The two machines from the lobby entered the office and, moving with a briskness Hezzka found disturbing, extended thin probes and lifted the case. In the far wall was a hatch, a metre square, opened by the Secunda using a coder terminal. The case was pushed inside by the servitors. Hezzka took a quick glance at Ivzid. The young officer was looking over the proceedings carefully, suspecting everything.
‘The deposit will remain here until the full payment is made,’ said the Secunda. ‘After which, it will be removed to our strongroom.’ She held up a hand to prevent the safe being closed, and passed the footgun to one of the machines. ‘Store this also,’ she ordered. The mechancial thing signalled its understanding with a beep and placed the footgun on top of the case before removing its probe and swinging the safe door shut.
Ivzid snorted and said, ‘You can open the safe and take the gold whenever you wish.’
‘Not so.’ The Secunda held up the coder terminal, a slender grey unit with multi-coloured buttons. ‘My loyalty to Zamper is total. And even if I, or any other of the staff here, were to attempt such a thing, we couldn’t succeed. The code has already been changed, and the new code will be given by the Management only at the correct time.’ She smiled. ‘Our operation is infallible.’
Hezzka said, ‘It seems plain that your part in the operation is minimal and that your Management rules here.’
‘It’s not in my character to rule,’ said another parasite voice, which seemed to come from everywhere in the room. ‘I guide.’
Ivzid reared up. ‘Who is that?’
Mr Jottipher pointed to a large oblong screen, previously inert, that faced the Secunda’s seating place. Pictured on the screen was the head and shoulders of another parasite, almost definitely a male, with dark hair growth. Hezzka was intrigued by the image. There seemed to be a tracking error; a trail of silver flashes appeared two thirds of the way down the screen.
The new parasite spoke again. ‘I am the Management. I’m sure, General Hezzka, you’ve been made aware of my nature?’
‘You are not as other parasites, that I know. I know also that you are notoriously secretive as to your origins, and what constitutes you.’
Ivzid laughed disrespectfully. ‘It is another machine carved by the parasites in their own image, to carry out a task for which they are unsuited. Their leader, a machine.’
Hezzka sensed Mr Jottipher’s embarrassment at this outburst, and noted the shuffle of bones in the top of the clerk’s unshielded back.
‘Think what you will,’ the Management said smoothly. ‘You may not be so scornful when you have seen the ship.’
Ivzid straightened. ‘Yes, we must be taken there,’ he said eagerly.
‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ The Secunda unfolded herself. 'It’s forbidden for buyers to enter the construction yards.’
‘What is this? Parasite trickery?’
‘Certainly not,’ said the Management. ‘For safety reasons, above all else. The caverns of Zamper can be dangerous. But gentlemen, let me assure you. Please look at the Outscreen.’ He tipped his head, indicating the wall behind the Secunda’s desk.
A section of the white wall blurred, fogged over, and resolved itself into an image. ‘Yard six, gentlemen,’ said the Management. ‘The largest of the seven, where the final stage of construction approaches. After many months, the Series 336c Delta-Spiral Sun Blaster is taking shape.’
Hezzka moved closer. At first it was difficult to distinguish the scene relayed from yard six. The picture was cluttered and the perspective unclear, and there was only an impression of great activity, some enormous work of industry. The busy scene put him in mind of the artistic works of Zalkaz, who in the high days of the empire five hundred cycles before had covered canvases the length of a hatchery wall with pastoral scenes from the fringe colonies, each minutely-detailed section a separate tableau depicting an aspect of rural life in one of those unsullied outposts. He blinked a couple of times and concentrated, trying to work out the scale of the image. It had been enhanced, presumably by the Management, but there was a fuzzy edging to the objects displayed, as if the yard was underwater. That impression was reinforced by the murky glow of the yard’s phosphor plates, which lit the construction area with pathetic chinks of murky subterranean green in the manner of patches of old moss.
Yard six, in accordance with the sketchy information supplied in the brochure, was one of seven gigantic chambers hewn from the rock of the planet Zamper’s relatively soft outer igneous crust, above which sat the Complex. The mighty ship, the reason for this most ignominious dealing in the history of the Chelonian First Family, was modestly sized, but suggested great strength. Its central bulk, a bulbous cylinder that contained its huge engines and store of fission materials, leant at an angle across the yard, supported by a cobweb of gantries and lattice-patterned work stations, some of them large and consisting of interlocked sheets of iron, others thin winding strips that traced sections of the craft’s skin like silver capillaries or formed fussy ribbons at central junction points. The wing facing the watchers cast a shadow that nearly blocked the view of the ship’s lower sections, which Hezzka knew contained the crew quarters and the battle deck. Only an outline was visible, a ghostly imprint of the flanks and the giant swirl of activity below the screen’s range.
Hezzka sensed an anomaly, an uneasiness forming in his mind that he found difficult to define. There was something wrong with the scene, something unexpected and unclear that he struggled to identify. He looked again, casting his gaze over the graceful curve of the visible wing, and the thought at last crystallized. He blurted, ‘Where are the shipbuilders?’
‘Clearly in view, General.’ The Management spoke. ‘Shall we look closer?’
A section of the yard was magnified. Some animals, small slimy black things, were slurping along one of the gantries, their feelers twitching in time, as though communicating. A shudder ran the length of Hezzka’s shell at the sight, and he shuddered again at the realization that the slimy creatures were squirming all over the beautiful new ship. 'What are those things?’ he asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice.
‘The shipbuilders,’ said the Management.
‘We call them the Zamps,’ said the Secunda.
The beasts on the screen were now twitching their feelers agitatedly back and forth, burbling to each other. A large sheet of metal descended into the range of the scanner camera, with no signs of support, no trace of a lowering wire or pulley.
‘This group are positioning the heat shield plating on the lower left flank,’ said the Management.
Neatly, as if placed by an invisible hand, the metal sheet slotted itself into a jigsaw-piece-shaped hole in the ship’s side. As it did, the feelers of the Zamps stilled and they slurped back efficiently along the gantry.
‘This is some illusion,’ said Ivzid. ‘A hologram.’
Hezzka gestured for him to keep silent, and addressed the Secunda. ‘Explain these shipbuilders. They are natives of Zamper?’
She did not reply, but instead smiled and glanced up at the ceiling. The Management said, ‘General, such matters are not discussed here. It is enough to know, more than enough to question. Queries are valueless.’
‘What?’ Ivzid said. ‘You speak in hatchlings’ nursery talk.’
‘On Zamper,’ said Mr Jottipher, indicating the screen displaying the scene in the yard, ‘things proceed. They proceed according to their function, under the guidance of the Management, and have done now for nearly five hundred years. The system is correct, and so queries are valueless.’
‘These things are simply not important,’ the Secunda concluded for him. ‘It is enough to know that the Zamps, as we call them, are our shipbuilders. That their productivity, efficiency and adaptability are unrivalled by any of our competitors. That the results can be seen in any of our products.’
Hezzka was unsure if she believed any of this, or was merely repeating some kind of holy edict. He knew that parasites had the capacit
y for faith. Perhaps the simpleminded things had exalted their Management to the status of a god. ‘Who designs the ships? How do these Zamps know how to build as they do?’
No response.
‘You are not curious, in the slightest?’
‘No,’ the Secunda replied.
The screen showing the yard faded, and the Management said, ‘I really have to go, gentlemen. Now, I think Mr Jottipher will look after you?’ He raised a hand and moved it from side to side, smiled showing perfect teeth, and then was gone.
Ivzid advanced threateningly on Mr Jottipher. The little parasite backed away. ‘You will answer our questions now. This Management, what is it? What are these Zamps?’ He spat the word, showing that he also had found the small creatures repugnant. ‘How can such things build ships?’
‘We cannot speak of these things.’ Mr Jottipher pointed to the ceiling. ‘It isn’t allowed. It’s unimportant.’ He turned to Hezzka. ‘You’ll want to inspect your rooms, General. We’ve prepared our most luxurious suite.’
‘You haven’t answered my questions,’ snarled Ivzid.
Hezzka nudged him. ‘Later we will talk of this. First, let us be settled.’ He spoke slowly to see that Ivzid understood. They would do better not to rile the parasites. He turned back to the Secunda. ‘Well met,’ he said as diplomatically as he could. ‘I hope to see you again soon.’
She nodded. ‘And yourself, General.’
Taal sat back, resting the folds of his ample frame in his moulded chair, his ankles crossed on the game control table, regaling Christie with tales of what to expect from life on Zamper. The net was still down; over an hour and a half since it had packed up, the most serious failure yet, and Taal’s smalltalk was a device to conceal his own anger and doubt. If the Management had heard his outburst he’d be in for trouble. Later rather than sooner had always been Taal’s view on the inevitability of death.
‘And you should have been here for the Sprox!’ He chuckled. ‘You see, we’re at the bottom of the heap. Nobody thinks to tell the host and hostess what’s going on, who’s coming in, who’s flying out. One day that door opens and in walks the fully decorated chieftain of the Sprox, old D’Naari-Ylenk himself. He had teeth like tombstones and breath as rank as the whiff from a bowl of Solturian bog-broth. And he wasn’t the worst, oh not by a tentacle’s-length. You should have seen the size of the emissary from Hotris, we could hardly squeeze him in the lift. Huge hairy shoulders, great long arms, he was horrible.’
Christie laughed politely. ‘The new buyers. Who are they?’
‘Ah. I was trying to keep them to the back of my mind. Chelonians.’
The change in the girl was extreme. A look of terror passed over her face, and she gripped the arms of her chair with whitened knuckles. ‘But they hate all humans!’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said Taal, who relished the guilty thrill of breaking bad news. ‘So do I.’
A deep purr rose from the depths of the gaming net and its screens and indicator displays flashed and then steadied. The voice of the network proclaimed, ‘The equipment failure has been rectified. Please proceed.’
Taal wiped his brow and stood. ‘Back to work, then, my dear.’ He reached for the game controls and winced, a hand hovering over the activator button. ‘Press this and it might be the end of me.’ He nodded upward. ‘If he heard me. Victim of another accident. Like poor Nula.’
He pressed the button. The net chattered its readiness. It appeared that he was going to be tolerated a while longer.
‘We’re not supposed to speak of these things,’ said Smith, with a hesitant upward glance. ‘I hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to myself. But if total strangers can breach the defences, it confirms my belief that the Management is breaking down.’ She poured the Doctor another cup of tea, which he accepted graciously. Smith looked again at his kind, crumpled face. He had the high forehead and inquisitive eyes of the scientist, but there was a beaten quality to him. Like a ragged teddy bear, he seemed much loved but exhausted. His genuine nature, after eight years on Zamper, encouraged her own frankness. The forbidden words came easily, giving her the sensation of unburdening a guilty secret.
The Doctor blew on his tea to cool it. ‘The Management is an artificial intelligence, then?’
‘He’s certainly much more than a computer. I think he’s centred here, somewhere, but he has powerful links to outside space, and is aware of external events. He represents Zamper on the markets. His personality is highly developed. He watches us, but not all the time. I’ve noticed that he can’t be on two screens at once. Of course, we can’t be sure if he is listening in at any given moment, and that makes the surveillance all the more effective. Nula, the hostess here, started to talk freely about the Management failing, and got herself electrocuted. Faulty wiring on her own part, it was said, but I have grave doubts.’
‘How long has this place been up and running?’
‘About five hundred years. The shareholders are the biggest corporations. They’re contracted not to pry, and mainly they don’t, the defence stations are a good deterrent. And of course, nobody can tell when the gateway will open. The details are beamed to the buyers, and if they talk, the contract’s cancelled and the gate stays closed.’
‘It sounds very efficient.’
‘It was, Doctor. Zamper ships are expensive, but they’re worth it. A big one lasts ninety years and has enough clout to control the average federation of about five planets nicely. The reputation of Zamper is untarnished.’
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t sound very happy about that. What led you to work here?’
‘I didn’t choose to work for Zamper, Doctor.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to discuss these things for some years. I’d been lecturing, I was on a university tour of the Pelopennese. One night I went back to my room in the halls at the academy, and there was a letter waiting for me.’ She noted the Doctor’s reaction. ‘Yes, Doctor, an old-fashioned written letter, envelope and all. Handwritten in ink. It was sealed with the crest of Zamper, that big gold Z. The letter stated politely that I had been selected, that my contract was to last ten years, and that I’d be paid handsomely for my time. Naturally, I was furious. I thought it was a student prank. I tore up the letter, threw it in the dustbin, and slept soundly. And when I woke, I woke in that bed.’ She pointed over the Doctor’s shoulder, to the far room, where Bernice was resting.
‘You were a zoologist?’
‘We’re not permitted to discuss our previous lives. That’s unimportant, so the Management says.’ She patted his hand. ‘Yes I was.’
‘Yes.’ The Doctor returned his drained cup to the tea tray and examined a couple of Smith’s slides. ‘What is your job here?’
‘It’s a long and complicated tale, Doctor. And you still haven’t explained yourself.’
He avoided the subject, squinting at one of the slides and saying, ‘These are from those mollusc creatures you’ve got penned up in there?’ He looked into the specimen case. ‘They really are a fascinating species.’
‘My brief was to observe them, study them in as much detail as the Management allows. The position was created specially for me; the Zamps hadn’t been studied before. That makes me what the others call a “specialist”.’
‘Zamps? So they are natives?’ His brow furrowed and his eyes flicked between the animals and the stained cells on the slide.
‘It’s just a name,’ said Smith. ‘They must have been imported here when the shipbuilding business was set up. They’ve certainly been tampered with along the way. You noticed some signs of the manipulation yourself.’
The Doctor knelt for a closer look at the captive Zamps. ‘And through their feelers they exert a telekinetic influence?’
‘Of enormous power. In fact, their brains, by design I’d say, are almost entirely geared to producing that effect.’ She took down a jar from the shelving and passed it over. ‘Look at that.’
He turned the
jar, studying the pickled brain inside. ‘This side of the organ is swollen,’ he pointed out. ‘The enlargement looks deliberate. Unnatural. It leaves no room for almost any other more basic function. How does a Zamp find his food?’
‘He doesn’t. We supply it.’
The Doctor handed back the jar. ‘There you are, then. All the facts point to these animals being specifically adapted to form part of this operation. Way back when this place was set up.’
‘Probably. The Management has no records, and his creators obviously didn’t think it necessary to plan ahead.’ She leaned closer. ‘Over the last twenty-five years there’s been a twenty per cent drop in productivity. The Zamps are slowing down.’
He looked between the slides, the specimens, and her. ‘Why?’
His gentle authority and concern, together with his childlike enthusiasm for what had become her life’s work, came close to overpowering Smith’s suspicions. She was caught in the simple rapture of meeting a stranger, somebody she hadn’t expected to see, who knew nothing of what was permitted and not permitted, so much that it almost didn’t matter where he’d mysteriously appeared from. But practicality triumphed.
‘Doctor, welcome as you are, I’d like to know how you and Bernice managed to get safely through a dimensional portal, past six defence stations, and onto that test ship.’
Several of the regular operators had been coaxed back to the net by Taal, who was generous in the apologies he data-coiled to the signatures lost in the power failure. There was no provision for a check on the equipment, a task that was under the supervision of the Management, so Taal was still uneasy as he welcomed the players foolish or desperate enough to return. The net could crash again at any moment. So far the failures had occurred only during the initial stages of certain games, before any monies staked had been lost or gathered. If there was a shutdown later in play, and the data-coil was wiped, Zamper would find itself liable to a hefty fine from the authorities. That meant nothing to Taal, who was not responsible for any losses, but he was curious to see how the Management would react to such a claim. It would force him to acknowledge his own weaknesses, and that’d be worth seeing.
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