by Tony Attwood
‘I told you it was raining,’ said Vila obviously. ‘You don’t want to go out there.’ He looked out. Through the rain and mist it was just possible to make out endless rows of trees, fast-growing hardwoods which put all their energy into thrusting up to the sky rather than producing leaves. The rain thus poured straight down onto the soil. The resultant mud was bound heavily to the intertwined roots. Deep dark brown rivers ran between the rows. Avon looked but made no reply. Vila continued the monologue. ‘There’s no one out there, there is no one else in here, and I would still like to know what happened, or failing that what is going to happen – or failing that,’ he ended plaintively, ‘anything at all.’
Relaxing slightly, apparently satisfied that they were not being overlooked, Avon turned back to Vila.
‘You are sure you’ve seen no one at all?’
‘For about four months it’s been like I told you.’ Vila was getting exasperated. ‘No people, no guards, no Federation, no ships, and,’ he added as his stomach gave a twinge, ‘no food.’
‘What about the tall girl, long fair hair swept over to one side, civilian clothes, calls herself Korell?’
‘Pretty?’
Despite himself Avon smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said simply.
The answer didn’t seem to please Vila, in fact it made him more depressed than he already was. He said, ‘Oh’ and then said no more but looked wistfully at the rain and the mud. He got to starve in a beaten-up freighter for five months, he thought, whilst Avon got to be interrogated by a beautiful woman. That was what life seemed to be all about. He contemplated not speaking at all for the next week. Then he spoke. ‘The answer is still no. The base is deserted.’ Vila paused. The novelty of having someone to talk to was definitely beginning to wear off. At that moment there was a crack from the trees beyond the main hatch.
‘Down,’ snapped Avon.
Despite all his previous assurances Vila did not need telling. He was already on the floor, lying in a pool of water with drips from the roof of the hatch falling on the back of his neck, as he held his breath. Avon looked out carefully, but could see no sign of life.
‘Probably just one of the animals,’ observed Vila, trying to give himself back some confidence. ‘They always come out in the rain.’
Avon relaxed once more. ‘How did you escape?’ he asked.
‘I was never captured.’ Vila replied. ‘Instant reflexes.’
‘You mean as the firing began you hit the deck?’
‘Something like that. No point hanging around being heroic – not twice in one day.’
‘And the others? Tarrant, Dayna, Soolin?’
‘Do you mean you care? I got the impression you wanted us all dead.’ Vila looked at Avon trying to read his thoughts – an impossible task. He answered the question. ‘No idea. When I looked up you had been marched out and the others were still on the ground. I crawled into an empty cupboard and waited. By the time I came out everyone had gone. I made for the outside, got wet and let myself into the nearest spaceship. That was the last I saw of anybody until you grabbed me by the throat. One of the other freighters took off from the other side of the clearing just after I got into the ship but that was about it. Apart from the ship that landed.’
Avon looked round sharply. ‘Describe it,’ he commanded.
‘I didn’t really see it,’ Vila said. ‘It came in on the other side of the dome, but from over here, through all the rain, it looked...’ He paused as if he didn’t believe it himself. ‘It looked round – sort of like a sphere. And it was huge. It was down for about an hour and then took off again. The flyers could have been Tarrant and the rest, or they could have been guards.’
Avon made no further acknowledgement of Vila’s information. If he recognised that Vila was, at least for the time being, holding him personally responsible for the presumed deaths of the entire crew of Scorpio save themselves he certainly did not show it as he stepped out into the rain.
Avon made straight for the nearest of three small space freighters docked close to the settlement. They were small enough to come down in the clearing without special landing bays. They stood upright, traditional nose cones pointing to the skies awaiting the next take-off. Around the cones were the ramjet intakes – breathers as they were commonly known – pulling in hydrogen for the fusion units at the heart of each ship of this class. At the base were two entry doors, one small for the crew, one about ten times larger for the freight. In one case the loading ramp was down, although the freight door appeared tightly closed. All around the area the ground had been severely burned by the reverse thrust of the fusion jets as the ships had landed. The burning had made the ground solid – the water lay in deep pools looking for somewhere to run to. Avon splashed through and took cover from the rain by the overhanging ledge above the main entry hatch. Vila ran more slowly, and got wetter. As he had discovered five months ago, his boots leaked.
‘Just open the hatch,’ commanded Avon. Vila tried to act with a superiority he didn’t entirely feel. He had unlocked the hatch when he had first hidden in the ship, and had left it that way. One touch on the pressure point and door slid back. The muddy footprints he had left there during his last visit were still all over the floor.
Avon wasn’t impressed. ‘Why didn’t you leave a sign up in case you weren’t noticed?’ he hissed, with what Vila took to be unnecessary aggravation. ‘Stay here out of sight.’
‘Out of sight? You can’t seriously be expecting trouble. Not here. From what?’ Vila moved backwards into the entry bay and took cover. ‘There’s nothing out there Avon.’ He ducked down, scared despite his protestations, as Avon moved away towards the plantations.
Vila did not miss the irony of the situation. How many times in the past five years had he been in this sort of position, acting as look out on one of Avon’s schemes without even knowing what the scheme was – or even where Avon was going? Did nothing ever change in this Galaxy?
Avon ran quickly but carefully through the downpour, the trees clumped closely together towering overhead. Whatever it was in the local soil that made the trees grow fast and tall also inhibited the growth of virtually all the vegetation. The paths between the trees were clear of everything, except mud. With no gun in his hand Avon hoped Vila’s analysis of the situation – never trustworthy at the best of times – was correct. After five minutes he found what he was looking for – one particular tree with a couple of scratch marks on one side. He counted his way past seven more trees, turned and counted a further three, then again seven and finally four. He looked down – there was a small depression in the ground that shouldn’t have been there. Avon pulled the muddy soil away with his bare hands, but to no avail. He knew what he sought was gone.
Retracing his steps Avon felt he had few tricks left to play.
After weathering five months of psychological warfare Vila had blundered in. Orac had been Avon’s one chance of escape from the planet, and Korell must have known all the time. Now he was back to improvisation. He had no lack of faith in his own ability to resolve any situation in his own favour, but like Vila he wondered, if only for a second, when anything was going to change.
Back at the ship Vila heard a movement. It came from behind him – inside the freighter which he was so certain was empty. He cursed himself. Avon was right as ever. Leaving the hatch unlocked had been stupid. Anxious to try and avoid further problems he moved back a few paces, slipped on the edge of the entry bay floor and went tumbling backwards down the ramp into the mud outside, only to find himself looking up at a tall, elegant, smiling lady with long blonde hair pulled over to one side of her face, standing inside the ship.
By the time Avon returned Vila had gone. Looking down at the muddy footprints on the entry ramp he knew what to expect, but could think of nothing that would put himself into a more positive position apart from walking into the situation. With a mental shrug of the shoulders he entered the ship and made his way cautiously through the freight hold and up the vertical stai
rways towards the flight deck.
The central control area, like the rest of the ship, was functional and compact. Three sets of control panels were set at desks designed to be operated by the pilot, navigator and captain. The desks were lined up beside each other so each officer could see the master screen and ship computer ahead of them. Vila was sitting in the pilot’s chair, his feet on the control panel in front of him, a bottle of liquid nutrients to his lips. Inevitably seated next to him, was Korell gently swinging left and right.
‘Come and sit down, Avon,’ said the woman. ‘After all these months I’m not going to pose a threat to you now.’ Korell spoke in her usual relaxed manner. Only her clothes had changed. She was in a practical one piece flying suit. The trousers were tucked into her boots. The boots were covered in mud.
‘You might not,’ said Avon surveying the flight deck. ‘But I might just pose a threat to you.’
‘Not without a gun Avon.’ Korell was still sitting, still smiling. ‘You are pretending to be stupider than you really are...’
‘It must be the company I keep – it drags the mentality down being in prison.’
Korell opened negotiations. ‘I have Orac, and the key, and you have the code system to get Orac to work again.’
‘How did you get the machine?’
‘I found Orac because I know a lot about your brain. Your belief in yourself has always been your major strength Avon, but it does leave you vulnerable to anyone with time to find out all about you. If you knew how much data I had accumulated on you you might have been more guarded in what you said... and what you didn’t say.’
‘You were working for the Federation?’
‘For a while yes, but all they are interested in is brute force and destruction on a planetary scale. They’ve lost interest in the finer points of the human technology.’
‘So, an applied social technologist turning your work to practical usage,’ said Avon.
‘One of the best,’ replied Korell in her most relaxed way.
‘Not the best?’ asked Avon. It was a strange question for him, hinting at sarcasm which was not part of his normal repertoire. Vila stopped drinking for a moment to consider it, but quickly set the matter aside. To Korell the meaning was plainer, but she refused to give Avon the information he was seeking.
Vila made an attempt to get his brain into some sort of working order.
‘If you are involved in human technology you can read my mind...’
‘That shouldn’t take long,’ said Avon.
Korell ignored the comments. ‘Everyone has certain numbers lodged in the subconscious,’ she said to Avon. ‘Numbers such as seven four seven three.’
‘Seven four seven three?’ repeated Vila. It seemed meaningless.
‘It was the number of the apartment that Anna and I shared,’ admitted Avon simply. He showed no emotion but inside was annoyed with himself. He knew he had not told Korell about that number. How had she found it, without access to Orac? And more importantly how had he, Avon, been so utterly stupid as to overlook the connection? Korell, he realised, was going to be an enemy worthy of him.
‘I can’t debug Orac without Orac and the key,’ said Avon sitting down in the third chair. Vila now found himself between the two protagonists.
‘There you are,’ Korell replied, nodding towards a bulkhead in front of the freighter’s own master computer complex where the transparent box was placed. A couple of lights shone inside but the machine was silent. ‘All yours.’
Orac, inert, looked like nothing more than a transparent plastic container of crossing wires, control panels and tarriel cells. It measured about two feet across by one foot wide, and was light enough for a man to carry by the handles at either end. Vila had often described it as nothing more than a pile of old junk and at this moment it looked like it.
Avon moved across the deck and began working carefully, his face taut. The slight frown on his forehead was barely distinguishable, and yet despite his growing nutrient and soma haze Vila saw Avon was seriously troubled. Avon was never an all action fighter – he knew perfectly well when his own best interests were served by doing nothing, or even at times running away. But here he seemed to be showing real signs of puzzlement – possibly even defeat. The old look of a man who, even if he didn’t have all the answers knew that no one else would work them out faster than he could, had gone. And that was odd, because no matter what sort of fix Avon was in he would always believe that his inherent abilities would get him out.
‘Er...’ Vila was unsure what to say. ‘Er’ seemed a fair start.
‘Shut up,’ came the reply. That at least was the Avon of old. Vila shut up. Avon continued to work methodically. After ten minutes a gentle hum could be heard – after twelve Orac’s rotating lights came back to life, and on fifteen minutes a familiar, irritated, impatient voice returned.
‘What is it now?’ the computer demanded.
‘You are needed,’ Avon replied.
‘Will Orac respond to my commands?’ asked Korell.
‘Why shouldn’t it?’
‘Because he has a will of his own.’
‘You are well informed, but he is it. Orac is a machine.’
‘Will Orac respond to me as much as to you?’ Korell persisted. ‘Tell me if there are programmes you have implanted in the machine that will hinder my use of it.’
‘There are no programmes. It all depends on Orac. Why don’t you ask?’ Avon’s voice was clipped.
‘Because if it is not telling me the truth then it probably will not answer that question honestly either.’
‘So now you just have to trust me – and Orac. But you knew that all the time anyway. When Ensor made Orac he programmed it with his own personality and thirst for obscure knowledge – the sort of knowledge that Ensor never really had time to develop until he settled on Aristo, and by then he was getting old. Requests for information from us tend to get in the way of Orac’s studies.’
Korell turned to the machine. ‘We are on board a Mode 12 Freighter Transporter. It has a low grade Fusion Drive capable of time distort 4 only. It has not teleport facilities...’
‘I know all that,’ interrupted Orac. ‘Kindly state your business and allow me to get back to more pressing matters.’ Avon allowed himself a slight smile, but Korell’s incessant calm was unruffled.
‘Orac, I wish to transform this craft into a deep space cruiser capable of at least time distort 12 and preferably time distort 16; with a teleport facility which can operate over two thousand spacials. I want defence mechanisms capable of withstanding plasma attack. You know what facilities are on the base outside. We can use all those. Physically there are just the three of us plus the four service robots in the Plantation Centre. We also have access to two flyers grounded on the far side of the Centre. Is it feasible?’
Orac answered at once, ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you will need a supply of sygnum crystals for the plasma shield, and a small number of radiation direction finders for the teleport which you do not have on the base and cannot build with the various raw materials which you have at your disposal. And there is one further problem.’
‘Yes?’ Korell showed no disappointment. It was as if she had expected the answer.
‘Even if you had those materials it would still take the three of you half way into the third century of the New Calender to build the equipment. You would all be dead – although when that joyous time comes I will at least be allowed to proceed with my enquiries in peace.’
Korell was not to be put off. ‘We need these modifications to this, or another suitable craft, within three weeks. Is there a strategy that we could follow?’
‘Yes, but it would be highly hazardous.’
Vila groaned and sank further into his chair. The others ignored him.
‘By using some of the parts on the base you can, under my guidance, modify the base androids to work on this craft and give it time distort facility to the l
evel you require. However, to obtain the other parts for the rest of your modifications you will have to travel to a deep space repair port and procure certain items. The nearest port is a space station in orbit around the planet Ferron in the third sector.’
‘But once we reach the Ferron station we shall have to remove the parts we need without the use of teleport, and travel without plasma protection.’
‘That is logically correct, and barely worth stating, if I may say so.’
‘That’s right Orac, you tell them,’ said Vila from his corner.
Avon removed the switch from Orac and turned to Korell. ‘Satisfied?’ he demanded.
‘Perfectly. Now if you’ll be kind enough to get Orac to tell us exactly what we need, Vila and I will go and work with the androids. Vila – work.’
‘All my life,’ sighed Vila, ‘there has been work. I keep telling people that stealing is better, but still they want work.’
‘This work is theft,’ said Korell patiently, as she led the reluctant thief out. ‘Avon, collect the initial instructions and then come to G9 corridor. Vila will open up the androids so you can reprogramme them.’
Avon nodded. Immediately he heard the main door close behind them he turned to Orac and reinserted the key. ‘What is your problem?’ he asked the machine.
‘To what do you refer?’ replied Orac, with the superior air he had inherited from his creator.
‘Skip the games Orac, I don’t have time,’ Avon told him. ‘Is it MIND?’
‘Machine Induced Neural Deviance is a concept, and cannot be logically used in relation to the question "What is your problem?" Besides, MIND is a theoretical construct of unproven base. No one has demonstrated that it is possible to make individuals deviate from their normal course of actions through machine codes. Apart, that is, from the crudest call signs which induce individuals to return to particular locations, and those require pre-programming. Indeed...’