Roboteer (3 page)

‘Amy?’ he said.

She looked up at him, her face unreadable. ‘Doug’s dead.’

Ira blinked in disbelief. Something crumpled deep inside him. ‘How dead? Can we use coma?’

His question sounded weak even as it left his mouth. Amy would have tried that already.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry. It’s too late for that.’

Ira struggled for words. ‘That last turn,’ he said stupidly. It had felt bad, but not that bad. ‘How tight was it?’

‘Fifteen gees,’ she replied quietly.

Ira covered his mouth with his hand. Most roboteers were effectively unmodified when it came to dogfights. They just didn’t have the stamina for it, not even with a muscle-tank to help them. Ira stared down at the corpse floating in the gel-filled box at the bottom of the cabin. Doug might have been a roboteer, but Ira had counted him as a friend. And now Ira had killed him.

‘Hey,’ said John, breaking the airless silence. ‘I hate to be the one to point this out, but this isn’t exactly a good time for grieving. I’ve just been looking at that enemy data and it’s serious stuff. They’re going to come after it for sure, and we haven’t taken any evasives yet. We should get going – otherwise Doug won’t be the only dead person in this cabin.’

Ira exhaled and shut his eyes. Part of him was grateful for the distraction, delivered as it was in John’s usual tactless terms.

‘All right, everybody,’ he said. ‘Get back to your seats. We’ll have to deal with this later. We’re going home.’

2:
NEW ROLES

2.1: GUSTAV

While the dignitaries standing around him talked politics, Gustav stared out of the window. It was easy to be distracted by the view. All he had to do was let his concentration wander from the overfed face in front of him to the three-storey pane of bulletproof glass several metres beyond it. And from where he stood, in the primary antechamber of the Prophet’s palace at Bogotá, the vista was compelling, if not exactly pleasant.

The antechamber looked out past the palace’s bone-coloured tiers over the manicured miles of gardens to the slums beyond. In the distance, where once proud forest had stood, prote-farms now sprawled, a chequerboard of dirty brown and sickly yellow squares. The sky was an angry sulphurous grey. It wasn’t that the scenery differed particularly from the rest of what Earth had to offer, but from the palace you could see that much more of it. It appalled Gustav that, even on the Prophet’s very doorstep, the world still showed so few signs of recovering from the Terror Century.

While the dignitaries droned on, Gustav quietly adjusted his position to look into the antechamber itself, a view far preferable to the desolation outside. The antechamber, one of many, was a snow-white New Gothic fantasy. Vast columns like frozen waterfalls of milk met at a vaulted ceiling far overhead, and the floor was bright and smooth like a sheet of ice. It reflected the courtiers standing around in small groups, making impressionistic butterflies with their brightly coloured robes. Their muted conversations echoed off the glacial walls.

More importantly, Gustav now had a view of the enormous doors he’d shortly have to walk through. They led to the throne room of His Honesty the Prophet – the spiritual ruler of all Earth.

‘So what do you think, General?’ one of the dignitaries asked him.

Gustav had enjoyed no peace since he arrived. Everyone wanted to be seen to talk with him before he received his holy commendation.

The man who’d spoken had small, fat hands sticking out from the voluminous folds of his bright-orange robe. He waved them when he talked, like little pink balloons.

Gustav tried for a polite smile. ‘I’m sorry, what was that again?’

‘I said, what do you think? Is the education of females permissible under dogma?’

A skeletal man draped in moss-green fabric pointed a bony digit at the speaker. ‘But that’s
not
the question,’ he said. ‘We’re only talking about the Following here, not the Leading classes. I have no issue with the girls of Leading families receiving an education. That harms no one.’

Gustav remembered. The Prophet had recently passed a dictate expressly forbidding the female children of Following families from receiving education. A few of the Kingdom’s many subsect leaders had launched a doomed attempt to appeal the decision.

‘I’m a scientist, I’m afraid, gentlemen,’ Gustav said mildly. ‘I try not to get involved in political matters.’
Or not the immediate ones, at least
, he thought. Gustav had dedicated his life to building a better future. He had long since given up on the present.

‘But General …’ said a voice from the back of the group. This new voice belonged to a man dressed in the white gown of a High Church disciple. He was handsome in a slightly soft, florid kind of way. Only his eyes and the point of his nose were hard. He wore his dark hair oiled back. ‘Even the most reserved among us have a moral instinct, wouldn’t you say? And as a
scientist
, education must be a topic dear to your heart.’ His smile was filled with small, even teeth. ‘You have women on your team, don’t you? I’d be interested to hear your gut reaction on the subject.’

Gustav regarded the disciple warily. The man had hovered at the back of almost every group Gustav had met that morning, yet this was the first time he’d actually opened his mouth. In doing so, he’d managed to justify practically every suspicion Gustav had entertained about him.

The fact that Gustav employed female scientists was supposed to be a secret, simply because everything about Gustav’s work was secret. This conversation would have to be brought to an end, and quickly.

‘I’m sorry, but my training encourages me to avoid gut reactions,’ Gustav said with a hard smile. ‘In my experience, they’re a poor substitute for data.’

The disciple refused to be dissuaded. ‘Really,’ he said airily. ‘We in the High Church see things differently. We consider the moral instinct to be a vital guide in decision-making. A kind of spiritual compass, if you like.’ He looked around at the others, as if confident of their agreement.

‘Then let me ask you a question,’ said Gustav. ‘Which do you think poses a greater security risk to the Kingdom – cycle-game or FROF-b command encryption? I assure you that is a topic of urgent interest in Military Intelligence circles at the moment.’ Gustav waved his hand generously. ‘I don’t need an informed response, just a gut reaction.’ He crooked an eyebrow and waited.

The disciple frowned. His cheeks turned a ruddy colour. Some of the dignitaries chuckled. Before the disciple could muster a suitable reply, a voice boomed down from the antechamber’s lofty heights.

‘General Gustav Ulanu. You may approach the Prophet.’

All across the great chamber, conversation died to silence.

Gustav inhaled. It was time. He bowed to the dignitaries. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

He turned and walked with measured steps across the immense floor to the white portal that was swinging open to admit him.

How ironic it was. Most people would have given their lives to win a commendation from the Prophet, yet Gustav felt nothing but foreboding. Admiral Konrad Tang was the man who should have been there instead of him. Tang was the man who’d commanded the Memburi attack force. He was the one who’d successfully secured the system in the name of Earth two weeks previously. He was the public face of their project in all matters. So why would the Prophet choose to bestow such a visible honour on Gustav? Particularly given that Gustav had been purposefully dragging his heels for the last six months. A caution would be more in order than a commendation.

He stepped into the throne room and stopped. A raised dais like a stepped pyramid stood before him, lit by a single shaft of artificial sunlight that shone down from yet another vaulted ceiling. It illuminated the enormous seat in which sat the greatest socio-political genius of recent history: His Honesty the Prophet Pyotr Sanchez.

Sanchez was the man who’d answered the crucial question of their age:
How do you unite the warring factions of a world that has been locked in violence for generations?
His answer: by directing their attention towards a common enemy. The enemy he’d chosen was a good one, too: the capitalists who’d fled the world with as much money as they could carry when the ecology turned bad.

The organisation Sanchez had founded, the Church of Truism, was a masterpiece of administrative science. It was part pyramid scheme, part army and part cult. There was room in it for every human ideology that existed, so long as it was prepared to support his cause and recognise his ultimate authority. Sanchez had truly changed the world.

The Prophet’s features were barely visible at this distance, just an oval of tea-coloured skin for a face above a snowdrift of robes, but he sat at the apex of an impressive tableaux. On the step just below him stood Ramon the First, the King of the Nation of Man and formal leader of Earth’s military government. Ramon wore a gown covered from neck to toe with intricate heraldic symbols in the midnight-blue and gold of the Medellins – the favoured subsect he led. Beneath the king stood the Prophet’s favoured courtiers, arrayed in all their ludicrous finery, looking towards the door – watching Gustav’s approach.

Gustav knelt. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then hidden speakers amplified the Prophet’s hoarse rattle to a Titan’s boom.

‘You may approach, my child.’

Keeping his eyes carefully downcast, Gustav rose. He gathered the folds of his cumbersome robe of dark Reconsiderist brown and started the climb to the top of the pyramid. A sensation of profound unease grew in the pit of Gustav’s stomach as he ascended. He ignored it. The feeling was not his own, but rather the result of a bombardment of tailored infrasonics. It was well known that Sanchez had the best psycho-architectural consultants the planet could provide. The watching courtiers, the incredible opulence and the grand flight of stairs ahead of him were all intended to create a feeling of awe and reverence. The two emotions they created in Gustav, however, were annoyance and suspicion.

Gustav reached the step below the king and knelt again. The step was fractionally too narrow to manage this comfortably. It drew one’s attention to how easy it would be to fall backwards, away from the throne, and shame oneself irretrievably in the process.

The king spoke. ‘Your Honesty, may I present to you General Gustav Ulanu. It was his work that made the liberation of Memburi possible.’

His voice was rich and round, just as a king’s should be, and Gustav could read nothing from it. He knew the king would prefer to see a Medellin do his job, but Gustav doubted that any of the Medellins’ pitiful scientific ranks could do what he did, even if they were given the chance.

The role of king was another of Sanchez’s inspired inventions. By allowing the rulers of each faction that joined his church to retain power over their own people, Sanchez had created a highly volatile government. Many of the movements that had become Truist subsects were still fiercely acquisitive and held long-running grudges against each other. Sanchez had stopped them from knifing him in the back and taking power for themselves by giving the tangible reins of power to someone else. At the same time, he’d managed to make himself an indispensable symbol of authority for all.

Which meant Ramon was expendable, and he knew it. His voice carried far less weight than he would have liked.

‘You may look upon me, General,’ said the Prophet. His amplified words boomed around the throne room.

Gustav stared up into the walnut-wrinkled face. Sanchez was so old now. He’d finally lost the shock of white hair that had once been his trademark feature, but his eyes were still keenly attentive, and dark like bottomless pools.

‘I commend you on your work, General,’ Sanchez croaked. ‘You have put a flaming sword in the hands of our crusaders. The forces of evil are driven back and the age of unity draws closer. God sees your efforts and is pleased.’ He paused to wheeze. ‘That is why he has instructed me to grant you personal subsect rights over twelve and one half per cent of the Sin-World Galatea upon successful conclusion of this crusade.’

There were gasps throughout the room. For a moment, Gustav couldn’t believe what he’d heard. A grant like that represented a massive fortune – it would secure his family for generations, if he ever chose to have one. He struggled to keep the surprise out of his eyes. It was a long time since he’d been caught off guard this way.

A brief sideways glance at the round, jowled face of the king told Gustav that Ramon wasn’t thrilled by the Prophet’s generosity, but he wasn’t surprised either. Gustav quickly returned his gaze to the Prophet.

Sanchez’s face crumpled like a brown paper bag as he bestowed on Gustav a benevolent smile. His eyes, though, remained as hard as lumps of jet.

‘I have heard the stories of your endeavours, General,’ he said.

Gustav’s ears pricked up. He didn’t like the sound of that.

‘The difficulties your research has presented you with. The
long
months of study it has taken for you to devise this great weapon for us. Now, at last, we have proven its value in battle. Soon, your great work will be done.’

Gustav held his breath. Sanchez had chosen his words carefully. Without sharing the news with the rest of the court, he had made it very clear that he knew Gustav had been delaying the attack on Galatea.

Why the gift, then?

‘I have pondered your great sacrifice to the holy cause,’ said Sanchez, ‘and decided that there is something I can do to aid you in your final efforts. I have assigned Disciple Rodriguez from my own staff to act as your assistant.’

In other words, he was being handed a spy. Gustav’s face stiffened.

‘Disciple Rodriguez, you may approach.’

As soon as the Prophet said his name, Gustav could guess who it was going to be. He glanced to his side as someone in a white gown stepped up and knelt beside him. It was the man from the antechamber. For the briefest instant, they locked gazes. Rodriguez’s eyes shone with something like victory.

It occurred to Gustav then why he’d received this sudden fortune. He was being bought off. The Prophet had finally decided to bring the whole unpredictable business of the suntap within the reach of the High Church. The realisation appalled him.

If the High Church imagined that any amount of
money
would be enough to make him simply hand over the project, they’d have to think again. He wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

‘You may speak,’ said the Prophet.

Gustav kept his voice carefully neutral. ‘Your Honesty, I have no words adequate to express the gratitude I feel. I desire only to do God’s work. I pray that I can make worthy use of these unexpected gifts.’

The Prophet regarded him inscrutably for a moment, reading the implications behind his words. He might have been old, but his wits were still razor sharp. ‘As do I, my child,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘You may leave, and take my blessings with you.’

Gustav stood and backed carefully down the stairs, struggling with the clumsy robe and seething all the while. The disciple matched his descent with practised ease, step for awkward step.

As soon as they reached the antechamber, Rodriguez turned on him with a triumphant grin. He bowed his respects to Gustav a little too quickly to be convincing.

‘General,’ he crooned. ‘I’m honoured to be working with you. I’m looking forward to a close and highly beneficial relationship.’

Gustav kept his face still. He said nothing until his silence made Rodriguez’s smile falter. ‘Indeed,’ he replied at last. He curved his mouth into a humourless grin and looked Rodriguez up and down. ‘Welcome to the team. Now let’s go and mingle, shall we? I’m sure half the court is dying to speak with us.’