In the bulbous chainglass cockpit Anna took the copilot’s seat while Conlan strapped himself in where Heilberg once sat. Of course Anna’s presence was for the same reasons as the spacesuits—a precautionary measure—and having little to do, she chattered. Conlan kept his replies monosyllabic so as not to offer any encouragement while they waited for their slot. Soon the two ships ahead of Heilberg’s moved through the ship lock at the end of the bay, and his turn came. The maglev in the bay automatically drew the ship into the lock, the entry doors sealing behind. High-speed pumps screamed up to full function, their sound gradually receding as they removed from the lock the medium for carrying sound. The outer doors opened with a puff of residual atmosphere, and maglev, and the station’s spin, threw the grabship out into vacuum. Showing confident professionalism, Conlan started the vessel’s fusion engine—pointed away from the station—and made the required corrections to bring it on course for the cargo runcible.
“Is there something wrong with your hand?” Anna asked.
Difficult to hide, and her question would have been the first of many. One more task, then, for Heilberg’s hand. He straightened it and chopped back hard, smashing Anna’s nasal bones up into her head. She snorted a spray of blood all over the cockpit screen as she choked into silence. Conlan inspected the hand. The force of the blow had torn it from the interface clamps and it now stuck out at an odd angle from his forearm. He removed it, and replaced it with his own artificial one—glad of the return of feeling and sensitivity, for he would need all his faculties for what he intended. But before he set about preparing for that task, he unstrapped Anna from her seat and dragged her into the back. He found her presence distracting.
5.
Which they ate with a runcible spoon—
He managed to ignore it at first, the people patting him on the back or grasping his hand and saying, “It’s great to meet you,” or “Thank you for what you’re doing,” or simply staring. But now as he sat sipping a glass of the local brew—something called greenwine—at one of the bars in the arcade leading to the main runcible complex, he began to become a little irritated. “Christ! You think they’d be used to seeing soldiers by now.”
Urbanus, who sipped a glass of cranberry vodka just to be sociable and because a fuel cell in his body could utilize it to power him, emulated an amused smile and gazed up at the glass ceiling of the arcade. “Are you going to tell him, Lindy, or shall I?”
“I think we should let him find out for himself, don’t you?” Lindy replied. She glanced back into the bar itself where numerous customers had gathered since their arrival, and kept peering out at them. Then she bit her lip and nodded to a screen display affixed amidst ivy on the outer wall of the bar.
“What are you two—” Jebel turned towards the screen. “That’s Grant’s World… fucking Prador.”
The scene depicted a camouflaged second-child fleeing through jungle. Something familiar about that, but then Jebel had seen many fleeing Prador. He let his gaze stray away and saw that a group of people now gathered on the main concourse were looking towards the bar. When they saw he had spotted them, some of them grinned, nodded and moved off. Others stayed to point out the bar to others. Jebel was beginning to get the creepy feeling it was him they were pointing to, and it made him feel nervy.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Jebel spun round spilling some greenwine down his shirt front. His hand dropped to the thin-gun holstered on his belt. Then he lowered his gaze to a small boy standing before him—a kid in ersatz fatigues, a toy pistol on his belt and a pet lizard clinging to his shoulder.
“Hey,” said Jebel, “I’m no recruiting officer.”
The boy did not seem to know how to reply to this, so instead looked towards a woman standing a few paces back, clutching a holocamera. She held the device up questioningly. Jebel supposed the kid, who was obviously into militaria, wanted a recording of himself with some soldiers. He shrugged and waved a hand obligingly. Boy moved up beside him as the woman, probably his mother, raised the recorder.
“Can you stand by me?” the boy asked.
Feeling rather foolish, Jebel stood with his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Alan,” the boy replied.
“So you want to be a soldier?”
“I want to be like you,” the boy replied, staring up at him wide-eyed.
Like adults throughout history Jebel then just stood there unable to think of anything else to say. Certainly the boy would not want to be like Jebel, but how to explain that to him? Finally the woman came over.
“Thank you for that.” She held up her holocamera exposing a fingerprint and gene reader plate. “Could you verify it, please? I know it’s an imposition, but there are sure to be fakes.”
“Well … yeah, sure.” Jebel pressed his thumb against the plate until the device beeped.
“We’ll leave you in peace now—I expect you get a lot of this.” Hand on her boy’s shoulder, she moved away. The boy kept looking back at Jebel, still wide-eyed.
Jebel sat, not quite sure what to think.
“Of course,” said Urbanus, “the lizard on his shoulder is a gecko—they’ve become quite a fashionable pet.”
Gecko.
“Worryingly dense, our great leader,” Lindy added.
With interminable slowness, realisation surfaced in Jebel’s consciousness. He understood then that, on some level, he already knew. He turned and looked at the bar’s screen and observed airborne shots of a glowing crater surrounded by burning jungle.
“Recorded by the AIs, war drones,” said Jebel, then turning to Urbanus, “and you?”
The Golem nodded. “Those were my instructions. The Polity needs good news of victories right now, and there’s damned few of them. It also needs heroes.”
“I’m not sure I—” Shadows abruptly fell across their table. Jebel looked up to see four floating holocams jockeying for position above him.
“Looks like the Trajeen newsnets just found out,” said Lindy.
“I won’t stay here for this,” said Jebel.
“No need,” Urbanus replied, “I’ve just been informed that our services are required elsewhere, if you are willing.”
“Where?” Jebel asked.
Urbanus pointed up through the roof of the arcade, at an object only just visible in the sky.
Standing upon the bridge of one of the utility ships available to the runcible project, Moria gazed through a chainglass screen at the nearby Boh runcible hanging in silhouette before the gas giant: a small thorny object skating above banded colour and omnipotent indifference. She rubbed at the back of her neck. The tension, just bearable during the transit here, seemed to have stretched all her muscles and turned her spine into a rod. Her stomach also felt full of swirling oil and she’d not eaten for ten hours. But the excitement was gone. Moria acknowledged to herself that the war removed the gloss of discovery and adventure from it all. Everyone was distracted by the constant bad news, and only recently were people becoming frightened. Staff were also being seconded away by ECS to work in the big shipyards, and many of those remaining worried about kin either involved in the conflict or living on worlds closer to the front line. How could anyone feel excited about the runcible project now that the Prador were killing millions, taking world after world, and smashing Polity dreadnoughts like a steamroller tracking over walnuts. Moria shook her head and tried to return to the moment.
When they first approached, she was able to discern the smaller objects spreading away from the runcible itself, some of them towed by grab-ships, some moving under their own power, and some being shifted by stripped-down drive motors bolted into place. To evacuate the runcible about half of the infrastructure—all the scaffolds and extraneous rubbish and all the occupied accommodation units—was moved to a lower orbit, and since then boosted around the other side of Boh, that being probably the safest place to move them, in the permitted time, should there be
any mishaps.
U-space com established between Trajeen and Boh, Moria could call up a real-time view of events back at the other runcible. There a different procedure was used. Rather than detach paraphernalia from around the runcible, the staff were evacuated to Trajeen. The runcible itself, driven far out from the planet by five big fusion motors, represented less of a danger than the Boh one since at that end any mishaps would not be so cataclysmic. Now in deep dark, with Trajeen a distant blue marble, that runcible waited. And a hundred kilometres away from it, the big cargo carrier stood ready: one kilometre long and half a kilometre wide, that final distance extended by old-style balanced U-space engine nacelles and a third very old U-navigation nacelle—they did not want to use a new vessel for this. The ship’s holds were filled with asteroidal rock to bring its mass up for the test. Neither humans nor AIs occupied it—George, or rather the larger part of him back at the Trajeen runcible, would guide it remotely through the gate.
“As well as data gathering and collation at this end,” said George, standing beside her, “I want you to model the entire test.”
“Well, thanks for that,” Moria checked the time to the test in her aug, “but a little more notice would have been nice.”
“As we have thus far discovered: it is only when you are under pressure that the more esoteric programs and functions of your aug are revealed.”
“How much more processing space do you think it has, and how fast do you think it can operate?” she asked.
“This is what we will find out. But if you do run out of space and speed,” George pointed towards the gas giant, “there are five server satellites in orbit to which you can apply for more.” He glanced at her, and as he did so the codes she could use for this arrived in her aug. “Any more capacity you might require has been prepaid and so held open for you.”
She turned and faced him. “So tell me, what’s being tested here, the cargo runcible or my aug?”
“Both,” George replied, still staring out into vacuum. He then frowned and continued, “The current war situation being what it is, it seems likely this project will shortly be relocated. Also, augs such as yours might be useful to the war effort—perhaps more so than a working cargo runcible.”
“But you’d need Sylac for that.”
“Sylac was apprehended on Cheyne III and is currently in transit to Titan, where he will be working for ECS.”
Moria absorbed that, then replayed what George had just said. “Hang on … relocated. We’ll not be able to move these runcibles.”
“The research will be relocated.” Now George turned to face her. “These runcibles will be destroyed before the Prador arrive here.”
For a moment Moria was stunned. Yes, the war was impinging and taking all the excitement out of the project, but only now did the reality truly strike her. “They are coming here?”
“Unless we gain some unexpected advantage, the battle line will cross the Trajeen system in two months time. Since we came out here,” he nodded towards Boh, “evacuation and defence programs have been instituted. But it seems likely Trajeen will either be occupied by the Prador or rendered inert. ECS will not be able to halt the Prador advance until the shipyards are all fully functional.”
Rendered inert.
And there, she realised, the difference between George and a normal human being. She should never forget that he was essentially an AI submind in a human shell, and along with all the other Polity AIs directed an interstellar war like some kind of chess game in which worlds were pawns.
“Will we win, do you think?” she asked.
“Define ‘win,’” said George, staring at her steely eyed, then he seemed to relent. “The Polity will certainly survive, but in what form or after sustaining how much damage is debatable. At least our course is clear.”
“Clear?”
“We are defending ourselves from an alien aggressor with seemingly no regard for the lives of our citizens. This is our first encounter with them and we have given them no reason for their aggression. We are fighting to survive not to defend or impose some political ideology, nor to maintain or gain some economic advantage … as has been the human custom. Those who fight will suffer few moral qualms.”
“Oh, that’s okay then.”
“It is time for you to begin modelling the test,” he told her, expression bland.
After that?
She felt like just telling him to bugger off, but then took a grip upon herself. Cold in his summation of the situation George might be. Cold in their plans might be the Polity AIs. But the luxury of emotional breast-beating would not win this kind of merciless, industrialized conflict. What would win it would be the efficient construction and deployment of weapons, the measured choices in the development of technologies, intricate battle-planning to the advantage of the Polity as a whole, calculation, working the numbers. Very few AIs bothered to play roulette, those that did always won.
“Did you hear me?” George asked.
“Yes, I heard.”
Moria began with the basic real-time virtual model of the two gates, distances truncated to fit within the compass of her perception. She then created underlying gravity, system vector/energy and U-space coordinates maps. But these were only the parchment on which she painted the rest. Recalling from memspace the models she had already created of the two runcibles’ energy systems, she began running predicted function, perpetually updated by actual function—the delay measured in microseconds. Soon she observed warp initiation. Between the five gateposts of each runcible the cusps formed: each like the meniscus of a soap bubble. Slowly then, the five horn-shaped posts began to slide apart, opening like iris doors, stretching each cusp across vacuum. The cargo ship’s fusion drive ignited like a white star and the vessel now began to accelerate towards the Trajeen gate.
“0.0004532 disparity between G2 and 3 here,” she noted.
“Already noted,” George replied. “You now have access. Make the necessary correction.”
Moria felt a moment of pure terror as channels opened from the Boh runcible to her aug, and she found herself taking a mental step back as appalling data flows overwhelmed her. She applied to the Boh servers and processing space opened. She began running the calculations to superpose her model on reality and find the required corrections. She created and collapsed formulae in her mind, in her aug, quickly working her way through the problem. Then came the ecstasy of squirting the solution over to the runcible. A few brief squirts from the runcible’s attitude jets closed the disparity and shortly her superposed model matched.
The five horns now completely separated, spreading the meniscus across a kilometre of space. Between them, the edges of that strange severance of realspace blurred out and away, spilling Hawking radiation into vacuum. However, Moria soon recognised an untoward energy drain in the system, and put online two more reactors at the Boh runcible. George did not instruct her to do this, but he made no objection. She saw that the larger part of him, at Trajeen, did the same.
“I now give you total control of the Boh outer gate.”
Shit! Fuck!
Now the vessel reached the Trajeen gate and went through, gone in an instant. A microsecond of calculation as the buffer feedback figures came through. Precisely the correct amount of energy applied at the meniscus. Calculations collapsing beyond it. A blurring, negative state, U-space calculus, a glimpse of understanding: everything there and everything here, matter just rucked up space-time and time itself a mere parenthesis…
The cargo vessel flashing through the gate, backwards, twisted out of shape and trailing fire. A thousand kilometres beyond the gate it abruptly decelerated, yet none of its engines could be working to do that. Then it just came apart as if somehow all its components transformed into wet clay. Metal and chunks of asteroidal rock slowly spread out, breaking down further until micro-debris formed a sphere which began to be distorted by Boh’s gravity. Moria felt as if someone flash-froze her brain then cracked it with a hammer.
She groaned and went down on her knees.
“What went wrong?” George: calm, analytical.
“I don’t know!” she yelled.
“That is a shame. You still have a long way to go.”
She knew, instantly, that he was not talking about just her.
During the weeks of travel through U-space, Immanence reviewed his family’s present status in the Kingdom and made plans for further expansion upon his return by deciding on which alliances he should make or break, which other Prador to bring down if not assassinate—though the assassination of Prador adults was never easy—and by working on scenarios based on all the new things he had learned since the war’s beginning. But such plans remained skeletal at best, and protean, for who knew what advantages or disadvantages he might own over the next few years, or how many of his allies or enemies might be destroyed, or how their positions might change? It was the ability to adjust his plans to changing circumstances that had raised him to his present position, and he relished the prospect of further rapid change. However, after a time such planning in a vacuum palled, and he turned his attention to history re-cordings—private and public—then to weapons design, the formulation of new poisons, possible application of enslaved humans … but steadily lost interest in each subject as he worked through it.
The entertainments available to him in his sanctum finally all but exhausted, Immanence decided to take a tour of his ship before its arrival at the next target. He summoned both Vagule and Gnores, and the second-child XF-326 along with a random selection of that one’s contemporaries. The two first-children arrived before the others outside the closed doors to the sanctum and Immanence watched them through the corridor cam system. Gnores moved to the fore and carefully watched the doors. Vagule shoved him aside, and when Gnores raised his claws, Vagule quickly smacked him hard across the visual turret. Gnores hesitated—not being that much smaller than Vagule—but the other having been appointed Prime by Immanence forced his decision. He squealed obligingly and backed off.
Prador Moon: A Novel of the Polity Page 11