversion schedule perfectly designed to suit his resources. He saw that this was a way of taking apart his hardfield generators, and his U-space communicator, and turning them into something new. And he recognized the result: one of Penny Royal’s new hardfield generators.