The Departure (61 page)

Var stared at him. Here was someone who had been accessing data she hadn’t even noticed. Best to keep a close eye on him. Then she felt a sudden irritation with herself. That was unfair; that was Inspectorate thinking.

“Any speculations?” she asked.

“We’ve picked up nothing on Alessandro Messina or the Committee delegates—probably now hiding in a bunker somewhere.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know who or what did this, but it seems likely to me that it’s based aboard the Argus Station.”

It was Martinez who got down to the practicalities. “But where does that leave us now?” he asked.

Rhone was about to add something else, but he desisted, just dipping his head. She watched him for a moment, then turned her attention to Martinez.

“It leaves us completely and utterly on our own.” Var scanned the faces all around her. “We now have to make this place work, all of us.”

“And how’s
that
going to be?” Martinez asked, studying her intently.

“We repair the damage,” she said. “We locate resources, finish building the Arboretum, graft damned hard and very cleverly to make sure we can continue surviving here. We have to make this place self-sufficient or it’s our tomb.”

Rhone raised his head. “I don’t think that’s the question Martinez was asking. I think he wants to know who’s in charge now.”

“I suggest I retain my present position,” said Var. “The command structure the Committee established here had its faults, but most of those are now lying on a flatbed trailer outside. Remember, I was chosen for the position of technical director here. You all know my qualifications in all branches of science, and that I am the best synthesist you have.” She paused for a moment, focusing her attention on Rhone. “Does anyone else have suggestions?”

“I agree,” said Rhone. “You are the best one for the position, and have ably demonstrated the ruthlessness the position may require.”

“I agree, too,” said Martinez.

“I certainly don’t want the job,” said Da Vinci.

They all agreed in turn, without reservation, some of them evidently anxious to avoid what they assumed might be a poisoned chalice.

“Perhaps we should agree to reassess the situation in a year’s time,” Var suggested, knowing that by then it would be clear enough whether they might survive longer than the predicted five years.

“An interesting choice of timespan,” said Rhone, obviously hiding something.

“So that’s it,” said Martinez. “Now we get to work.”

“Not entirely,” said Rhone. “Though we must now focus primarily on our survival here, there’s another rather worrying fact we’ll need to confront just after the one-year period you’ve mentioned.”

What was he getting at now? Did he intend to suggest some kind of inquiry at the end of her rule, some sort of investigation and maybe a trial?

“Go on,” she said, waiting for the knife in her back.

“Those images you showed us are rather old, Var.” Rhone pointed upwards. “A few hours ago, Argus Station did a low-fuel course change around the Moon, and unless its vector changes or it makes use of its engine again, it looks likely to be sitting right above us here in one year and three months’ time.” He smiled at her. “Whoever or whatever just trashed Earth is now coming here.”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks, as always, to the people who helped bring this book to your shelves; to the Kindle, iPad or any other new-fangled electrical device that this science fiction author really ought to know more about, but is trying hard to ignore—mainly because he has less chance of spotting someone reading one of his books on a train, beach or elsewhere. Damn it, I can’t sign a Kindle, nor can I sneak into a bookshop and move it to a more prominent position on the shelves!

The people at Macmillan are Julie Crisp, Chloe Healey, Amy Lines, Catherine Richards, Ali Blackburn, Eli Dryden, Neil Lang, James Long and others whose names have fallen through the sieve that is my mind. Further thanks to Peter Lavery of the legendary scary pencil and Jon Sullivan who might not even use a pencil but has certainly produced some scary monsters for the covers. And, as always, thanks Caroline, for keeping me grounded in the real world and in my fictional ones.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Neal Asher lives sometimes in England, sometimes in Crete and mostly at a keyboard. He climbed the writing ladder up through the small presses, publishing short stories, novellas and collections over many years, until finally having his first major book,
Gridlinked
, published in 2000 by Macmillan, who have since published sixteen of his books and whose schedule is now two years behind him. These books have been translated into 12 languages and some have appeared in America from Tor. 2013 marks a return to his other US publisher, Night Shade Books, who produced
Prador Moon
and
Shadow of the Scorpion
and will be bringing out his Owner trilogy—
The Departure, Zero Point & Jupiter War
, respectively in February, May & September.

For more information check out: http://freespace.virgin.net/n.asher/ & http://theskinner.blogspot.com/

FAITH (AN EXCERPT)

BY JOHN LOVE

PART 1

His pregnancy convulsions dragged him out of unconsciousness. They were stronger and more urgent. Through his delirium he perceived a drip-drip-drip of blood from something which was not even a corpse any more in the impact harness above him. He held his right hand in front of his face, unsheathed and retracted his claws, and made himself count from one thumb across four fingers to the other thumb. The convulsions went away and he slumped back.

When he woke again his head felt clearer but he couldn’t detect anything except his head; he was eyes and ears and nose and mouth, deep in an impact harness, watching and hearing and smelling and tasting the wreckage of the lifeboat around him. Hours must have passed since the crash and still the crash had not finished. The forces, counterforces, creakings and reverberations of the impact were still going on as the hull settled.

His convulsions came again, and he used the pain to make himself reinhabit his body. Consciousness returned, warily, to his arms and chest and stomach and legs, and he probed for damage. There was a dull throbbing pain in his side, quite distinct from the sharper pain of the convulsions: in view of what he had to do, both the dull pain and the fact of his pregnancy could be hindrances. The thought that his death in the lifeboat would have been a bigger hindrance gave him some ironic amusement, but not for long. Not even the foetus inside him was as important as the need to get out of the wreckage and
tell
someone. Thinking this, he sank back and fell asleep.

When he woke it was midday. The hulk of the lifeboat still creaked and groaned, recounting the minutiae of its crash like an old person repeating the details of a surgical operation. He got up, stretched, and wasted valuable time on a task he could not leave without performing, though he knew its result. Not only were the others dead, all seven of the people he managed to get into the lifeboat before the ship was destroyed, but they were
over
dead. Between them, they had enough death for seventy.

He continued checking the hulk. There was no communications equipment functioning or repairable. He considered searching the wreckage for weapons, but decided that would be a waste of time; he knew about the desert predators on Bast 3 but he was, after all, a Sakhran and should need no weapons. A voice inside him, perhaps the foetus, said
You’re a
pregnant
Sakhran, and you aren’t made for deserts
. He ignored it. Time was beginning to worry him.

He didn’t have much of a plan, but then he wasn’t in much of a situation. The lifeboat had crashed in a desert which extended for at least ninety miles in each direction; he had limited food and water, and pregnancy would impair his hunting skills; and there were no Commonwealth settlements or bases in the desert.

He would simply walk.

If he kept in a straight line, avoided the rock outcrops and stayed in the open, he might be seen by one of the patrols overflying the desert. It wasn’t much of a plan, but to survive the crash and then not give himself any chance was unthinkable. He gouged a large arrow in the sand in his chosen direction, and did a final check for supplies. Then he moved off. A few minutes later, four shadows detached themselves from the darkness of some neighbouring rocks to follow.

After he left the wreck, the sand underneath it started teeming. As in most ecologies on most planets, nothing on Bast 3 would be left to waste.

***

His name was Sarabt. He was a Sakhran, lately a resident of Hrissihr in the Irsirrha Hills of Sakhra, and more recently (until a few hours ago) Weapons Officer on the
Pallas
, a Class 091 cruiser and the guardship of Bast System. He was one of only two Sakhrans who had attained officer status on Commonwealth ships, the other being Thahl, also of Hrissihr although Sarabt only knew him slightly.

Bast was the seventh Commonwealth solar system to receive a visit from the unidentified ship which some Sakhrans called Faith. More significantly, though, it was the first of the four previously Sakhran solar systems which the Commonwealth had absorbed; the others were Horus (the system with Sakhra), Anubis and Isis. Horus was the Commonwealth’s richest and biggest solar system. It was heavily guarded already, but rumours were rife—they had even reached Bast—about steps being taken to defend it if Faith went there. It was said that an Outsider Class cruiser, the Commonwealth’s ultimate warship, was already on its way to Blentport on Sakhra.

There were nine Outsiders. One of them was the
Charles Manson
, commanded by Aaron Foord, with Thahl as First Officer.

Sarabt looked back. He had covered a good distance, and the wrecked lifeboat was already being heavily scavenged. The arrow he had drawn on the ground was gone, obscured by the shifting of the sand and the movement of what lived in it. Soon nothing would be visible from the air, even if a patrol did fly overhead. He had to stay in the open, but that meant he would be visible not only to patrols but predators. He had been briefed about the predators of Bast 3. Normally they would not have concerned him.

Bast was by far the smallest and poorest of the ex-Sakhran systems. The planet Bast 3 was almost uninhabited, except for a few flyblown Commonwealth military bases and some almost unviable mineral extraction plants. Bast 4 was a larger and more temperate planet, and contained most of the system’s population, but the Bast system as a whole would hardly be ranked as a major asset. The
Pallas
was the only warship of any size stationed in system. Everybody assumed that Faith would go first to Horus, or maybe one of the other two. Instead it had been Bast, and the
Pallas
didn’t have a chance.

The engagement was very short. He had heard someone in the lifeboat say that most orgasms were longer, though their outcomes were less certain. They had only got one brief sighting of the unidentified ship, but for Sarabt that was enough.

Three hundred years ago the same unidentified ship had visited Sakhra, and left it devastated. One Sakhran recognised what the ship was, and wrote the Book of Srahr, and when they read it they turned away from each other. The Sakhran Empire went into a slow but irreversible decline, and was later absorbed by the Commonwealth. Sakhrans were mostly agnostic, and they called the ship Faith out of self-mockery. Faith was something they didn’t understand and didn’t want; it had come to them suddenly and without invitation; it would not be denied; and when it left them, which it did as suddenly as it came, they were ruined. They would never recover.

On balance, Faith seemed a good name.

The Commonwealth first used the term Unidentified Ship; it now used Faith as well, but for quite different reasons. The ship was often shrouded, but when it became visible, those who survived said there was something about its appearance to which recordings didn’t do justice. Only a female name seemed right, with its accompanying female derivatives. So the terms Unidentified Ship and It became Faith, and She, and Her.