Skeins of signals passed between the tower, known as the Shadow Bastion, and those few dockside systems still functioning. Rensik 2.0 fine-tuned its sensors and began analysing streams of data from the Shuskar citadel. It did not take long to ascertain what preparations were under way and how resources were being assigned, and what this implied. It all led the minidrone to one firm conclusion:
Rensik 1.0, the original, was completely mistaken.
For example, the cargo offloaded from the flagship was on its way to the portal hub-gate at the top of the Bastion. Also, the generators had been made ready to deliver peak output to the hub-gate systems on demand. Cross-deductive analysis revealed that the hub-gate was due to create a portal through to a shielded facility inside the sun–that was where the key events were going to take place, not out here on this half-abandoned docking station!
Rensik 2.0 was resolved to act but Rensik 1.0’s orders still had to be carried out, in some way or fashion, therefore a smart probe would have to be produced. Components would have to be sacrificed and retasked, some substrate, too, so that a cut-down, abbreviated version of itself could carry out the original’s orders, with sufficient cognition to deal with any unforeseen obstacles.
Again, reconstructions took place. Nearly three minutes after the mechanogenesis of Rensik 2.0, one of its tetrahedrons detached from the others, sitting separate and motionless, while the main amalgamation flipped onto its roller beads and went off in search of the original Rensik.
The initialisation of Rensik 3.0 also activated the primary motility mode. Three facets lifted up and unfolded and extended themselves, then began to spin. Each rotor blade was nearly five times the length of the tetrahedron’s sides and provided plenty of lift.
Rensik 3.0 sprang into awareness while riding a thermal updraught towards a huge tower. It consulted its orders eagerly, skimmed through the context summary, examined the incomplete internal plans of the Shadow Bastion and went about its task, more eager than before. The Shuskar communications centre was on level 14, above the layered forcefield which kept the great docking gallery, its wharfs and concourses, pressurised. The minidrone had to find an access with minimal security–fortunately, there were several exterior balconies jutting beneath the forcefield, each with sliding doors and porthole windows. The first three were firmly closed, their locks unresponsive, their interiors bare and deserted. The fourth was being used as storage, going by the wall of boxes and red-wrapped objects that obscured the room within. The fifth had an orangey-yellow light glowing from its balcony portholes and as Rensik 3.0 approached, the doors parted and a tall, green-uniformed Shuskar official stepped outside, smoke-filled vial in hand. A few moments later, when the vial was empty, Rensik 3.0 followed the official back inside, floating easily on the wafts of artificial heat.
After that it was just a matter of tracing a route through the huge but mostly unoccupied building. Venting ducts, interfloor waste pipes, and overhead retrofitted cable runs provided safe, concealed passage straight to the communications centre. This proved to be a large hall cluttered with stacks of equipment, much of it disconnected and piled against one wall, a layered monument of malfunctions. Arrays of lights were focused on the agglomerations of active, functioning apparatus, where a dozen or more operators shuffled from control panel to control panel, scribbling on wads of paper.
From a high dusty ledge Rensik 3.0 regarded all this with a kind of restless enthusiasm. Then, keeping to the upper shadows, it flew across to the main comm-feed, a heavy cable that travelled up a sturdy framework and through the ceiling on its way to the hub-gate on the top floor and to the external transceivers. Slowing to perch on a suitable cross-strut, the minidrone then carried out a burst scan of the cable and was exulted by its findings–the actual fibre-optic core was not a continuous medium but one concocted from several lengths linked by data junction manifolds with integral monitor ports. It was the work of moments to hop to a higher perch from which it could more easily plunge an interface needle through the cladding and straight into the nearest manifold’s monitor port.
Attuning for stream speeds and utility modes took less than a second–decryption was unnecessary since the Shuskar had never bothered with encoding their signals. But this was all in the service of sending a message, not eavesdropping on the enemy. Rensik 1.0’s orders were clear–send a short text message via the portal web, assigned to portal gate casting, and with its signal attributes preset to match the factab device carried by the Human female Brock. The message was brief–“inside the sun–come quickly”–and when Rensik 3.0 launched it into the outgoing datastream he tagged it with a save-and-repeat-hourly rider command.
A curious satisfaction resulted from the completion of the original Rensik’s task, yet this only lasted a few seconds before the minidrone’s sensors began registering a compatible signal pattern in the incoming datastream. Closer examination confirmed that it was a Construct-configured message so Rensik 3.0 downloaded it, decompacted it, and examined the content. It said:
“Be advised–Earthsphere fleet comprising eighty-five vessels now heading for the megasystem locale–ETA is thirty-six hours from despatch of this message–safety of fleet is paramount–act accordingly.”
Rensik 3.0 studied the message timetag and realised that the ES fleet would enter the Warcage in less than one hour. Unless it was stopped it would be torn to pieces by the ancient hyperspace forcefield defences. The Construct minidrone was caught in a dilemma–the portal web could not be used to send a message to the fleet, but it had to do something!
But what?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The journey from Nagolger to Malgin-Kog was a short one, but it was the first sojourn out across the Warcage with the Shuskar beacon installed. Like everyone, Sam was on edge. Everyone, that is, except Pyke, whose ebullient cheer managed to divert his crew and G’Brozen Mav’s people from the uncertainty of their endeavour, while reserving his roguish charm and sub-gallant wit for whenever his and Sam’s paths crossed. Was this wise-cracking performance a tactic to maintain morale, or just the man’s ego playing to a captive audience? He said that helping Mav’s mission to attack the Citadelworld would seriously undermine the Shuskar, and thereby aid the ancient Builder AIs–which might then be able to track down his missing crew members. Her reflex cynicism said there was something more to it than that, but the possibility of him telling the truth could not be ruled out.
It took nearly two hours to reach Malgin-Kog, a semi-developed agri-world, and another hour and a half before the Scarabus was back in the air, ascending to space with an additional 200 Malginori Chainer troops on board. Most of them were packed into the main hold with the rest squatting in the corridors. The Malginoris were short but brawny and seemed to have a morose, almost melancholy disposition, which explained the subdued level of chatter, even in the hold. All were equipped with basic body armour and the standard load-out of light arms, but scattered among them Sam noticed lower-tech weapons: bows, axes, maces, even a heavy sword with a serrated edge.
When she mentioned this to Toolbearer Hechec he said, “As an offshoot of the clan-houses of the Muranzyr they held on to the old martial traditions, even after they were deported from Murangosk and sent to Malgin-Kog. Having to exist with other transplanted groups forced them to maintain their formidable combat skills but they never forgot the crags and gorges of the world they were forced to leave behind.”
The journey from Malgin-Kog to the Citadelworld took over eight hours. Crossing the only apparently empty gulf of the Warcage was like tip-toeing through a cave of slumbering Tygran daggerbeasts. Even Pyke’s compulsive output of morale-boosting and ego-strutting bombast tailed off somewhat. The crew’s senses were alert, on edge rather than fearful, waiting for some external assault that would cry out that the jig was up, the ship was discovered and they had to run for their lives, if they could. The Malginori, for their part, had already attained a certain level of fatalism in the everyday round of life–they were co
mposed and ready for whatever Fate had in store for them. Such a mindset made Sam feel irritated and impatient: during her stint studying that archive of ancient videogames she’d repeatedly encountered narratives that hinged on the fate or destiny of–usually–the game-player’s character. These were primitive concepts that stemmed from the idea of a deterministic universe which, to her, was fit only for children and elders on their deathbed.
The Shuskar Citadelworld came into view on the Scarabus’s bridge screen, filtered to take account of the sun’s proximity. As their flightpath took them nearer, tension on the bridge screwed higher and nerves began to jangle. Sam kept expecting alarms to go off, or the AI to warn of incoming attacks, but the approach continued, calmly, smoothly, unbroken by interruptions.
According to Toolbearer Hechec, however, the Shuskar beacon installed on the Scarabus was definitely exchanging data with the citadel’s docking systems.
“The dock is directing us towards an upper berthing platform,” said Hechec. “Should we comply?”
Pyke shrugged. “Any sign of heightened security, automatic weapon points, troops scrambling into position? Any targeting beams?”
The Toolbearer shook his head. “Some activity near that big tower at the far end, but otherwise the docking levels appear deserted. No alerts that I can detect.”
“No obstacles in our way, then? Nothing to stop us just dropping in on ’em?”
The Toolbearer’s small wrinkled face looked concerned. “The docking system is providing a guide signal to an upper-level platform, Captain. Dropping will not be necessary.”
Pyke smiled. “Ah sorry–just tripped over a chunk of the old Human expression, there.” He looked at Sam and G’Brozen Mav. “Time we got the troops ready for disembarkation–Hechec, will we have those floor plans by the time we land?”
“The console in the main hold is replicating a batch even as I speak.”
“The question that most concerns me,” said G’Brozen Mav, “is the hazardous operation of this portal generator of yours. Can you be sure of its accuracy?”
Pyke had taken Sam and the Chainer leader and the Toolbearer aside during the long trip and explained the true nature of his secretively wrapped bundle. Their initial scepticism was dispelled when he set up the device and gave an irrefutable demonstration by creating an oval portal at one end of the room and a second at the other end.
“The range is slightly, well, a bit variable, and it’s nothing like those interplanetary portals you fellas have got,” Pyke said. “But once established it’s as solid as a rock–even after the direct projection is switched off, both portals remain open for over a minute. The only snag to it is the need for a clear line-of-sight, which is down to the whole test mode parameters thing.”
G’Brozen Mav frowned. “So there is no way to shut the portals down after the switch-off–they remain connected and open for more than a minute, is that correct?”
Pyke nodded, Mav’s frown deepened, and Sam saw the problem.
“Open one end in occupied territory, without sufficient protection, and it could become a door for the enemy,” she said. “Get a lot of troops through in just a minute.”
“Which is why you could only open the far-away door in a spot the enemy cannot see,” Pyke countered.
G’Brozen Mav got to his feet. “We won’t know what our tactical options are until we see what we are actually faced with.”
“The high ground, the low and the cover,” Sam said. It was an axiom she’d learned early on in officer training.
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Pyke, smiling as he sprawled in one of the workstation couches. “I’ll be along presently.”
Sam knew that the sloppy lounging was calculated to get under her skin, so she just arched an eyebrow at the grinning fool as she followed G’Brozen Mav off the bridge. Sure enough, about five minutes later, after a quick visit to her quarters to change into fresher combat lights, when she went down to the armoury to gear up, there he was, checking the action of a Belton-Nock flechette pistol.
“Isn’t that a little lightweight for you, Captain?” she said.
Pyke gave a lazy smile and a deep gravelly chuckle came from the hulking form standing next to him.
“Don’t worry, miss–he only uses that one to keep the flies away, eh, Captain?”
“Too right, Kref, me ould son. Bugs and crawlies, can’t abide ’em at any price. But don’t you worry, Lieutenant–’cos when we run into the real big game I’ve got just the machine for the job.” Pyke reached behind the counter and brought out a dark short-bodied auto-weapon Sam didn’t immediately recognise. “Meet the Klossag, a triple-mode close assault weapon–fires energy bolts, 9.5mm slugs, and mini-grenades. I think the advert went something like: “When you really need to win an argument…”
Sam nodded, retrieved the particle gun from the recess where she’d hid it earlier, strapped it on, then collected a standard body armour pack from the shelf.
“That’ll be so useful,” she said. “If the Shuskar challenge us to a debate.”
From the armoury she made her way round to the main hold. Diminutive muscular Malginori were shuffling along towards the hold exit and ramp but were quick to make way for her, staring up at her dark features with a kind of rapt surprise. Sam tried not to show embarrassment or uncertainty–apparently the Malginori troops had already been briefed on the identities of G’Brozen Mav’s subordinates and advisors, namely Lt Brock and the crew of the Scarabus. As to whether they would follow her orders in a crisis, she was uncertain.
Down in the main hold they were filing out of the ship in double columns, down the ramp to the poorly lit concourse. Cases of equipment were also being carried down and some of the debris which littered the pillared walkway was being heaved and shoved into crude emplacements. Sam could make out G’Brozen Mav, his guards and senior Malginori officers gathered in a lamp-lit group back against the concourse wall, and before she could take her first step down the ramp a chime sounded in one of her waist pouches.
It was her factab, its power-saving quarter-screen lit up to show that a message from Rensik had been received. Suddenly excited, she keyed up the full display and read–inside the sun–come quickly.
She frowned–what the hell was that supposed to mean? Inside the sun? Literally?
Right now, cryptic utterances are not what I need, Sam thought. Still, better show this to Mav…
She set off down the ramp and had barely set foot on the concourse proper when the factab chimed again. Again she flipped open the cover to see the message–incoming to yr location–eta 20s–R.
Sam straightened and looked around, alert and wary at the same time as she peered up at the upper levels and the hazy shimmer of the containment field. Then she sidled up to gaze over the concourse balustrade and survey the depths of the docking canyon, the shadowy lower levels, the sporadic glows flickering here and there, and the monolithic tower rising at the far end.
Something zipped in at her from the side, with an attendant high whirring sound. She ducked, scanning left, right and above, trying to spot whatever was buzzing around, while trying to keep an eye out for the drone Rensik. Then there it was, an odd small triangular object hovering on spinning rotors about an arm’s reach away. Suddenly anxious that it might be a spying device, she unhurriedly began to ease her sidearm from its holster.
Then her factab chimed in her other hand. It said–I have arrived–here I am–R.
She squinted at the tetrahedra-copter. “You’re not Rensik.”
Ping–I am Rensik 3.0–there is a grave crisis at hand–we must act.
Now she was glaring. “Where is the Construct drone Rensik?”
Ping–Rensik was captured and taken to portal station–Rensik 2.0 has gone to help–I have data about a grave crisis–we must act.
“What crisis? What data?”
Ping–You should read–Be advised–Earthsphere fleet comprising eighty-five vessels now heading for the megasystem locale–ETA is thirty
-six hours from despatch of this message–safety of fleet is paramount–act accordingly.
Sam was aghast. “When was this message sent?”
Ping–thirty-five hours and eighteen minutes ago–we must act.
Forty-two minutes before an Earthsphere fleet enters the megasystem and comes under attack from forcefield defences powered by a sun! This would be a disaster.
“How can…?” she began. “Do you know where the forcefield defence controls are? Can you take me there?”
Ping–Yes yes–level twenty–minimal security–hurry.
“Right,” she said, going through the armoury sections in her head. “Wait here, I’ll be as quick as I can!”
Pyke was standing a few feet away from the main group of G’Brozen Mav and the Malginori, regarding all the activity with a cynical eye, when he saw Sam Brock emerge from the Scarabus and pause at the head of the busy ramp. She was reading something on that data tablet of hers and it was only when she stowed the device in a pouch that Pyke spotted that she was wearing one of the ship’s antigrav harnesses. In the next moment she rose into the air, hands at her waists as she swept away–quickly, Pyke fumbled his headset back on.
“Hey Lieutenant! Hey…” He prodded the buttons on the right-side earpiece while following her rising trajectory away from the Scarabus. Suddenly a voice spoke, but not Brock’s.
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