Neal Asher - The Gabble

“How much?”

“Four hundred, that’s fair. I’ll use all my own stuff. It’s easy — “

I was curious.

“A thousand.”

“Oh come on, for that piece of junk? I only want it for the Historical Society. Six hundred.”

“Funny, I thought I said a thousand.”

“Seven fifty. That’s it, easy, final offer, no more, capiche capoot.”

“Not interested.”

Of course I was, very interested, but if there was good money to be made here I intended to make it, not to pass it on to this slime bag.

“Okay okay, a thousand, done, a thousand.”

“Go away,” I told him. Then I saw something in his expression I didn’t like at all, something incongruous. I turned away and headed for my AGV with the android walking along behind me.

“A thousand is a lot,” it said.

“It is.”

I inspected it contemplatively. But for the loss of the syntheflesh covering of one side of its face and one arm it might well have been human. Many of its kind had since been accepted as such. It was just an unfair quirk of the law that defined this one as a machine and later models as sentient creatures.

“What’s your name?” I asked it.

“Paul G6B33.”

“Why do you think he’s interested in your memory, Paul?”

“I do not know. I have no long term memory other than Cybercorp contract and base program.”

Grable had obviously loused. There was nothing of value in this android’s mind. I should have sold him a copy. Too late now.

“Get in the back of the AGV, Paul.”

My android obeyed me.

The Tenkian autogun followed with its impeller humming like an AC transformer and its turret turning with martinet vigilance. A couple of lice came out from the rocks behind but it did not fire. They did not come into the shifting perimeter. They stayed to feed on the remains of their fellows, their mandibles clacking with relish.

I had a hell of a time with the crate. I slipped once and grazed my knee, then sat on a wet rock, swearing, with water soaking into the bum of my trousers. I could open the crate and maybe its contents would follow me as obediently as Paul G6B33, if its power pack wasn’t down.

Finally I abandoned it in a suitable crevice weighed down with crusted rocks, then I moved on.

The world-tide is coming with the rise of Scylla’s binary companion and I have to prepare myself.

I don’t like to think about how.

After taking the precaution of dropping Jane off at her residence — I didn’t want her with me where I was going next — I took Paul straight to a prospective buyer. There was the usual jam up at the atmosphere lock and it took two hours before we were out of the city dome and cruising into the outlands. Paul had remained silent until we were speeding towards the distinctly curved horizon over the landscape of yellow ice-cliffs and weirdly phosphorescent mists.

“What place is this?” he asked with idiot precision.

I pointed out of the screen.

“I’ll suppose I could give you a total of twelve guesses, but no, you only get three.”

He looked out of the screen at the massive loom of Jupiter filling half the sky, its red eye-storm gazing down at us speculatively.

“We are on one of Jupiter’s moons,” he said. I decided he definitely had the mind of a three. A five never felt the need to state the obvious. But as far as antique value went a five was half the value of a three.

“Yes, but can you figure which moon?”

There was a long pause then the statement, “Ganymede.” If he’d got it wrong I would have been most surprised. Threes are not capable of guessing. If they do not have enough data to come to a conclusion they say so.

“Correct,” I told him, superfluously, and slowly began to bring the AGV down towards an expensive residence set in the face of a sulphur-crusted cliff. The lock of a garage opened for us and we were soon climbing out of the AGV to be greeted by the goddess. Why do I call Henara the goddess? Because that is precisely what she looks like; Aphrodite, Diana, some supernal woman. She is nearly two metres tall and has the kind of build that will leave a man with a hollow feeling in the region of his groin. She has long luxuriant hair and a face to leave sculptors and painters feeling inadequate.

“Jason, so glad to see you… and who is this?”

Her voice set bits of me vibrating I did not know existed. She was fantastic. The AI that designed her deserved some kind of award, if it hadn’t already got one. She was a Golem twenty-three, I think. Human beings are never that close to perfection, or apotheosis.

“This is Paul G6B33,” I said, making the introductions. “Paul, this is Henara Indomial, who I hope will soon be your new owner.”

Paul greeted her politely, and she led us into her home. In a few minutes I was sunk in a sofa, which was ridiculously luxurious, with a large scotch in my hand. Henara and I had an agreement that went back for ten years. She paid me a retainer so I would buy up any Golem that came up for auction at Darkander’s and offer it to her on a percentage basis. She was a free Golem and very very rich. The work of her endless life now was to make other Golem free. She bought them, upgraded then, and put them through the revised Turing test. Then she set them free.

“There was a great deal of interest in him,” I told her. “I had to pay two hundred more than expected.”

The credit transfer was made and I relaxed.

“One strange thing. Chaplin Grable offered me a thousand for a download copy of Paul’s memory. Yet Paul only has his short term memory and his base Cybercorp contract and programming.”

“Interesting,” said Henara with a noblesse oblige nod, then she turned her attention to Paul. “Who owned you prior to Jason here?”

“I was attached to the Planetary Survey Corps in 2433,” was his reply and I knew that was all she’d get. Assignment was in the contract memory. His skills and personality were in his base memory. I didn’t think there was much to be learnt, so after a while I took my leave.

Back at my apartment I spread my remaining purchases out on a repro twentieth century glass-top coffee table (no-one can afford the real thing) and inspected each of the items minutely. Eventually, reluctantly, I picked up the bracelet and studied it. The metal it was made from, like the watch, was ceramal. There were eight lozenge diamonds spaced evenly round it, one for each colour of the rainbow plus one clear one. What made me suspicious about the object was the thickness of the ceramal. It was over a centimetre thick. Perhaps the thickness needed for a chain used to tow asteroids, but hardly what was required for costume jewelry. I popped it open and inspected the clasp and hinges. What I found there increased my suspicion, and stirred up a little of the excitement I always thought dead until each time it re-appeared.

Where the bracelet opened there were pins on one side and sockets on the other. Where it hinged there were flexible mini conduits. The pins, I realised on seeing their reddish lustre, were made of carbon sixty doped ceramal, a very hard room temperature superconductor. What I was holding certainly wasn’t cheap costume jewelry. What it was I hadn’t a clue. It was about then that the phone let me know someone wanted to speak with me.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Ah…”

The hologram of Chaplin Grable’s most unbecoming features flickered into life before me.

“Henara Indomial has it. Go bother her.”

“I’m authorised to offer you two thousand for… what?”

“Henara Indomial.”

I waved my hand in the general direction of the eye and the face flickered out of existence. I didn’t like the man. The phone called for my attention again.