Hilldiggers (polity)

by Neal Asher

  "Are you thinking of Harald?"

  "Not really," Tigger replied. "He, like his siblings, is a different matter entirely. Its influence on them has been extreme, and he has perhaps found himself a convincing justification for what he's doing."

  This was pretty much what I had figured. The Worm had set him in motion, and kept prodding him in the direction it wanted him to go. He thought all along he was fighting for Fleet when in reality the Worm had been using him to exact its own vengeance, or simply to cause misery and destruction, for whatever motive. I knew this for certain now. I'd witnessed one Worm segment tear out through the wall of Ozark One, and I'd later seen Tigger's analysis of the energy levels involved in the damage it had done to Desert Wind. The Worm had not really been a prisoner for some time—maybe even twenty or so years. Now it was gone and Harald was still running on autopilot—a tool set in motion and no longer requiring its close influence.

  "Can you do anything about him now?" I asked.

  "We could try a direct attack on the Ironfist, but I don't see that ending well for us."

  "No, I mean can you somehow break his control over those other ships?"

  "I would first need to get in close to Ironfist and then it would take me an hour or more to actually break into his systems. There's a good chance he would detect my interference and, as we know, his finger is on the firing button. Also, as shown during my attempt to stop the bombing of Vertical Vienna, he clearly has some means of detecting me."

  "So you're not even going to try?"

  "Of course I am, but I rather suspect this will be all over before then, one way or another."

  Tigger then showed me a conversation recorded on camera aboard Corisanthe Main. I felt a tightness in a throat that was probably no longer connected to my brain. Perhaps I would have cried without those things plugged into my eye-sockets.

  Oh, Yishna…

  Yishna

  Despite the drugs, her shoulder ached, and controlling the interstation shuttle was no easy task with just one arm that felt quite numb. In truth, she felt numb inside too.

  Orduval…

  She felt personally responsible for his death and for everything else now happening. Knowing she had been striving to end this madness and herself had not fired a single shot did not lessen that feeling of guilt. She and her siblings were a unit, co-responsible. Perhaps if they could have properly understood what the Worm had wanted, all this mayhem could have been avoided. Perhaps if she had understood bleed-over, and realised how everyone was being affected…Yet the problem with attaining such understanding was that there had been no real basis for comparison. The only other records of asylum statistics dated from the period of the War and that was not exactly a normal time…But, damn it, she should have understood.

  Her escort abruptly veered, and she simultaneously received instructions through her console for a course change. A brief scan of her surroundings showed her the reason why. Two miles ahead and to the left of her she observed one of the drifting assault craft from the hilldigger Desert Wind being tracked in by a Combine warcraft. While she watched, the warcraft hard-docked and began to slow down both vessels. This was due to more negotiation with Harald's underlings. The assault troops from Desert Wind had been given permission to surrender, and Combine craft were now diverting their crippled assault vessels away from the station. The hilldigger itself might be more of a problem, but not hers. Harald was her problem, and he had said nothing more since his recent communication with her.

  As her craft approached the rear of Corisanthe Main's shields, her escort abruptly dropped away to the left and decelerated in readiness to return to the station. Checking a graphic display of the shields, she saw two of them parting ahead of her. Now would be a good opportunity for one of Harald's ships to fire something big at the station, but she did not expect this response from him. Despite his head injury he must surely now be feeling something of what she herself felt: that removal of impetus, that lack of a previously intense driving force, something missing in his skull. Yishna wondered if she could live with the lack of it—if any of them could. She felt just as capable as before, but seemed to have lost any need for that capability.

  She passed between the two shields and watched them close behind her. Laying in a course to Ironfist entailed taking into account the larger chunks of debris floating about out here. But there was also a lot of smaller stuff—difficult to detect because it was moving so fast. Only a few seconds after departing Corisanthe Main's aegis, one of the five miniguns aboard her shuttle began chuntering to itself, and something had flared to one side of her main screen, before objects started pattering against the hull. There was always the chance that she would not make it to Ironfist. That would simplify matters for her considerably.

  With its new course set the shuttle accelerated, and chuntering from the miniguns became almost constant. Though she had no time for sleep, Yishna closed her eyes momentarily just to rest them. For a second she felt herself begin to drift, then a sudden surge of panic jerked her upright and fully awake. She realised the reaction stemmed from the absence of that something in her skull, and with wry distaste decided that this must be how so many Sudorians felt as they slid into mental collapse.

  Now over to her right lay the enormous hilldigger Desert Wind, dead in space, in a pall of smoke. Some Combine craft were nosing about it, but there could be nothing aboard Corisanthe Main with engines powerful enough to overcome a million tons of inertia in time. Instead they would have to send for a civilian liner like the one presently towing Stormfollower to safety.

  Not my problem.

  Yishna focused ahead and eventually Ironfist resolved out of the darkness. The graphic display showed its shields parting before her, and a tacom aboard contacted her a moment later.

  "Proceed to Docking Bay Eight," he instructed her.

  "It would be helpful to know where Docking Bay Eight is located," she observed.

  He grimaced officiously, but shortly afterward she received a ship schematic and a radio beacon to follow in. First her shuttle drew alongside the nose of Ironfist, then headed on along the length of the massive ship, as if travelling beside an iron cliff, finally to slow, thrusters bringing her to a halt before an open bay door lit with the infernal red of emergency lights. She cruised in between two huge pillars, which revolved to present docking clamps to catch the craft like a tossed ball. The impact threw her forward and she yelped at the stab of pain from her shoulder. There was nothing gentle about this procedure, which confirmed she was entering Fleet's realm. The clamps dragged the shuttle down to the floor of the bay. Then, sliding in floor slots, the pillars themselves dragged it to the rear, where a docking tunnel connected. Yishna unstrapped herself, pushed up from the seat, and in nil gravity made her way unsteadily back into the cargo section. Pointing her control baton at the airlock, she opened the inner door, pulled herself inside, then closed it behind her. When she finally entered the docking tunnel, she closed the outer door and, again using her baton, firmly locked it. The shuttle was Combine property and she did not want Fleet personnel poking about inside it.

  As she reached the end of the tunnel Yishna began to feel the effects of gravity. A door opened ahead of her, and she spied a Fleet marine peering towards her down the sight of a disc carbine. He kept her on target as she approached, then finally withdrew to let her pass through. Yishna stepped out into a semi-circular steel lobby before a bank of lifts. Three marines awaited her there, along with one Fleet officer—a grey-haired woman with razor eyes.

  "Yishna Strone," said the old woman.

  "Yes, that would be me," Yishna replied, tired and irritable. "And you are?"

  "Com-res Jeon."

  Com-res? Harald had sent a research officer to collect her?

  "I am afraid it will be necessary for you to be thoroughly searched," Jeon added.

  "Really? I've been searched once before by Fleet personnel and I cannot say I enjoyed the experience. Will this search also include a
n exploration of my more intimate cavities, followed by a beating?"

  The older woman looked genuinely insulted at this. "Fleet personnel would never—"

  "Spare me the platitudes." Yishna began trying to remove her spacesuit, and when, because of her damaged shoulder, it became evident she was having difficulties, one of the marines stepped forward to assist. He was young and good-looking, so she gave him a special smile and watched him blush. Once down to her usual clothing, she quickly retrieved her baton from the spacesuit's belt cache, then turned to Jeon. "Do I need to take off any more?"

  "That will be enough," the woman replied. She nodded to the same young marine, who did a quick touch search of Yishna, then stepped back.

  "Now can I see my brother?" Yishna asked.

  Two marines remained behind to guard the access to her shuttle—why, she had no idea, since the small craft would have been intensively scanned on its way in, and they would have discovered there was no one else aboard. Accompanying Jeon and the young marine, she entered a lift that shortly deposited them on a platform right beside one of the hilldigger's internal trains. As they entered the vehicle Yishna gazed about at the vast internal space and the massive machinery surrounding her. She briefly speculated on the psychological effect on Fleet personnel of being enclosed in so massive a war machine. Then she dismissed such idle speculation. She was tired, her shoulder hurt, and she urgently needed to acquaint her brother with some unpalatable truths.

  A short, high-acceleration train ride brought them to another platform, then another lift, then more corridors. Hard metal all around and the taste of steel in her mouth. As she entered through the rear doors of Ironfist's Bridge the marine remained behind in the lift while, without a word, Jeon walked away from her and sat down before a console. Two waiting security personnel eyed her carefully, then one of them stepped forward.

  "I've already been searched," she said tiredly.

  The man, a scar-faced individual with two fingers missing from his right hand, ignored her comment and searched her anyway, and with notably more robustness than the young marine. He extracted the baton from her pocket, studied the personal device for a moment, then ran a small hand scanner over it.

  "If I was going to hit him, I'd use my fist, not that bloody thing," she said.

  He grinned and tossed the baton back to her, then led the way across the Bridge, his companion falling in neatly behind her. Shortly they reached the stairs leading up into the Admiral's Haven, whereupon the scar-faced guard waved her ahead. As she climbed, she felt a sudden nervousness at meeting Harald again. But once she reached the top of the stairs, shock displaced that feeling.

  For a moment she thought a ghost had appeared to haunt her, for Harald looked as cadaverous as Orduval had done during his later years in the asylum. Yet this was certainly Harald: the hard uncompromising expression, the long blonde hair tied back, that blank re-engineered eye. She noted the sealed wound on his head, but there was no way of knowing how serious that injury had been.

  "Come in, sister." Harald gestured to a low chair directly facing the sofa he had risen from.

  Rather than sit as instructed, Yishna walked over to the narrow window giving her a view across the hilldigger's exterior. She felt no connection with him, none of that sliding into a strange fugue state that usually happened between the Strone siblings when they met after being apart for a while. Was that because the Worm had now gone, or was it a side-effect of his head injury?

  "How are you, Harald?" she asked, then winced at such a commonplace.

  "I've been better," he replied drily. "I see we both bear our war wounds, so how did you receive yours?"

  "I was shot by Combine security officers while trying to break into that Ozark Cylinder."

  "Then we both have the distinction of having been shot at by our own side. But now is not the time for civilities; those are only for the civilised, I'm told. You have something to say to me?"

  Gazing out across the hilldigger, Yishna felt a sudden panic. Out there lay the three Corisanthe stations, containing hundreds of thousands of Sudorians. All Harald needed to do was pick up his control glove and send some codes, and all of them would be gone. She took a shaky breath.

  "The Worm," she began, "started affecting the Sudorian people from the moment we captured it, then some little while after that, it began to manipulate them." She turned towards him. "Indirect evidence of this is the distorted society to be found on Corisanthe Main, and the levels of mental illness on Sudoria itself. Bleed-over was direct evidence of its reach extending beyond the supposed containment canisters. I have my suspicions that Director Gneiss is himself evidence of that same reach."

  "Really," he said.

  "Really," she replied. "You know that Sudorian mental-illness rates are ridiculously high. And the Shadowman? If we had been thinking straight we would soon have recognised that for what it was. It was simply the Worm trying to present a human face, perhaps the more easily to twist us to its will."

  "But I have never seen a Shadowman in my life."

  "No, because the Worm's communication with us is so much more direct, for we too are direct evidence of its reach."

  "And at some point you'll explain your obscure assertions."

  "Our mother," she continued doggedly, "had her womb standard-monitored for conception. She conceived us during a fumarole breach on Corisanthe Main." She turned towards him. "Now that you are the Admiral you have access to all Fleet's secrets, so you will know precisely what is meant by a fumarole breach?"

  Harald nodded carefully. "I do know."

  "Then add to that the knowledge that she conceived us actually within the Ozark Cylinder where the breach occurred."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. And after giving birth to us she didn't die in an accident. Combine covered up the true details. She stepped out of an airlock without wearing a spacesuit, and then detonated a home-made explosive strapped against her body. They never managed to recover even bits of her."

  Harald did not look as shocked as she had hoped—just slightly puzzled.

  "And the relevance of this?" he suggested.

  "Who was our father?" she countered.

  "Does it matter?"

  "It matters because I don't think our real father was human at all."

  Harald smiled in that superior manner of his and crossed his arms. She noticed he wasn't now wearing his control glove, and momentarily speculated on the possibility of killing him hand to hand. But no, Harald had always beaten her and he always would. He was the best of the four of them—the most perfect example of what they were all meant to be.

  "I feel I should point out the absolute requirement for sperm in such matters," he said.

  I'm not going to get through to him. He's playing with me.

  "Maybe there was sperm involved, but something alien had much more of an influence on our conception, and on our subsequent development, than any merely human father."

  "Evidently," said Harald.

  Yishna was momentarily stunned. There was no sarcasm in his voice; he wasn't ridiculing her. He just seemed to be agreeing with an established fact.

  Evidently.

  He continued, "I've thought more about this since our last conversation. I've thought about it a lot. The connections I've worked out take that fact beyond mere coincidence. You've now confirmed some of them for me, and given me others to ponder. It strikes me as highly likely that the Worm was sentient and that, after healing sufficiently to break away from its prison, it instead chose to remain there and toy with us—to wreak vengeance upon us." He paused for a moment, unfolded his arms and began reaching for something at his belt, then abruptly snapped his hand away in irritation. "In fact we've been manipulated by it."

  "Precisely," said Yishna, feeling a loosening in her chest.

  "So precisely what relevance does this have to our situation now?" Harald asked.

  Her sense of relief was short-lived. "Don't you see yet? This whole conflict was
caused by the Worm!"

  "I do not see that. Yes, I see the Worm's manipulation of us, but that was just an aggravating factor. This conflict has really been about Combine scrabbling for power, and thus weakening the effectiveness of Fleet at a time—with this Polity now barging its way in—when we need to remain strong."

  She had failed. He was obstinately holding to his beliefs, no matter their source.

  "You don't really believe that," she protested. "I think you're just afraid of what will happen to you if you stop now."

  Anger twisted his face—that last shot that had gone home. He turned away, then lowered his gaze. She saw he was now looking at his control glove, which rested on a table nearby.

  "To face this new threat from outside, the Sudorian people need to be united under a single force," he said.

  "The Polity is not a threat to us, Harald." Her hands down at her sides, she walked over towards him. "I've spoken with their Consul Assessor, and I know that for sure. Do you doubt my judgement?"

  He glanced at her. "Did you know that their machines are already lurking here among us?"

  And so he slid into his paranoia. What a mess must have been churning around in his mind while ensconced up here in this disconnected Haven. Maybe he had felt the Worm's departure. Or maybe it did not matter either way. It was so difficult to abandon faith for hard reality. He stepped nearer to the table, stooping to reach for the glove.

  Yishna took a long step forward, then brought her foot up in a hard arc, the toe of her boot directed towards his face. He dropped into a squat, as if only ducking, but his leg swept out just above floor level at her other foot. She managed to avoid it, but retreated slightly off balance, bringing her one usable arm up defensively, anticipating his attack. He snapped himself upright, one fist shooting out. He wasn't close enough to hit her, yet something slammed into her guts, sending her staggering backwards. Suddenly she could no longer breathe and her legs felt weak. There came a cracking sound as something hit her leg, and it gave way. Collapsed on the floor, she gazed in bewilderment at her knee: broken open, bone and blood. She peered down at the blood soaking into her clothing from a wound low down on the right of her belly.