The Prador—designated by its armour’s CPU as Cverl—had managed to ascertain its destination, even though its com-system had been damaged back on the planet, and it could apparently only send base code to the others. Taking its place in a swirling galaxy of golden-armoured individuals, it fell into line as they descended towards a port. When only two of its fellows were between itself and the opening, it got its first glimpse inside the craft and saw the armoured Prador preceding it land hard on the floor plates as the ship’s gravity dragged it down. The long chamber lying beyond was crowded with others of its kind, since they would not be moving on further into the ship until the atmosphere door could be closed and air pressure restored. Air, of course, was vital, being the required fluid medium.
When its turn came, the Prador designated Cverl landed neatly, countering with its armour’s AG and then scrambling on into the crowd. Five more came down behind it, then the outer door began to draw closed. With the slow return of atmosphere, the earlier silence was replaced by the incredible racket of heavily armoured Prador crashing around the metal floor.
Such a closely packed crowd was perfect. Only one thing more was required.
Ah…
Doors all along each side of the chamber began to open, and the armoured Prador started moving off to be about their assigned tasks. Cverl’s own assignment was to collect a plasma torch and take it to a certain location to help clear wreckage. Vrell, now wearing that Prador’s armour, crushed the wedge-shaped container he held in his claw, releasing the replicating nanite he had specially adjusted to destroy the nervous systems of Prador with a particular genetic code… like all these around him. Ostensibly about to proceed where he had been directed, he paused as a scream issued over com. Glancing back, he saw one armoured Prador collapse down on its belly, while another shot off on AG to crash straight into the ceiling.
Surprisingly fast…
Sighing with satisfaction, Vrell rechecked the ship’s map in his armour’s CPU, and turned to head for Vrost’s sanctum.
Epilogue
The Warden viewed the recent report with some interest. It seemed Oboron had been bombarding the Polity with queries and threats for some time now. Apparently Vrost had broken his contact with the Third Kingdom as he took his ship out of the Spatterjay system, and had not been in communication since. The information Sniper had gathered was just part of the story. Obviously, like Oboron and all his kin, Vrell had been changed by the Spatterjay virus. But this report now put the final touch to the story.
‘The real Vrell was not aboard his father’s ship when it destructed,’ the AI sent. ‘He in fact boarded Vrost’s ship in the guise of a King’s guard.’
‘Ding dong. Correct answer and zero points for effort.’
‘What are you doing down there, Sniper?’
‘Just introducing someone to an adapted version of “attitude”,’ the old drone replied.
‘Sniper, I have one of my sat-eyes poised directly above you, and there is currently no cloud cover, so there is no point in you being disingenuous. Thirteen, if you would allow me visual access?’
After a delay, presumably during which the little drone and the old drone had some discussion or argument, the link established and the Warden gazed from Thirteen’s eyes.
‘Meet Vrell,’ said Sniper, laconically.
The old drone and the Prador war drone were now cruising slowly above the ocean. Both of them were battered and scorched.
‘What do you intend to do with your prisoner?’ the AI asked.
‘I just recruited him,’ replied Sniper. ‘You got a job for him?’
‘I doubt a Prador war drone would best serve the interests of the Polity.’
‘Oh, they ain’t so different really. Scrap a bit of the conditioning, wipe standing orders, and in goes “attitude”—I think you’ll find him useful.’
‘And it has itself agreed to this?’
‘Not really, but I established a programming link while I was repairing him.’
‘Please route me through to that drone directly.’
As Sniper obliged, the Warden paused before asking, ‘Vrell, do you wish to serve the Polity?’
‘Yeah, fucking right!’
‘And how best do you think you might serve the Polity?’
‘Give me something to destroy!’
‘Oops,’ said Sniper, quickly breaking communication.
In its silicon heart the Warden sighed—and it would have shaken its head had it possessed one. The AI then turned its attention to one of its subminds. SM2, the metre-long iron turbot, was again working as a vending tray in the concourse of the Coram base, but this time at the Warden’s behest.
Janer took his drink from the distinctly fishy floating tray, took a cautious sip, then eyed the tray as it drifted over to serve the sofa opposite.
Taking her own drink, Erlin asked, ‘So what are your plans?’
‘We will return to Hive,’ said Isis Wade, who was seated on the sofa beside Janer. ‘I am now the singular owner of some property there.’
Wade was now fully restored, in a physical sense, though there now seemed to Erlin a lack of the former surety in his speech. But it was open to conjecture whether that resulted from deliberate emulation or some more deep-rooted cause.
‘But why are you going?’ Erlin directed the question at Janer.
‘I’ve been there before a couple of times, but only visited part of it, so there’s a whole world still to see. You know,’ Janer closed his free hand into a fist and bumped it against his temple, ‘gotta keep busy.’
Erlin responded with a measured nod—indeed, how well she knew that.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Janer muttered to the carry case affixed on his shoulder.
Erlin grinned, almost able to guess what the hive mind was saying to him—probably some sarcastic comment about Janer’s ‘busy-ness’. She then glanced beyond him towards a commotion on the other side of the concourse. ‘Here they come.’
Janer and Wade turned simultaneously.
Even though the concourse was not particularly crowded, the people occupying it moved sharply out of the approaching party’s way. Erlin then noticed some of the Polity citizens groping in pockets for their holocams. Their fascination was understandable, as four Old Captains together in one place was not a common sight. It was certainly an impressive one.
Ambel, Ron, Drum and Orbus—they strolled along with leisurely power, appearing utterly dominant, as if they could rip this moon base apart with their bare hands. Forlam, not yet having attained such great age, just looked dangerous and edgy alongside them. Crewman Drooble still bore the smiling expression of the mildly demented. Keech alone seemed utterly normal and human amidst them, while his prisoner, Bloc, almost faded into insignificance. Even as this diverse bunch arrived at the bar, the turbot vending tray was returning laden with big mugs of seacane rum. Janer glanced at Wade and raised an eyebrow.
‘Old Captains are always thirsty,’ Wade explained, having summoned the tray by internal radio.
While the new arrivals gathered round them, only Keech held back.
‘My slot is nearly due,’ he announced. ‘I should say my goodbyes now.’
‘Then say them, lad,’ said Ambel. ‘Just give him to me.’
As Ambel grabbed Bloc’s shoulder, the man stared up at him, terrified. Erlin considered what was in store for him: forensic examination and interrogation by AI, then inevitably mindwipe. But perhaps Bloc somehow thought he would escape that fate. However, there would be no such mercy if he remained here in the hands of the Old Captains.