by Lucas Bale
He studied the faces of those citizens who came and went in the area around his chosen tavara, getting to know their routines and mannerisms so that strangers and newcomers could be easily distinguished from them. He observed gunship patrols above, noting their regularity and idiosyncrasies, and Peacekeeper foot patrols on the walkways and galleries. He identified every surveillance camera system, taking note of blind spots in their coverage, then compiled escape routes through the city. There could be no room for error—a single mistake would mean not only his life, and Skoryk’s, but the failure of the entire operation.
Only when he was ready, when he was sure the small room he had chosen, in the lower levels of that quiet tavara, was the right one, did he bring Skoryk to Theia.
Skoryk dropped his bag onto the small cot Weaver had set out for him and looked around the room. It was small, Weaver admitted as he watched Skoryk closely, but there was more than enough space for them to work. A long table stood in the centre with two simple chairs. The light from lamps in the ceiling played across the dull sheen of pistols, explosives, and timing devices attached to detonators, all laid out on the table—matériel Weaver had obtained through Elias. A Consul’s reach extends into the darkest of corners. Beneath the weapons were layers of paper charts which had been difficult to obtain: diagrams of the tavara and of the walkways and galleries of Theia, with the Conduit running through each, picked out like a lilac web.
There were low shelves laden with bland clothing, and boxes containing tools and equipment. The walls were covered with yet more maps of the city, annotated with notes in Weaver’s own hand. Behind a loose stone in one corner, carefully concealed by the stanchions of the shelves, he had placed a second pistol. Both he and Skoryk had a simple cot to sleep on, and they would eat at irregular times and separately in two of the underground theatres Weaver had carefully selected—places he knew where outsiders might eventually be accepted, and where his own face, the face of an old Caestor, would not be recognised. He had eaten there himself already, in part because it was too dangerous to enter a refectory with an unassigned implant transmitter, but also to allow them to get the measure of him and slowly begin to tolerate his presence.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Skoryk said. He looked tired, the journey from the border systems obviously drawing on him. Weaver wondered if he had slept much. A man from the Bazaar was used to being hunted, but this was different. What they intended to do now, Weaver thought, a considerable attack on the seat of the Magistratus’s power… it would escalate that hunt into something all-consuming.
‘We sleep here,’ Weaver answered. ‘There are two places we can eat safely, instead of using refectories. Outside, we must not be seen together. The only time we speak is in here. We use no tetrabit, only mechanical—nothing that can be traced or intercepted or turned against us. So no modules. When we walk through the city, we must each carry a concealed weapon. We cannot afford to be stopped. If we have to run, we shoot first. Get some rest, and then we’ll begin scouting targets.’
‘I’m ready now,’ Skoryk said, glaring at Weaver.
He still blames me, Weaver thought. His rage is going to be a problem. ‘You’ve been travelling for three days,’ he replied. ‘You need to be alert. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.’
‘I’m fine. We start now.’
Weaver caught the determination on Skoryk’s sharp face. There was no point in arguing, but had he borne any doubts about the need to watch Skoryk closely, they had now evaporated. ‘There are three gunships that regularly patrol the canton. They take the same routes, but their timing varies. There appears to be no pattern to when they go out, that’s the bad news—but if we pick up one of the gunships down here,’ he indicated a gallery towards the borders of the canton, ‘then we have a number of opportunities in these areas to target it.’ He ran a finger along several long walkways through which the Conduit ran.
‘You plan to attack a gunship?’
‘Our objective is to create disruption,’ Weaver said. ‘To occupy the Magistratus and draw attention away from others. The murders of high-ranking members of various powerful families have already begun to do that.’ Whether I would have agreed with that course of action at the time is irrelevant, he thought as he spoke. It’s done, and we need to use it. ‘We need to build on the citizenry’s growing resentment of the failure to advance that investigation, particularly within those families—to add fuel to the suggestion that the authorities are losing control. The one thing the Magistratus offers them is security, so we must continue to remove that security. We must make the Magistratus believe that these are the seeds of a revolution; that there are more of us than in fact there are. We make them look for us, diverting their resources into trying to find us and stop us. Attacking a gunship is only the beginning, but it will shake them and make them act.’
Skoryk studied Weaver. ‘You’ve been watching the gunships?’
‘Yes. For over a week.’
Skoryk nodded. ‘Then I agree. Our first targets should be Peacekeepers.’
‘Our only targets will be Peacekeepers. We must do everything possible to avoid citizens being harmed.’
Skoryk was silent and studied the maps without looking up.
Weaver laid a hand on his arm and said, ‘I won’t allow citizens to be hurt.’
‘Of course,’ Skoryk said. Only then did he look up and meet Weaver’s gaze. ‘We target our enemies and no more than that.’
Weaver considered saying it again, to be sure Skoryk understood how seriously his words should be taken, but decided against it. There was nothing he would be able to say to alter Skoryk’s perception of the Core and its citizens. If he had not heeded Weaver’s words the first time they were spoken, repeating them was unlikely to have any effect. You’re not going to make this easy, Skoryk, are you?
‘How do you propose we do it?’ Skoryk said finally.
‘We place explosive charges on magnetic detonator racks with timers, set them onto the gunship’s hull, and then leave the area via the Conduit,’ Weaver said. ‘We need to be well away from the vicinity of the explosion.’
‘Set them onto the gunship’s hull?’ Skoryk said, smiling thinly. ‘It’s that easy?’
‘No,’ Weaver said, ‘it won’t be easy at all. Getting the charges onto the gunship will be very difficult indeed.’
‘How did you acquire the hardware?’ Skoryk indicated the weapons and explosives on the table.
Weaver’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t need to know,’ he said slowly. ‘If you are taken, or I am, the less we know about each other and the rest of the operation, the better. Those are your man’s rules. You ought to understand them better than me.’ Weaver had no desire to tell Skoryk anything about Elias.
‘If it brings the Caesteri down here—’
‘The only thing that will bring anyone down here will be our own negligence. You watch yourself, and everything around you, and you don’t make a move unless you know it’s safe. We cannot afford to attract attention.’
‘I don’t need to be told the risks. And I’m entitled to know.’
‘You’re entitled to know nothing.’
Skoryk’s eyes flashed. He turned away and walked over to the shelves, running his hand along the steel struts. Then he turned and glared at Weaver. ‘Why are you here? Doing this?’
‘We both have our reasons. We don’t need to like it, or each other.’
‘I don’t like you, and I certainly don’t trust you.’
‘Then we have nothing more to say. We should get on with it. I want you to see the gunships. Do you know how to apply one of these?’ He tossed a synthetic polymer mask to Skoryk, who looked at it and nodded.
‘I’ve used them before.’
‘The cameras all contain facial recognition algorithms. The implant transmitters won’t prevent them scanning our faces and matching them to their data archives. Both of us will be on watch lists, so we apply these whenever we leave this room.’
From his position on a walkway on the ground beside the Conduit, Weaver watched Skoryk stroll, almost casually, along one of the galleries. Skoryk was more than competent at hiding his emotions and merging with the crowd surrounding him. Weaver knew that Skoryk was a careful man; he could trust in that. The Caesteri had been hunting the senior members of the Bazaar for a long time, but only a few had ever been captured. Skoryk had no desire to be caught, particularly after the first attack.
The passage of foot traffic was enough to hide Weaver’s own presence, but he knew he couldn’t remain in one place for too long without attracting the attention of the cameras. He glanced down at his timepiece, a simple unit that mirrored what most citizens would wear. Soon he would be able to hear the whine of the gunship’s engines as it prowled between the tavara, beside the galleries and walkways.
The gunships rarely landed, and never dropped close to the ground-level walkways unless there was to be an arrest—in which case Peacekeepers would flood from it in force. From down here, there was no way Weaver could think of to attach a charge to the hull of the gunship. He had considered dropping a charge from a gallery, but that would necessitate cutting through the glass, and would be impossible to do that without being seen—either by cameras or by citizens. Any suspicious behaviour would be reported. Even in a poor, lower caste district such as this one, cutting through the glass of a gallery would attract attention.
It had always been obvious to Weaver that the Magistratus was concerned only with the outward display of equality within the castes. Powerful, well-connected families resided within the more affluent cantons, while the lower castes, the poorer families, had been gathered into their own, separate cantons. Given a choice between freedom and contentment, most citizens would choose contentment. That was the basis of the Quorum’s power. Citizens were fed, given a home, the focus of work, and told they were safe—and in that way, they were content. In the more affluent cantons, the level of that contentment was high. In the less affluent, like this one… well, perhaps there Weaver might find some elasticity to a citizen’s loyalty.
The whine began quietly at first, as it always did, but within fifteen seconds it had grown to a furious roar, and a heavy wind kicked up around him. He glanced up and saw the gunship appear from between two tavara. A shuddering haze gathered around the cooling vents as it cruised overhead. White light flooded the walkway and the Conduit, drifting over him without stopping, picking out the nervous features of the citizens around him. Even now, when they should be used to the presence of these beasts, they averted their eyes in fear. Every one of them, especially in a lower-caste canton like this, feared a gunship might drop from the sky and remove dissidents from within their midst.
There is always that risk and you understand it. That is their power over you.
And as Weaver watched them, as he observed their fear, he realised there was only one way to get the gunship to land.
C H A P T E R 40
GANT LAY alone in the alcove where it was intended he should rest. However, instead of sleeping, he stared out into the darkness of space. The stars glistened out there, each one a new system he didn’t know and would likely never see. The alcove was lit by the pale lights that suffused the swirling walls of the ship and, in the same way Abraham had done, Gant had caused the bulkhead to shimmer and vanish, revealing the limitless expanse beyond.
It felt no less confined than his old cell.
Abraham had left him, because Gant had insisted. It was too much to take in, he had told Abraham; he needed time to think. That wasn’t entirely a lie.
‘Where are you now, Kayt?’ he whispered into the silence. ‘I wish you were here with me. What would you do? What choice would you make?’
The ship, its colossal scale, its creation. Its presence alone spoke to a level of technology that he couldn’t believe even the Magistratus possessed. And there were more like this, he was sure of it. How many souls dwelled on board? How vast must the Shakhar empire be if this was but one of its spacecraft? How could mankind possibly hope to defend an attack from them? And if humanity was dragged into a war with a species the Shakhar feared, how could they possibly survive? The Shakhar had offered his people a lifeline—a way that humanity might still be free, somewhere. How could he ignore that?
Yet when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the woman, Sofia. No, he couldn’t call this ship that. What he had seen was a machine that had chosen to come to him as a woman, a physical representation of something he could recognise and process. A subtle deception; a manipulation. Still, it had spoken to him as though it was alive. As though it had desires.
He had believed her.
Abraham was the same. Another deception. A machine he had known for more than three years. The signs had been there—he realised that now. Small things that seemed suddenly so obvious. Abraham’s demeanour, his physical presence. He had never seemed to feel the cold, had never displayed overt emotion. Never needed any medical treatment. Always eaten less than the others.
Abraham was a machine. An artificial construct much stronger than him, certainly more intelligent. Abraham had planned all of this. He had observed Gant, analysed him, made judgements about him. He had concluded that Gant would be sympathetic because of his time in the fleet. Gant understood what it meant to be a prisoner, a slave. He understood what it meant to have the responsibility for protecting others—and how far those charged with that responsibility must go to safeguard those in their care.
Abraham was right. Gant did understand.
He rose from the bed and walked to the empty, transparent wall. It shimmered a little as he drew closer to it, and he almost wanted to touch it. As though he needed to confirm that it was still there. Instead, he stared out into space. Still he found no comfort there. He had longed to be free as a child, but he had never been interested in the stars. He had always been more in love with Gerasa. The vast, remote wilderness around him had been seductive, not the black of space above him. There was enough in the mountains, and in those wild, lonely steppes, to enthral and reward him. He gazed at the stars and wondered how he had come to be here.
You’re here because you’re a criminal.
He had lied and ignored his responsibilities; he had stolen from his neighbours and his community. He had allowed others to shoulder his burdens as he escaped and sought the freedom he was desperate for, dependent on. He had been childish and shortsighted. No, the truth was, he understood well enough why he had ended up in the fleet.
He sighed and rested his head against the almost invisible wall. It was warm, and there was no familiar trembling there as there had been on The Flame of Tartarus. He suddenly longed for the simple risks he had faced with Papin. To live or die—where there were no complications. No decisions to be made, only a reliance on instinct.
Instinct. Was there anything that was more cogent proof of life than that? They’re machines, he told himself. They are not alive. Their lives cannot be measured against the lives of human beings. But even as he formed the thoughts, he knew he was lying to himself. What did it mean to be alive? What made him any different from Abraham? The fact that his body was made of blood and tissue and bone? That couldn’t be enough.
Was Abraham lying on his own bed, right now, worrying about what Gant’s decision might be? Was he capable of such introspection?
Whatever Abraham’s motives, Gant reckoned they would not have survived without him. Abraham had been aware of the risks to himself and to others back at the basin as they fought to get to the freighter. He, as much as anyone, had enabled the colonists to get off-planet. Gant’s people.
And then he had brought Gant to Sofia. He had acted in order to protect this ship. He had spoken reverently of it, of his own kind. Was that misdirection? Designed to play on Gant’s sympathies? Perhaps, but what more evidence of sentience, of being alive, could he ask for than an instinct for survival, for the protection of those closest to you? Abraham’s manipulation of Gant’s situation had been evidence
enough that he possessed precisely such an instinct.
Why was Gant thinking this way? If he considered them to be alive, would he come to the conclusion that they deserved their freedom? If not, what then? They know they are not free. There is no greater prison than the knowledge that you’re a slave.
Who am I to make this decision?
Gant left the alcove and found Abraham in the alcove beside his, standing, gazing out at the stars, just as he himself had been doing. As he entered, Abraham turned towards him.
‘It is a lot to take in,’ Abraham said. ‘I understand that.’
‘Why did you come to us, back on the planet?’ Gant demanded. ‘You didn’t escape the chukiri. I don't believe you were ever in the fleet.’
‘I came looking for you.’
Abraham blinked. It was a mechanical process, Gant realised now—a contrivance designed to make him appear more human. Yet still, to Gant, it seemed to betray some emotion. Only because you want it to.
‘No, I was never in Kolyma,’ Abraham continued. ‘I came to the planet to find you. We discovered what the Magistratus was doing there, and we watched. Eventually, it led us to you.’
‘How did you know they were there?’
‘The Shakhar built a tunnel to that system, Gant. Thousands of years ago, perhaps, and they left it behind—but do you truly believe they would not monitor activity on a planet that could sustain life? The Empire has always been cautious and vigilant. That’s why it has lasted for so long.’
‘Why did you protect us? My people?’ Gant asked. ‘Was it only because you knew you couldn’t take the freighter from the chukiri alone, even with the Caestor’s help?’