Orbus Read online

  The AI continues, ‘We seem to have here the cellular component of the Spatterjay virus, comprising numerous pieces of a genome I do not recognize and other components relating to some form of quantum storage.’

  Sadurian nods briefly to herself, absorbing the words she already expected to hear, before abruptly realizing that Sphinx is telling her more than she expected. A cold talon drags itself down her spine.

  ‘Quantum storage? What do you mean “quantum storage”?’

  ‘Molecular components constructed in the format of quantum-storage units, and nested amidst the alien genome.’

  ‘What do they store?’ Sadurian asks, still not quite grasping what she is hearing.

  ‘Since I am at present only studying a computer model, I cannot tell you that. A much deeper analysis of the actual physical units will be required–the superpositions and entanglements of the atoms concerned–and then only a general idea might be obtained,’ Sphinx replies. ‘And even to do that will require the work of a specialized AI somewhat more powerful than me.’

  ‘Right,’ says Sadurian, sitting back. ‘Right…I want you to start finding a way to put that genome back together. I want to find out what it makes.’

  ‘Easy enough. It is trihelical, so there are fewer base combinations, fewer ways the pieces can link up, than with a double helix.’

  Even as the AI speaks, the images on the screen change. Lengths of alien genome, represented as simple rods of varying lengths and colours, stand up like skittles in endless rows, flickering and swapping places. On a second screen, rods being selected out are joined, separated, and rejoined with other lengths. As Sadurian knows perfectly well, the whole graphic is a huge simplification intended for her benefit, but it is satisfying to see at least some of the process.

  ‘Interesting,’ comments Sphinx.

  ‘An eye,’ says Sadurian, peering at the recognizable anatomical image of an eye plus optic nerve and some other related structures.

  ‘Yes, in one incarnation it is little different from a Human or squid eye, however, it is becoming increasing clear how a large series of related alleles cover a whole range of options.’

  The image changes, the eye slowly transforming into a brushlike organ, then a jointed antenna, which then collapses back into an opaque receptor of something other than visible light. Sadurian feels a further prickling down her spine when she recognizes something resembling the King’s present midnight eyes.

  ‘These are only a few of the options,’ Sphinx adds. ‘And it seems that there are also many further options for other physical structures.’

  ‘Any conclusions?’

  ‘My conclusions are, at present, that much of this is too well ordered to all be a simple product of evolution. Instead, I would guess evolution plus a great deal of genetic modification over a long period of time. It is also interesting to note that this creature has the facility to grow nerve tissue with a pure electrical basis, also to grow very hard bone or shell–often with molecular honing to sharp edges–as well as very dense muscles, and numerous ways of delivering potent venoms.’

  ‘Products of a hostile environment?’

  ‘Creatures capable of genetic modification at this level only have hostile environments that they themselves create.’

  Sadurian doesn’t need any more hints. Before entering the Kingdom, she was at the top of her profession for a good reason.

  ‘This is a soldier,’ she decides.

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Sadurian wonders just how much further she wants to go with this. She has learnt what needed to be learnt, and now it is time to see Oberon. ‘So the quantum storage is its mind, I guess.’

  ‘Seems likely,’ says Sphinx.

  Sadurian stands up and heads for the door. Somehow, Oberon knows all this, she is sure, but what does the King want to do with such knowledge? Does he want to learn everything known about and by this soldier…or soldiers? Or, thinking about his recent actions and his paranoia regarding the Prador Vrell, does he want to utterly stamp such knowledge out of existence?

  ‘Ah, bollocks,’ says Sniper, as three armoured figures simply shed their chameleonware, thus demonstrating that they don’t feel the need to hide from him. He studies them carefully, using all his scanning routines, and is utterly baffled.

  They seem to bear some similarity to Prador, being also crustaceans and clad in armour of the same exotic metal as the Guard’s. However, their armour is a deep blue in colour, and extends into lobster tails at the back. They each possess four thick legs and their claws are mismatched, one of them possessing three jaws and the other just one jaw extending into a long scythe-like spike. Their heads are separate and protrude from their bodies on short necks, just like Vrell’s, and are loaded with sensory apparatus and with two gleaming blue forward-facing eyes. Their weapons reveal a similar format to Prador weapons he knows, but are much altered and blended into their bodies. Each possesses the mouth of a particle cannon at the base of that scythelike spike, and other suspicious-looking openings ranged about their bodies. Scan data reveals how they also blend with their armour. It appears he is facing insectile cyborgs.

  ‘I don’t suppose you want to talk about this?’ Sniper enquires.

  A particle beam, spectrally shifted from blue to green, stabs from the middle one of the three, to splash on the hardfield Sniper projects. The force of the blast sends Sniper skidding backwards, for that beam possesses a kinetic component he has never encountered before. Almost immediately the hardfield generator Sniper uses begins to behave oddly, and strange resonances feed back through its power supply. The blast is feeding a computer virus to him straight through his own projector. Flinging himself high, he shuts down the field and, onlining another generator, he intercepts a second beam strike from another of the three, while he tries to damp the resonance in the first generator.

  Sniper shuts off grav and drops, not wanting them to pursue him into the sky, and as he hits ice again they advance. He watches them carefully pause to study the ice, then circumvent a churned area directly ahead of them. Sniper sends a detonation signal and a mine explodes below one of the three creatures, flinging it high. Of course he didn’t bury the mines where he churned the ice. He opens fire on the remaining two, his particle beam splashing against a hardfield disc. Just a distraction. The one still hurtling upwards through the air manages to correct its tumble just in time for one of Sniper’s preprogrammed missiles to slam into it from the other side of the ship. The explosion slaps it down hard on the ice, where it bounces, snapped partially in half like a cooked prawn. But, even as Sniper watches, it begins tugging itself together. Sniper is about to hit it again, when suddenly the ice all around it begins fragmenting, and he hears the recognizable smack of bullets hitting home.

  Orbus?

  The Old Captain is positioned three hundred yards away, down on one knee and aiming carefully. Beyond him, Vrell is still struggling towards the distant vessel. As the two remaining creatures launch themselves into the air, intent on avoiding any further mines, missiles whicker out from them. Sniper manages to hit each projectile with his laser, but the blasts knock him weaving backwards. A second later the particle beams are back, grinding against his hardfields, their viral load trying to work its way inside him.

  The wounded creature down on the ice begins to shiver, then rattle against the frozen ground. Suddenly it shoots straight up making a sound like a big angry hornet, hovers for a moment, then streaks off sideways to slam into the side of the dreadnought, where it shatters like brittle porcelain.

  Lucky strike, thinks Sniper, but at a cost, as Orbus and Vrell also come under fire from the remaining two creatures. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Gurnard’s lamprey shuttle roars in over the top of the dreadnought, a stream of rail-gun missiles playing across one of the opponents and knocking it tumbling through the air. The shuttle turns hard, briefly playing its fusion torch over the second creature, so that it falls a hundred feet with smoke pouring from its armou
r.

  The shuttle belly-lands just beyond Orbus and Vrell, skidding round and sliding, while trying to bring itself to a stop with its steering jets and sun-bright bursts from its fusion torch. For a moment Sniper allows himself some optimism, but both creatures have simply corrected their flight once the shuttle is past, and they open fire again.

  Vrell, the bigger unarmoured target, is now down on his belly, a spatter of green blood staining the ice beyond him, and a great smoking groove carved across his back. As the shuttle settles in a great cloud of steam on the ice behind, Orbus goes down on his knee again, sighting on one of the distant creatures as it tumbles through the air. With the gun’s menu up inside his visor, he checks through the options, but again returns to the sprine bullets. The simple fact is that if Sniper is having trouble taking down those two monstrosities with his array of weapons, then Orbus stands no chance of succeeding with the conventional firepower of this weapon he holds. He just hopes instead for another lucky hit, another hole punctured by Sniper or by that rail-gun hit from the shuttle, to enable him to get some sprine inside creatures that must be infected by the Spatterjay virus.

  He fires one burst, completely on target, but to little effect. As he turns to aim at the other creature, now steadying itself and beginning to rise again, a series of explosions track across the ice towards him. A blast lifts him from the ground and then something else slams into his chest and spins him round in midair. He hits the ground winded, still clutching his multigun, the front of his suit now a molten mess and error message after error message displaying on his visor. Heaving himself upright, he is glad the creatures seem to be saving their big stuff for Sniper, or else he would be nothing but a smoking crater now. Time to run, he decides.

  ‘Cap’n!’A distant shout, immediately echoing in Orbus’s com gear.

  Orbus turns and gazes across at the shuttle. Its side door is open and Drooble standing out on the ice, beckoning to him. But how did Gurnard get the vessel here so quickly? Did the AI somehow work out that they would abandon the dreadnought like this?

  He quickly moves over to Vrell. ‘Can you stand?’

  Vrell tentatively moves his legs, then abruptly heaves himself up on to them, tilting over as two remaining legs on one side begin to shake under the load. Orbus considers just making a run for the shuttle, then with a surge of anger quickly moves over and jams his shoulder underneath one edge of the Prador’s carapace. He has made his choice: Vrell is an ally, and that’s the end of it. Slowly they begin to make their way towards the vessel, while Drooble moves out to meet them.

  ‘Come on, Cap’n!’ he shouts. ‘Why don’t you just leave that fucker!’

  Abruptly Vrell jams one claw down into the ice, bringing them to a sudden halt.

  ‘Go to the shuttle,’ he orders.

  ‘I’m not going to leave you now,’ says Orbus. ‘It took me long enough to accept that you deserve to live.’

  ‘The shuttle,’ Vrell observes, ‘is too small.’

  Orbus gapes at it for a moment, then calls himself all kinds of fool. Of course, how the hell does he expect to get the big mutated Prador inside a vessel like that?

  ‘I’ll bring it back here and you can cling to the outside,’ he says. ‘We can get you clear.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vrell concedes, but that is all.

  Orbus eases his shoulder out from underneath the Prador, and watches it start to sag, before breaking into a loping run. He notes that Drooble is not accompanied by Thirteen, a fact that makes him suspicious.

  ‘Why did Gurnard send you?’ Orbus asks over com.

  ‘He didn’t,’ Drooble replies. ‘This was my own idea.’

  ‘Probably not a great one, then.’

  ‘Probably.’ Drooble raises his gaze to the ongoing battle between the drone and the two unknown creatures, and to the dreadnought lying beyond them. ‘That don’t look promising.’

  Orbus glances back. Movement on the summit of the dreadnought, then something blurs momentarily, and a thunderous crackle cuts the sky. He swings back in time to see Drooble turning back towards the shuttle.

  ‘Ah shit,’ says Drooble, then he flies apart in an immense eruption of ice dust and random fragments. The shuttle bucks and lifts, deforming as if wriggling in pain under multiple impacts, chunks of its flying away in all directions, but also a great spray of splintered metal spraying out to carve scars across the ice beyond it. Then something detonates inside it, and it disappears in a hot globular explosion. Not for the first time, Orbus finds himself at the brunt of a shockwave. In a storm of ice chunks, shattered metal and and seemingly liquid fire, he hurtles backwards, hits the ice on his back and skids, his armour smoking and spatters of molten metal gleaming across his visor.

  Fuck you, Drooble, thinks Orbus. Fuck you. Something at the surface of his consciousness wants to rage at the world, go charging back and attack whoever fired the big rail-gun from the dreadnought, and then to spend himself against any that remain. But the feeling seems a skin over a hollow emptiness. And when the storm abruptly ceases, truncating unnaturally, and out of it an invisible claw snatches him up and draws him in, he doesn’t fight it–just lets it drag him away.

  Orbus, Vrell and Drooble have disappeared amid the massive eruptions caused by the rail-gun, and Sniper does not suppose it will be long before the same weapon is turned on himself, though he will not make so easy a target. He absorbs and accepts the loss of those three, somewhat surprised at how much he regrets it, despite him knowing them for so little time and theirs not being the most likeable of characters. This isn’t something he can ponder for long, however. He needs to finish this soon, finish it before more weapons or more opponents are put into play.

  Brute firepower is not the answer here, for Sniper simply does not possess enough of it. The wily tricks he previously used to take out Prador and their drones had always worked to his advantage. Maybe not again, though. No, even as Sniper retreats under the impact of those green virus-laden beams, his two opponents methodically start probing down below with lasers, to wipe out the missiles he also concealed in the ice. They then launch, all around them, a cloud of small ball-bearing-sized objects that go speeding away. Incendiaries of some kind, doubtless to intercept any other preprogrammed missiles. Sniper is rapidly running out of options.

  One of his hardfield generators is resonating high, a virus forming–under induction from it–within his processing space and feeding back to interfere with the function of the generator itself. Only seconds remain before he needs to shut it down, or before it shuts itself down. He has one spare inside him which he brings online, but even that is already being interfered with. He searches desperately for options and finds only one. He regularly used a supercavitating drive to travel at high speed through the oceans of Spatterjay, and this produced a conefield ahead of him by bonding water molecules into a frictionless layer. Shutting down the most unstable hardfield generator, he tries the conefield. It intercepts and refracts the beam, which plays over his shell, but even so reduced, it blisters the nano-chain chromium and induces further viruses into his system. One of these propagates in the control hardware for his antigrav, and he drops like a stone. Maybe he should learn something from this?

  Sniper loads some of his own attack viruses, and fires them by com laser even as he falls. One of the attackers abruptly shuts off its beam and drops. Working? No, the thing steadies and rises again as Sniper finally crashes down into the ice. A missile then slams into him, the blast sends him skidding a hundred yards. Two tentacles are now gone and a large chunk of his shell missing. But the force of the impact shakes something loose in his crystal mind.

  Sprine bullets? Orbus was firing sprine bullets.

  Knowing that this is all now coming to an end, Sniper launches missile after missile, depleting his supply. He fires his particle cannons, draining himself of energy and the particulate matter ionized for the beams. A com laser strikes him, engages his sensors, and he just cannot shut it out. Inside him the computer virus
es begin linking up, and he feels himself downloading through the laser. They are stealing his mind, all his knowledge, everything he is, and the looting seems utterly methodical: enough for him to know what will be taken next. In the few seconds remaining to him, he loads the code Vrell had sent him into the next portion of his mind that he expects to be stolen, and it goes.

  Above him two sun-bright lights flash into being, as the two alien creatures disappear in tactical fusion explosions. Ice boils into steam around Sniper as the shockwave picks him up yet again, just briefly, then slaps him down again, skidding up a hillock of fragmented ice behind him. The viruses, however, will not disperse so easily, and he continues to fight an internal battle: wiping portions of his own memory and closing down processing space like an army burning crops before an invader. Only after a few minutes does he regain enough control to once again re-engage his senses.

  Carbon-dioxide snow falls all around him and fog banks, shot through with persimmon-yellow stains, roll away to his right and left. Like hornets disturbed from a hive, creatures just like the two he already killed depart the dreadnought and fly towards him. He is out of ammo, very low on power, and has lost nearly two-thirds of his mind. These things will not fall for any more tricks, and certainly they would soon analyse what just happened and respond to it. There will now be no access to the fusion tacticals inside them.

  Sniper does not even have the power to destroy himself. He gropes out with ragged tentacles to snatch up chunks of hard ice, deciding he’ll throw rocks at the fuckers if that’s all that remains to him.

  One creature, some way ahead of the main group, begins to descend out of the sky towards him. Abruptly a silver bubble appears around it, then just as suddenly collapses and winks out. From the space the creature occupied drops a compacted ball of smoking matter, which hits the ice and flies apart. All the others simply draw to a halt in mid-air, contemplate the situation for all of half a second, then turn and retreat.