Ragnarok 03 - Resonance (27 page)

FORTY

COOLTH, 2606 AD

Jed Goran had never wanted to be a spy – or even a spy's husband, more to the point – but Labyrinth had enemies and backing down from a fight had never been Jed's way. Yet there was bravery and there was foolish unpreparedness, so as his bronze ship orbited Coolth he minimised the external-view holorama and reviewed the briefing holos.

So, Coolth.

Ice locked continents; oceans where schools of huge balaenae swam, singing songs of epic learning and grandeur, where once every Coolth year, each herd, some two thousand strong, would gather around their vast matriarch whose skin nodules would begin to pulse and finally burst open, tiny forms streaking upward to the surface and up into the sky, for the nymph form soared like birds, a lifecycle discovered by an early explorer called Rekka Chandri, the events of her real life distorted by the popularity of a twenty-fifth century holodrama series called
Chandri, Space Explorer
, which created an extended and improbable mythology of its own, in which Pilots were always mysterious and undefeated in space or hand-to-hand combat.

‘True enough,' said Jed aloud, and grinned.

And what about Pilots' ships, in the stories?

He slipped lightly into trance.

They were clueless about you, my love. And about Labyrinth's existence
.

Just as well, perhaps
.

Jed returned his focus to the briefing material.

*

An hour later, they soared in to land next to Barbourville, an extended series of domes, some large enough to house potentially a thousand people – even though the entire station's complement was no more than eight hundred – sitting securely on the icescape. It was historical coincidence that this, Coolth's largest research station, bore the same name as one of Molsin's former sky-cities that had perished in what people were calling the Conjunction Catastrophe – except that their understanding of what that meant was about to change.

Clara, white faced, had shared news with Jed before he left Labyrinth, information that was yet to spread among the realspace worlds: Molsin had fallen prey to the Anomaly, and final intelligence reports – before surveillance devices stopped functioning and Pilot ships in orbit transited to mu-space before the Anomaly could subsume them – showed the baby sky-cities reaching out to the wreckage of the true cities, such remains as still floated in Molsin's orange skies, and joining quickglass to quickglass, forming one great floating structure that looked to be extending horizontally, perhaps eventually to cover the entire world like a spherical webbed shell.

And there were hints that it was already lowering tendrils to the hydrofluoric acid oceans below, though for what purpose, no analysts were willing to say for sure. What was clear was that Anomalous components like Rick Mbuli – killed fortuitously by Jed, over and over in his dreams and in waking flashes – had succeeded in carrying out the act that Petra Helsen had only faked, in order to get the sky-cities firing on each other out of panic: carrying out the absorption of individual human beings into one giant planetary gestalt, either part of or identical in nature to the original.

Fulgor, Siganth and now Molsin were lost.

This is Coolth and we need to concentrate.

You are so right, my love.

Ice felt cold on their ventral hull as they landed, then Jed and ship slipped apart, their minds disengaging, so the ship could create an opening to the control cabin and use a slender tendril to carry Jed out and lower him to the chilly ground. He blew her a kiss, breath steaming, then trudged across hard-packed snow to the nearest entrance.

His ship watched until he was safely inside, then she ascended, keeping her attitude horizontal, and took up a floating position a kilometre above Barbourville, ready to act should Jed need her, trying not to worry but unable to help it because this kind of operation was new to both of them, and risky enough for those with experience, never mind first-timers.

Once indoors, the smartgel that had coated his lungs began to crawl up into his mouth, and by the time he walked into a grey-decorated concourse, he was able to spit the stuff out as a blue glob, and push it into a small pocket that formed in his jumpsuit for the purpose. His eyes were their natural obsidian with no need for disguise, as he passed research workers who gave small nods and grew quiet until he was past, a reminder that the mythology of centuries-old holodramas remained strong among most of humanity, arguably with good reason.

Ferl Corplane's office was in a section dominated by shiny white ceramic with silver edging, which seemed an unnecessary echo of the icescape and freezing oceans outside. But that was true throughout the building: the floors were stacked like decks in a submarine or sky vessel, with armoured hatches everywhere, all of it hard-looking, devoid of luxury.

Perhaps sheer depression had motivated Corplane to pick up extra money by selling shipment details to Zajinet agents – if not to Zajinets directly – with no thought to the lives of Pilots and passengers who might be killed in stealth raids or ambushes, or the subsequent suffering of colonists unable to receive supplies which in some cases were necessary simply to live.

‘I'm Jed Goran.'

‘Corplane.' In flat near-monotone: ‘Happy to meet you, Pilot.'

He was shaven headed with implant loops curled around his neck. Jed had met members of the Corpuscular Plasmonad before, although he never entirely understood their philosophical views relating humanity's destiny to homeostasis and apoptosis, the desirability of self-immolation for the sake of the status quo. Those people, he had found unexpectedly good-humoured. Corplane, however, was blank-faced, almost without emotional affect.

Sending you down will be a pleasure, you sour faced bastard.

No doubt a professional would be more even-tempered, but Jed felt anger rising on behalf of the dead, and had consciously to control his breathing, calming down to get on with the job.

‘Here are our shipment requirements,' Corplane went on. ‘Some of the required delivery dates are quite tight.'

There were no seats or desks in the office, only work-shelves against the walls. That at least was contemporary, as men and women across the realspace worlds were finally throwing off habits from the sedentary centuries that had had such a deleterious effect on mind body health. Jed approved, but Corplane was still the enemy.

A sheaf of holos blossomed in the centre of the room.

‘Let's see how well we can match up,' said Jed. ‘You understand that availability and pricing are determined by technical constraints as well as logistics.'

The secrets of mu-space navigation were not to be shared, but it was occasionally necessary to point out the difficulty or impossibility of a would-be client's request, for example a foray to the galactic core – where the corresponding mu-space region was a turbulent spacetime typhoon – or some mad request such as a voyage to Andromeda, not understanding that other galaxies remained out of reach, if not as unthinkably so as in realspace.

Jed's tu-ring generated branching possibilities, rendered as golden holo streams that fitted in among the sheaf projected by Corplane, and negotiating modules in the displayware found best fits and highlighted them for approval.

There were two main sets of proposal capable of matching the requirements, and after an emotionless inspection, Corplane pointed to one of them. The corresponding holo elements gleamed.

‘Done,' said Jed.

The legal notarising took femtoseconds. Holos winked out of existence, leaving only Corplane and Jed standing in the office. Without even a nod, Corplane turned his back on Jed, and gestured to begin working with a his-eyes-only holo.

Charming.

‘Nice doing business with you,' said Jed.

Then he left without checking for a reaction from Corplane. As he walked along the white corridor, he reviewed the interaction in his mind, deciding that his own annoyance would have appeared entirely natural, without betraying his secret knowledge of Corplane's duplicity.

Let's see how you handle the outcome, you bastard.

Corplane had just bought his own doom.

The Zajinet attacks had been subtly placed, so that it had been difficult to backtrack to the security leak; but now Clara's people had done just that, there would be counter-ambushes set up and waiting, ready to destroy the attackers while incidentally gaining legal proof of Corplane's guilt, as the Zajinets followed the false data supplied by Jed.

Soon enough, Jed found himself in another concourse, its architecture bare – suggestive of a cargo hold embellished with a series of catwalks – but filled with the bouncing chatter of some three dozen people on a break, the animated energy of those who had been working quietly for hours and had more to do, needing to interact with friends and colleagues while they had a chance.

He bought himself a hot drink and carried it to one of the upper catwalks, where he could lean against the rail, sipping his drink and watching the people, wondering if someone was going to make contact.

There was a local team in place, their job to maintain surveillance on Corplane and detect any contacts he made, and preferably to follow anyone that Corplane met in person. Jed knew nothing beyond that, not even their numerical strength, save for the team leader's name: Shireen Singh. She had a recognition code for introducing herself if she thought it desirable, otherwise Jed would end up leaving Coolth knowing nothing, until such time as Clara or someone else in the Admiralty might share a titbit of information regarding his success or failure here.

The sight of three racks of antlers among the crowd surprised him, until he remembered the rumours, that Haxigoji were travelling to other worlds now, more than just the occasional official delegation to Earth, the previous extent of their voyaging.

Suddenly the antlers jerked.

What have they seen?

Of course he meant smelled, or did he? Either way, something had disturbed the Haxigoji down below, and as far as Jed was concerned they were trustworthy friends, because they had protected him on Vachss Station after he had killed the thing that had been Rick Mbuli, and the reason for their protection was that they had perceived Mbuli's true nature.

So what had they detected here?

Corplane. Must be.

The bastard had been in close contact with an Anomalous component, or more likely a renegade Pilot, and the Haxigoji could detect some echo of that. It was the logical explanation, except that Jed could not see anything of Corplane. Raising his tu-ring, he was about to send a comm signal in the hope Corplane would answer, when a woman
appeared beside him and his tu-ring beeped a code-received acknowledgement.

‘I'm Shireen.'

‘Jed. Corplane is—'

‘Still in his office. Whatever they've spotted, it's not him.'

So she had noticed the Haxigoji too.

Her smartlenses were dark brown, enough to make her look like an ordinary human under normal circumstances; but Jed caught sight of tiny golden sparks inside. She was worried and getting ready for action, and if someone were trying to engineer another Anomaly here, the only way to save the research station crew was sudden violence, to kill the once-human component before it could begin absorbing others.

More killing.

The thought made him tremble, because killing Mbuli was already hard enough to deal with. But he would do whatever was necessary now.

You need me, my love?

Not yet. Stay up there.

All right.

His ship's presence, a kilometre overhead, gave him strength, allowing him to centre himself.

‘Look there,' said Shireen. ‘In the corridor.'

One of the Haxigoji had left the concourse proper, and was pressing his double-thumbed hand against a view window. From here it was impossible to tell what he was seeing.

‘Someone outside,' said Jed.

‘I'll call in my team.'

‘Right. You do that.'

He broke away, jogged along the catwalk to the steps, then threw normal behaviour aside, throwing one leg over the rail and commanding his jumpsuit fabric to become friction-less, as far as it was capable. Like a schoolchild, he slid down fast, hopped to the concourse deck, ignoring the reactions of everyone around, and pelted into the corridor, popping blue
smartgel into his mouth because the air outside was impossible to breathe unassisted.

There was an emergency exit and it responded to his tu-ring's signal and then he was in cold air, stumbling across snow, trying to correct his gait and squint against the wind – stronger than before – to make out the man who was staring at him.

Narrow-bodied, brown hair, plain jumpsuit. Nothing special about him – except that when Jed glanced back, two of the Haxigoji were standing in the open exit and pointing. The atmosphere was even less suitable for them, nor were most of them prone to violent behaviour, which was exactly what was needed now.

‘Jed?' It was Shireen, calling via her tu-ring. ‘Corplane's dead. We just checked his—'

‘Shit.'

‘I'm triggering the public emergency net.'

The figure ahead was moving away now, his boot-soles elongating to form snow-shoes, moving with an easy-looking gait that drew him further and further away from Jed's awkward pursuit through ever-deepening snow.

A wail cut through the air behind him, followed by a ripping sound – icequake! – but it was not the ice-mass beneath the snow that was splitting apart: it was the research station behind him, the domes and linking tunnels all cracking into segments, sealing themselves into fifty or more modules; and as Jed watched, they began to slide away from each other, their motive power unclear but visibly accelerating, smoothly moving across snow and heading for the cold ocean, because ice-quakes were not uncommon and this was a viable defensive procedure for most contingencies.