Polity 4 - The Technician (34 page)

Hooders
were the greatest danger out here; few structures could survive a determined
attack from one of them. However, they took no heed of this place, skating over
it as if it were just some mound – in fact there was a recording that could be
viewed here of a hooder doing just that, seen from the underside as it went
over the dome. Had that same creature been able to see inside, been attracted
by the lights and movement, it could very likely have broken through the glass
and caused mayhem. But the designers had thought of that and the glass was
oneway, its flat hemisphere appearing just a dull rocky grey from the outside.

Ripple-John
stood, putting his laptop aside, then stepped over to the corner of the short
balcony provided for his apartment. Here stood a tall plant pot, its contents,
a plug of soil bound with roots, standing messily to one side with stunted
multicoloured lizard tails sprouting from it. John resumed the chore he had
been at just as the call arrived from Katarin. Using his hands only he scooped
more remaining soil from the pot and deposited it in a bag, then he pulled
closer the canister from beside the balcony rail and keyed instructions into
the control pad on the end of it, then after second thoughts, added further
instructions.

There
was always the possibility that the same sort of jamming as had been used
around Greenport might be used here and block his signal, even though he was
using seismics to a transponder actually within this place. He therefore set a
timer for seven hours hence. Either at that time, or when he sent a signal upon
knowing for sure that a certain ATV had arrived here, the canister would open
and discharge its contents into the atmosphere. The canister did not contain
nerve gas or any other sort of lethal gas, though it did contain a biological
substance. However, even that was harmless when breathed by a Human. The stuff
would spread throughout the way station and, since this place maintained its
breathable atmosphere more by pressure differential than by atmospheric
security, it would leak out through the many holes in this place.

Then the
killing would start.

Jem tilted his head, listening. The muttering was closer now, seemed
clearer somehow as if, with some effort of will, he could divine meaning from
it. It also seemed to be more under his control. He could tune it out,
concentrate on the ATV’s engine and let that other sound wane, recede somewhere
to the back of his mind.

As the
big armoured door swung open ahead of the ATV, Jem returned his attention to
the shells arrayed on the seat beside him. Puzzles with a religious motif being
one of the few entertainments allowed Theocracy children, he remembered doing
jigsaws when a child, and gazing at these shells he felt the same as he felt
when doing them. It was almost as if each shell was a circular segment cut from
some larger picture he had yet to see. Certain lines and shapes seemed
concurrent; seemed like they ought to link together in some way. Moving the
shells about, trying to match one line to another on a different shell, he felt
both frustrated and fascinated. He felt that jigsaw feeling of engagement to
complete something, yet a joy in the process that he did not want to end. It
also distracted him from what felt like an unhealing wound inside his head.

‘Didn’t
they give you any toys when you were a child?’ asked Shree.

Her
statement seemed to mirror some of his thoughts, but her words were only bile,
bitterness. He knew, that given the opportunity to do so without bad result for
herself, she would hurt him in any way she could. No, that’s not right. He
looked up into her face, which at that moment appeared utterly alien to him yet
simple and open to easy inspection. Double bluff, he realized. Her reporter
persona was allowing her hate free rein for she could justify her provocation
as an attempt to obtain newsworthy responses. She could claim to be pretending
a plausible hate she did not really feel. But she really did hate him, and he
knew in that moment that she intended to kill him.

‘Softly
spake the gabbleduck in words of meaning lost,’ he said.

‘They
gave you a book of rhymes, then.’

The cab
of the ATV darkened as Grant drove it into the tunnel, grew darker still as the
big door closed behind, then an eerie blue glow infused the tunnel as lights
flickered into life. Jem blinked, Euclidean after-images in his eyes,
overlaying her face like fractures.

‘I
booked us three small apartments,’ said Grant. ‘Lucky really, since now there’s
not much room – a road crew is staying here.’

‘The
ones working on that damage we saw?’ asked Shree.

‘Probably.’
Grant shrugged.

It had
delayed them for a couple of hours, during which time they set up a brief camp
and broke out supplies. Shree hadn’t let up then, continually pressing Jem
about his beliefs, about his opinion of the Theocracy, the Polity. To escape
this Jem had taken a walk up to look at the damage. A great scar had been
ripped across the road – the rhizome mat completely torn apart to reveal black
tricone-infected mud beneath. Apparently this was a common occurrence, the
tricones attacking the road as if it were a real structure rather than just a
path hammered through the flute grasses. Over the other side of this had stood
a large truck with a loading arm, the back of it filled with sheets of
plastimesh to make repairs, but no workmen had been in sight.

Other
supplies quickly packed away, Grant had taken the ATV off the road, barging
through flute grasses beside the tear, labouring over raised mud banks, the
beaked monstrous head of a mud snake, like a giant horse skull, briefly
surfacing to one side as if they had run over its body. Going off-road being so
easy, Jem had wondered why they bothered with a road at all, but that detour
made him realize why. Though capable of going off-road the trucks that
generally used this route were not as agile as the ATV, and with the road open
ahead of them could travel much faster. After that, two hours’ travel had
brought them to the way station, which remained invisible to Jem until its main
door opened, for flute-grass rhizomes were spreading over its upper surface to
disguise it.

The
inner door opened, flooding the tunnel with a brighter artificial light from
within, and Grant drove the ATV into the central area. Here vehicles were
parked directly on the foam-stone raft, whilst around these, raised beds
contained gnarled grape trees shading grey grassy masses starred with flower
flashes of red, yellow and white with exotic combinations in between. Jem
wondered what bishop had made this place his gardening project, and whether his
remains resided in his flower beds or outside. Grant drew the ATV to a halt
beside a large dozer and shut it down.

Both
Grant and Shree picked up packs to carry out of the vehicle with them and,
seeing this, Jem felt a sudden surge of loss. His only possessions now were the
clothes he stood up in, and even they might not be considered truly his. He
didn’t even have a bag containing a few personal items, toiletries, a palmtop
or even a watch. Directly upon this feeling he felt a sudden nostalgia for his
room in the sanatorium. Only as he stepped out of the ATV after the other two
did he wonder at his lack of yearning for his proctor residence at Triada
Compound. It seemed so utterly distant from him and, though he had spent the
intervening years since in something like delirium, their impact remained. Even
further in the past lay the family home in Zealos, parents struggling with
oxygen debt and his father dying from the strain, a debt Jem paid off with his
first year of proctor wages, only for his mother to die just as the account
cleared.

That
past now lay utterly disconnected from him. It belonged to a person Jem no
longer recognized; one with simple beliefs and few questions, one who accepted
the world as he found it and his position there. The Jeremiah Tombs of right
now recognized that the world was a lot more complicated than he had supposed
and that the questions storming in his head only began with the ones Humans
asked themselves day to day. Shree had helped bring this into focus; her hate
had brought it into focus.

Above
the gardens enclosing the parking area, the ring of apartments and other
concerns rose to four storeys; short balconies ran in a ring around each level.
Jem could see some people up there, and more in the restaurant they passed on
the way to one of the four reception entrances. Inside, a tall woman with scars
on her face and a shirt open to her navel to expose a scole scar took Grant’s
details, handed over room cards and gave him directions. With wary doubt she
stared at Jem for a moment, at his clothing, at the script running down it.
Perhaps she’d seen something about him on Earthnet. He wanted to tell her that
a lot more resided inside these clothes than she was seeing.

‘You can
buy new clothing direct from your rooms, if you like,’ she said, her gaze on
Jem. ‘In fact there’s a lot you can buy here now.’ She flashed a sympathetic
smile at him, her gaze again straying down. Confused, he looked down too, saw
that his clothing was stained with mud and there were rips in both knees of his
trousers. When had that happened? He turned and followed as Grant led off,
realizing the woman had seen only a person, not an erstwhile proctor, and that
to her his clothing might only have been some odd fashion, like the open top
she wore. Glancing back as they mounted the stairs he saw her watching him with
just a hint of a smile, her look something he had no recollection of any woman
directing at him before. But he had to turn away, angry that his sudden
gratitude tightened his throat and squeezed tears into his eyes.

Corridors
decorated in bright colours and soft thick carpets led to their rooms.

‘I do
need a change of clothing,’ said Jem, as Grant directed him to one door and
handed over his room card.

‘There’ll
be a console inside,’ said Grant. ‘You can order what you want through that.’

‘Got
some proctor back pay?’ Shree enquired.

Grant
took a wallet out of his pocket, opened it and extracted a thin memory stick.
‘Use this – your credit rating should cover anything you want.’

‘So now
he gets Polity credit?’

Grant
glanced at her. ‘He’s on a retainer – he’s working for the Polity now.’ The
soldier turned away and headed for his room.

‘You’ll
find it difficult to buy yourself a Satagenial here,’ said Shree, turning to
Jem. ‘Though there are plenty available for sale in places more often
frequented by tourists. It seems Theocracy artefacts sell well to Polity
citizens, who always like to snatch up the remnants of a dead past.’

‘I will
let go of my religion the moment you let go of your hate,’ Jem replied.

She
snorted derisively and moved away.

Entering
his room Jem gazed around at the luxury cluttering the shell of land-bound
Theocratic minimalism. It didn’t take much imagination to mentally remove from
this small space the soft bed, cupboards, combined high-tech shower and toilet
unit and auto vendor, and replace them with institutional paint, sleeping mat,
prayer stool, slop bucket and the scourging tools resting in an icon alcove now
containing a holographic projector.

He
nodded to himself, not sure what this confirmed to him, then deliberately
allowed that distant muttering to impinge on his consciousness again. It
definitely had a source, he felt, outside his skull, distant but definitely
directional. Something was stirring, over there, he could face where it came
from. And its unease came from him. What it was he didn’t know, but felt sure
he would know. He shrugged it away, walked over to sit before the room’s console.

It was
of the kind he had been familiarized with at the sanatorium and it
automatically came on, sensing his presence, to show him the wonderful shopping
opportunities here at Bradacken way station. He sat staring at it for a long
moment, resisting the urge to check over his shoulder, utterly aware that no
one was there, that he was alone. If only he hadn’t killed, if only she could
be here . . .

Abruptly
angry with himself, he jabbed into its slot the memory stick Grant had given
him. His credit rating blinked up on the screen, and he proceeded to spend it.
Half an hour after that he took a shower, then sat on his bed wrapped in a
towel until the door buzzer snapped him out of reverie. He opened the door to
find a low, flat oval platform piled with his purchases, and wondered if maybe
the woman from reception had brought it. Puzzled that no one was here, he
picked up the various packages and took them inside. When he took up the last
one, the trolley said, ‘Have a good night, Jeremiah Tombs,’ rose up on six fat
insectile legs and scuttled off down the corridor.

Jem
slammed and locked the door, stared at his bed and contemplated the certainty
of nightmares.

A notification went to every aug, comunit and console inside the
observation tower, and many in the monitoring rooms below the main platform
returned to their instruments to begin recording and analysing their subject
with a depth and precision never used before, yet with so much more concealed
from them now. Accepting all data feeds from the tower’s sensors, and using
many of his own sensors, Amistad watched the Technician wake.

After
its last kill the biomechanism had lain coiled on the flute-grass rhizome mat
for eighteen days, as if digesting that meal, yet this had been a common
occurrence only over the last twenty years, so this certainly wasn’t an
after-lunch nap. At the centre of the coil its spike of a tail twitched, then
the creature rippled, that ripple spiralling outwards from the tail until it
reached the spoon-shaped head, which rose a little. From where that head had
been cupping the ground, a mist of vapour dispersed, and Amistad saw that the
Technician’s body temperature had risen, in some areas beyond anything seen in
it before, and now even higher within its cowl. Other readings, where they
could be obtained, revealed high chemical activity, the kind of electrical
readings to be expected from a busy computer, running as a background to
disperse neuro-chemical firings. This had been seen before, but never at this
density.