Polity 4 - The Technician (33 page)

‘Perhaps
you can explain your belief in God, and why you think Zelda Smythe is His
ultimate prophetess,’ Shree persisted. ‘Perhaps you can explain why your god is
any more true than the thousands of gods primitives have worshipped or why, as
a godly man, you’re quite happy about people burning in Hell.’ Grant noted
Tombs wince at that. ‘Maybe you’d like to detail why the great and wonderful
Theocracy needed torture, multiple executions, satellite lasers and an orbital
coil-gun to keep order on its world, and why it fell to the godless machines.’

Tombs
simply wasn’t biting and Shree had begun to sound like some expression of her
name.

‘Shree,’
said Grant, ‘leave the man alone and come sit by me.’

After a
brief silence, she stood and moved forwards, plonking herself down in the seat
beside Grant.

‘Waste
of time,’ she said. ‘That’ll never be broadcast.’

If
Earthnet and the vetting AIs were searching for impartiality, Grant guessed it
would not. He pointed off to the side of the North Road – which was essentially
a layer of compacted flute grass five metres wide leading all the way to Zealos
– towards a small hill with a single garage door in the side of it. ‘Bunker
One.’

‘No
hooder warning,’ said Shree, nodding towards a light positioned atop a pole,
like many other lights spaced at half-kilometre intervals along the road.

‘The
lights don’t signify anything now,’ said Grant. ‘If there’re hooders nearby I
get a warning straight through this console.’ He gestured to the console lying
ahead of the control column. ‘Along with the warning I get details on the best
bunker to run for.’

The
system was more efficient now. In the time of the Theocracy hooders were picked
out by motion sensors out in the flute grasses, backed up by satcam when available.
The moment a hooder was spotted within ten kilometres of the road all the
lights on that section would begin flashing and the cargo trucks would run for
the nearest bunker. However, depending on the positioning of the hooder, the
nearest bunker might not be the safest one to run to. Their loss rate in
trucks, and drivers, had been about 10 per cent. Now the only driver deaths out
here were of those who did not heed the direct warnings they received, and
there were a few.

As they
motored past the bunker Grant settled himself for the five-hour drive ahead.
Wondering where Penny Royal had positioned itself, he reached past the steering
column and keyed in a query on the console. Some figures came up on the small
computer screen there. The loading of the ATV was precisely what it should have
been with three people inside, so it seemed unlikely Penny Royal was squatting
on the roof. Out there somewhere then, keeping pace with them.

‘Under
Polity law,’ said Tombs abruptly, ‘I am guilty of murder.’

Yes, his
apparent killing of Sanders still occupied his mind and now he was starting to
ask the questions Penny Royal had told Grant to expect, and to which Grant had
been given replies.

‘No,
apparently not.’

‘I
killed her. I cut her throat.’

‘Whilst
the balance of your mind was disturbed.’

‘That’s
nonsense,’ said Shree, turning to peer at Grant. ‘Under Polity law mental
disturbance is no excuse. Murder is murder and cannot be recalled, and a mind
sufficiently disturbed to commit it is a mind not worth saving.’

‘On the
face of it, yes, but Sanders agreed to waivers before she began looking after
Tombs here, probably because she thought him no danger to her while stuck in a
wheelchair. With it also being likely he’d been subjected to an involuntary
mental download, legal matters get a bit murky.’ He glanced at her. ‘A cynic
might say that because of his value the AIs brushed aside the law.’ He
shrugged.

‘Fucking
Polity,’ said Shree, turning to look out of the side window.

Revealing, thought Grant, then he glanced round at Tombs,
who seemed disappointed and sad. And no restitution for you,
he added.

Flute
Grass

The flute grasses of Masada are
thoroughly tedious plants closely resembling numerous rhizome-based plants on
Earth, like reeds, irises, papyrus, ginger, turmeric – the list is a long one –
but there is something odd about them. They sprout from their rhizomes in the
spring, the shoots sharply pointed and tough enough to punch through even
seasoned wood. Throughout the year they grow to heights of up to four metres,
the hollow stems being up to ten centimetres wide and numerous side shoots
binding the whole mass together. In late summer the grasses produce flowers,
the over fifty identified separate species of grass producing just about every
colour in the spectrum. And here we have the oddity, for there are no naturally
occurring flying pollinators on Masada. These flowers eventually fade, drop
away, to leave pods which eject ‘pollen’ with three distinct sexes, and
pollination is carried out by the wind, as with the trees of Earth. After pod
pollination the grasses drop seeds, very few of which get a chance to germinate
in the rhizome-packed ground. In the Masadan winter all the side shoots drop
away to leave holes in the hollow stems, which play like flutes in the Masadan
winter winds, hence the name. But we have to go back to it: why the flowers?
Pure chance or, with what we know about that world now, design?

–
From HOW IT IS by Gordon

‘Katarin, about time!’ said Ripple-John.

The
woman peered at him from his laptop screen, some indecision in her expression.

‘Hey
Ripple-John,’ she said.

‘So,
tell me what happened,’ said John, lifting the laptop up and crossing his legs
below it. ‘Damn com was jammed for a day and, ever since, Tinsch has been out
of contact. I saw on Earthnet that Tombs is on his way up the North Road. Am I
taking a wild guess to say the hit was unsuccessful?’

‘It was
unsuccessful.’

‘So what
happened?’

‘It did
something to them.’ Katarin looked scared, her attention straying away to one
side. John had never seen her like this, even during the rebellion. She had
been as avid for revenge as him, and included herself in those who had dragged
off the Bishop of Triada for his swim in a squerm pond. Did her fears relate to
the Polity and what might happen if they were caught, or was she having second
thoughts about plan B, Ripple-John mused. He had always been aware that many in
the Tidy Squad entertained some moral uncertainties.

‘You’re
going to have to be a little clearer than that, Katarin,’ he said. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

She
returned her attention to him. ‘Miloh tried to take his shot and, as planned,
Tombs’s protection went after him, giving David and the rest their opportunity.
They activated the shields between Tombs and that protection and grabbed him.
Now all but one of them are in Greenport hospital.’ She shook her head, looked
bewildered.

‘So this
protection, some intelligent hardware of some kind, got through to them,’
Ripple-John stated. ‘But it didn’t kill them. Are they badly injured?’

‘Difficult
to describe.’

‘Do your
best my love.’

‘Miloh
lost his hands, but it’s worse than that. His wrists were fused into his rifle,
which itself became a semi-organic extension of his body.’

‘What?’

‘Whatever
attacked him left him looped round an I-beam, his rifle acting like a set of
cuffs. Port Maintenance tried to cut through it.’ She paused, trying to find
the words. ‘They had to take him to the hospital with a wound dressing on his
fucking rifle!’

Ripple-John
sat back in his director’s chair, and absorbed that. Tinsch had wanted a nice
neat hit with zero other casualties and John had known that approach was wrong
from the start. Because of Tombs’s importance to the Polity he had heavy
protection, and the only way to get to him was by using something a bit more
substantial – a bomb, nerve gas, the kind of weapon he couldn’t be protected
from by a bodyguard of any kind, something like the contents of the canister
standing beside the balcony rail just a couple of metres from Ripple-John.

‘What
about the others?’

‘Franklin,
Amira and Joden are in a similar condition to Miloh. Franklin is melded to a
street paving slab at the ankles, Amira’s console is now an extension of her
wrists and Joden’s got a chunk of wall attached to his back.’

‘So, whatever’s
protecting Tombs likes to play the comedian. But we’ll be seeing how it deals
with the reception I have for it here.’

‘You’re
at the way station?’ Katarin asked.

‘I
certainly am.’

‘He’s
got other protection too,’ she said. ‘You must have seen that on Earthnet.’

‘I
certainly did. Leif Grant – I never had him pegged as a traitor. So tell me,
what about our David Tinsch?’

‘The aug
he intended to use on Tombs ended up on his own head.’

‘I said
that was a bad idea from the start – we’re Tidy Squad and we don’t try for
deals with the Polity.’ Ripple-John paused, feeling a sudden surge of doubt.
When, after his close comrades in the Squad went out of contact, he had used
the secure comline he was only supposed to use in circumstances of extremity,
whoever he spoke to there had told him to stand down. In light of that it
seemed likely the Polity had penetrated the upper command of the Squad, and
that he could only trust those he had always trusted. ‘So his brains got
scrambled or something like that?’

‘Something
like that.’

‘Explain.’

‘When I
saw him in the hospital they’d finished interrogating him. He just sat and
cried and said he was sorry. Yesterday they transported him to Zealos hospital,
where I’m told Polity mind-techs are going to take a look at him.’

‘So now
it’s down to me only.’

Katarin
just stared at him for a long moment before replying, ‘Maybe we should just
drop this. Is the death of one crazy proctor worth the casualties?’

So, she
was softening, she’d lost sight of the ideal. Masada could not move on until
every damned Theocrat was dead. It could not move on until every trace of the
Theocracy had been erased. It could not move on until every believer chose
either atheism or death. The Tidy Squad’s task, John knew, might be centuries
long and, in face of that, they could not pay heed to a handful of casualties
now.

‘I think
you know my answer to that.’

‘Yes, I
do.’

‘Tombs
got taken to the Monument, didn’t he, Katarin?’

‘He
did.’

‘And to Charity.’

‘Yes.’

John
nodded to himself. They would have to go. He’d been pushing for some plan to
obtain either nuclear or antimatter explosives to take out those cylinder
worlds, to erase those visible monuments to the
Theocracy. Many other members of the Squad had always argued against that,
saying the function of the Squad was retribution against individuals, not
against a belief system and not against inanimate objects. They failed to
understand the persistent strength of the enemy. Ripple-John understood.

‘Then
back to Greenport, and now they’re still on the North Road?’

‘Yes,
they’re still heading your way.’

‘Good.
Be good enough to let me know if there’s any change in the itinerary.’ He
reached forward to cut the communication but Katarin’s expression made him
hesitate. ‘Something else on your mind, Katarin?’

‘What
did Thracer do wrong, John?’

Puzzled,
John replied, ‘Thracer? He’s doing a bundle of things wrong all the time – he
lacks balls. He dismissed the idea of a hit in Greenport and he pooh-poohed my
idea of poetic justice. And he won’t even look at us destroying the cylinder
worlds.’

‘Is that
reason enough to kill him?’

‘Not yet
. . . what is it you’re saying?’

‘His
body was found about five hours ago, in his apartment – someone shot him
through the face.’

Not before time, thought John, but said, ‘Not me, nor any
of my boys.’

She
stared at him speculatively, then said, ‘I’m out of this now, John. I’ve had
enough.’

Ripple-John
felt completely unsurprised. Though Katarin had been Tidy Squad right from the
beginning, she was not the first hardliner to renege on promises made during
difficult times. She had just joined a long procession of those Ripple-John
thought he could trust but who had abandoned the Squad. Those that hadn’t
understood their comrade Ripple-John and remained on Masada, now resided here
permanently, under the Masadan mud.

‘You’ll
be understanding, Katarin, that if you’re loose at the mouth I’ll be having to
hunt you down,’ he said.

‘I
understand,’ said Katarin. ‘I’ve booked passage offworld.’

Yes,
perhaps she understood that whether she opened her mouth or not, he would try
to hunt her down anyway. Only by leaving Masada could she ensure her own
survival.

‘Well, I
wish you luck.’

‘Sure
you do,’ said Katarin, shutting down the communication.

Ripple-John
closed his laptop and peered contemplatively up at the glass dome over
Bradacken. With no large agricultural areas to put off the local wildlife – the
creatures of this world tended to prefer the flute grasses and stayed where
their natural food remained available – the way station bore similar construction
to that of the bunkers. First a thick foamstone raft had been laid, then
buildings erected on it in a ring at the centre, all their openings facing
inwards. From above the roof-line of this ring of buildings, reinforced
concrete sloped down to the edge of the raft. A dome of armour glass four
centimetres thick covered the circular parking and maintenance area the
buildings enclosed, and entry to this place was via a long tunnel through the
concrete, armoured blast doors forming a vehicle airlock. Gabbleducks,
siluroynes, heroynes and mud snakes just had no way of penetrating.