Neal Asher - The Engineer Reconditioned

“Box? I thought you weren’t letting anything through.”

“I merely reassigned priority. One of my subminds has been vetting all communications. This particular one may be relevant to all our actions. It is from Alexion Smith and it is on real time.”

“Him. What the hell does he want?” As she said this Chapra glanced at Abaron and saw the awe on his face. “Strike that,” she said. “Let’s go and find out.” Junger twenty-eights , thought Kellor. He stood in the hold of his ship watching, on a nearby viewscreen, the gunships jetting across vacuum from the heavy-lifter shuttle. The General must have bribed someone in the Polity to obtain them. They were dated, and must have been scheduled for destruction at some point. Sixteen of them. Kellor licked his lips. He was not sure he liked this. The money was good and must obviously be in proportion to the risk… but some of the other toys the General had brought aboard bothered him. The tactical atomics weren’t so bad. Kellor had used them himself on many occasions. But the CTDs were. Contra terrene devices were the kind of things to get you really noticed by Earth Central, and it was by not being overly noticeable to EC that Kellor was able to continue to operate. He really hoped the General had no intention of using them against a Polity world

— that would really piss off some major minds, and a pissed-off AI was an enemy indeed.

“You have some reservations,” said Conard. A few paces behind him stood his two young aides, their expressions utterly devoid of emotion and in Kellor’s opinion, intelligence.

“I always have reservations when I don’t know all the details,” Kellor replied. The General stood with a swagger stick tucked under one arm and managed not to look ridiculous. His uniform was neat and spotless on a diminutive frame. His face wore a mildly thoughtful expression. But Kellor had begun to understand what went on behind that expression. General David Conard hated the Polity, and most especially its AIs, with fanatical intensity. He would die to bring it down. And he would kill anyone to bring it down. Kellor considered himself a better man. As far as he was concerned people could live how they liked. He only killed for money.

“There is nothing much to add. You must first sever communications using those… missiles.” He said the last word with contempt. It was his disgust at the thought of using smart missiles that had made Kellor finally realise the depth of Conard’s hatred of AIs. “And on our subsequent arrival in the system take out the Polity ship you’ll find there.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes, and as I said before, ‘There must be no survivors; complete obliteration’.”

“And it’s only a Polity science vessel?”

“Yes.”

“No colony on the world?”

“No.”

“That’s all right then.”

Kellor turned to watch as the first of the gunships entered the hold of the Samurai . They had four-man crews, which meant his own crew would be outnumbered by about twenty. He would have to prepare for that eventuality. He turned back to Conard.

“Why?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why do you want to destroy a Polity science vessel? Surely there are better military targets?”

“That does not concern you.”

Kellor pretended to think about it then nod reluctant agreement. He had noted and filed the edge to Conard’s voice. That edge had not been there at the beginning. Something had changed and the mission had acquired greater urgency. If the Separatists were becoming desperate to destroy that vessel then it carried something of huge potential value. With his back to the General, Keller allowed himself a cold little smile and glanced to the squat muscular bulk of his first officer. Jurens returned his look then nodded back to Conard. Kellor turned to watch.

The General strode over to a group of four of his soldiers who had come aboard the Samurai in the first Junger. One of these was either ill or drunk and his fellows were attempting to support him. As the General approached they quickly stepped away. Conard did not hesitate. He kicked the soldier in his testicles then kicked his feet away from under him. As the man lay on the deck groaning Conard reached down and pulled something from his neck and tossed it aside. Jurens stepped up beside Kellor.

“H-patch,” he said. “Confederation soldiers like to stay stoned so’s they don’t have to think about what they’re being ordered to do. Arseholes.”

The General, just to drive the point home, began systematically kicking in the soldier’s ribs. The man probably couldn’t feel it. Jurens spat on the deck and turned away. Kellor followed his first officer from the hold. He too, as a young mercenary, had suffered such officers as Conard.

Alexion Smith looked neither old nor young. There was nothing fashionable nor particularly unfashionable about his appearance. He had short blond hair, a thin non-descript face set as a background for calm green eyes, and wore a ribbed and neatly patched environment suit. He looked… utilitarian. From years of association Chapra knew that this was because such things as fashion just held no interest for him. His love was for things long dead and buried: ancient ruins and ancient bones, preferably alien ruins and alien bones. He sat now at ease in a deep armchair in a projection that occupied the air over the consoles in the control room. Behind him was a window through which could be seen a barren landscape below a sky half-filled with a red-giant sun. Weird birds drifted in charcoal silhouette.

“Alex, it’s nice to see you,” said Chapra as she dropped into her swivel chair. Abaron took a seat in the background.

“It is nice to see you, Chapra, though I wouldn’t recognise you. I take it you got fed up with the grey hair and sagging tits?”

Chapra grinned at the sound of a sharply indrawn breath behind her. “I did. I find that in this form it is easier for me to get what I want. Appearance is all even in this cosmetic age. What is it, Alex? What’s given you priority over half a million other callers?”

Alexion looked out his window for a moment before returning his attention to Chapra.

“I was fascinated by your discovery out there, Chapra, and supposing that the escape pod is five million years old I considered that discovery within my remit. I’ve been watching and paying attention… picking up on every scrap of information… The evidence is mostly mythological, philological… you know as well as I that you can excavate languages and stories as well as ruins—”

“What’s your point, Alex?”

Alexion looked at her very directly, “Based on the construction of the escape pod — remains of one exactly the same were found in the Csorian time vault — and based on the machine it… uses — the shape of that machine was etched into the walls of the same vault and no-one knew what it was until now

— and based on thousands of other fragments of information collated by AI, there is an eighty-three per cent probability that the creature you have there is… Jain.”

Chapra shivered and heard Abaron curse. She immediately wanted to object; but the Jain died out millions of years ago, they’re just dust and legends and racial memories of gods… Alexion went on, “In the Sarian mythos the Jain were the great sorcerers, the transformers. Their houses were said to be black water-filled boxes built in the equatorial deserts. Their symbol was the triangle. And if that is not enough, the world to which you are heading, has been posited for over a century as likely a Jain home world.”

“Okay, I’m convinced,” said Chapra. “But how is this to affect what I am doing here?”