Shadow of the Scorpion

2

Sitting before his screen, Cormac called up his word lists for the third-stage Basic Language module, and wished for that brief time when there had been no strictures on education conducted by direct download. Picking up his pack of mem-b drug patches he took one out, peeled off its backing and pressed it against his neck. There was no rush, no buzz, but he knew that after he had read through this list and tracked through its numerous hyperlinks, the imprinting proteins and enzymes in the mem-b would have etched the knowledge into his mind after one reading. At random he chose a word from the list—cestode—followed the hyperlinks and learned more than he cared to know about parasitic flatworms. Language links gave him the equivalents in his chosen languages of New Mandarin, Hindi, Jovian Argot, Italian and Singhalese. Here he learnt the associated nuances, and rather more about the parasitic worms that had once plagued the relevant cultures. A side study enabled him to delve into helminthology, which he bookmarked to look at later during biology. His time-warning icon began flashing, so with some reluctance he navigated back to the main page and selected another word. Some twenty words later the time-warning icon greyed out, marking the end of the module. Next would be Physics, then Biology, then Mathematics, followed by Synergistics, which was a combination of all the previous modules. But right now it was time for Association.

Cormac wished for the time some centuries ago when, after the collapse of the old schooling systems and the introduction of the first AIs, pupils had received all their education at home via their home's netlink. But the AIs, after they took over, decided that such methods did not provide sufficient "interaction," so centralized schools were once again created. He didn't really mind Association, just resented the interruption when he'd found some interesting stuff to look at. In his report, which he'd peeked at over his mother's shoulder, this was called "Autistic Spectrum Focus subcritical, adjustment to parental choice." He hadn't quite figured out what all that meant, since any searches he made turned up esoteric brain function and psychological studies which in turn usually led him elsewhere.

He stood up from his seat, peeling off and discarding the drug patch from his neck. Other children about his age were also rising from their seats and heading for the door.

"Ian, where've you been?" asked Culu, a small blonde-haired girl with a junior aug behind her ear. Like Cormac she was too young to take direct downloads to her brain, but she was getting the nearest to it possible that the laws allowed. Cormac had seen her parents once: twinned augs, visible cybernetic additions like multispec eyes and arm-sockets to take nerve-controlled tools. Culu would not remain long in this class, since she would soon outstrip those receiving a more conventional education like him. When he'd said something about Culu to his mother her reply had been, "I want you to remain human until such a time as you can make an informed choice to be otherwise." Culu seemed human enough to him, and she seemed to like him.

"Digging up dinosaur bones," he told her, which wasn't strictly true, but sounded great. "And I am to be called Cormac from now on," he added. Seeing her fascination with both the bone digging and the name change, he began telling her all about his trip to Montana as they walked outside into the playground. What he found difficult to talk about was the name change, and how it had stuck when, just before their return here, his mother had started treating it with an almost frightening seriousness.

"Hey, Cormac!"

A ball was heading directly towards his head. Almost without thinking about it, he snapped up a hand and caught it. He glanced up, seeing that a security drone had spun on its post above. Had it decided the ball was going to hit him in the face it would have knocked the object out of the air with a well-aimed projectile of its own, or safely incinerated it. The drone, which was a submind of the school AI, would have had plenty of time to do this, since in the time it took Cormac to raise his hand to catch the ball it could probably have completed a couple of crosswords and read a book.

Cormac gazed across at Meecher, the boy who had thrown the ball. Meecher was one of the oldest boys in this school. Cormac wondered if, in another time, he would have been a school bully. Such a creature could not exist here, since the AI just watched too closely.

"There, I told you," said Meecher to a couple of his oppos.

Cormac threw the ball back, hard. The drone swivelled again. Meecher reached for the ball, but didn't get his hands together quick enough and it thumped into his solar plexus. He oomphed, then after a moment shrugged that off and went running after the ball. For reasons beyond the comprehension of an eight-year-old, the AI did not intervene all the time.

Rugged carpet grass coated the playground, and upon this rested play equipment in abundance including climbing frames and slides, and access to bats and balls, grav-skates and much else besides—though no information access since this was all about exercise and "interaction." Already someone was crying because he'd miscalculated a jump on one of the frames and a human attendant was hurrying out. The AI did not intervene in such circumstances: injury by malice was mostly not allowed, injury by stupidity was a learning process.

Running around the perimeter of the ground was a high fence, mainly to prevent balls from bouncing out onto the nearby road still traversed by some hydrocar ground traffic even though most people were now buying gravcars. Cormac joined in with a game of catch, in which the initial aim was to try and get the drone to intervene, but it turned its sensors resolutely away until Meecher tried a throw at the back of Culu's head, whereupon the ball disappeared in a puff of smoke and Meecher shrieked as briefly he became the target of an electron beam stinger. This hadn't happened for a while, since Meecher had been learning to control those impulses stemming from his stirring hormones.

Now the ball game was over, Cormac climbed a nearby frame and gazed about himself. Across the road was a row of balconied three-storey apartment buildings, roofed in photoelectric tiles and with self-contained waste composting and incinerating plants, and water recycling plants filling the gaps between blocks. Wide tree-lined pavements stretched in a curve round to a large water-park, and beyond that rose the mile-high edifices of city central. Gazing in the other direction, Cormac observed suburban sprawl which he knew ran all the way to the coast and beyond, where an underwater city lay. He continued staring in that direction until something began to nag at him, and he finally returned his gaze to the curving pavement.

At first glance it had looked like a car, but now it rose up onto its many legs, and waving its antennae, swung its head from side to side as if trying to pick up some scent. Two green eyes, peridots, seemed blind. It possessed what looked like short mandibles, but they probably weren't used for eating, more likely they were used to clean and maintain the particle cannon and two missile launchers residing where its mouth should have been.

War drone!

Surely this could not be the one they had seen in Montana? Ian Cormac felt certain it was, and he felt certain that it was looking for him.

The ship loomed like some tarnished bronze mountain, slowly being exposed as autodozers cleared the charred earth and stone around it. Some of the cleared areas were fenced off, but such was the work still to do that numerous points of access had to be left open for the equipment being used—hence the mosquito autoguns now replacing the guard units that had been ensconced in the surrounding spill piles.

Before a deep hole excavated in the ground—apparently where a main hold entrance had been opened—was a small town of bubble units. ECS personnel, not all of them in uniform, swarmed busily like ants before this behemoth.

"There's still Prador in there?" enquired Yallow.

"Certainly," Olkennon replied. "Too many hiding places and the exotic metals used in the ship's construction make it difficult to scan effectively."

"There have been problems?" Cormac suggested.

"Two of our people from Reverse Engineering disappeared about a month ago. We found their bones dumped below a hatch on the other side. Prador second- and third-children have been seen—usually running away."

"Hence our presence," said Cormac.

"Hence your presence," Olkennon agreed noncommittally.

Cormac was not so sure he believed her. Since the installation of the autoguns in the area they had been guarding, it was inevitable that they would be reassigned, but he felt a suspicion that their reassignment had something to do with Carl and the subtle interrogation they had undergone from Agent Spencer. She had wanted to know every detail of recent events, and much detail of their past association with Carl; then, with a smile and a wave, she departed—giving them no explanation for her questions. He guessed that being grunts, it was not necessary for them to know.

Departing the gravcar that had brought them down by the ship, Yallow and Cormac followed Olkennon towards the bubble-unit encampment. The soil here was orange and dotted with flintlike rocks and pieces of what looked like petrified wood. Such details Cormac took in, but his eyes kept straying back to the Prador vessel. Some structures on the exterior had survived the impact. He recognised the stubs of once-jutting frameworks that surrounded the throats of rail-guns, the remains of reflector shields around lasers—some for communication and some for combat. Inset ports gleamed like spider-eyes around a jutting section like a balding head—the upper part of the squashed pear-shape of the vessel.

Soon they arrived at the encampment, where a man wandered out to meet them. He looked old, which was an uncommon occurrence with the treatments available nowadays. Cormac had seen people like him before and usually found that their lives were so busy they didn't get round to taking the treatments until something actually pushed them into it. His head hair was as grey and wiry as his beard, and his civilian clothing showed signs of wear and the occasional chemical stain—sure sign that he was the type who didn't give a fig for physical appearance.

The man held out a grubby calloused hand, which Olkennon shook, then he turned to study Cormac and Yallow. "So these are the two who will be going in with me."

"They will, Professor Dent."

"Very well," he sighed, "let's get moving."

Olkennon turned to the two of them. "You understand your duties?"

Both Cormac and Yallow nodded.

"Keep him alive," she said, then abruptly turned on her heel and marched off.

Professor Dent led the way into the encampment of bubble units, onto main gratings, then to a narrow packed-soil alley, finally stopping at a door and opening it. They all trooped inside and, scanning the cluttered interior, Cormac felt his assessment of the man confirmed. However, no matter how apparently slovenly his appearance or how messy his dwelling, Cormac knew that the professor would not have been here had not some high-level AIs considered his presence important. Dent picked up a large case with a shoulder strap then pointed to two large backpacks resting beside a desk occupied entirely by a tangled mess of Prador technology.

"I'll be needing some help with those," he said. As he moved his pulse-rifle to hang before his stomach, Cormac caught Yallow's frown. Burdened like this they would not be so effective.

"Quick release button on the front," said the professor—obviously not an absent-minded scientist, but someone aware that soldiers needed to be able to respond quickly, and unburdened.

The two hoisted on their packs and the professor led the way out.

"We'll be going to the Captain's Sanctum, and since that is where the Prador adult was located it is deep within the ship," he said.

"As much armour as possible between itself and anyone attacking," said Yallow.

"Certainly."

They trudged out of the encampment and onto a wide road of crumbled stone and sticky mud, which ran level for a little while then cut down into a wide excavation. Soon they saw a metal ramp ahead of them, a heavy autodozer parked on it, perhaps to hold it down. The entrance itself was a sideways oval—designed to accommodate the shape of Prador, but much larger than the largest of their kind.

As they drew closer, the first thing Cormac noticed was the smell, which rolled out like a palpable fog, laden with the putrid decay of things washed up on a seashore, damp, miasmic. He saw Yallow hesitate when this hit them, her expression annoyed perhaps at the way she had reacted.

"You get used to it," said Dent.

"So some of the Prador in there are dead?" Yallow noted.

"Certainly—we haven't found them all." He glanced round at them. "But what you're smelling at the moment is a food store we only discovered recently, and then only because someone accidentally cut its power supply a week ago and its contents began decaying." He pointed back to a group of people clad in full envirosuits gathered around a couple of grav-pallets. "They'll be moving the rotten meat today."

Cormac wondered if any of that meat included something once described as "long-pig," for Prador were not averse to eating human flesh. He considered closing up the visor on his envirosuit, but Yallow hadn't, and the professor wasn't even wearing a suit. Perhaps better to go without his visor closed—even with all its systems operating, a closed suit tended to blunt the senses, and with Prador in here, on their home territory, he needed to stay sharp.

The floor of the hold felt utterly solid underfoot and distant walls appeared to be constructed of layers of ragged slabs on which grew pale green weed like dead man's fingers. There were stacks of Polity-manufacture bubble-metal crates near the entrance, but further back were objects that had occupied this hold before this ship came down. To his left a small scout vessel or shuttle rested like a squat submarine—a miniature copy of the vessel they had just entered since it seemed all Prador ships were modelled on the creatures' own form no matter how impractical that modelling might be. The craft was secured to deck rings by cables extending from holes in its sides. Behind the vessel were racks of thin, pale blue cylinders—perhaps ordinance of some kind for that same vessel.

At the back of the hold they came upon one of those diagonally divided doors needed to accommodate the Prador form. It was only partially open, a heavy lock bolt welded to it to engage in a hole drilled into the floor so it lay open only wide enough to allow humans through, and not wide enough to allow Prador second-children out. Doubtless the doors had not been permanently welded in place in case they needed to be opened further to take heavy equipment in. Beyond this door lay a smaller hold, on the right of which stacks of hexagonal crates rose to the ceiling like pillars, and just beyond them—

Cormac and Yallow simultaneously raised their pulse-rifles and took aim, but neither of them fired.

"If they'd been occupied your weapons would have had little effect," said Dent. "But it's good to see you're alert."

Arrayed in a long framework were what looked like five large Prador second-children. But this was armour for the crablike monsters—open at the back and with carapace lids hinged out in two halves, all ready to be quickly occupied. Nearby stood a rack of weapons: vicious looking rail-guns, power-packs and magazines from which hung belts of projectiles, a row of gas lasers and one large particle cannon either for tripod mounting or to be carried by a first-child.

"If there's Prador here," said Yallow, "isn't it dangerous to leave stuff like this lying around?"

Dent just pointed towards the ceiling where material had been cut away and something inset. Though very little showed there, Cormac guessed a security drone had been installed. The AI controlling this excavation and reclamation wanted the Prador aboard to take the bait here, but Cormac suspected that any left alive would avoid so obvious a trap.

At the back of this hold another set of those doors, this time fully open, led into a dim corridor. Cormac and Yallow moved ahead to check it, and immediately brought their weapons to bear on movement along one wall. Ship lice: boot-sized, multi-legged arthropods that scavenged after Prador leavings and in essence served the same purpose as beetlebots aboard Polity ships, though they were also pests that needed to be controlled—the Prador version of rats in the walls. One bent its ribbed carapace into an arc and dropped to the floor. Cormac tracked it across with his pulse-rifle as it headed towards him, tri-mandibles clicking. Professor Dent stepped forwards to trap the creature under his foot, then brought his full weight down and twisted. His boot sank with a liquid crunch, gelatinous ichor squirting out from under his sole.

"Damned things," he said. "They're getting bolder as they get hungrier. If they get locked on to you, you have to cut behind the pincers to get the things out."

"Charming," said Cormac.

As they wound their way through numerous corridors then up one level via a ladder welded to the side of a very wide drop-shaft, Cormac realised Dent was following directions given on small flimsy screens stuck at intervals to the walls. Cormac and Yallow kept to the training manual by checking all areas at junctions before allowing their charge to come on, and Cormac felt that the professor was assessing their every move.

"Warheads in here," he said at one point, gesturing to an open door to one side. "Big rail-gun launchers to the port of the main turret."

Why did they need to know that? It seemed an odd piece of information to provide.

"We go down here," Dent added, pointing ahead to a corridor slanting steeply down into the depths of the ship.

This finally debarked into an even wider corridor. Cormac guessed they now must be close to the Captain's Sanctum for this new corridor was wide enough to allow a Prador adult through. A bad smell wafted along it to them and as they rounded a corner Yallow shed her pack and went down on one knee, taking aim. Cormac just continued walking.

"You don't quite have the reactions of your partner, it would seem," commented Dent.

"I'm guessing they don't smell like that when they're alive," said Cormac, now thoroughly aware that Dent was not all he seemed.

Chagrined, Yallow stood, hoisting up her pack again and cinching it into place.

The Prador first-child lay tilted against one wall. Most of its legs had fallen away, as had one of its claws, to expose carapace sockets in which ship lice were as busy as maggots. As Cormac watched, one of the horrible scavengers came out of the Prador's mouth between the rigid mandibles.

"How did it die?" Yallow asked.

"Most of them survived the crash," Dent supplied. "But they didn't survive the irradiation, the gassing and the subsequent assault."

Cormac glanced at him. "Irradiation?"

"Neutron tacticals were dropped here," Dent replied. "Then when the Sparkind assault teams arrived they drilled a hole through the ship's turret, which remained exposed above ground, and pumped Hazon nerve gas inside. Then they followed the gas inside and finished off what survivors they could find."

"But some survived even that," Cormac suggested.

"Yes, they were third-children in a sealed hatchery cum nursery. They grew into second-children by feeding on the remains of their relatives while we dug the ship out." He gestured about himself. "We reckon five or six survived out of about thirty of them… Anyway, we go here." He pointed at a set of wide closed doors just beyond the first-child corpse.

"Why not gas the place again?" asked Yallow.

"A waste of resources for a few second-children," Dent replied. "Though we don't always know where they are, we're always certain where they're not."

It seemed a strange statement to make, especially when Dent needed guards to escort him down here, and especially when people had been killed.

Dent went over to a Polity console that had been mounted beside the door, its optic feed plugged into the control pit where a Prador manipulatory hand would have usually entered a code and been sampled for genetic tissue. Deliberately positioning himself so neither Yallow nor Cormac could see over his shoulder, Dent worked the touchpads then stepped back. Something moved in the wall with a grinding crash, then with a whine of hydraulics the doors began to part along their diagonal split and revolve back into the walls.

Dent turned towards them. "Don't be surprised by the—"

Something shrieked then crackled and it seemed some invisible rope snatched Dent sideways through the air, his body folding at the middle. Loose-limbed he bounced along the floor to lie in a broken heap directly before the door. Packs discarded, Cormac and Yallow crouched, covering each direction along the corridor. Something smashed into the wall above them, showering them with hot fragments. Cormac rolled for cover beside the first-child corpse, while Yallow backed up to the opening doors.

"In here!" she yelled, and reaching down dragged the professor through the widening gap into the Sanctum.

Where the hell had that come from?

Then Cormac saw them: Prador second-children coming down through a hatch in the ceiling. For a second he just froze, unable to process the nightmarish sight, then his training kicked in and he fired a concentrated burst at exposed carapace and glittering spider-eyes, and one of them lost its grip and crashed to the floor. The fallen second-child lay on its back with its legs kicking the air for a moment, then it abruptly flipped upright—one claw and the side of its carapace smoking. It raised some sort of jury-rigged weapon in one of its underhands. He nailed it again, across its visual turret, saw its two eye-palps fly away in burning fragments, then recognised that the weapon it held consisted mainly of a compressed gas cylinder. Briefly, an almost cryonic calm settled on Cormac as he assessed the situation and considered the best response. He aimed carefully at the cylinder, and squeezed off a concentrated burst of fire, the cylinder exploded, flinging the creature hard against one wall, but Cormac did not have time to relish the moment. More fire from above showered him with stinking flesh, shattered carapace and squirming ship lice.

"Get in here!" Yallow opened fire through the still-opening door. Cormac stood and ran towards her, felt something tug at his leg, and fell through into the Sanctum past her. As he tried to stand again, his leg gave way, and glancing down he saw blood, ripped Kevlar, exposed flesh.

Fuckit.

He felt his suit leg automatically begin to tighten to prevent blood loss.

"They're coming through the ceiling," he said matter-of-factly. Cold numbness now suffused his leg as the suit injected analgaesics and antishock drugs. He turned his head sideways and vomited once, hard, wiped his mouth and turned back. He felt wired, like he'd drunk too much coffee, but the drugs were quickly numbing him.

"I spotted that," said Yallow, then fired out into the corridor again.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Cormac went on, "Looks like most of them out there, if Dent was right about only five or six surviving."

"Oh, I was right," said Dent.

Cormac glanced across. The man was standing, his clothing ripped about the waist but no sign of blood, only syntheflesh and something hard and white that probably wasn't bone. Dent was an android, but he didn't possess the ceramal skeleton of a Golem, probably because that could be too easily detected. Some other sort of facsimile, perhaps remotely controlled?

Dent continued, "Just like I was right about them watching the Sanctum. In here they would have had a chance, though remote, of gaining access to the ship's systems, and maybe getting away."

"What?" said Yallow, ducking back for a moment.

"Move away from the door," said Dent.

"We can't let them get in here!"

"Move away from the door—that's an order!"

Yallow reluctantly backed up while Cormac looked on with distanced bemusement. He knew his disconnection was due to the drugs and considered administering a stimulant, then reconsidered, reckoning this would all soon be over and that he and Yallow had already done their part. Now gazing about he spied a huge carapace, nearly fifteen feet across, that was all that remained of the Prador adult—the captain. He noted there were neither legs attached to the carapace nor any lying nearby. Adult Prador tended to lose their limbs and doubtless there were grav-units shell-welded to its underside. He could not see them, though he could see, fixed in a row below the creature's mandibles, the hexagonal control units it had used to control everything aboard this ship. It was those the second-children had been after.

This time there came no sounds of hydraulics or rough mechanical movement as the doors slid rapidly closed. Cormac glimpsed yellow and purple carapace and the glint of an eye through the remaining gap. One of those gas-propellant weapons hissed and stuttered, projectiles slamming against the heavy metal then becoming muffled as the doors finally closed. A hissing bubbling ensued, and white foam issued around the door and along its diagonal slit and rapidly solidified. Cormac recognised the astringency of breach sealant.

"The engineering of these ships was high-tolerance when they were built," said Dent matter-of-factly. "But that was some time ago and much in here is very worn, though rugged enough to continue functioning."

Ah, thought Cormac.

"What are you saying?" said Yallow.

Dent continued, "Prador are not too concerned about secure atmosphere seals in their doors. Like their engineering they are rugged and can survive large pressure changes. They can even survive in vacuum for an appreciable length of time."

"What?" said Yallow, in what was rapidly becoming an annoying habit.

"I think," Cormac said muzzily, "that the Prador have been lured into a trap, and we were here to bait the hook: one apparently old man and two raw recruits to open up this Sanctum."

"We're being used as decoys?" said Yallow disbelievingly.

"Outstanding," said Dent.

Cormac gazed with suspicion at the facsimile human—that was one of Olkennon's favourite comments, so perhaps their Golem unit leader was controlling Dent?

Yallow now turned and gazed at the hardened breach sealant.

"A trap," she repeated.

"Hazon nerve gas, I would guess," said Cormac.

Yallow's expression became grim. "We could have died out there," she said flatly.

"Sort of comes with the territory," Cormac replied.

From out in the corridor, despite the thickness of the door, could be heard the sound of heavy objects crashing about violently. Prador were certainly rugged—it took a long time for even that highly toxic gas to kill them.

The pedestal-mounted autodoc crouched over his injured leg like a chromed horseshoe crab feeding on the wound. With a nerve blocker engaged at the base of his spine, Cormac could feel nothing, but his hearing was fine, unfortunately. He kept his eyes averted from the mechanical surgeon's messy work, but could not block out the liquid crunching or the two-tone notes of bone and cell welders.

Olkennon, gazing at a screen mounted on the rear of the 'doc, also insisted upon giving him a description of what was going on—neglecting not one single gory detail.

"It's finished removing the fragments of metal and is now welding up the shattered kneecap. Dissolving clamps will go in next, since welded bone is always a bit weak. We wouldn't want all this coming apart on you again."

Cormac guessed Olkennon so relished describing this stuff because she didn't want her recruits becoming too blasé about such injuries. Yes, the medical technology was available to put together a broken human with the ease of repairing a broken toy, but some breakages could not be fixed and autodocs were not always available.

"There, the clamps are in—calcium fibre staples. Cell welding now and neutral cellular material and collagen to replace all that dead icky stuff it's sucking out."

Yeah, Cormac could now hear a sound like that made by someone sucking up the dregs of a drink through a straw.

As he understood it, ECS had once experienced problems with recruits becoming careless of injury and, at that time, the idea had been mooted that such repairs as this should be made without killing the pain—just to drive the point home. Too crude, however. The AIs had thereafter used subtle psychological manipulation, part of which involved making the autodocs look just plain scary, another part being the design of training regimens that included real pain. Cormac winced at the memory of hand-to-hand combat resulting in broken bones, ruptures, torn ligaments and gouged eyes. Pain was certainly a good learning tool, however, too much pain could make a soldier averse to doing a job which was, after all, one requiring those who were less than realistic about mortality.

"Weaving muscle fibres now and joining up the broken blood vessels. All the small capillary clamps coming off now. Oops, some clotting there—it'll have to cut that bit out."

Thanks, Olkennon, thought Cormac. I really needed to know that.

He said, "So you used us as decoys?"

"They would have seen through any emulation I could have made," she replied. "They're good at detecting metals."

"Who was running the facsimile?"

She focused on his face for a moment. "The AI in charge of the excavation." Returning her attention to the autodoc screen she went on, "It's closing up the skin now—layer by layer. It'll feel weird while the nerves heal, but there should be no pain." She looked up and gave him a smile. Certainly the Prador would have recognised her as Golem and known to keep away. Her emulation wasn't very good at all.

With a hissing sound and smell of burnt hair, the autodoc raised itself from his knee and began folding its sharp legs and other surgical cutlery into its body for sterilization. It looked rather like an insect grooming itself after eating something rather messy.

Cormac gazed down at his knee and saw it was bright red as if sunburned, and hairless. No sign now of torn flesh or broken bones. Of course, ECS medical technology had to be good. It was all about efficiency, for the time a soldier spent in hospital was wasted time.

Abruptly feeling returned. He felt odd. In his mind lay knowledge of a serious injury juxtaposed with evidence of none. The leg itself felt hot and cold—a local flulike phenomenon—and it also felt full of unfamiliar lumps as if a bag of marbles had been sewn in underneath his skin.

From beneath his lower back the autodoc retracted one more limb: a long, flat, hinged affair terminating in a platen for extruding nanofibres which until then had been engaged with his spinal nerves to cut all feeling below his waist. The autodoc pedestal now moved back from the surgical table, turned and folded down into itself, finally presenting nothing but smooth mirrored surfaces. Stepping round it, Olkennon dropped a sealed pack of paperwear clothing on Cormac's stomach. "Get dressed."

Warily, even though he knew there should be no problem, Cormac sat upright. The area of the wound pulled slightly like a strained muscle and the lumpiness felt something like a cramp. Muscle tension had yet to readjust and toxins saturating the area needed to be cleared. He swung his legs off the side of the surgical table and peered over at his envirosuit, bagged and lying in a corner, ready to be either repaired or scavenged for useable components. Standing, he tore open the package of paperwear and dressed, trying to ignore Olkennon's unwavering stare since, after all, she was a machine and not a woman.

Finally dressed he met her gaze. "We were put in danger—used as decoys—but there's something more to all this."

"The AI observed you both through the facsimile."

Being closely watched by AIs often resulted in substantial changes. He knew of troops who had come under such scrutiny and been summarily dismissed from ECS, and of others who ended up in the Sparkind, while still others, it was rumoured, simply disappeared.

"I can't say I'm happy to hear about that," he replied.

Olkennon studied him for a moment longer, then continued, "You understand that there are Separatists on this world who would very much like to get their hands on a Prador warhead?"

"You're stating the obvious."

"Yes… presume yourself bored, presume you feel under-utilized by ECS, under-appreciated."

"Okay, I'm presuming."

"Perhaps you want greater material wealth."

Silly, really, when in the Polity every need could be catered for and the greatest ill of society was boredom.

"No," he said. "I'm hooked on my own adrenaline, looking for further excitement, and I feel no inclination to get intervention to wean me off my addiction."

Olkennon bowed her head for a moment. She was smiling. Cormac did not allow himself to react to that—it was only emulation after all. Olkennon raised her head. "Eminently plausible, considering your psyche reports."

"I don't get to read them."

"Of course not… now let us go and see Carl."

They left the room to traverse the aseptic corridors of the medical centre. Cormac knew when they had come to Carl's room because few other rooms here possessed coded locks. Olkennon moved in close to the lock to deliberately block his view of it and rapidly punched in a code, before opening the door and stepping inside. Following her, Cormac gazed across at the bed on which Carl lay motionless, a life-support shellwear enclosing his chest with various tubes and optics trailing from it to an autodoc pedestal.

"Unconscious?" Cormac enquired.

"Definitely." Olkennon gazed at the bed. "The weapon fired at him was a dirty one: plutonium fragmentation bullet. However, it didn't detonate but passed straight through. He's as healthy as you now, but with what we now suspect about him, better he remains unconscious."

"I see," said Cormac. "So what is it you now suspect about him?"

Still gazing at the bed, Olkennon continued, "According to his record he's about a year older than you, Cormac. Medscan has revealed some anomalies—he may be older, he may not be who his record claims him to be." She turned to Cormac. "Tell me what you think is going on."

The stuff about Carl's possible age and identity only complimented the suppositions Cormac had already made. "I don't know how it happened, but I think Carl is working for the Separatists here." He glanced at the Golem for confirmation.

"Go on."

"I think, that learning he would be guarding part of the Prador ship's perimeter, he allowed Separatists through so they could obtain some weapon… a warhead. When that mission failed he killed those who were on their way out of the ship before they could be captured and, inevitably, reveal his involvement. Subsequently, the Separatists took vengeance upon him for that killing." Cormac gestured towards the bed.

"Very close, though not exact in every detail."

"Perhaps, if it is not too much to ask, you could fill in that detail."

"Ah, you have an overdeveloped tendency towards sarcasm in one so young."

"It's a result of my cynicism—something I believe to be useful survival traits for one working for ECS. Now, must I keep guessing?"

"Vernol's brother was one of those who died at the ship, but Vernol attempted to kill Carl because he believed Carl to be an ECS plant. As we understand it the man always put 'the Cause' before family and didn't really like his brother very much."

Cormac felt uncomfortable with all this. Without his intervention Carl would probably have taken Vernol down, but did this matter? Carl was obviously guilty of something…

"Vernol is no longer with us," Cormac observed, "and Carl, I suspect, will not be leaving ECS care this side of eternity."

Olkennon shrugged—not her decision.

"The situation now?" Cormac enquired.

"Removing Separatists from play is the main purpose of ECS here. Through Carl we might have been able to take down a number of cells."

Cormac said nothing, for he was tired of having to squeeze information out of her. He knew that Olkennon would eventually tell him all he needed to know, but no more.

"As we understand it," she continued, "there is divided opinion amidst the Separatists we know of in this area. Some believe Carl an ECS plant and that Vernol was right to try killing him. Others believe Vernol's motive was vengeance only and that he tried to kill a valuable asset."

Annoyed at himself for prompting again, Cormac asked, "And my role?"

"According to his record, which we are not entirely sure of right now, Carl came from Callisto. His family were members of the Jovian Separatists, though they never went so far as violent protest or terrorism. We can alter your records to show you came from there too, and any enquiries sent directly there can be fielded by our agents, since the Separatist organization on Callisto was penetrated long ago and is only allowed to continue functioning because of the leads it gives us to other Separatist enclaves."

"I see; I am to be the partner Carl never mentioned."

"Outstanding." Olkennon grimaced. "I do hope you understand how dangerous this might be, especially considering the doubts about Carl's antecedents?"

Cormac snorted in annoyance, waved a hand as if to brush that aside. Yeah, maybe there were anomalies about Carl's past, but didn't that rather tie in with his nefarious dealings here and now?

"They'll take some convincing," he said. "They'll know that just about all information is falsifiable, and there might be those who will want to take me down."

"Certainly—can you be convincing?"

Cormac considered the situation. He was being roped into an undercover operation because he was conveniently placed. Such operations were usually the province of those with decades of training and experience in the field. He was only twenty-two.

"Yeah, I think I can be convincing."