Authors: Neal Asher
After a moment, the trolley buzzed and clicked, and immediately led him off to one side. Soon he was standing before shelves racked with a vast display of containers ranging from cards of
microcapsules to five-litre bottles and cans. The display glittered with brand names and designs, like a wall of jewels. He walked along this display until he came to a range of cylinders similar
to the one that slotted into his cleansing unit. He dropped a couple of these into the trolley and immediately the price came up on the screen. At the exit to the mart, he dropped a couple of
transparent octagonal shillings into the trolley’s collection tray, before taking up his goods and leaving. Descending the steps he, as was his habit, wondered how such a system dealt with
theft. No doubt this mart had an AI keeping a few hundred little eyes on that situation. He had probably been identified the moment he walked through the door. This thought was immediately
confirmed for him.
‘Message for Sable Keech,’ came a voice through the audio input from his aug.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘It has been reported that you purchased Intertox Virex 24. You are advised that all Intertox drugs have a seven-minute active life in reification balms.’
‘I am aware of that.’
‘Thank you for your attention,’ said the voice, and the audio shut off.
Staring out over the sea, with the two containers clutched against his chest, Keech thought it so nice to know someone cared. What bitterness there was in the thought was muted – hardly
alive.
The morning breeze had died to a flat calm, and the sun had become almost distinct in the verdigris sky. With nothing now to do, the sail – bored with hanging on the
spars – had folded its wings and was now perched on a spar munching on a rhinoworm steak. Crew were either off-shift and sleeping, or catching up on jobs that had been left unattended while
the ship was moving. Anne had a party busy below decks, checking the caulking and all else that might affect the integrity of the hull. It was a make-work task as the tough yanwood did not rot and
was infrequently damaged. Boris was greasing the steering cables, and taking his time about it, while Pland was supervising a couple of juniors as they scrubbed stains out of the deck – it
was obviously an authority he relished, having been the one holding the brush only a few journeys back. Peck cleaned his shotgun with fastidious attention: it had lasted him well this weapon, over
a hundred years, though of course, with all the parts he had replaced, it was no longer actually the same shotgun. He deliberately didn’t get involved in anything too laborious, as he knew
what his next job would be.
‘Peck, over here,’ ordered Ambel.
Peck looked up. It was always himself the Captain called to help with this stage of the operation – Peck really wished he would choose someone else. He handed his gun and cleaning kit to
Gollow, who was scrubbing the rails, before heading over to join the Captain.
‘All right, Peck, let’s do it,’ said Ambel, giving Peck a slap on the shoulder before reaching down to get a hold of their second bile duct where it had rested against the wall
of the forecabin overnight. He dragged it across the deck to the rear winch, eliciting muttered complaints from Pland’s deck-scrubbing crew, then he and Peck heaved the object into a cargo
net and hoisted it from the deck. There it hung with its tied-off neck pointing down, as Ambel pulled across the large green-glass carboy he had brought up earlier and dropped a big funnel in its
mouth. The rest of the crew stopped what they were doing and moved in to watch as Ambel eased the tie open and thick green bile flooded into the funnel, then into the carboy. The flow of it slowed
when the carboy was three-quarters full.
‘Water,’ demanded Ambel, pulling out his sheath knife and driving it into the top of the duct. Pland passed a bucket of fresh water to Peck, as Ambel once again tied off the duct,
then transferred the funnel to the slit he had made. Peck handed him the bucket and he poured its contents inside the duct, thereafter moving the funnel back to the carboy and carefully squeezing
and kneading the duct to get the rest of the bile into solution. The bucket of water passing through the duct filled the carboy to its brim. Ambel then corked it, sealed the cork itself with wrack
resin, and pressed his captain’s seal into the resin.
‘’Bout ten grams o’ sprine out of that, I reckon,’ said Peck. ‘How much does it fetch now?’
‘Eighty-two shillin’s a gram,’ said Boris.
‘What’s that in real money?’ asked Peck, swinging the winch arm out over the sea and releasing the tie on the cargo net. The duct splashed into the waves, but because of what
it was there was no concerted rush of creatures to feed on it. Everybody laughed at Peck’s little joke, then fell into respectful silence as Ambel picked up the loaded carboy and carried it
carefully to the rear deck hatch. Peck swung over the winch arm and wound the net down beside the hatch.
Ambel placed the carboy inside the net and secured it before opening the hatch and climbing down into the rear hold. Peck wound the net up off the deck then swung the winch arm across over the
hatch and with a clacking of bone ratchets, lowered its precious load into the hold. It was Ambel’s job to secure the carboy in its padded frame – indeed, his responsibility. For this
was a serious moment. Every Hooper knew the story of the baitman who had dropped a carboy of leech bile. He had been thrown off the back of the ship with a rope round his ankle, and towed through
leech-infested waters for a day before the rest of the crew forgave him. Or rather, this was the story senior crewmen told the juniors.
Eventually Ambel came back out on deck, rubbing his hands together. He looked around at his crew and grinned.
‘Bugger,’ said Peck.
Boris stared at him, then at Ambel. ‘Another one?’ he asked disbelievingly.
Ambel nodded, still grinning happily. Unfortunately the sail had got the gist of this brief exchange. The steak it was chewing landed on the deck with a sodden thump, and there was a boom of
wings opening above them as it chose that moment to launch itself from the mast. It was smart enough to get away before anyone could try talking it out of fleeing.
‘Island north five k!’ it shouted as it went. Fortunately, sails normally had the decency to tell a crew where the nearest landfall was before they went. It was only polite.
Ambel’s grin became slightly strained.
‘Rowing boat?’ Peck suggested helpfully.
Boris, Pland and Anne wore smirks and, noticing these, Ambel turned to give his ship a long slow inspection.
‘Yes, the rowing boat,’ he agreed. ‘And while I’m about that, someone can reef those.’ He pointed to the fabric sails, which were hanging slack from their spars.
‘I should think that the mast chain and cogs need greasing by now, too. Also the harpoons could do with another sharpen, and this deck needs a
proper
clean.’ When he paused,
there was a concert of ‘ayes’ as the crew scattered to their tasks before he thought of any more chores for them. Ambel grinned to himself, then went off to find the reinforced
oars.
The great wing of the shuttle slewed in the sky above the landing pads, as Keech yet again unplugged his cleansing unit and packed it away in his trunk. A quick query through
his aug confirmed the information that this was the shuttle he was waiting for. He secured the trunk down by the sea wall – its AG set in reverse so it would take a forklift to pick it up
– and headed on over to the arriving shuttle. Fenced walkways between landing pads brought him eventually to the one where the shuttle had descended. He avoided the passenger embarkation
point, and moved round to where autoloaders were shifting the fresh cargo out into a warehouse. A Golem android – which by his nametag was called Paul A2-18 – was standing watching the
cargo being shifted.
‘Can I help you?’ said Paul A2-18, as Keech approached.
This Golem was obviously an old one, constructed before Cybercorp discovered that physical perfection made people nervous. Paul was Apollo descended to Earth and clad in blue overalls.
‘I’m Keech. I’ve come to pick up a package.’
‘Ah,’ the Golem paused as he, no doubt, sent a query and received instructions. ‘Please come this way.’
Paul led Keech to the side of the bay and pointed to a container resting on the platen before a scanner. The container itself was hexagonal in section, and had a single carry handle. The only
visible way of opening it was by the coded touch-plate mounted upon it – a device no doubt keyed to Janer’s DNA .
‘What’s inside?’ Keech asked.
‘I am afraid I am unable to provide that information,’ said Paul A2-18. ‘The box is scan-proof.’
Keech thought about that. If it had come through the runcible, then there should be no problem with it in legal terms. Why then had this android tried to scan it at all? He was about to ask when
he noted that Paul appeared slightly uncomfortable. Though what Keech was seeing was only emulation, and probably conscious emulation at that, he understood what the Golem was telling him and he
kept his mouth shut – it was good to know that such Apollonian perfection had its faults. He picked up the container and turned to go, stumbled, and had to support himself against the platen
for a moment.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the android.
‘I’m fine,’ said Keech, grimacing as he cancelled the warning messages flashing up in his visual field. The Intertox, which had brought the activity of many of his probes back
to nominal, but no better, was now breaking down in his balm. He had expected this to happen, but not with such sudden ill effect. Walking back around the shuttle it was with his vision tunnelling
that he saw the five very familiar people disembarking.
Batians: for a very long time members of this mercenary race had been trying to finish a job started seven hundred years ago. All of the Eight had employed Batians at one time or another, and
Keech had been forced to kill more of them than he liked to think about. Upon recognizing them, he ducked his head and speeded his pace. Unfortunately, it is difficult to disguise the fact that you
are a walking corpse. He glimpsed the five of them talking together, then turning as one to gaze in his direction. He could see that they were hesitating, as this particular area would be
constantly and closely watched by one of the Warden’s subminds.
At that point, he removed his remote control from the pocket of his overalls and pointed it towards his trunk. Instantly the trunk began its miraculous transformation. He reached it in time to
pick up his scattered belongings and load them in the luggage compartment, and was in the process of fitting the hover scooter’s thrusters when he saw that the five were running towards him.
Mounting the scooter he registered them reaching the wall walkway just ten metres or so away from him. He saw how all five had their hands poised over concealed pockets – and were staring at
him with ill-contained hatred.
‘Another . . . time,’ he managed on a clicking gulp, then saluted to them and launched his scooter into the sky.
‘Sable Keech, you have broken the law,’ came the voice of the Warden from the com in the scooter’s console.
‘I am aware of the flying regulations around shuttle ports,’ he replied.
‘I should hope so. You are, after all, a monitor. You realize you have been automatically fined?’
‘Yes, I realize, but if I had stayed in the area the five Batians there might have been tempted to try and kill me despite your watching SM – then you’d have had a more serious
crime to contend with, one way or another.’
‘I see . . . I did note the arrival of those five you mention,’ said the Warden.
‘But did not see fit to warn me, even though you must have known I was here and must have known my record with them.’
‘Even though armed, they were doing nothing illegal.’
‘Yes,’ said Keech, ‘but weren’t you hoping they would?’
There came no further comment from the AI, as Keech turned his scooter and headed for the beach from which he had first departed. He set the scooter to land on automatic, as what depth
perception he did have – aug assisted – was fading from his eye. With a deal of unsteadiness he dismounted, tucked the cleansing unit under his arm, then staggered across a bank of
glossy pebbles, and collapsed on his knees in the green sand beyond.
OUTSIDE PARAM FUNCTION: BALM PUMP 28% LOAD INCREASE
.
It was playing out again, only this time the problem was caused by the drug he had used to try and solve the previous problem.
INVASIVE ORGANIZM SCAN
, he instructed, and received an immediate reply.
PRESENT
.
He was fast running out of options. With hands that seemed flaccid, he opened his overalls and connected the cleansing unit again. The balm coming out of him was muddy brown this time, and it
took a long time for the liquid sapphire to return. The blurred line of red lights held his attention, while he thought about what he must do. The option of dispensing with this reified body and
going full AI would require his return to the Dome then to the moon Coram, where the only suitable facilities were available. Full death, he decided, was not an option. The remaining option resided
in the lozenge depending from his neck chain. What had the Lifecoven woman who had sold it to him said?
‘
It reads the blueprint and then it sends off its little builders.
’
But even that would require his return to very high-tech medical facilities.
‘
Yes, you need to be in a tank for it to work correctly
,’ said the woman.
Keech nodded to her, and she stepped back into the dingle at the head of the beach. And he could not quite grasp why this bothered him so, but he was then quickly distracted.
‘Why should
you
have any more life,’ said a voice beside him.
He glanced across at Corbel Frane.
‘Who are you to ask that question?’ he replied.
Frane smoothed his moustache. ‘In a fair and equitable world we can all ask questions,’ he said.
‘You can’t, because I killed you ages ago.’