Polity 2 - Hilldiggers (43 page)

“Then perhaps someone should board us to check? Perhaps yourself?”

“One individual alone boarding your ship is unlikely to find anything cleverly concealed.”

“True, but we both know that you are capable of probing concealment of the kind that is not merely physical.”

Yishna wasn't so sure she agreed with that, but the idea of just getting away from Corisanthe Main, even to board a Brumallian ship, definitely appealed to her. She put that channel on hold, then put through a call to Director Gneiss. A second holding graphic appeared, and drawn-out minutes passed before Gneiss replied.

“Yes, what is it?” he said, distracted, inward-looking.

Since the Director looked a little impatient, Yishna reported the recent conversation as quickly as she could.

“The decision is yours”—he glanced aside, probably at another screen, then turned back to her—“since you've now been raised to probationary membership of the Oversight Committee. Your area of expertise is defined as all matters relating to Polity contact.”

“But allowing a Brumallian ship through is surely a security matter?”

“Is it? We all know who's culpable in recent events, and it certainly isn't the Brumallians. Uskaron's book cast the reasons for the War with them into extreme doubt, and that's been reinforced by our own studies of Brumallian society. We're agreed that an attack from them is very unlikely, and it seems clear they're now bringing evidence to show their innocence in current matters. You yourself must decide what to do.” His image blinked out.

Shortly afterwards the details of a safe corridor leading down to Sudoria appeared in its place. Yishna flicked back to the other channel.

“I'm sending you coordinates for a safe corridor. You've one hour to reach its entry point, where I'll join you. Then, when I've ensured you're carrying nothing nasty aboard, you'll enter the corridor and proceed down to the surface.”

McCrooger nodded briefly, and Rhodane smiled, before Yishna cut the link. Then, using the touch-screen, she quickly created a list of items from stores. Next she opened another link. “Dalepan, are you aware of my new status?”

“I am,” the OCT replied, “as it's just gone up on all the public message boards.”

“Very well. I'm sending you now a list of items I want placed aboard the shuttle at Dock Three.”

Dalepan studied the list for a long moment. “Am I allowed to ask why you need these particular items?”

“We've got a Brumallian ship coming in to land on Sudoria—protected by Combine weapons. The Polity Consul Assessor is aboard, but I'm to check it's not carrying anything else we wouldn't want arriving down there.”

“I see then the purpose of the scanners, though you're unlikely to find any concealed biologicals. However, I fail to see the purpose of item six.”

“Insurance,” Yishna replied.

“But not the kind to ensure your safety.”

Perhaps she was being overly paranoid—being aboard Corisanthe Main tended to produce that effect. She eyed the item he referred to: one of the megaton-range stealth mines that had earlier destroyed the hilldigger Slate—quite enough to vaporise a Brumallian ship while sitting in its docking bay. After a moment she transferred the mine's detonation code to her baton, which she then detached from its slot in the console before her, and placed in her pocket.

The Sand Churches arose almost certainly because of the oppression during the time leading up to the War, However, even then they were regarded as the lunatic fringe by the majority of the population. During most of the War itself, the Churches made few advances, the numbers joining them rising hardly at all. It was only in the last decade of the War that their memberships increased, along with a growth in belief in the supernatural (hence the rise in the irrational belief in this Shadowman), This is puzzling. Why, when it seemed we were on the road to victory, did this swing happen? Religion flourishes under oppression and in ignorance, but in those last ten years Parliament was not oppressive and ignorance was a luxury we could not afford, I freely admit that I have no answers to this.

—Uskaron

Harald

Weapons fire rumbled through Ironfist and, on the selected screens before him, the view of Sudoria kept blanking out as ship's defences intercepted some intervening missile or mine, filling surrounding space with blinding EM radiation. He sat with his hands resting on the arms of his chair, enthroned at the centre of a growing storm, and in a small part of his mind wondered if he should really be enjoying this so much. But he dismissed that thought and focused on Platform Two, as a fusillade of coil-gun missiles began to arrive there.

Multiple explosions filled space over to one side as the first projectiles slammed into some buoys, the debris from those impacts knifing towards the platform. Then finally some intact projectiles got through to detonate against the shields, momentarily throwing the curving menisci into view. Harald observed a couple of explosions aboard the platform, doubtless shield generators overloading, but the remaining shields held and not one projectile succeeded in reaching the platform itself. He had not expected otherwise, and once the fusillade ceased he observed a cruiser coming out of cover to launch another cloud of buoys, whilst under the entire defence umbrella other ships began moving in to resupply the defence platform. The fleet would have to move in closer now, so the hilldiggers could effectively employ energy weapons and atomics. When that time arrived, in about another three hours, it was going to get vicious.

“Captain Ashanti, begin your run on Corisanthe III. I am hoping it won't be necessary for you to destroy the station, just keep it nailed down.” On his eye-screen Harald watched Wildfire and Resilience begin their departure from the main body of the fleet. “All other Captains, on my lead we concentrate our attack on Platform Two. Harvester, Stormfollower and Musket will strafe from close orbit, until I give the order for them to make their run on Corisanthe II. When ready, myself and Franorl will begin our atmosphere-level attack.”

Another channel blinked for his attention, and he opened it to see a small fleet of Combine cruisers moving out to flank the hilldiggers. This struck him as a brave but rather pathetic response.

“Franorl, deal with that, would you.”

Desert Wind began to turn. There was no visible sign of the ship using its coil-guns but Harald knew, from tacom channels, that Franorl had already opened fire. One of the five cruisers flew apart, strangely without producing even a hint of flame, another tilted and began to drift away. Two of them turned and began heading back for cover while the last one closed in on its drifting fellow cruiser. Harald watched them intermittently over the next half an hour, also switching occasionally to views of other Combine activity, and to monitor Wildfire's run. As the rescuing cruiser docked with the crippled one, both cruisers abruptly disappeared in a massive explosion. Harald just sat there, mystified, until he started checking recorded telemetry. Evidently Franorl had launched a slower-moving nuclear missile which had just arrived. Comparing the timings, Harald realised Franorl must have fired the missile during the rescue attempt, and not in the initial fusillade. He suddenly did not know how to react to this, since he found he did not consider such an action...quite honourable. Next he felt a sudden contempt for himself. How could he quibble about matters of honour considering what he himself was doing? He abruptly stood up, checked timings and realised that, unless Orbital Combine came up with something unexpected, he had a few hours yet now to spare. Everything else could be handled by the ship's automatic weapons and by its highly trained crews.

What am I doing?

This question only recurred to him at moments like this, when he was tired and when action of one kind or another ceased for a small while, and as always his reply to it was that he was fighting for the survival of Fleet. Though an inadequate answer on an intellectual level, he felt its truth in his gut and that was enough. Surely he should get some sleep now, but the need for it had left him directly after he killed Carnasus. Perhaps he should do his rounds of the ship, make himself visible, inspire confidence...Almost without thinking about it, he called up internal views of Ironfist and began checking operations. When he realised what he was doing, he deliberately shut down his tacom helmet and control glove, removed them and dropped them into his chair.

The Bridge was all activity as he stepped down into it. Many of the crew shot glances at him, then returned their attention instantly to their consoles. Though the ship's defensive armament was firing automatically, there was plenty to occupy everyone, particularly damage control since, though nothing major had got through, Ironfist was perpetually sustaining damage from debris.

His two guards falling in behind him, he approached the crewman monitoring the ship's manifest. “Status?”

The man shot out of his chair, not having seen the new Admiral approaching. He was young, probably still a teenager, and stood there with his mouth open, the look on his face of one who expected to be berated.

“What is our present internal supply status?” Harald asked.

The youth took a deep breath. “We have used only four warheads.” He glanced at his screen. “Capacitance is at sixty per cent, and we can keep the reactors running at this rate for eight days...Admiral. Though we've been losing shield generators,” he gained confidence, “we've more than enough at the present rate of breakdown. The greater problem is getting them installed quick enough. And we now have less than a quarter of our stock of coil-gun missiles remaining.” He brightened. “But supply ships are already on their way from Carmel with new stock.”

“Thank you,” said Harald. “Return to your duties.”

“I think we'll check the engine galleries now,” he told his two escorts.

The lift section behind the Bridge, his means of getting to any of the four rail lines, was obviously very busy. By one of the lifts waited a damage-control crew with a lev-plate loaded with high-pressure sealant guns and a welder, stacked on top of sheets of hull metal, and out of another lift, just arrived, stepped a couple of officers and some crew, most of them immediately hurrying off in different directions. However, one of the officers stopped before Harald, then turned and fist-saluted over his side arm. Only the fist did not remain a fist as it opened, closed again and drew. Harald found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. With a vicious crack that barrel disappeared behind its own flame. Harald felt the bullet strike his temple, felt his own skull breaking open. The force of impact snapped his head aside and spun him round. Then he felt nothing.

McCrooger

The explosions we saw on the screen, around Sudoria and around the hilldiggers now approaching that world, seemed a distant thing that I could not help viewing with some detachment. What brought home the horrible reality was the occasional thwack, followed by flashing yellow lights denoting a hull breach, as some piece of debris travelling at thousands of miles per second slammed right through our ship. This being an organic vessel, the holes punched through its hull were closed up rapidly, but that did not dispel the vulnerability I felt. The ship might be able to heal itself easily, but if one of those pieces hit me ...

“She is due to arrive shortly,” said Rhodane, ducking into the quarters I shared with Slog and Flog, who as usual lately were off lurking around the spin-section hub where Tigger had subsumed our ship's AI. I swung my legs off the bed and stood up a little shakily. It had been another one of those horrible disturbed sleeps, and everything around me still looked slightly distorted. “How are you?” she added, studying me carefully.

I'd never spoken to Tigger about the distortion and the nightmares, because they seemed too personal, and having to admit that, as well as my body falling apart my mind was too, seemed just a bit too much to bear. But I chose to speak to Rhodane about it now because of some obscure desire to 'clear the decks' before our next 'action'. It is a good thing I did, because her reply was the key that started things sliding into place and interlocking in my mind.

“I'm not great,” I replied. “I've been having some twisted nightmares ever since I arrived in this system, and some of them even while I'm awake.”

She gazed at me for a long moment, her expression giving away nothing, then said, “But you did not experience them on Brumal?”

I thought about it. A lot had happened to me on Brumal, but nothing like that. It struck me now that it had been my only normal time here in this system. “No, not on Brumal.”

“I told you it was an oasis of sanity,” she said. “That's where I finally found mine—and the change I've since undergone has helped me hold onto it,” she frowned, “though sometimes my anger at Sudoria returns, and I wish I could raise the rest of the Brumallian ships to attack whatever will remain when Fleet and Combine have finished with each other.” She paused speculatively. “I think the Consensus blocks the cause of those nightmares. Shared sanity?” She shrugged. “I don't know.”

I absorbed that information then revealed, “Sometimes there's a dark figure. It tried to be my father, but that facade did not last. I feel it's trying to say something to me, but just doesn't know how.”

“So the Shadowman is not the Sudorian conscience,” she stated obscurely.

“That went right over my head, Rhodane.”

The ship juddered violently. She tilted her head for a moment, then gestured towards the corridor beyond the door and led the way out.

“What would you say is the average incidence of mental illness among any normal human population?” she asked.

“Define 'normal human'.”

She gave me an annoyed look. “On Sudoria, three out of four people end up having treatment for some kind of mental illness. Most Sudorians are meanwhile on some kind of drugs regimen to control one mental malady or another. There are more asylums on Sudoria now than there are schools.”

This was complete news to me, yet something Geronamid and Tigger had to know about. So why hadn't I been told? Probably because by knowing I would not necessarily respond as Geronamid required me to.