Dark Intelligence (28 page)

White water swamped him for a moment, then he surfaced, immediately loading another clip and quite proud that he’d managed to hang onto it. He kicked water and scanned around for the fish, but saw only the scooter bob to the surface and right itself with its gyros. He turned towards the nearby jetty, and saw the fish there. It was half up out of the water, its weight tilting the jetty, jerking occasionally and flapping its fins. A great green chunk was missing from the bloody prow of its skull.

Gotcha
, he thought—glad to have been dunked like this since he’d pissed his pants.

From the foot of the jetty, a mixed group of shellmen and regular humans were making their way out, the lead figure carrying a coil of rope and a grappling hook. As Trent kicked water, he thought these might be for him. But when the crowd reached the reaverfish, a shellman jammed the grapnel in behind its head, then the whole group hauled it fully out of the water. More people were flooding onto the jetty too, carrying various edged implements, baskets and bags. Of course, such a creature was a huge source of food and starvation wasn’t uncommon here. He snorted to himself, holstered his weapon and stroked out to his scooter, whose engine was still ticking over. Mounting, he brought it in on the other side of the jetty, which was practically half-sunk now, shut it down and unwound the mooring cable. Someone took the loop from him and dropped it over a bollard, then reached over to help him across. Only when he was off the scooter did he recognize the person standing before him and realize his danger. Instead of him seeking out traders, the mafia had come to him.

“Impressive,” said a tall white-faced individual, the rapidly growing space in the crowd revealing a skeletal Golem behind him.

Trent gaped at the thing. Its polished bones were enamelled with colourful geometric patterns, so it looked like an artefact from some Mayan tomb. The thing was bigger than normal, possessing heavy joint motors and unfamiliar reinforcing along its limbs. Other almost organic-looking technologies further bulked it out. This gave it the appearance of a giant of a man who’d been skinned, rather than a silvered Golem skeleton.

Trent began reaching for his weapon but the Golem moved so fast the air snapped around it. Beside him in a moment, it clamped a skeletal hand about his wrist. In his ear it whispered, “Tush.”

“I don’t think so,” said the man, briefly giving the Golem a worried look.

Trent heaved against the grip but he might as well have fought a docking clamp. He found the situation puzzling. Why was a Golem accompanying a local mafia lord? The androids were generally moral creatures, adhering to the spirit if not the letter of Polity law even when they were outside the Polity, so how come one of them was here with Stolman? He was definitely up to his neck in just about every crime in the book. In fact, the only reason Trent and Isobel knew about him was because he’d supplied captives for coring. He’d even purchased some back to sell to the prador here. The only Golem that would willingly work for someone like him was a broken Golem, but they were a rarity and notoriously unstable—often as dangerous to their master as to their master’s enemies. But then, skin crawling, Trent remembered another kind of Golem inhabited the Graveyard. Those belonging to Penny Royal.

They could be found scattered about the Graveyard in concealed bunkers, in private collections, or just dumped somewhere awaiting discovery. Trent even knew of one sitting in a drinking den as a bar ornament, aboard the space station Montmartre. They had little value beyond that of scrap, because they couldn’t be activated. Generally people kept well away from them because, on the rare occasions they did activate, it meant Penny Royal was near and bloodshed would ensue. Either Stolman had found a way around the activation problem or the black AI was here. Neither option boded well.

Trent glanced at the surrounding crowd. Most of the people here were intent on dismembering the reaverfish—great dripping green chunks already filling baskets and bags. Its fins had been severed and stabbed like kebabs on a long glass spear. Those that were watching the interplay between him and Stolman were obviously interested but wary and showed no signs of intervening. It wasn’t a good idea to get on the bad side of someone like Stolman. Should Trent shout for help? Should he ask for favours since he had landed their supper for them? No. The Golem could easily depopulate this jetty in just minutes. Also, did he want to escape?

“Come with us,” said Stolman, gesturing peremptorily.

The Golem pulled Trent further onto the jetty, then propelled him towards its rear, releasing him in the process. His gun hand now free, Trent hesitated until a skeletal hand rested on his shoulder. He turned and gazed into gleaming dark blue eyes devoid of pupils, and shuddered.

“Try anything,” said Stolman, “and it’ll rip the skin off your back.”

Trent tapped the butt of his weapon regretfully and continued.

“Over there,” said Stolman, pointing to clusters of tables and chairs scattered before one of the waterfront bars. “We’ll take a drink and have a little chat.”

Trent shrugged. Were Stolman and his Golem any more of a danger to him than Isobel? In fact, if he played this right, Stolman might even be his way out of here. He headed over, pulled out a chair and sat down, folding his arms. Stolman sat opposite him. Trent’s back felt itchy with the Golem standing so close behind. He stabbed a thumb back at him.

“Penny Royal’s?” he asked.

“It was,” said Stolman, “but now it’s mine.” He smiled cadaverously. “We finally managed to activate it a few months ago.”

Trent dipped his head in acknowledgement, but wondered if that was quite true. Isobel had told him about her visitor, and the repairs to the U-space drive confirmed its identity. This Golem might just have activated due to Penny Royal’s presence in this sector of space—Trent had no idea how close the AI needed to be to set them in motion.

“So,” said Stolman, “tell me what Isobel Satomi is doing here.”

“Why would you want to know?” asked Trent. “You should understand that taking too much of an interest in her affairs might be dangerous.”

“Not quite so dangerous now.” Stolman indicated with a nod to the Golem behind Trent. “But I’m only asking if there’s some way I might be of help.”

Trent closed his eyes for a second and took a slow breath. So, Stolman had inadvertently activated a Penny Royal Golem and now he thought he had the power to play in Satomi’s toy room. But there might be even more to this. Did Stolman think he could take her on? The question then was if he was right. If Stolman had gone up against her in one of her strong-holds, she would have annihilated him, but right now she was isolated. Was Trent’s best option to throw in with Stolman? He couldn’t decide. The Golem here might be obeying the man, but there was no telling how long that would last. Nevertheless, Stolman undoubtedly had other resources too and with the Golem might be able to take the
Moray Firth
. If it was just Isobel as she had once been aboard the ship, before her further transformation, Trent reckoned Stolman’s chances would’ve been high. But just how lethal was Isobel’s new form? Could she, in that form and armed with a proton cannon, take a Golem down? And how long would it be before her reinforcements arrived? Isobel would surely now be talking to others in her organization, summoning resources to pursue her new goal of vengeance against Spear.

“I imagine that if she’d wanted your help she would’ve asked,” Trent replied, now scanning his surroundings. He noted various mean-looking individuals casually placed about the area—more of Stolman’s people, no doubt. “Y’know,” Trent continued, “Isobel hasn’t expanded her operation for a while because of what Penny Royal did to her—she’s been looking for a solution. However, the last contender for her crown ended up in a prador meat farm.”

Stolman shrugged. “So what? I’m just interested in how I can help.”

“No,” said Trent. “Like just about everyone trapped on this damned hole you’re interested in the
Moray Firth
. What are you planning, Stolman?”

“I understand,” the man replied smoothly, “that she has been making enquiries about various kinds of fuels. It occurs to me that she’s stuck here until she can get hold of them.”

By now the bar owner had realized people were actually sitting at one of his tables and had come shuffling over. In keeping with the retro feel of the place, he wore a stained apron over clothing that must have been copied from some historical catalogue. He even held a paper pad and pencil in his hand. He also looked frightened—shooting glances at the Golem as he walked over to stand obsequiously beside Stolman, pencil poised.

“What you got?” Stolman asked.

“Reaverfish on the menu today, Mr Stolman, sir.”

“I’m not hungry. Got any beer?”

“Snapper and Amstel, sir.”

It struck Trent that if he walked into a bar in the Prador Kingdom, he’d probably find Amstel there.

“Snapper’s a local brew,” Stolman informed Trent. “The shellmen make it and it’s surprisingly good.”

“Really?” said Trent, sure now that the man was glad of the interruption, and deliberately delaying getting to the point.

“We’ll try that.” Stolman tilted his head to one side, still gazing at Trent. “That okay with you?”

“That’s fine,” Trent replied.

“Two beers, then.”

The barkeeper scribbled something on his pad, just for form, then headed back into the building.

Two men were now approaching, lugging some bulky hardware. One had a backpack and one was carrying something that looked like a gun, but with a power lead running to the pack. Trent began to turn to study them more closely, but the Golem suddenly clamped its hands on either side of his head, forcing him to continue looking forwards. Someone out of sight relieved him of his pulse-gun. A droning sound cut the air and Trent felt suddenly hot, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Wisps of smoke rose from glowing dots on his clothing. Stolman watched him as he tried to brush these away, nodded an acknowledgement to his men, then returned his attention to Trent.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now we can really talk.”

The Golem released him and Trent looked down at himself. Of course, he’d been stupid, but reviewing everything, he couldn’t remember saying anything particularly damning. Now he realized Stolman had been speaking largely for Isobel’s benefit. She must have loaded him with spy gear when she cut off his aug.

“I don’t see what we have to talk about,” he said, glancing at the two with the hardware. He now recognized their machine as an antediluvian inductance weapon, used to burn out pin cams and microscopic microphones.

“The
Moray Firth,”
said Stolman, “its defences, who else is aboard, its access codes … I suspect you have a perfectly good idea of what I want.”

“Isobel is a haiman,” said Trent. “I don’t have access codes and I don’t have any way of getting you through the
Firth
’s defences.”

Stolman ignored him, instead watching the approaching barman. He continued, “I think we’ll enjoy this beer, then take this conversation somewhere more private.”

Trent decided that this Snapper beer had better be good, because it might be his last.

SPEAR

“What do you mean, ‘the drone has the fusion bomb’?” I asked.

“The drone activated the moment I brought it into the munitions loading bay, it then subverted the inner bay door and came aboard,” replied Flute. “It immediately headed for the weapons section and is now wrapped around the fusion device.”

Oh, great
.

“Has it communicated with you?” I asked, casting around. My gaze eventually fell upon a laser carbine, leaning against the horseshoe console at my feet. I studied it for a second, then wondered what the hell I’d been contemplating. I got lucky with the severely damaged Golem Daleen. But I would not be getting lucky with a functional assassin drone, no matter what weapon I might have to hand.

“It has not, but it is perpetually trying to seize control of ship’s systems. While it’s using only electromagnetic means, I am at present managing to stop it.”

“So you won’t be able to stop it if it gets physical?” I suggested.

“This ship does not contain the requisite internal defences,” Flute replied.

Of course, this destroyer had been built to fight the prador, whose drones were too big even to enter. And the likelihood of something like a small second-child getting in, without the ship having been thoroughly incapacitated first, was remote. Destroyers like this simply weren’t built to deal with anything other than the prador enemy.

“I want to speak to it,” I said, standing up.

“It is blocking all com to itself, but I am pressurizing the armoury so you can address it through the ship’s intercom.”

“How long?”

“You can speak now.”

For a while I just didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how long the thing in the armoury had been somnolent, if it had been so at all. Alternatively, whether it was still loyal to the Polity or had been subverted by Penny Royal. It might not even be sane.

“Can you give me an image of it?”

“No, it disabled the cams.”

“Very well—I’ll speak now.” I paused, cleared my throat. “I once saw a drone just like you on Durana, during an attack on a prador Ucapium mine. We didn’t get introduced. It was just there, carrying the eggs of a particularly nasty prador parasite. I wonder how that went?”

No reply.

“That is, if you are the same assassin drone?”

Again no reply.

“I think I was hit.” I grimaced. “Well, let me be a little more exact there. I know I was hit by Gatling fire and lost consciousness. That was when we ambushed a prador patrol. I’ve no idea what happened afterwards.”

Still no reply.

“I imagine the mission was accomplished, since when I checked I found that Krong survived the war. Anyway, he didn’t have a very high failure rate.” I paused for a second. “So, tell me, what is your name?”

“Riss.” The word hissed from the armoury sounded more like an exclamation of annoyance.

“Your name is Riss?”

“My name is Riss,” the drone replied in a breathy whisper.