Orbus

The program comparing the genetic material with everything on record steadily continues to build up a list, and only now does Vrell note how it is perpetually rescanning certain molecular constructs already mapped. Checking, he sees that it has there found complex strands it cannot identify. These must be from life-forms on Spatterjay yet to be discovered, and their genomes mapped. It is only upon closer inspection, upon discovering that the unidentified segments are a form of trihelical genetic material whose bases don’t even come close to that of the Spatterjay samples, that Vrell realizes he has in fact found something utterly alien. Perhaps, far in the past, there were other visitors to that world…It must have been far in the past, because the collection of genetic material seems to be layered in a historical pattern, and these are down deep–the deepest of all.

  Vrell shivers, his unease growing. He now abruptly focuses his study upon the viral strands holding all this together, and allowing only parts of it to replicate. Gradually he builds up a picture of it in his mind, keying together molecular components and attempting to understand the underlying logic of its structure. Realization slams into him all at once. Now focused on the virus rather than its eclectic collection of genetic material he understands perfectly what he is seeing. A large proportion of this virus is no natural product of evolution, though evolution has made its weight felt and the thing has been changed by it. The virus was tampered with, added to, the additions being something made by an intelligent mind. Though these extras resemble what is described as life, they are in fact an incredibly complex collection of organic-base nanomachines working in perfect concert. And they must have been added long before either Humans or Prador crawled out of their ancestral mud.

  A worrying thought now occurs to him. Could there be some connection between this and the odd code, and behaviour he has been noticing in the King’s Guard? No, surely not. Though what exists inside their armour might bear some resemblance to this creature, it has no source of nutrient and so will eventually become somnolent, and hibernate.

  He backs away from the screens and turns to inspect the creature clamped into the surgical saddle, and notes that its shell, such as it is, has turned rubbery underneath the clamps, and the creature is already gaining a greater compass of movement. Suddenly reaching out, Vrell disconnects the clamps and, as the creature tries lunging for him, closes his claw about its body and carries it across to a large cryostore, opens the circular portal, then thrusts it inside and slams the door shut. Peering through a small window in the door, he observes the thing crashing about inside, knocking sample bottles out of their racks as, using a pit control, Vrell winds the internal temperature down to minus a hundred and fifty degrees Celsius. As the cryostore’s systems struggle to bring its interior temperature down to that level, the creature’s antics grow steadily more sluggish and here and there it begins to develop cracks in its body. But even when the pit control emits its even tone indicating that target temperature has been achieved, the thing is still moving.

  Continuing to watch, Vrell notes that its carapace has turned a bright yellow, and that some tar-like substance has begun oozing out of the cracks to seal them. Still it moves, very slowly extending a transparent siphon into a puddle of spill from one of the sample bottles. Perhaps it was some organic sample, Vrell speculates, before even thinking to turn on the small screen beside the cryostore and study its manifest.

  The store contains genetic samples of Terran life-forms, but this does not arouse any suspicions in Vrell. This thing has quite obviously detected a source of nourishment. He knocks the temperature setting down even lower, as the thing now squirts some black fluid down through its siphon–still liquid even at this temperature–into the sample, which dissolves, whereupon the creature slowly sucks it all back up again. Now, in utter slow motion, the creature raises one armoured tentacle and brings it down on another bottle. But its movements are becoming so slow, they are almost indetectable. Vrell moves away from the cryo-store, putting together in his mind a series of experiments he now intends to conduct. However, just then he receives a notification through one of his control units: a ship has arrived in this same sector of the Graveyard.

  ‘What is it that you are seeking?’ the Golgoloth asks, peering at the monster displayed on the screens before him.

  ‘I seek to become,’ replies Oberon, King of the Prador. ‘But I have a problem,’ he adds.

  ‘You have a problem,’ the Golgoloth repeats, simultaneously analysing that first statement, which is one Oberon often comes out with. Certainly, over the centuries in which the Golgoloth has communicated with the King, his form has changed radically. But precisely what does Oberon seek to become?

  ‘Do you for ever want to remain a refugee, Golgoloth?’ Oberon counters. ‘Would you not prefer to come home?’

  ‘Of course, but the ruler of the kingdom I fled has always shown far too much interest in me, and…’ the Golgoloth pauses momentarily, ‘…it is never healthy to be the subject of any ruling Prador’s interest.’

  ‘That statement is true,’ replies Oberon, ‘if the ruling Prador is of the normal Prador stock, but I, like yourself, can hardly be described as such.’

  ‘Even so, I still think it unlikely that your interest in me concerns my good health, long life and happiness.’

  ‘But this time I mean you no harm.’

  The Golgoloth pauses. Over the centuries they have conducted this discussion in many different forms, and every now and then Oberon has offered amnesty if the Golgoloth will return to the Kingdom to work for the King himself. However, on every previous occasion the Golgoloth saw through that offer and discovered, through his own robotic spies within the Kingdom, that there was something specific the King was after that required the Golgoloth’s input. On early occasions that input included tracking down the Second King’s treasury, and also finding a secret military base where biological weapons were being developed. On a more recent occasion it was to find the Golgoloth’s own abandoned memstores that were packed with a mass of useful data about Prador genetics, and some more besides about the viral form of Spatterjay which, when Golgoloth resided within the Kingdom, had only been known about for a few decades. But now things have changed.

  The Golgoloth gazes at the creature displayed on his screen. Once the King was a pure Prador, but is nothing like that now. The hermaphrodite knows Oberon possesses a formidable intelligence that, in the beginning, was the equal of the Golgoloth’s own. But that intelligence has grown over the centuries, perhaps now surpassing the Golgoloth’s, even though the Golgoloth has perpetually added to its own brain-power with internal and external ganglion grafts. This is perhaps why Oberon’s offers of amnesty have gradually tailed off, since Oberon, growing in mindpower, wants less and less from the Golgoloth. In fact, their infrequent communications have, over the last century, mostly been complex conversations of the kind Oberon cannot conduct with any of his fellows inside the Kingdom. The Golgoloth is a like mind, someone to bounce ideas off and with whom to debate increasingly obscure branches of science and philosophy, but otherwise has become an irrelevance.

  ‘What do you want?’ the Golgoloth asks.

  ‘You understand, of course,’ says Oberon, ‘that I no longer require anything from you related to your previous hidden influence within the Second Kingdom. You understand that if you were to return here now, you would be of value to me only as a mind that can grasp at least a little of my own compass of thought.’

  ‘Arrogantly Pradorish.’

  ‘The truth, nevertheless.’

  ‘So you’re asking me to come back just to be your buddy, are you?’

  ‘In time, perhaps, but really I am offering you something you’ll want to come back for–something you have always wanted to come back for.’

  The Golgoloth shifts uncomfortably. ‘I am not sure there is anything in the Kingdom I want that much.’

  ‘Of course there is, Golgoloth,’ says the King. ‘Do you think I don’t understand you at all? You have remained alive
for longer than just about any creature within either the Kingdom or the Polity, except–and this is the entire point–those creatures which were native to Spatterjay long before either Humans or Prador arrived there, for on that planet reside living sails and deep-ocean whelks who exceed you in age by an order of magnitude.’

  ‘This is no news to me,’ the Golgoloth interjects.

  ‘You, Golgoloth, have an appetite for life that exceeds that of our fellow Prador, and also possess the intelligence and skills to maintain that life. You butcher your children to provide you with an endless supply of transplants, and I have no doubt that you have obtained a sample of the Spatterjay virus. So why haven’t you used it?’

  ‘I proceed with caution.’

  ‘You proceed with fear and too rigid a grasp on your existence. You will never allow that virus into your body until you fully understand it and what it will do to you, what it will do to you over the ensuing centuries of your life, because, my friend, I well understand that you intend to live until the suns go out and, if at all possible, even beyond that time.’

  The Golgoloth dips its head in appreciation. ‘An accurate assessment.’

  ‘And,’ the King now adds, ‘there is only one place where you can study the long-term effects of the Spatterjay virus on Prador–and only certain Prador you particularly want to study. And those are myself and my family.’

  ‘I see. So what is this problem I can help you with, for which you are prepared to allow me access to youself and your children?’

  ‘The problem is called Vrell,’ Oberon replies. ‘He is an adult Prador hiding in the Graveyard, an adult Prador recently infected with the Spatterjay virus, and as such a rather younger version of myself. He is dangerous, and I need him to cease to exist, and quickly.’

  In light of this latest revelation, the Golgoloth immediately begins to assess in depth everything Oberon has already told him. Does the King genuinely fear he will be usurped by this younger version of himself? Surely not, for seven centuries lie between them, and Oberon has to be vastly superior in development to the younger version. Oberon obviously does not want to send forces straight into the Graveyard because, no matter how advanced the King himself now is, he is still an organic being and would be dropping himself into a whole world of hurt if he went up against the Polity and its artificial intelligences. So why this, now? Why, really, should the King be sufficiently concerned about this Vrell to be prepared to call on the Golgoloth’s assistance?

  The Golgoloth onlines the ganglion, long unused and therefore sluggish to respond, in which he has stored all his knowledge about the Spatterjay virus. It has not used this ganglion for some time because, just as the King said, he wants to study the virus’s long-term effects–a line of research truncated here in the Graveyard. Once again it finds itself reminded that the virus is an artificial life-form that as well as holding within its matrix a collection of Spatterjay genomes, also holds there something utterly alien. Could the King’s present fear be something to do with that? Could it be that this young Prador might find something there that the King has missed, or take some course the King himself has neglected?

  Or is it that Oberon has no real fear of this youngster? That this is merely a way of bringing the Golgoloth out of hiding?

  ‘I am waiting for your response,’ says the King.

  The Golgoloth shakes itself out of its reverie. When dealing with a being as complex as the King, there are just too many possibilities, too many probable convolutions to his plans, his plots. However, if it is true that this Vrell is in the Graveyard, as described, the Golgoloth wants to study him.

  ‘I will find this Vrell,’ it replies.

  ‘Is that your only response?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  With frightening speed for something so large, King Oberon moves out of view and the Golgoloth closes down the link.

  Of course, a simpler explanation covers all this. Vrell, just like the Golgoloth itself, is a potential competitor, and getting competitors to try and tear each other apart is an old manoeuvre in the Prador Kingdom. Just politics really.

  Stepping into the bridge of the Gurnard, Orbus gazes out at the glimmering stars and suddenly feels very alone. The ship seems unnaturally quiet with neither the drones nor Drooble present here. But it is impossible to be truly alone on a ship like this.

  ‘Have you detected the target?’ he enquires.

  After a noticeable delay, Gurnard replies, ‘I have.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Vrell has placed his ship in close orbit around an unstable green sun, which is enough to conceal it from long-range detection but not enough to conceal it from me here.’

  ‘How far away is it?’

  ‘One and a half light-years.’

  ‘So why aren’t we closer?’

  ‘Our arrival in this sector of the Graveyard in one jump is something Vrell might consider a coincidence. But if we now jump to his present location, he will know for sure we are here searching for him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was waiting for some input from my Captain and crew. And I also have further news to impart.’

  Orbus walks round his Captain’s chair and seats himself there. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Sniper, who has been spending rather a lot of time scanning the contents of my holds, is even now on his way. Thirteen, who has been supervising Iannus Drooble’s latest visit to the Medbay for intravenous nutrients, is bringing Iannus here.’

  Orbus impatiently rattles his fingers on one chair arm, and after a moment becomes aware of a shadow looming up into the bridge. Glancing round he observes Sniper enter and then slide round to one side of him, settling down on the floor with a heavy crunch.

  ‘Orbus,’ the big drone acknowledges him.

  ‘What’s so interesting in the hold, then?’ Orbus enquires.

  ‘Some weird items down there.’ Sniper waves a spatulate tentacle towards the rear doors of the bridge. ‘There’s an entire ocean heirodont in stasis and another cylinder full of leeches.’ The big drone pauses for a moment. ‘Oddly, there’s even a cargo of sprine, and some multiguns specially formatted to deliver it as a weapon…. Any idea what that’s all about, Gurnard?’

  Again the delay before Gurnard replies. ‘It was placed aboard by the same agent who approached Cymbeline about the original mission out here. He thought it might be useful to have some of the substance aboard, since it seems likely we will be encountering the King’s Guard, who are all virally mutated.’

  Orbus feels himself go cold at the mention of sprine. It is an Old Captain’s get-out clause. The stuff is produced in the bile ducts of giant ocean-going leeches on Spatterjay when they make the transition from plug-feeders to eating whole prey. It quickly kills the virus within that prey, enabling the leech to then digest it. Sprine extracted from those bile ducts, and then refined, kills virally infected humans even faster. Old Captains, being virtually unkillable by most normal means, always like to keep some to hand in case life should became too unbearable for them. They also keep it just in case they fall into Spatterjay’s ocean, so they can choose a quick death rather than the nightmare of an endless agonized existence under the waves. But Orbus is puzzled.

  ‘Seems a daft idea when all the Guard always wear armour,’ he says. ‘I can’t think of many portable delivery systems that can punch through that.’

  ‘The multiguns will certainly not punch through Prador armour,’ Gurnard concurs. ‘I believe the agent just wanted to make another option available, no matter how remote the chances of it ever being used successfully. It is not as if it is taking up useful space…’

  It seems a dubious explanation.

  Thirteen floats in next, with Drooble in tow, clutching to his tail so that the drone looks like some sort of toy balloon.

  ‘Cap’n,’ Drooble murmurs, his expression slightly bewildered.

  ‘You all right now, Iannus?’

  ‘Never better,’ says Drooble, releasing
Thirteen’s tail and going to take his usual seat at the horseshoe console.

  Orbus studies him for a moment. Despite the ongoing medical care, he seems worse than he appeared directly after his first visit to Medbay. That sometimes happens, of course–a delayed reaction to the effects of the virus gaining ground in a patient’s body. Drooble requires watching, which is why, Orbus suspects, Thirteen is never far off. Orbus turns away.

  ‘Now, let’s get something straight,’ he says. ‘Our instructions are to find out what Vrell is up to, and possibly do something about him? I’m buggered if I know how we can achieve either.’

  ‘Ah, but we gotta use our own initiative,’ says Sniper sarcastically.

  Orbus shakes his head, ‘For all we know, Vrell might have turned into a Prador version of the Skinner, so I doubt he’ll be reasonable.’

  ‘We don’t really know that,’ says Drooble, his voice somehow yearning in tone.

  Orbus glances at him, wondering just what is going on in his mind, then continues, ‘I’m betting that the moment we move in close, he’ll attack and try spreading the Gurnard all over vacuum, and then he’ll find somewhere else to hide.’

  ‘Which is why,’ interjects Gurnard, ‘you need something to offer–something that might be of real value to him.’

  ‘Like what?’ asks Sniper.

  ‘Like an amnesty for crimes he committed within the Polity, and also the freedom to live there without interference,’ Gurnard replies.

  ‘You what?’ says Orbus in surprise.

  ‘You heard,’ the ship AI replies.

  ‘One of my crew died inside his ship,’ growls the Captain. ‘There is sufficient doubt about how that man died. We cannot prove it was not an accident, just as Vrell claimed at the time.’

  ‘Yeah, but is that very likely?’

  ‘Who can say?’ Gurnard wonders. ‘Who can say how certain members of the crew aboard your sailing ship, the Vignette, met their end over the years?’

  ‘So ECS is offering Vrell an amnesty,’ says Sniper, now that Orbus falls silent.