Orbus Read online

  ‘Captain Orbus,’ she says, holding out one delicate hand.

  Orbus stares at the hand for a long moment, then carefully takes and shakes it, all too aware that with the slightest miscalculation he might turn it to pulp. As he releases her hand, he feels his estimation of this woman rise. Certainly she must be aware of the danger.

  ‘And you are?’ he enquires.

  ‘Jan,’ she replies. ‘Jan Crosby. I’m here to take you to Charles.’ She gestures with one hand to the drop-shafts, and is about to set out towards them when she notices Orbus’s wary expression. She abruptly changes course and heads towards some side stairs.

  ‘I guess she could have matched your grip,’ says Drooble, as they mount the stairs behind the woman.

  ‘What?’ Orbus glances at his crewman.

  ‘Golem.’ Drooble nods up towards the woman preceding them, who glances round with a smile.

  Orbus feels slightly lost. He just did not recognize this fact for himself, yet it is a general trait with Hoopers that they can tell the difference between real and ersatz humans. It seems his voyage of discovery into his new life has well and truly begun. Charles Cymbeline is another odd stopping-off point on that same journey, but Orbus has at least seen his kind before on the massive Spatterjay ship named the Sable Keech.

  Charles Cymbeline, co-owner of the Gurnard, occupies an office overlooking the gardens above the First Port Concourse. Glancing through the wide-span bubble window, Orbus can see a fringe of jungle growth on either side of the glass roof covering the concourse itself, and numerous gardens suspended over that, all interlinked by equally suspended walkways.

  ‘It’s a premium view,’ says Cymbeline. He waves in dismissal towards the Golem woman, who departs with a smile, before he takes a puff on an unfiltered cigarette.

  Cymbeline is seated behind a wide marble-topped desk cluttered with com equipment, stacks of reusable paper and one or two models of spaceships–one of them the Gurnard itself. After gazing out at the gardens for a further moment, Orbus takes the visitor’s chair placed before the desk, which is obviously intended for him, for it is unusually big and made out of ceramal. Drooble drops into the more prosaic chair beside it.

  ‘Why do you smoke?’ Drooble asks.

  Cymbeline stares at him for a moment with glass eyes, then snorts some smoke out of his nostrils, a further little wisp of it departing via his ear. ‘Iannus Drooble, no less–recruited to the population of Spatterjay three centuries ago, following a career that spanned the disciplines of fusion-drive tech, runcible tech, U-space geometry and also a slight digression into spear-fishing for Klader sea dragons, before, at that particular time of your life, you decided you’d like to try your luck on an even more dangerous ocean.’

  Orbus glances at Drooble. The Captain is sure that at some time in the past he has heard all this, but it is a surprise to hear it fully recited again.

  Though looking somewhat nonplussed, Drooble persists. ‘But why do you smoke?’

  ‘Did you know, Iannus, that your wife is still alive?’

  This firmly shut the crewman up.

  ‘I, too, would like to know why you smoke,’ says Orbus.

  ‘I smoke because I enjoy it, and it’s a difficult habit to break.’ He thereupon takes another drag, and this time a little wisp of smoke rises up out of the tightly buttoned jacket of his rather expensive-looking suit.

  ‘I would have thought death might have broken the habit,’ Orbus notes.

  Charles Cymbeline is blond, thin, wears an expensive suit that probably requires special cleaning, and is very very dead. He is a reification–a corpse with preservative chemicals running through its veins. His skin is like old leather, that is worn through in places, for his knuckle bones are showing through, along with the metal of some of the cybermechanisms that keep him mobile. Like the reifications who boarded the Sable Keech on her disastrous maiden voyage, his mind has been stored to a crystal contained inside the mulch that was once his brain.

  ‘I chose to not let it do so,’ he explains. Then, leaning forward, he continues, ‘Jericho Lamal Orbus…’ Cymbeline pauses to glance at Drooble, when the smaller man sniggers. ‘You once flew shuttles and insystem ships, and I believe studied force-field dynamics as a hobby, but that was seven hundred years ago. One would think I might worry about you taking charge of the Gurnard, but I learned a lot from Captain Ron about you Old Captains. The ones that survive are those whose brains are not too petrified by the viral fibres, and who, despite lack of any effort, have just kept on acquiring new knowledge throughout their lengthy lifespans.’

  Orbus shrugs, not quite sure what this man is getting at, and very much disliking his own subordinate role here.

  Cymbeline continues, ‘Since the Polity police action on Spatterjay just after the war ended, you’ve all had limitless access to information and I know that, throughout those long sea voyages, you’ve had opportunity to read and study a great deal. Some of that information might not have stuck, but we’re talking about entire centuries of reading, learning, potentially becoming wise.’

  Orbus shrugs again: yes, it wasn’t all just keel haulings and floggings during those lengthy voyages, and he has indeed read a bit, learnt a few things, though not so much in latter years.

  ‘Tell me, Captain, for I’m curious to know: what procedure do you prefer to follow when removing a Singlosic thermister junction from a Deplan steering thruster.’

  Orbus explains the entire procedure, not entirely sure why the reif wants to know. It is usually the kind of thing you get a qualified engineer to sort out. Cymbeline smiles–not a pleasant sight, since the movement of the cybermotors in his face expose a grey slit along his jawbone–and he studies the end of his cigarette. ‘Now let’s get down to business. You are now the Captain of the Gurnard, you are a Hooper like Captain Ron before you, and you also have a certain reputation.’

  Orbus holds up a hand. He wants to retain control of his own responses, and now feels this is going too fast for him. ‘I’m not sure I want to continue as Captain of that ship.’ Doubts haunt Orbus, and he doesn’t like the way this reif said ‘certain reputation’. Orbus needs to slow this down a bit.

  ‘That would indeed be a shame,’ says Cymbeline, ‘because you are perfectly suited to what I have in mind.’

  Orbus raises a questioning finger. ‘Which will be hauling cargo, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The reif nods, causing puffs of smoke to issue from a hole in one side of his neck. ‘In the Graveyard.’

  Orbus shivers, hears something creak, then glances down at his hand gripping the chair arm. He carefully relaxes his hold, noting some hairline cracks have appeared in the tough metal. Imbretus Space Station had been there, located in that place the reif has so casually mentioned. And it is very close, close to them–those fucking vicious crab things.

  The Prador/Human war did not end in real victory for either side. The Polity was just beginning to push the aliens back, and to reclaim lost worlds, when the then King of the so-called ‘Prador Second Kingdom’ was usurped–rather messily it was rumoured, being skimmed out across the homeworld sea with diatomic acid eating away at him from the inside. Throughout this usurpation many Prador ships withdrew, and as the ‘Prador Third Kingdom’ then arose, it became evident that the new King understood he could not win. He therefore withdrew the rest of his forces to where the original border had lain, and there established a series of defensive space stations. The Polity proceeded to establish similar stations, but not without leaving a large buffer zone between them and the Prador. Later agreements officially designated this an area where neither Prador nor Human warships should venture. This area was subsequently called No Man’s Land, or the Wasteland, but the final name settled on was the Graveyard, simply because that’s what it was. Billions had died there, living worlds had been killed, massive wrecks still drifted through the dark. It is like an interstellar version of the dead and cratered ruination found between planetary battlefronts, and only ra
ts live there.

  ‘The Graveyard,’ echoed Drooble, the very mention of it seeming to perk him up.

  ‘What interests do you have there?’ Orbus asks tightly.

  ‘They are numerous and varied,’ says Cymbeline. ‘As you yourself must be aware, considering where you come from, there is currently a great interest in wartime artefacts. Within the Graveyard, numerous teams of…prospectors are collecting items of interest to sell in the Polity. Presently I have agents at various locations there, buying up such desirable items so as to put together one large cargo to ship back into the Polity. But, as you must also be aware, the Graveyard is a dangerous place, and I would prefer that the Captain who takes the Gurnard there is capable of dealing with the difficulties he is, unfortunately, certain to encounter.’

  Orbus just grunts at that. On the one hand he wants to escape his sadistic past, but on the other…the prospect of action and some difficulties offers a horrible attraction. Perhaps, nevertheless, he should avoid such things for a while? Perhaps he should just get out?

  He leans forward. ‘Well, perhaps we should now discuss my pay, and some sort of profit-sharing scheme?’

  Cymbeline’s grotesque grin reappears.

  Even with all the wall panel’s rivets removed, it still hangs stubbornly in place, so Vrell takes up from the toolbox that essential piece of Prador metals technology, a huge lump hammer, and begins crashing it against the panel to help loosen the metal from the underlying foamed porcelain. After a moment he spots two further rivets he has not yet removed. They must be a later addition, for they are nowhere on the schematics he has carefully memorized. He places the extractor over each in turn, winds them out, then takes up another tool, a crowbar, jams it behind the panel and levers. The panel comes out with a crack, totters in place for a moment, then slams down on the grav floor, spattering ichorous flesh from the third-child corpse it crushes underneath it.

  Vrell emits a bubbling sigh and now reaches into the toolbox for a device like a large handgun devised to fit a Human hand. This trails a superconducting cable into the toolbox itself, where it plugs into the box’s power supply. Holding this device in one of his underhands, Vrell directs it at the wall of green foamed porcelain before him, and presses the trigger. The vibro-debonder makes not a sound, but the porcelain retreats before it like expanded plastic before a blowtorch, as the precise frequency now emitted turns it to dust. Vrell pulls his mask back on, making use of his harness air supply while he works, for soon he is surrounded by a white haze. Within minutes he cuts open a space into which he can easily fit, first dropping the toolbox inside, then climbing in himself. Reaching back out with one claw, he hauls the wall panel back up into place, bonds it there with a squirt of epoxy from the toolbox’s ample supply, then begins to slice downwards through the foam.

  As he works his way downwards Vrell checks, via his CPU, the current situation with his fighting suits of armour. Obviously the King’s Guard must understand that most of the suits will be empty but, because of the variance to the standard fighting programs, they will believe that Vrell occupies one of them and is exerting some control over the rest. Thus far they have destroyed nine of them, with only minor injuries to their own side. This is perfectly to be expected, but now three separate suits have nearly reached three crucial areas of the ship, and Vrell realizes he needs to move faster to get his timings right.

  At about every twenty-foot interval in his progress downwards Vrell cuts a cavity to one side and scoops all the accumulated powder into it. This isn’t entirely necessary since the stuff does not greatly restrict movement, and he is anyway using his harness air supply. After a while he does not bother scooping away the powder, and fifty feet down is soon submerged in the stuff, but continuing to work. Then he discovers a good reason for shifting the powder, since it blunts the effectiveness of the vibro-debonder. Again he opens a large cavity to one side and, using all his under-hands, scoops the mass of accumulated powder into it.

  But still he is not progressing fast enough. His armoured suits are now fighting at two of the locations required, and others will reach the third location within minutes, and yet he has at least fifty feet to go. It is time to take a risk.

  This internal shock wall contains no security measures. It is basically a blindspot–it having been considered as much a waste of resources to place security measures here as it would be to place them inside a structural beam. However, because of its function, it does contain sensors that relate to the integrity and structural strength of the ship as a whole. Vrell now unclips from his harness a weapon consisting of a heavy polished tube, the rear section equipped with heat-dispersing fins and claw grip, an s-con cable trailing from it to the harness power supply. This particle cannon can easily cut down through the foamed porcelain, but he did not use it at first because of those sensors. If the beam cuts close enough to them to defeat the insulating properties of the foam, they will instantly detect the heat, so he needs to be extremely accurate with his shooting.

  Vrell now begins assessing precisely where he is within the wall. Because he is no longer connected into the ship’s computer system, he cannot use it to locate his exact position, so he instead begins triangulating from the shifting positions of the other CPUs in his own little network of mobile armour, whilst also relying on his memory of the ship’s schematics. This should be an impossible task for anything less than a Polity AI, or else one of the surgically removed and enhanced first-child minds the Prador use to control their own spaceships, but Vrell is confident in his own abilities. He aims the cannon downwards, checking the angle of its barrel on his mask display and also its distance from the centre-point of his own CPU, aiming directly between sensors he can see only in his own mind, and triggers it.

  The beam flashes ragged purple for half a second, then turns a hot green as it heats up the floating porcelain dust, then punches downwards through the hard foam. Hot gas and dust blast up at him as, from the initial point of aim, he slowly spirals the beam outwards, carefully counting away the seconds. The cavity he occupies rapidly rises in temperature and he folds in his under-hands as they begin to sear. The sharp tips of his legs soon begin to hurt too. He knows he will sustain some physical damage, but retains much faith in the recently discovered regenerative properties of his virally transformed body. Then finally he shuts off the beam.

  A glowing cave spears down into murk till lost to sight. With his spare claw Vrell takes up the toolbox, then releasing his hold on the wall, he drops. Just a little under fifty feet, he hits bottom, sharp feet stabbing into red-hot foamed porcelain. Before the pain grows too intense, he swings round the vibro-debonder in one of his manipulatory hands and begins turning the remaining porcelain into dust. A hole punches through, furnace-hot gas and dust blowing down into it under pressure. Soon he exposes a cavity below, between two walls braced apart by piston shock absorbers. Movement sensors within these measure the changes of stress and strain inside the ship. And beyond one braced wall lies very heavy security. Now it is time to do something about that.

  The last target location within the ship is finally covered by the mobile suits of armour, and his whole plan now teeters on the edge of disaster. Because at one of the other locations only one suit survives and, currently under fire from eight members of the King’s Guard, it will not survive for much longer. However, in a way this is a little piece of luck in view of what Vrell next intends, for maybe Vrost will think that his rival himself occupies that last suit and has decided to take out as many of the enemy as possible before being struck down. Vrell sends the detonation signal to the fusion tactical of that one suit, which is fortunately the first one that needs to be destroyed.

  The armour detonates, excavating a massive burning hole within the ship and not even the smallest fragment of itself escaping obliteration. A seemingly unintended consequence of this explosion is huge damage to the casing of a nearby combined fusion and fission reactor, which now begins spewing radiation into the surrounding area. Autom
atic safety protocols shut down certain power feeds there, and divert others. Vrell now sends similar detonation signals to the other remaining suits, but those exploding in two particular locations are the most important. One detonation sends an inductive surge of power along a nearby s-con conduit and burns out part of the ship’s distributed computer network, while the other actually shears through some main power conduits. The final result of this is a cut to all power in a particular section of the ship–the portion directly below Vrell.

  He sweeps the beam of the particle cannon across, severing numerous shock absorbers, then drops down into the space below him. The rivet extractor already in one hand, he applies it rapidly to the sheet of hull metal facing him, the loosened rivets clattering away into the darkness below. Shortly, the sheet of metal falls after them, jamming with a crash between shock absorbers below. Vrell throws himself into the space beyond and, with a satisfied sigh, eyes the mass of hardware, optics and s-con cables packed in the spaces all about him. This place was last entered many centuries ago, when the ship was first built, and then closed up. Here are all the main feeds and computer connections to what lies directly below him: the Captain’s Sanctum.

  Ensconced in his chair on the ship’s bridge, Orbus gazes at a distant cloud-swathed world. Like so many once-inhabited worlds in the Graveyard, a glittering ring of debris now encircles it, though in this case the ring is neat and precise, having been shepherded by a sulphurous moon. The planet is called Paris and long ago was a thriving Polity world with a Human population surpassing a billion. Great satellite space stations orbited here, and huge high-tech industries occupied the equatorial deserts down below. This place was rich in every resource–surrounding space also swarming with asteroids heavy in rare metals. It took the Prador less than a day to turn those satellites into that ring of debris, before going on to depopulate the planet itself and turn it into a hell which only now, after seven hundred years, is cool enough for a few bases to be established down on the surface.