Brass Man (48 page)

‘What are you hearing?’ Mika asked, suddenly aware of how silly was her innate fear of asking direct questions, and how potentially lethal.

They entered the lounge, where floating vendors and the occasional magnetic floor-bot were serving drinks to the crowd scattered around the various tables. Most sat facing the wide curving panoramic window in which the dwarf sun now resembled a red eye glaring through bloody fog. But now the station
Ruby Eye
was visible off to one side, like an abandoned spinning top, so the
Jerusalem
must be moving away.

‘A number of AIs have suddenly dropped out of general communication, which, though not completely unusual, is worrying when some of them are the minds of warships inside the USER blockade. Also, as far as I can gather, a USER has recently been initiated within that blockade—where none is supposed to be.’

Because she could find no suitable response to that, Mika felt suddenly devoid of emotion. Now was the time to lose her fear of asking questions. ‘AIs disobeying their command structure . . . going against each other?’

‘Yes,’ said D’nissan. ‘And if they do start fighting, the human race might end up as collateral damage.’

As they approached the table at which sat Colver and James, Mika decided she needed a drink. ‘We’re in the safest place, then?’

‘I’d agree,’ D’nissan replied, ‘if I didn’t know this ship is already building up momentum to punch itself into a USER sphere.’

‘But that can’t be done.’

D’nissan took two drinks from a vending tray he had obviously summoned through his aug. He passed Mika a tall glass of ice-cold beer, and for himself retained a glass of cips that was near-frozen to slush.

‘The words
“can’t”
and “Jerusalem” don’t really go together,’ he observed.

* * * *

19

Since before scientists declared the GUT (grand unification theory) completed four centuries ago (and undergoing continuous revision ever since), the distinctions between sciences have been blurring, and many so-called sciences have been fracturing. Initially, a biologist studied the natural world. With the advent of genetic manipulation, some biologists became geneticists and, with all that genetics implied for humans, some doctors also became geneticists. Nanotechnology, using machines manufactured, grown, and both, gave us inevitably the nanologist. But nanomachines can be used to manipulate DNA, so the geneticists use them, as do the doctors. Ah: nanogeneticist, bionanologist, nanosurgeon .
. .
and what about computer applications, Al-guided nanosurgery, atomic-level biophysics? What about the mathematics, the philosophy, the logic? And so the confusion grows. Nowadays, when asked, a scientist will name himself a bio-physicist, and leave it at that. On the whole, with it being possible to load a crib for any area of knowledge you require, scientists do not have to spend a lifetime pursuing one discipline. Very often their work is utterly and completely their own, and not easily labelled.

- From
How It Is
by Gordon

Tergal watched Bonehead swerve away from the shimmering wall at the last moment, and Stone barrel straight into it. His young mount juddered to a halt as if it had run into a layer of thick tar. Around it the shimmer dissipated, revealing the landscape beyond to be as barren and flat as it was on this side. After Stone had extricated itself, the smaller sand hog continued on after Bonehead, both of them continuing parallel to the wall, and moving away just as fast as they could run.

‘Shit,’ said Anderson.

‘Yes, that would seem to be the depth of it,’ Tergal observed.

Anderson indicated the wedge-shaped object they had inspected the previous evening. ‘We’ll take cover there. Maybe it’ll just go after the hogs.’ He now stooped to take up his automatic weapon and its ammunition, then hesitated before picking up his old fusile with its powder and shot. Tergal permitted a cynical snort to escape him before sprinting towards the once-airborne artefact. Soon they were both crouching behind metal, watching the approaching droon.

They observed it pause and rear upright, extending the segmented column of its upper body and swinging its ridged head in the direction of the departing sand hogs. Something, Tergal realized, seemed to be confusing it, and he supposed that to be the strange barrier out of which the shimmer was now slowly fading in the morning light. But then its head swung back towards them, tilted, and it came on.

Tergal was horrified. ‘It’s curious,’ he gasped.

‘Now that’s called anthropomorphism,’ Anderson whispered. He ducked back again, dragging Tergal down with him by the shoulder.

‘Right,’ he hissed. ‘If everything I’ve read is correct, its vision is considerably better than ours, and it can probably sniff out a fart in a hurricane and taste our sweat in the air.’

‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ Tergal whispered. ‘How’s its hearing?’

‘Not so good, but it won’t really need it.’

‘We’re going to be dissolved in acid, aren’t we?’

Anderson shrugged, tipped powder into the barrel of his fusile—a lot of powder—tamped it down, then added three heavy shot between successive layers of wadding.
Great,
thought Tergal,
now I get to see the damned weapon blow up in his face.
Holding his finger up to his lips, Anderson moved to the end of the metal wall and peered round. After a moment, he ducked back, pushing a copper priming-cap into place in his fusile, then cranked back the hammer. Moving up beside the knight, Tergal braved another look. The droon had paused again, but even as Tergal leant round, its head swung towards him, wrinkles like frown lines appearing between its lower four eyes, and it began eagerly stamping forwards.

Anderson stepped out past Tergal, aimed at the creature’s sloping visage, and fired. The kick from the weapon flung him to the ground. Tergal gaped down at the fusile’s split and smoking barrel, then back at the droon as it reached up with an angular two-fingered hand to touch the cavity punched alongside the orange mouth which it opened below its two upper eyes. Then abruptly the creature rose up even higher as if taking in a huge breath, mouths opening in every ridge of its ziggurat head, its head stretching and extending higher and higher.

‘Fuck,’ muttered Anderson. ‘Brain isn’t in its head.’

Tergal leapt forwards to grab Anderson, and began dragging him to cover just as a volley of white mucus thumped into the ground, running in a machine-gun line straight towards the knight. Some of this muck flicked the fusile and sent it dissolving through the air. Struggling upright, Anderson shrugged free and grabbed his automatic weapon. Both men began firing as the monster stepped fully into view. Pieces of its carapace flaked away while the droon jerked in irritation, but it was like firing on a monolith. As the beast began to hawk up another mess of mucal acid, they turned and ran for the next corner of their grounded hiding place. Tergal flinched at a hollow thud on the metal wall right behind him, followed by the spattering of acid all around. As they rounded the corner, the whole structure shifted alarmingly as the monster thundered into it.

‘Keep going!’ Anderson bellowed behind him, tugging at the straps to his greave. He abandoned the piece of armour, now bubbling, on the ground. Tergal levelled his weapon just below the monster’s head, hoping to hit something vital. As he emptied his clip and ejected it, Anderson caught up with him. Another jet of acid splashed off the nearest edge and they again dived for cover.

‘This is getting absurd!’ Tergal yelled, noting how hysterical his voice sounded.

Yet another corner rounded, and then they were running along beside the second long side of the wedge. Behind them, the droon’s tail slammed hard against the same metal wall, the latest ejecta of acid splashing the ground right beside it, throwing sand-coated globules past them. Then suddenly there sounded a loud crashing and scrabbling. Maybe the droon itself had also decided this circular chase had gone on long enough.

‘It’s on top,’ Anderson gasped.

Suddenly Tergal did not want any more adventures, and he now really wished he wasn’t participating in this one. He stared at Anderson in bewilderment, then looked up to the upper surface of the grounded container, expecting to see the droon rear above him at any moment. Abruptly, Anderson seemed to go berserk, turning to fire his weapon at the metal wall. Tergal just stared at him. They were going to die horribly, painfully, and any time now.

‘Fire over there as well!’ Anderson bellowed.

Tergal did as instructed, wondering if this might really scare the droon down. It seemed sheer madness, but then their bullets seemed impotent anyway.

‘Me!’ Anderson yelled. Abandoning his empty weapon, he tucked his arms in and pulled the chinstrap of his helmet tight. Then he ran at the wall, and dived head first. With a loud crump, Anderson was halfway through the metal, his legs waving in the air. Suddenly Tergal understood: the combination of droon acid and bullet holes . . . Then he was up behind, shoving the knight’s feet. The man finally wormed through and fell inside with a crash. Tergal stepped back, glancing up just as a shadow drew across him. Then he ran at the hole and, slimmer than Anderson, sailed through in a smooth dive, though he landed on top of the knight. They both struggled upright and, in a very strange room lit by a milky radiance, moved quickly away from the hole. The tiered prow of the monster’s. head slammed into ruptured metal, as it tried to force its way through. Finally it became utterly still for a moment, as if assessing the situation, then withdrew.

That was the beginning of a very long night.

* * * *

A floating mass of wood splinters, lumps of torn and tangled steel, fragments of cast iron and slivers of glass were now mostly what remained of his macabre collection. Scattered through this debris were cogs from his automaton and, strangely, the completely undamaged bowler hat. Jack mourned the loss, then in the next microsecond he began assessing other damage. He soon found, as expected, that he had broken no bones. Certainly, the massive acceleration had split his hull in many places, ripped things inside him and caused numerous fires, but that only meant humans could no longer inhabit him—which was not something he really considered a disadvantage. His structural skeleton, composed of laminated tungsten ceramal, shock-absorbing foamed alloys and woven diamond monofilament, was intact, and after being distorted was slowly regaining its accustomed shape.

Clear of the planet, he left a trail of leaking atmosphere as his initial acceleration carried him beyond the effective range of beam weapons deployed by the
Grim Reaper
and the
King of Hearts.
Those first hits had melted some of his hull, but fortuitously the cooling effect of atmosphere leakage and heat transferral all around his hull by its layered superconductor grid had very much limited the damage. Now Jack assessed his situation.

The
Grim Reaper
and the
King of Hearts
were located between him and the USER, and he had little chance of getting through to the device and destroying it without them intersecting his course. He also noted that, rather than going after Skellor on the planet’s surface, they were now coming after him. Obviously the two AI attack ships were here to obtain Jain technology, and without either Jerusalem’s or Earth Central’s approval. Certainly they would not want Jack getting near the planet to put a spanner into their machinations. But surely by fleeing he had removed himself from that equation? Apparently not. Their pursuit of him could only mean one thing: their equation did not include living witnesses.

Jack considered his options. He could accelerate out of the system on conventional drive and they would never catch him, and then, as soon as they turned off the USER to make their escape, he could drop into U-space and head for the Polity. He did not like that option. Ships like him did not run, having certain inbuilt psychosocial tendencies jocularly described as a ‘Fuck you complex’. Initiating his fusion engines in a twenty-second burn, he altered his course towards a Jovian planet in the system: a planet with plenty of large moons and a double ring of asteroids and dust—a perfect killing field for either himself or for them. His preference being for himself doing the killing.

What is happening? What is happening?
came a singsong query.

Surprised for a second time, Jack tracked back through his internal systems, thinking something had shaken loose. Something had—but not because of any physical damage. The memcording of the woman Separatist, Aphran, had somehow broken out of contained storage and, though controlling nothing, had spread sensory informational tendrils into some of his systems. Truly there was a ghost in the machine. Jack, as much as he felt such things, experienced a frisson of fear. A purely human memcording could not do something like this, so he surmised that though there was nothing physically Jain aboard, something of the programming code of that technology had become part of this ghost.

It seems that some Polity AIs would like some Jain tech all of their own to play with.

Jack linked to each of Aphran’s invasive tendrils, and tied them into a VR framework he always kept ready to use, then spliced part of his own awareness in there as well. He stood then as the hangman on a white plain, and Aphran appeared, naked and pure white, floating in diaphanous fire before him.