Authors: Sean Williams,Shane Dix
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Space Opera
The Prodigal Sun (23 page)
Haid had given Roche over to the two of them not long after a hasty meal in the rebel refectory. She and Neva, it seemed, had been arguing ever since.
“Control?” The furrows on Neva’s brow grew deeper. “There are more than two thousand Armada personnel in Port Parvati, in twenty-seven separate facilities. We have less than a thousand. At the very best, we can take control of
one
facility, and that doesn’t give us effective control of anything. It just makes us effective targets. Ameidio won’t risk our people for such a futile gesture.”
“There’ll be no risk to your overall organization,” said Roche. “We can use a handful of volunteers, if necessary. And anyway, we’ll control the communications nexus—MiCom.”
“But MiCom is only the
instrument
of command,” Neva quickly countered. “Delcasalle and his cronies could run their operation without it; they’d use carrier bats if they had to. You don’t know these people like we do.”
Roche shook her head. “One: MiCom is linked to the hyperspace transmitter in orbit—so once we have it, we can blow the whistle on them, right down the line to the Armada. And two: corrupt officials are the same anywhere. They—”
“I don’t think Commander Roche plans to leave them on the loose,” the Box interrupted, speaking through a terminal near the viewtank. Roche regarded the valise in surprise, unaware that it had been listening.
“Warden Delcasalle may well be in absolute control here,” it continued, “but he is dependent on those immediately below him, and they in turn on the level below them. All levels below Delcasalle operate through the Administration Center; the key personnel may not be present, but the mechanism for decision-making and control always is. Cut out the Administration Center, and you effectively cut off Delcasalle’s hands.”
“
Administration?
” Neva waved her hand at the glowing map. “So now we’re taking out more than one of the facilities?”
“No,” the Box said firmly. “Merely extending our strike at the MiCom installation to include the Administration Center as well. Look at the map.”
Neva looked down, and Roche, impressed by the Box’s line of thought, did likewise. She saw at once where it was leading.
“MiCom and Administration,” it said, “are features of the central port complex, isolated within the scorched-earth perimeter. Administration is adjacent to—and can be entered by way of—the main terminal building, which houses MiCom. So this can be a single operation. No untidy splitting of the strike force, no civilians, and no collateral damage.”
Roche swung the Box onto the viewtank’s edge. There was just enough free chain to allow her to reach across the main map.
“Both MiCom and Administration are secure modules,” she said, following the Box’s lead. “Probably prefab components shipped from an old orbital facility. But the main entrance to Administration is only about ten meters from the emergency stairs to MiCom. See, here.” She tapped the point on the plan showing the map of the main terminal building. “We can go to that point as one group, split into separate strike forces, and be in a position to move simultaneously against the two targets.”
“Seems almost made to order,” Neva said dryly.
Roche glanced up at her, trying to read her face rather than her words. But the woman was impassive.
Roche returned to the plans. “Forget the lower floor and the navigation module; that’s of no interest to us. The MiCom module occupies the three levels above that, right through to the roof installations; it’s totally isolated from the ground floor, totally shielded and insulated, totally self-contained. It even has its own emergency life-support system, controlled from the first floor. The only points of entry or exit are the elevator system—which can be disabled—and the equipment access stairwell from the ground—here. All we have to target is the first floor, and they’ll be cut off from the outside.”
Neva leaned over the map, her face finally revealing a hint of interest in Roche’s plan.
“It’s a simple operation,” Roche said. “A single shot and the elevator will be inoperable. We go up the stairs, blow out the door, and enter fast under cover of the explosion. Three or four people could secure the floor in, say, thirty seconds. One heavy weapon to cover the stairwell—perhaps a portable shield to prevent them lobbing their own explosives in on us—gas via the emergency life support, or Maii, to knock out those above us—and we’re secure. It’ll only take a few seconds to interface the Box. Once we’ve done that, we’ll control all command communication on Sciacca’s World plus all intersystem channels, including the Armada’s.”
“What about Admin?” said Emmerik.
“Cane can take a small force in there,” Roche said. “It’s one level; he’ll simply sweep through it. No need to be tidy.”
Neva looked across at Emmerik. A frown creased her face.
The Mbatan nodded. “He’s quite capable of doing it,” he said.
“That’s not what I was thinking.”
“I know,” said Emmerik, his eyes moving to meet Roche’s.
Neva’s gaze narrowed. Lowering her eyes to the map, she deliberated a moment, then said: “Okay, Commander. It seems sound enough, although it does rely heavily on the talents of a small number of individuals—namely the members of your own party. Should either you, Cane, or Maii fall early in the battle, success will be unlikely.” She folded her arms and nodded to herself. “But supposing we grant you the possibility that your plan
might
work, there still remains the little matter of getting to the strike point you’ve identified. The terminal complex is well inside the landing field’s electrified perimeter, some hundred meters back from the only gates. Not only is the gatehouse well served by Enforcement personnel, but so is the main guard block. Both lie between the gates and the front doors of the main complex. Needless to say, these people aren’t technicians and administrators and will be highly sensitive to intruders. How do you plan to get us past them?” She brushed the back of a hand across the map as though wiping off crumbs. “Just send Cane in first?”
Roche smiled. “That’s the least of our problems. What you have to decide is whether you want to continue to play good citizen, perhaps infiltrate the system and gain a few minor advantages—or whether you want to go with us and clean this bunch out once and for all.”
Neva’s expression tightened as she spoke. Obviously she had struck a nerve. “I shouldn’t need to remind you, Commander,” she said, “that we’ve built up a strong and efficient resistance here over a number of years. If we implement your plan and it fails, we stand to lose everything.”
“Not necessarily. You risk maybe a dozen people. Surely you’ve set up field-operative cells with one person control?”
“Of course. That’s how we work outside the city.”
“Then use one of those cells.”
Neva said nothing. She looked at Roche and the Box’s valise in turn, then back to the map. Her frown intensified.
“Believe me,” Roche pressed, “if we wait much longer, a Dato ground team will be next on the scene, and your little operation won’t last a week. They’re a distinct step up from the locals you’ve been dealing with.”
Again Emmerik and Neva exchanged a glance. “We know,” said the woman.
“There’s just one thing I’d like to ask,” said the Mbatan. “You seem quite confident about getting in, but what happens
afterward
?”
Roche hesitated. She hadn’t dwelled on the aftermath as much as she had on the events leading up to it. “The message to the Armada will be sent on a broadband emergency frequency. The Dato will know instantly it’s been sent, and might even back off without any further trouble, depending on how far they’re willing to be involved. Even if they don’t, we can use the Box to control the landing field’s defense screen to keep them—and the Enforcers—at bay for a while. Long enough for a reply to arrive, at least. Reinforcements won’t be far behind.” She shrugged. “That should be enough to make Delcasalle think twice about attacking us.”
“Perhaps.” Neva still looked undecided. “But it still seems a little risky. We’ll be sitting ducks in the MiCom building.”
“I agree,” put in the Box, surprising Roche. “I don’t doubt that I can send the emergency message and simultaneously organize a ground defense while you keep MiCom secure. In a predictable world, this would be no mean feat. But in the real world I will have little control over the response time of the Armada or the actions of the Dato Bloc. Should the former be sluggish and the latter retaliatory rather than conciliatory, there will be little even I can do to delay the inevitable.”
Emmerik nodded. “The longer we’re under siege, the more time we give DAOC or the Dato to find a way in.”
“The Armada could take days,” Neva added.
“And that’s not the worst of it,” continued the Box. “A conflict of interests exists within the group itself. Assuming all goes well, we will be lifted from a combat zone by Armada dropships—hardly an inconspicuous way to leave the planet. Especially when more circumspect pathways are available. While it suits our needs admirably to choose this method of escape, others might not find it appropriate.”
“What other way is there?” Roche asked.
“By betraying us to the Enforcers, a traitor might gain illegal exit from Sciacca’s World from the Dato—thereby circumventing the judiciary system.”
“It’s a possibility,” Emmerik said to Roche, his eyes dark.
“A very real one, I’m afraid,” the Box continued. “In combat, as I am sure you are aware, there are crucial moments where one simple action, or failure to take action, can decide the ultimate outcome. It would be relatively easy for one person to shift the scales, should he or she so wish.”
“That’s a risk everyone takes in combat,” Roche protested. “And besides, they won’t have time to plan anything. The response from the Armada won’t be slow. The
Midnight
was destroyed two days ago, and therefore hasn’t reported to HQ. Someone might already be on their way to see what happened.” Leaning over the map, she did her best to argue with a voice that had no face. “And besides, what other alternatives do we have?”
“At least one,” said the Box. “We can commandeer a ground-to-orbit vessel and physically occupy the transmitter station.”
“What?” Stunned by the audacity of the suggestion, Roche openly gaped. “Are you crazy?”
“Not at all,” the Box purred. “The station is well defended—more so than the landing field and the MiCom installation, but not overwhelmingly so. I can get us past the Dato blockade and into a position to dock. The warden will not sanction a direct assault upon it, for fear of destroying it. This will place them in direct conflict with the Dato Bloc. A very real possibility exists that our enemies will go to war over the best way to capture us, while we sit back and await rescue.”
“You really are crazy,” said Neva, shaking her head. “I like Roche’s plan much better. At least with her we stay on solid ground.”
“Which is less defensible than—”
“Forget it, Box,” Roche said. “The most we can hope for is control of MiCom. Push it any further and we risk losing everything.”
“I agree,” said Emmerik, nodding.
“But, Morgan—”
“I said,
forget it
.” Roche glared at the valise, mentally daring it to argue further.
Before it could do so, the room’s intercom beeped urgently for attention.
Neva stepped aside to take the call. While she waited, Roche ran over her plan in her mind. Yes, it seemed sound; there were only a handful of details left to be straightened out, and they would fall into place as the others applied their superior knowledge of the rebel forces and the city to the problem. Roche doubted COE Intelligence’s head of Strategy, Page De Bruyn, could have done any better, given what she had to work with.
“Your AI is either far more clever than I gave it credit for,” said Emmerik into the silence, “or dangerously abstracted from reality.”
“What do you mean?” Roche responded.
“Well, its suggestion appears to have forced you and Neva to a consensus. Perhaps that was all it was intended to do, in which case the move was inspired.” Emmerik shrugged. “If it meant it seriously, on the other hand...”
The Mbatan let the sentence trail off, and Roche didn’t complete the thought out loud. Much as she disliked the idea of the Box being such a skilled debater, especially on her behalf, she found that less disturbing than the Box’s plan itself.
Although, now that she thought about it, the Box’s plan did make a certain kind of sense. It
was
feasible, in a crazy kind of way. Almost Human in its boldness; hardly what she would have expected from a mere machine.
When Neva returned, her face was grim. “That was Ameidio,” she said. “He’s received the results of Cane’s tests.”
“Excellent.” Emmerik lifted his bulk off the table he had been leaning on. “Now we might get some answers.”
“We already have, I’m afraid.” Neva turned to look Roche squarely in the eye. “Ameidio’s called a conference. It starts in fifteen minutes. He wants you to wait here until he calls a guard to show you down. We’ll meet you there.” Neva turned back to Emmerik. “Let’s go. I’ll fill you in on the way.” Together they headed for the door.
“Wait!” Roche came around the viewtank. “At least give me a hint of what they’ve found.”
Neva stopped on the threshold, glancing at Emmerik. After a moment, he nodded assent. “You won’t like it,” she said to Roche.
“Is he sick? Dying? What?”
“Worse than that, I’m afraid.” Neva met Roche’s stare and sighed. “Whatever Cane is, he
isn’t
what he seems...”
13
Sciacca’s World
Port Parvati
‘954.10.33 EN
1025
Nine people filed into the oval-shaped Conference room and gathered about its long, polished, grey stone table. As they did, a warm and gentle light began to emanate from the rafters high above, replacing the shadows of the large room with a pervasive yellow glow.
Present at the table were Haid, at its head, with Emmerik and Neva on one side and Sabra on the other. Next to Sabra—and directly opposite Roche—was Sylvester Teh, the representative of the medical team that had examined Cane. He was a short and balding man in his middle years who spoke in a manner both soft and lacking in self-confidence. Roche got the impression that he was more comfortable talking to machines than to people.
To Roche’s right were two guards, between which sat Cane himself. If he was aware that he was, to all intents and purposes, on trial, his face betrayed no apprehension. Not that she expected it to. She doubted whether there was anything the rebels could do to Cane to hurt him. Roche and Emmerik had seen Cane in action; they both knew that he could have overpowered his escort on any number of occasions on the way down to this meeting. The guards’ presence was more for show than anything else.
Maii had declined to attend, saying she needed to concentrate in order to prepare for her part in Veden’s plan. It felt unusual for Roche not to have someone whispering in her mind. Indeed, even the Box was silent— the tingle of data flowing through the glove still for the moment. She suspected it would be paying close attention to the proceedings just the same.
When all were seated, Haid called for order. “I’m sorry to drag you in at such short notice,” he began, “but as you are probably aware, something has come up regarding our friend here.” He nodded in Cane’s direction. “You’ll have to excuse the choice of venue, I’m afraid; unfortunately it’s the only room guaranteed to be secure.”
Roche glanced around the large and empty room. It was situated on one of the university’s lower levels, and, from the disheveled appearance of the corridors leading to it, she suspected it wasn’t used too often.
“Sylvester,” continued Haid. “You want to tell us what we have here?”
Teh adjusted the neck of his tunic as he stood to address the small group. “Early this morning,” he said, “we completed an in-depth physical examination of the subject known as Adoni Cane, our intention being to determine the cause of his amnesia. We also wanted to see if he had suffered any physical side-effects of what I am given to understand was an extended time spent in a life support capsule. Indeed, we thought the two facts might have been connected.” Teh glanced down to the copious notes laid out before him.
“However, before we move on to the full findings of our investigation, I would like to begin by saying that, as far as we can tell, Adoni Cane’s loss of memory is
not
the result of physical trauma. He has no memory of a time earlier than thirteen days ago because, quite simply, the memories never existed in the first place.” Teh looked around the table to ensure that this conclusion was clearly understood. Noting Roche’s obvious confusion, he said, “To put it another way, until a little more than a week ago, the Adoni Cane sitting before you did not exist.”
“That’s impossible,” said Roche. “The recovery team on the
Midnight
physically pulled him out of the capsule.”
Teh raised a hand. “Let me clarify that,” he said. “Perhaps I should have said he did not exist as an
individual
.”
Emmerik lifted his thick eyebrows. “He was someone else?”
“Or no one at all.” Teh’s nervous eyes dropped again to his notes. “Real-time analysis of the blood flow in his brain reveals an absence of lesions and clots—no physical damage, in other words, that would suggest the erasure of a previous personality. What we see before us is a man whose brain is functioning perfectly—albeit that it has only been
conscious
for a matter of days.”
Neva leaned forward. “So how is it that he can talk? If he’s only thirteen days old, surely he should be as helpless as a newborn baby.
And
as mindless.”
“I don’t know,” said Teh. “One possibility is that the capsule in which he was found contained more than the usual life-suspend/support outfit. During his time adrift, it may have been educating him, training him.” He shrugged. “We have no way of knowing.”
“Training him for what?” Sabra asked.
“Why don’t you ask the man himself?” put in Roche, gesturing at Cane.
“I have no memories at all prior to the
Midnight
,” he said, preempting the question. “If I was educated subliminally, then I’m afraid I can offer no answers which might explain what my training was intended
for
.”
“But why would anyone do such a thing?” asked Neva. “It’s crazy.”
Haid brought the matter to an end by standing and saying, “We’ll come back to that later. First we should hear the other results of the examination.”
Teh nodded. “We conducted the standard tests: X-rays, tissue typing, genetic analysis, and so on. Without exception, the results of these tests were anomalous.”
“In what way?” Roche asked.
“See for yourself.” The medic displayed a handheld computer down which scrolled test results. Roche caught perhaps one line in five and rapidly became lost among the endless procession of data.
“What you’re seeing is Cane’s genetic transcript, coding exons and introns both,” Teh explained. “When you compare it to his overall physiognomy, the results are weird— to say the least. He may look normal on the surface, but
underneath
...” His voice trailed off as he scanned through a variety of holographic images, then returned: “Just look at his cell structure, his central nervous system, his gut, his lungs—and his brain. Have you ever seen anything like that before? Anywhere?”
“No,” said Roche. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean—”
“I understand your reluctance to accept the results of the test,” Teh said. “But I’m afraid there can be no doubt. Our diagnostic database is customized to the Pristine form, and precisely because it’s not equipped to deal with data outside certain guidelines, it is ideally suited to provide a direct comparison with what we would regard as usual. For instance, Adoni Cane’s cellular structure is more compact than normal, resulting in tissue that is more elastic, yet stronger; likewise his skeleton is denser, his intestinal tract longer, his lungs of superior capacity, his heart more powerful, and his immune system more efficient than what would be regarded as typical of a Pristine Human. He possesses several glands that do not correspond with any I am aware of, yet lacks certain vestigial organs we all take for granted. His brain displays a quite remarkable number of structural anomalies, and his chromosomal map matches no known genotype.
“In short,” Teh concluded, “Adoni Cane is
not
Pristine—although what he is, exactly, has yet to be determined.”
“Any guesses?” asked Neva.
“Well, I’m not qualified enough to even guess,” Teh said. Then, for Roche’s benefit, he added, “You must understand, Commander, that we have no schools here. What training we indigenes receive comes from the convicts. My own was courtesy of a woman sent to Sciacca’s World for malpractice.” He smiled at a private memory. “She assured me she knew what she was talking about, even though her knowledge was not—”
“Don’t feel the need to justify yourself, Sylvester,” intruded Haid. “No one is doubting your ability.”
Roche wasn’t so confident, but she said nothing.
Embarrassed, Teh turned again to his notes. “Well,” he said, “it seems to me that the differences between Cane and the Pristine Human are not random. That is, in each and every case they serve to make him superior to the norm. His kidneys absorb more toxins; he can see and hear things we cannot without artificial amplification; his tissue repairs faster than ours.”
Not for the first time that day, Roche looked with some amazement at the thin scar that was all that remained of the gash Cane had suffered at Houghton’s Cross.
“In fact,” Teh continued, “the only area in which he is inferior to anyone sitting at this table is reproduction.”
“He’s sterile?” Sabra asked the question without taking her eyes from Cane’s impassive face, her lips pursed in a mixture of repugnance and admiration. “A superhuman drone?”
“That would be one interpretation of the data, yes,” said Teh.
“But he looks so
normal
.”
“His appearance does belie the uniqueness of the rest of his physique,” said Teh. “And I dare say that this has been deliberately programmed—”
“Programmed?” interrupted Emmerik.
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Teh. “He can’t be an Exotic we’ve never encountered before. Someone knew what they were doing when they built him. Someone who knows more about genetics and the Human form than I ever will.”
Haid allowed the others a moment to absorb this before asking the obvious question:
“But why?”
Roche watched the faces of everyone in the room as they thought it through. Haid had had time to reach the obvious conclusion, as had Sylvester Teh. Neva shook her head in irritation; Sabra’s lips pursed even tighter; Emmerik scowled deeply; the two security guards stiffened. Roche kept her expression carefully neutral, although the answer to the question seemed obvious enough, and indeed disturbing.
Surprisingly, Cane was the first to speak.
“To allow me to infiltrate Pristine society, I imagine.” His voice was even and uncolored by emotion. He might have been talking about someone else. “Given the abilities I possess, I can only be either a spy or a weapon.”
“Exactly.” Haid leaned forward, his one arm splayed flat on the stone tabletop. “Emmerik warned me about your ability to kill without apparent remorse, when you need to. He and Neva also witnessed your extraordinary skill in combat; anyone able to disarm powered armor with hands cuffed deserves respect in my book—or suspicion. And there can be no questioning your intelligence, either. I have no doubt that, given time, you could do almost anything you wanted. But that brings us no closer to the answer: what
do
you want to do?” Haid shrugged helplessly. “I doubt that even you know the answer to that, do you?”
Cane shook his head.
“So it seems more appropriate to tackle the problem not from the
why
angle, but rather the
who.”
Cane shrugged. “Someone who doesn’t like Pristine Humans?”
“That could be any one of a number of Castes,” said Emmerik wryly.
“True.” Roche knew that although none of the seven local Castes hated Pristine Humans specifically, at least one Caste’s members despised everyone but themselves. And there were a number of splinter groups who would gladly accept responsibility. “But that leaves us with plenty of suspects.”
“The Eckandar Trade Axis is the most advanced in this area,” said Teh, “and it guards its knowledge jealously. Or so I’ve heard.”
“It’s true,” Roche agreed. “The Eckandi will sell just about anything other than genetic technology.”
“I don’t understand.” Sabra frowned. “What use would Eckandi genetics be to Pristines?”
“We all spring from a common, carbon-based organism,” explained Teh. “Our genetic codes may speak a different language now, but it’s still all written on the same paper. Genome maps and so on are frequently interchangeable.”
“So they’re the obvious suspects. Aren’t they?” Sabra turned to face Roche when she hesitated to agree.
“Not necessarily,” said Roche. “The Dato have been interested, too. One of their pre-Commonwealth leaders—Ataman Vereine, I believe—almost went to war with the Eckandar Trade Axis when they refused to sell what they knew. She may have got what she wanted, or developed it herself.”
“I thought they’d moved into cyber-assist programs instead,” said Haid.
“Maybe,” said Roche, although she had heard nothing of the sort. “That could be a cover, though.”
“True. Cane might be a Dato spy, which would explain why he was planted on an Armada vessel.” Haid counted on his fingers. “That makes two. Who else?”
“The Kesh hate everyone,” Emmerik mused, echoing Roche’s earlier thought, “but they’ve never shown interest in this sort of warfare.”
“And the Surin Agora is too busy squabbling within itself to attack anyone else,” said Roche. “The same applies to most of the other major governments. Why spend so much time and money fighting Pristines when there are already enough problems at home?”
“If Veden was awake, we could ask him,” said Neva. “About the Eckandi, I mean.”
“He is awake,” said Haid. “But he was not well enough to attend, I’m afraid. The nanomachines we had were an old paramilitary design, barely sufficient. Still, I doubt whether he would tell us even if he did know. Neither the Eckandar Trade Axis nor the Commerce Artel would ever risk spreading publicity like that.”
“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.” Teh’s voice intruded softly, uneasily, into the debate. “We’re looking all around us for suspects, when maybe we should be looking in another direction entirely.”
“Like where?” asked Roche. “Within? If you’re suggesting that COE Intelligence—”
“No, no,” cut in Teh quickly. “I mean into the
past
.”
He leaned back into his chair, away from the frowns and puzzled expressions around the table. “There was another group apart from the Eckandar Trade Axis which possessed more than the average working knowledge of genetics. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, they were the original source of the Eckandi’s current know-how.”
“Who?” said Sabra.
“A splinter group from the older Pristine governments. Pre-Commonwealth—even pre-Dominion, I think—but definitely local. Obsessed with Transcendence by means of biomodification. The Eckandi helped them build a base, if I remember correctly, and they traded knowledge for services. I don’t recall what happened to them—except that there was some sort of backlash—but if what they gave the Eckandar Trade Axis was only a small amount of their complete knowledge, then they might have been just the right people to design something like Cane.”
