Neal Asher: Brass Man

Either information virus or EM pulse.

As he moved towards it, a shadow drew across him, and from that—on a chain wrapped with hydraulic hoses and optic cables—dropped a spiderish claw. He watched it grope along the ground, close around the Golem’s chest, then haul it up and away. Solenz glanced around, hardly believing his luck in being the only one to see this. He was going to leap up in the ratings. This would be on Channel One!

Just then, an invisible claw closed on his chest, and paralysis swept out from it. The nerve agent contained in the smoke killed him before he hit the ground.

One year later, on Channel One, Solenz announced, ‘By the time the fug cleared and Earth Central Security was paying attention, the gravcar had disappeared into the Indian megaplex. As you may remember, Jovian Separatists claimed responsibility for the attack. I’m happy to report, now Earth Central Security has raised the media blackout on subsequent events, that they later found these killers during an undercover penetration of their organization. The murderers were caught and mind-wiped, their bodies then being used to take cerebral downloads selected from that vast store of minds uploaded from those individuals who avail themselves of the new memplant technology.’

Solenz winked at the camera.

‘The rumour that some of the killers’ bodies now contain the minds of some of those they murdered in the attack cannot be substantiated.’ Solenz grinned—he liked the grin his new face possessed.

‘The prototype Golem Twenty-five was never recovered,’ he added.

Standing on the black glass floor of a virtual viewing chamber aboard the Jack Ketch, Cormac took in the scene projected from a holocam a kilometre out from the hull. The ominously named Theta-class attack ship bore the shape of a cuttlefish bone, but with outriggers on either side holding torpedo-shaped weapons nacelles. It was the dark red of old blood, and smooth as polished stone. A more modern product of the Polity, its controlling AI, named Jack, took no orders from any human captain. Cormac wondered if it could withstand Jain technology subversion any better than had the Occam Razor and its interfaced captain, Tomalon. In such a ship as this, there was no facility for AI burn—for killing its AI—it having been built after the time of extreme paranoia about AIs taking over… when they had.

To one side of the Jack Ketch he observed other Polity ships surrounding, like flies around a healing wound, the reconstructed area of Elysium. Dreyden, the ruler of this Out-Polity community, had fought against allowing them to render assistance, and threatened them with the smelting mirrors of Elysium just as he had used those same mirrors against the attacking Occam Razor. But the damage to the community had been more than it could sustain and, without help, his little empire here would have fallen apart anyway, but with a greater resultant loss of life. Now, after one year of quarantine, all assistance had been rendered, and Dreyden was just a businessman in yet another community subsumed by the Polity.

Eight hundred and twenty-three thousand, one hundred and nine…

That was the figure at the last count, though by now it would have risen by a few souls as people continued to the in the hospital ship, or took the easier route of memcording to escape bodies made irreparable by isotope poisoning.

My choice.

It had been the risk of this, balanced against the slaughter of millions on Masada. There had been a chance that no one would have died here. But they did. His call.

Cadmean victory…

Cormac wondered about the name of this ship he had boarded, now that quarantine was over. Perhaps Jack Ketch the hangman was here for him. He now turned his attention to one whom Earth Central Security was allowing to escape the noose.

The trispherical Lyric II was only just visible, by the white light of its fusion drive, as it moved away from Elysium. It was unusual for Polity AIs to make such value judgements on the actions of individuals, and normally they applied the law harshly and without favour. John Stanton had been a mercenary killer, in the past working for the Separatist Arian Pelter, and perhaps deserved to die, as had Pelter. Cormac winced at the memories: Pelter’s brass killing-machine, Mr Crane, coming for him; the Golem Cento and Aiden bringing Crane down; and his own subsequent pursuit of Pelter, and killing of the man. Even so, the Earth Central AI had decided, that for what Stanton had since done and risked, no one would be looking when he and his wife Jarvellis returned to their ship and headed away. Cormac observed white fusion flames blink out inside a distortion that seemed to pull at his eyeballs, and knew that the ship had now entered underspace and was gone. He envied John Stanton such freedom—from prosecution, and from responsibility.

‘A satisfactory conclusion,’ said a breathy voice beside his ear.

‘Cut visual feed,’ said Cormac and, as the external image blinked out to reveal the glass-walled projection chamber he stood in, he turned to the ancient Japanese man standing beside him. ‘This must be a new definition of “satisfactory” of which I have been unaware. Would you like to elaborate?’

Horace Blegg kept his expression bland as he replied, ‘Masada and this place are under the control of the Polity, and Skellor now so much interstellar ash.’

‘And here, and at Masada, nearly a million dead,’ Cormac added.

‘Such loss of life is unfortunate, but base your calculation on lives saved, not lives destroyed. Had you and John Stanton not led Skellor here to be incinerated, he would have killed every human being in the Masadan system, and for him that would have been just the start.’

Cormac smiled tiredly. ‘I’m not an infant; I made that calculation at the time. But you forget, I’ve been in Elysium for a year and seen what happened.’

‘My assessment still stands. What is there for you to regret?’

‘My original assessment of Skellor, I would say.’