‘I can supply little more relevant data,’ he said. ‘You already know from Maybrem that the node signature is located in Dyson segment fourteen.’
The dark-haired man glanced first at the AI, then at Blegg, before frowning and beginning to call up data on his palm-com.
‘The techniques used to gain access can be equated with the use of Jain technology,’ said the AI.
‘Theorize,’ Blegg instructed sharply—no social niceties since he did not feel very nice.
‘Orlandine has obtained Jain technology.’
‘That a signature has been detected indicates the technology has not yet been released… or wholly released. And why would Orlandine come back here?’ Blegg obtained more facts from the AI. ‘After the Heliotrope dropped into U-space.’
‘Her psyche profile highlights her close attachment to this project. She would not readily abandon it, and she could return as easily as she left.’
‘Theorize.’
‘She somehow obtained a Jain node, U-jumped out of the system then back in again, concealed herself inside the Dyson segment where she has since unravelled some of that node’s secrets. Using Jain tech to gain entry, she returned here to check on the progress of my investigation.’
‘Orlandine is haiman, and was the overseer of this station—she would not therefore have needed Jain tech to gain access here.’
‘One thing,’ said the man with them. Blegg looked over at him, then caught the palm-com tossed in his direction. He studied the screen as the man continued, ‘Just twenty minutes before the explosion she ordered extra supplies to be loaded onto the Heliotrope. That in itself did not seem the action of someone deranged and desperate, but could be discounted until now. Check the list there — item eight.’
‘Shielding,’ said Blegg.
‘More data,’ announced the AI.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘No, I mean more data is arriving.’
‘From?’
‘A Centurion ship called the Not Entirely Jack.’
‘Ah,’ sighed Blegg, ‘the serendipity of a holistic universe.’
With no reply forthcoming from the AI, the man observed, ‘Forensic AIs are not noted for their sense of humour.’
‘I wasn’t joking,’ said Blegg.
… He turned to another card, saw them laid out all around him like gravestones.
He could have transported down here from the attack ship but, being only able to transport himself and a limited number of items through U-space, he required this shuttle. Many items here, some of them quite large, needed to be lifted out for ECS to study. Bringing his shuttle in along the five-mile trail of destruction, he eyed the hulk lying where it terminated. Security forces had set out a cordon of drones around the hulk but there were no sightseers out here anyway, and none back in Tuscor City who might wish to become such. Most of them were more interested in getting themselves safely through one of the few runcible facilities, or else aboard one of the evacuation craft.
The Prador scout craft seemed almost intact, despite recent encounters with an ECS dreadnought, a planetary defence station, and finally with the ground. It had exotic-metal armour, the Prador’s big advantage over the Polity—that and the fact they possessed many more ships. It all seemed on the turn, however, now the big Polity shipyards were up and running, but an easy win was still out of the question. Earth Central calculated that another five worlds would be lost to the Polity before ECS pushed the Prador forces into retreat. Billions more would die, the war dragging on for at least another twenty years, and then the Polity would still be picking up the pieces for centuries afterwards. Maybe Blegg could find something here to make the Earth Central AI feel a bit more optimistic.
Blegg brought his shuttle in over the cordon, and down, observing autoguns tracking him. Landing, he saw an armoured gravcar and transport speeding over his way, and when he finally stepped from his vessel, troops piled out of the gravcar. It seemed almost as if the attack ship AI had not informed them of his arrival. He learned differently when the ECS commander approached him.
‘Problem?’ Blegg enquired of the woman who stood before him. Her troops headed over to the transport, where they quickly began unloading items strapped to AG pallets.
She nodded slowly. ‘As you came in we got the news: a Prador dreadnought just entered the system.’
Blegg immediately communicated mind-to-mind with the AI of the attack ship far above. ‘Why didn’t you inform me?’
‘Because you were about to find out anyway, and I have more important concerns than keeping you informed.’ replied Yellow Cloud.
‘How long do I have?’
‘A minimum of three hours’
Blegg turned and glanced down the length of his shuttle, sending a command to the onboard computer to open the hold. The ramp door whoomphed out from its seals and slowly began to hinge down on rams. He turned back to the commander, ‘What have you got so far?’
She turned and led the way to where her troops were now towing the floating pallets over the rough ground. Gesturing to one, on which a bulky object lay shrouded in plastic, she said, ‘We got the pilot—almost intact.’
Blegg eyed the object, then the men who were moving it. ‘How many people do you have here?’
‘Fifty-eight.’
‘What about the rest?’ Blegg gestured to the other pallets.
‘The remains of a particle beam weapon, a thermal generator, a missile launcher and what looks like a Prador biological weapon.’
‘What’s your route out of here?’ Blegg asked.
She pointed back towards the city. ‘Same as everyone else.’
‘Very well. Dump the Prador—we’ve more than enough of their corpses on ice. Dump the launcher and the thermal generator—we already know how they work. You have three xenotechs here with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want them with me, along with all their equipment. Load everything else here and order the rest of your people aboard.’
The commander looked suddenly very relieved.
‘Yellow Cloud?’ Blegg sent. ‘I’m sending most of these troops to you, along with one or two possibly useful items. Please take control of the shuttle and launch it the moment they are aboard. Once you have them and those items aboard, send the shuttle back.’
‘That will not leave you much time.’
‘But time enough to remove as much corn-storage as we can find.’
The commander stayed, along with the three xenotechs, one of them towing a floating tool chest while the other two carried tool packs on their backs. Just as the shuttle lifted, Blegg led the way into the dank interior of the scout ship. A single entry tunnel, wide and cavelike enough to permit access for a body considerably larger than any human, led to an oblate sanctum where the Prador first-child had operated the ship’s alien consoles. Ship lice the size of a man’s shoe crawled over ragged stony walls that were coated with pale green blooms of weed. The pit-console projected from the floor like a huge coral, and an array of hexagonal screens formed most of the forward wall.
Standing between console and screens, Blegg pointed to the floor. ‘See this?’ He then traced an outline with the toe of his boot. ‘The memstorage should be right under here. It won’t be booby-trapped, since the Prador are reliant on their encryption—they still haven’t figured out just how easily AIs can break it.’
As one of the techs began slicing through the floor metal with a diamond saw, the commander asked, ‘How do you know this?’