Authors: Neal Asher
‘At a stretch, you could call it a medical one,’ replied Keech
‘Erlin Tazer Three Indomial is with Janer. Perhaps she could help you. I believe she travels nowhere without an extensive collection of medical and pathological research
equipment.’
‘So nice of you to be thinking of me,’ said Keech, bracing his hand against the scooter and standing up.
‘Was that sarcasm or irony?’ asked the mind.
‘Probably both,’ said Keech, dropping the cleanser into the back of the scooter.
‘I’m never sure which is which,’ said the mind.
Keech stared at the scooter, trying to decide if he should risk flying to the Dome. His vision was still tunnelling and there were odd squares flicking up in the visual field fed from his aug. A
hissing crack interrupted his decision-making process. Automatically he ducked down, only to stoop into a cloud of smoke that had gouted from his own kneecap.
‘You’re not going anywhere, reif!’ someone shouted.
For one long horrible moment Keech could not decide if this was reality or not. The two Batians who came striding out of the dingle at the head of the beach were like so many others he had seen
and killed over the years. Then, to his horror he realized he had forgotten seeing these people earlier at the shuttle port. He tried to dispel anxieties about what this failing memory could mean,
as he had more exigent concerns: two Batians here – with, no doubt, the other three not far behind.
‘You know, you’ve made our job so very easy,’ spat the man of this pair.
Keech said nothing. He gazed at the woman as she kept her laser carbine centred on him. The man holstered his weapon with a kind of casual contempt. It was the mistake they had always made. They
were so very confident in their ability to kill. Weren’t they such good shots? But then it was like fire and ash: fire will not burn something that has already been burned.
‘Who sent you?’ Keech asked, as he had asked many times before.
The man smiled nastily and gave no answer – as before. Keech nodded and drew his pulse-gun from his belt holster.
‘Drop it!’ shouted the woman with the carbine.
Keech raised his weapon and carefully aimed it. Laser shots punched smoking holes through his chest and through his stomach, but did not spoil his aim. He fired once: a black hole appeared in
the woman’s forehead, and the back of her skull turned into a blooming cloud behind her. As she staggered back and went over, Keech turned and mounted his scooter. The man just watched this
in stunned horror, before thinking to reach again for his own weapon.
‘You forget, I’m already dead,’ said Keech, before slamming his scooter up into the sky.
A wind was blasting the ship along at a good rate of knots, and spray was coming up over the bow. Erlin watched Janer come up on to the deck and gaze about in surprise.
‘Got his sea legs, then,’ said Captain Ron.
Erlin turned and searched for a trace of irony in Ron’s expression, and found none. She returned her attention to Janer as he walked to the rail and tossed something silvery over the side.
The silvery object fell in an arc but, before it hit the waves, it corrected and shot off under its own power. Captain Ron grunted in surprise and, when Erlin turned to him, he seemed
embarrassed.
‘Message carrier,’ he said, nodding toward the receding object. ‘Used to send ’em in the war.’
‘What war?’ Erlin asked.
‘Prador,’ explained Ron tersely.
‘Oh.’
Erlin looked away from him as she absorbed that. Ron was nearly as old as Ambel, and it was well to be reminded of this fact. It became too easy to view the likes of Ron and Ambel as relatively
normal. Their apparent simplicity was deceptive, as the Old Captains had centuries of experience, and probably had forgotten more than she had learnt in her mere span of two hundred and forty
years. She had actually forgotten that most Old Captains fell into an age range in the upper half of a thousand years. Senior seamen came in at the lower half. Herself? . . . she qualified as a
senior, but only that. How easy it was to forget the way things were here. Those of the crew classified as juniors, and whom the likes of Ambel referred to as ‘lads’, were often over a
century old. She wondered then how Ambel viewed her. Was she a child to him? Had the anger she had felt at his seeming complacency been seen by him as a childish fit of pique? What – when she
found him – would be his reaction to her?
Stupid child
, she told herself as she watched Janer approach.
‘What message?’ asked Ron.
‘No message,’ said Janer as he climbed up on to the cabin-deck. ‘Just a dead hornet going home.’
‘Told you the fibres clog ’em,’ said Ron.
‘Apparently so,’ admitted Janer. ‘Where are we going?’
Erlin replied, ‘Captain Drum sighted the
Treader
heading out for the feeding grounds. We’re going after it.’
‘What feeds there?’
‘Leeches – big ones.’
Janer nodded his acknowledgement and grimaced at the scar on his hand.
Erlin turned to Ron again. ‘Ambel said he came here after the war. In all the time I was with him I never questioned that, but I do now wonder if he was telling the truth.’
‘Couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘I came here a century after it was all over, and didn’t meet him until a century after that.’
‘You came here a century after the war?’ Janer interjected.
Ron glanced at him. ‘I was getting old and the geriatric treatments in the Polity weren’t so good then. Seemed like a good idea at the time.’
Janer glanced at Erlin to see how she was responding to this – she with her opinion of people searching for ‘miracles’. Her expression gave nothing away so he returned his
attention to Ron.
‘What did you
do
in the war?’ Janer asked, parodying himself at the gaucheness of the question, and then wishing he’d kept his mouth shut once he saw Ron’s
expression.
‘I was in a unit fighting out of the Cheyne outer systems. War drones and cyber-boosted troopers. We ran sabotage missions into their shipyards and the barracks where they kept their
human-blank troopers. It was all a long time ago.’
Janer was fascinated, but he could see that, as far as Ron was concerned, it was not long enough ago. He glanced at Erlin, hoping that she might have something to ask, but Erlin was gazing out
to sea with a slightly lost expression on her face.
‘Do you mind saying anything more about it?’ Janer eventually asked.
‘I do mind,’ said Ron, ending the conversation.
Shib stared down at Nolan, and then abruptly holstered his gun. Why hadn’t he reacted faster? And why hadn’t Nolan’s shots brought that bastard down? Just
then, Svan, Tors, and Dime came crashing out of the dingle, searching for someone to shoot.
‘You missed him,’ Svan stated.
Shib glared at her and gestured to Nolan.
‘She hit him four times. He simply shot her through the head and climbed on his scooter. He just wouldn’t go down,’ he said.
Svan stared at Tors. He shrugged – and, in reply to that, she shook her head slowly, then walked over to the prostrate Nolan. She stooped and picked up the laser carbine. After inspecting
it for a moment, she threw it to Shib, who caught it with a snap of his hand. Svan then gazed around at all of them.
‘I would have thought,’ she said slowly, ‘that the repetition of events over the last seven centuries would have been enough to inform you about Sable Keech. Well, apparently
not.’ She studied each of them. ‘Do you know how many Batians have died trying to complete the contract on him? No? Neither do I, but I do know that the total is more than fifty –
and very probably for much the same reasons.’ She pointed at the carbine Shib held. ‘That was set on the basic kill level. Keech is a heavy-world reification. He may appear fragile, but
you have to remember he has heavy-world bones internally strengthened to take cybermotors.’ She walked over to Shib and pulled a small black box from his belt and held it up.
As if she was lecturing idiots, Svan went on, ‘That’s how we followed him and that is precisely why he’s so dangerous. He was a man once, but that’s something he
hasn’t been for a very long time. He’s biomech, he doesn’t feel pain, and you need nothing less than an explosive shell or full-power laser hit to take him down. Now do I have to
engrave these facts on your foreheads?’
The reply was silence. Shib felt especially shamed, as the whole tirade had essentially been directed at him and Nolan. He gazed down at the corpse of the woman he had known only for a couple of
days. It was the way of things.
‘Now,’ said Svan to Dime, ‘you and Tors inflate the dinghy, and you,’ she stabbed a finger at Shib, ‘bury Nolan where she is. I want nothing lying about for the
Warden to pick up on.’
Shib gazed again at the corpse. It was not the Batian custom to bury the dead: when you were dead, that was it, and there was no point in giving respect to a lump of meat. However, in this case,
he could see the point. Spatterjay was not a full Polity world, but it was on the edge of the Polity, and as such would be very closely watched by its Warden. There would be SMs out there
somewhere, and they could be any shape at all. One of them could even be watching them now. He glanced at Svan as she went back to the edge of the dingle, to where she had dropped her pack. He
watched her remove black crabskin armour and begin to don it, and then he went in search of something with which to dig a hole.
He had a real bad feeling about all this.
On the map on the screen, it was called ‘The Little Flint’ and, as is the way with such things, it was precisely as described when Keech was hoping for
understatement. There were no sails on this sloping black surface poised less than a metre above the sea, which was fortunate, for had even one been there, he would have been unable to land the
scooter. Keech brought the vehicle down with a crash and dismounted even as it slid and caught against a chalky rim of rock. He staggered, fell on his face, and after pulling himself up on to his
knees left a wet smear of balm and other less salubrious substances on the glossy stone.
All out of options, and time to pay the ferryman.
Keech surveyed his little island of black stone and thought that there shouldn’t be room here for Frane, Rimsc, and the rest. He ignored their acid observations, got himself back on his
feet and staggered to the back of his scooter. Once away from it again, now with the cleanser clutched to him like a valued child, he went down on his knees again, on the stone. If what he did next
finished him here, then it seemed a dramatic enough place for him to exit. He pulled open his burned and soaking overalls to expose the four supposedly killing holes through his body. There was
also a deep burn across the metal shell on his side, but luckily the two cleansing sockets were undamaged. He plugged the unit in and was totally unsurprised at the row of red lights that greeted
him. Of course, now, they were irrelevant. He offered a half-hearted prayer to Anubis Arisen and pulled the lozenge of metal from the chain around his neck. After detaching the chain from the end
of the lozenge, he stared for a long moment at this lump of golden metal.
‘Do I believe in miracles?’ he asked the watching crowd, his mind straying back to Erlin’s derisory comments on such things.
The replies were as varied as he could imagine, and he knew they would only be that – what
he
could imagine – as he still had enough faculties to distinguish hallucination
from reality. Now he had to act quickly before he lost the ability to make that distinction. Now he had to act before he lost what remained of his organic brain. He reached down and affixed the
lozenge into the recess made for it in the top of the unit. The lozenge clamped down, then immediately grew thin metal tubes from all round its rim, and these tubes mated with tiny sockets in the
cleanser.
INITIATE CHANGER NANOFACTORY UNIT
, he sent through his aug, then swayed back and watched the tubes. Black balm flooded out of him, and what came back was completely
clear. It would not be empty though, definitely not that. He closed his eye, and waited. He could feel nothing as the cleanser pumped millions of microscopic factories around with the embalming
fluid in his vascular system. Inside him he imagined them attaching themselves to the walls of his veins like little volcanoes, little volcanoes that in moments would each be spewing out millions
of nano-machines, machines that might eventually enable him to live again.
The warning messages were coming up constantly, until he instructed his aug to turn them off. The system that had been monitoring his body was a system for monitoring the stasis of a dead thing.
But now the changer factory program was taking over.
The factories were anchoring themselves and doing their work. The Spatterjay virus was in there doing its work as well. He should be in a tank at this moment, being watched over by one of the
more sophisticated autodocs – not sitting here on a rock being watched by people he had killed long in the past. He opened his eye and saw that the hieroglyph lights on the cleanser were all
flickering from amber to red and to blue. He’d never seen them blue before, and he made a croaking sound that might have been laughter. When he then surveyed his surroundings to see what his
audience’s response might be to that, he saw that he was once again alone. He now croaked at the silence, then abruptly turned his head and stared down at his burnt knee. There was a
sensation there. No, not possible – not yet. It had to be some sort of ghosting coming across from his organic brain to his aug. The stab of agony that came next, though, was undeniable. He
tilted his head back and relished the pain. He knew there would be more of the same as the nano-machines repaired his decayed nervous system. But Keech also knew that, if he survived, he would
remember
this moment; this pain had been the first thing he had really felt in seven centuries.
The molly carp did three circuits of the bay at high speed, and then squatted in a deep trench where the bay opened to the sea. SM13 put this down to an intestinal complaint,
and Sniper suggested that the little drone might like to act as a molly carp suppository. SM13 had then suggested it should go off to finish the whelk census and survey of the carp population.
Sniper suggested the carp population might be better reduced by at least one.