The Line of Polity ac-2

by Neal Asher

  "And thus it was," she said, "that Brother Serendipity was sent out to find his fortune amongst the compounds, but by the evil of the morlocks was driven out into the wilderness." The woman snorted and muttered, "Morlocks, my arse." Then continued with, "Upon the first day of those three numbered by his oxygen supply, he came upon the young heroyne starving in the flute grass."

  The woman glanced across and saw that her audience was more intent on trying to spear a broiled shellfish than on the story. She continued anyway, " 'Please feed me for I have been abandoned and I am hungry, the creature begged. 'Why should I feed you when, with strength, you could eat me? asked Brother Serendipity. 'I give my word' the heroyne replied. 'Swear your word in the name of God and in the name of his prophet Zelda Smythe, the Brother demanded. So the heroyne swore and Brother Serendipity gave it one third of the meat cake the old woman by the…" The woman stopped and closed the book to check the front cover. It still read Mortal Tales and still bore a picture of a gabbleduck eating a priest, just like her son was tucking into his bread soldiers.

  She shrugged and went on: "Thus it was that the heroyne followed him into the night and no other creature attacked him. The Brother's piety and goodness of heart had saved him."

  The woman made a gagging sound and scrolled the text down further.

  The Reverend Epthirieth Loman Dorth stood in the viewing room of his tower, gazing out upon the canted ceiling of the Up Mirror of Faith, and thought that this must be how God felt. Stepping closer to the bulging windows of Polity chainglass, he stared down into the vast well of the Faith cylinder world into which the Up Mirror reflected sunlight, and observed the swirls of cloud over the wondrous buildings and vast gardens contained therein, which blurred and faded down to the bright eye of the Down Mirror at the far end of the world. With a light touch through his aug — his Gift — he received the impression of thousands of communications being conducted against the strong background swell of prayer throughout the upper channels from the Friars of the Septarchies: this being the way they had found, at last, to prevent the mind of Behemoth from invading their own. When the creature had first come with the gift of its augs, it had seemed an envoy of God, but they had soon seen the ambivalence of its generosity. The biotech devices gave them great power to communicate, to control, to understand, but enabled the creature itself to slowly assert its will over them through the upper channels. Now the Friars prayed, day and night in shifts, thousands of them, to keep the mind of Behemoth at bay.

  When he heard the door hissing open behind him and the stamp of feet as the soldiers halted and came to attention, he did not turn. A brief probe told him who was there, and why they were there.

  "Is he ready?" he asked, seeking verbal confirmation as, even with the protection of prayer, the Gift was not to be trusted.

  "He is, Hierarch," said one of the men.

  Loman turned, relishing that title, but also wondering if Major Claus was seeking advancement. The man stood with two subordinates, all three of them well armed and armoured. Claus was immaculate but for blood spattered up one leg; however, the others wore filthy and torn uniforms. All three of the men looked bone weary, but at least they could still stand upright, and in that had the advantage over many of their fellows. It had been a long hard struggle, but well worth the prize.

  "Claus, do not call me Hierarch until after my investiture. It would be best to let the Council continue with the illusion that they have retained some power. Now, let's go and see to Amoloran's… disinvestiture."

  The three fell in behind him as he exited the tower room. Loman glanced sideways and noted how Claus had moved in close to his left — the position of an advisor and one who shared in the ultimate position. He considered sending the man a pace or two back, then rejected the idea. The reality of the power game was that you needed the army on your side and, thus far, Claus had served a purpose, though he would be removed when the time was right.

  "Reverend, I should also let you know that your brother has returned from Cheyne III with bad news: Brom has been killed and his organization is broken," said Claus.

  Loman hesitated at the head of the spiral staircase which wound down beside one glass wall of the tower, as he checked this news through his aug. "No matter, there will always be others to fight the Polity on our behalf and they will never have sufficient reason to come here once Ragnorak has done its work." Glancing at the Major, Loman saw that the man looked dubious and wanted to make some comment on that. Loman went on, "It is all planned for. We are the Chosen, and we will not fail."

  "As you will, Reverend," said Claus, which was not entirely the wholehearted response Loman would have liked, but that was probably due to the Major's weariness.

  Feeling generous Loman went on, "After Ragnorak, I feel that you will have much work to do on the surface, Commander Claus."

  They descended the stairs to the large chamber Loman had chosen for his own investiture later, and as they did so, he could not help but speculate on how much this tower of Amoloran's had cost in precious resources. Every step was a grav-plate, every one of the tower's fifty floors was tiled with them, and the security system — as he well knew — was particularly advanced. Of course that system had not proved sufficient when the power lines leading from solar panels mounted below the Up Mirror had been severed. It had been remiss of Amoloran to rely too heavily on the Gift — the men he, Loman, had sent to cut the power had been recruited from the surface, so were without augs to be detected; and, with a sufficient promise of future influence, the Septarchy Friars had clogged other channels that might have given things away.

  Only half of the Council were present: those others who had supported the previous hierarch either taking their own lives maybe at that very moment, or, if they had the wealth to possess such, fleeing in their own crafts. The four hundred soldiers Claus had led in here were currently arrayed around the walls, or scattered through the crowd that was now, very quickly, growing silent. Loman moved out into the open space rapidly cleared at the foot of the stairs and gazed around. Many private channels were open, but he did not feel inclined to force his way in to them, as he knew what most of these people would be thinking. In the end it did not matter what they thought or discussed, just so long as they obeyed.

  Set up at the back of the room was the pillar and the frame and he noticed how many Council members of questionable loyalty were glancing at this device nervously. After a moment, one member of the crowd broke away and approached to drop on one knee and take up Loman's hand. The Reverend Loman gazed down into the expressionless face of his brother.

  "You return at an opportune time," said Loman.

  "I would have come sooner, Reverend, but Brom was cowardly and was hesitating to send his people against the Cereb runcible. And he hesitated too long," Aberil replied.

  Loman beckoned him to rise to his feet and opened a private link with him. "You were sent on a fool's errand anyway. Supplying Separatists gives the Polity an opening through which they can reach us. We must not overextend ourselves and we must be patient."

  Aberil replied, "Amoloran was without focus or sufficient faith, and he would have destroyed us with his foolishness. You have done the right thing, brother."

  "I have done what is required of me by God."

  "As do we all."

  Loman waved Aberil behind him, to his right side — a position Aberil took with some alacrity. Now Loman turned to Claus. "Let it be done," he said.

  Claus gave the signal to his men at the back of the chamber, and the crowd parted as Amoloran was marched out, guards supporting him on either side as his legs kept giving way. The old man looked bewildered and terrified — as was only right. Loman noted with some distaste the bright yellow urine stains down the front of the disposable coverall he had earlier been dressed in. The guards dragged him to the frame and began tearing away his coverall as Loman advanced to stand before him. Amoloran resisted them, but to no avail, and soon he was naked and fighting only the obdurate
metal that held him cruciform before the crowd.

  Tilting his head towards Claus, Loman asked, "Did he have a way out?"

  Claus held out his hand, in the palm of which rested three small translucent capsules. "Implanted under his fingernails. He also had a nerve jammer concealed in his neck jewel — and this." Claus held out a beautiful tool of old stainless steel — a spoon with its edges honed sharp.

  "You think he would kill himself with a sculping tool?" asked Loman. "I think that gouging out his own eyes would not have been the way he would like to go."

  Claus shook his head and pointed at the tool. "Neurotoxin in the handle, to be pumped through micropores in the edges, your reverence. Primarily used to cause pain, but there's the option to pump out the full amount, so one cut would cause instant death."

  As he hung the tool on one of his own belt hooks, Loman nodded to himself: this was always how it happened — those of high rank always had a way to kill themselves should the situation require it, and always realized too late when that situation occurred. Himself, he had similar nerve-poison capsules implanted under his fingernails, and he would use them before it ever came to this for him.

  "You left him his Gift, I see," he said.

  Claus looked momentarily worried. "I thought it best to leave that decision to you."

  "Remove it now."

  Claus fisted his own chest then strode over to the old man in the frame.

  "No… no, you can't," Amoloran gasped as Claus closed his fingers around the scaled aug behind the old man's ear. Amoloran screeched when Claus tore it off and cast it on the floor. There came an ominous muttering from the crowd, quickly stilled as Loman glanced around at them.

  To all, through his aug, he broadcast, "He loved the Gift more than God. Will anyone here listen to his spoken confession?"

  No one stepped forward.

  "Have you chosen the program?" Aberil asked.

  Loman glanced at him. "No, brother. Do you have any suggestions?"

  "I have, and with a healthy individual it can last for eight hours." Aberil stared at the aged Hierarch, his expression now containing more animation than was customary. "Let me."

  Loman waved him to go ahead and Aberil quickly went over to a console at the side of the pillar and started tapping away with relish. The frame began to rise, and all around it the knives and bone saws, electric probes and injectors began to sprout and revolve. Amoloran let out a yell, then bowed his head and began the prayer of the Fifth Satagent — the choice of many who faced this fate.

  Loman gazed around at the crowd again. They were all watching with avid and in some cases slightly sick expressions — but they were all watching. Aberil's torture programs were legendary, so perhaps many of them hoped to learn something here.

  "See the betrayer of God's word," said Loman out loud, holding up one admonitory finger. "He would have had us attack each other while our enemy encroached upon our world. He would allow Behemoth back amongst us. And in the end he would have had us sacrifice love of God for love of technology." Amoloran was now babbling quickly through the last verses of his prayer, which was somewhat distracting. Loman raised his voice. "See, this is what will happen to any who would undermine our destiny. Ragnorak comes now to lance the infection on the planet below us, and as it heals we can turn outward to face our enemy. We are—"

  The low thud perfectly punctuated the last verse of Amoloran's prayer. Loman glared upwards and gobbets of flesh spattered his face, just as they did with many of those who stood about him. He pulled something lumpy from his forehead and stared with disgust at the piece of bone and brain he held between his forefinger and thumb. Amoloran hung quivering in the frame. He retained his jaw, but the rest of his head had disappeared. Loman turned and marched angrily away — Claus, then Aberil, hurrying to catch up with him.

  "I'm sorry," said Claus. "I'll punish that idiot on the scanner."

  "Interesting one," admitted Loman. "Explosive grafts in the bone of his skull. Detonated, apparently, by a recitation of the Fifth Satagent."

  Upon reaching the stairs, he turned once again to face the vast room. Studying face after face in turn, he detected only blank or sympathetic expressions — no one in sight dared show any amusement at his embarrassment. Glancing at Aberil he sent, "I think you know."

  Aberil's knife was out and slicing across Claus's throat before the man had a chance to realize he was in danger, then Aberil tripped him and sent him flying face-down to the floor, to prevent him spraying too much blood over Loman.

  Wiping a few spatters from his robe, Loman said, "It's good to have family with one in such situations. Welcome home, First Commander Aberil."

  Scar was behaving quite strangely, but then perhaps that was understandable considering he was now inside the twin of the vast entity that might have been described as his mother. The dracoman, rather than holding himself to his customary stillness, had released himself from his seat and was pushing his way round the craft in agitation. Cormac was also agitated — they had survived, but it seemed debatable how much longer they might do so. The clonks and slitherings had centred on the airlock and now he could hear a low ratcheting sound.

  "Dragon, what are you doing?" he asked, his finger pressed down on the com button.

  "I am coming in," Dragon replied, which was not exactly a comfort.

  Cormac noticed the Outlinker's head come up at this, and how the boy reached his hand up to the hood of his exoskeleton.

  Noticing Cormac's attention, Apis said, "Both airlocks can be opened from outside."

  Of course — this was a fact of which Apis was well aware.

  "I wouldn't bother with your hood or mask," said Cormac. "If Dragon wants to kill us now, there's not a lot we can do about it." He glanced towards Gant, noticing that, even though the Golem cradled an APW as he undid his seat straps, his expression was resigned.

  "It seems to me that Dragon must have some purpose for us," opined Mika, her attention focused on Scar. She still looked ill, but the inhaler she had just used seemed to be having some effect; at least she hadn't yet required another sick-bag.

  "But what purpose?" asked Cormac. "We know it's pissed off at the Masadans and intends some damage there, but in my experience when Dragon intends to do some damage it usually involves large smoking craters. I can't see why it wants us at all, unless it intends to throw this landing craft at one of the Theocracy cylinder worlds."

  Now there came sounds from the inner door of the lock, and as a group they pushed themselves up from their seats and moved over to the opposite side of the craft. As the wheel of the lock spun, Cormac sensed something of what the previous occupants of this craft must have felt when Apis had opened it to vacuum. The door cracked open, and all down its edge fleshy fingers intruded, dark red and covered with scales. Slowly, working on its hydraulics, the door continued to open, and in this Cormac felt some comfort. Knowing Dragon's capabilities he felt it a good sign that the door was being allowed to open at its own rate and had not been already ripped off its hinges. This meant it likely Dragon wanted to keep this landing craft in a usable condition. He just hoped it wanted the same for its occupants.

  Fully open, the door revealed fleshy chaos: a pit of ophidian pseudopods terminating in flat cobra heads, each containing a single pupilless blue eye where a mouth should have been; tangles of thinner red tentacles; fleshy webs as of those between the toes of an aquatic reptile binding much of this mass together; and visual flashes of cavernous life beyond. The craft filled with the smell of cloves, of burnt meat, and of a terrarium. The mass oozed its way in, pseudopods hooking up into the air with their blue eyes darting in every direction; then a new addition forced its way through, and rose above them. This had a ribbed snakelike body, pterosaur head and sapphire eyes. Cormac experienced definite deja vu and wondered what opaque conversation would now ensue.

  "I am dying, Ian Cormac," said the pterosaur head.

  Cormac pushed himself away from the wall towards the centre of the
craft, hooking the toe of his boot on the seat back and folding his arms across his chest. "I've heard that one before."

  The head turned so that its eyes focused on Scar. "But I will live," it added.

  This was more like the Dragon of old: conversations that were like a sorting of wheat from chaff and discovering potatoes.

  "What do you mean?"

  The head swung back towards Cormac, spraying milky saliva across the rows of seats below him. Not for the first time Cormac wondered how many heads like this each Dragon sphere possessed, or if they could manufacture them at will — as they did dracomen.

  "I will destroy the laser arrays," it said.

  "Well, that's… helpful."

  "They have five ships equivalent to Polity mu-class battleships."

  "Of the type you've already encountered?" suggested Cormac.

  "That one did not survive the encounter."

  Cormac noticed Apis flinch.

  "You didn't exactly get off lightly," Cormac said.

  "I will not get off at all this time."

  Now, despite not intending to be dragged into one of those circular and somewhat pointless conversations Dragon seemed to specialize in, Cormac could not help but yield to his own confusion. "So why the hell are you going there?"

  "To live again."

  It figured.

  "What do you want with us?" Cormac asked.

  "As I destroy their laser arrays and satellites, your descent will be unhindered. Rebellion will then come to the Theocracy, and my legions will arise."

  "What the fuck are you talking about? Did that mu-class battleship fry part of your brain?"

  The head swung once more towards Scar.

  "I name thee Cadmus," it said, and withdrew as it had come, the lock closing behind it.

  "What was that all about?" asked Mika, and all that had just occurred had sufficiently bemused Cormac so that it took him a moment to realize that she had actually asked a question.