Stealing Light (11 page)
Authors: Gary Gibson
Corso scrambled out of reach, quickly pulling himself upright just inside the circle, but now feeling the reassuring weight of the steel knife with its rubber grip in his right hand. They prowled around opposite extremes of the challenge perimeter, waiting to see who moved first.
‘Fucker,’ Corso swore under his breath, and kept swapping his knife from hand to hand, in an attempt to confuse his opponent.
With a shriek, Northcutt came running straight at him, his blade weaving patterns in front of his naked chest. He kept shifting from side to side so Corso couldn’t be sure which way to head in order to evade him.
They slammed into each other, Corso grabbing the wrist of Northcutt’s knife arm, feeling taut muscles tremble under the frozen skin. He twisted aside, attempting to slash up at his enemy’s jugular, but Northcutt floored him with a single kick.
Northcutt moved in fast, intent on making his killing blow while Corso lay prone. Without any protective gear, he could move far faster than Corso could respond.
But Northcutt had clearly expected to make a faster job of it: Corso wasn’t a trained killer like his opponent, but that didn’t mean he was unable to defend himself. If the contest didn’t end within the next few seconds, Northcutt was going to be in serious trouble from hypothermia. Corso could see how the other man was getting slower, even as he towered over him.
Without thinking, Corso brought his knee up, slamming it hard into Northcutt’s testicles. Northcutt lost his balance, sliding to one side . . .
. . . red flared across Corso’s vision and he felt the hot flow of fresh blood across his cheek. He blinked, suddenly light-headed, then tried to lift himself up, but slipped on the ice.
There was a lot of blood on the ground nearby. His blood.
Northcutt straddled him, his blade held vertically over Corso’s chest, while his free hand pressed down on Corso’s ribcage.
‘Time to—’ Northcutt started to say, before bright lights suddenly flared across them, accompanied by the deafening
whup-whup
of ‘copter blades.
Two helicopters dropped down next to the combat circle, while Northcutt’s crew looked around, stunned. Forgetting about Corso for the moment, Northcutt yanked himself upright and moved rapidly over to the perimeter.
Corso meanwhile rolled over and on to his knees. Panting wildly, he glanced over towards Sal, standing just beyond the circle with a hopeless expression on his face. Northcutt’s crew began running around, shouting; rifles had magically appeared in the hands of most of them. Jones was already conversing with someone who had just stepped down from the nearest helicopter.
Corso looked over and recognized him as Kieran Mansell, Senator Arbenz’s right-hand man.
‘Hey!’ Sal began shouting at Northcutt, who seemed just about to step out of the ring of stones. ‘You can’t leave the circle, Northcutt!’ he yelled. ‘That’s quitting!’
Shit.
Sal was right, Corso realized. Whatever the circumstances, leaving the circle amounted to surrender. Because challenges were illegal, Northcutt wouldn’t actually forfeit his place in the lower Senate, but word of his shame would get around. Meanwhile his crew couldn’t even toss him a blanket to keep warm, because outside help was strictly forbidden under the traditions of challenge.
Corso pulled himself upright and gasped as he felt the deep wound. It made him feel sick and weak to touch it, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be enough to kill him.
Another couple of minutes spent out here in the freezing cold would do that just fine.
Mansell was escorted by heavily armed military clad in white and grey camouflage gear. Northcutt’s crew began to raise angry voices. Mansell strode on straight past Bull Northcutt and into the centre of the combat circle, sparing Corso himself only the most cursory of glances.
Corso hauled himself into a sitting position, still clutching his chest. He noticed that Mansell was wearing body armour under his long overcoat, his hair like a stiff blond brush above the square-jawed face. There was something pitiless and inhuman about the man’s eyes. Meanwhile the soldiers who had accompanied him began fanning out across the icy beach, their weapons lowered but at the ready.
‘You all know who I am’—Mansell’s voice was rough-edged and coarse—‘and I’m here on Senate authority. This challenge is illegal, and is over as of now. You’—he lifted one gloved hand to point at Northcutt—‘need to get inside. Now.’
‘I’ll kill you,’ snarled Northcutt, simply but clearly. ‘You’re inside the circle, and that means you’re taking up the challenge yourself. First I’ll kill you—and then I’ll kill him,’ he added, with a brief nod towards Corso.
Mansell glanced back at him with a derisive expression, while Northcutt’s crew remained silent. Corso saw that Bull was now becoming irrational from whatever warrior drugs he’d been taking. For a moment he thought Mansell’s security team might intervene, then he saw the man make a hand gesture, and the soldiers remained where they were.
‘I’ll forget you said that, son,’ Mansell replied finally. ‘Go join your crew. Normally I wouldn’t want to interfere, but I’m here on government business, and that makes all the difference. Got that?’
As he said these words, he turned and fixed Corso with a steady gaze.
He’s here because of me,
thought Corso with a start. He could see Sal still hovering on the edge of the circle, wanting to run over and help his wounded friend, but unable or unwilling to risk taking on Bull.
‘No.’ Northcutt was shivering violently now, his neck muscles outlined like steel cables under his skin. He moved towards Mansell. ‘I don’t give a fuck who you are. This is a challenge. You wouldn’t be where you are now if you hadn’t killed the right people. That’s how we do things, right? There’s precedent. You enter somebody else’s challenge, that makes you fair game.’
‘Go home, Northcutt.’ Mansell sounded bored. ‘You’re not fit to talk.’
Corso felt a wash of dizziness pass through him. Northcutt was holding his blade out threateningly towards Mansell.
‘I’ve never lost a challenge yet,’ Bull snarled, moving closer to Mansell, who remained stock-still. ‘And I won’t start now.’
What happened next, happened fast.
Bull pushed himself forward in a series of motions that appeared almost ballet-like to Corso. Then it was over so quickly it took him long seconds to understand what had in fact happened.
Mansell turned a little to the side so that, as Northcutt moved in fast for a stabbing blow, the other man appeared to embrace Northcutt around the shoulders, as easily as if Northcutt were a life-size rag doll being tossed towards him.
Corso heard a pitiless crack and it was over. Mansell lowered Northcutt’s suddenly lifeless body to the ice, the latter’s head lolling at a sickening angle.
Corso glanced over at Northcutt’s crew, still scattered around the perimeter of the combat circle. Some of them looked like they were thinking of using their weapons in retaliation. Mansell’s men dropped their own guns off their shoulders, and for a moment Corso thought things might end in a bloodbath.
‘Stop right there,’ said Mansell, addressing Northcutt’s followers. ‘The challenge is now over. He took me on and I won fair and square. Any of you care to disagree with that?’
A pair of hands began to pull Corso upright. He turned and realized it was Sal. Corso draped one arm over his friend’s neck and together they staggered out of the circle.
It’s really over,
Corso realized,
and I’m still alive.
Sal, with the help of one of Mansell’s soldiers, carried him over and heaved him up into the back of one of the ‘copters. Corso stared up at the rotating blades above his head, feeling curiously calm as other faces moved above him, their silhouettes blocking out the stars.
Another soldier bent over Corso and touched the side of his bare neck with something icy. A few moments later the ice spread through his thoughts, numbing him. Corso grinned, and started to laugh. Mansell meanwhile pulled himself inside the same ‘copter just as it began to lift from the ground, leaving Sal behind them.
Corso looked down and saw the same hopeless look still on his friend’s face, as the shoreline dwindled with distance.
—
The next thing he knew, he was strapped into a webbed seat in the rear cabin of the ‘copter, staring up at the aircraft’s ribbed steel interior. Some internal clock told him hours had passed meanwhile.
‘Feeling better?’ Mansell was eyeing him intently.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ Corso’s clothing had been cut away around his heavily bandaged wounds. ‘I need to get back,’ he muttered weakly. ‘My family . . .’
‘Your family are fine, for now,’ Mansell reassured him. ‘But that’s one of the things we need to talk about.’
‘I really didn’t think . . .’ Corso trailed off, staring at Mansell.
‘Really didn’t think you’d still be alive?’ he finished for him, a sour grin flickering across his curiously square features. ‘If I hadn’t turned up, you wouldn’t be. Bull Northcutt was one of the best fighters in the Freehold before he turned into a liability.’
Corso shook his head. ‘I don’t understand any of this. Where are we going?’
‘Tell me,’ Mansell asked as if by way of reply, ‘what do you think our chances are of winning this war with the Uchidans?’
Corso felt his stomach tighten. ‘Why do you care what I think?’
‘Speak freely. I’m being serious,’ Mansell reassured him, noting his disbelieving expression. ‘It’s one of the reasons you’re still alive.’
‘In that case, perhaps you ought to speak to my father, Senator Corso. Assuming your boss drops those false charges against him.’
‘Unfortunately, your father doesn’t share your particular area of expertise.’
Corso opened and closed his mouth. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re a scholar, not a fighter,’ Mansell continued. ‘Not hard to tell from that shambles of a fight back there. You’re a specialist in alien programming languages.’
Corso squinted at the man, now completely confused.
‘Shoal communications protocols,’ Mansell prompted. ‘Correct?’
Corso nodded dumbly. His area of expertise was ancient alien languages, going back possibly hundreds of thousands of years: part of the constant human effort to pick apart the available knowledge base of the Shoal Hegemony, trying to find the magic key that might open a world of infinite knowledge and power.
No one had ever come close to succeeding, however. Corso had merely expected a quiet life working away at the University with the help of a Consortium grant.
‘Senator Arbenz is going to ask you to do something that will very likely affect the entire future of the Freehold, and you’re going to say yes to him, because “no” isn’t an option. Do this for us, and all the current charges against your father will be dropped, nor will the rest of your family be forced into indentured labour. You have my word on this, and the Senator’s word, too.’
‘And if I say no?’
Mansell’s smile showed all his teeth. Corso looked away from him, feeling a deep chill settle around his heart that had nothing to do with the frozen air surrounding the helicopter.
‘You’re going to help secure an absolute victory for the Freehold over the Uchidans and rid them from Redstone for ever,’ Mansell continued. ‘But we don’t have much time. You’re being taken off-world, first to the Sol System, then to another location. We have been given command of a frigate called the
Hyperion,
for this express purpose, and we’ll be rendezvousing with it in less than twenty-four hours.’
Corso struggled to take all this in, and his fit of shivers was not entirely due to the lack of heat in the tiny cabin. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? And this has something to do with my research? We’re talking some pretty obscure academic material there, you know.’
‘I need your answer, Mr Corso.’
Corso reviewed his options and realized there weren’t any. He had no doubt that his refusal would result in a bullet through the head and his body being tossed down on to the icy wastes below. ‘All right. Whatever it is, yes. But I need to—’
‘No buts. Consider your position, Mr Corso – and remember my reputation. I don’t enjoy wasting time on arguments. You’ll do as your world requires.’
‘But what exactly am I meant to do?’
‘The trip on the
Hyperion
shouldn’t last more than a few weeks, and then we’ll rendezvous with the nearest coreship heading to our final destination,’ Mansell continued, ignoring his question. ‘Don’t even think about asking where it is we’re going. We’ll be joined by Senator Arbenz along the way. I believe you’ve already met him?’
Corso blinked several times. For the first time since he had been a very young child, he longed for the power to make his troubles go away simply by closing his eyes very tightly. ‘You could say that. So Arbenz is responsible for…this?’
Mansell smiled again, and Corso really wished he hadn’t.
‘He needs your help, Mr Corso.’
‘And in return?’
‘Do this for us and you could wind up a hero—a war hero. That’s better than getting a knife in the back for betraying your own people, wouldn’t you say?’
Six
Redstone Colony
Consortium Standard Date: 28.05.2538
5 Days to Port Gabriel Incident
Dakota’s shuttle fell out of the infinite night, dropping from orbit in a graceful arc towards a white and blue streaked pearl set against starry velvet.
Until that moment lost in the complex approach vectors her Ghost was channelling through her fore-brain, she glanced back at her sole passenger. ‘Sorry, did you say something?’
Severn had a look on his face like he was waiting for an answer. He popped into his mouth a narrow-bladed green leaf that had the unmistakable patterning of Redstone flora and began to chew on it. The Freeholders had given this mildly narcotic plant the remarkably original name ‘chewleaf’. It seemed to be available everywhere on board the orbital Consortium ships, even though they’d only been in-system for a matter of days. Too little time for anyone with enough authority to get round to banning it.
‘I was
saying
it feels good, yeah?’ Severn repeated. His face betrayed a Mediterranean ancestry by its pale-olive skin.
Beyond the necessary details of their rapid descent to the planet surface below and the constant dialogue of traffic control, Dakota’s thoughts had been focused on the ice-locked continents below, increasingly visible through the craft’s windscreen. But she didn’t complain about Severn’s interruption. Every now and then, the way she saw it, there were moments when you realized something that was happening was really happening: like a kind of epiphany. This felt like one of those moments.
Shit, I’m really here—and it isn’t all just in my head.
That was what she had been thinking: how Bellhaven was a long way away and, even though unfathomable reaches of interstellar space had been crossed, somehow it seemed as if she was only now really coming to terms with the decisions, the life choices that had led to her being here in this place, and at this time.
Dakota shook her head. ‘Sorry?’
Severn sighed dramatically. The craft shuddered around them and Dakota tensed automatically: they were skimming the atmosphere now, surfing the upper levels of the stratosphere at several thousand kilometres per hour, like a skipping stone skimmed expertly across the surface of a lake.
‘I
said,
it’s good when you finally get to go down below, get walking around on solid ground and, OK, maybe not breathing fresh air, but it’s a lot better than being stuck on a fucking rock for years on end, y’know?’
Severn grinned and reached out with a fist to wallop the bulkhead next to his acceleration couch, presumably in order to emphasize this slice of homespun philosophy. Most of the way down, he’d been talking about the interior of Dakota’s shuttle.
She had decorated the cabin of the little craft with small items originating from the Grover shanties back home. Fetish dolls hung from different points around the cabin. Dakota was hardly the religious type, yet the Revised Catholic icons epoxied on to a shelf above the entrance to the aft bay reminded her strongly of her own formative years in Erkinning—effigies of Peter, Anthony, Theresa, Presley and Autonomous Ethical Device Model 209, all rendered in gaudy clashing colours, their features beatific and childlike.
‘You should know I’m not a Rocker, I’m from Bellhaven,’ Dakota told him. ‘Life on the boosted asteroids isn’t so bad. Is it?’
‘Yeah? Well, the kinds of places I grew up, they don’t have the time or resources for fancy shit like field-retention atmospheres or artificial gravity.’
Dakota shrugged in response, twitching the control stick as the craft juddered. She could have guided the ship down using only her Ghost implants, but the general practice was to keep things reasonably physical. Even with implants, the mind could wander.
She’d left Bellhaven for the very first time three months before, and she was still learning just how adaptive the technology inside her skull could be. Already her ship was starting to feel like an extension of her body.
When it became clear, by the end of the twenty-first century, that anything resembling true artificial intelligence was still a long way off, scientific research had shifted instead to a far greater emphasis on mind-machine interfaces. Dakota’s implants were learning how her mind worked equally as she was learning just how they worked. It was like possessing a backup subconscious—something that could almost anticipate what you were thinking, thus allowing a degree of control and flexibility verging on the superhuman. An extra ghost in the machine.
They had a name for people like her: machine-heads.
‘You’re new to all this, aren’t you?’ Severn asked.
‘Thought we were
all
new here.’ The shuttle bumped and rattled as it came into closer contact with the atmosphere, the view beyond the windscreen fading as the optical niters reacted to the blazing heat of reentry. A break in the cloud cover far below revealed the ruins of the town that surrounded the Redstone skyhook: this had spent half a year under bombardment by Uchidan forces, using conventional explosives before they’d scraped together enough resources for a couple of nukes.
The nukes had been high in radiation yield, but low in destructive capacity, insufficient to seriously damage the skyhook’s structural integrity. Nevertheless, only the arrival of the Consortium had prevented the Uchidans making one last push and taking away the Freehold’s only remaining link to the rest of the universe.
Dakota flashed a smile over her shoulder. ‘You’re a machine-head too, right?’
‘Wow, how could you tell?’ he replied in mock amazement. ‘Worse. I’m a pilot as well, though this is gonna be the first time I do my job inside an atmosphere. Maybe you should hold my hand ‘case it gets rough on the way down?’ he leered, brushing a hand across the rough stubble of his scalp.
Dakota grinned and shook her head. Severn laughed at his own wit, and she noted they’d be landing in just under thirteen minutes, give or take the vagaries of ground control, and whether they’d managed to find enough secure landing spots for all the hardware currently on its way down from orbit. It would have been easier to ride down on the skyhook, but there was no telling whether the Uchidans might strike again with more nuclear mortar fire. Apparently there were still one or two pockets of resistance holed up down below.
‘I’m Dakota.’ She shoved one hand behind her seat for him to shake, and felt Severn grasp it after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Dakota Merrick.’
‘Chris Severn.’
‘Yeah, you see I knew that.’
‘Mind reader.’
‘Manifest reader.’ She tapped the readout screen printed on the thigh of her trousers. ‘Same thing, just more boring.’
‘Lean forward again so I can see more of your butt, and then I’ll stay interested.’
‘I could tell from how much your hands are sweating. Hang on.’
During the final descent, tortured air ripped around the tiny craft as she manoeuvred them into a tight spiral that factored in Ghost-fed random shifts designed to make it harder for any enemy forces to target them on their approach. She’d heard rumours that the Consortium were bargaining with the Shoal to acquire the same kind of inertialess technology they used on the coreships that had brought her and the rest of the fleet to Redstone, and fervently wished they’d get the hell on with the deal as her insides rattled in their bony cage.
‘Listen, I got a confession to make. This is my first time on the surface,’ Severn murmured.
Dakota took a moment to process this information before it made sense to her.
‘On a planet, you mean?’
Severn nodded.
‘Ever?’
‘Ever,’ he repeated excitedly, a grin spreading across his face. ‘Seventh-generation Rocker. My daddy never set foot on nothing more Earthlike than Mesa Verde. Said he didn’t like the smell of the place. Figured anything green that grew outside of a hydroponics tank wasn’t natural.’
Dakota merely nodded, and sank once more into the multiple Ghost-mediated conversations flowing between herself and traffic control, and included several other pilots at once. Sometimes a dozen separate strands of conversation would merge for a few moments into one babbling cacophony, at other times unravelling and becoming more distinct, the words flowing like some arcane magical tongue.
<¿Cuál es él?>
This last from Severn who, Dakota had not noticed until that moment, was hooked into her comms feed. She could hear the tension in his voice, and she realized his Ghost must have picked up on the weather feed reference, subsequently pulling fresh data from a string of appropriated local weather sats.
The ride got yet bumpier, the craft tilting nose-up as her Ghost (or was it her? It was almost impossible now to tell the difference) implemented the re-entry procedures. The glow beyond the windscreen brightened, then darkened again as the filters compensated once more: the ship was slicing through the atmosphere at an increasingly sharp angle. Dakota pictured themselves as they might appear from the surface, burning their way across the sky in a fiery hypersonic parabola.
A few moments later heat shields slid down over the windscreen, cutting off any view of the landscape or sky beyond.
—
Smoke trails bled across the sky around the base of the skyhook, which rose into the blue exactly like a neverending tower. Dakota had been warned that following it with your eyes up and up to its visible vanishing point could make you dizzy. She brought her gaze back down: the advice had been sound. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed more or less on the horizon, where the building housing the lower end of the skyhook—until recently a major military target for the Uchidans—took centre stage. Distant mountains were painted white with snow; even the winters on Bellhaven couldn’t have prepared her for the arctic blast of the Redstone winds or the sheer size of the distant canopy trees, towering over the landscape stretching beyond the buildings and streets.
Severn had called for transport, and Dakota followed him on board an automated vehicle that pulled up next to them. He looked distinctly wobbly from all the chem they’d provided to help him adjust to planetary gravity.
‘Some sight,’ said Dakota, nodding towards the skyhook. Her breather mask felt heavy and uncomfortable. Worse, the relatively higher density of the atmosphere made their voices, as they emerged, sound unnaturally low-pitched. In fact they both sounded ridiculous, which didn’t encourage elaborate conversation.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Severn replied tightly, his knuckles white as they gripped a handhold next to their seats, the ground rolling past them at about forty klicks an hour. Command control lay somewhere up ahead, in a warren of emergency bunkers the Freehold had built beneath the skyhook.
‘Problem?’ asked Dakota.
Severn nodded stiffly. ‘Too big.’
‘What is?’
‘Everything.’ He scowled at her. ‘Why’s it so cold when the atmosphere’s so dense? Shouldn’t that make it warmer?’
Dakota glanced up and saw some kind of vast bird flapping its way slowly across the sky—a one-wing, her Ghost informed her, its vast bulk supported solely by the dense atmosphere.
‘Lots of volcanoes here,’ she replied. ‘All that activity spews ash into the air, and that counterbalances the warming effect of a thick atmosphere, stopping too much heat getting to the ground. So it’s never likely to get very warm.’
—
Several minutes later they passed through a complex of airlocks and into the command centre itself, which looked like it had started life as a storage facility of some kind, judging by the signs still on the walls. Propaganda posters displayed cartoons of enormous muscular men carrying guns, who were standing in defiant protection of equally idealized homesteads. One such slogan read: ‘Citizenship Is Worth Fighting For’.
And these,
she thought with a sour feeling in her gut,
are the people we’re supposed to be helping.
The corridors were busy with Consortium staff moving about purposefully. Three separate groups of guards checked their IDs at different checkpoints. Dakota wondered if the paranoia levels normally ran so high.
Severn squinted at her. ‘Banville, he came from your world, right?’
‘Worked on the latest generation of Ghost implants, then lit out. You know the story.’
‘The twist would be if it turned out he went off of his own free will, don’t you think?’
Dakota shook her head. ‘No, that would simply make him a traitor.’
Severn laughed. ‘Guess
we’re
doing the right thing, then.’
‘Maybe. It’s just that. . .’
They both paused, as a piece of information entered their minds simultaneously via their Ghost implants. They turned to look at each other.
Severn now wore a shit-eating grin. ‘Josef Marados is in charge of our debriefing, then? Guess you’d better keep your legs closed tight.’
‘Why?’
‘Guy’s got a reputation, is all.’
Dakota held Severn’s gaze. ‘You sound jealous.’
He gave her a long look up and down, as they resumed walking. ‘He gets anywhere near you, damn right I’ll be jealous.’