Boris coughed, clearing his throat. “The necropolis,” he suggested. “Anubis modeled the colony area on an historical scenario, something to do with his identity. Where he came from. There's an entire quadrant of the town given over to tombs. Nobody lives there; mostly nobody goes there. Even the goons stay out. There's nothing there but a load of dry bones.”
“Whose corpses are they?”
“We don't know. Ours maybe, from earlier download attempts while Anubis was fine-tuning the gatecoder. Whatever, it will be a good place to wait. When I make contact –”
“What?”
“You don't need to know ... just yet.”
The day grew hot and bright, chasing the whisps of fog away from under the trees and baking the air into a quiet inferno. Oshi carried Boris deeper into the trees, then fashioned a hide in the deep grass; then she hunkered down.
“What are you waiting for?” Boris asked after an hour.
“That question, more or less.” Oshi sat up cautiously, glanced round, and lay down again close by. “Lie low. Stay off wisdom. Let's just wait and see. My bet is, if there's a massive response the city will be the first target. Don't want to be on-line or visible when Anubis starts interrogating the upload transceivers throughout the colony.”
“It's never happened yet.” Boris blinked rapidly, as if he had a dust-mote in one eye.
“Even when you tried to kill him?”
“No –” he stared at Oshi. “You a mind reader or something?”
“Peace is my profession,” she said ironically. “Diplomacy – by any means necessary.”
“Huh.” He sounded gloomy. “Massive response. Anubis is beyond a massive response. He's forgotten everything; even what he is. Everything except how to rip your guts out. Crude.”
“He's a Superbright telefactor, then?” Oshi probed.
“Ack. His main point of presence exists in the dreamtime on Pascal, and the propagation delay between it and his download body –” Boris stopped. “How much do you know about this system?” he asked.
Oshi smiled at him, tight-lipped. “I was sent here at short notice. Very short notice.”
“I see.” He was silent for a moment. “Well, it's like this.” He picked up a twig and scratched out a crude map in the dirt: “here's the star, Ridgegap-47. It's a smallish G-type, no binary companion. First in are a couple of dirt-balls, hot as molten lead and twice as unpleasant. Nothing there but some robot relay stations. Next out is Wirth, the terraforming project. It's a Venusiform environment. Anubis is meant to be building aerominers to blow holes in the cloud layer and shut down the greenhouse, but it's gone to pieces and the whole operation is running on automatic. There are some ships connected with it, drones running out into the near cometary belt and tipping ice cubes down the gravity well. But it's more or less going on all by itself. He won't even let us near the ships.”
“Yes, but where are we?”
“I'm getting to that.” Boris didn't like being interrupted. He moved his finger through the dirt, drawing a concentric circle far outside the orbit of Wirth. “There's a gas giant called Turing. Saturn-sized, medium-scale. It's got a couple of large moons, including Pascal. We're in L5 relative to Pascal, leading it by sixty degrees in its orbit. Pascal is the local Dreamtime world; covered thigh deep in slabs of superconducting circuitry and junk robot farms. I guess the idea was that this colony would be useful for supervising outer system mining operations; can't think why, seeing the system had no-one home except Anubis until we arrived.”
“Makes sense,” Oshi commented. “Strategically. If there are no other gas giants in the system it gives you a hydrogen monopoly.”
Boris looked at her oddly. “You have been studying, haven't you? What do they call you? A military advisor?”
“Think of it as the deluxe courier service.”
“I'd rather –” Boris coughed. “Stop. Look, we're here. Anubis controls, uses, the entire Pascal dreamtime, about two million kilometres away. But he's invested his corporeal body with almost all his sensory input: it's his virtual psychocentre. His real mind's point of presence is twelve light-seconds away by return signal, but his sense of identity is right here. Causes quite a hitch, doesn't it?”
“It sounds dumb. What it must feel like –” Oshi stopped. What would it be like if there was a fifteen second delay between sticking your hand in a fire and being able to do anything? But hey – Anubis reacted too fast for that. So – “he must have a chunk of his personality downloaded into that meat machine. And it takes fifteen seconds for his mind to catch up with whatever he does.”
“Yeah. Anubis is very smart if you give him time to think, but slow on the uptake. He's bottlenecked, like the dreamtime itself – held up by the speed of light and the performance he can get out of any one node.”
“You're going to take out the connection to Pascal and ice his body while it's waiting for instructions?”
“We thought of that. It didn't make sense. Believe me, he's got some pretty lethal low-level defenses. The goon squad, for one thing – semi-autonomous drones, spun off from his worst nightmares. All breaking the link would achieve would be to get Anubis mad at us. No.” Boris levered himself up on his elbows. “What we want is something more; we want to blow his higher consciousness away completely, to clear the dreamtime and take control of the machinery so we can beam out of here, out to the net. But we weren't sure that connection still existed ... until yesterday.”
Oshi pointed at herself, raised her eyebrows: Boris nodded.
“Right. Your arrival puts everything in a different perspective. Especially if you're right and we're going to get hit fairly soon. Though how you can be sure of that –”
“I'm not.” Oshi looked up at the forest canopy above. “It just makes sense if you look at things a certain way. The Ultrabrights know which direction you went in, you can be sure of that. They'll reason that there's a suitable system out here – they won't question your motives. Plus, neighbouring worlds have been going down without warning – not just dropping their transport layer protocols, but switching off in mid-transmission as if the plug's been pulled. I figure you drew down a full-scale offensive in this sector when you beamed out here; and it will be arriving in-system real soon now. In fact, I'm surprised it isn't already –” her eyes widened.
“What is it?” Boris demanded.
“Sod waiting out Anubis's response. If it happens, it happens; but from what you say ... we'd better get moving. Do your people have access to a telescope?”
“They'd better.” Boris tried to sit up but was still too weak to manage it on his own. Oshi stood up and leaned down, pulled him to his feet. They stood unsteadily. She noticed that she was acutely thirsty and her arms ached. “What do you want a telescope for?”
“Got to take a star check. I've got a nasty idea – and if I'm right, we don't have much time to do something about Anubis.”
It wasn't going too well. Boris was so weak he could barely walk; Oshi felt drained, and despite an overwhelming sense of urgency she was not strong enough for two.
“Not far,” Boris panted as they stumbled onto a narrow path through the undergrowth. “These woods don't go far. Stop outside the necropolis, away from the river. Maybe if you leave me, get help –”
Oshi stared at him. “You crazy?”
He stopped and leaned against a tree, chest heaving. “'S'better. I can't keep this up. Look, not far. Let's get there? Then you go on in. If anything's on guard I'd never get past it. Get help –”
“Maybe.” Oshi waited until his gasping subsided. You're too kind, she thought, watching the diplomat. Shit, why am I bothering? She felt disgusted with herself again. Then: why couldn't I just let things be? It was so much simpler when I didn't ask questions ...
“Come on.”
“No.” Boris raised a hand and pointed, shakily. “You go. Get help. 'S'not far.”
Oshi saw a break in the tree-line. “Okay,” she muttered; “like you say.” Hurrying f
orward she saw a stone-coloured building off to one side, out on the hot flat grassland where the Big Ceiling loomed overhead. Behind it loomed the walls of a small city, buildings clumped together like sheep in a field. The treeline ended very abruptly.
Suddenly her pulse was racing again. She'd thought herself tired before, but now she was running on overload, paranoia and fear of pursuit keeping her on her toes. Every rattle of twigs, every shadow of waving branch, made her jump and twitch for signs of danger. She went to ground behind one of the last trees: heatsight showed her nothing but a scattering of small animals, a wavering column of hot air above the building, and distant factory-signatures scattered across the roof of the world. All her wisdom sense could pull in was a bland crackle of low-level drone control circuits, diagnostics from the animal nightlife. Even the grass overhead was blued-out by distance. If I try to log a map and someone's watching ... she clamped down hard, crouched low and tense, watching the tomb. Too dangerous. Got to know more.
The tomb was the nearest building to the edge of the forest. Behind it, more windowless blocks of limestone and marble shone white beneath the artificial sun. The grass grew waist-deep, leaves pigmented blue-black to absorb the light. Oshi slid forward, her eyes level with the top of the vegetation, carefully erratic in her passage. See, don't be seen. Hear, don't be heard. Sweat beaded her brow: her heartbeat was a steady thunder. Hunger clenched a sullen fist around her stomach. Who can I –
Swish.
She wasn't alone. Freeze! Every nerve in her body screamed for attention as she stopped dead. Halberd clenched in sweat-slick hands, she strained for a sign. A peculiar hot, musty smell rose over the dry-grass of the field: somehow familiar.
Swish.
It was sweeping towards her. From the left, from the direction of the dome. Something was watching for her; a guard waiting for anyone to try entering the necropolis. Grass stems waved in time with the curious, rippling advance: a jerk here and a dart there ... only a few metres away ...
Swish.
Levelling the halberd and placing all her weight behind the point, Oshi lunged.
“Screee!” The world exploded in violent thrashing. Something hurtled out of nowhere, catching her a blow across the head. Ruby blood arc'd through the air, splashing ochre across the grass as a thick tentacle lashed round, grabbing for her neck. “ Wheee-eee!”
Oshi yanked back, felt resistance, jerked the halberd left-to-right until there was a ghastly sucking sound. Grass in her face. Tentacle questing past her shoulder in a lethal loop, poised to break neck – the halberd came free. She yanked back as the grass parted, revealing a Goon to her for the first time in daylight. Blood spurting. Something grabbed her left leg and pulled, yanking her off balance with a sickening crack. She began to fall sideways, vision blurring with an infinite constellation of black diamonds as she shoved with the point of the halberd, thinking can't let go now, it's not safe as it poked into the Goon's face and the world toppled around her. More blood spurted her way in a hot, acrid rain; it fell across her face as the living weapon thrashed on the end of her sharp stick. Why aren't they armed? she wondered, hazing in and out of consciousness. Her leg felt numb, the ankle sickeningly unfamiliar: a limb fashioned for a being from another planet. The goon subsided, slowly, as the world pancaked around her head in a slow spin. She barely noticed her embedded systems blocking its plaintive dying call, her built-in countermeasures jamming its upload signal with raw noise on the same packet-stream.
Everything was dark, so dark: someone a long way away hurt badly, ankle broken and ribs savaged and shoulders strained. Oshi lay in the long grass and wondered who the someone hurting was. Sunlight in her eye dazzled her, made her feel like laughing, like weeping. Such a sense of release, just like the last time this had happened to her. Something digging into her side: a wooden pole. Silly me. She tried to roll over, nearly fainted as she accidentally placed her weight on her left leg. Use the stick. It didn't want to come to her; she tugged and tugged for a long time before it came free and, quite suddenly and without understanding how it had happened, she was looking down at the shadow of death lying still in the grass. No weapons yet ...
The tomb. Angular blocks of stone mortised together with a grey filler, pillars dotted across its front. Mosaics, flashing in the sunlight, fired her eyes with pain. Oshi burned, writhing slowly in a silver fire. There was a large door at the front of the tomb. It was shut. She sniffed the air, wishing for a breeze to blow the scents of the necropolis towards her: dust and stone baking in the noonday heat. No more Goon Squad. Maybe it was safe. She limped towards the building, leaning on the halberd. Her hands were sticky; when she touched her chest she felt more stickiness. Everything stank of blood, just like that other time years before on Miramor. She felt sick with memories.
Welcome home. She ducked inside the lintel and looked around furtively. “Shit.” It was shut. She leaned against the wall and mentally flipped a die. It was risky, but ... “habitat: speak to me.”
“Habitat support. What should I say?”
“Do you have a full verbal communication interface?”
“That service is unavail-eek. Ack. Affirmative.” Oshi shook her head, trying to remember all the bits and pieces the Boss had spliced into her download nodes. Bluebox modifications to make everyday gadgets dance to her tune; and other, more arcane, knowledge. “ Server activated. Clearance confirmed. Full access.”
“Shut up. Open the tomb door.” She closed her eyes. Her throat was painful, and her tongue throbbed where she'd bitten it. Her eyes were sore. Who do I know? Her left leg belonged to someone else, but her skin was on fire and her chest was aching and she suddenly felt uncertain of where she was, now she'd stopped moving. Fucking spooks. The door swung open into darkness and shadow, emitting a gust of peculiarly dry, musty air. “Where's Raisa?”
“I know four Raisa's. Which –”
“The one I know.”
“Fingering ... you are proximate.”
Oshi opened her eyes. “What?”
“I didn't say anything! Hey, what are you doing here? What the fuck –”
She looked round. It was Raisa, standing in the outer doorway, somehow far more familiar to Oshi than she had any right or reason to be. “I was looking for you,” she began. “Escape committee ... “ She leaned forward. That's funny, she thought. I should be able to – she was leaning against Raisa, up close, close enough to smell her warm breath and feel her cheek brush her lips. Everything was so very heavy. “Anubis got to me. I rescued Boris; he's in the trees.” Then she closed her eyes.
Miramor Dubrovnic, a firezone on a dirt world out a way towards the edge of colonised space: it was her first field test. Everyone's first test, all the agents in her work group. Fresh out of indoctrination, they gated across the light-years to a rendezvous in high orbit. It had to be high because the settlers – a mixed bag of technorejects and zombies and national socialists – punched out anything they could hit with their sub-orbital fireworks. Superbright presence in the system consisted of a couple of partly shut-down Dreamtimes, a Gatecoder to move flesh-bodied people in and out, and no less than four in-system Threat Clouds with controlling battle stations. Someone sure thought that Miramor was trouble: Oshi et cie were there to pull its teeth.
Or not as the case might be. Two months out of the 'coder (and it wasn't malfunctioning like the one at Ridgegap-47), and she was going up the wall. Swimming pool, gymnasium, area simulators ... endless diversions but there was nothing to take her mind off the fact that really there was nothing happening. At least, not for real. She got to talking to the other humans on the base, still half-surprised to discover how many of them were orphans and human wreckage swept up from the dirtburner worlds by Superbright agencies. “Why is that?” she asked. “Where did you come from, Ivan?”
“The void.” Ivan had smiled and rolled a somersault across the worm-woven silk of the rug. “Where else?”
She'd thrown a cushion at him. “ Finger.” The familiar
humm of the Wisdom in the back of her head went away for a few seconds then returned, dumping his public-access personal data down across her senses like a hot monsoon rainstorm of nonsense.
“That won't tell you anything,” he said, half-seriously. Smiling, clutching the cushion. The wall behind him was locked into the overspill from a microspy perched on a window-ledge in Dragulic. Jackbooted women goosestepped down the boulevard like iron grey machines. Oshi looked away. “I'm going back to the void too, eventually. So will you. In between ...”
“Do you believe in reincarnation?” she asked.
He sat down, full lotus. “Where I came from, the very rich do it.” he shrugged. “Now, maybe I will do it too. If they want me to.”
“You were an untouchable?”
“And you weren't?” he countered, smiling infuriatingly. “The Superbrights like to catch and train their fingerlings young. And raise them from the ashes so they appreciate it. The people in the Dreamtime, the people who are responsible ... they're old, you know. Nobody dies unless they want to, so they don't have many children. We are their children ... the dirtburners we look after are their descendants. They multiply and expand and die, and many of the dying ones choose to live on in Dreamtime. A wind of souls, blowing ever outwards into the universe on a shockwave of photons ...”
He'd drifted off into another of his trances. Oshi considered throwing the other pillow at him. Instead, she stood and walked round behind him and began to massage his shoulders and neck with canny timing. “So you think Distant Intervention serves the Dreamtime dead?”
He shook himself. “DI serves no-one but the Superbrights, who serve themselves. Structures evolve. Once upon a time we were an interplanetary peace agency, presiding over the great communications and afterlife network. Stabilized the extended Dreamtime, you know, made it accessible throughout all of human space. Without that insane hubris, the will to create – 'god is dead; therefore we must become god' – well, we'd be nowhere. DI sent out the infobursts that spread Dreamtime to the expansion processors in other systems, sent the initialisation code to set the drones to terraforming the other worlds they found once the Dreamworlds were finished. So then they were stuck with the job of stopping the colonies from wrecking the local Dreamtime when things go bad. But not because the Superbrights want anything. They're like ants, or wasps. All they know about is food. And survival ...”
Scratch Monkey Page 11