Shadow Of The Scorpion Part 19

Cormac just gaped.

"You need to know."

"Amistad!" came a bellow from some public-address system. Now more shadows drew across and Cormac looked up to see some huge vehicle hovering above. It looked like a floating barge, but with all sharp corners and flat surfaces, all a dull greyish green he recognised as military ceramal armour.

"Amistad! Move away from the boy!" A woman in ECS uniform had approached, her hands on her hips.

The drone turned slightly to peer at her, then quickly swung back to Cormac. "Your father-" The drone seemed highly agitated, and Cormac was reminded of his mother's archaeologist friends who visited; men and women who were not accustomed to talking to children. "Your father is gone."

"He's dead?" Cormac asked.

Further agitation from the drone. Its feet were beating a tattoo against the ground, its antennae quivering and it kept extending and snipping its claws at the air as if it could find the words there. It never got the chance.

There came a thrumming from above, a deep sonorous note, and it seemed as if something invisible but incredibly heavy and substantial slammed down from the vessel above. The drone was crushed flat on its belly, its legs spread out about it and its claws immobilized. An invisible wall of air hit Cormac in the face and shoved him straight back against the wall of the building behind. He tried to fight his way free, but the air seemed to have coagulated around him, turned into a cloying sheet.

"Is my dad dead?" he asked, but knew at once that his words reached no further than his lips.

Then came a blast, excavating a great crater in the road underneath the drone. Somehow, this gave it enough freedom to move and it dropped down into the hollow then bounced out sideways. Beams of a deep red radiation stabbed through the dusty air from those weapons resting across the gravcars, but the drone avoided them all, moving almost too fast to follow. Coiled into a ring it rolled and sprang open, landed on the face of the building opposite and leapt again, crashed against the side of the s.h.i.+p above and bounced off again. The bright light of a fusion drive ignited in atmosphere lit the street, and the drone hurtled away.

The s.h.i.+p above also accelerated away, the invisible force pinning Cormac against the wall immediately relinquis.h.i.+ng its grip, so he slumped to the pavement, and some of the people in the street leapt into their gravcars and they too sped away. His ears ringing, Cormac gazed down at the pavement, then after a moment noticed a pair of enviroboots nearby. He looked up at the woman who had addressed the drone and she reached down and helped him to his feet.

"You mother will be here shortly," she said.

"My dad is dead," he replied.

She gazed up at the sky in the direction of the departing vessel and gravcars. "So that's what it's about," she said. "You can never be sure with them, and it's best not to take any chances." She peered down at him. "They can be so dangerous."

He tried to learn more, but everything he asked was referred to his mother, who soon arrived looking worried and angry and quickly led him to her gravcar.

"It said that Dad is dead," he told her.

"And that's all?" she enquired, handing him a bottle of fruit juice.

"It didn't get time to say much," he replied, uncapping the bottle. He took a long drink, for he was very thirsty. "I think they used a hard-field to try and capture it."

"It should not be here, and it should not interfere in things it is not equipped to understand," Hannah told him, watching him carefully.

He suddenly felt incredibly tired, and leant back in the seat.

Hannah continued, "It knows about fighting and killing, but like them all is emotionally stunted." She seemed to be speaking to him down a long, dark tunnel. "How can one like Amistad explain the truth when even I, your mother, can think of no way?"

Everything faded to black.

Feeling utter betrayal, Cormac opened his eyes.

"She drugged me," he said, just a second prior to an invisible dagger stabbing in through his forehead. He glanced at the side table and reached out to pick up the roll of patches, his biceps still stiff under the length of sh.e.l.lwear enwrapping it. He took one patch only this time, since he felt that using two last time might have contributed to his nausea, and stuck it on the side of his neck. Now familiar with this process he then took up a sick bag, and tried to order the detach sequence in his aug for the optic connection. It was a struggle, but this time he managed it. After a moment he reached up and pulled the fibre optic strands free, then glanced aside as the machine wound them in.

"I am not aware of what these mem-loads contain," said s.a.d.i.s.t. "I would require your permission to load them myself."

Cormac wasn't sure how to react to the AI's evident curiosity, however, he really wanted to talk to someone about all this. Gazing about the room he half expected to find someone standing by his bed, then felt a sick sinking sensation in his stomach. The only one who might possibly have been there was Crean, but she had confined herself to her cabin ever since they boarded. s.a.d.i.s.t, having now scanned much of the area around the blast, had reported finding only a heat-distorted ceramal blade belonging to Spencer, the surprisingly intact bra.s.s buckle from Gorman's belt, and Travis' legs. All three of Cormac's companions had been vaporized. Crean had survived only because a chaingla.s.s wall had peeled up and slammed into her, acting like a sail on the blast front and carrying her two miles from its hypocentre. Total unlikely luck, coincidence.

"I give you my permission to load them." He paused. "But for the last one-you can load that only when I do."

"Thank you," said the s.h.i.+p AI, then, "Done."

Cormac was only momentarily surprised; of course an AI could encompa.s.s those memories in a moment, it was a reminder of the difference between himself and the intelligences that ran the Polity, between himself and the likes of Crean too.

"I note that each chapter also has attachments and you have only been loading the chapters themselves," s.a.d.i.s.t added.

"Attachments?"

"They are incompatible with your mind, apparently." s.a.d.i.s.t paused. "They are cleaning-up exercises. It seems apparent to me that your mother at first did not think your initial encounter with the drone, out in Montana, of any significance, though she did think your more traumatic encounter with it outside your school should be edited out at once. After seeing Dax's problem with not fully editing his mind, she then decided to remove that earlier encounter from your mind as well."

"Cleaning-up exercises?" Cormac asked, though he had some intimation of what the s.h.i.+p AI was talking about.

"All those times you thought deeply about that encounter with the drone out in Montana, all those times you talked about it to others. Other less formative occasions were not removed, but the human mind tends to self-edit those memories that do not match up with the life's narrative."

Now that was a statement that would require some thought, and he wondered just how much that lay between his ears truly reflected reality even had it not been deliberately tampered with. But his head was aching, he again felt nauseous, and what had once been shock at the loss of his friends was turning to a deep sadness. Was it grief? he wondered. He did not know if it was, for "grief" was such a vague term. Did it require howling tears from him, irrational behaviour? He didn't know. But certainly he did know the feeling of betrayal.

"As you saw, she drugged me," he said.

"It seems extreme to have done so, just as it seems extreme to edit the mind of a child to prevent him knowing about the death of his father, but it was not so uncommon," said s.a.d.i.s.t. "During the war, when pain was a frequent companion of many, many took the easy route of excising it from their minds."

Cormac sat upright, tightly clutching the sick bag. This time there seemed to be no visual effects, and despite the sudden surge in his nausea he did not vomit, but maybe that was because he had deliberately forgone eating anything for a day before doing this.

"But was it right?" he wondered.

"In itself there is nothing uplifting or virtuous about suffering," s.a.d.i.s.t stated. "Whether it makes its recipient a better person often depends upon whether that person has the ability to change that way. There were those during the war who were turned into monsters by it."

"Do you think she did the right thing?"

"No, I cannot see how the death of a father you had not seen since you were five years old would be so damaging. Rather, I think she was transferring her own grief onto you. I also think that there is more involved here than mere death."

"What do you mean?"

"Her last statements to you, before you blacked out, seem to indicate this," said the AI. "If forced to guess, without seeing the last chapter of these mem-loads, I would say there is something about the manner of your father's death that is being concealed."

Cormac swung his legs off the surgical table and stood. He seemed to have gained some control over his insides and so discarded the sick bag before leaving the room. He would have liked to have taken on the next mem-load, but knew s.a.d.i.s.t would not allow it. Walking slowly he returned to his cabin, lay down on his bunk.

The attack s.h.i.+p had left the orbit of that ruined world over twenty hours ago now, and struggling to mesh with the s.h.i.+p server he discovered that they were in transit through U-s.p.a.ce, though where to, he had no idea. Doubtless, information would become available.

Cormac abruptly glanced towards his cabin door, feeling the oddest sensation that Gorman had just stepped inside to chivvy him out of bed. No one there. Phantom presences of the dead-a sign of grief. Cormac could feel something leaden in his chest and tight in his throat. He felt on the edge of tears yet, as had occurred two or three times before, they just did not surface and ebbed into a cold and distant sorrow. His headache was definitely fading now and he wondered if his mind was becoming accustomed to the mem-loading process. He sat upright.

"I've been mooning around in this s.h.i.+p so wrapped up in my own concerns," he said abruptly. "How is Crean now?"

"Crean has ceased to communicate," s.a.d.i.s.t replied. "As is her right."

"Where are we going now?"

"I am to deliver you both to the nearest Polity world, where you are to rest and recuperate for a period not less that three months, after which you will be rea.s.signed."

"What?"

"Was that not sufficiently clear for you?"

"What about Carl Thrace?"

"Did you think ECS would allow you, a new recruit to the Sparkind who has just lost most of his unit, and a Golem that looks likely to self-destruct, to continue the pursuit of this criminal?"

"I... don't know."

s.a.d.i.s.t continued, "For you, the trail after Carl Thrace ended with that explosion. It is possible he is still hiding on that world but, if so, it would take a ma.s.sive search to find him-one that ECS AIs consider a waste of resources. It is more likely he boarded one of the seven s.h.i.+ps departing that world during the time between his and our arrival there."

"Do we... does ECS know the destinations of those s.h.i.+ps?"

"It is understood, from information obtained by Adsel, that two of the s.h.i.+ps are heading for unknown destinations within the Graveyard and five are heading to a selection of three Polity worlds. Carl could be on any one of them, and there is no guarantee that their intended destinations are their actual ones. ECS personnel are watching for those s.h.i.+ps, and for Carl. Your involvement in this is now at an end."

Cormac felt a sudden obstinate anger at this decision, despite the fact that it was perfectly logical.

"I am presuming," he said, "that the nearest Polity world might also be one of the three that Carl is heading for?"

"The likelihood that Carl has not headed off into the Graveyard is considered low. The likelihood of you encountering him on one of those three worlds, each of which is moderately to heavily populated, is nanoscopic. Also, Cormac, if it came to the attention of ECS that you were making personal enquiries about this, you would be disobeying a direct order to rest and recuperate, and so apprehended and sent out of this sector. This is now out of your hands."

"So what are the names of these three worlds?"

After a long pause his room screen blinked on to show three planets, with their names printed below them. One world was called Tanith, which he knew: a terraformed place of damp moors, dark forests and ersatz gothic castles. It was a tourist place for those with an inclination for such things. The one called Borandel he had never heard of, though wondered if he should have, it being so close to the border with the Prador Kingdom. But it was the last world that riveted his attention: it was called Patience.

He whispered the name to himself, then aug-linked to the room screen to take control of this access to information about that world. First to come up was news on current events there, which he quickly scanned through. Areas denuded of life during the war were recovering well and other areas rendered highly radioactive by bombardment, or unsafe because of the possible existence of human-specific engineered viruses, had been declared safe after many years of decontamination. The building of a ma.s.sive city, upon mile-high stilts, was nearing completion in the Cavander mountains located in Hessick County, which eventually terminated in the Olston Peninsular; such a project apparently being an a.s.sertive declaration of the new optimism on this world, as was the arrival of the supposedly famous Thander Weapons Exhibition-something he had heard of before. But they needed to be forward looking and optimistic here, they needed to put behind them the memories of bitter battles fought against the Prador. Battles like the Hessick Campaign, in which Cormac's father had died.

"Crean wants to see you," s.a.d.i.s.t unexpectedly announced.

Cormac continued staring at the screen, the skin on his back crawling. Of course he had known this world lay out this way, and of course he knew that odd and mysterious coincidences were an inevitability when billions of humans occupied so many worlds, but seeing this was creepy.

"What does she want?" he asked, perhaps rather too abruptly.

"She has come to a decision," s.a.d.i.s.t replied, "and wants to acquaint you with it."

With a thought, Cormac shut off the screen, then sat staring at the blank surface for a long moment. He recalled now where he had heard of the Thander Weapons Exhibition. It was during his basic training, from Carl Thrace. Cormac stood and headed for the door. For now he would keep that particular bit of information to himself, though it was essential he get Crean to agree that they should head for the world called Patience.

Shortly he had reached the door to Crean's cabin, rapped his knuckles against it and waited. After a moment the lock in the frame clunked, and he pushed the door open.

Crean sat on her bed, utterly motionless. She was clad in a white disposable s.h.i.+p-suit, and with syntheskin and synthetic hair replaced, her appearance was much improved. Last time he had seen her she had been sitting in precisely the same position, but still skeletal and charred from the CTD blast, still minus one arm. Glancing round he noted burned remnants still strewn on the floor and over the bed sheets. Why she possessed a cabin and a bed was a mystery to Cormac, since she required no human comforts or even essentials like food or sleep. He guessed it was all about emulation-everything was with Golem. However, he did notice that her s.h.i.+p-suit hung loose and baggy and that her hands, though clear of burnt matter, were still bare of syntheflesh. The bones of her hands gleamed in her lap like steel spiders.

"How are you?" Cormac asked, irritated by the politenesses. Why should Golem have any problems related to flesh they could replace and minds they could reformat like the drives on primitive computers? Why was he playing the emulation game with her?

She looked up, and once again seeing her face reminded him how he had very much reacted to her on a human level. Remembering their erotic encounters here and in his own cabin irritated him too, for after recent tragic events, that now all seemed a childish game.

"I am what I am," she said, "and to be better, to be recovered, it would be necessary for me to cease to be what I am."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," she said. "You still think that Golem are something less than human. You still view Golem as mere machines. You still retain a primitive archaic belief that the mind produced in flesh is something more. It's almost like a religious belief in souls. You cannot seem to accept that we are as complex as you, if not more so. Nor can you accept that you are merely a machine made out of different materials."

He wanted to argue, but she had nailed it. He did feel that way, no matter how foolish it might seem. It was all about emulation, he guessed. What use is emotion if it is something you could turn on and off? What is the use of ersatz humanity when it is something you can dispense with? It is a falsity. Yet, in humans, it had become possible to edit the mind and as a corollary, the emotions. Even now it was becoming possible to turn on and off the emotions in creatures of flesh; and soon memcording of all the data in that lump of flesh enclosing bone would be refined enough for humans, if they so choose, to become something else.

He shrugged, embarra.s.sed. "I will learn."

Crean gazed at him for a long moment, said, "Perhaps I can help you." Then she smiled, closed her eyes and bowed forwards, once again freezing into immobility.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

No response.

"Crean?"

"She will not reply," s.a.d.i.s.t informed him.

"What?"

"Crean has chosen to erase herself rather than reformat herself to a condition in which she could bear to be without her companions."

Cormac found himself backing towards the door. "What?"

"She has suicided."

He stumbled out into the corridor, the nausea earlier generated by the mem-load, returning in spades. Going down on his knees he vomited, then rested his head against the wall and wished he could cry. But something in him wouldn't permit that, and he wondered if those early edits of his mind had damaged it. He remained in the same position for some time, then slowly eased himself to his feet as a beetlebot peaked out of its home low in the wall.

"Do you want me to move her?" Cormac asked the AI.

"I will send one of my telefactors to deal with her," s.a.d.i.s.t replied.

Cormac gazed down at the beetlebot as it hoovered up the thin bile he had spewed, erasing it to leave clean carpet behind. Wipe these things out, clear the slate, leave it clean and ready to be written on again. He understood his mother now, but refused to choose her course.

It was different this time. He felt no sense of being a child and, though he recognised his surroundings as his mother's home, the place had been redecorated and modernized. He walked into the living room and sprawled in one of the armchairs, just like Dax used to do, and even reached over to take up the conveniently placed bottle of whisky and gla.s.s, and pour himself a drink. When his mother walked in, she studied him for a moment before seating herself in the sofa adjacent, her legs crossed and her fingers interlaced over one knee.

"I don't know how you commenced loading your edited-out memories back into your mind, Cormac," she began, "but it is certain that the mem-file I provided was broken into three chapters, since there is not yet the means to load a file of that size without causing brain damage."

Cormac sipped the whisky, and found it fiery and good, yet he had only tried whisky once before and found he disliked its medicinal taste, and the way it ate into his self-control.

"You are therefore," Hannah continued, "on to the third and final chapter after having discovered some things about your past."

Cormac wanted to reply, but though he placed the gla.s.s down on the table beside him and returned his hand to the chair arm, he possessed no control over his movements. His present mind was here, and aware, but he could no more change what played out here than he could have while experiencing his childhood memories.

"You have discovered that I edited your mind twice... only twice." Hannah frowned. "The first time was when that drone tried to speak to you while you walked home from school. The second time was when I realised how unstable so limited an editing could be and had our encounter with the drone in Montana edited out in Tritonia."

So, s.a.d.i.s.t had been exactly right about that.