15
When Humans went into space it did not take long for their vessels to be occupied by unwelcome stowaways. Modern ships possess subminds whose sum purpose is pest control. Microbots patrol ducts to laser down fleas, mosquitoes, sandflies and houseflies. Slightly larger robots are deployed to catch and digest a mutated cockroach that is capable of existing on a diet of plastics, whilst mice and rats can usually be exterminated by general ship-security systems. Other unwelcome visitors include more alien forms: the blade beetle – a creature with razor-sharp edges and a penchant for laying its eggs inside anything large, warm and soft; sugar worms which seem to have acquired a taste for the organic dust of skin cells which Humans perpetually shed; and sheeter colonies that spread like coral whilst busy metabolizing aluminium. The list is endless and also includes numberless microscopic forms, blooms of nanomachines and even ‘wild’ robots, so it is therefore unsurprising to discover that Prador ships are similarly colonized. However, those crablike aliens approach the problem in an entirely different way. Whereas Humans perpetually try to clean house, the Prador let their small passengers clean house for them. Their ships swarm with decapod crustaceans, ship-lice, who clear up the remains of their meals, and such remnants as are left by their frequent violent encounters with each other.
– From QUINCE GUIDE compiled by Humans
The ceiling space extends into darkness on either side, but is only just deep enough to accommodate Vrell, who is now inching forward on his belly, occasionally having to pause to carefully and quietly tear out a supporting strut that is blocking his way. He assumes the first-children moving ahead of him stand no real chance of creeping up undetected on the Golgoloth, for surely the old monster would never have allowed such a hole in its defences. However, the three first-children are trying this route anyway, dragging with them thermic lances and plasma cutting torches, and maybe they will provide Vrell with an opportunity to exploit.
Vrell pauses by a ship’s eye that is dangling before him on a single wire, then turns his head as an orange flicker cuts through the darkness, leaving after-images in his harness mask. The lead first-child is carrying a scanning device and a powerful gas laser, to detect and then destroy all the sensors in the vicinity. It seems these three know they cannot hide their present position from their parent, but are trying nevertheless to conceal precisely what they are doing. Perhaps, given time, they could cut their way through to the Golgoloth, but Vrell suspects that either they will not be allowed enough time, or a reception is already being prepared for them.
The three finally reach a curving wall and begin setting up their equipment. Vrell carefully eases back to put himself out of range of the light they will shortly be generating. He settles down and adjusts his mask to a reactive setting so the glare will not blind him, even temporarily. As expected, a plasma torch flares into life and one of the three begins cutting through the lower part of the ceiling space, beside the wall. The one with the scanner and gas laser stands guard, as lopsided and pathetic-looking as its fellows.
Vrell sets his harness to quiet running, just in case the scanner is sensitive enough to pick up its electrical activity, but when the laser suddenly flares and leaves a macula in his mask, he assumes for a moment that this precaution was not enough. However, something then flares behind him and, slowly turning his head, he observes the remains of a small robot burning and folding its legs up like a dying spider. The Golgoloth obviously decided to send some mobile eyes up here to watch the proceedings.
With a clang, a circular section of ceiling drops out of sight and the plasma torch gutters out. First down through the hole is the one with the scanner and laser, and numerous flashes ensue as it knocks out any ship eyes found immediately below. As the other two first-children follow it, Vrell eases himself into motion again and heads over to the hole they have cut. He then pauses. The gap itself is too small for him, and following them directly will only lead him straight into whatever reception the Golgoloth has prepared for them. Better that they work as a distraction. He eyes the curving wall ahead, remembering precisely how he gained access to Vrost aboard the dreadnought, then edges his way round it to put some distance between himself and the hole the first-children have made, but not so far as to come within the compass of any still-functioning ship eyes. Then, abruptly, he stabs out with one claw.
Its sharp tips punch through a layer of light aluminium alloy, before he closes the claw, tearing through the metal, and pulls away a chunk of it. As he expected, this layer was put in place merely for containment, so that the space between it and another wall further in could be injected with insulating foamed porcelain. Vrell opens his claws wide, stabs in just one jaw, then works it round like a can opener, finally tearing out a section of metal sheet that is wider than himself. Next he begins working on the porcelain, which being old and brittle quickly breaks into chunks. After a few minutes of frenzied activity, he makes a hole large enough to insert himself, right through to an inner wall of ceramal armour. He pushes himself inside, then, like a crustacean forcing its way through sand, uses all his limbs simultaneously to tear chunks of the surrrounding material free and push it behind him, steadily working his way upwards.
It is slow and methodical work, and meanwhile Vrell begins mulling over everything that has happened so far. It seems that the peak of his achievement since leaving Spatterjay has been to seize control of Vrost’s dreadnought, but thereafter everything started going downhill, yet it isn’t the major events – like the Golgoloth forcing him to crash-land or the resurrection of Jain super-soldiers – that cause him the most mortification. His response to those was simply inadequate because he lacked sufficient resources, and even retrospective analysis of his actions causes him no shame. No, it is some of his un-Pradorish behaviour that bothers him, and its unintended consequences.
It would have been eminently sensible to have ejected both Sniper and Orbus from the dreadnought at once, either that or to have used the Guard to eliminate them immediately. Certainly the drone would have taken some killing, but with the forces then at Vrell’s disposal he could have managed it. However, even though his decision at the time should have been wrong, Sniper later saved his life. Then Orbus: the Human tried to kill him once, then contemplated it again, so surely Vrell should have eliminated him? But Vrell just did not want to kill him. Am I becoming a soft-shell? he wonders. It seems so, for what Prador other than a puling coward would feel such fear upon encountering these Jain, and then feel such terror when encountering a mythical creature used to scare him as a third-child? Vrell decides the time for fear is at an end; it is time for positive, violent action.
At about twenty feet up, the armoured wall begins to curve down to form a ceiling, and at his back the thin aluminium alloy is supplanted by another layer of ceramal armour. Soon he exposes a pipe running along above the ceiling, and follows it to another armoured wall ahead, which curves sharply away to his right and left. The pipe enters this wall through a flange that is secured in place with ceramal rivets. Vrell pulls his particle cannon from his harness, then unplugs it from its main power supply so as to leave it reliant only on its internal battery. Dialling down its power to the minimum, and then setting it for one microsecond burst, he centres it over one rivet and triggers it.
The beam is barely functional, but still produces a loud crack and flash of greenish light. Moving the weapon aside, he observes that part of the flange is now missing, along with the rivet head. He moves on to the next one and the next, to burn away all the rivet heads in turn, then, levering with his claw, he pulls the flange free from the rivets and slides it back along the pipe before jutting his head forward and tilting it so that he can insert one palp-eye through the gap.
Amazingly, the Golgoloth’s defences aren’t as rigorous as Vrell supposed. This ceramal wall, which is only a few inches thick, forms a cylindrical chamber via which numerous pipes and optic ducts enter the sanctum below. Turning his eye, Vrell obtains a very good view of the Golgoloth, still frenetically working its machines as it fights the Jain computer-life attempting to seize control of this entire vessel. It will take, Vrell estimates, just seconds with the particle cannon at full power, to cut through, though that will drain its remaining charge of particulate matter. Still, he has enough projectiles available for his rail-gun to turn that creature below him to slurry. Not yet, however; first let the Golgoloth rid the ship of its Jain worms and viruses, and only then will Vrell change the current situation, radically.
A micro-drone rises into position before the Golgoloth’s natural eye, presenting on its flat viewing face a green-and-white schematic of a far sector of the ship, the various locations of hijacked components highlighted in pulsating yellow. Also monitoring this activity in two internal ganglia and one external one, the Golgoloth issues countermeasures and the yellow begins to recede in some areas; however, it begins to blossom elsewhere.
Not good enough.
The Golgoloth issues further instructions resulting in power surges aimed to bypass its own safety protocols, and the old creature observes the effect in that same sector through its optically linked eye. A long row of fuses blow along the interior of a mirrored square canister, as it rapidly fills with inert gas. Where the fuses disintegrate, white arcs flare as an excess of power surges into a circuit that should have shut down. A short distance away, a large laminar power supply suddenly explodes underneath a superconducting cable, severing it. Other cables throughout the ship are severed in a similar manner, and lasers, particle cannons, field generators, rail-guns and missile arrays instantly power down. The Jain computer-life might manage to access those other weapons, but simply will not have the current to operate them; though neither will the Golgoloth itself. However, one item of the hull weaponry remains usable: the U-jump missile the Golgoloth intended to fire at the dreadnought, and which it now controls through a secure channel it sacrificed several other systems just to preserve.
The old hermaphrodite now focuses on one of the stalked arrays of screens. Vrell and Orbus have driven off the remaining third-and second-children, a few of which can be seen still cowering in wet crannies here and there within the ship, and those brave first-children working their way down the outside of the Sanctum, to where a false ship’s schematic details a weakness in the walls, will eventually be dealt with. However, killing this Jain computer-life is like trying to stamp out a fog. The Golgoloth returns its attention to the micro-drone, and banishes it with the touch of a claw, whereupon another drone leaps into place. More schematics reveal that same sick yellow almost entirely shrouding a node in the ship’s systems which is surrounded by control icons: a ganglion. A simple instruction delivered here sends a coded pulse along an isolated wire to it, to operate a plunger that injects a lethal poison, and the ganglion dies, its entire nexus shutting down and killing the Jain worm growing within. Already it has been necessary to sacrifice sixty-two ganglia like this, also to isolate entire ship’s systems and to physically sabotage power lines to the main U-space engines, as just achieved with the hull weapons.
The Golgoloth feels a growing anger as it comes to understand that, no matter what worms and viruses it kills inside the main ship, they are still being propagated from the splinter. But it knows it will eventually win this battle, though the sacrifice that victory entails will be a big one. The real problem, however, is time. Even now something major is occurring within the planetoid, indicated by massive outgassings. The Jain are up to something there requiring vast amounts of energy in order to have such a widespread effect. Then there is the other problem: King Oberon will be arriving sometime soon, long before the Golgoloth gets a chance to repair those power lines and put the engines back online.
Out of necessity the Golgoloth kills off another two ganglia and, as a result, feels itself becoming just a little more stupid. It then observes the Old Captain returning to the Sanctum, covered in Prador gore, to plump himself down on the cowling of a filter pump beside the entrance. But where meanwhile is Vrell? That, it seems, might be another problem for, despite his size, Vrell managed to worm himself up into the ceiling vents, and from there to ambush the second-children to such devastating effect, but now he has completely disappeared. The Golgoloth is all too aware how those same vents give access to the ceiling space the first-children were using to reach the Sanctum’s inner wall, whilst knocking out a great many sensors, and that Vrell might currently be using that blind spot to do . . . something.
The Golgoloth was intending to send more robots into that same area to find out just what he might be up to, but unfortunately a Jain worm is now chewing its way through the control software of the robots in this same sector of the ship. Perhaps it should have acceded to Oberon’s request right from the beginning. Taking out the dreadnought upon first coming within range of it would have been easy – then no Jain, no Vrell and no utterly imminent Oberon.
No time for regrets.
The Golgoloth sends instructions to the only engines it still controls: the steering thrusters. Many of them instantly fire up about the equator of the ship, sending blue blades of flame spearing out into vacuum. The ship begins to spin ponderously at first, then faster and faster. The Golgoloth monitors the current situation through ship eyes and sensors it still controls within the vicinity of the splinter. Stress readings come through first, as damaged structure there begins to shift. A micro-drone rises into position to receive instruction, and a tap from one claw sends its isolated program on its way. The spinter did not hard-dock properly, merely crashed into its berth in the main ship. The program slips past the sick yellow of Jain infestation and trips numerous switches to a network of superconductors that in turn are connected to cylindrical charges of chemical explosive. They now detonate about the splinter in an even pattern, for the explosives were initially positioned there to drive out docking bolts for rapid escape, should the Golgoloth ever need to use the splinter for that purpose. Given an initial shove by these blasts, and assisted on its way by the main vessel’s spin, the splinter begins to ease itself out. The Golgoloth shuts off the steering jets, not now wanting another impact between the main vessel and the departing splinter, and grunts with satisfaction as it watches optic cables begin to tear loose, cutting off much of the flow of Jain computer-life from the splinter.
Immediately the portions of ship’s schematics currently presented by the micro-drones begin to look better as the Golgoloth’s hunter-killer programs make headway. Some ganglia and the systems they control begin to reconnect. However, the process is still a laborious one because, though physical connections with the splinter have been broken, the electromagnetic ones have not. Viruses and worms are still being transmitted to the main vessel’s sensors. The Golgoloth sends another instruction to the steering jets, the moment the tip of the splinter clears the ship’s hull, first turning its docking hole away from it, next moving the main ship away. The old monster then summons to itself a micro-drone that is standing ready.
The splinter reaches a distance of two miles before its own engine abruptly flares into life. Doubtless the plan now is to crash it into the main vessel, but it is too late. The Golgoloth taps the micro-drone, which transmits its signal to the U-jump missile. The rail-gun launcher in which the missile sits now powers up and spits the missile out into vacuum. A mile out from the main vessel, a particle beam probes out from the splinter to lick on the missile for a fraction of a second, but the missile drops into U-space, disappearing from reality for the remaining mile.
The splinter seems to briefly turn transparent as the missile detonates inside it like a flashbulb inside a glass bottle. It bucks and bends at the point of detonation, starts to separate into two halves, but they disintegrate and are then vaporized in the spreading spherical blastwave. The Golgoloth reaches over to grab the stalk of one of its screen units for support, as the main vessel shudders under the blast. Through exterior sensors, where they survive for long enough, it observes the outer hull distort then heat up briefly, before internal layers of superconductor redistribute the heat. Numerous damage warnings call for its attention, but it ignores them, focusing on just one alert nearby, as it sends a single instruction.
Over to one side, a section of wall spins on a central axis, bringing three very surprised first-children right into the sanctum, while they are still cutting into the side of a wall that until then was an exterior one. After a pause they raise their paltry weapons, but a flat hardfield slams them back against the wall and pins them into place. Having rapidly defeated two attacks, the Golgoloth feels a surge of joy, until a concentrated blast above rains down chunks of broken ceramal, molten metal and a single mutated Prador wielding a rail-gun.
The shockwave and ship’s spin try to scour Sniper from his niche between the throats of the fusion engines, and his temperature rises in concert with his surroundings. He clings on grimly as molten metal rains down on him. Sensory input from his surroundings arrives both blurred and fragmentary, and internal diagnostic routines clamour for his attention with their lists of faults. Aware of what many items on these lists indicate, the drone simply deletes them. He can resist massive point temperatures from weapons strikes by distributing the heat about his body through an internal s-con grid. He can vent heat by emitting evaporants and convert it, sometimes, to other usable forms of energy. But sitting for over an hour in close proximity to a fusion torch has been like surfing on the chromosphere of a sun, and now this blast on top of all that is taking many of his internal components beyond the point of recovery.
The forces trying to fling him into vacuum slowly ebb, and the molten metal spattering his exterior begins to harden. He reaches out with tentacles that now bend like jointed limbs because so many of their motors, each previously operating like a separate vertebrae, have now melted and fused to adjoining motors. Laboriously he drags himself clear of the engines and scans his surroundings.
There.
An array of infrared radiator fins protrude a hundred yards away, almost certainly connected to internal superconductors – a typical construct to be found on any ship this size which is likely to end up in combat, their purpose being to shed internal heat caused by beam and missile strikes or imploding field generators, or to redistribute heat like that produced by this most recent blast. Sniper drags himself across to it, careful all the way to insert his tentacles in whatever nooks and crannies he can find, eventually pulling himself right up beside the array and wrapping red hot tentacles around it . . . and then sighing.
His temperature begins dropping rapidly, the cherry glow fading from his body and hardened metal flaking away, unable to bond to his outer layer of nano-chain chromium. He begins to inspect those diagnostic lists more closely. The coils of his particle cannons and the wiring to his rail-guns have fused, his lasers are scrap, his ability to communicate further than a few hundred yards is non-existent and his gravmotors just aren’t responding. He gives a little shrug. At least he’s fired off all his missiles down there on the planetoid – some of the chemical warheads would have been detonated by his recent roasting and left nothing but an empty shell. However, as his temperature drops, the routines finally begin reporting some good news. Parts of his internal toolkit remain functional; being mostly fashioned of high-spec ceramal, his steering jets and fusion drive still work; and his crystal mind has not cracked. He is seriously injured but not totally crippled.
What now?
Orbus and Vrell are still somewhere inside this ship, and he feels his first duty is to find them. He needs to sneak inside – and sneaking is something he has always been adept at – but this won’t be so easy in his current condition. First, then, he needs to find the resources hereabouts to repair himself. Again closely scanning his surroundings, he focuses on a nearby construct on the hull, which looks like a ring of iron standing stones. Doubtless they encircle some sort of weapons port and, if the design of this ship in anyway matches that of both Prador and Polity ships, the weapon will reside inside some blast-proof, partially self-contained blister – the kind of place he should be able to quickly isolate and which likely contains resources he can use.
Sniper lets go of the heat sink and begins towing himself across to the ring of extrusions. It is fortunate, he guesses, that this area of the hull has taken such a pounding, as that probably will have wiped out any sensors able to detect him. Finally reaching one of the monoliths, he clings to it and peers down into a dish formed within the hull, an octagonal opening at its bottom. His eyes are better now, since internal programming has been busy ironing out optical distortion caused by lens damage. The opening is some sort of rail-gun port – obviously not for launching inert missiles because it is just too big, yet conveniently big enough for Sniper to haul himself inside.
Easing himself down the slope, while still clinging to the monolith, he reaches out for the edge of the hole, grips it as best he can, then releasing his other hold, pulls himself over the edge and, scanning downwards, discovers that this particular weapon does not seem to be live.
Positioned in each angle of an octagonal tube leading down inside the ship is a rail: crescent-section, inner face micro-ridged all the way down, with doped superconductors. Coolant pipes, s-con cables and various control systems run through the jacket enclosing all these, and the only way out of this barrel and into the surrounding chamber will be either by cutting a hole through the barrel’s side or trying to open the loading mechanism far at the back. Sniper holds up his one spatula-tipped tentacle and inspects it. The microscopic chainglass teeth around its edge only extrude while actually in use, and are resistant to temperatures exceeding those he has recently experienced, but there is a short in the power supply somewhere.
Sniper sends a minibot telefactor scuttling like an ant down inside the tentacle. Halfway down, it finds the problem: a lump of something incredibly hard and glassy has penetrated, and split the coating over an s-con wire, shorting it against one adjacent motor. A simple enough problem to solve, if it wasn’t the case that thousands of other such failings must be dealt with inside him. Directly controlled by Sniper, the minibot cuts the wire free from its short point, reinserting it into its broken clamp, and welds that, then sprays over the break in the coating with a speed-set insulator. Next he reinstates an internal fuse and has the satisfaction of watching his cutter blur up to speed, before he inserts it into the wall of the rail-gun barrel and begins slicing.
At that moment one of his internal sensors, made to register disturbances in underspace and which he has assumed was burnt out, alerts him. Quickly analysing the signal he realizes that the sensor is running at less than 20 per cent efficiency, and only reacting now because something huge has arrived nearby.
Sniper pauses, then heaves himself to the mouth of the rail-gun and looks around, not even having to raise magnification to spot the massive upright ship hovering out there, just above this vessel’s horizon. Numerous smaller, silvery objects gather about it and, slowly increasing magnification, at each stage having to correct errors, he brings those objects into focus even as the vessel he clings to rolls slightly, throwing them higher above the ship’s horizon and also bringing the planetoid into view. He sees Prador dreadnoughts surrounding a ship that reaches fifty miles from top to bottom. Perhaps this isn’t such a great time to be crawling about in the throat of a rail-gun, but Sniper ducks down again and sets to work.
To Gurnard’s perception, the U-space signature is like a bomb going off, and when, moments later, a giant Prador dreadnought roars past, the ship AI realizes it might just be time to move. But to where, and then to do what? Gurnard focuses now on the Golgoloth’s vessel. Certainly the Jain were attacking it informationally, hence the destruction of the splinter vessel, but perhaps it is still under attack and, it having sustained some damage, an opportunity to somehow get to Orbus and Vrell has opened up there? Gurnard fires up its fusion engine and speeds in that direction, not yet sure what to do, but certain that leaving the scene right now will be of no help at all.
‘So good King Oberon just arrived,’ observes Thirteen. ‘I wonder what comedian AI decided to give him that particular name?’
‘It is a name he chose himself, apparently,’ Gurnard replies.
‘A Prador with a sense of humour? Sounds like a dangerous precedent to me.’
‘This entire planetary system is full of dangerous precedents,’ Gurnard observes.
Thirteen gives an electronic snort and rises from his position on the console. ‘Other than your telefactors, which are basically blunt tools, I am your only means of getting to Orbus and Vrell, and I am now ready.’
‘And eager, it would seem.’
‘We have lost Drooble and we have lost Sniper . . .’
‘A drone you have known for many years.’
‘Yes, Sniper and I have been through a lot together. He gave me my independence and much else besides.’
‘It is not certain that he is dead,’ suggests Gurnard. ‘He could merely be damaged and unable to communicate. If he is damaged he has probably gone to ground to repair himself, or might even have ejected his mind canister from his body for later retrieval. That last option is not one available to Orbus and Vrell, who in my opinion are in greater danger. If we survive whatever happens next, we will search the planetoid for him.’
‘All predicated on the notion that any of them are alive at all.’
‘I don’t see this Golgoloth creature seizing both Vrell and Orbus simply to kill them. It could have left them to the Jain or shot them down from its own vessel.’ Gurnard pauses as the scene on one of the forward electronic screens changes from a view of the Golgoloth’s vessel to one of King Oberon’s ship and its attendant dreadnoughts, the planetoid lying just beyond them. ‘As for Sniper, if he has survived at all, then it seems likely he will continue surviving – he is, after all, a very old and wily war drone.’
Thirteen turns in midair and starts drifting towards the rear of the bridge. ‘I don’t possess the propulsion to throw myself across large distances.’
‘What would be your preference: rail-gun or telefactor?’
‘A rail-gun will get me there quicker, but I might have a problem upon arrival. Very humorous, Gurnard.’
‘AIs can have a sense of humour too.’
Tracking the little drone with internal cams, Gurnard watches it making its way down towards the docking ring. Meanwhile the AI inspects, by other means, two suitable telefactors which, unlike the handler robots, possess chemical rocket drives. These two objects, looking like sculptures of water beetles nearly ten feet long, hang suspended in a framework within their own little bay. Gurnard powers both of them up, whilst allowing a diagnostic program to check them over, itself focusing on their ability to hide. These things do not possess modern chameleonware capable of subverting active scanning; however, they do possess sufficient ‘ware in their wing cases to make them invisible to a passive search.
Diagnostics reveal nothing wrong with either telefactor, though one has been used recently and therefore contains less oxygen and hydrogen fuel. Gurnard chooses that one, because quantity of fuel probably won’t be an issue, and it is always best to employ a machine that has recently been run up to speed, despite what the diagnostics say. One portion of his consciousness now inhabiting the little machine, Gurnard lifts one wing case and opens the concertinaed hatch in its back.
‘Any padding?’ Thirteen enquires, now entering the bay and rising above the hatch.
‘Once you are inside I can inject crash-foam,’ Gurnard replies. ‘I can also eject you at high speed should the telefactor itself come under attack.’
Thirteen settles into the cavity, but just as the cover begins to slide across, pokes his head back out. ‘When will you launch me?’
‘Within fifty minutes I will be as close as I dare get to the Golgoloth’s ship,’ Gurnard replies, only part of its attention focused on the drone, and a great deal focused instead on King Oberon’s fleet.
Something is happening there, something that might not bode well for Sniper if he is still down there somewhere on the planetoid. Perhaps best not to mention that to Thirteen.
Standing on the wide highway of the King’s viewing gallery, Sadurian keeps her eyes closed until the nausea passes, for the effects of U-space transition seem worst here, this close to vacuum, then opens them to observe the white wall of opaque glass in front of her. After a moment its blank whiteness turns to a cloudiness which, in turn, drains away as if some pump is sucking smoke from between two sheets of glass. Her first distinguishable view is of one of the new Prador dreadnoughts drifting across and turning, but its passing soon reveals the planetoid lying beyond. Obviously, the war vessel was ordered to this prime position so that King Oberon, presently standing twenty feet away from her, can watch the show.
Sadurian studies the planetoid beyond. From its cloudy atmosphere a gaseous ring fans out, which is not how this object looked in the library pictures.
‘The latent temperature of the planetoid has risen by three degrees,’ Oberon observes.
‘That’s a lot of heat,’ Sadurian replies, feeling that she needs to say something – anything.
The King dips his head as if focusing on some particular aspect of the planetoid. ‘The Polity’s automated warship factories did not produce as much even during the height of the war.’
‘It could signify inefficiencies,’ Sadurian notes.
‘It could, but probably only those that can be ignored for the sake of speed.’
‘They know they need to establish a foothold fast, in order to survive.’
‘Precisely,’ the King agrees. ‘I would be very interested to know what is going on inside there, but we cannot afford the time to find out.’ He swings his head sideways to observe the dreadnought. ‘And very shortly the temperature there is going to rise considerably.’
Gazing also at the dreadnought, Sadurian can see no change, but guesses it has just opened fire. She again focuses on the planetoid as straight lines flash into existence throughout its cloud layers, then the hot bloom of impact points becomes visible from below. This indicates near-c rail-gun missiles – carrying no explosive load themselves other than the hard material of their bodies – turning partially to plasma as they hit gas, and then releasing huge amounts of energy as they penetrate the planetoid’s crust. Each impact yields megatonnes. They are the most immediate weapon to use, perhaps killing the Jain themselves, or at least slowing them down. However, the next wave of firings from the dreadnought is intended to make certain.
Silvery missiles speed from the dreadnought’s launchers, though not at near-c, since such a level of acceleration would breach the antimatter flasks inside them. Some miles out, each of them ignites a bright white fusion torch, and accelerates. Meanwhile, blastwaves from the surface disrupt the cloud and blow it, in gouts thousands of miles across, out into space. In one area a plume of magma, just like the uncoiling stalk of some red vine, gropes into vacuum and then begins to come apart, rolling out lumps of molten rock that will soon enough solidify into asteroids.
‘They do not seem to be responding,’ remarks Oberon.
‘Perhaps they’re dead, now.’
‘It would be nice to think so.’
Decidedly pessimistic, thinks Sadurian. But then perhaps the King is contemplating what he might need to do if the first strikes made here should fail. Sadurian knows what that augurs and doesn’t like it at all. If the Jain can survive what is still to come, that means they are beyond Prador state-of-the-art weaponry, so then it isn’t just a case of more force needing to be applied, but greater knowledge . . . knowledge the King does not, at this moment, possess. Knowledge the King could possess, but only at a very great risk.
The distant white dots of the missile fusion drives enter gas clouds dispersing from the planetoid, which is now becoming visible, its surface blotched with volcanic activity and other darker smokes. As one, they slam into the crust, disappearing from sight. A long pause ensues, and for a moment Sadurian wonders if the Jain have somehow disarmed these weapons. Then it seems as if some angry god takes hold of the very substance of space and begins squeezing it out of shape. The planetoid distorts like a soft egg about to hatch, and begins to expand. For a moment it is thrown into dark silhouette as an unbearably bright light glares behind it, then a crescent cuts across its surface and the same light glares from that too, photo-actively blotted by the glass directly in front of Sadurian. Flame and seas of molten rock explode outwards at thousands of miles per hour – an appalling act of planetary demolition – but, on this leviathan scale, the blast proceeds in seeming slow motion.
Sadurian feels like a cloistered intellectual suddenly faced with harsh realities. Ensconced within the white halls of the King’s ship, concerning herself with biological matters generally below the microscopic, she has lost sight of just what kind of power the King of the Prador can wield.
The great cloud of hot gas and molten rock continues to expand, lightning storms flashing in its interior. How can anything survive that?
‘Any sign of them?’ she asks.
The King bows his head, mandibles clonking briefly against the glass. ‘We are scanning,’ he intones, ‘but the disruption is great.’
Abruptly a ten-foot square etches itself into existence in the glass before the King, and reluctantly Sadurian walks closer to take a look. Within this square the view is magnified once, then twice, till it seems the cloud of destruction boils just on the other side of the glass. The scene then changes five times, showing different aspects of the chaos, then flicks away into open space, where it centres over a ship.
‘Is that them?’ Sadurian asks, gazing at the odd, fish-shaped vessel.
‘A Polity ship,’ Oberon replies. ‘The Human we saw with the Golgoloth came from it. It should not be here.’
The view changes once more, this time bringing into focus a larger vessel, shaped like a melon with various parts of it excised. Sadurian recognizes it at once.
‘If the Jain have survived and should they reveal themselves, we will respond,’ says Oberon. ‘Meanwhile I have other business to conduct here.’
In the larger view Sadurian observes four of the King’s dreadnoughts accelerating away on a course taking them to a point far out from the expanding cloud. She concludes that the Golgoloth is also about to learn about the power the King can wield.