Authors: Neal Asher
With a cycling down drone of thrusters, the Hooper landed his aircab on a neatly mown lawn, near the edge of the arcology, and the three disembarked.
‘How much?’ Erlin asked, leaning into the open window.
The Hooper paused for a moment as he calculated how much he might get away with asking for. Erlin groped in the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a wad of New Carth shillings. The two notes
she proffered he quickly took and, obviously pleased, he got out of his cab to unload their luggage. Janer appeared bemused and Keech, of course, had no expression at all. Erlin understood that the
both of them hadn’t realized they might need hard currency. She felt they had a lot to learn about this place, and was about to comment on this when Janer beat her to it.
‘Perhaps we need a little guidance here,’ he said, glancing at the reif. Keech showed no reaction to this either. Erlin was quick to reply; she had nothing to lose by being
helpful.
‘I have to do what I have to do here, but you’re more than welcome to accompany me until you find your feet,’ she said, turning to study them. Keech gave a brief nod in reply
and Janer grinned at her. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, she turned away from that grin.
‘You know that Polity law does not apply outside the main dome,’ she said.
‘It should do,’ said Keech.
‘Sometimes,’ added Janer.
Erlin continued, ‘Try defining assault or murder to a Hooper. They just laugh at all our rules. The way it works here is that the older a Hooper is, the more authority he has. This by dint
of the fact that he knows so much more than you and that if you disagree with him he could probably tear your arms off. Ambel, the man I’ve come here to find, is old. I once saw him tow a
deepsea-fishing ship with just a rowing boat. His boat was specially strengthened, and the oars made of ceramal composite.’
‘How old
is
he?’ asked Keech.
‘Seven centuries, minimum. He said he came here just after the war, but I wonder about that. Some of the early Hoopers are reticent about their pasts, and the viral fibres were very
advanced in him.’
‘Yeah,’ said Janer, grinning. ‘I’ve heard plenty of stories like that.’
Not looking at him, Erlin went on, ‘His skin is mottled with leech scars overlaid one on the other. He’s so packed with fibre it’s impossible to take blood samples from him. I
frankly doubt he even has any blood inside him. If ever he’s wounded, the wounds close just like that.’ She held up her hand and snapped it shut into a fist.
‘You believe him?’ asked Janer.
‘At first I didn’t, but I was with him for a number of years and I eventually ceased to doubt.’
‘Perhaps . . . Hoop is still alive?’ said Keech.
Erlin thought about the head kept in a box on the
Treader
and refrained from comment.
‘That’s it then,’ said the Hooper, standing next to their pile of luggage.
‘Thank you,’ said Erlin. She clicked her fingers and her hover trunk separated itself out from the pile of luggage and moved obediently to her side. It had surprised her that Janer
used merely a backpack, but now she realized he must be a seasoned traveller and so only carried a few essentials. Keech, however, could not possibly have carried his trunk very far, it being the
size of a sea-chest.
‘Luck,’ said the Hooper, climbing back into his cab.
‘Wait.’ Erlin turned back to him and he paused at the door. ‘Do you know where I can find Ambel?’
‘On the
Treader
.’
‘Where is the
Treader
?’
The Hooper shrugged. ‘Nort Sea and the Skinner’s Islands. Sou’ at the atolls. East in the Sargassum or West over the Blue Wells. Buggered if I know.’
It was not the answer Erlin would have liked but it was the kind she expected of a Hooper.
‘Thanks for you help,’ she said dryly.
‘This Ambel,’ said Janer as the cab rose into the air above them and tilted towards the hole in the Dome, ‘something more than clinical interest?’
‘You could say that,’ said Erlin. ‘We go this way now.’
She led them down paved walkways from the lawns, through neatly laid-out rose gardens, towards the looming metallic wall of the arcology. Daffodils bloomed in bunches, neatly circumnavigated by
robot mowers that munched their way across the grass like iron beetles. Some of these flowers were old-Earth yellow, but the rest were blue and violet. Ahead, wide arcades and boulevards cut into
the wall of the arcology, and here there were more gardens and lawns, from which sprang coconut and fishtail palms, fuchsia bushes and the occasional pineapple plant – this diversity of life,
as Erlin well knew, genetically adapted to survive the odd conditions inside the Dome.
‘I thought you said land was at a premium here,’ said Janer, scanning about himself.
‘It is,’ Erlin replied. ‘All of this,’ she gestured ahead of them, ‘is sitting on ten metres of foamed plascrete, which in turn is sitting on a thousand metres of
sea-water.’
‘Ah,’ said Janer then, ‘busy little raft they have here.’
Amongst these gardens strolled all manner of people: seasoned travellers who lived only to use the runcibles and briefly see new worlds; altered humans – catadapts and ophids and the like;
and Hoopers nervous in these garden surroundings, with the rolling gait of those more used to having a deck under their feet.
Erlin said, ‘A lot of the people who come to see this world get no farther than this. Many come here not realizing that Polity law doesn’t extend outside the Dome itself. They come
here for the immortality you mentioned, and discover that they feel very mortal once they step out into the Hooper’s world.’
‘
You
did,’ Keech reminded her.
‘I like new worlds, new experiences. You gain nothing without risking something.’
‘Trite,’ said Keech. ‘There should always be law.’
Erlin glanced at him as they moved into one of the boulevards, and then she gestured to a pyramidal metrotel entrance situated near the end of it.
‘I’m staying here for tonight. Unless you have other plans, I suggest you stay here as well. Tomorrow, if you like, we can get equipped. It would be a good idea if you both bought
some hard currency, as you won’t get far here without it.’
‘Which is preferred?’ asked Keech.
‘New Carth shillings or New yen. Don’t bother with the Spatterjay skind – the exchange rate for it goes up every day.’
‘How quaint,’ said Janer.
Once they had entered the pyramidal metrotel Janer insisted on paying for all their rooms, by smart card at the automated check-in desk. Erlin reached down to her hover trunk and, into its
miniconsole, punched one of the room codes the screen showed them – slaving the trunk to the hotel AI. For a moment she watched while it trundled off, then she checked her watch.
‘Down here at about nine, then, solstan?’ she suggested.
‘Definitely,’ replied Janer, and Keech gave his characteristic sharp nod.
Without further pause, Erlin headed for the room the hotel AI had allocated her.
‘Don’t forget that currency,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. As she entered a lift, she wondered what had possessed her to take up with these two. Loneliness, maybe?
When she reached the entrance to her room, her trunk was there ahead of her. She followed it in through the door, then slumped on to the large bed provided. Tucking her hands behind her head, she
stared at the ceiling and said, ‘AI, I’d like some information about reifications’.
‘Can you be more specific than that?’ the hotel AI asked her.
‘Well . . . didn’t the practice originate from some sort of religious sect?’
‘It originated from the Cult of Anubis Arisen. It was their conjecture that souls do not exist, and that there is nothing more sacred than the body. They hung on to life for as long as
they possibly could then, when they died, had themselves preserved and kept moving by use of the cyber technology of the time.’
Erlin recalled the decidedly Egyptian design of Keech’s aug and eye irrigator. ‘They were brain-dead though, and Keech is sentient,’ she said.
There came no reply then from the AI, as its privacy restraints had cut in. It could not discuss other hotel guests with her.
‘Reifs nowadays are often sentient – to all intents alive,’ she persisted.
‘The cult of Anubis Arisen is still extant, and now has access to mind-recording and mimetic computers. Some of those who have been technically dead can be repaired and brought to life
using some of the newer nano-technologies.’
‘With those mind recordings and mimetics . . . are they alive?’
‘The contention of most is that they have become AI. The lines become blurred and the arguments heated when reifs with partial use of their organic brains are discussed. On the whole,
reifs are uncommon. Most physical damage to human beings can be repaired, and most humans with mind-recorders choose memplantation in an android chassis.’
‘How do you explain Keech then?’
The AI didn’t.
Once alone in his room, Keech opened his trunk and removed a clean pair of monofilament overalls, which he laid across his bed. Almost reverently, he removed his lozenge
pendant and placed it on top of them. Then, moving with great care, he took off his used overalls and dropped them on the floor, before turning to a mirror on the nearby wall and inspecting his
grey and golden reflection. As well as the half-helmet augmentation over his face, an area from under his armpit to his waist and then his groin was also enclosed in golden metal. This metal was
deeply intagliated with Egyptian hieroglyphs. He stood perfectly still as he studied them, until his irrigator sprayed his right eye. He did not blink, but turned back to the trunk. Now he removed
a golden case made in the shape of a small sarcophagus, closed the lid of the trunk, and placed the case upon it. In the surface of this case was an indentation ideal for accommodating the lozenge
he had placed on the bed. He ignored this, though, and instead freed two nozzles, which came away trailing coiled tails of clear tubing. These nozzles he plugged into two sockets in the metal
covering his side. Through his aug, he sent the activation signal to this device that really kept him from rotting away: his cleansing unit.
One of the coiled tubes turned dirty blue as the unit drew preservative fluid from his vascular system, filtered out a sludge of dead bacteria and rotifers, corrected certain chemical
imbalances, then pumped the fluid back into him. The fluid in the return pipe was liquid sapphire. After a few minutes, a row of red-lit hieroglyphs on the unit began, one at a time, to flick to
green. When the last glyph changed, the tubes cleared of liquid and he detached them and returned them to the unit itself. Next, he turned a disk on the unit and withdrew a cylindrical container
filled with the same blue fluid. He turned to the mirror again and, using a swab that detached from the head of the container, he wiped himself from head to foot, at the last partially detaching
his aug to swab at the skin concealed underneath. The now exposed left half of his face was ruin eaten back to bone, and set into that bone was a ring of triangular copper-coloured contacts.
Keech stared for a moment at the wound that had killed him before snicking his aug back into place with a wet click, then reaching down to press some pads on the metal enclosing his side. This
shell lifted with a slight hiss and he detached it completely and put it on top of his trunk. The side of his body now exposed was mostly transparent synthetic skin under which could be seen organs
repaired with synthetics, a network of blue tubes spreading from the two nozzle orifices, and rib bones that had been burnt black. After a brief visual inspection, he swabbed this area down too.
When he had finished, he replaced the metal shell, then returned to the bed to don the clean overalls and his lozenge pendant. After yet another inspection of himself in the mirror, there sounded
that dry click from his throat, and he spoke.
‘Hotel AI, I wish to take a sum of a thousand New Carth shillings from my account, in hard currency. Do you have this facility?’
‘I do,’ replied the hotel. ‘There is an auto till in the wall to your left. You are aware that a thousand shillings may be much more than you will require here. The exchange
rate against the Spatterjay skind is very high.’
‘I am aware,’ said Keech, ‘but I may be here some time.’ He took a smart card from his pocket and inserted it into the slot in the wall. A hatch immediately slid open and
the auto till poked his card back out at him. Behind the hatch rested a stack of hundred-, fifty- and ten-shilling notes. There was also a cloth bag containing coins. He opened this and took out
one transparent octagonal coin, which he brought up to his eye. In an approximation of surprise, he raised the brow of this eye. He hadn’t seen one-shilling pieces in a very long time –
centuries in fact.
Janer lay back on his bed with hands folded comfortably behind his head. He thought about Erlin and felt a vaguely pleasurable buzz at the prospect of getting to know her. She
was classically and strangely beautiful, with her white hair, black skin, and blue eyes, yet Janer felt sure her appearance was not due to cosmetic alteration. These combined features were too much
at odds with each other to be anyone’s natural choice. In his experience cosmetic alteration fell into two camps: the extreme where people went all the way into something like catadaption or
ophidaption, or the subtle one, where they just had some small alteration made to their appearance to make it more pleasing. More likely, he suspected, her appearance was the result of a past
genetic alteration in her family line, as no doubt was her intelligence. This was how it was for most people now. He closed his eyes and summoned up an image of her to contemplate. This
didn’t last though, and his mind began to wander.
Nothing from the link at the moment – which meant that the Hive mind was preoccupied. That was good, as he didn’t feel much like talking. There had been no communication from it for
a number of hours now, but that was nothing unusual. The mind controlled a huge conjoined hive of something like a billion individuals, so it had plenty of other tasks on which to focus its
attention. Janer considered how things had changed since the days of paper nests and maybe just a few hundred hornets.