10
Land Heirodont: there are many thousands of species of this creature catalogued, and probably more yet to find. They range in size from creatures as small as a pinhead to the wood pig, which can grow as large as an elephant. All of them are herbivores. Fossil evidence proves that there were once carnivorous varieties, and that heirodonts dominated the biosphere before the rise of the leeches. Their overall appearance is vaguely mammalian, with heirodonts being comparable to many Terran animals, though possessing the mandipular mouthparts of insects. There are two sexes, and the females give birth to fully developed young carrying a thick layer of back meat. No other kind of offspring would survive to adulthood, for the land heirodont spends a life of pain feeding upon foliage and bark, while perpetually being fed upon by falling leeches. This lifetime of pain is little different for the ocean heirodont -
Since the spaceship had stopped moving and shut down what sounded like large turbines, the weird Prador had been coming to fetch its captives regularly. In the last five hours it had taken four more of them. Now just Lannias, his wife Shalen, and himself were left and, by sitting as far from the door as he could, Orbus hoped it would be the other two that the Prador would come for next. They seemed ready—almost anxious to join their fellows in whatever hell the monster provided. Even so, that would only delay matters for Orbus. There would be no escape from this. By the way the drone had come at them from the sea, the pressure changes he had felt, the sounds and the movements of this spaceship, he surmised they were deep in Spatterjay’s ocean.
Captain Orbus sighed and leant back against the rough wall, transferring his gaze to a big leaf-shaped louse creeping towards his leg. A couple of these had already nipped him, and he supposed they had developed a taste for human flesh—their main purpose being to clean up food scraps the Prador dropped. He waited until the louse’s front end began to rear, antennae waving and tri-hooked mandibles opening, then snatched the thing up. Its back curled around his hand as it tried to stab him with its ovipositor. Counting the large outer legs and the short spiky inner legs, he wondered for a moment how close a kin it might be to the monsters after which it kept house, then he drew his knife and began hacking away those multiple legs. Shortly he was left with just its flat armoured body, still bearing mandibles and antennae. Now being quite proficient at this, he thrust in behind the mouthparts and levered. With a crunch the mandibles popped out, and he tore them away from gristly flesh and tossed them aside. He then worked his knife in along the carapace edge, stuck his thumbs in, and folded the body open like a book. The green sac at the back was edible, as one of the now removed crewmen had discovered, though it smelt of shit and naphtha. Orbus cut it out and discarded it before using the tip of his knife to winkle out the soft bits from the creature’s many internal compartments. They tasted something like raw hammer whelk, and there was just enough to stave off his hunger.
Lannias and Shalen, Orbus noted, had not eaten in some time, and showed no inclination to dine on the lice coming near them, rather waiting until the creatures first bit, then crushing them with their fists. The two were apparently competing to see which could end up with the most sets of louse mandibles embedded in their legs. This, Orbus felt, was adequate demonstration of how twisted his own crew had become, and how twisted he himself had become to encourage it. It almost seemed that what would soon happen to him was a deserved punishment.
He tossed away the empty shell and heaved himself upright, noticing how deeply blue the other two looked, and how their ridiculous giggles kept growing louder. He himself was not so blue yet; his diet of ship lice must be staving off the change in just the same way as did dome-grown food. Stretching his aching limbs he realized the other two were now staring at him.
‘Ca’in,’ said Lannias, smiling brightly, unable to articulate the ‘pt’ because of what was now growing in his mouth.
Orbus just looked away and tried to ignore him, not liking the immediate urge he felt to go over and kick the man insensible. Shalen started giggling uncontrollably. She thrust her hand down the front of her trousers and began playing with herself. She seemed unable to keep her eyes still and her chin was wet with drool.
‘Captsss!’ she hissed.
Lannias stood up. Orbus recognized the man’s expression as one possessed to a lesser extent by all his old crew. But now it turned the man’s features grotesque. Lannias drew his own skinning knife and began stabbing its tip into his own chest as if to test it. Surely he didn’t think himself capable of taking on an Old Captain? Apparently he did for, when mutilating himself abruptly became too much of a bore, he suddenly rushed towards Orbus.
Orbus crouched, and slashed his own knife in an arc before him as a warning. But Lannias did not even slow. Orbus straight-armed him in the face with a flat hand, snapping the man’s head back and flinging him to the floor, then circled round.
‘Want a little tussle do you?’ he asked nastily.
The hell with it, he thought; this might not improve their situation, but it would make him feel better.
Lannias rose quickly, his tongue wagging as he spat out a couple of teeth. Grinning, he jumped forward, slashing at his Captain’s face. Orbus swayed back and cut up, opening the man’s forearm. Then there came a sound that sent a shudder through him. The door was opening again.
‘Ca-a ca-a ca-a!’
Lannias tried to bury his knife in Orbus’s guts.
‘Fucking idiot!’
Orbus slapped down Lannias’s knife hand and cut hard across his face, bursting one of the man’s eyes and feeling his knife crunch through the gristle of Lannias’s nose.
‘Urg,’ said Lannias, staggering back.
Suddenly a weight came down on Orbus’s back, arms and legs wrapping around him, and something wet licked round his ear.
‘Nicesss Captainsss,’ said Shalen.
He reached back, grabbed clothing, ducked, and slammed her down on the floor.
‘Damned bitch! You . . .’
A huge claw closed hard around his waist. He felt several ribs breaking and he vomited a stream of louse meat.
‘Fuck you! Fuck you!’ he kept repeating as the Prador retreated with him to the door. He snapped his knife trying to puncture the adamantine claw, struggled to no avail, and wished with all his heart that he had some sprine.
* * * *
The third day’s Intertox injection immediately stopped her struggling against the braided monofilament restraints. Janer was glad about that—her bonds had been stretching alarmingly. Her breathing became stentorian, rattling that horrible flaccid tongue in her mouth. For a second she looked at him with tired sanity, before her eyes started rolling again. He uncapped a bottle of supplement and watched her speculatively, not liking what he must do next and wondering if the clamp gripping her head would hold. He stepped forwards, thrust the bottle neck deep into her mouth, and pinched her nose closed. She struggled at first, thrashing like a beached turbul, then abruptly started swallowing. Once she had drained half the bottle, her eyes opened wide and she stared at him directly. He withdrew the bottle, recapped it, and wiped her chin. Enough for now. As she closed her eyes and slept, Janer moved away.
Having now had time to look around, Janer fully realized what tasks awaited himself and Erlin—if she did not decide to throw Bloc off the side of the ship when she recovered. Four rows of chainglass tanks extended for hundreds of metres in both directions, two rows on either side of a wide aisle interspersed with three wide pillars which enclosed mast stairwells, and the same arrangement on the deck above. With each tank came a set of equipment similar to that they had used on Sable Keech himself: a chrome autodoc, diagnosticer, sets of body probes with optic connections, and a voice generator with an assortment of connections for the varying kinds of reification hardware. Pipes ran along the floor beside the tanks, and connected into each. Others ran along the ceiling, also with spurs leading down to each tank. These were obviously for filling and draining them, but he wondered what with? They had used sea water as an amniot for Keech. It contained microbes as hardy as any other Spatterjay life form, and had been a nightmare to sterilize. There were also stretchers and trolleys here—no doubt intended to bring in the half-dead half-alive reifs after their religious experience on the Little Flint—and there were restraint tables like the one Erlin currently occupied, for holding reifs should they go into conflict with their own cybermotors, as had Keech.
Janer turned back to Erlin, wondering how long he should leave it before administering yet another injection. He watched her for a while, then went out to take a turn around the outside of the deckhouse as the sun set. He next took the stairwell down to the crew quarters in the stern, obtained food in the galley, and chatted for a while with some bored Hoopers sitting around in the mess; before returning to the Tank Rooms to sleep the night away on the table next to Erlin. The following morning he administered more Intertox. The day after that she tried to talk, but her tongue still got in the way. It did, however, seem to be shrinking, and her colour was less blue. Another night and the best part of the next day passed before he dared consider freeing her.
‘What the hell is this?’ Erlin asked, as she shakily stepped out across the main deck towards the port rail. The sea stretched endlessly before them, the dark green of laurel with not an island in sight, but the vista divided by ratlines and stay cables. She eyed some reifications standing a short distance away, scanned around the ship, then turned and peered up at the forest of masts, spars, cables and fabric sails in which lurked the three sentient sails, two living and one debatably so. ‘Bastards,’ she added.
‘This is the Sable Keech,’ said Janer. ‘I was willingly recruited. I gather you did not come of your own free will?’
‘Damned right I didn’t, though the alternative at the time didn’t seem so good.’ Erlin suddenly looked uncomfortable and added, ‘At least that’s what any sane person would think.’
Janer glanced at her questioningly, then wondered if he had released the restraints too soon when she went on to describe her nearly terminal encounter with a giant whelk.
‘Why weren’t you with Ambel?’
‘I needed a break,’ was all she allowed, then went on, ‘What’s this all about here?’
‘You’re on a ship full of reifications sailing towards the Little Flint—sort of following in the footsteps of Keech. A pilgrimage.’ Janer stabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the Tank Room. ‘I think you can guess what happens when we reach that destination.’
‘Whose bright idea is this?’ Erlin asked.
‘A reif called Taylor Bloc. He was financed by Lineworld—’
Erlin snorted at that.
Janer continued, ‘Yes, I know. But with a little help from a hooder he now has them off his back.’
‘Hooder?’
Janer explained what happened back at the island, then went on with, ‘He and his followers are fanatical—as far as you can tell with reifs. I gather that having us aboard, being one-time companions of Sable Keech himself, is something of a coup for Bloc—something akin to having some Apostles at a Christian church service. Though I rather suspect we are expected to feel honoured and humble.’
‘So objecting to being kidnapped, and demanding I be released, might not be too bright. Anything else I need to know?’
Janer shrugged. ‘Some things going on here I haven’t quite fathomed yet, but that’s about it.’ He grimaced. One of those things concerned Isis Wade, but he was not about to complicate matters by telling Erlin about that. He gazed back along the deck, observing a group making its way down an outer stair from the bridge. Soon the group was close enough for him to recognize some of its members. He pointed. ‘Here comes Bloc and a few others.’
‘Damn me,’ said Erlin, as they drew closer.
‘Erlin!’ bellowed Captain Ron. He was the first to reach them and he swept Erlin up in a hug.
‘Put me down, oaf.’ After he did so she continued, ‘Janer here neglected to mention you. Last I heard you were off-planet. So what are you doing here?’
Ron waved a hand about. ‘I’m the Captain.’
Erlin glanced at Janer and raised an eyebrow, before turning to the others. ‘And Forlam’s here, too,’ she said, her tone neutral. ‘How are you doing, Forlam?’
‘I do well enough.’ Forlam looked slightly guilty, for some reason.
Erlin turned to the reifs. ‘And one of you three is Taylor Bloc.’
Bloc stepped forwards, from between Aesop and Bones. ‘That would be me.’
Janer could tell nothing from his tone, but doubtless he was wondering what Erlin’s immediate reaction would be to being kidnapped and hauled all the way out here. He wanted to warn her to be very careful, but need not have worried.
Erlin held out her hand. ‘Then I want to thank you for saving my life, though that was not strictly your intention.’ She paused. ‘It is precious to me.’
After a hesitation Bloc gripped her hand, his eye irrigators working over-actively, which was, Janer now realized, the only indication of this reif experiencing some strong emotion.
‘I am glad to have helped. Zephyr has told me of the circumstances in which he found you. I also must apologize for bringing you here like this, but our need is great. . .’
Erlin released his hand and smiled around. ‘No need to apologize,’ she said smoothly. ‘I’m sure I can allow you months or even years from a lifetime that could possibly last thousands of years for me. Whether intentionally or not, directly or indirectly, you did save my life. Anyway, as you are perhaps aware, one of the greatest dangers to a person of my many years is boredom, and this,’ she waved a hand to encompass the ship, ‘looks interesting.’
‘So, when required, you will apply your considerable knowledge and abilities to helping my people .. . Arise?’ Bloc asked.
‘Certainly. The possibility of my refusing you is doubly remote now that I see that my friends are here willingly.’ She indicated Janer, Ron and Forlam.
Bloc nodded woodenly. ‘Perhaps you can prepare yourself as soon as possible. It has come to my attention that some reifications are already infected with the Spatterjay virus, and that the Intertox inhibitors merely slow its progress in them.’
‘Not surprising really,’ Erlin said offhandedly. ‘Any form of Intertox, whether in balm or blood, possesses a short active life. It won’t therefore access those places the balm reaches by slow percolation, like your bones, where the virus also grows.’
Bloc turned slowly to gaze at one of his companions, before turning back. ‘This sort of knowledge is precisely why we need you, Erlin Taser Three Indomial.’ He paused, eye irrigators working so hard that moisture was now running down his wrinkled face. ‘Please consider yourself welcome aboard the Sable Keech, and if there is anything you require, anything at all, please contact me at once. Now, I have some matters to which I must attend. Perhaps later I can give you a tour of our ship?’
‘That would be wonderful,’ said Erlin.
Even Janer could not fathom whether or not her delighted smile was genuine. Bloc turned and departed, with his two companions in close step behind him. Once he was out of sight, Erlin scanned her surroundings before turning to Ron.
‘Okay, Ron, what the fuck are you really doing here?’
‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on things,’ muttered the Old Captain.
‘Why you?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Job?’
‘Yeah. Pays well too.’
‘And who’s paying you?’
Ron shrugged resignedly. ‘Windcheater.’
Oh hell, thought Janer.
* * * *
The cave had been excavated over the millennia by a stream wearing gradually through flinty chalk then limestone running down alongside a basalt column that had been created some time in the island’s volcanic past. Packetworm burrows also intruded, to confuse matters, and the drone spent many hours scanning tunnels that led out promisingly sometimes thousands of metres, but always ended at some ancient collapse. On the third day, Thirteen thought it had found the hooder, on coming upon the petrified corpse of a massive packetworm a metre in diameter, its grinding head resting against the basalt that had finally defeated it. The creature must have been dying when it hit this obdurate rock, and just did not have the energy left to turn around. Passing it, the drone explored deeper.
Other living creatures also attracted Thirteen’s notice. There were no leeches in the cave, so a species of land heirodont had escaped their attention. These creatures were no bigger than the drone itself—pallid armadillo forms with stunted mandibles. In pools swam their prey: globular white fish that appeared to share ancestry with boxies, diamond-shaped jellyfish, and strange animals mistakable as bonsai baobabs until they scuttled along the stream bed on their rootish feet. But of the hooder there was still no sign.
Eventually, the cave system now completely mapped in its mind, the drone returned via a winding route to the surface. It had scanned every square metre of the island. It had run geoscans into soft ground and, though finding some strange items it might like to investigate later, had found no sign of the alien monster buried there. There were other cave systems, but none large enough to conceal the creature. Thirteen was certain it had missed nothing. Now it reviewed what it had downloaded via the planetary server regarding hooder biology.
They were incredibly tough, and incredibly difficult to kill with most weapons available to the Polity. like flat-worms, if they were broken into segments, each of those segments could eventually grow into another hooder. Their home environment was swamp, on a planet with very little oxygen in its atmosphere. However they did still need oxygen to survive, a small amount of which they obtained from the atmosphere itself, some by eating the oxygen storage cells in their prey, and the rest by cracking CO2 in photochemical and electrochemical reactions. Such creatures could survive underwater for a considerable time, but they could not swim—were too heavy for it. On their home planet the only specimens found in the sea had been those that had drowned. Had it ventured into the sea? Thirteen thought this unlikely. So where was it then? Thirteen rose high out of the dingle on Mortuary Island, revolved in the air and gazed out across the ocean, tilted itself towards the horizon, and set out.
* * * *
Leaning against the stern rail, Santen Marcollian gazed out across the sea. She had been a cultist for her first fifty years of existence as a reif—after her unfortunate accident with a grenade—but even being dead did not prevent one growing up. That half a century taught her a lot, and in the end, feeling she had outgrown the Cult of Anubis Arisen, she rejected it and went her own way. Consequently, it peeved her that this voyage was controlled by the likes of Bloc, who though not a cultist of the old style, still espoused some of its ideals. And, after that scene on her first day aboard, she was beginning to wonder if she had made a big mistake.
Bloc’s armed Kladites were everywhere, and that worried her. Yes, this was a ferocious world, but they were aboard a large ship protected by automated laser turrets dotting the hull. Nothing nasty was going to get aboard, so perhaps it was the case that the nasty thing was already here. She looked around, noting a few other reifs strolling about out on deck, experiencing what they could of their surroundings in their own limited way. The prospect of actually returning to life, like Sable Keech, had brought her here—to actually be able to feel again: wind against skin, movement through the inner ear, the roughness of this metal rail against her palm . ..
‘How are you enjoying the ocean life?’
Santen turned and saw that the reif John Styx had stepped up beside her. Studying him, Santen wondered what had killed him, since there was no visible damage to his body, and for a reif he moved with a surprising smoothness. Prior to their earlier encounter aboard this ship, she had witnessed him, when the hooder had attacked, taking up a Batian weapon and firing on the creature while other reifs, herself included, merely took cover.
‘It is becoming somewhat boring,’ she replied.
‘After just eight days?’
‘Yes, after just eight days.’
‘Never mind, I’m sure that will soon change.’
‘What do you mean?’
Styx shrugged—which was not an easy thing for a reif to do. ‘Have you received Bloc’s summons?’
‘Yes.’ Santen checked her internal clock. The meeting was due in only half an hour in a hall down in the bilge, immediately above the rudder. Santen wondered where the intervening time had gone. ‘He’s probably going to lay down the law for us. And I somewhat doubt he’s going to be making any concessions, perhaps rightly so.’
‘Will he have us standing in ranks practising our salutes?’ Styx asked.
‘Let’s hope not. I already left the Cult of Anubis Arisen, and have no intention of joining its bastard offspring.’
Styx nodded. ‘Apparently he’s been delivering some lecture to us all a hundred at a time. At least this is what I’ve been told, though those already called in are rather close-mouthed about what went on. His own people, of course, don’t need any instructions.’
‘It’s Cult shit, I guarantee. Even if he and his followers are technically not supposed to be cultists.’
Styx remained silent.
‘You know,’ Santen went on, ‘I find it difficult now to understand how I swallowed all that garbage for as long is I did: The Cult is to give us identity; the Cult empowers each individual with the strength of all. . . and the rest. It took me far too long to realize the Cult is just a way of making its leaders wealthy and powerful.’
‘Like a religion,’ suggested Styx.
‘Like a religion,’ Santen agreed. ‘And this is no different. Shall we go down and see what our tour guide has to say? It might at least be amusing.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ murmured Styx.
They began making their way along the deck.
‘At least the Hoopers don’t have to put up with this crap,’ remarked Santen, eyeing one man who was cleaning some organic mess from the visible section of one of the massive bow anchor chains.
They reached the jigger mast stairwell and Styx went down ahead of Santen. She noted again how easily he moved, not checking his handholds on the banister, nor watching where he put his feet. Probably he was a later reification than herself, therefore running on more advanced hardware and software. Soon they exited on the maintenance deck and walked along to another short stair leading down to the meeting hall itself, joining others heading for the same destination. They entered a room in which were crowded the reifs summoned this time around, talking in low voices to each other. Santen observed Bloc standing at one end facing them, Aesop and Bones on either side of him, and a squad of Kladites arrayed behind. Studying the room itself she noted the floor was polished wood, and that there was a line of cupboards along one entire wall. The door to one of them stood open, revealing stacks of folding chairs. Doubtless this hall was intended for conferences, but Bloc had not thought to put out the seating.
‘Please close the door,’ he said to the last reifs entering. When this was done Bloc continued, ‘Welcome, fellow searchers.’
Ellanc Strone, who had positioned himself near the front, interrupted. ‘Ah, it now seems I’m not supposed to be here.’ He turned to go.
‘Please wait. What I have to say is important, and concerns you all.’
‘It better be good,’ said Strone, turning back.
‘Oh it is,’ said Bloc, his spectacle irrigators misting moisture all around his face. ‘It concerns discipline aboard this ship, and the establishment of an efficient regime. This is not a pleasure cruise; it is my ship and I do expect obedience.’
‘That’s interesting,’ replied Strone.
‘Yes,’ Bloc nodded, ‘it is. Now you all received notification of the ship regulations, through your cabin screens, when we set out, but it seems some of you require a reminder. You have all been allotted specific times when you can come up on deck, you have all been clearly informed of those areas where you cannot trespass, but many of you persist in ignoring such simple instructions. May I remind you that this is not a Polity world, and so Polity law does not protect you.’
‘You see,’ muttered Styx.
‘What’s it to be then? A flogging? Walking the plank?’ someone said.
Bloc eyed the reif who had spoken. ‘The former will obviously have no effect though the latter is a possibility.’
At this many of the crowd protested, perhaps remembering Aesop’s implied threat earlier.
Ignoring the hubbub, Bloc continued loudly, ‘I am personally affronted by the attitude shown by many of you.’ Bloc eyed Strone in particular. ‘Without me and without this ship, you would not be here at all and would not have this chance of Arising.’
‘The bite of a leech is not so hard to find on this planet,’ retorted Strone.
‘Yes,’ said Bloc. ‘But what about the expertise of Erlin Taser Three Indomial here onboard, what about the tanks I have provided, the presence of Janer Cord Anders, the opportunity to more precisely follow the path Sable Keech himself walked?’
‘I don’t recollect anything about him coming right out here,’ sneered Strone.
‘I will bring you to the Little Flint,’ continued Bloc, ignoring him. ‘And what do I get—nothing but complaints about matters that are almost ephemeral?’
‘You’re cashing in on us. You and that fucking Lineworld,’ said Strone.
‘I am not,’ Bloc protested. ‘If it was not for me, Batian mercenaries would now be running this ship, and then . . .’
In the pause John Styx muttered, ‘Now that’s very interesting.’
The protests and interruptions started up again. Every time Bloc tried to say something, he was shouted down.
‘What is?’ asked Santen.
‘Well, the bulk of those mercenaries were killed by a creature supposedly shipped to this world by Lineworld Developments, so you would think it hardly due to Bloc that they are not currently running this ship.’
Santen felt a horrible disquiet as she returned her attention to Ellanc Strone, speaking again on behalf of all the complainers.
‘So this is better, is it?’ Strone pointed to the Kladites gathered behind Bloc. ‘You cheat us, expect our obedience, and now you’re prepared to enforce it.’
Bloc bowed his head as the verbal assault continued, then he held up his hands. ‘Quiet! Please, quiet!’ When the noise had dropped to a mutter, he continued, ‘Obviously we are getting nowhere here today. I shall have to look into the matter of compensation, for which I will need to contact Lineworld. When I have done that, I will meet with you again, and we will sort all this out.’
He stepped forwards, the crowd parting before him. The Kladites fell in behind him as he left the room.
‘So the complainers are getting somewhere,’ observed Santen.
‘Precisely where, I wonder,’ replied Styx.
* * * *
Visually checking his hand- and footholds as he climbed, Wade experienced a momentary amusement. Who would have thought he would ever fear heights? It was the human façade, for to be an anthropoid Golem required a high level of human emulation. He did not really fear heights, just ran a program to adjust his behaviour to that of a human aware that to fall now would mean death. In defiance of that same emulation, he paused for a moment, turned and gazed around him. A cool breeze was blowing off the sea. On the horizon the sun bloated as it set: a dull lime orb poised at the far end of the ocean, cloud boiling up around it like steam it created as it seemingly submerged, this spreading in a static explosion, shredded across the sky, its inner faces green and yellow, the outer faces gold and red. A trail, as of green-tinted mercury, cut across the dark sea to the ship. The occasional frothy wake appeared as mid-sized leeches surfaced and probed the air with their trumpet mouths. Wade nodded, as if the view confirmed something for him, then peered up the length of this massive mainmast he clung to, which at this point tapered to a mere half a metre thick. Only a little way still to go.
Eventually reaching his destination, he stretched up and grabbed a spar. A hook claw released its hold right next to his hand, and the expanse of monofabric wing above folded in on its many-jointed spines. Wade hauled himself astride the spar, then looked upwards.
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t come up here,’ said Zephyr.
‘I gave you a few days to learn the ropes, so to speak, and there has been much here to divert me. But our business is only just beginning. You must still be undecided to have come all the way out here.’
‘Time is not an issue,’ said the sail.
‘I disagree. It very much is an issue.’
‘It might be for you, but I am a complete entity. I owe nothing to how I was made.’
‘Then death is an issue,’ said Wade.
The Golem sail hissed and swung its head away, then abruptly swung it back, stopping only half a metre from where Wade sat. He was uncomfortably aware that not only was he the focus of a pair of emerald eyes, but also the focus of a particle cannon. It was utterly illogical that an entity so hating death would carry such potent means of delivering it. Wade turned his head away and peered down towards the activity on the deck.
‘And it is certainly very much the issue aboard this ship, hence our interest. Are reifications dead, and once dead can they live again? Why do Hoopers value the potential of death, then bank it?’
‘They know Death, and they fight to defeat it.’
‘Then we are in agreement. You understand, and it is time to tell your other self.’
‘We are not in agreement. Reifications are truly dead. Hoopers are alive.’
‘So you believe, as humans once did, in a soul?’
‘Life is the totality: body and mind, and their sum, their synergy. Death is the antithesis that must be destroyed. I will begin that destruction and . . . live.’
Zephyr’s eyes were flickering like faulty lamps, and Wade sensed some of the turmoil the Golem sail was suffering. He knew that turmoil: the war fought between emotion and intellect inside all conscious beings . . . even sane ones.
‘You are not alive,’ he said.
‘I am alive,’ Zephyr growled.
‘No. You claim reifications are dead, yet how are they different to you? They are minds loaded to crystal, just like you are, and just like our progenitor could be, if you could persuade yourself of that fact.’
‘Am alive!’
Zephyr swung his head away, then cracked it back hard. Wade went backwards off the spar, then was hurtling down towards the midship deckhouse. Human emulation made him grab air as if trying to slow his descent, then he overcame this reflex and relaxed. Hitting the bubble-metal roof of the deckhouse with a crash, he cratered it. Lying there, reflecting on the changes the real world had already wrought in Zephyr, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. As they halted, one of the Hooper crew leaned over to peer down at him.
‘That were a hard landing. What happened?’
Heaving himself out of the man-shaped dent, Wade looked around as if dazed. He noticed the rails all around the roof; the tables bolted to it ready to take umbrellas and be surrounded by chairs. After a moment he realized he was not fooling this Hooper. For some reason they had known what he was almost immediately. He guessed that the sizeable dent was also a bit of a giveaway.
‘Just a little disagreement.’ He winced.
* * * *
‘Your evidence is not entirely satisfactory,’ said the Warden.
Hovering a hundred metres above the sea, with the two smaller drones on either side of him, Sniper repressed his frustration. Returning to the search after locating the Vignette, he tried repeatedly to convince the Warden that its sinking should be investigated further, but the Warden had a hornet in its bonnet about this hive-mind agent, and considered finding that intruder a lot more important. Sniper disagreed; Prador, as far as he was concerned, were a lot more dangerous than stinging insects.
He protested, ‘I ain’t trying to convince a legal submind. I just think this is something I should investigate. And we’ve looked under every rock in this area, and checked every ship—but no agent.’
‘Then it is time to widen the search.’
Sniper hissed and spun about like a coin.
The Warden continued, ‘If you believe Prador are down there, did you neglect to record their ship’s arrival while you acted as Warden, or did they come by runcible?’
‘No need to be sarky. There’s another possibility.’
‘Yes, the newly adult Prador that left the Seagre island ten years ago. It would perhaps have been better if you had ensured its demise at the time.’
‘Well. I set a molly carp after the bastard, and he was at least fifteen kilometres from its dad’s ship,’ Sniper replied grumpily. ‘Anyhow, I was busy, and most of the SM shells were scrap by then.’
‘Busy?’
‘Well ... it took me a while to take on your role. It’s complicated up there.’
‘Complicated,’ the Warden repeated flatly. Then after a long pause: ‘Actually you were right. The chances of the Prador surviving the molly carp were slim, but the chances of it surviving aboard its father’s ship were utterly remote.’
‘There, y’see?’
‘So where did the Prador come from that supposedly sank the Vignette?’
‘Bollocks,’ Sniper muttered.
‘Precisely, as you say, “Bollocks.” Now let us look at the facts. The Golem agent of an ancient hive mind is loose down there for as yet unknown purposes. Has it not occurred to you there may be a connection?’
‘Why would a hive mind want to sink a ship and take its crew?’ Sniper asked. ‘That’s the Prador way of operating—taking the human crew to use as blanks.’
‘I don’t know, but some connection does seem likely.’
‘Nope,’ said Sniper stubbornly. ‘I still think it’s Prador.’
‘Then what do you propose?’
‘Check out Ebulan’s ship. I can get there in a few hours.’
Again a long pause. Sniper sensed something like confusion through the link. It occurred to him that the Warden’s long confinement might have sapped the AI’s confidence.
‘Very well, do so. But I want the geological drones to continue the search, and you to return to it the moment you’ve ascertained the position.’
The Warden then cut the connection.
Sniper did not try to analyse why the Warden had now changed its mind. He dropped out of the sky, then engaged his fusion engines. As he shot away he sent back to Eleven and Twelve, ‘Come on slowpokes, get those burners on.’
* * * *
As Ambel peered through his binoculars, what he saw evinced in him some surprise, and for the Old Captain that was no common occurrence.
‘Definitely a ship’s boat, and there’s someone waving from it,’ he announced.
‘Can’t have been out at sea here for long—wouldn’t have survived the first rhinoworm to come along,’ observed Boris.
‘Well let’s pick ‘em up before one does happen by,’ Ambel replied.
Boris eased the helm over, and Galegrabber eased himself and his fabric brethren to the optimum angle. The Treader curved in towards the smaller craft, foaming out a white wake in the stiff breeze. The men in the boat began rowing hard to intercept the ship’s course.
Climbing up to the bridge, Anne observed, ‘We’ll have to reef to pick them up—it’ll slow us.’ Down below, Peck had already unwrapped his shotgun.
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Ambel, ‘but we can’t leave the lads to die. Anyway, we’re out over deep water now, so there shouldn’t be any problem with big angry molluscs.’
‘That’s good.’ Anne turned to stare behind them.
As they finally drew in beside the small boat, Boris shouted at Galegrabber, ‘Reef ’em!’ after the sail seemed a little reluctant. Muttering to itself, it pulled the reefing cables that wadded the fabric sails up against their spars, then climbed high up the mast, peering nervously all about. Ambel frowned at it, then climbed down to the main deck.
‘You all right there, lads?’ he asked, leaning over the side. He vaguely recognized the two men in the boat, which probably meant they were juniors, as he clearly recognized every senior crewman. How could he not, having known them for centuries?
‘Captain Ambel!’ said one of them delightedly. He was a thin-set lad with blond hair tied in a pony tail. The other one was of squatter build, his ginger hair patchy on the dome of his head. Another few years and it would likely all be gone—just like Ron’s.
‘Do I know you?’ the Captain asked.
‘I’m Silister, and my friend is Davy-bronte . . . from the Vignette.’
‘Ah . . .’ said Ambel. ‘Well get aboard sharpish and you can tell me all about it.’
The two men scrambled up the rope ladder Peck had cast down to them. Ambel observed chunks taken out of the side of their craft, some burns, and the remains of a rhinoworm on which the two had obviously been dining. The boat was also partially awash. He nodded to himself—they had been adrift for a while and survived, doubtless with some Polity assistance. As soon as the two men were on deck and standing before Ambel, he shouted up to Galegrabber, ‘Let’s be moving along then!’ The sail seemed intent on something out at sea, so he yelled. ‘Galegrabber!’ Eventually it obeyed and, under the boom of fabric sail, the Treader journeyed on.
‘What about the boat?’ Peck was peering over the side.
‘Tie her off at the stern,’ Ambel replied.
Muttering imprecations Peck took up a coil of rope and climbed over the rail.
‘All right, lads, which of you has the laser?’
The two of them looked uncomfortable. Eventually the squat one, Davy-bronte, opened his shirt and pulled out a QC laser handgun. He hesitated for a moment, then turned it round so as to present the butt to Ambel. The Captain took the weapon, inspected it for a moment, then handed it back to him. The look of surprise on Davy-bronte’s face both amused and saddened him.
‘This isn’t the Vignette. It’s your weapon, so you keep it. I just want to know who has it so I know who to call on should it be necessary.’ He pointed up to the bridge. ‘Anne up there’s got a laser carbine. And that over there is mine.’ He pointed to where his blunderbuss hung. ‘Now, speaking of the Vignette, where exactly is that ship now?’
After a long hesitation, the one called Davy-bronte replied, ‘A couple of kilometres down, I reckon.’
Ambel winced. He might not have much time for Orbus, but no Captain liked to hear about a ship going down. The best that could be hoped for crew from a stricken ship who ended up in the water was that something big might grab and kill them quickly, since only very young Hoopers would have the luxury of drowning. Ambel knew, only too well, what happened to older Hoopers left helpless in the sea.
‘Why’s that then, lad?’
‘A big Prador war drone shot a hole through the side.’
Coming over the rail with the end of the rope, the other end of which he had just attached to the boat, Peck said, ‘Chewin’ bloody squeaky weed bugger.’ He then headed for the stern, flipping the slack along the rail as he went, while the rowing boat drifted out behind the ship.
Ambel ignored his muttering. ‘Prador war drone?’
Silister now replied, ‘It come out of the sea. The Cap’n thought it was that other big Polity drone at first an’ it harpooned him, then it rained sail meat an’ it got Drooble first. . .’ He trailed off, looking confused, then brightly added, ‘We were caulking the boat. We hid.’
Ambel patted him on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you’d better start—’
‘Aaargh!’
Ambel stepped past them and hurried to the stern, in time to see Peck leaning back hard, his feet slipping along the deck, the rope now a taut line to the stern rail, then out to the boat beyond. Ambel stepped to the rail and saw the boat, half sunk, waggling from side to side.
‘Let it go, Peck.’
‘Umph.’
The line slackened. The boat turned a circle, lifted up out of the water and fell back upside down. A familiar flat white tentacle rose behind it, then came down hard, smashing it to matchwood.
‘We got all the sail on?’ Ambel asked loudly but casually.
‘Yes, Captain!’ shouted Boris. He was also turning the Treader quickly, so it would run with the wind.
‘What?’ asked Silister, who had followed with his companion.
‘One thing at a time,’ said Ambel. ‘Now tell me again what happened to the Vignette.’
* * * *
The giant whelk chewed on the fragments of wood, sucking every nuance of flavour from them. She located and gobbled up the slightly rancid chunk of rhinoworm. She was very hungry, having discovered that swimming used up more energy than crawling along the bottom, but all this unaccustomed activity also made her feel more alive than ever before. Also, such were the changes she had undergone, mentally and physically, she was beginning to question her earlier motivations of revenge.
The bulk of her young had been eaten by a shoal of turbul, but should she ever encounter any of that species again she would treat them no differently than before. She would kill and eat them just the same. The human . . . yes the word was now clear in her mind . . . had only killed one of her young, and she was not exactly pursuing that particular human, but any with some connection to it. No matter. She gave an underwater shrug. She would kill and eat them just the same. That was what she did. Anyway, she was enjoying this chase. It was with a growth of something new inside her—humour—that she recognized that she killed and ate any living thing she could lay her tentacles on. And so she laboured on after the Treader.
The heirodont, closing in from five hundred metres behind her, possessed no sense of humour at all, probably because it spent most of its life being fed upon by parasitic leeches. However, it did enjoy a chase, and it definitely ascribed to the same creed as the whelk: it killed and ate anything it could get its mandibles around.