12

Ocean Heirodont: like the whales, these creatures long ago abandoned the land to return to the sea. Only forty-seven species have been catalogued, for they have obviously not well survived competition with the vast oceanic leech population. They are cast in the same mould as Terran fishes and cetaceans: on the whole, those with horizontally presented cetacean tails are herbivorous, whilst those with sharkish tail fins are predators. They grip their food in mandibles, be that kelp stalks or a struggling turbul, and feed it into the grinding bony plates in their throats. The largest kind can grow half again the size of a blue whale and is a carnivore. Its favoured prey is giant whelks, if it can drag them from the bottom. But even something so large is subject to the predation of giant leeches, sometimes losing a ton or more of flesh to one in a single strike. The only relief these creatures can find from leech attack is to drop below the depth leeches are able to reach, but they must perforce return regularly to the surface for they are air breathers. But even when they go deep enough to avoid leeches, they might still be attacked by giant prill—

From high up, Sniper observed the Skinner’s Island, checked his position by internal tracking, then dropped out of the sky like a brick. He hit the sea in a foamy explosion, and two smaller splashes followed him. Not waiting for the other two drones, he engaged his supercavitating field, opened his tractor drive to full power, and arrowed down into the depths in one sonic explosion. Collapsing the field over the required coordinates, water friction knocked his speed down by half, then he used his drive to decelerate further before putting all his detectors at maximum range. Immediately he picked up wreckage: pieces of exotic metal, the remains of a thruster nacelle—detritus from the Prador ship. He checked the coordinates again, but they were correct. Down below was a cavity in the sea bottom, cut through with the slowly filling burrows of giant packetworms. Despite his earlier discussion he had expected, in his metal heart, to find the Prador ship still here, and some other explanation for recent events. The ship was gone.

‘I see,’ said the Warden, once Sniper had updated the AI over a U-space link.

‘There’s a fading silt trail,’ Sniper continued. ‘I might be able to follow it.’

‘Yes, I noticed that, but I wonder about the underwater shock waves you are currently generating.’

Sniper observed Eleven and Twelve slowly approaching. ‘I should think,’ he said acidly, ‘that a Prador light destroyer might be more of a danger to the environment than my shock waves.’

‘Very well, Sniper, continue your pursuit, but keep me continuously apprised of your location. I will inform Earth Central of the situation.’

‘What?’

‘One must consider recent events in the Third Kingdom.’

‘Oh, so coring human beings is okay now?’

‘Keep me informed, Sniper.’

The link cut and Sniper hung in the depths mulling over the exchange. Things had changed. The Prador, supposedly, no longer used human blanks in their Kingdom. In recent years hundreds of thousands of them had been returned to the Polity, and consequently hundreds of thousands of records of the war’s missing had been closed. There were now Polity embassies on Prador worlds and vice versa. There was trade, a very great deal of trade, for though the Prador had never developed AI and much of their cybernetics was quaint, their metals technology was superior in many respects to the Polity’s. It was also an open secret that the Prador wanted runcible technology, but were baulking at the fact that AI was needed to control it. They were perhaps aware, upon observing the Polity itself, that once they made that step there would be no going back. Drastic changes always ensued.

‘What now, boss?’ asked Eleven.

‘You two return to the surface and keep track of me—you won’t be able to keep up down here. I’m going to follow this trail for as far as I can.’

‘Then what?’ asked Eleven.

‘Then, if we find him, I suppose we must politely ask our Prador guest to leave.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Twelve.

* * * *

The Warden, as was its job, considered all the implications of a newly adult Prador in charge of a light destroyer in the sea below. What would be its aims? Not being implicated in the same ancient crimes, those would certainly not be the same as its father’s. Even under Polity law, the crimes it committed while under the control of its father’s pheromones were ones of which only its father was accounted guilty. However, there was the Vignette to consider. Its crew was missing and the ship itself at the bottom of the sea. Admittedly no Polity citizens had been hurt and the crime, if such it was, had been committed outside the Line. But this did not bode well for what else the Prador might do—possibly things that could easily fall within the Warden’s remit. There were also political ramifications. Perhaps it was time to pass the buck? Before the Warden could decide, Submind Seven started shouting for its attention.

‘Seven?’

‘Captain Sprage again, Bo— Warden. Says there’s someone you need to talk to.’

This time the Warden fully engaged with the conferencing link, relayed through Seven, and gazed into the Old Captain’s cabin. The man stood lighting his pipe with a laser lighter, his expression sombre.

‘What is it this time, Sprage?’ the Warden asked.

‘Not me this time. Ambel wants a word.’ Sprage reached out and adjusted something out of view. The link jumped and the Warden found itself looking into a similar cabin in which stood Captain Ambel and two junior crewmen.

‘Captain Ambel.’

‘Hello, Warden.’ Ambel looked equally sombre. ‘Good to have you back. That other fella was a bit irascible.’

‘Yes, quite. How can I help you, Captain?’

‘Not so much how you can help me . . .’ Ambel gestured at the two juniors. ‘Let me introduce crewmen Silister and Davy-bronte, lately of the Vignette.’

The Warden abruptly focused more of its attention through the link. ‘You are from the Vignette. What happened to your ship and the rest of the crew?’

Both the juniors stepped back, looking somewhat startled. The Warden realized it was projecting one of its many avatar images through the link, and that the two men were now looking at a two-metre-long grouper floating before them. It changed the image to something more human and acceptable.

‘Well the Cap’n was right pissed-off with Drooble, an’ the harpoon went through him, not Drooble you understand ...’ Silister babbled, until Ambel put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I think, lad, you should let Davy-bronte tell it, just like he did earlier.’

The explanation from Davy-bronte was much more concise, and the description unmistakable.

A Prador war drone, evidently upgraded, thought the Warden. Sniper will be pleased.

‘Thank you for informing me,’ said the Warden.

‘One other thing,’ added Ambel. ‘You will be telling Windcheater about this?’

‘Certainly. He is, after all, your ruler.’

Ambel gave an ambivalent shrug and the comlink cut.

So, confirmation, if any more was needed. An upgraded war drone had been used, which inferred that systems aboard Ebulan’s ship were in a good state of repair. The same could be inferred from the fact it had been moved undetected. Also, the fact that the adolescent Prador—the Warden checked its records—Vrell, had survived Ebulan’s traps meant it was a very capable Prador indeed. Deciding it needed further advice, the Warden opened a communication channel through its own runcible, and through five other runcibles, right to the heart of things.

‘Yes?’

The Warden transmitted all it had recently learnt, in detail, the information zipped into a package even some AIs would have had trouble deciphering. A microsecond later the reply came back.

‘Work to your remit as best you can, Warden. Thrall codes within the ship will have been changed, and without signals for you to intercept you will not be able to break them, so there will be no repeat of Sniper’s . . . lucky shot, and you do not have the armament to deal with a functional Prador light destroyer,’ the Earth Central AI advised the Warden. ‘I am now informing all interested parties.’

‘Interested parties?’

After a delay of nearly half an hour, EC replied, ‘The nearest Polity warship is two hundred light years from you. However, there is another warship much closer.’ Earth Central then transmitted all relevant information, and a recording of a recent conversation in which it had participated.

‘Is that a good idea?’ the Warden asked.

‘It is in the nature of a test of agreements.’

As the communication channel closed, the Warden could not decide if things had got better or infinitely worse. Certainly the stakes had just gone up: Earth Central was gambling with a planet and its population. The AI scanned round inside the moon base at the crowds of Polity citizens. No need to start a panic just yet, so it put a message up on the bulletin boards in the main concourse and arrivals lounges:

BUFFER TECHNICAL FAULT DETECTED

The submind at the planetary base immediately queried this, and the Warden told it what the real problem was.

‘Oh fuck,’ said the submind.

The Warden added, ‘It would be convenient if those travellers on the surface were encouraged to leave.’ Shortly after, the Warden observed that the departure bookings began to rise when the news-net services began speculating about a rumoured mutation of the Spatterjay virus into a lethal form—a rumour neither confirmed nor denied by the planetary base submind.

Then an hour later:

FAULT CONFIRMED. INCOMING TRAVELLERS ON BLOCK OR DIVERT. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. FURTHER MESSAGES TO FOLLOW . . .

Now no more Polity citizens would be coming to the moon, and increasing numbers of them were already leaving. This meant that if things went pear-shaped, at least the body count would be lower.

* * * *

‘Okay, lads,’ said Ambel, leading the two crewmen out of his cabin onto the deck. ‘Peck will show you to your bunks. Tomorrow we should be reaching the Sargassum.’

‘You gonna put us on another ship to go back?’ asked Silister.

Ambel paused.

‘Be a bugger to stop,’ said Peck, who was standing underneath a lamp, peering out into the darkness.

The man, Ambel noted, had been very reluctant to be more than a pace from his shotgun, and cradled it now. Perhaps understandable with what was evidently following them. And he was right about stopping, too. The moment they did, the giant whelk now somehow swimming after them would be all over the Treader in minutes.

‘Peck’s got that right, I’m afraid. We’d end up in the sea if not in our friend’s guts.’ He stabbed a thumb behind the ship. ‘So you’ll have to stay with us for a while.’

‘Good,’ said Davy-bronte.

Ambel peered at him curiously.

Davy-bronte continued, ‘We been on the Vignette, Cap’n, so we know a good ship when we’re on one.’

‘Okay, lads. You get some rest now.’

Ambel turned away as Peck took the two juniors below. He glanced up to Boris at the helm, nodded to him, then strolled to the stern. Ambel—always calm and not prone to panic—realized Silister and Davy-bronte’s service aboard the Treader might be limited indeed unless he could think of a way to deal with the giant whelk. Perhaps after the Sargassum, find an island, break out the harpoons and every other available weapon, beach the ship and ... get things sorted. Ambel winced at the thought. Jabbing harpoons into giant leeches was all very well, but he knew a bit about the thing following them.

Sticking a harpoon into it would not be easy. Only himself and elder crew would be able to accomplish that, as it would be equivalent to ramming a knitting needle into a tree, and about as effective. So what to do? As far as he knew, only large heirodonts were capable of killing a giant whelk, and they were massive creatures with mandibles capable of crushing rocks. Be nice to have one of them on his side, but they spent as much time as possible down deep where the leeches were not so thick, only ever coming up for air. And when one did that, and any Captain spotted it, he would quickly take his ship out of the vicinity. There were no stories of heirodonts sinking ships, but maybe that was only because no one had survived to tell such a story. No, that was a fancy, and he still had to find a way.

The function of the ship’s harpoons, of course, was not to kill but to harpoon. Ambel stared into the darkness and reflected on an old old story about another kind of giant.

* * * *

A kilometre behind the Treader, the giant whelk experienced a bowel-loosening moment which clouded the water sufficiently for her to jet out of the attacking heirodont’s path. The great creature cruised on with leisurely insouciance, utterly aware that the whelk had no convenient rocks to which it could cling. In panic the whelk released gas from her shell and began to sink, but the bottom was a long way down and there was no guarantee there would be stone there to which she could cling. She spread her harder tentacles out towards the heirodont and tried to draw as much of the rest of herself as possible into her shell. It was hopeless. By extending her tentacles she was only offering the predator a starter to munch on. Then she saw a wisp of something cutting starlit lines across her vision. The line from the ship, its hook still jammed into one of her tentacles. It was strong in a way that nothing else in the sea was, she realized, since it had managed to cut into her flesh. Perhaps it could equally cut into the flesh of a heirodont? She caught the end of the line and wrapped it about another tentacle, stretching ten metres of the stuff horizontally before her.

The heirodont circled twice, lazily flicking its tail to change course. It sighed contentedly as, deeper now, leeches began to detach from its body. Rolling its head from side to side, as if to ease a crick in its short and powerful neck, it began grating its mandibles together—a sound sure to strike terror into the heart of any sea creature large enough to be lunch. Then it turned and headed directly towards the whelk.

The whelk kept the line on target, just below the predator’s eyes. The heirodont opened its mandibles wide, the black bony plates in its mouth clashing together like a row of sliding doors. It hit the line and suddenly the whelk was hurtling backwards through the sea, mandibles clashing only twenty metres away from her. Then she was rising.

The heirodont shook its massive head, a trail of juices oozing from where the line cut in. The whelk rode up over its head and then bounced down the length of its back, getting cracked once by the huge tail on its way past. She spun, spread her skirt to stabilize herself. The heirodont turned hard and circled round again. The whelk eyed her tentacle where the line had bitten in but not cut through, unwrapped that length of line and shifted it to undamaged flesh, and held the rest of the line out again. The heirodont drew close once more, then abruptly turned away. The whelk felt new terror; it had spotted the line. Now began a long and horrible duel: feint upon feint, attacks defeated, the heirodont increasingly maddened by the deep cuts to its head. But the whelk was learning, and soon began to see a way.

The fifth attack, from above, went much the same as before. The line cut in below the heirodont’s mandibles. As it shook its head, the whelk swung round to fall past the side of the head, only this time she reached out with her other tentacles to grasp the heirodont’s hard armoured breast. This was something utterly new to the predator: whelks normally wanted to get away as fast as possible, not cling on. It accelerated, flicking its tail hard from side to side, and rolling to try to shake off the unwanted passenger. Using all the strength in her tentacles the whelk began hauling herself up and round. Behind the heirodont’s head, she gripped hard and sucked down. Now the heirodont was panicking. The whelk uncoiled one end of the line, flung it around her attacker’s neck, finally managed to snag it on the other side. Again coiling the line around her tentacle, she drew it taut around the beast’s throat, then began to pull.

The heirodont suddenly stopped shaking itself and headed for the surface. Hundreds of tonnes of heirodont, plus many tonnes of whelk, rose high into the night. The enormous tail thrashed the waves for a second, then the two crashed down again. But the whelk did not lose her grip.

Aboard the ship, only a few hundred metres away, Captain Ambel gripped the Trader’s rail as the wave hit. He was the oldest of Old Captains, and thought he’d seen all this ocean had to offer.

‘Fuck me sideways,’ he muttered.

* * * *

A low boom reverberated through the ship and Janer stumbled aside as the floor tilted, and caught himself against a rack of dowelling rods. Other items here in the maintenance section, where Ron had brought them in search of further weapons, crashed to the floor.

‘The rudder,’ said Captain Ron. He took a comlink from his belt and spoke into it: ‘Garl, what happened?’

A voice replied, ‘Just lost the helm—no response. The rudder’s right round and I’m getting all sorts of red lights up here.’

‘Tell Zephyr to take off sail. I’ll get back to you.’ He put the comlink back on his belt and nodded ahead to where armed reifications were scrambling up one ladder from the bilge. By the sound, others were also scrambling up a ladder further along. ‘Looks like the battle ain’t going too well.’ Rapping a knuckle against the floating drone, he added, ‘Go take a look, Thirteen. Let me know what’s going on.’

The drone shot forward, then down through the opening out of which the ladder looped. Kladites, now in the maintenance section, were crowding past to head for the mast stairwells. Janer eased along a partition wall, grabbed the ladder rail and pulled himself round so he could peer down. Bloc’s people were ascending one behind the other, from all the way down. He stepped back out of their way.

‘What’s happening?’ Ron asked, snagging a shrivelled man bare of a helmet.

The man stared at him, eyes flat black photo-receptors, mouth opening and closing. ‘It’s hunting us now,’ he said, the movements of his mouth bearing no relation to his words.

‘What did you expect?’ the Captain asked, puzzled.

‘Aesop,’ said Janer, pointing to the ladder.

Ron released the black-eyed reif, waded through the crowd, then caught hold of Aesop by the scruff and hauled him from the ladder.

‘What happened down there?’ Ron asked.

Aesop continued to struggle, saying nothing. Then abruptly he froze. ‘It is, it is . . .’ His voice changed and he went on almost calmly, ‘The hooder somehow managed to get aboard. We only just discovered it. I. . . Bloc sent us down to see what we could do.’

‘Did someone use explosives down there? The rudder’s damaged.’

‘We ... do not know.’

Hooded and masked, Bones now appeared, standing just behind Aesop.

‘Well, we can’t just leave it down there,’ said Ron. He released Aesop, and the reif sped away, Bones scuttling after him.

As the ladder cleared, Janer asked Ron, ‘What do you suggest?’

Ron scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘Seems we got little choice. We gotta fry that bugger before it sends us to the bottom.’ He turned to Forlam. ‘You, take five of the boys and find Bloc. We want Batian weapons—I’m sure he recovered some. Get them and meet us back here soon as you can.’

Forlam pointed at five of his fellows, and was about to head off.

‘I’ll come too,’ said a male reif, stepping forwards. ‘I might be able to help.’

Ron now led them away from the hatch, and through the maintenance section to a locked bulkhead door. He palmed the plate beside it, and it opened. In the next section he walked over to a cage. Janer moved aside as the remaining Hoopers crowded past him. Wade stepped up to stand beside him.

‘The Captain has a problem,’ the Golem observed, ‘and I wonder if it is one he can solve.’

‘Old Captains are very capable,’ Janer replied. He nodded towards Ron as the Captain studied the cage lock, shrugged, then tore off the barred door.

‘I’m sure that is so. But a hooder is a very dangerous creature that is very difficult to kill. Most projectile weapons would kill this ship before killing the beast itself. The same rule applies to most beam weapons.’

‘You’re just a little ray of sunshine, aren’t you,’ said Janer.

As if he had not heard, Wade continued, ‘I have my APW which I can fire very very accurately—accurately enough not to damage this ship. There is, however, a weapon perfectly suited to this situation. It is highly illegal in the Polity, because it is both hugely destructive and there is absolutely no material defence against it.’ He eyed Janer.

Janer considered all sorts of denials, but you did not hide the stolen fire extinguisher when the house was burning. Obviously Wade knew all about the weapon Janer carried.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, more courageously than he felt, and turned to head back along through the maintenance section.

Wade caught his shoulder and redirected him. ‘Down the ladder here. Our friend is no longer at the stern. He is directly below us.’

* * * *

As Forlam led the way to the deck, he felt there was something familiar about the male reif accompanying them. Then he dismissed the thought—live long enough and everyone starts to look familiar, and he had more important things to consider. People were being killed aboard this ship, and reifications were being . . . sort of killed. Of course reifs did not feel pain, so he dismissed them from his thoughts. But how Sturmbul must have suffered. Forlam had been very interested to hear from Isis Wade earlier how hooders fed. He walked on with his stomach lurching with an excitement he felt loath to identify.

Climbing up on the lamplit deck he glanced up and saw that all the fabric sails were now reefed. The Golem sail was just discernible up its mast, silhouetted like an iron statue against the starlit sky. One of the living sails was on the midship deckhouse. Forlam could not guess why it would be there until he saw its head dart down, a pinkish tail thrash into view, then the head jerk back tearing up a mouthful of flesh. Huff was dismembering a rhinoworm and chomping it down.

‘This looks interesting, Forlam,’ said the reif.

Dragging his attention away from the sail, Forlam glanced round at him, then peered along the deck to where he was pointing. A large group of people had gathered in a clear area of deck between the fore and mid deckhouses.

‘Do I know you,’ Forlam asked him as he studied the group.

‘No, you don’t.’

‘You know my name.’

‘I make it a point of remembering the names of those who might present a problem to myself and others.’

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And who are you?’ He did sort of know what the reif meant but, like the excitement he felt, did not want to analyse it too closely. He knew he had never been quite right since that time the Skinner had torn out most of his guts, and his subsequent change.

The group ahead consisted of milling Kladites, amongst them Bloc and the just arrived Aesop and Bones. Though he felt misgivings, Forlam began trotting towards them. He had his Captain’s orders after all. The reif kept pace with him, moving without that usual jerkiness Forlam associated with his kind.

‘My name is John Styx.’

You’re lying.

‘Well, John Styx, my Captain tells me I’m more of a danger to myself.’ Forlam gritted his teeth.

‘I thought your fascination with pain less focused than that.’

Forlam was about to demand an explanation of that, but now they were getting near to the group.

Bloc suddenly noticed them and stepped forward. ‘What is this?’

Forlam launched into an explanation. ‘Can’t have a hooder running about below. It’s already damaged the rudder. We need weapons badly. The Captain wants to know where you stowed those Batian weapons?’

After a pause, Bloc said, ‘All personnel not on duty should return to their cabins.’

‘What?’ said Forlam, excitement suddenly turning to anger.

Bloc continued, ‘This is not the concern of Hoopers. We will deal with the problem as we see fit.’ The reif’s eye irrigators were currently attempting to drown his face.

John Styx stepped forward and spoke up. ‘I think the matter is somewhat more urgent then you would suppose. The rudder is jammed over and we are now adrift. If this ship rams an atoll or a packetworm coral . . .’

Bloc seemed taken aback by that, for a long moment passed before he said, ‘I am aware of the damage to the rudder, which was caused by a misguided attempt to use a grenade against the hooder. But the matter needs some consideration, since charging in there with Batian weapons might result in even further damage. As to the ship ramming an atoll . . .’ Bloc gestured to the lack of sail. ‘It is drifting now and the damage would be minimal.’

He’s delaying, thought Forlam. Why is this shit delaying?

‘Far as I see it,’ he said belligerently, ‘you are the owner, but Captain Ron is in charge here, and he’s ordered me to fetch weapons. We need those Batian weapons.’

‘It would be safer, I think, if you returned to your cabins,’ Bloc replied.

Forlam stepped forward too. ‘Listen, you worm, that hooder has to be dealt with. I don’t care about your fucking god complex. I don’t care about these brown-nosing deadbeats with their noses up your anus. My Captain wants those weapons and you’ll either give them to us or we’ll go over you to find them!’

Now Bloc took a pace forwards. His movements were jerky, his eye irrigators strangely still. ‘You ... will... do as you are told!’

Forlam was about to protest further when Styx laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps—’ he began. There came a shuddering crash which sent Forlam and Styx staggering. Some Kladites fell to the deck, and Bloc went down on his backside.

‘Atoll?’ Styx suggested brightly.

* * * *

‘What the hell!’

Janer stayed where he had fallen on the catwalk below the ladder as the ship swayed underneath him. Wade hopped down off the ladder—he of course had not fallen. The Golem stooped down and offered a hand, and hauled Janer to his feet.

‘Maybe we’ve run aground,’ suggested Wade. ‘That doesn’t affect our task.’

‘Mmph,’ was Janer’s only response, but his reservations grew as they moved on into the bilge. After having seen a hooder in the flesh for the first time on Mortuary Island, he agreed with Ron: nasty bugger. Perhaps they should have waited for Ron and the rest. Perhaps he should have handed his weapon over to someone more handy.

‘Who is this individual you must apprise of certain truths, and what is the cataclysm you want to prevent?’ he asked.

‘We make enough noise and we attract the hooder,’ said Wade.

‘Well, we didn’t come down here to avoid it,’ Janer replied.

Wade glanced at him. ‘A point, a definite point.’

‘So perhaps while we search you can explain yourself.’ Janer now had his weapon in his hand, as did Wade.

‘Should I even try? I’m the evil agent of a hive mind come here to do some dastardly deed. What was it? Oh yes, obtain sprine so my master’s hornets can carry it in their stings and dominate this planet.’

‘That about sums it up,’ said Janer. ‘It would also explain your interest in a submersible kitted out for removing the bile ducts from ocean-going leeches.’

They were now on a walkway. Just ahead of them lay a jumble of bones and reif joint motors. An eye irrigator was spraying intermittently into the empty socket of a stripped skull. Wade prodded at the reif wreckage with his toe.

‘You know, this one is only dead in his or her own terms. I have to wonder what this individual’s reaction would be if its crystal was reawakened in a Golem chassis. Would this one choose to be shut down again and have its crystal destroyed?’

‘Probably not,’ said Janer, peering into the distant reaches of the bilge.

‘Yes, death as a matter of degree. Strange times we live in.’

Janer let that one ride. He could not make much out of it. Instead he said, ‘The hive mind I worked for wanted sprine so it could dominate this world. And it seemed likely that, had it succeeded, Polity AIs would not have minded that much. Sprine hornets would have acted as a counterbalance to the indestructibility of Hoopers.’

‘That is not the case now ... if it ever was,’ replied Wade.

‘What?’

Wade held a finger up to his lips and Janer fell silent. He could hear nothing unusual, but that did not mean the Golem could not.

After a moment he whispered, ‘What’s it doing?’

‘I suspect it is feeding. Unusual that. On their home planet the prey must remain alive to prevent certain poisons being released from the inedible to the edible portions of its body.’

‘Nice,’ said Janer.

‘Very much not nice for the prey. But why has the hooder behaved the way it has here? At the encampment it was similarly maddened, though it did feed as it should, on a couple of occasions. It was starved, but I don’t think that accounts for this.’

Janer stared at Wade’s profile. The damned Golem was leading him away from the subject. ‘What, precisely, is not the case now?’

Wade turned to him. ‘The Polity no longer needs sprine hornets as a counterbalance to Hoopers.’

‘Why not?’

‘Supposing it to be true that they ever did, then it’s because there is a small population of alien sentients on this planet who would be in danger of being wiped out by those same hornets. However, I question your assertion: what about boosted and mechanically augmented humans, or those loaded to Golem shells? Where is their counterbalance?’

‘So you’re not here after the sprine?’ Janer at least wanted to be clear on that.

‘Why come here for it?’

‘It’s also obtainable off-planet?’

Wade rubbed his forefinger against the bridge of his nose—a very human gesture. ‘Do you think for one moment that the leech genome is unknown to Polity AIs? Do you think, as a corollary, that they do not also know the formula for sprine?’

‘That doesn’t mean that hive minds know it.’

‘No, not unless they happened to decode it from any of the millions of samples of leech flesh that have been taken off-world, or have managed to steal it from secure storage.’

Was he to believe this? It all sounded perfectly plausible, but then Janer would not expect a lie from this Golem hive-mind agent to be implausible. And anyway, if Wade did consider Janer’s knowledge and suspicions a threat, why hadn’t he already neutralized that threat? Or was that why they were down here now?

Janer slowed his pace to allow Wade to get ahead of him. The Golem stepped down a few steps, out of the previous unroofed corridor onto a grated walkway. Up ahead now, Janer could hear movement. Something big and hard-edged was travelling rapidly across a wooden floor.

‘I’m not sure I believe you, or can afford to believe you.’ said Janer.

Now ten paces ahead, Wade turned to face him. ‘I am not any danger to the people of this world. I understand its exigencies. I realize why sprine is so valuable to them.’

What the hell was he talking about?

Janer raised his weapon and aimed it straight at Wade’s chest.

‘You’re a tourist then?’ he asked.

‘Not really. When we have time I will tell you why I am here. We no longer have the time now.’

The noise was louder now: hard carapace on metal, gratings rattling. Something so big should not move so fast. Darkness rose behind Wade, rows of red eyes glared and multiple sickle limbs clattered together, as if sharpening each other. Maybe this was the solution to all Janer’s qualms.

When he was ready, he pulled the trigger.

* * * *

Bloc did not know if his anger was real, or some feedback through that now fully functional third channel. Nevertheless, he felt it burning red inside his mind, dislocated from the functions of glands but emulating them all the same. But it only revealed itself in the fidgety movement of Aesop and Bones as it spilled through his links to them.

OUTPARAFUNCT . . . WARN: EXTREMITY PROBE . . . B.P. LOAD . . .

MEMSPACE: 00030

He shut off the messages conflicting with his vision and hauled himself to his feet. This could have been avoided had he gained full control of the hooder before bringing it here. However, gaining full control of it, through the spider thralls implanted in each segment of its body, had required programming similar in function to the way a shepherd controlled his sheepdog. The whistles and hand signals were given when the animal naturally did what would later be required of it: one whistle for left, another for right, others for come here, or go there. The animal mind, connecting sound and action, would then carry out those actions in response to the whistles. But some willingness was required on the part of the animal itself. The hooder was not so willing, and it was difficult to prevent this particular dog biting the sheep. It had attacked the Kladites he had sent down to finish off any of Ellanc Strone’s followers who had escaped. But now he was beginning to gain control of the beast—he was returning it to the chain lockers in the bow—and these people now wanted to destroy it. All this would not have been required but for the obstinacy and selfishness of. . . people. He had done his best for them all—had always done his best. It was the fault of those who interfered with his plans, those who tried to halt his progress in every respect. His gaze returned to Forlam, then he strode forward with his two shadows close behind him.

‘Men! To me!’ he shouted, and did not need to look round to know his little army was gathering round him and unlimbering their weapons. ‘It is time now for some lessons to be learnt. You,’ he stabbed a finger at Forlam, ‘are an employee, as is your Captain. You will obey me or know the consequences, as will he. I control everything that happens aboard this ship.’

‘Like you control Aesop and Bones?’ suggested the male reif.

Bloc felt something lurch inside him. Was this one of Ellanc Strone’s rebels? He did not know the man.

‘Your meaning?’ He continued staring at Forlam.

The six Hoopers here carried a few weapons, but those were nothing in comparison to the forty or so laser carbines at his back. Thinning out their number might be beneficial, as would destroying any reif who knew too much.

‘Prador thrall technology,’ said Styx bluntly.

‘Really,’ said Bloc, turning towards him.

Styx nodded towards Aesop and Bones. ‘I knew it had to be something like that. I researched your background before coming here, and I know where your interests lie. Most of the other passengers do too. It does not really concern us, so long as you bring us to the Little Flint and our chance at resurrection.’ Styx stepped closer, placed a hand against Forlam’s chest and pushed him back. ‘Ellanc Strone and his kind are in the minority.’ Styx turned and looked at Forlam. ‘Bloc is right, don’t you see? Those weapons were no help to the Batians, so even in the hands of Hoopers what good would they do? And Forlam here should perhaps try to show a little self-control.’

Forlam suddenly looked decidedly uncomfortable. He glanced round at the Hoopers behind him, then forwards at the armed Kladites.

‘Yeah,’ he said grudgingly.

Bloc felt himself growing calm. There was no need here for any demonstrations of power. The Hoopers were needed for repairs and for running this ship, his Kladites were armed, and in time he would gain full control of the hooder.

He turned to Forlam. ‘The rudder is damaged?’

‘Yes,’ said Forlam, eyeing the laser carbines pointed at him.

Bloc wished he could smile now. ‘Return to Captain Ron, find out what is required, and tell him to get repairs underway.’ He swung towards Styx. ‘All nonessential personnel should return to their cabins for the duration of this crisis.’

‘There’s still that nasty bugger down there,’ said Forlam sulkily.

‘The hooder, my people have told me,’ said Bloc, ‘is heading towards the bows. It will probably return to the chain lockers where it was hiding earlier.’

The male reif was the first to turn round and walk away. Forlam and the Hoopers followed.

* * * *

The gun, though given a long pompous title by its inventor, holofiction labelled a singun. Very few people believed such a weapon existed, and of those only a small percentage actually knew it existed. It made no sound and there was no kick. Automatically ranging the first solid object at which it was aimed, it caused a mote of quantum foam in that object to begin turning out of phase with reality. This resulted in a hole which in turn generated a powerful singularity with an existence so brief its gravity field did not get a chance to propagate beyond a few metres. Everything within its sphere of influence was subjected to both tidal and crushing forces of the gravitic shell while it revolved out of reality then back into it. The result was inevitably messy.

The cowl of the hooder—all black and red and glittering razor edges—disappeared and reappeared in an instant too brief to register. There came a whumph, as of a one-tonne melon cast into a giant food processor. The mangled mess of carapace, woody flesh and organic glass cascaded to the floor, leaving the headless body of the monster thrashing in the bilge. Wade walked away from it, back towards Janer.

‘An effective weapon,’ said the Golem.

‘Certainly is,’ said Janer, gingerly holstering his gun.

‘You’re not going to use it on me, then?’ Wade asked.

‘Not for the present,’ Janer replied.

* * * *

Now, Bloc decided, he would institute a disciplined regime aboard this ship. The Hoopers would make the necessary repairs; the reifications, without Ellanc Strone any longer to act as a rabble rouser, would only come out on deck as per the present rota—except for his Kladites and any other reifs he could persuade to join his army. The Kladites would act as his enforcers, but for any major revolt they might not be able to handle he could use the hooder ... as soon as he gained full control of it. Bloc was well satisfied with this night’s work, but his satisfaction lasted only as long as it took Forlam and the others to move out of sight.

Suddenly, a wave of feedback slammed shrieking into Bloc’s mind through the channel open to the hooder. He felt the linkages to the thralls down below breaking up. The hooder—someone had killed his pet! His mind filled with a morass of pseudo-pain. The third channel continued operating, but flashing through to him cryptic signals from remaining functional thralls. It was all to much. Bloc could feel his grip slipping, and he staggered back, bouncing off Bones, then falling against the nearby wall.

OUTPARAFUNCT: B.P. LOAD INC. 10%

How quickly can power dissolve?

WARN: EXTREMITY PROBES NIL BALM LA71-94

VIRAL INFECT

To one side he saw Bones shaking as if electrocuted, then toppling over onto the deck. Through his other channel he sensed Aesop drop as well, but could do nothing about it. Warning messages were scrolling up before his inner vision, one after another, and he seemed unable to shut them down. The next thing he knew he was lying flat on his back, staring through a flood of artificial tears at the starlit sky.

MEMSPACE: 00024

‘Taylor Bloc, sir?’

Two Kladites were bending over him, reaching to help him up. He pushed their hands away and eventually lurched to his feet by himself. Everything was fizzing in his mind, and he could make no connections. No, he must not lose it now. He pushed the two Kladites back further, straightened up and looked around.

Bones and Aesop were down. Unbelievably, the hooder was gone. How had Captain Ron just done what the Batians failed to do? Bloc needed time to retrench, but he needed even more to show he was still in control.

‘Those two.’ He pointed at Aesop and Bones. ‘Take them to the Tank Rooms and tell Erlin to do what she can for them. I will be in my cabin.’

He turned and walked away, all effort focused on controlling his limbs.