Orbus Page 5

  ‘Got it sorted yet?’ he enquires.

  ‘Jeesh, Captain, you should see this thing,’ Drooble replies from the little-used shuttlebay of the Gurnard. ‘It’s probably older than you are!’

  ‘The shuttle,’ Gurnard informs them both coldly, ‘is perfectly serviceable, and will probably continue to be perfectly serviceable long after you have both found your own graveyards.’

  Orbus clenches his hands into fists. He really does not like the way Gurnard sometimes phrases things, for the ship AI seems to alternate between plain spooky and threatening. It is also frustrating that it remains so disembodied and beyond his grasp…not that he wants to do anything harmful to it. Certainly not, for he is a reformed character.

  ‘Don’t see why we gotta use the bugger at all,’ Drooble complains.

  ‘It’s the law here,’ says Orbus. ‘Or maybe more of a tradition now.’

  The Gurnard changes course, and Orbus eyes their destination as it slides into better view on the forward screen. The ‘Free Republic of Montmartre’ is a massive space station built up over a long period of time from salvage collected within the Graveyard. However, there is no denying that some of that salvage is well utilized. Orbus recognizes the brassy glint of Prador exotic metal used in exterior construction, numerous gun turrets and the throats of big rail-guns. The rule that no ships larger than a certain size can approach the station dates back to the time when this place was just a conglomeration of bubble units, and therefore easily damaged or destroyed. Back then even ship shuttles had to be transported in by a station grabship, though this rule has been dropped over the last few centuries. Now Orbus glances down as a subscreen flicks into life in the bottom corner of the main screen.

  ‘I have transmitted docking coordinates and an entry course to your AI.’ A bored-looking ophidapt, with slightly protruding fangs, peers at Orbus. ‘If you deviate from that course, you could be subject to a fine not less than one thousand New Carth shillings.’

  Orbus nods acceptance. ‘There’ll be no problem.’

  The subscreen flickers off, and he stands up, grabbing a small heirodont-hide carry-all, and heads for the shuttle bay. Having thoroughly checked out the history of this place, he knows that five centuries ago any deviation from approach rules would have resulted in the offender getting smeared by one of those big rail-guns out there. Things have moved on, however, and civilization is even infiltrating places like this. Then again, it seems that civilization here has penetrated only as deep as this station’s skin, for inside this place is one of those difficulties Cymbeline mentioned.

  The shuttle bay is a plain cylinder with a suiting room to the rear and space doors at the other end, opening through the hull. Crammed into it is one craft that must be the Gurnard’s original shuttle, for it appears to be a product of the same designer. It looks like a short lamprey, but one with a miniature pattern on its hull of the same curved scales as adorn the Gurnard itself. In its side, a long door follows the curve of its hull and divides horizontally so that its bottom half, with inset steps, can fold down to create a stair. At the moment it stands open, and light of a more yellowish tint than the surrounding bay lights illuminates the interior, whence can be heard the sounds of Drooble moving about, and occasionally swearing.

  Orbus clumps up the steps and ducks inside to peer around. Much as he expected, the interior of the shuttle is also faux-Victorian. The main controls, set below two slanting screens, are all brass and wooden levers and wheels rising out of a glass console below which turn numerous interlocking brass cogs and gears like those of a Babbage difference engine. The two chairs positioned before this are of wood, but with leather upholstery secured by big round-headed brass tacks. Studying his crewman’s sour expression, Orbus feels something quite strange boil up inside him, something it takes him a moment to identify as amusement. But then that dies away as he understands the reason for his initial inability to identify this feeling: it is because he has not really been amused by anything for centuries. So when, in fact, was the last time he laughed? Yes, he’d done that of course, usually while flogging the skin off someone’s back or keel-hauling them or breaking their bones with a wooden club, but that can hardly be described as arising from anything as healthy as the simple amusement he has just experienced.

  ‘Memories of your high-tech qualifications coming back to haunt you, Iannus?’ he asks, resting a hand momentarily on Drooble’s shoulder.

  Drooble gazes at him for a moment, his expression suddenly confused, then shivers as if icy water has just run down his spine. ‘Why dress it up old like this?’

  ‘Why not?’ the Captain replies, as he plumps himself down in the chair before the small column-mounted helm, and tries to figure out how he is going to fly this thing. After a moment he realizes it won’t be particularly difficult since white enamel labels, imprinted with a flowing Cyrillic script, clearly identify every control arrayed before him.

  ‘Take a seat, Iannus,’ he orders. ‘Let’s go for a little ride.’ Reaching over he pulls back an ivory-handled lever, and actually feels some feedback through the handle itself as the shuttle’s door groans shut. The lever just next to it is for controlling the space doors, and once he pulls that back, a ship’s bell begins ringing. He wonders, just for a moment, if all this stuff was designed precisely with Old Captains in mind, then dismisses the idea. This might all be ersatz ancient, but it is definitely old and part of the original overall design of the Gurnard–a ship certainly built well before Cymbeline decided to start hiring Orbus or his kind.

  Taking hold of the helm, he is momentarily at a loss, until he spots that the helm column itself can move up and down as well as backwards and forwards, and that a series of foot pedals runs along the floor against the lower half of the console.

  ‘This should be interesting,’ he says as Drooble finally drops into the seat beside him.

  Ahead, the space doors slide open, revealing their join to consist of interlocking crenellations. When they reach nearly all the way apart, a red light on the console flicks out to be replaced by amber, then green. He eases the helm forward on its column, and with a low rumble the shuttle slides out into space. Now, easing back on the helm again, he brings the shuttle to a halt relative to the Gurnard, then spends some time manoeuvring it around the larger ship to thoroughly familiarize himself with the controls, aware that any thousand-shilling fine would probably be deducted from the profit-sharing bonus he has agreed with Cymbeline.

  ‘So,’ says Drooble, ‘this Smith character is being a little difficult?’

  ‘He rents the warehouse in which is stored the entire carapace of a Prador adult that Cymbeline’s agent retrieved from the wreckage of a dreadnought destroyed somewhere out this way,’ Orbus explains. ‘The price was agreed beforehand, but now there’s an additional handling charge being demanded which has trebled the initial cost. Apparently such a delicate and expensive item might be badly damaged if it is not moved by an expert team.’

  ‘Protection racket,’ observes Drooble.

  Orbus glances at him and notes he is smiling, then returns his attention to Montmartre. Yes, it might be simply about shoving up the price, but the situation has other slightly more worrying aspects. It seems Cymbeline’s agent and his crew, and his survey ship, dropped out of contact shortly after delivering the carapace here.

  They now approach the docking coordinates, and Orbus sees that the facilities here consist of a series of three old carrier shells: large structures in the shape of hexagonal-threaded nuts, once running the big engines for shifting over large distances the smaller vessels that slotted into their central holes. In one of these shells a shuttle is currently docked, but the next one along is empty and it is to this one Orbus is directed. He reduces speed as the station structure looms all about them, the shuttle sliding into shadow glinting with navigation lights. A few deft alterations with steering thrusters set the shuttle drifting into the central hollow of the carrier shell, then Orbus brings it to a full stop, ali
gning not the side doors but a rear airlock.

  ‘OK, we pay the agreed cost and collect the carapace,’ Orbus states. ‘I’m sure this can all be resolved without any unpleasantness.’

  With a double thump against the hull, gecko-pad docking clamps engage. Orbus reaches over and and clicks down a brass-toggle electric switch and, below the main forward screens, concertinaed wooden shutters open to expose a series of smaller viewing screens. These last are slightly bulbous, almost like ancient cathode-ray televisions. Here he observes a view of the clamps–just two hydraulic cylinders terminating in wide circular pads presently stuck to the hull on either side of the airlock. Between these, the steel tube of a docking tunnel–terminating in a univeral lock that can adjust to encompass just about any size of airlock–is being extruded from the carrier shell. He watches the lock slowly expand and then affix itself to the hull, using the same technology as the gecko clamps. A particular red light turns to amber then green, and inside the glass console a wheel revolves into view an enamel plaque informing them that the tunnel is properly engaged and therefore ready to use.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Orbus stands, picks up his bag and heads to the rear, Drooble quickly on his heels. Both of them cram into the shuttle’s airlock, then through the tunnel towards the station lock.

  The interior of the carrier shell is cramped, zero-gravity and very old. Although visitors can propel themselves through here while hardly touching the interior, the metal walls are in places worn down to an underlying layer of insulation, and in many other places patches have been welded in place. Oddly, there is also a vine growing across these walls, its gnarled trunk as thick as a man’s leg in places and spined with twiggy growth putting out green and red buds. The two pause in here, holding on to vine wood polished by the touch of many hands, whilst a hatch opens to extrude a saucer-shaped security drone. This buzzes to itself for a moment, blue lights flickering around its rim, then shoots out of sight again, the same hatch slamming shut. Orbus focuses his attention on the station door, but it remains resolutely closed.

  ‘I believe you are already aware of the rules governing entry to the Free Republic of Montmartre?’ enquires the snooty voice of the ophidapt station official.

  ‘No weapons likely to damage the station structure and no dangerous biologicals,’ replies Orbus, turning a suspicious eye on Drooble.

  Drooble shakes his head. ‘I ain’t got nothin’, Cap’n.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Orbus asks, wondering just when, in situations like this, the urge to start smashing things up will cease to torment him.

  ‘The scanning drone has detected a large quantity of an as yet unidentified alien viral form,’ the ophidapt informs them. ‘Until it is identified and proven safe, I cannot allow you into the station.’

  Through clenched teech Orbus asks, ‘Have you got some sort of fault in your bio files?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re Hoopers.’

  After a short pause the drone once again pops out and scans them, this time for a lengthier period.

  In a flat voice the ophidapt announces, ‘You may enter, but please be aware that the station owners classify any physical augmentation as a weapon. You will face severe penalties if you damage station structure, and you will also be ejected should you attack registered station personnel.’

  A lock clonks in the station door and Orbus pushes himself over, pulls it open, and enters the grav-plated vestibule beyond. Here a payment console awaits, and he makes a money transfer from his ship’s slab to get them through the next door into the station proper. He has no intention of attacking registered personnel. The owners of the station, the Layden-Smiths, and the ‘free citizens’ who keep it maintained, collect a nice tithe from their tenants but do not concern themselves with how those tenants run their businesses. The rule about weapons and damage to the station structure is an old one, for it dates from times when the firing of any weapon might have caused an atmosphere breach. As he understands it, the rule now only concerns damage to the main heavy superstructure, airlocks, floors and ceilings, and all the service networks, but most of everything else within here is the property of those same tenants. Orbus decides he will just have to choose carefully if it becomes necessary for him to shove someone’s head through a door or a wall.

  The female lies slumped against the blank white wall, and ship-lice begin to edge closer, detecting death well before the onset of decay. The Human woman, Sadurian, holds up one hand, and the two Prador third-children, clad in close-fitting chrome armour, halt immediately, placing their equipment on the polished metal floor and themselves settling down onto their stomachs. Behind them the droge–a big upright cylinder with compartments all about its outer surface, containing further equipment–subsides with a hiss of compressed air. Sadurian herself squats on her haunches, the motors in her exoskeleton balancing her perfectly, and tries to recapture some of her original feelings of awe and privilege.

  When the Brodis made his approach on Cheyne III, offering Sadurian a job and any salary she cared to name, she was somewhat doubtful. She had been approached like this before and, since the expertise and extensive knowledge she had acquired over a century of research had made her independently wealthy, she knew that only ECS or one of the stellar corporations could possibly afford her. And, even then, more than money was required, for she only wanted work that interested her–and back then very little but her own heavily esoteric pursuits did that. Blank-faced, she suggested a truly huge sum.

  ‘First payment will be by electronic transfer, thereafter in Prador diamond slate and etched sapphires,’ Brodis replied, taking out a palm console. ‘If you could send me your account details, I will immediately transfer one month’s salary, which you may keep even should you reject the commission I am about to offer you.’

  Somewhat more curious by then, Sadurian took up her own palm console from one of her laboratory counters, keyed it to the signal from the other console, and sent her bank account details. Brodis carried out the transfer at once, and Sadurian blinked at the phone-number figure that appeared on her screen.

  ‘Are you ECS?’ she enquired.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which corporation?’

  ‘My master is not based within the Polity.’

  ‘Your master?’

  ‘My master and possibly your employer is neither Human nor artificial intelligence.’

  That doesn’t leave much else. ‘A high-ranking Prador.’

  ‘The highest.’

  The journey into the Prador Third Kingdom took many months, skirting the Graveyard as it did and involving many transfers between ships. As Sadurian penetrated deeper into that shadowy realm where the two races traded, she found Humans increasingly strange as they adapted themselves to those they did business with. There were people with additional cybernetic limbs, so that as well as their own natural hands they might sport claws, and there were those whose vicious pursuits were entirely in keeping with Prador tastes, but remained capital crimes within the Polity. The first Prador she met she realized must be as different from the Prador norm as these Humans were from the Human standard, so she decided not to base any assessments of their kind upon it.

  Penetrating deeper into the Kingdom, she found vicious individualists whose base instincts were utterly focused on the destruction, usually in the most messy and painful way imaginable, of their competitors. To begin with she could not understand how creatures like this ever managed to run a stellar kingdom. But when she first encountered the King’s Guard, she realized that here was a different kind of Prador who, along with their King, were the glue that held it all together. And when she finally came before her employer, King Oberon, she found something utterly different again, something in a constant state of change, even then, which was a hundred years ago.

  Sadurian continues gazing at the dead female. Polity AIs, while making genetic assays of Prador males, just about got the physiology of the females right and were correct in thei
r assumptions about their social position, though way off in their estimates of Prador female intelligence and what form it took. But she is the first free Polity citizen to actually see one of their kind, for her involvement with them is all part of the job she was offered. She soon learnt that Oberon and his original children, mutated by the Spatterjay virus, were locked into a kind of stasis. The virus prevented Prador children from growing up–more effectively even than the hormonal controls Prador generally use–and it also rendered the King infertile. Gradually, through the slow attrition of accident and murder, the number of Oberon’s children was dropping, and if their number dropped below a certain level, Oberon would not be able to hang on to the reins of power. Sadurian’s job, as arguably the most able xenogeneticist the Polity had ever seen, was to change this state of affairs. And she did.

  The female is twenty feet wide and resembles, if anything, the horseshoe crab of planet Earth. Unlike the male her shell is more helmet-shaped, with a wide skirt underneath which her legs and underhands can be folded out of sight. Saurian ridges extend from the facial end of the carapace to the ovipositor tail. The visage itself consists of two large forward-facing eyes between which rise two clublike eye-stalks, each sporting one short-range pupil and one other fibrous sensor whose spectrum does not venture out of the infrared. Her mandibles are long and heavy and almost serve as limbs themselves, in that they once could rapidly extend to snatch up prey. Her claws, though short and broad, possess a clamping pressure that could crack ceramal. This particular female’s claws are both crushed, and her mandibles have been shattered, though her lethal ovipositor remains undamaged. She is lying on her side, tilted up against the wall, her underside split and viscera bulging out. Such are the consequences of a mating with the King.