Neal Asher - The Gabble

What the hell was that?

There was a delay before Mike replied. Simoz felt the wounds in his shoulder and calf being sealed by the mycelium, the pain fading.

Choud DNA has been used in all biofacture here. These lights are fifty-three per cent choud.

Enough for a mature fungal form?

Yes.

Did you read it?

I did.

You have the location of the mother fungus?

I do.

Just then the door to the room opened and Haline entered with a small choud straining at the leash she held. Simoz studied her and she blankly returned his gaze before absently releasing the leash. The choud surged forward, its many legs rustling against the floor. Simoz shot it through the head and it stopped dead, then slowly curled into a perfect ball. Haline showed little reaction.

‘Why have you done this to my home?’ she asked, her words dull.

Simoz walked towards her, but as he drew close she suddenly stepped forward with her hands held out like blades. Simoz touched the shock stick to her forearm and she slammed back against the door then slid down it to the floor. He dragged her aside and stepped out of her home.

I take it you stopped producing the pheromone?

I did not have spare function. My repair of you and my continued alteration of the retrovirus used it all.

Continued alteration?

The divergence of this parasitic fungus is greater than I thought.

Simoz stooped down and parted the rip in his trouser leg to reveal a ragged circle of pink scar tissue.

Quick work.

You need to be completely functional. You have a bit of a journey and anything of more than forty per cent choud biofacture will be trying to kill you.

Where to?

The anchor root. The encysted choud is there.

Perhaps it would be better to release the virus here.

That would defeat the object of us coming here. I need to read the mother fungus. It will be the only way for us to find some clue as to how it got here.

A dubious bet at best I think.

Our only one. If there is even the slightest evidence that the fungal infection was deliberate then there must be an investigation, as that would likely mean Separatist activity. If there is some other cause, we need to know that, to prevent it happening again.

At the centre point of the Wrack lay an open well around whose edges were gathered leaf-shaped platforms. Simoz watched people walk on to these, whereupon they dropped gently into the well. Thick stalks from the platforms were rooted into the wall of the well and slid down as if following invisible grooves.

There must be another way down.

It is likely that this living elevator is based more on wrack DNA than choud DNA.

I think we should find out before we try it.

Walking across the wide plaza, Simoz was conscious of puzzled stares cast in his direction and of chouds straining at leashes. He noted a floor-cleaning creature, like a flattened choud, become aware of his presence then turn after him in painfully slow pursuit. He also noted a heavily choudapted human: a man wearing only a pouch belt, his body completely sheathed in plates of exoskeleton, turn in his direction and slowly come after him. Upon reaching the well Simoz reached down and pressed his hand to the rough surface of one leaf.

Are you in?

I am.

Come on, things are getting fraught round here.

This biotech is ninety per cent wrack-based.

Simoz glanced back and saw general movement in his direction as of a crowd attracted by a curiosity. He doubted he would be able to survive their attention.

Out of choices.

Simoz stepped onto the leaf and it immediately swung out over the well and slowly began to descend. He observed that the stalk penetrated the woody wall through a wet slot, a slot that opened before it and closed after it like a zipper. The leaf platform reached ten metres down when he glanced up and saw the heavy choudapt follow him over the edge on another. Another ten metres down and he saw something fall over the rim above to come hurtling down with a whistling squeal — the cleaning creature. It hit the edge of his platform to scrabble for a moment with inadequate legs, then fell out of sight. Returning his attention to the man above, Simoz saw him staring down, his saw-toothed palps clacking before his mouth.

He could jump.

Thank you for that.

Simoz drew his thin-gun and held it in his right hand, retaining his shock stick in his left.

Standing close to the edge of his platform, the man did not jump, but withdrew something from one of his pouches and pointed it at Simoz. No time to react — Simoz had not expected personal armament here. Something slapped his leg and he peered down at the ugly dart buried in his thigh. It consisted of a glassy blade with feathery flights, with two testicular sacks pulsing between the two.

Neurotoxin.

Simoz’s leg went completely dead and gave under him. He grabbed the dart and pulled it free, black poison dripping from its hollow point. He fired upwards blowing a lump out of the edge of the platform above, driving his attacker back out of sight. Two more shots blew holes straight through the upper platform, but his choudapt attacker abruptly jumped over the edge.

Simoz fired at him again as he hurtled down. One shot took a lump from the man’s shoulder and tore away a plate of exoskeleton. Without apparently noticing his wound, the man landed solidly, his clawed toes driving into the material of the platform. Simoz snap-shot at him as the numbness spread to his other leg then edged up to his sternum. The shot missed.

‘Earther!’ the choudapt snarled and flung himself forward. Simoz shot again and had the satisfaction of seeing an arm cartwheel away as his attacker fell back off the platform, then his own arms went dead and his vision faded.

Simoz.

…

Simoz.

I hear you.

That is good.

Is it?

Yes. Had there been no immediate response from you …

What?

You would have been dead.

How damaged am I?

The neurotoxin has caused extensive nerve damage. I am now controlling all your autonomous functions.

What about my unautonomous ones?

I am using myself to establish links across the damaged areas.

My feet are hurting.

…

That’s better.

Re-establishing visual cortex.

Simoz blinked as his vision returned, but there seemed to be something wrong with it.

Though everything was sharper it also seemed somehow false. He blinked again and tried to move his arms. They responded to him, but yet again there seemed to be something wrong -

some feeling of disconnection. Levering himself upright, he attempted to stand, but only got halfway before falling flat on his face.

Something not quite right here.

There is a disparity of function. Try again.

Simoz finally managed to stand. As he stood there swaying, his hands suddenly seemed to catch on fire. He screamed and abruptly sat down.

I must use one hundred per cent of my function. Disconnecting from cerebrum.

Mike, no, wait!

The burning in his hands became a deep soreness, a tingling, numbness, then went away completely. Warily Simoz stood again and checked his surroundings. Everything seemed to be working perfectly now, only inside him there lay a terrible emptiness.

Mike?

…

Mike?

Simoz nodded to himself, then stooped and retrieved his weapons. He was alone in the anchor root, and especially aware that no corpse without an arm lay here on the floor where the platform had come to rest.

I don’t know if you can hear me, Mike, but this has to be Separatist terrorism. Why else would someone be wandering about with a neurotoxin weapon?