by Lucas Bale
‘It was necessary—’
‘How long have you know about this particular ship in the class? How long have you known about my ship?’
‘Since she was built.’
‘What else do you know?’
The preacher turned to the navigator. She nodded in understanding and disappeared through the heavy airlock doors.
The preacher turned back to Shepherd. ‘You want to know if I knew your father,’ he said finally. It wasn’t expressed as a question.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes,’ the preacher said. ‘I knew your brother too.’
‘I said I wasn’t interested in what you were selling, preacher,’ Shepherd said. ‘But you’d better tell me right now what you know.’
‘I can’t do that.’ The preacher didn’t take his eyes from Shepherd.
There’s no soul in there, Shepherd thought. You’re dead inside. ‘I’m warning you. You blackmailed me once before. You won’t again.’
‘What could you do to me?’ the preacher said, his eyes narrowed. ‘Even if I allowed you to visit some form of violence on me, you’d never have answers. All these years, having the dream you have. Waking up every time you travel in the tunnels, after having that same dream again. The brother you can’t quite remember.’
Shepherd rose slowly, almost deliberately, from his seat. He seized the preacher’s jacket with both hands, curling them into fists, feeling the fabric bunch in between his fingers as anger tightened his grip. ‘How the hell do you know about that?’ He could hardly speak, and the words came out snarled.
The preacher didn’t react at all. He met Shepherd’s furious stare and spoke quietly. ‘You have a job to do. You do it, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’ll tell you what happened to your brother, and who your father really was. That’s our deal.’
Shepherd leaned in so close, his face was almost touching the preacher’s. ‘One day I’m going to kill you.’
‘Get in line.’
C H A P T E R 33
‘AS YOU’VE almost certainly realised by now, you won’t be going back to Theia as yourself.’ The voice came from behind Weaver, a man whose name he didn’t know and whose face he hadn’t seen before. They sat in another hollowed-out room beneath a tent on the outskirts of the compound. A holographic image of the hold of a freighter, displayed by a module on the only table in the room, filled the damp gloom with haze of blue. ‘We’ve spent the last eighteen months building a supply line out of the Core. We fulfil freight contracts for replacement machine parts between one of the cantons and several Houses on Samarkand. You’ll be going into the port inside one of the empty crates designed to hold the machine parts we’re collecting. It will be screened of course, so the fact that there’s a living person inside won’t show up on any of the scanners, but there will come a point when you’ll need to get out of the port. That’s the tricky part.’
‘My implant.’
‘Exactly. The transmitter we’ve inserted into your body, next to the implant, will dampen the signal, but it’s not perfect. You won’t alert Theia’s automated camera systems to your presence—you will be, to all intents and purposes, invisible to them—but should anyone ever scan you directly, they will immediately notice the difference.’
‘And what do you expect me to do in that situation?’
‘Well, now, that’s a matter for you. If you ever get to that point, I’m afraid you’re beyond our help.’
‘That’s comforting.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I imagined it would be. We will arrange a synpol facial mask for you of course, but it will degrade in time, so you’ll need to replace it. Apply it as late as you can before you exit the crate.’
‘How do you intend to get me out of the port?’
‘The containers will be transported by an automated system to a warehouse in the canton. We are not permitted to accompany them, and only authorised citizens within the canton can receive them. I don’t imagine anyone on the receiving end would be kindly disposed to the risk your presence will have placed them in; they would almost certainly detain and report you. So you will need to evacuate yourself from the container and leave the port before that automated system begins its journey. We’ve timed it for you. You will have around seven minutes to open the container from the inside, close it again, and find a way to leave without being detected.’
‘What can you tell me about the container transport system?’
‘Unfortunately, very little. We haven’t been able to gain access at all. We know there’s a surveillance system, but as there’s no human interaction within the system’s building, we don’t think there will be any implant scanners.’
Weaver nodded. We don’t think.
‘You have but one objective when you arrive into Theia itself. You must reach the Laurentian Park in the canton of Aden without being followed. If you suspect you have a tail, you must lose it. You’ll be met—it doesn’t matter by who. They will give you a place to stay while you arrange your own. You will then disappear, and arrangements have been made for them to do the same. Your next contact will be expecting you. I don’t know the identity of that contact, but I’m told you do. You will given instructions as to when and where you will need to meet them.’
‘Wait—you said I might have to shake a tail? Isn’t this pipeline secure? Rankin said you’ve been setting it up for two years.’
The man smiled grimly. ‘We are not blind to the fact that the Magistratus holds a considerable technological advantage over us. However careful we are, they are far more paranoid. Yet, because of its size, and the number of citizens it feels compelled to watch, the Magistratus can be very slow to provoke. Very often, it is possible to drift past without attracting a great deal of attention. However, everything we have been doing over the last two years is very much capable of attracting their attention.
‘We also realise, sadly I must say for you, that the best way for them to catch us in the act would be for them to allow us to progress some way down the path before they trap us. We have no way of knowing how much they already know.’
Weaver understood that perfectly. Perhaps more so than you, he thought. ‘When do I leave?’
The man smiled. ‘Your freighter awaits,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’
The container was barely large enough for him to sit up in, about the size of four coffins stacked as a cube, so he stabilised himself by wedging his back into a corner. He had been given a luminant, and he turned it on, sweeping the light around the spartan interior. Apart from him and a hold-all, it was empty. It was hot inside; sweat trickled down his back. The air was thin and he had to concentrate to breathe. There was a catch built into one wall—a simple system that enabled him to open it from the inside. In every other respect, they had assured him, the container was identical to the mountains of others it stood beside. It had taken three days for the freighter to make its way to the Core, and he had not been permitted to speak to anyone on board. He had remained in a small room throughout the trip, until a man he didn’t know came to retrieve him and wordlessly took him to the container.
He knew it wouldn’t be long now until the freighter docked, and at that moment a chill crept across his skin. The hold would be scanned continuously as the freighter glided slowly through the docking bay, and then again as it hovered and descended onto its assigned landing platform. Hundreds of ships, in and out of the port at any one time, and Weaver wondered how often this freighter had been one of them. How often the web of automated systems, the artificial intelligence minds that controlled and scanned, had searched this freighter with the infinite electronic palpi of their active and passive phased arrays, then collated and analysed the complex data to detect the slightest anomaly. How many stowaways seeking a better life in the Core had been detected by those hyper-intelligent systems? Where were those people now? Kolyma, or worse.
He rolled his neck to try to relieve the tension in his muscles, but he ended up banging his head against the wall of
the container. He swore softly and rubbed his eyes. His palms were damp. The last time he had come through the port, he had been scanned and immediately his Caesteri implant had enabled him to pass through customs without incident or delay. He had emerged into the sunlight that feathered the walkways and galleries, as free as it was possible to be in the Core.
Not this time, he thought. Now you’re persona non grata. He doubted that there would be a warning klaxon if the automated systems discovered his presence. He reckoned he would never even know. They would watch him, follow him, use him to work out what it was that Rankin and his operation were up to. Then they would come for him, quietly and without him ever realising his life was about to end until the needle slipped into his neck.
The container rocked as it lifted. He steadied himself with his hands and forced himself to breathe. Again there was a heavy kick as it settled onto something firm.
At his insistence, they had found for him an old clockwork timepiece, an antique. He had refused modules or any technology that might be capable of being networked in any way. He checked the timepiece now and saw that it was time. He crawled silently over to the catch and began to work it. It opened, and he felt the weight of the container wall against his grip. He held it in place, and listened.
The only thing he could hear was the whir and metallic thump of heavy machinery. He eased the wall away, tilting his head to look through the small gap. He was in a vast, dark warehouse—a packing plant with thousands of containers stacked high. Mechanical arms descended from the darkness above, where he imagined the ceiling must be, and seized container after container, removing them and placing them out of his sight.
There’s no one here, he thought. Not a single human being. There was no reason for anyone to be here—the process was completely automated. Which meant, he thought, that if there were sensor systems that could detect the presence of organic tissue, alerts would be raised. It wouldn’t matter if he had a device dampening his implant or not—his own skin and muscle would give him away. Well, you can’t stay here, he told himself. Time to get moving. He threw the hold-all over his shoulder.
He opened the container just far enough to ease through. His container had been stacked on top of yet more containers; he was several levels up. Beyond that, it was difficult to see. He eased a foot onto the rim of the steel container next to him, grasping for a handhold, then, with his free hand, he levered the wall of his own container shut. He heard the catch click back into place. He examined it before he moved, but even now it looked just like every other container.
Below, he could see gaps between the towering walls of stacked containers, which ran in a grid pattern. He considered climbing down to the floor, but dismissed the idea. Stowaways, if there ever were any, would surely do precisely that, which meant scanning systems at ground level were inevitable. In addition, down there he would not be able to see much; it would be like a maze—easy to get lost in. And there wasn’t a great deal of lighting, either; machines didn’t need it, he supposed.
As he considered his options, time ticked away in the back of his mind. Seven minutes. He scanned the warehouse again, searching the rows of stacked containers, and caught a glimmer of something in the half-light. Small mechanical arms, each finished with an orb haloed in a hazy blue light, darted from container to container, flooding them in that shimmering blue. Weaver looked back at his own container and immediately realised what they were doing. His container, like all the others, had been stamped with a code plate. The arms were code scanners.
Scanners that would almost certainly pick up organic matter too.
He looked along the row where he hung by his fingertips and saw a scanner heading in his direction. It was only seven or eight stacks away from his, and it seemed to take only a few seconds to scan each. At this rate, it would likely reach him in under a minute. He had to move, and quickly.
Climbing sideways wouldn’t work—he’d never be able to stay ahead of the arm—but maybe he could find a way up or down. Yet as he searched for a handhold, for anything he could use to climb, he found nothing within reach. The crates were too tall; he’d never reach the top of the one above, and didn’t trust that he could lower himself down to the row below without losing his grip and falling.
The orb was getting closer, pausing for only a few seconds to scan each container as it went. It bobbed each time as it settled in to scan the code plate. Dozens more arms must be scanning other containers. Dammit, he thought madly. It’s nearly here! Find something!
As he hung there, suspended from the lip of the container, he looked back over his shoulder. There was another row of stacks just behind him, maybe a metre away. If he could get one foot on that stack, maybe he could lean away from the scanner’s path and avoid its scrutiny.
Gripping with both hands, he stretched a foot backward, trying to find the stack behind him. But he flailed in the air. Sweat ran into his eyes, blinding him. His muscles began to burn. His fingers began to slip. Dammit! He brought his foot back and glanced feverishly over at the scanner. It was close now. In seconds it would be upon him.
There was no way he could reach the stack behind him without releasing with one hand. Somehow swinging sideways. He glanced again at the drop beneath him. It was twenty metres or more.
The orb bobbed into position beside the container next to his, bathing it in a haze of blue.
Time to move.
Weaver released his hold with his one hand, swivelled, and flung a foot toward the other stack. He fumbled for a moment, and felt a chill stab of fear, but then his toes found a foothold on the rim of the container below. He was suspended, barely securely, between the two stacks, one foot on either side. With a deep breath he let go with his remaining hand and threw himself across to the other stack, barely making it over in time.
The arm moved into position to scan the container he had just left behind. Weaver pressed himself back against his new stack, desperate to avoid the orb’s gaze. But when the arm stopped, the orb seemed to pause.
Instead of scanning the container code, it jerked left and right, seemingly searching, again flooding the container, but this time with red light. The halo of the red touched him—he could see it on his left foot—but the focus of the orb remained on the containers. Has it sensed me?
He pressed his back against the cool metal, sweat pouring off him. He was hardly breathing, and he could feel his body shaking. He waited.
After a moment, the light shifted back to blue, and the orb moved on to the next container.
Weaver breathed a trembling sigh of relief.
His current position told him exactly how he could climb. Using the two stacks of containers, his back against one and his feet against the other, he slowly walked his way up to the top of the stack. When at last he reached the top, he clumsily levered himself onto the flat roof of the final container and caught his breath. For a moment, he allowed himself to watch the orb as it continued its work. Then he took another look at his surroundings.
He needed to find an exit.
Above him, maintenance walkways ran all around the warehouse; eventually they would undoubtedly lead to doors. But those doors would have scanning systems that would instantly raise alerts. Perhaps he could steal a set of maintenance overalls? But if he were stopped, the operation would be dead. No, he thought. That cannot work.
He searched the warehouse for another way out, but found nothing. The only doors in and out of this place were to be found, he was sure, at the end of those walkways. For a moment, he considered trying to climb up there, but then his eyes fell on the belts leading to the freight conduit, and he had a better idea.
He began to follow the belts, running along the tops of the container stacks, jumping between them and ensuring he did not look down at the considerable drop. The belts led him to a vast wall, where they then disappeared through steel archways. He knew that on the other side of those archways, the freight conduit lines began.
Weaver watched the heavy load
ing arms as they lifted containers and placed them onto the belts. He worked out which container stack was to be loaded next and headed for it. He was cautious with every step—the fall would likely kill him—but he had to move quickly. Climbing away from the orb scanners had cost him valuable time.
When he reached the container stack he needed, he lay down on his chest, as flat as he could, with his arms tucked in to his sides. He’d watched the arm operate; he knew it left ample space between the top of the crate and itself, but he wasn’t going to risk being crushed.
The arm came down and clamped on to either side of the crate, then lifted it up. Moments later, Weaver felt a hollow thump, and then the arm released and lifted away; the container had been placed on the belt.
Weaver rose to his knees and saw the conduit conveyance ahead. The belt led directly up to it, depositing the container onto a series of rollers within the conveyance. He needed to be off of it before then, and there was only one place he could go: the roof of the conveyance.
Just before the container shifted onto the rollers, Weaver jumped, arms outstretched, and grabbed onto the edge of the roof. As he pulled himself up, his knees jarred against the edge, and pain first exploded, then bled into his mind. He collapsed flat on the roof, pressing his chest down, and with it the fear that gathered inside him.
C H A P T E R 34
EVART NEILSSEN stood in the centre of Herse’s main street, staring up at one of the cameras as it panned in a 180-degree arc. The township was empty and silent apart from the howling wind that kicked up the snow around him; the townsfolk had all been rounded up and herded into one of the large bunkers the battalion’s heavy machinery had dug deep into the snow. The villages on the periphery, on the fringes of the vast forest that sprawled over the landscape in the steppes of the mountains, had also been cleared. They had met with no resistance, and there were currently no orders to terminate anyone.