The ATVs had drawn to a halt and their crews began piling out, while the spiderguns had been climbing the debris slope ahead. It had all been just a matter of time, with the overwhelming forces disembarked from the Fist about to begin their assault. But now Bartholomew stared in horror. Saul’s ship had risen from the ground without any visible form of propulsion. It had taken Bartholomew seconds of just gaping at the screen to realize there was no optical problem involving the drones, and then . . .
What the hell happened?
Bartholomew reached out to his console with a shaking hand and wound back the most recent imagery. He slowed it down and watched most of the spiderguns ending up buried, then the small-arms fire. Saul’s ship then tilted . . .
Must have been a firing from the Fist . . .
But Bartholomew had detected no such firing, and the last tacom update on constant feed to him confirmed this. He slowed the video down even further, and watched as part of the equator of Saul’s ship flared and a thing like a giant silver rod stabbed out, struck the Fist dead centre, flattened itself into a blade and scythed across, blurring into a gleaming explosion all around the equator of Saul’s ship even as that initial ejection hurled it, at massive acceleration, across the surface of Io.
The Fist, the ring of its own vortex generator severed, emitted a similar but smaller ejection, which also chewed up its equator as subsequent coils failed. This tore up a crescent of ground large enough to be visible from orbit, which was the only view Bartholomew next received since the blasts had taken out the drones. He suspected that ejection would have done more damage if its course had not been tangential to the moon, and just gouged a mass out of its surface before continuing on into vacuum.
Subsequently the Fist rose on a massive explosion. Bartholomew had assumed it a munitions explosion but, as Oerlon’s ship came apart and fell away in a fountain of silicon lava, he realized that the near-relativistic ejection of liquid mercury from Saul’s ship had punched right down through Io’s crust. In fact, a plume now becoming visible way beyond the horizon line confirmed that it had cut right through the moon and emerged out the other side.
No, he understood, the Fist had not hit Saul’s vortex generator; Saul had deliberately shut down its containment and used it as a weapon to destroy both the Fist and that ship’s assault force. And now, like a shark rising from the murky depths, Saul’s ship was heading up through the massive dust storms and pyroclastic flows on Io . . . and coming Bartholomew’s way.
18
His Gently Smiling Jaws
With the ability to grow tissue grafts, and even whole organs, in nutrient tanks becoming an established fact of twenty-second-century medicine, a large body of researchers in transplantation technology were seconded by the Committee to look into further applications that might be useful to the Inspectorate. Often the more esoteric products of such research were at the whimsical behest of some powerful delegate and, since rejection problems had been all but overcome, the delegates concerned often looked to the animal world for inspiration. The results of this further research can often be seen today among Inspectorate enforcers or the bodyguards of delegates. The misnamed cat’s eyes enabled the recipients to see in the dark, though that genetic template was in fact taken from a lemur. Properly named extensible cat’s claws proved a rather useless addition to a bodyguard’s armoury. Keroskin, first based on the skin of crocodiles, was a non-surgical replacement for sub-dermal armouring – actually spreading across the recipient’s body like psoriasis. After numerous tweaks, it included shock-absorbing layers like Kevlar, a high content of insulating fibres that made it resistant to heat, and diminished growth of the afferent nerve fibres, which cut down on the recipient’s perception of pain. Protected by such skin, enforcers could go charging into riots even while inducers were being deployed; however, volunteers to test out what delegates saw as a truly advantageous development were sadly scarce.
Earth
That giant called ‘acceleration’ was bearing down on Clay again, and its breath stank of hot metal and burning plastic. He opened his eyes, not sure if he’d blacked out during what felt like undertaking a short journey inside a trash compactor on a bob sleigh run, and which now oddly seemed to be continuing even in utter silence. Then he realized that what he was feeling wasn’t acceleration at all but his old friend, and sometimes enemy, namely gravity. He looked down at his torso, half expecting to see some ribs protruding, so much did his chest hurt, then he glanced around him.
The air was full of smoke, though it seemed to be clearing. Over to his right, Galahad was still slumped forwards in her chair, while over to his left . . . Clay gaped out at an open plain, now taking on hints of bloody red in the false dawn, scattered with burning wreckage surrounding some great mechanical construct, itself burning, and which it took him a moment to identify. Then he realized he was seeing the caterpillar treads and the underside of that yellow bulldozer. The entire left hand side of the drop shuttle was gone, sheared off, but they were down, and he had survived.
He reached down and pulled his umbilical from the ship’s air feed, which at some point must have developed a leak, for how else could he have smelled the effects of burning? He unclipped his helmet, now seeming so incredibly heavy, and tossed it aside. Sniffing, he now also detected an odd underlying putrid odour. Next he looked directly ahead, as if only just plucking up the nerve to do so, and saw Trove gazing down at the torn metal right beside her seat, and a three-metre drop to the gravelly ground below. Sack was already on his feet, his helmet discarded, and heading back. He came to stand before Clay, reaching down to undo his straps. Clay thought this very kind of him, until the bodyguard relieved him of his sidearm.
‘You okay?’ Sack asked, looking past Ruger.
Before Clay could reply, a muffled voice from behind him replied, ‘Think so . . . broke my fuckin’ nose.’
‘You’ll survive,’ said Sack, and stepped on towards Serene Galahad. He unstrapped and, with frightening ease, casually picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Ignoring Clay and Trove, who was now heaving herself out of her seat, he marched over to the sheared-off edge of the drop shuttle and jumped down on to the dusty plateau.
Obviously labouring in Earth’s gravity, Trove made her way back to Clay and leaned against the chair next to him.
‘Didn’t keep up with your . . . resistance exercises . . . in the spin gym,’ she noted, after she discarded her space helmet.
Clay guessed she was right because he seemed glued to his chair. He made another effort to get up, rose a little way, then slumped back. Struggling herself, Trove finally helped him up and they moved over to the torn-away side of the drop shuttle. Had he not known that they would be landing on Earth Clay might have supposed they had arrived on Mars, what with the russet hue outside. Though this was a Mars from some VR fantasy rather than the mundane reality.
The soldier was already ahead of them, climbing down to the ground, before glancing up at them with a face that looked as if it had been slammed into a brick wall. On wobbly legs, and feeling as if his body was now fashioned of lead, Clay eased himself down to the edge, grabbed hold of a protruding jag of metal, then snatched his hand away as it sizzled. Trove went down ahead of him, using a twisted skein of optics and preconductor cable as a rope, then waited below as he followed her. At the last his grip could just not support his unaccustomed weight and he fell on top of her, and they both tumbled to the ground.
‘You’re fucking useless, Clay Ruger,’ she said indignantly.
‘Don’t you love me any more?’ he asked, as Trove fought to regain her feet.
‘Only like any other helpless animal,’ she replied, drawing her sidearm from her belt.
Clay, now up on his hands and knees, stared at the ground. He had assumed their landing site to be a cleared and levelled section of sprawl, but now reality began to impinge. Staring up at him, half buried and partially crushed, was a human skull. Extending his inspection of the ground, he identified
crushed ribcages, leg and arm bones, wads of clothing, shoes, cheap fones and the occasional glint of fake jewellery. He knew now what their landing field was. It had probably acquired the name ‘Bonefield’ or the ‘Field of Bones’ or the ‘Ossuary’, as had so many similar places all across Earth. He was standing on a great mass of skeletons, all crushed down and levelled. He was standing on just one of many such accumulations of Earth’s dead: the result of Serene Galahad’s Scouring of the planet.
‘Shit!’ he exclaimed and found himself up on his feet in a moment, as if his body had just remembered how to work in gravity. He looked all around and, amidst the scattered and burning wreckage, he saw drifts of skulls, then the small mountain of skeletons the yellow dozer must have been spreading out and compacting down.
‘Nice place, huh?’ remarked Trove.
‘Yeah, wonderful.’ Clay spat the dry, powdery, slightly putrid taste from his mouth, wiped dust from his lips and tried to bat some of it off his spacesuit. He finally looked up: the sky was dull red but with a lighter glare over on one horizon. Meteorites were still cutting across it high up and, even as he watched, some larger piece of wreckage came down, flaring like a firework before breaking into three pieces that went streaking over the horizon.
‘We have to get away from here,’ Trove added. ‘But, before we go, we have some unfinished business.’ She began walking over to where Sack had deposited Serene Galahad on the ground, then removed her helmet and lodged a wad of the plentiful loose material here under her head. Galahad seemed to be recovering, reaching up with one hand to rub at her face. The one soldier was sitting a few metres away, on an unidentifiable chunk of wreckage, carefully cleaning the blood from his face with a wet-wipe from a small medical kit. He no longer had his rifle and his sidearm was holstered. Trove’s intention was obvious.
Sack, meanwhile, was standing over by the dozer, inspecting its huge blade though not stepping too close to it. The heat radiating from that big curving chunk of metal was causing a visible haze in the night air, while flames and black smoke were shooting up from behind it. Clay smelled burning oil and guessed that the dozer’s hydraulic fluid must have caught fire. It was understandable, he supposed, for Sack not to want to get too near to any fire. The man had lost most of his skin in the aero crash on Earth that had nearly done for both Clay and Galahad, and subsequently had it replaced with that ugly keroskin. Though why he seemed so fascinated by the dozer blade, Clay could not fathom.
‘Well, how are you feeling, Galahad?’ said Trove.
The soldier now took note of her and began sliding his hand towards his sidearm. Trove immediately relocated her aim from Galahad towards him.
‘Yes, draw your weapon,’ said Trove. ‘But only with your forefinger and thumb, and then toss it to one side.’
The soldier flicked a glance across at Galahad, something odd appearing in his expression, though it was difficult to read on his ruined face. He shrugged, reached down carefully and withdrew it as instructed, then violently hurled it far beyond his reach. Clay eyed the bodyguard: Sack had turned away from the dozer blade and was now strolling back. There was something wrong here because he seemed completely unconcerned.
‘I feel ready to begin work, Pilot Officer Trove,’ said Serene Galahad, now sitting upright. ‘And I have no time for silly little dramas like this.’
Trove swung her aim across and pointed her weapon at Sack. ‘You, down on your knees.’
Sack continued approaching.
‘I said, down on your knees! Now!’
Sack halted, held up his hands in submission, then sank down, his knees crunching on shards of bone. Trove aimed again at Galahad.
‘We’re standing on your work, ma’am.’ Trove injected as much contempt into the honorific as she could.
‘We’re standing on the work of Alan Saul,’ Galahad replied, now rising to her feet. ‘It was the most horrific of crimes but, in essence, a necessary one to save Earth from humanity. I will build on that. I will remake Earth and I will remake the human race.’ She gestured all around herself. ‘One day there will be soil and trees here. These human dead will feed the rebirth of this planet.’
‘Haven’t we heard just about enough of this?’ Clay asked.
‘I reckon,’ Trove replied.
She pulled the trigger and the gun kicked in her hand, its flashing putting after-images into Clay’s eyes, and the noise so much louder than from modern weapons. Galahad flinched away, then steadied herself with eyes closed. She then reopened her eyes and smiled. Trove fired again, emptying the entire clip, the sound of the weapon thundering and echoing around them. And next, while she stood there still pulling the trigger, and it continued clicking like skeletal fingers, Sack, who moved with scary speed for such a big man, reached over and took it out of her hand.
Trove just stood there as Sack discarded the empty clip and inserted a new one, before heading over to stand next to his charge.
‘You didn’t think I would hand you a weapon with live rounds, did you?’ he asked mildly. He nodded towards Clay. ‘He had the real thing, which was why I took it away from him.’
‘Do you now see,’ said Galahad, ‘there is nothing to stand between me and the future. I will do everything I say, and that way I will save this world.’ She paused for a moment as if in reflection. ‘I would, of course, have liked to have seen you properly punished, as a lesson to all, but the situation is too complicated to explicate to the general public, so regretfully you will not be making any further appearances on ETV.’
She turned her attention to Sack. ‘Kill them.’
Command
Saul’s ship continued rising, and now further data were coming in.
‘Some kind of Mach-effect drive, apparently,’ said Jepson in Communications and Scanning – one of his four surviving command crew. ‘But apparently its primary source can’t be located, so we can’t knock it out.’
‘We don’t want to knock it out until he’s up here,’ Bartholomew stated. ‘If that ship goes down on Io again, we’ll have to sift through widespread wreckage for the Gene Bank data and samples.’ He paused for a second. After seeing the Fist obliterated, his instinct said that Saul’s ship was such a great danger that he should instantly open fire. But instinct nevertheless had to take a backseat to mission objectives. If he reacted out of fear and ended up destroying everything they had come for, he knew that an adjustment cell would be waiting for him back on Earth.
‘What has Tactical got to say?’ he asked.
It was another of the command crew, Cherie Grace, in charge of Weapons and Logistics, who replied: ‘Though we can’t locate the primary source of this Mach-effect drive, a sufficient bombardment should knock it out. He also has no real weapons any more, and little in the way of defensive capability. Scans show extensive damage inside, too.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘We’ll try and target power sources . . . do we have his generators located?’
‘Mostly, but hitting them is not going to be easy.’
‘We’ll do that anyway, but make sure we avoid the Arboretum cylinder.’ Bartholomew wondered if there was anything else he had overlooked.
‘Do we have any updates from Earth?’ he asked.
Jepson failed to reply, and Bartholomew turned to him. The man was staring at his screen with his mouth open and an expression of shock.
‘Jepson?’
‘Something . . . something at Earth.’
‘Jepson!’ Bartholomew snapped. ‘Report!’
The man looked up. ‘There’s been an . . . explosion back there.’
‘And?’
‘Admiral, the readings are off the scale . . . We’re gathering data right now but it seems the nuclear arsenal of the Scourge detonated.’ He shook his head. ‘We can’t find the Traveller construction station.’
‘Sir,’ interrupted Grace.
‘What do you mean, you can’t find the construction station?’ Bartholomew demanded, ignoring Grace.
‘It’s gone,
sir,’ Jepson replied.
‘It’s gone?’ Whole new scenarios opened before Bartholomew. ‘I’ll want confirmation of that, and more detail on what happened. Did we receive any messages prior to this event? And do we have any data on Serene Galahad’s location when it occurred?’
‘Sir!’ Grace insisted.
He held up his hand. ‘Shut up, Grace.’
If Serene Galahad had died in the detonation of the Scourge’s nuclear arsenal, then that put a whole new complexion on events – on his mission objectives, and on the penalty for failure. It would also mean a scrabbling for power back on Earth, the outcome of which he could influence with the weapons remaining to him aboard the Command. These were matters that needed his very close consideration. However, whatever he thought of Galahad, the fact remained that the Gene Bank data and samples were important for the future of Earth, and therefore should still be retrieved. It was just that, if she was dead, taking captives was no longer necessary. He could hit that command nexus at the centre of Saul’s ship, where he was sure Saul himself resided. He could probably hit everything else in there but for the Arboretum cylinder, because surely the data would be stored there, along with the physical samples. He could tear that ship apart and—
‘Admiral, sir!’ said Grace. ‘I must insist!’
‘Must you?’ he spat, rounding on her.
‘He’s accelerating, sir!’
‘Doubtless that has something to do with him getting away from the gravitational pull of Io,’ he said, returning his attention to his console and screen. After a second of studying the data Grace had relayed across, reality finally bit.
‘Open fire on the enemy vessel!’ he shouted. ‘Target everything but the Arboretum cylinder!’
‘Everything, Admiral?’ Grace enquired.
‘Everything,’ Bartholomew replied. ‘We’re not taking back any prisoners.’
‘Understood, sir.’
In moments Bartholomew felt it in his bones, as his ship began firing, and he also noted the lights dimming with the drain.