Creation Machine (33 page)

She stood up, biting her lip at the pain that fired itself up her legs and into her hips. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I won’t. Now fuck off and redeem yourself. If you think you can.’

There was no answer. After a while she forced herself to look at the display. The image of Muz had gone, but the starscape was still there. She thought the cloud of ships had grown a little.

Oh, you bastard
, she thought.
Even now you’ve got me. Even after the lies you just admitted to, and all the others they imply. You knew, and you flew by the book, and flying by the book meant you were dead behind me and that meant you were dead and I was alive.

And even after everything, I still wish it was the other way round.

The pain was – conquering. Her legs wanted to fold, but she growled and forced her knees to lock. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there, her face aching from the rictus of defiant agony, when she heard the sound of the airlock cycling and then Jezerey’s voice. Slowly she forced her head round on her cramped neck. ‘Are you real?’ she asked carefully, and remembered that it was the second time in her life that the question had mattered.

Then she collapsed.

Taussich, Cordern

FOR THE NEXT
few days Alameche allowed himself the luxury of routine. He felt he had earned it. Eskjog appeared first thing every morning to brief him on progress with the artefact, but those briefings only served to confirm his suspicion that the little machine and whatever forces were behind it did not have any quick answers; the artefact stayed inert. Meanwhile he made enquiries on two fronts.

The first was good old-fashioned spying, which he did all the time, but the second needed expertise. That was why he had dismissed all his servants for the night and was sitting in semi-darkness across a low table from the tiny, almost childlike figure of Chief Analyst Kressilim.

Alameche didn’t care very much where he lived. He had rented out his inherited estates so long ago that he barely remembered where they were, and he had acquired nothing to replace them. His position gave him the run of a whole cluster of official residences, ranging from townhouses to a sort of floating palace thing on the top of the cliff overlooking the Stadium, and he never used those either, except for one close to the Citadel which he kept closely guarded, with plenty of official-looking people coming and going. So far the subterfuge had worked; apparently even people who knew him quite well assumed he lived there.

That was why he’d chosen it as the venue for his meeting with the Chief Analyst. Rather, it was one of the reasons. Another –
the
other – was that Kressilim stank, in a complex pervasive way which seemed ludicrous considering his diminutive frame, and which lingered a long time after the man himself was gone. You didn’t want that in your real living quarters.

The room was darkened. A screen on one wall showed Alameche, the Patriarch and Eskjog. It was a still from the security footage shot during their underground meeting, and the Patriarch was frozen in what looked like mid-shout, his face red and his hands flat in front of him.

Kressilim leaned forward, and Alameche had to fight the instinct to lean back. ‘Very interesting,’ he said. ‘What is your question?’

‘I have more than one.’ Alameche pointed at the screen. ‘First, what is that thing and second, where does it really come from?’

‘Only two? I would have added, what is it capable of?’ Kressilim sat back. ‘Well, your questions first. What is it? Taken at face value it is an autonomous, self-contained intellect, which might or might not be artificial.’

Alameche felt his brow furrowing. ‘Might not? How can it be anything else?’

‘It could be many things. Its envelope is large enough to contain a human brain and a compact life-support system. That might explain its own comment that it is legally human where it comes from. It is rare, even in the barbarian regions, for artificial intelligences to be counted as human.’

Alameche suppressed a smile. Kressilim didn’t limit his eccentricity to being unusually small and smelly. He was also a member of a tiny fundamentalist sect which held that everything outside the sphere of the Fortunate was either unclean or barbarian. It didn’t matter. Almost nothing would have compared to the breadth of his intellect and the way he could apply it.

‘Could it also contain weapons?’

‘Weapons?’ The little man sat up straight. ‘You did not speak of this. What form do they take?’

Alameche described Eskjog’s abilities. When he had finished Kressilim sat back and blew out his cheeks. ‘That is different,’ he said slowly. ‘Humanity has no relevance. What you describe is in effect a war machine, although one with good manners.’ He looked sharply at Alameche. ‘And it has attacked you, from what you say. Which means, Excellency, that it has attacked us.’ He paused. ‘Are we at war, then?’

This time Alameche allowed himself the smile. ‘If we are, it’s nothing new,’ he said. ‘But you haven’t told me who with? Is it the Hegemony?’

‘Them?’ Kressilim laughed, an odd squeaky sound that set Alameche’s teeth on edge. ‘I expect that would be the address on the communiqué. But every puppet has a master. I suggest, in this case, that you take matters at face value and assume that you are at war with the Haas Corporation.’

‘Indeed?’ Alameche frowned. ‘Why? I thought they were our friends.’

‘For two reasons. First, because they are the major financial stakeholders in the Hegemony. They were the backers in the recent civil war and they have prospered since the victory. But second, they specialize in owning and exploiting technology. Just like your little machine there.’

Alameche stared at Kressilim for a long time, while thoughts chased each other round his skull. Then he said, ‘But these same people pose as our friends, or at least as our allies.’

Kressilim nodded. ‘They do,’ he agreed. ‘But you yourself used the word “pose”, Excellency.’

‘I did.’ Alameche sighed. ‘And you used the word “puppet”. Kressilim, I will not be a puppet. Let’s discuss this.’

By the time the bright sliver of the Joker had appeared on the horizon Alameche had altogether stopped noticing Kressilim’s smell, but he had reached a decision. It was reinforced a few hours later by a message from the supposedly secure clinic where Kestus was being treated. The man had been showing signs of recovering consciousness when the clinic was broken into by a group of masked men who had somehow evaded the whole security system including the monitoring cameras. It had taken them less than two minutes to penetrate to Kestus’s room, sever his head and make their escape, taking the head with them.

War, indeed, and apparently on a choice of fronts.

‘What will you do?’ Kressilim had asked.

Alameche stretched. ‘I shall take a holiday. A rather public one.’ He smiled. ‘And I will give a party. It will be interesting to see who accepts an invitation.’

Traspise, Cordern

THE LITTLE PLANET
grew quickly in the viewer. It looked blue and green and inviting. It was meant to. The effect had been very expensive.

Traspise had been a small industrial planet when the Fortunate had first taken it. Just for once they had miscalculated; its resources were not the bonanza they had hoped, being close to worked out. Normally the Patriarch’s father would have had a tantrum and trashed the place, but this time he had gone against type and ordered it to be cleaned up, re-planeformed and fitted out for leisure.

It had been stunningly successful. Traspise now offered the perfect blend of mountains, seas, lakes, islands and great grass plains. An extra, artificial mini-sun topped up the original one to keep a belt round the middle of the little planet agreeably tropical. You could hunt, sport or just party, safe in the knowledge that everyone you met would be your socio-economic equal because the population (strictly limited to a maximum of one person per hundred square kilometres) was thoroughly aristocratic, like you.

Alameche disliked Traspise intensely, partly because he was bored by most of the aristocracy but mainly because he never took holidays. But he had to admit the place had its uses. Crucially, it was relatively surveillance-light. That made for easy conversations, especially at parties.

It also made it an inspired choice for the new home of the artefact. The choice had been Eskjog’s, of course, although Alameche had agreed to it. Alameche suspected that the little machine – or whatever it was – was extremely well briefed. Well, it would be interesting to see which way Eskjog jumped.

Now the planet filled the viewer. It was time to secure for landing. Nothing so working-class as strapping in this time; you just lay back on the nearest pile of cushions and it inflated round you like an embrace.

The descent took half an hour. Alameche spent it catching up on news programmes. Not just local ones – he was one of only a few hundred people within the Cordern who could access digests from outside it. At first sight there was nothing. Then he sat up, or tried to; the inflated cushions pressed softly but inexorably on his chest and the mechanical equivalent of a young woman’s voice said: ‘Please relax. Your comfort and safety are paramount.’

He subsided and rewound the clip, looking for whatever it was that had caught his interest. There it was. He stopped, and set the clip to play.

‘. . . continued interest in last night’s brutal murder in Catastrophe, involving a dismembered body which was found in three separate locations. In an intriguing development it has become clear that a missing heiress may be involved, because one of the murdered man’s travelling companions appears to have been Fleare Haas, estranged and possibly kidnapped daughter of Viklun Haas, the founder and Chief Executive of Haas Corporation . . .’

The clip flicked to a 2-D picture of a young woman. Alameche froze it and studied her.

In standard terms, she would have been in her early twenties. Her hair was in a short, military cut, although her clothes were civilian and – as far as he could judge the fashions of the outer regions – nondescript. Her brows were straight. Her lips were compressed, and her eyes seemed to be focused on something a long way behind the camera. The background to the picture was blurred and cluttered; he couldn’t make anything out.

Alameche considered himself to be good at people. Fleare Haas looked determined, certainly, but something else as well.

Fragile. That was it.

He flicked out of the news and back into the view of Traspise. They were almost down and the descent was slowing. He watched what seemed at first like a rough patch expand into a mountain range, and then zoom in even more until what lay ahead was a single peak.

The spaceport was on the highest point of the highest range. Being that far up the gravity well saved some energy, which no one really cared about, but it also kept the noise of the shuttles as far as possible from the rest of the planet; people cared about that a great deal. It also made for a splendid vista as you approached. Alameche let the view slide across the landscape until he was looking at a bowl in the mountain range, a kilometre or so from the landing peak. Straight maglev tracks led from the peak to the bowl, which held the logistics centre and control unit for the spaceport. As of yesterday, in the back of an anonymous warehouse it also held the artefact.

The shuttle touched down with a barely perceptible shiver. The cushions released Alameche and the door opened, letting in cool mountain air. Alameche took a deep breath, as much in acknowledgement of the work put in by the planetary management as because he liked it. It seemed different from the last time he had visited. Presumably they had re-engineered the scent a little.

He took another deep breath and hopped down from the shuttle. The peak was deserted, which was quite usual. He had no luggage; the little he needed had been sent separately. He stretched, and strolled over to the headworks of the water-lift that was the only pedestrian route up and down the peak. He could hear water rushing through the works, which meant that one of the cars would be here soon. He sat down and waited, and wondered who would reply to his very carefully coded invitation.

There was no mechanism for replacing the Patriarch, obviously – except for the oldest one in the universe – and there was no excuse for doing it unless you won. It was an appallingly high-stakes thing to begin, and that was why Alameche had very painstakingly not begun it, so far as anyone could point to.

Well, he would see soon enough. Meanwhile the car had arrived, clanking up its track with its two arms – they really did look rather like arms – outstretched and hitched on to the hydraulic rams that ran parallel to the track. It wobbled to a stop, and the door clicked and rose. Alameche climbed in and settled down into the forward-facing seat. There was a hollow thumping of valves as the system switched the rams from rise to fall. Then the car gave a shudder and began to sink down the track, gurgling gently. The noise was quite restful. Alameche closed his eyes and made the most of it. After the news Eskjog had handed him, he suspected it was going to be his last chance for some time.

Eskjog had turned up that morning not long after Kressilim had gone. Alameche, who had already resigned himself to another sleepless night, had ordered a light breakfast and a stimulant. He was halfway through the breakfast and all the way through the stimulant when the little machine had floated straight in out of the dawn sky without any social niceties. ‘Alameche? Are you awake?’

‘Happily, yes.’ He cursed himself briefly for leaving the windows open, but it had been that or live with Kressilim’s stink for hours and besides, he doubted if even the most durable glass could exclude Eskjog. ‘You’re early.’

‘And I’m important. Extremely. Remember our friend the recovered personality?’

For a moment Alameche didn’t. Then he nodded. ‘Of course. From Silthx?’

‘Yes. Well, it’s been recovered by someone else.’

Alameche stared. ‘Recovered? What are you talking about?’

‘It’s been subverted. Someone, or something, or a lot of somethings, we don’t know, knocked it out of its safe little groove in a quiet simulation and made off with it, which means that what it knows, other people know.’ It floated closer to Alameche. ‘They know all about you guys, and Silthx, and that artefact. The Spin is coming in mob-handed, Alameche, and it has the safety catch firmly
off.
You need to be ready.’