“Impressive,” said George, “though still the product of linear thinking.”
“A fact of which every human runcible technician is aware,” Moria replied dryly.
Humans who worked on runcibles were endlessly frustrated by this science which lay completely at a tangent to human linear thinking. Yes, a human could comprehend sections of the mathematics and complex technology of everything outside the Skaidon warp, and with augmentation a single human might one day be able to encompass it all. But past the warp you stepped beyond an event horizon not dissimilar to that of a black hole. The rules broke down, things started to make no sense to a product of biological evolution. Every object transmitted through a runcible came with its own information package detailing its energy vectors, vectors which also involved time. In U-space all Skaidon warps are in the same place at the same time which is no-time, in no-space. The object doesn’t cease to exist for there is no time for it to do so. How do the AIs controlling the receiving runcibles know when to pull the object out? By reading the information package. Essentially everything ever transmitted or to be transmitted exists in U-space… where nothing exists but does… It gave Moria a headache just to try to encompass the twisted logic without getting involved in the mathematics and technology involved in what was called “the spoon.” That headache became worse when she contemplated such things as time-inconsistent runcibles and the possibility of receiving something before it was ever transmitted.
“Let me see. You have been involved in the design and construction of warp adjustment generators?”
“Yes, but I was beginning to lose grip on the mathematics.”
“Well, as I suspected, you have achieved synergy with your augmentation—you are more closely interfaced than anyone before now.”
Remembering what happened to Iversus Skaidon and knowing the dangers of direct interfacing with AI, she asked, “Is this going to kill me?”
“Your augmentation is not an artificial intelligence. It is a computer, a glorified modem, a junction box. I understand your fears but they are not relevant here. The synergy achieved by direct interfacing a human mind with AI causes a kind of feedback loop sending both minds into a cyclic critical escalation, which results in the less sturdy mind being overloaded … usually the human.”
“Usually the human?”
“There are sparsely documented cases of the reverse happening, though no real confirmation, but we are digressing here. It seems Aubron Sylac has truly achieved something of note here. When you return from your next break, I am going to move you into the Control Centre where you will join those overseeing the first test. Some training will be required, but I trust you will be adequately able.”
“That’s it?” Moria returned to full-on reality.
George leant forwards. “That is it, for now.”
Down below Jebel that multi-legged, multi-murderer Vortex crouched, like a nightmare gatekeeper to Hell, atop the statue of some premillennial astronaut, its attention focused on the scene below. The smaller Prador were scuttling along at ground level through the long tubular park, digging their sharp feet into the ground and scuffing up turf to keep from going airborne as they towed along lines of prisoners all linked together. So, taking slaves or stocking their larder? Which is it? Both? Only a quarter of an hour before, Jebel raised to his eyes the monocular Jean passed him and noted with angry horror that the prisoners were not tied to each other, but stapled hand to hand. Listening, he could just hear the yelling and cacophony which also seemed the product of some lower circle of the pit. He scanned faces—yelling, terrified, some unconscious. It was not by her face that he identified her, but by the blonde hair in a plait and the jeans and green blouse. Something really snapped inside him then, but he tried to control his visible reaction.
“Okay,” he turned to his comrades, noting the slightly wary look they were giving him. “We’ve got Vortex and ten of his little bastards down there.” He turned on his comlink and in brief conversations with the other unit leaders ascertained their positions and gave them their instructions. The ECS grunts were closer to the Prador, and down towards Jebel’s right. His throat dry, he continued, “If this goes wrong you are to hit those ten little shits and grab as many of those prisoners as you can. Choose your targets carefully, those are Polity citizens down there.” What else could he say? If his plan worked there should be no shooting. Now he returned his attention to his own people. “Who has the gecko mines?” he asked.
Jean unslung her pack and opened it. Jebel took out the square case inside and popped it open. Twelve mines rested inside, each a small ovoid that could sit in the palm of a hand. They were programmable and could be set to detonate in many different ways. The gecko pads, presently covered by nilfrict paper, would stick to just about anything. He selected five mines and set them for detonation should any attempt be made to remove them, also to be detonated by the remote transmitter, which he took from the box and placed in his pocket. Just as a precaution he also set them to a timed detonation of one hour. He placed the mines in pockets on his utility belt.
“You,” he stabbed a finger at Urbanus, “will come over the top of the park with me. I want you positioned, along with three others, over on those balconies.” Jebel pointed to some jutting balconies trailing red clematis over on the far side, directly adjacent to Vortex. “And you, Jean, will take the others and find a similar position on this side. There are probably balconies further along here.”
“Yourself?” Urbanus asked.
“We know what will happen. If we attack, they’ll just kill indiscriminately. We attack as a last resort. This Vortex is obviously the big shot around here and perhaps places some importance upon his own survival. I am going to come down on him from above—up close and personal.”
“I see,” said Urbanus doubtfully. “And your chances of surviving?”
“Well, that’s up to all of you, when you cover my escape.”
Now, crouched upside down between lighting units above the monstrous Prador, Jebel Krong gazed down at the hellish scene trying again to pick out Cirrella. He could not see her, and wondered if he had really seen her at all. But then the screams and bellows from below impinged once again and the ball of rage growing inside him expanded. He changed his com frequency to that which the Prador were using. Jebel was able to learn nothing as the creatures communicated with some kind of esoteric code. But the possibility that Vortex would hear what he needed to say and be able to understand it was his only one option here. Jebel straightened his legs hard and hurtled headfirst down towards the Prador.
What the fuck am I doing?
At the last moment Jebel flipped his body, came down on the Prador feet first, absorbing the impact with his legs and slapping down the two gecko mines he held. They stuck hard and he managed to stop himself from flying away again by holding onto them.
“Okay, fuck-head. I just stuck two mines on you.” Steadied now, Jebel pulled the other mines from his belt and slapped them down. Vortex froze in position, obviously surprised—perhaps the creature had not expected a human to dare coming this close. “Oh look, three more. I hope you’ve got your translator on, because if we don’t talk about this, you are crab paste.”
One claw suddenly snapped up past the Prador’s visual turret. Jebel sprang away as it slammed close to where he had crouched.
“Now!” over com.
Missiles streaked in from either side, exploding the statue underneath Vortex. As Jebel hurtled back up towards the ceiling he saw the creature swivelling back and raising one of those Gatling rail-guns towards him, but the missile blasts sent Vortex tumbling through the air. A line of rail-gun missiles tracked across the ceiling, putting out lights and filling the air with glittering fragments. Jebel reached a gap between lighting units and quickly pulled himself to cover, bouncing through the frameworks and shadow. Vortex fired again, but Jebel realised the Prador wasn’t shooting at any target, but using the gun’s recoil to drive itself down to the branches of
an apple tree where it clung on.
“Do you hear me, Vortex?”
The other Prador were shooting at the balconies. Pieces of stonework and clematis flowers rained down. After a moment this firing ceased.
“I hear you,” came the reply.
“Did you hear what I just said to you while I stuck those mines on your back?”
“I heard.”
“Well this is the deal. You release those prisoners and I’ll shut down those mines, at which point they’ll auto detach.” It was a lie—Jebel did not intend removing the mines.
Some instruction, some signal, maybe just the twitch of a claw. Suddenly the smaller Prador turned on their captives and were firing. Pieces of human bodies were flying in every direction, and with no gravity here they just kept on spreading—an ever-growing gory explosion.
No deal.
Cirrella.
Jebel activated the mines and watched the explosion blow away Vortex’s main body, but leave the creature’s legs hanging in the apple tree. He then took up his missile launcher and hurled himself down towards the mayhem, firing on the other creatures from midair, blasting carapace and armoured limbs in every direction. He was not thinking anymore—didn’t care. Coming down in the branches of the tree in which Vortex’s limbs still hung, he pulled himself down and tried to stay on the ground. The grass was spattered with green liquid and pieces of carapace, and similar material drifted through the air all about him. He was breathing Prador blood. He saw a man tumbling past, wrapped in his own intestines. Projectiles were slamming into everything around Jebel, but just seemed to miss him every time. Crawling, he pulled himself along, grabbing handholds on bloody grass and through an equally gory rose bed. Only here the blood was red. One of the smaller Prador rose bubbling beside him, then exploded, spattering him with strong-smelling flesh. Choking, he crawled on—he did not know for how long and only realised time had passed as the intensity of fire from all sides finally reduced. He gazed around at mayhem partially concealed by a gory haze and could see no Prador standing, few humans too. At some point grav came back on, but he continued to crawl. How he found her he did not know. He sat stroking her hair, eyes averted from where her leg and half her torso had been torn away
“We have to get away, now.” Urbanus, leaning over him.
Cirrella behind him and somehow a weapon back in his hands. More Prador coming.
Urbanus again. “I can’t let you do this.”
The blow to Jebel’s temple brought welcome oblivion.
In his frustration Captain Immanence snatched up a second-child in his remaining claw and held it squealing above the deck. The other two quickly fled through the open door into the sanctum, but the fascination of “it’s not me this time” held them there while Immanence smashed their brother repeatedly against the wall, before dropping the quivering wreckage.
These humans thought to try and make deals?
Immanence bubbled with rage.
“One of you come here and feed this to me, the other one go and fetch Vagule,” he grated out in the sawing crunching Prador language.
The two second-children at once began to squabble. Neither of them wanted the chore of feeding their brother to Immanence while he was in this mood.
“Now!”
One second-child possessed the presence of mind to dash away leaving the other one quivering in the doorway. Immanence made a note to himself to remember that—the runner might possess the characteristics to survive into first-childhood. The remaining second-child came over, still quivering and now making an obeisant whining. It picked up a hunk of carapace with flesh and purple-green organs still clinging inside and held it up to the captain. Immanence took it with his mandibles and chewed contemplatively. Eating always calmed him, and he was in a slightly better frame of mind—for a Prador—when Vagule, one of his two remaining first-children, arrived.
Immanence studied Vagule. The first-child had yet to attain the bulk of Vortex and there was a healing crack in its carapace, no doubt made by that other now-dead first-child. Sucking the flesh from a small claw, Immanence began to see the plus side of things. Vortex, having attained full growth, had only been maintained in permanent adolescence by the pheromones the old adult emitted and by certain additives to his food. Inevitably some mission would have taken him away from that diet and those pheromones long enough for him to make the transition into full adulthood and thus become a competitor. Then it would have been necessary to dispense with him. Vagule, however, lay some time away from that stage in his life where the dietary changes became necessary.
“You are now the Prime,” Immanence told Vagule. “Assign your current projects to Gnores and stand ready to deal with the human prisoners. You may move into Vortex’s cell. I will provide the code keys to all his research and stored files.”
“What happened to Vortex?” Vagule asked.
“He became careless and humans killed him. You may study the recorded data I will send over to Vortex’s cell and thereby learn from his mistake. Now leave.”
Vagule spun round and moved away fast, no doubt anxious to sample the privileges of his new position. Immanence dismissed the remaining second-child—the other one did not return—and closed the sanctum doors behind it. After a moment he caused his chouds to call up views of the station, and status reports on the ship’s systems. Everything seemed functional, and all he required now was for the shuttle to get out of the way. He checked the status of that operation and ascertained that all but a few of the second-children were aboard. He also discovered that one large second-child had begun issuing orders and dealing out shell-cracks to those who did not obey with sufficient alacrity—another first-child candidate.
Immanence opened com to that individual. “You, XF-326, are now in command. Close up the shuttle and depart the station.”
“The others?”
“Are dragging their belly plates. There are two kinds of Prador, XF-326, the quick and the dead. Decide now which you want to be.”
Sudden frenetic activity ensued within the shuttle. The doors began to close. One last second-child made it inside the shuttle, trying to drag after it a chain of prisoners. It managed to get three and a half of the humans through. After another few minutes, Immanence observed explosions as the Prador blew docking clamps the station AI had previously locked. The shuttle departed, ripping pieces of the station away and snapping the boarding tube like a stretched worm. Small, struggling and expiring objects followed it into vacuum, some of them were second-children, most were dancing chains of stapled-together humans.
“Now we will see about deals,” said Immanence.
He scanned the station along its entire length. Large heat sources were evident around those Polity matter transmission devices, which probably meant humans were crowding there. He ran some calculations and came up with a rough estimate: about four thousand humans still remained aboard, though this number was dropping at an alarming rate. Immanence realised they must be throwing them through the matter transmitters at a phenomenal rate. He was planning to wait until the shuttle returned to its bay aboard his ship, but if he did that his kill number might well drop by two-thirds.
Weapons online.
Something stung Jebel’s neck and coming to a half-conscious state he fought to return to oblivion. It was like waking to the sure knowledge of an imminent bad hangover, though infinitely worse. He knew things were going to hurt him. Badly. But as consciousness finally did return the expected pain did not rush in, and he only felt numb inside. On his outside, however, cuts and bruises impinged and his head ached as if someone ran a potato peeler around inside his skull.
“I won’t ask if you’re okay,” said Urbanus.
Lying on the floor, with something tucked underneath his head and a yelling crowd all around him, Jebel stared at the Golem squatting beside him. Without Urbanus’ intervention he would not have had to wake to this. He tried to find some anger at that, but it eluded him.
“What happened?�
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Urbanus nodded over nearby, so Jebel hauled himself up a little to look. They were in a runcible embarkation lounge surrounded by crowds of people packed in tight: families with children, pets, hastily gathered belongings. Nearby were rows of the injured, prostrate like him but being tended by medical personnel and a couple of mobile autodocs, like chrome beetles.
“We managed to get twenty of them out,” Urbanus told him.
Jebel winced, but it seemed almost an automatic reaction.
“Why did you stop me?” he asked.
“Because you were intent on killing yourself.”
“Last I heard, laws against suicide were pulled a few centuries ago.”
“Then I stopped you for selfish purposes and for the Polity. I did not want you to die, and one such as yourself will be useful in what is to come.”
Jebel again tried to feel some anger at the Golem, but the anger now eating away his internal numbness focused in only one direction, and Urbanus possessed too few limbs to be a candidate.
“If you wish, I can return your weapon and you can go kill some more of them. You’ll die. Either by them killing you or when this station is destroyed as seems sure to happen.”
Prador Moon: A Novel of the Polity Page 7