Hilldiggers (polity)

by Neal Asher

  Harald checked the figures at the bottom of the screen.

  "Those in favour of Orbital Combine retaining control of the defence platforms vote now."

  More figures.

  "That doesn't add up," said Franorl.

  "Some of our own delegates voted against us," said Harald bitterly.

  Duras stood up to close the debate. "Combine will retain control of their orbital defence platforms. But let me remind Parliament that Combine have requested teams of planetary wardens to board each platform. May I suggest that Fleet Security teams also be—"

  Standing up, Julian interrupted, "Having earlier received instructions from Admiral Harald Strone, I now have something to say." He paused and gazed about the room.

  Duras used the pause to interject, "Might that be something to do with the alarming news that the entire fleet is now on its way here from Carmel?"

  Julian ignored him. "Under our restored wartime prerogatives, we cannot accept the result of this vote" — other Fleet delegates were by now also standing—"and must now withdraw from Parliament."

  Chairman Duras abruptly sat down, suddenly looking very old and tired.

  "Franorl," said Harald, "it's time you returned to your ship. As of now we are on full alert. I will broadcast the attack plan and general orders directly."

  Franorl grinned. Harald just stared impassively at the screen.

  Orduval

  This was the fourth delay on the maglev—it just settled down on its lift plates, with no explanation forthcoming from the tram service, but someone back at Central Control put up on the carriage screen the feed coming from one of the news services.

  "… refused access to wardens and threatened to open fire if they attempted to enter Fleet property. GDS forces consequently placed a cordon around the base. It has not yet been confirmed that the missile was fired from within that cordon."

  The image showed a badly wrecked street, with the remains of what looked like a landing craft strewn down it. As the camera focused in on the logo displayed on one piece of smoking cowling, Orduval felt a sudden tired disgust. The downed craft belonged to Orbital Combine. It had started.

  As the news story continued he began to get the gist. After Fleet's refusal to acknowledge the parliamentary vote, with the subsequent walk-out of its delegates, those members left behind decided action must be taken. There were many Fleet bases located on Sudoria and, it seeming likely that Fleet intended some kind of attack, GDS wardens had rapidly moved in to take control of whatever arms caches the Fleet bases still contained. Working in conjunction with the warden force, a Combine surveillance craft overflew the particular base this report was about, and was blown out of the sky. Now more disturbing images: rioting, gunfire, an overhead shot of the city showing a massive explosion and fires burning here and there. It seemed those factions supporting Fleet were already fighting those supporting Combine, while GDS wardens were trying to restore order.

  Orduval sat back disgusted. This could all rapidly run out of control. Fleet sympathisers, though outnumbered on the surface, were usually of a military bent, therefore very well armed, trained and organised. Those opposed to Fleet tended to be less aggressive, yet there were lunatics amidst them—like the group causing the nuclear blast on Brumal that destroyed a base there. If they now began attacking Fleet ground bases, there would soon be many more deaths and much more damage, and quite probably the rioting would spread as other groups joined in, but ultimately everything would be decided beyond the confines of Sudoria.

  The maglev tram continued on to the next station, where most of the passengers got out and moved across to the other platform—most of them obviously deciding that a trip into the city was not such a great idea today. Perhaps he should join them in that? He thought not. Most of GDS's warden forces would have been deployed in the city, so that was the place he wanted to be.

  To the rumble of a distant explosion the tram finally pulled into the city station, where Orduval was now the only one to disembark. While walking up to the exit barrier, he removed his control baton from his pocket, along with a bank disk Tigger had brought to him some years back. Pushing the small disk into the side slot of his baton, he finally connected a large bank account to his own identity. An irrevocable move. Standing before the barrier, he waited while the station computer logged his ID—which had also been logged when he stepped onto the tram. The price came up on a screen, with below it a small map indicating where he had boarded and his subsequent route. He confirmed this and pushed his baton into the slot—this was the first time he had used that particular bank account to pay for anything. The machine returned his baton and the barrier opened—no security alerts, no attempt to detain him. He supposed that apprehending him to ask some pointed questions about where he had obtained information about The Outstretched Hand was not high on the agenda of Groundside Defence and Security right at the moment. But his presence here would be logged, and sooner or later someone would come looking.

  Outside the station a city bus lay sideways across the street, ablaze. Beyond it he could see rioters hurling rocks at two armoured cars advancing towards the bus, ahead of one of the modern floating fire tenders. Why the saucer-shaped vehicle remained at ground level he did not find out until later. The missile bringing down the Combine craft had not been fired from the nearest Fleet base, but from the city itself, and a second missile had also brought down a tender similar to this one. Orduval turned and started walking in the other direction.

  Gunfire sounded from along a sidestreet. In another street a group of youths was busy dragging sand scooters out of an emporium, over the wreckage of its doors. Everywhere lay a litter of rocks, broken glass and the empty shells of stink gourds. A balloon-wheeled ambulance—normally used only for desert work—sped past and then, as if in pursuit of it, came two people, one staggering while holding a cloth to his face, blood spattered down his front and on his shoes. Orduval stared at them, recognising the tough canvas overalls they both wore, with tie-straps and sewn-in metal links, as institutional garb made for the easier handling of patients. But clothing like this was worn only by the more dangerous residents. Orduval just hoped these two were the only escapees, and that the asylum they fled remained locked down. During his own time in asylums he had encountered some seriously dangerous lunatics, and the prospect of the likes of them running free was not a pleasant one.

  Every hostelry Orduval passed had its storm doors firmly closed. He even tried banging on some but received no response. Then finally he saw a teahouse still open, for there were people sitting drinking in the vine garden situated to one side. Glancing through its windows he recognised the uniforms of wardens inside, then returned his gaze to the steps leading up to the main doors, guarded by two heavies whose clothing seemed stuffed with rocks. He felt a sudden nervousness but, understanding this was mostly due to not having spoken to another human being in years, he forced himself to walk up to them.

  "Risky, staying open now?" he suggested, his voice sounding rusty to his ears.

  One of the men shrugged. "Everywhere else is closed. We haven't had sales this good in two years."

  "May I enter?"

  The man looked him up and down for a moment. "Certainly, but any trouble and you leave head first."

  Orduval smiled to himself as he entered. Before his sojourn in the desert, no one would have bothered to give him such a warning, but now he had bulked out a little, and looked capable of more than merely standing up.

  Strug and tobacco smoke fugged the air inside, and only a few tables were free. Conversation rose and fell in counterpoint to the news items continually displayed on a couple of screens. Two service counters were open, one automated and one staffed, while a robot—a simple cylinder with a carousel for glasses girding its exterior and a flat top to carry a tray—trundled between tables accepting empty glasses and tea flasks from the clientele or taking the occasional order. Orduval stood still, indecisive and tense at being surrounded by so many people, unti
l he spotted yet another staff member opening the gates accessing a staircase leading to the upper floor. Relieved, he hurried over and began climbing, just ahead of some others heading upward.

  The upper floor, as well as overlooking the inside of the teahouse, was glassed all around the outside so it also overlooked the vine garden and the street. He chose a table where he could view both and took a seat. Still feeling nervous he avoided heading over to the just-opened counter and waited until a robot trundled past nearby, then clapped his hands to bring it rolling over to him. Pressing his baton into the relevant aperture caused it to settle and revolve its upper section until a menu screen directly faced him. Orduval selected herb beer and a snack of roasted honey beetles with preserved sausage and chilled salad. After a moment the robot beeped and poked his baton back out. He retrieved it and the robot rolled away.

  When the six wardens climbed the stairs, all that remained of his meal were discarded beetle-wing cases and the waxy ends of the preserved sausage. The wardens wore body armour, helmets and carried stun-bead shotguns. Three of them moved quickly out amidst the tables, one guarded access to the stair, while the two remaining stepped over to the counter to consult the woman tending it. She called up something on her console, then nodded in Orduval's direction. His stomach clenched, but he tried to keep calm. Concentrating on keeping his hand from shaking, he picked up his drink and took a sip. The two officers headed over and, by the time they arrived at his table, a watchful quiet had descended on the room, and many were openly staring at him.

  "If I could see your ID," said the older of the two. He wore his grey hair plaited in a queue, and a nasty scar ran down his left cheek from beside the eye—both of which strongly suggested he was a Fleet veteran. Despite his own nervousness, Orduval immediately realised this man was very unsure of himself, from the way he kept glancing around at those occupying the other tables. His younger companion just stared silently at Orduval, clutching a shotgun to his chest as if for comfort. Orduval took out his baton and handed it across. While the older warden placed it in a reader, Orduval heard snatches of conversation from nearby tables.

  "… fraudulent…"

  "Probably thought he could get away with it while…"

  "… bit heavy-handed."

  "Maybe others in here."

  The warden removed the baton from the reader and handed it back. "Where did you obtain the bank disk, Orduval Strone?"

  "From my bank—where else?"

  "So the account is yours?"

  "It certainly is."

  "But we have evidence connecting this account to…another."

  "My pseudonym."

  The younger warden seemed unable to contain himself upon hearing this. "Then you are…Uskaron?"

  "Shaddup, Trausheim," said the older one, but it was too late. The name was repeated at nearby tables and rippled out in excited whispers. People further away began to stand up. Suddenly Orduval understood: the wardens were here to control the city riots, and had suddenly been sent to a crowded bar to apprehend someone who had now become something of a legend.

  "Please stand up and come with us," said the older warden.

  Orduval wasn't so sure he could stand at that moment, his legs felt too shaky. "One moment." He drained his glass, then tried to force inner calm upon himself.

  Looking at his companion, the older one said, "Now."

  Trausheim seemed reluctant, but obeyed. The two of them moved to either side of Orduval and hauled him to his feet. His chair went over with a crash as they hurried him from his table and over to the stairs.

  "Hey!" someone shouted.

  He glimpsed another of the wardens shoving a woman back down into her seat. Orduval's feet could not seem to find the steps, but no matter, since the two men were nearly carrying him anyway. More customers were rising, and a large group of people had begun arguing with some of the wardens.

  "That's Uskaron!" A shout followed from the gallery as the other wardens piled down the stairs, quickly pushing customers out of the way. Then they had their captive out into the street, and being hustled into an armoured car. He glimpsed a crowd pouring out of the teahouse behind him as armoured doors closed and the vehicle pulled away.

  "I'm sorry we had to do it like this," said the older warden, turning to his younger companion. "Trausheim, I recollect giving a specific order that no one was to mention that name."

  "I'm sorry, sir, it was just…"

  "Yeah." He turned back to Orduval. "Are you really…Uskaron?"

  Orduval leant back in the padded seat. "Yes, I am."

  "Why here, now?"

  "Part providence, but mainly because I have some…" Orduval frowned, not entirely sure what he intended to do now, since certainly his chances of getting to see Yishna now were remote"… some research to conduct," he finished.

  "Into what?"

  "That being my business."

  "Well, before you can go about your business, you've got some explanations to make."

  "Who to?"

  "Chairman Duras."

  McCrooger

  The weird perceptual effects I was experiencing seemed to fade in and out, as if they originated from beyond the ship and then sometimes something about my surroundings managed to block them. But though these nightmares were weak, they also sometimes slid into my consciousness while I was awake. Occasionally the feel of the floor would remind me of that skull-cobbled street, or I would turn expecting to see someone behind me, but find no one there. Things flickered at the extremities of my vision, and sometimes I would see a dark figure retreating around a corner ahead of me. Usually all these effects were preceded by an apparent distortion of my surroundings. It all combined to add to an air of menace, so when Rhodane summoned me to the interrogation I felt edgy and angry.

  His cell was much like the medical area I had found myself in when I woke up: looking like the interior of a walnut shell, only green. The Sudorian soldier, however, did not lie strapped to a comfortable bed but was instead ensconced in a chair. He shivered occasionally, probably because they had removed his helmet and the temperature in there must have been chill to a Sudorian. Something like a melted crab clung to the side of his head, with its leglike protrusions penetrating his skin. Blood had crusted around the wounds.

  Slog and Flog squatted against the wall over to one side. I did not think they were there to guard him, since with his insulating suit epoxied to the chair he wasn't going anywhere, but were watching out of curiosity. Slog, who I now identified more easily by a blotch resembling a birthmark on the side of his neck, was sharpening his mandibles with a small hand-held rasp. The Sudorian soldier kept glancing at him, whether out of fear at the implicit threat or just through irritation, I couldn't say. The prisoner otherwise seemed pretty self-possessed.

  "I thought it might be a good idea for you to question him," Rhodane suggested.

  I hesitated, then abruptly stepped forward. "What's your name?"

  He stared at me for a long moment, then winced and jerked his head, replying, "Erache Turner."

  "What is that thing on the side of his head, Rhodane?" I asked.

  "The broud encourages him to answer quickly and discourages him from lying," she replied. "It uses pain, certain neurochemicals, stimulation and uninhibitors."

  Rather unpleasant, I gathered, but I wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic right then since, as well as the nightmares and other weird effects I had been experiencing, I still felt nauseous most of the time, aching from head to foot as if from unaccustomed exercise, and my shoulder still hurt, a lot. In fact, at that very moment my right leg started to develop a case of the shakes. Looking round I noted a shelf-like protrusion beside the door, stepped back and rested my weight on it.

  "Why did you try to kill me?" I asked him.

  Again that pause then wince. "I didn't try to kill you."

  I glanced at Rhodane. "But he can obviously resist it."

  "The absence of further discomfort shows that he did not lie."
/>
  The prisoner looked rather smug all of a sudden, and I realised my questioning required more precision. "Why did one of your companions try to kill me?"

  "I don't know—" His head snapped back and he grimaced. The broud shifted slightly against his temple. "You were in his sights when—" His jaw locked into a line and his eyes squeezed shut. "Fuckit! We were ordered!" Panting, he opened his eyes. A little trickle of blood ran down his cheek.

  "Who gave the orders?"

  "Admiral…Carnasus—" Gloved fingers clamping onto the chair arms. "Fleet!" He started shivering.

  "Did your orders come directly from Admiral Carnasus?"

  "No."

  "Did your orders come from Harald Strone?"

  "…Yes!"

  My mouth suddenly arid, I glanced at Rhodane. "Any suggestions?"

  She had been standing, arms folded, staring pensively at the prisoner. Her mouth had a slight twist, as if she had tasted something bitter. Of course—Harald was her brother.

  "Why were you sent to Brumal?" she asked.

  The man stared at her. "Traitor, how can you…? We were sent… we were sent." He yelled and thrashed about as much as his glued-in-place suit would allow. He started gasping again, and despite the room being cold for a Sudorian, sweat beaded his face.

  "Answer me," said Rhodane, "and the pain will stop."

  "Harald sent us." He managed this through gritted teeth. "He sent us—" His head snapped back and his eyes closed—apparently the broud was as impatient with procrastination as it was with prevarication. "We were sent to scout—" He shrieked. This performance went on for some minutes until eventually it started to all come out. The missile launcher came from a Fleet ground base, and they moved it using antigravity lifts, camouflaged and at night. The bodies had been stored in the same ground base: Brumallians killed during the last stages of the War or during the subsequent occupation, and put on ice for further study. The missile they had fired was guided in by a beacon on Inigis's ship, a beacon in the viewing gallery which someone activated once I was in there alone.