“A gift?” she wondered. She squatted down and looked closely. Three of the containers held small quantities of metallic powder. There were small quantities of crystalline substances in a couple of others, and in the remaining three were minute copies of the containers themselves. Chapra reached inside and took one out. Like the originals it was transparent. There was a mere fleck of something inside it. Judd said, “The creature showed increased scanning activity when you spoke and it is showing it again now.”
Chapra stood up. “Perhaps it understands that this is how we communicate. I imagine that it communicates using ultrasound and pheromones — not an easy language to translate.” She stooped and took up four of the containers. Judd took up the other four.
“I don’t think these are a gift,” she continued. “I think the creature is letting us know its requirements.” She turned to the door then and halted in surprise. Abaron, dressed in a totally-enclosing environment suit, stood just inside the chamber.
“Abaron.” She could think of nothing more to say.
“There is a communication for you,” he said, his voice grating from the PA of the suit. He quickly turned back to the door, hit the control to open it, went through. Chapra and Judd followed him through the lock. In that little chamber Abaron removed his mask while Chapra flicked back her hood. His face was pouring with sweat.
“Is that suit malfunctioning?” asked Chapra sweetly, then damned herself for insensitivity — at least he was trying. She shook her head. “What do you mean ‘a communication’?”
“A priority message from a place called Clavers World,” he said.
“Box? I thought you weren’t letting anything through.”
“I merely reassigned priority. One of my subminds has been vetting all communications. This particular one may be relevant to all our actions. It is from Alexion Smith and it is on real time.”
“Him. What the hell does he want?” As she said this Chapra glanced at Abaron and saw the awe on his face. “Strike that,” she said. “Let’s go and find out.” Junger twenty-eights, thought Kellor. He stood in the hold of his ship watching, on a nearby viewscreen, the gunships jetting across vacuum from the heavy-lifter shuttle. The General must have bribed someone in the Polity to obtain them. They were dated, and must have been scheduled for destruction at some point. Sixteen of them. Kellor licked his lips. He was not sure he liked this. The money was good and must obviously be in proportion to the risk… but some of the other toys the General had brought aboard bothered him. The tactical atomics weren’t so bad. Kellor had used them himself on many occasions. But the CTDs were. Contra terrene devices were the kind of things to get you really noticed by Earth Central, and it was by not being overly noticeable to EC that Kellor was able to continue to operate. He really hoped the General had no intention of using them against a Polity world
— that would really piss off some major minds, and a pissed-off AI was an enemy indeed.
“You have some reservations,” said Conard. A few paces behind him stood his two young aides, their expressions utterly devoid of emotion and in Kellor’s opinion, intelligence.
“I always have reservations when I don’t know all the details,” Kellor replied. The General stood with a swagger stick tucked under one arm and managed not to look ridiculous. His uniform was neat and spotless on a diminutive frame. His face wore a mildly thoughtful expression. But Kellor had begun to understand what went on behind that expression. General David Conard hated the Polity, and most especially its AIs, with fanatical intensity. He would die to bring it down. And he would kill anyone to bring it down. Kellor considered himself a better man. As far as he was concerned people could live how they liked. He only killed for money.
“There is nothing much to add. You must first sever communications using those… missiles.” He said the last word with contempt. It was his disgust at the thought of using smart missiles that had made Kellor finally realise the depth of Conard’s hatred of AIs. “And on our subsequent arrival in the system take out the Polity ship you’ll find there.”
“And that’s all?”
“Yes, and as I said before, ‘There must be no survivors; complete obliteration’.”
“And it’s only a Polity science vessel?”
“Yes.”
“No colony on the world?”
“No.”
“That’s all right then.”
Kellor turned to watch as the first of the gunships entered the hold of the Samurai. They had four-man crews, which meant his own crew would be outnumbered by about twenty. He would have to prepare for that eventuality. He turned back to Conard.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“Why do you want to destroy a Polity science vessel? Surely there are better military targets?”
“That does not concern you.”
Kellor pretended to think about it then nod reluctant agreement. He had noted and filed the edge to Conard’s voice. That edge had not been there at the beginning. Something had changed and the mission had acquired greater urgency. If the Separatists were becoming desperate to destroy that vessel then it carried something of huge potential value. With his back to the General, Keller allowed himself a cold little smile and glanced to the squat muscular bulk of his first officer. Jurens returned his look then nodded back to Conard. Kellor turned to watch.
The General strode over to a group of four of his soldiers who had come aboard the Samurai in the first Junger. One of these was either ill or drunk and his fellows were attempting to support him. As the General approached they quickly stepped away. Conard did not hesitate. He kicked the soldier in his testicles then kicked his feet away from under him. As the man lay on the deck groaning Conard reached down and pulled something from his neck and tossed it aside. Jurens stepped up beside Kellor.
“H-patch,” he said. “Confederation soldiers like to stay stoned so’s they don’t have to think about what they’re being ordered to do. Arseholes.”
The General, just to drive the point home, began systematically kicking in the soldier’s ribs. The man probably couldn’t feel it. Jurens spat on the deck and turned away. Kellor followed his first officer from the hold. He too, as a young mercenary, had suffered such officers as Conard.
PART THREE
Alexion Smith looked neither old nor young. There was nothing fashionable nor particularly unfashionable about his appearance. He had short blond hair, a thin non-descript face set as a background for calm green eyes, and wore a ribbed and neatly patched environment suit. He looked… utilitarian. From years of association Chapra knew that this was because such things as fashion just held no interest for him. His love was for things long dead and buried: ancient ruins and ancient bones, preferably alien ruins and alien bones. He sat now at ease in a deep armchair in a projection that occupied the air over the consoles in the control room. Behind him was a window through which could be seen a barren landscape below a sky half-filled with a red-giant sun. Weird birds drifted in charcoal silhouette.
“Alex, it’s nice to see you,” said Chapra as she dropped into her swivel chair. Abaron took a seat in the background.
“It is nice to see you, Chapra, though I wouldn’t recognise you. I take it you got fed up with the grey hair and sagging tits?”
Chapra grinned at the sound of a sharply indrawn breath behind her. “I did. I find that in this form it is easier for me to get what I want. Appearance is all even in this cosmetic age. What is it, Alex? What’s given you priority over half a million other callers?”