Wire tyres ploughed dust plumes from the regolith as the second rover stopped nearby; frighteningly nearby.
“MR. ARMITAGE. WHY ARE WE EXPERIENCING DELAY?”
This new voice carried in itself a casual, immense menace, sounding as if it might threaten death even by issuing a greeting. It was a voice that had been studied, worked on, honed as a tool to bend other human beings to its will. Unity felt she would not at all be surprised if its owner practised in front of mirrors. And yet, the voice sounded laboured, as if fighting to expel air against resistance.
“I’m sorry, sir, there appear to be more locals than previously suspected; as many as three adults. Dangerous ones. One seems to have taken out Janos with some sort of long blade, and if you’ll look up I’m afraid you’ll see another has gotten off a message rocket.”
The Mayday Missile went into FTL drive, a glowing soap bubble of light that then went through every colour of the visible spectrum as a sudden vacuum wind seized it and threw it to the stars.
“THAT’LL ONLY BRING MERCHANT SHIPPING. MERCHANT SHIPPING WE CAN DEAL WITH. EVERYONE FEARS THE REVENUE BUREAU. HOW ARE WE DOING WITH THE SERIES THREE?”
“Our work has been interrupted. The gravity cutter is making some headway.”
A third voice cut in. This voice could hardly be recognized as human, and was at first indistinguishable from static. “The cutter will alert the unit’s offensive security. It should never have been used. Shut it down.”
Armitage’s voice sounded irritated. “It’s cut up to a millimetre into the epidermis—”
“And it’ll kill whatever human contents are inside as soon as it breaks through, or render them sterile. Whoever’s doing the cutting, too. The Series Three’s outer skin contains a sheet of raw plutonium. I should know.” The voice coughed suddenly, a noise that sounded like a clockwork mechanism being wound in the wrong direction.
There was a pause; during the pause, there was a crackle of ionization from the Penitentiary’s direction, accompanied by shouts and screams.
“I hate to say I told you so.”
Armitage’s voice was quietly murderous. “It would have helped if you’d made yourself available to bestow your vast knowledge on us before, Mr. Skuse.”
“I was unwell. These days, I spend much of my time unwell.”
“I FEEL YOU SHOULD GET BACK TO THE GAOL, MR. ARMITAGE. IT APPEARS TO BE DEFENDING ITSELF. WE SHOULD SALVAGE THE SITUATION AND CONTINUE AT MR. SKUSE’S DIRECTION. WHAT ARE YOUR SUGGESTIONS, MR. SKUSE?”
“Heh! Cutting is too unsubtle. We must convince it it has been subjected to a natural disaster and trigger its mercy algorithms, setting the poor prisoners free to fend for themselves. I propose extreme heat. A solar flare, which would not be uncommon in this milieu—”
“I AM NOT COUNTENANCING SETTING OFF A NUCLEAR WEAPON, MR. SKUSE. NOT YET. I DO NOT GET ON WELL WITH NUCLEAR WEAPONS, AND NEITHER DO YOU.”
“Tush, tush! You break into one gaol with a nuclear weapon, and you’re Nuclear Weapon Skuse for life. Besides, the man lived for several hours, did he not? Long enough for him to feel your ire, even where the Moral Purity Bureau’s nark protection unit had him put?”
“YOU FORGET YOURSELF, MR. SKUSE.”
“I forget little but pain nowadays, sir. No, we do not need a mushroom cloud at this juncture, pretty though it would have been. We need only to fool a few of the unit’s nerve endings, convince them that hideous stellar pyrotechnics are taking place outside. I have a detailed enough understanding of the Series Three’s sensory peripherals. You had enough government engineers tortured to give me it. We will have your box open in an acceptable number of jiffies, and Jack out of it. Though I doubt he’ll be any more capable of opening your other box than I am.”
“JUST GET HIM OUT, MR. SKUSE, AND LEAVE THAT SECOND QUESTION TO HIM.” There was a whirr of motors, and the rover hummed away in a cloud of fines.
Her every joint aching from enforced immobility and the cold of the water, Unity forced herself to rise onto her hands and knees, her hands and knees disappearing into the mud as quickly as she put weight on them, and crocodile-walked away down the arroyo.
*
Mr. Aidid fetched up against the wall of the Penitentiary, wanting to gulp in huge lungfuls of air, unable to let any more than a trickle of it down his throat.
“He doubled back here. I saw him.”
“Are you sure you didn’t see Arkadi? No-one found Arkadi’s body. He ain’t dead till we find his body.”
“I got news for you. No-one’s ever going to find any bit of Arkadi’s body big enough to put in a DNA sampler. I saw that booby trap go off. Them hicks got this whole place wired up.”
Mr. Aidid could hear other footsteps on the top of the Penitentiary. Someone was walking up there too.
“I should get danger pay for this. You saw what it did to Umberto.”
“We’re on danger pay already. Skuse says we’ll be fine if we deal with it on its blind side. It’s only got its sensors extruded on the side it burned off all Umberto’s flesh on.”
“What if it looks round?”
“It won’t. Skuse is still giving it targets of opportunity on its eye side.”
The feeling of air molecules being pulled apart rang in through Mr. Aidid’s ears and played his bones like xylophones as it thrummed through the Penitentiary’s skin. The prison was still defending itself. But he could also hear another rhythm in the metal. Someone inside was still knocking to be let out.
Mr. Aidid’s basic crewman’s training had also involved the rudiments of Morse, and he was already aware that one of the prisoners inside the Series Three was using it to communicate. It was easy for him to distinguish the letters S-O-S, and to tap back, under cover of the din round the gaol’s other side, C-A-L-M.
W-H-O-R-U, tapped the metal.
Trying as far as possible to conceal himself between two palm trunks and the Penitentiary wall, Mr. Aidid licked his lips and tapped back:
F-R-E-N-D-O-F-B-E-G-I-L-D-STOP
The prisoner digested this and rapped back:
W-H-A-T-P-R-O-G-R-E-S-C-U-T-I-N-G-I-N-QUERY
“Skuse says he’s going to get the box to think there’s a solar flare,” said a voice helpfully from upstairs.
S-I-M-U-L-A-T-I-N-G-S-O-L-A-R-F-L-A-R-E-STOP, tapped Aidid with difficulty.
C-O-U-L-D-W-O-R-K, replied the metal. M-E-R-C-Y-A-L-G-O-R-I-T-H-M-S-W-I-L-L-O-P-E-N-C-E-L-L-S-STOP
There was a pause.
B-U-T-O-N-L-Y-1-A-T-A-T-I-M-E-T-H-I-S-V-I-M-P-O-R-T-A-N-T-W-H-E-R-E-A-M-I-QUERY
Nervously, Aidid tapped back 2-3-K-R-A-N-I-S-Y-S-T-E-M-STOP
W-H-E-R-E-I-N-M-A-T-R-I-X-QUERY-G-A-O-L-I-S-2-B-Y-2-B-Y-2-C-U-B-E-B-A-S-E-H-O-M-E-C-O-R-N-E-R-O-P-E-N-S-F-I-R-S-T-STOP
W-H-E-R-E-I-S-B-A-S-E-H-O-M-E-C-O-R-N-E-R-QUERY, tapped back Aidid.
L-O-O-K-4-M-A-K-E-R-S-L-O-G-O-STOP
Mr. Aidid looked, and realized his ear was pressed like an octopus’s sucker against a manufacturer’s logo the size of a dinnerplate.
The logo said OUBLIETTE HUMAN INCARCERATION PRODUCTS: ADAMANTINE CHAINS AND PENAL FIRE.
F-O-U-N-D-I-T-STOP
B-U-G-E-R, said the metal through his fingertips. F-R-E-E-S-M-E-1-S-T-H-A-V-E-2-M-A-K-E-A-N-O-B-V-I-O-U-S-E-S-C-A-P-E-A-T-T-E-M-P-T-A-N-D-G-E-T-M-Y-C-E-L-L-M-O-V-D-O-N-STOP
As Mr. Adid lay in cover with his head flat against the wall, the knocking audibly travelled upwards, growing fainter and fainter.
G-E-T-O-U-T-O-F-H-E-R-E, it tapped.
Mr. Aidid needed no further encouragement. There was now no-one on his side of the Penitentiary; they had crossed back behind the buildings, possibly unwilling to be in line of sight of the unit after What It Did To Umberto.
He crept out under the palms, scuttled into one of the empty houses, and allowed his natural lack of courage to take over, collapsing in nervous exhaustion in a dusty living room in which children seemed to have made a fortress out of some former occupant’s best furniture.
Mr. Skuse sat next to his
employer in the surface rover, beyond what Mr. Skuse had insisted was the maximum range of the Penitentiary’s offensive arsenal.
“The splices are all in place now,” informed Mr. Skuse through the machine that nowadays served as his voice box. “The unit should now firmly believe Ararat to be being irradiated by over a hundred million megatons of fusing plasma erupting from the surface of this system’s sun. The induction pads we’ve attached to its skin at strategic points should confirm this. Of course, the amount of heat coming through those pads could never cut its surface; hence there is no reason for the Penitentiary to interpret that data as a deliberate attack. We’re also firing hits down the fibre optics that used to be connected to its gamma sensors. It should, however, believe its prisoners will slowly cook if it doesn’t let them out to find a safer refuge on the surface. It’ll open.”
“I HOPE SO,” said Mr. Skuse’s employer in a low growl.
“I know my business,” said Skuse. “The last time I was at this business, I lost my face, after all.”
“I COULD REQUISITION YOU A NEW FACE TOMORROW,” purred his employer. “PICK A FACE, ANY FACE YOU SEE ON THE STREET. I WILL HAVE ITS OWNER ABDUCTED AND THE FACE HARVESTED. SUBJECT TO TISSUE COMPATIBILITY, OF COURSE.”
“It would not be my face,” hissed Skuse. “This face is more honest.”
“AS YOU WISH. WHAT IS HAPPENING NOW?”
Skuse smiled liplessly. A notch on the frame that hung around his honest face emitted a cooling mist to moisturize his mucous membranes. “The structure is preparing to open. The base home corner opens first.”
“WHICH IS THE BASE HOME CORNER?”
“Look for the manufacturer’s logo.”
“...YES. I SEE.”
A blunt-cornered square had opened in the structure; a square of light. The dull red daylight on Ararat was dimmer than the Earth-standard illumination in the prison’s interior.
A square section of the gaol’s side punched out, falling into the mosaic gravel at its base.
A dark shape shouldered its way out of the light. A voice bellowed, impossibly loud, seemingly right inside Mr. Skuse’s skull.
“BY MY MOTHER’S SAINTED VIRGINITY,” boomed the voice. “I BREATHE AIR I HAVE NOT BREATHED BEFORE. THAT IMPERFECT DEMIURGE WHO IMPRISONED ME COULD NOT MAKE A WALL I COULD NOT BREAK. I DID IT, WITH THE POWER OF MY WILL, I, LEGION, FATHER OF LIES, GIVER OF GOOD AND EVIL. WHERE ARE THOSE WHO ONCE FORCED ME INTO THIS VILE PRISON? THEY SHALL PAY UNTO THE SEVENTH GENERATION—”
“Oh dear,” said Mr. Skuse
“DO WE HAVE A PROBLEM, MR. SKUSE?”
“I fear we may, sir. Notice how Thorsten is attempting gamely to resist shooting himself with his own sidearm, and Nicolae is banging his head repeatedly against the side of a building? I fear we may have set free the wrong person, to wit a rather dangerous psychotic homicidal telepath—”
“SHALL I PUT THE ROVER INTO REVERSE?
“I feel that may be wise. I apologize; I was under the impression, from our densitometer, that our man was currently in the base home corner. The cells inside must have shifted.”
The rover’s engines cut in almost silently, and the machine hummed back up the track past the single signpost marked SADDLE LANDING, guiding itself on autopilot as Mr. Skuse’s employer gave occasional watchful glances into its mirrors.
“DO WE HAVE A CONTINGENCY PLAN FOR THIS EVENTUALITY?”
Mr. Skuse’s repulsively visible facial musculature rippled in a welter of emotions. “I suspect this man to be highly dangerous; if my memory serves correctly, he can only be one William Yancy Voight, raised in a somewhat backward colony of Skanker Christians on Presterjohn, next planet out from Krell in the Altair system. The Skankers were slow to realize they had an unidentified telepath in their midst, and in those days research on the subject was far less advanced. Their response was derived directly from the malleus maleficarum. Voight’s own mother, among others, was tried and sentenced as a witch. Voight, whose home life had been troubled, and whose upbringing religious, strict, and unforgiving in the extreme, genuinely came to believe himself to be the Devil in his neighbours’ midst. His own mother, burned in his stead, had told him so, screaming abuse at him as the flames consumed her.”
“I AM GLAD, AT ANY RATE, THAT WE ARE NOT GENUINELY CONFRONTING THE TRUE DEVIL INCARNATE.”
“I fear your relief may be misplaced. The community on Presterjohn was backward, but its inhabitants could manufacture primitive firearms. They were capable of defending themselves. Even after they’ d identified him as a threat, Voight wiped out every man, woman and child in a hundred-thousand-inhabitant colony. His mind had a telepathic reach greater than the range of any weapon they could send against him; he was able to detect any attempt to attack him and simply coerce his attackers to turn their weapons on themselves. He was only eventually captured by the Gifted Perpetrators Unit of the MRB, using robotic constables coordinated from a vessel in orbit. He has, thankfully, never learned to get inside mechanical minds.”
The Rover came to a gradual halt. Both men continued to stare in the direction of the community of Second Landing, where men were running, screaming, falling, apart from one figure striding bold among the buildings.
“WE MAY NEED,” concluded Mr. Skuse’s employer, “TO USE THE NUCLEAR WEAPON AFTER ALL.”
“I knew,” said Mr. Skuse, “you would come to my way of thinking in the end, sir.”
Apostle collapsed in the dim circular chamber at the base of the ladder. His heart was thudding in his chest. His eyes, bizarrely, hurt with every heartbeat.
An indignant voice called down the ladder. “’Postle, Measure won’t come any further down the ladder. She says her head hurts.”
Apostle had head problems of his own. “Kick her till she comes. Try not to break any bones or make her bleed.”
An inevitable wailing started further up the ladder. Apostle did not greatly care. One of the advantages of a large extended family was that discipline could be outsourced.
The Anchorite was standing over him.
“You okay, boy?”
He nodded his head weakly, understanding now where the hermit got his energy. “Is there more?”
“No. This was the last section. We’re a full four kilometres down. What you can feel on you now is one full Earth gravity. Be careful, now—your heart’s never had to pump this hard a load before. It’s a good thing you’re a farmboy. Any lesser adult would be dead already.”
The door in the side of the shaft read VALVA DOORCO, PRESSURE DOORS FOR ALL OCCASIONS, BANGALORE, EARTH.
“You’re from Earth?” said Apostle.
“Many people are,” said the Anchorite. He tapped the transparent lens at his right temple; it flared into life, beaming red light onto his retina. He tapped it again, several times; with each tap, the light in his eye changed colour, texture, and intensity.
“The greenbottles,” said Apostle. “You’re seeing through their eyes.”
The Anchorite looked round, a perfect image of Apostle’s home drawn on his lens in reverse. “Is that what you call them?”
“The metal insects? Yes.”
“Hmmph,” said the Anchorite. “They look nothing like real greenbottles, you know.”
Day-of-Creation, who, humiliatingly, had not been as badly affected by the climb as Apostle, was already peering through the door, a strange white shadowless light on his face.
“Wow! ‘Postle! You’ve got to see this.”
*
Unity won through to the back gate of the house, stepping over the body of one of Armitage’s lieutenants as she did so. The man appeared to have strangled himself, a feat Unity would previously not have thought technically possible.
The back garden was filled with blood orange trees, a one-off promotional GM batch purchased by Magus on New Tibshelf some years back; both the skin and the flesh of the fruit were not orange but purple. Marketed as ‘Tyrian Purples’, they had never caught on due to an acquired taste of salt. The trees clu
stered thickly round the back of the house, hiding the back door and kitchen window.
The Devil was standing the centre of the lawn, surrounded by statues of himself. Although he looked nothing like the Devil Unity had grown up with—in fact, resembling nothing so much as a naked man in prime physical condition—she somehow knew he preferred to be referred to by that name.
“I like these,” he said, casting a hand round at the leaping, capering Satans, all home-made, arranged around the lawn and vegetable garden. He smiled. Unity knew he had not smiled in a long time.
“You were in the Penitentiary,” said Unity, wide-eyed.
He nodded. He used his mouth to speak, though Unity was aware that this was only through politeness. “You have made pictures of me.”
“Are you the real Devil?” said Unity warily, aware the Penitentiary had contained one prisoner of the name DEVIL, THE.
He nodded, grinning. “People have tried to assign labels to me—telepath, sociopath, survival of a pre-Judaistic Phoenician fertility deity—but one man’s deva is another man’s devil. I am touched that here at least, my name is remembered. I sense that you have always seen me as your protector.
Unity nodded slowly, intensely confused. “I have read Beguiled’s book. In Crowley’s preface, he makes it clear that Milton uses you as an allegory for Cromwell, the rebel against the British king. He sees in your rebellion a kind of nobility, a fierce resistance in the face of overwhelming odds.”
The Devil nodded. “The book is fiction, of course, and terrible flattery, but I am fond of it. I was allowed no religious works in prison. I note you and your family have not subscribed to the populist view of me as an evil bogeyman bent on subverting mankind.”
Unity stammered her objection. “Oh no, sir! The book of Job makes it plain that you operate on the instruction of God himself.”
The Devil considered this a moment. “Could that be so? Perhaps. Not on the instruction of the ineffectual godling who created this imperfect world, but at the bidding of a higher power.”
“Does that not mean, however,” said Unity, regretting the attack of logic almost as it forced her mouth open, “that you are simply pushing the problem of the creation of an imperfect world back one remove, since that higher power would have to have created an imperfect creator?”