The thing continued along its course, sucked up a fusion reactor without pausing, absorbed a giant factory unit like a macrophage eating a bacterium, began carving its way down a dreadnought assembly tube, its diameter now wider than the tube and leaving nothing but ripped-off support struts behind. It passed through the backs of more final assembly bays, drew in wreckage and the badly damaged body of an entire attack ship. Ahead of it the warned AIs had abandoned their abodes by whatever means available—by ejection tube, by ’structor pod, strapped to the back of a robot, or walking out in heron-legged mobility units—and moved out to the hull. Over the next hour the thing traversed thirty miles of the station and closed in on the hull metal at the end.
Here was the moment. Would it punch through and just continue on its course or, as Sverl was beginning to think, was it some sort of response prepared by Penny Royal to that fleet out there? Would it pass out through the end of the hardfield and then proceed, in some manner, to annihilate those Polity ships? It didn’t. As it reached the multiple-layered metal of the hull it buckled it, tearing out a great chunk, but halted and began to change. Like a soft egg hatching, it began to deform as if something was pushing out from inside. It bubbled and then, amoeba-like, began to extend pseudopods. As these stretched out, they began to harden and take on definition, turning into protrusions like the trunks of giant trees, terminating in flat pads packed with tangled tubework. The whole thing looked like a giant model of some kind of bacterium. As Sverl watched this thing for a while longer, he realized that though it had halted its progress forwards while making this transformation, it had started moving in another way. It was spiralling gradually outwards and infinitesimally back the way it had come. It was also doing something else, turning and presenting those protrusions and, as well as tearing up hull metal, it was now shedding mass too, extruding something from those flat pipework pads.
It was depositing a thick and steadily growing cap of brass-coloured material on its obverse side from the station. Sensor data was not so good up that end now because so much of the infrastructure had been wrecked, so Sverl fired a probe from midway along the station to go and take a look. A few minutes later he gazed upon a shallow and growing hemisphere cupping the end of the station, with the device working between. Initial analyses that came back told him this object was formed of some layered composite that bore some similarities to prador hull metal. Further analysis revealed that this composite consisted of woven strands of partially exotic matter. The hemisphere continued to grow as more and more of the station was fed into the maelstrom. Next, the course of the thing changed: it stopped constructing the hemisphere and traversed across it, in a series of radial courses. Behind it left bracing beams, but with an organic look, like the inner structures of a bird’s bones, woven again.
It returned to its spiralling course, building the hemisphere with pseudopods on one side of it, while eating the station with those on the other. At length, over the best part of a day, it began reaching beyond the limit of the station as the hemisphere grew to over forty miles across. Now it began making sorties back into the station to feed itself, before heading back out again to deposit matter. As the thing ate away the end of the station, the hemisphere shifted inwards. Also the hardfields out there were adjusting their position to accommodate it. Feeling utterly awed, Sverl made some more calculations. This thing was turning Room 101 into a sphere which, when finished, would measure fifty miles in diameter. But what concerned him now was what would happen when it reached back to the runcible, his own sanctum, the hospital and finally the U-space drive. He deeply hoped that those still alive in the station, including of course himself, had not just become irrelevant to Penny Royal’s plans. He did not want to end up as a thin layer in that growing mass.
The Brockle
As the High Castle surfaced from U-space, the Brockle, keeping a wary eye on the distant border watch station, reached out and made tentative connections to the AI net. In the data available to anyone who logged on, it found little of interest. There were no stories of its own escape from the Tyburn or any of that ship’s destruction. There was just a brief mention of the murder aboard Par Avion and some speculation about the possibility of some kind of disruptor weapon being used. Nothing new about Penny Royal beyond rumour and pure fiction. It would be necessary, therefore, to delve deeper, and with that came dangers.
In the guise of the High Castle AI, it first began a slow and steady penetration of ECS data traffic issuing from Par Avion. Here it was surprised to discover that there was nothing about its own presence there. The station was being searched for “likely separatist elements” in association with the murder of the woman because she had separatist connections herself. Polity AIs had made no link between the Brockle’s presence there while the High Castle was docked and the subsequent loss of communication with that ship. In fact, that loss of communication was considered quite normal for a ship on such a sensitive mission. After thoroughly checking all this data, the forensic AI finally decided it was safe to make deeper enquiries.
Next it shifted its attention to com traffic with the Polity fleet the High Castle had been intended to join. Security was intensely tight there, but its guise as the High Castle AI gave the Brockle a high level of clearance. Still cautious, it did not go too deep, merely learning of the transformation of the prador Sverl, his assumption of control of Room 101 and the intention of the fleet to get him out of that large military asset. The Brockle felt frustrated with this, because the knowledge brought it no closer to finding Penny Royal. Instead it tracked back through the Polity, trying to penetrate at relay stations or via some of the less guarded Polity AIs. Still no luck. It tried turning up something on those stolen runcibles aboard the cargo hauler the Azure Whale but it was completely off the grid—no information at all.
It routed then to Masada, because that was Penny Royal’s last location in the Polity and it knew that the erstwhile war drone Amistad still retained an interest. Security was tough here too, because of the Atheter and the recent history of that place. Retreating again in frustration, it picked up on a signal relayed from Masada into the Graveyard, tracked the course of that and found itself back at a watch station nearby. Here, surprisingly, it found penetrating security a lot easier, though the data it wanted was buried deep and it necessarily had to extend itself to the limit to obtain it. However, a moment later it had something of value.
Mr Pace . . .
The Brockle sat back in its chair, fingers interlaced over its fat belly, smiling with satisfaction.
“You’re being very circumspect,” said a conversational voice, “but I suppose that is understandable considering the apparent nature of your enquiries. Let me assure you that my security is solid and no black AIs have penetrated here.”
The Brockle immediately lost its human form and flew apart—its usual reaction to an unknown threat. It could feel the links in its mind, the data channel hooked on and cycling. To one side, a chromed human face appeared—a standard holding icon—but the watch station AI wasn’t actually here and this was just a visual projection. In a few microseconds the Brockle had to come to a decision: disassociate and fight the links, or run with it and try to obtain more data. It chose the latter.
“I am just attempting to follow my orders as closely as possible,” it replied. “Penny Royal is a dangerous creature that must be tracked with subtlety and ultimately confronted with maximum force.”
“So I’m right?” said the watch station AI. “Your mission profile was one of investigation of the Room 101 situation after it had been dealt with by the fleet. I, and others, always thought that odd, considering the armament the High Castle carries. And were further suspicious when it went dark.”
“Secret orders, of course,” the Brockle replied.
“So, to confirm, it’s your duty to track down and destroy Penny Royal?”
“Earth Central fully understands how dangerous Penny Roya
l is,” the Brockle replied. “And I would like you to keep this exchange between us secret. The AI nets are not safe for data exchange on this subject at any level since we have no idea how deeply Penny Royal has penetrated. What happened with the erstwhile warden of Masada, Amistad, illustrates this.”
“Very well . . .” The watch station AI paused for a few seconds, which was all but an eternity in AI terms. “I have collated all data on Penny Royal now available, also all data on the Room 101 mission, which is of course integral.”
“I see . . .”
“This will save you having to make multiple probes throughout the AI net and will thus reduce your exposure.”
The data package arrived an instant later.
“Thank you,” the Brockle said then quickly began cutting links. The station AI would see that as just a sensible security precaution. While utterly isolating the data package, the Brockle started running a deep diagnostic on itself to ensure nothing else had been inserted. After a while it found itself to be completely clear and felt that the encounter had gone a long way towards confirming its recent actions: Polity AIs were just not as omniscient as some humans supposed and were vulnerable to hostile AI action. It was doing the right thing.
The Brockle then reflected on the dangers of opening the data package, for it could be booby-trapped. If it opened the package in an isolated unit and it was some form of attack then it would destroy the unit and be rid of the package. However, if it was some form of attack, surely some AI had designed it with the Brockle in mind, and with such an approach expected. If it transferred the package to other computing, that meant computing aboard this ship—all interlinked. Perhaps the watch station AI hoped it would do that and something in the package had been designed to disable the ship, maybe take over, or maybe just ensure the transmission of some U-space beacon so it could be traced. But there was another option and, no matter how it looked at that option, the Brockle could see no danger to itself.
Falling back together and again taking on the shape of a man, the Brockle stood and headed out of its cabin. Reaching the lounge, it found only Captain Blite, but he would do, even though his aug was a quite antiquated and simple one. He looked around, horrified, when the Brockle reached out to him and via his aug issued a summons directly to his inner reptile brain. He jerked to his feet and, fighting all the way, followed the Brockle back to its cabin to stand in the centre. The Brockle paused then, wondering why it had felt the need physically to walk out to get the man, surmised that the urge must be related to its distant human past and dismissed the matter.
“What do you fucking want?” Blite managed tightly.
The Brockle studied him on many levels, realizing he had built up a degree of resistance it had never seen before. But then, its subjects didn’t usually live as long as Blite had.
“I want you to look at something for me,” it replied, now dispatching the package to the man’s aug and directly into his mind, opening it like a potential bomb and rapidly retreating.
Blite staggered as if struck, resting a hand against one wall, but then after a moment straightened up, his expression seemingly lost in introspection. The Brockle waited with growing impatience, its form loosening into a sculpture of a man made of sliding silver worms.
“What do you see?” it finally asked.
Blite looked up, blinked, shook his head. “Data, lots of data, and images.”
“Tell me about the images.”
“Room 101 under a hardfield like we saw at Carapace City . . . ripping out the end of the station and building something . . . massive energy readings . . .”
Even more impatient with that inadequate description, the Brockle reached out mentally, tentatively, to reconnect with Blite’s aug. Reading via that, and ready to sever the connection in an instant, it got the images first. A massive curved hardfield had first enclosed the station, then after a period of time something had torn through the nose of the station and steadily begun rebuilding it. This wasn’t enough. The Brockle probed deeper and began picking up on other readings and deeper levels of AI analysis. First it understood that the hardfield maintained a link into U-space, routing energy there from the attacks against it, even routing solar energy from the hypergiant, to then draw it back and reinforce itself. This it had seen before and still wondered just what purpose, beyond the obvious one of defence from attack, such a potentially infinitely strong field could serve. Next it saw that the mechanism rebuilding the station was also powered by that energy feed. The watching ships had tracked it along inside the station, where it had been decohering and gathering matter into itself. Reaching the end of the station, it then began to deposit that material to form what was likely to be a highly reinforced sphere with densely packed bracing struts.
The Brockle delved deeper, obtaining layer upon layer of data on this. The hardfield was a Penny Royal design while the object rebuilding the station seemed to be from the same source. It was also, of course, evident to the watching AIs that Penny Royal wasn’t in residence, and much more so to the Brockle. Those AIs were amazed, awed and painfully aware that such technology was beyond even them. Turning away from Blite, it now loaded the package across from him so as to study it in further detail.
“You can go,” it said.
Blite didn’t need telling twice.
Reassuming human form, the Brockle sat and felt something hollow opening inside. It could easily neutralize most Polity AIs, as it had demonstrated aboard this very ship, but now it was having its doubts about its ability to deal with Penny Royal. Somehow Room 101 was part of the AI’s plans and it was effecting a major modification to that station without even being present. It was using technologies that, though understood to be possible, had yet to be used by Polity AIs.
The Brockle contemplated the situation further, and from the depths of its mind rose a memory of something that had wormed its way into popular consciousness from an ancient celluloid film many centuries ago. The film had been about a hunt for a killer shark, but what had it been called? Teeth? The Swallow?
“We’re going to need a bigger boat,” it said, then after a moment checked the cams in the corridor outside to ensure that no one was listening.
Spear
Rorquin was a heliotrope marble smeared with a cream of large shifting cloud masses. Another twelve ships were in orbit about it: salvagers, some highly modified wartime craft, a baroque contraption that looked like a flying church and another thing bigger than the Lance and the shape and colour of an ox tongue. As I piloted the shuttle out of the Lance’s bay, fired up its drive and dropped towards this orb, I pondered what I had thus far learned about the man, if he could be described as such, who had laid claim to one of the three continental land masses below.
Mr Pace was two hundred and ninety years old and, like so many in the Graveyard, he had made his fortune in ways that weren’t strictly legal. He’d fought in the war against the prador in a squad just like Jebel U-cap Krong’s and been awarded medals for his bravery. Like so many, he had gone into salvage after the war and then on to less salubrious pursuits. He had run an organization much like Isobel Satomi’s—involved in any crime that was profitable—and, though I as yet had no positive proof of it, I suspected he had been the criminal she had whored for in her early years. That was when he had been human, however, and before he had taken a visit to a particular planetoid.
However, unlike Isobel Satomi, Mr Pace had not gone to Penny Royal for the means to defeat a threatening competitor, but in response to the vagaries of chance. On the world below, his gravcar had been struck by lightning. This in itself wouldn’t have been a problem had it not been for a grav-motor fault that had gone undetected, but which was exacerbated by the power surge. His car dropped out of the sky and crashed into a mountain. Mr Pace was severely injured and nearly died. In fact, when he finally walked out of his personal hospital he was ninety per cent machine. That was when he wen
t to Penny Royal to buy a new body, and indestructibility. Thereafter he had extended his grip in the Graveyard to become its top crime lord—organizations like Isobel’s being subordinate to him.
“So why, exactly, are we going to see this Mr Pace?” asked Riss as I guided our shuttle down into thick reddish cloud.
I looked at the drone then glanced at Sepia, who looked interested in what answer I might give. She now knew my story, with a few irrelevant details omitted, from when I was resurrected on Earth.
“Because he won’t speak to us from down there,” I hedged.
Mr Pace lived in a castle perched on a mountaintop. The building had looked familiar to me and after some research I found out that externally it closely resembled Edinburgh Castle, though much of the insides were different. Was such a fortified residence another example of him trying to separate himself from the vagaries of chance, of accident? Perhaps, but if so his time spent away from here with the extremadapts was out of character. I’d tried opening com channels both via the space port below and directly into the castle by beaming signals at satellite discs and other com arrays. No joy: Mr Pace wasn’t talking.
“You’re just evading the issue,” said Riss.
“Okay—because his was the most recent sighting of Penny Royal,” I replied.
“Yet you know where Penny Royal is going.”
“Do I?”
“You have surmised that Penny Royal is going to Panarchia.”
“And like a good little drone I should respond to the summons?” I said, turning to look at Riss. “My initial reason for going after Penny Royal was the same as yours: vengeance. But now that’s gone and we’re following because that’s what we do.” I paused for a second then an apt description of us popped into my mind. We were tornado chasers. Uncomfortable with the notion, I continued, “Before I go to Panarchia I want to know what happened at this extremadapt colony.”
“You want Penny Royal to be bad again.”