V. Moody's Blog, page 30

Book 2 – 3: Part of the Furniture

Fourth Quadrant

Central Authority Vessel Nirvana

 

Ubik’s head hurt. It wasn’t exactly painful, it was more of an irritating buzz. He found that if he hummed at roughly the same frequency, he could cancel it out, somewhat. A simple enough solution if it hadn’t been for the mask strapped to the bottom half of his face.

The mask covered his jaw, chin, mouth and nose. It prevented him speaking or opening his mouth. Yodelling was completely out. Whistling, too. However, it didn’t prevent him drooling from the corners of his mouth. Especially when he hummed.

He closed his eyes and kept humming. And drooling.

Ubik was seated in a chair. Really in a chair, like, inside it.

The chair was white and made of a smooth polyfibrous material, the same as the rest of the CA ship. It had armrests which encased Ubik’s arms up to the elbow. It had three legs — two at the front and one at the back. The two at the front encased his foot, ankle and calf. He could wiggle his toes a little, but if he got an itch, agony.

They had even confiscated his Delgados. It was taking things too far. They were bespoke, fitted to his exact measurements. Were they even looking after them properly? Humid conditions played havoc with the genuine lab-grown leather. Weren’t there conventions against that sort of thing?

Still, Ubik was glad to have ended up here. The ship itself was amazing. He would have gladly spent a few hours poking around, checking things out. A few hours? A few days was more like it. There was so much to see, so much he had never seen before.

How did it work? What powered it? What were the different systems and how did they interact?

His head buzzed again, right in the middle of his skull.

It was the strange coloured lights that had done it. They had appeared on the cell walls and flashed in some kind of pattern. He had assumed it was an attempt to read his mind or hypnotise him into revealing everything. Hardly necessary — they could have just asked and Ubik would have told them whatever they wanted to know. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide anything. Open-Book Ubik the kids used to call him, he decided.

But these big organisations preferred to act like everyone else was as shady as they were. Which, admittedly, was usually true.

But the strange lights hadn’t tried to extract information from him, they had inserted information into him. A lot of it.

The message, the very long message, had been from the Central Authority to Guardian Tezla, and it had been poured directly into the centre of Ubik’s brain.

He hadn’t been expecting it and the shock of the deluge had caught him a little flatfooted. He assumed it was a mistake. The drone in the cell with him, hovering in the corner, had activated the lights, Ubik was fairly sure. The drone, Janks, had seemed a little bored up to that point. Babysitting a prisoner was probably tedious work, far below what the drone was capable of. In fact, it had seemed a little annoyed with the assignment.

Not that drones were generally prone to exhibiting emotions but, like this ship, the drone was unusual. He wouldn’t say no to poking around inside the drone, either.

Ubik winced. Flashes of the message appeared in his thoughts. It wasn’t a language in the traditional sense, there were no words, but somehow he could sense a flow of ideas, concepts, instructions.

The missile that had been sent to destroy planet Fountain had been the most prominent part of the message. Even now, Ubik could see an image of it in his mind — long and thin, black and covered in white markings that streaked up and down its surface. Clearly Antecessor technology.

It had exited from the Gideon wormhole, the closest to Fountain, but the message had been more concerned with where the missile had come from. Nowhere.

It had exited at Gideon, but there was no evidence of it entering the wormhole from anywhere in the four quadrants. Did that mean it came from outside of the galaxy? The wormhole network was contained and finite. It had been fully mapped and only existed inside the four quadrants as far as anyone knew.

Did that mean the missile had been deployed from inside the wormhole? Were there more such missiles waiting to be launched? Ubik could see why the matter would be of concern to the CA.

He had also picked up flashes of the recovery operation, CA drones sent to investigate the debris left behind after the missile struck the VendX flagship — not that there was much left — and the VendX drones arriving. Some sort of altercation had taken place between the two parties, but it wasn’t clear to Ubik what the outcome was.

What he could feel very clearly was the pressure on Guardian Tezla to procure answers. The Central Authority wanted to know exactly what was going on and who to hold responsible. The emphasis was on evidence, the irrefutable kind. She had been given a limited amount of time to find answers, with the full resources of the CA available to her. But there were more Guardians being activated. Did the CA set their operatives in competition with one another?

Ubik opened his eyes and saw dark blotches everywhere. They weren’t in the cell with him, it was his eyes getting accustomed to the brightness of the white walls.

“Can you turn down the walls?” he said, which wasn’t easy without being able to open your mouth.

The drone, a circular tray about half a metre wide and maybe 10cm thick, blinked and turned to look at him. The drone didn’t have eyes, not in the traditional sense, but it was definitely looking at him. Glaring, even.

“Please don’t try to communicate, it will only make you more uncomfortable. We will soon rendezvous with a Central Authority collection vessel, the Hand of Friendship. It will transfer you to the nearest holding facility where you will be fully debriefed. You may make your protestations of innocence then. The Central Authority will take good care of you, no need to fear torture or a slow, agonising death, no matter how well-deserved.”

The drone was definitely irritated. Being stuck down here with him was a lowly task beneath its function. Punishment for allowing Ubik to nearly breach the ship’s security protocols? Did it blame him for its undoing?

His scalp twinged. There had been something in the message about his transfer. Null void, that was how he was referred to. More than his name or his identity as a person, that was how he was now classified. Ubik had no idea why that should be so important. His lack of CQ gave him no special abilities or power. Quite the opposite.

“I need the toilet,” said Ubik. It came out as a string of unintelligible noises.

“Whatever it is you require, know that your biological functions are all being observed closely. Nutrients, water and air are being provided at an optimal rate. Excretions and waste will be removed as and when necessary. Muscles will be kept stimulated to avoid atrophy. Your body is being treated better than it ever has been.”

The seat of the chair was wrapped around his thighs and groin area, but he had his clothes on. How was he supposed to relieve himself? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Quite the merry dance you led us. I don’t think anyone’s been quite so bold in over a century. Quite the achievement.”

The drone was definitely pissed off. If Ubik could speak, he would have commiserated. It was never fun being unfairly treated by those in a higher position than you. It was why going into business for yourself was so attractive, despite the travails of the self-employed — no healthcare, no days off, scavs trying to kill you for picking up a 32K compressor unit off the shell off a retired refrigeration module.

The walls flashed. Not like the message before, this was an internal announcement. They had arrived… somewhere.

It was an interesting form of communication. The only thing Ubik knew about the CA was that they were based in the First Quadrant, the dead quadrant. Apparently, tronics didn’t work there. Was this how they got around that? Flashing lights at each other like some ancient semaphore. It didn’t explain why he was able to understand it. If he had some innate ability to learn this language, maybe it would be a good idea to do so. Once he picked up some headache pills.

A sharp sound cut through Ubik’s thoughts, in the most visceral way possible. If he hadn’t been attached to the chair he probably would have fallen out of it.

“VendX Depot 4 welcomes you to the Genbazi wormhole. How may we assist you?”

The voice was in Ubik’s head. Did nobody use good old fashioned radio frequencies to talk to each other anymore? The forced messaging probably meant they were making a point. This was their turf. But to act that way towards a CA vessel…

Ubik’s body went cold. This was a VendX facility. Did they know he was on board?

“Prisoner Ubik, why are your readings dropping?”

Ubik had no idea what the drone was talking about, or why it was asking him. He couldn’t reply even if he wanted to.

“Central Authority vessel Nirvana, we are complying with all Central Authority requirements. Please prepare for standard scanning for infected software.”

There was a conversation going on that he was only hearing half of. VendX were blasting their side at maximum level. As a passive-aggressive way of letting their displeasure known, it was a little light on the passive and a little heavy on the aggressive. As a means of covering whatever it was they were up to in the background… remained to be seen.

Back on the Motherboard, Ubik had tried his best to identify himself as Chief Engineer Ulanov, but PT had let his real name slip a few times. One of those times had been in front of Chukka. If she had included it in her report — and chances were high that she had — it could have got back to certain people. Certain people in the VendX executive who held onto a grudge.

Ubik had clashed swords with VendX a long time ago. He had been very young, very foolish. He wasn’t very young any more.

This was bad.

“Guardian Tezla, the prisoner is experiencing major fluctuations in biometric readings. Guardian, respond.”

“VendX control will comply with all requests, Guardian. As soon as scans are complete.”

The Guardian was busy arguing with the VendX dispatcher. They were trying to stall. This was very bad indeed. And there was nothing Ubik could do about it. He felt a bit dizzy.

“Override restraint protocols, open gag.”

The covering over Ubik’s mouth slid aside and he was able to breathe freely. “Ooh, that’s better. Thanks, Janks.”

“Why are your vitality readings crashing?” demanded Janks.

That had been in the message — keeping Ubik alive at all costs. They wanted a live subject to run their tests on. Janks didn’t want to screw up again. Not even drone’s had job security in this economy.

“Because I’m scared,” said Ubik. “They’re going to gank us.”

“Attack a CA vessel? That’s ridiculous.”

“Why? I did.”

The wall in front of Ubik turned into a screen. The wormhole was a pit of darkness surrounded by the glitter of stars and the VendX fleet. Thousands of ships, ugly and blocky, functional and nothing else. Overnight delivery to any part of the quadrant. Not standard overnight — that was only for X-ecutive members, a paid subscription service. But relative overnight was still pretty quick.

“Attack detection is zero,” said Janks. “No hostile intent.”

“They don’t attack openly. First they knockout—”

There was a blip. A white point of light that could have been a star at the opposite end of the universe quietly going supernova.

The white walls turned a dull grey. Janks’ light had gone out. The drone was silent. Ubik’s restraints opened and he floated out of the chair. The artificial gravity was off.

Everyone had been knocked out or was dead. The restraints would only automatically unlock if he was on a dead ship. Prisoners or crew couldn’t be left captive in a dead ship, there were laws against that sort of thing, Central Authority laws. The supplies would be open, too.

Pretty cocky of VendX to take out a CA ship. Obviously, they meant to hide what had happened, blame someone else. This was all planned in advance. But why hadn’t the knockout flash affected him? Was this the power of the null void?

Whatever it was, Ubik was on his own, on a ship full of alien technology. VendX would be coming for him. He had better get ready. But first, he would find his boots.

Book 2 – 2: Captured Informant

Fourth Quadrant

Central Authority Vessel Nirvana

 

Point-Two’s plans were in ruins. The next few years of his life were meant to be spent accumulating knowledge and experience. By the end of that time, he would have the ability to take part in low-level delves of Antecessor sites. He probably wouldn’t have an organic of his own, but he would know the type of organic he was best suited to.

His future would be mapped out, lines and pathways clearly set out. Hard work and focus would bring him closer to his goals. His brother had worked out the ideal route for him to succeed and Point-Two had gladly taken on the task of becoming someone worthy of helping his family using the skills he possessed.

That all seemed like a ridiculous fantasy after what had happened on Foxtrot-435.

If his brother could see him now, he would be in a state of shock. Not even the great strategist Hollet One could have foreseen these events.

Instead of studiously grinding his way up the ranks of the Free Volunteers Guild, he was speeding across the galaxy to a small planet owned by one of the most powerful families in the galaxy, their unimaginably gifted son the harbinger of some kind of galactic cataclysm.

Point-Two had no idea what role he was meant to play in all this, or even how to get himself clear of this mess before it got any worse. He was too busy thinking on his feet, trying to react quick enough so as not to be swept away in a flood of new problems. This was not the kind of education Point-Two had been expecting to receive when he left the Liberator Garu.

“Open the internal channel,” said Guardian Tezla to the large bank of monitors that covered the inside of the nose of her ship. “Lock down the signal.”

Watching her was similar to watching a great athlete playing a sport they excelled at. Her movements were smooth and elegant. Her physique, her musculature, it all suggested strength and agility. Not even the Seneca women he’d encountered moved like that.

“Can you stop staring?” she said without looking at him. “It’s distracting.”

Point-Two coughed and looked away, far too late to avoid embarrassment. He felt awkward in the guild greys he’d been wearing for far too long. He needed a shower — there was probably a swimming pool and a sauna on board.

The Central Authority ship was impressive, unlike anything Point-Two had ever seen. It was large enough for a crew of thirty but appeared to have only one person on board. Everything was automated, every surface was flat and smooth, and very white. But every surface hid a variety of functions that were only revealed when Guardian Tezla passed her hand over a wall or stepped on a particular area of the floor. The controls of the ship were everywhere.

“Ready to receive,” said Tezla, sitting down as a chair rose out of the floor to meet her. The white walls switched to a multitude of colours, small blocks of every shade flickering and swapping places. Tezla stiffened in her chair like she was being electrocuted.

Point-Two had been allowed up to the bridge to watch, or maybe to be watched. Ubik was being held in a separate part of the ship under guard.

Part of Point-Two had wanted to stand together with Ubik, defying the Central Authority, demanding a trial or justice or something. Ubik had that effect on people, making them want to challenge authority and riot in the face of intimidation, but Point-Two had another part of his brain, a smarter part that had witnessed what happened when you recklessly stood up to strength far superior to your own. Strength which considered you an insignificant cog in a machine. The machine needed to be protected, the cog was replaceable.

The lights on the bridge flashed in patterns that meant nothing to Point-Two. They were a little bright if you looked at them directly, but they didn’t affect him like they were the Guardian.

The lights went out and the room felt darker than before, even though it was the same white walls. He could hear Tezla breathing heavily.

“Are you alright?” he asked, not really knowing what he was supposed to do. She hadn’t told him anything — quite the reverse. He had told her everything that had happened on Fountain, at the Academy, the run-ins with the local mob, the Seneca mercenaries sent to capture him. His hope was that she would see he was an innocent bystander in all this. Once they reached Fig’s homeworld and his version of events were confirmed, maybe she would release him. And then where would he go?

“I’m fine. Receiving a communique from the Central Authority can be a little… intense.”

“That was a message?” He had only seen a wall of colours.

Tezla stood up, the chair sinking into the floor, and leaned her head from side to side, stretching her neck. “Yes. It’s a non-verbal information blast, bypassing the external sensory apparatus and hitting the language centres directly. I just processed the equivalent of six million words of text. The Central Authority can be a little verbose.” She smiled without humour and then winced as she stretched her jaw and moved it around.

“And you can understand the message through an organic?” asked Point-Two, surprised at how much she was willing to tell him, and keen to make the most of it while it lasted.

“No, I don’t have an organic, none of the Guardians do. They don’t operate in the First Quadrant.”

“You live in the First Quadrant? I thought it was a dead zone.”

She waved her hand at him dismissively. “Deadly, perhaps, but not dead. It has its advantages. It’s not a bad place, comfortable. A bit on the quiet side. Not that I’d miss it if they end up throwing me out over this debacle caused by you and your friends.”

He thought of protesting his innocence, but it was a little late for that.

“You’re not in any trouble, are you?” From Point-Two’s experience, a long message from your superiors was rarely a good thing. Commendations were brief and reprimands tended to go on and on.

“No, not really how the 36 operate,” she said.

“The 36?” said Point-Two.

“Central Authority Command is comprised of thirty-six brain stems, each a part of the neural network that decides our fates. If you saw it, you wouldn’t believe we let them control our lives. They are impartial and function on pure logic, but they are still machines and one day they will probably kill us all.” She smiled at him again, this time quite amused.

“I don’t think any machine is truly impartial,” said Point-Two. “They can be manipulated, if you know how they think.”

His own experiences with System, the computer that ran the lives of everyone on the Liberator Garu in a similar, if scaled-down manner, to the Central Authority, had taught him that impartiality was based on information. If the information was biased, so would the judgement stemming from it.

“Absolutely correct,” said Tezla. “Which is why there are thirty-six of the buggers, constantly checking and correcting each other. It’s a very finely balanced system and incredibly slow. They look at a problem from every possible angle and try to come up with the best reason to do absolutely nothing. That’s why they need us. A little human spontaneity to stop us all dying of boredom. Not that I envy them their role. It’s not easy trying to keep the population happy.”

“You can’t keep everyone happy, can you?” said Point-Two.

“No, but as long as you can manage over fifty percent.”

“How can you tell?” asked Point-Two.

“Easy,” said Tezla. “They send out questionnaires. How satisfied are you with the Central Authority’s domination of every corner of the galaxy. Five for very satisfied and one for deeply disappointed. What do you think? Did I make the right choice becoming a Guardian for our artificially created overlords?”

Point-Two had no idea how to respond, any answer seemed like it would prove his ignorance or cause offence.

“Ha! The look on your face is the correct answer. Sorry, I’m being a little too chatty. It’s just nice to have a human to talk to for once. The CA drone community doesn’t exactly offer sparkling conversation. Or know how to take a joke.”

She turned to the side and then walked up the wall. As she brushed the ceiling with her hand, it lit up — a black panel with dots of white light. A starfield appeared above Point-Two’s head.

Point-Two looked down at his feet and stepped up and down in place. He was used to all sorts of artificial gravity, but he had never encountered something like this.

“These are strange grav plates.”

“Not grav plates,” said Tezla, her body perpendicular to his. “Antecessor technology not available to the public.”

“Why not? Is it too expensive.”

“No, quite the contrary. Very cheap and easy to source. But what do you think would happen to the economy of worlds that rely on grav plates for their prosperity and wealth? The factories, the gerrum mines, the millions of people who work in the industry… all redundant overnight. Desperate people trying to survive, seeing others benefit from their demise. That’s how wars start.”

Pont-Two could see her point, although he didn’t see why it had to be introduced overnight. “I thought they started when one guy convinced a bunch of other guys they could get away with beating up some smaller guys.”

“That too,” said Tezla. “That too.”

The black screen changed as a red line appeared across it.

“Oh dear,” said Tezla. “Looks like the Tethari wormhole has been closed. That’s a little inconvenient.”

“How do you close a wormhole?” asked Point-Two.

“Well, you can’t actually close it, but you can deny access from the control site.”

“Can’t you override them? You’re the CA.”

“Yes, technically I could. We could force our way through and kick the door down, as it were. But they may actually have a good reason to prevent access. You know, like a space whale stuck in their end.”

“There’s no such thing as space whales,” said Point-Two.

“No? Are you sure? It’s a very big galaxy. Who knows what’s out there?”

“You really haven’t spoken to people in a while, have you?” said Point-Two.

“Humour needs a little work? Message received. Looks like we’ll be taking the scenic route.”

“Don’t you have CA operatives out there who can tell you what’s going on?”

“That would be us,” said Tezla. “Despite what you may have heard, the CA doesn’t have the resources to be everywhere at once. Certainly not out in the far reaches of the Third Quadrant where nothing of interest ever happens. Usually. No, we’ll have to go via Clarissa or… actually, yes. Let’s take a trip through the Genbazi wormhole. Local head office of the VendX Corporation. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to see me.” She grinned in a manner that could only be described as malevolent.

“Is that a good idea?” said Point-Two. “They won’t be very happy with you after you blew up their flagship.”

“No, they won’t. The 36 recommended I avoid contact with them for the time being, if possible. But sometimes a detour takes you places you’d rather not go.” She shrugged. “Can’t let personal issues get in the way of important matters, can we?”

She walked across the ceiling and began inputting instructions into the walls while standing upside down, at least in relation to Point-Two.

“Right,” she said once preparations were made. “You might want to strap in. We won’t be going through subspace so this might get a little rough.”

“Okay,” said Point-Two, looking around for something to hold onto. A chair rose out of the floor. “By the way, shouldn’t you check on Ubik?”

Tezla’s face turned serious. “Oh, I’m sure he’s fine. Secure.”

“But you left your drone to watch him,” said Point-Two.

“Yes?”

“The drone he almost hijacked.”

“Don’t worry, Hollet 3.2, he won’t be able to play any more of his tricks from a holding cell.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Point-Two. “Just like you were last time.”

“That was only because people don’t usually attack the Central Authority. They have the good sense of not wanting to die. But now that I know he’s not normal, the appropriate precautions have been taken.”

She had called Ubik null void, but had refused to explain what that meant. Something that warranted strapping him down and preventing him from speaking. Not necessarily a bad idea.

“He has a way of getting around appropriate precautions,” said Point-Two. “Like those discs you took off him.”

Tezla pulled out a small brass disc from her pocket. “This is just a brass disc. It has no unusual properties, believe me. If he told you this was what blew a hole in the Motherboard, he was lying to you. He keeps his methods unknown to surprise people, that’s all.”

“You should check on him anyway. And the drone.”

Tezla looked at him for a long moment. Point-Two made an effort to not look away.

“Janks, are you there?”

“Yes, Guardian,” said a monotone voice. It didn’t sound robotic, it sounded bored.

“And your charge, what is he doing?”

“Currently,” said the drone, “he is humming.”

“I thought I told you to gag him.”

“He is gagged, Guardian. The gag stops him speaking, it doesn’t stop him humming, unfortunately. It’s quite a catchy tune, I expect I’ll have it stuck in my head forever.”

“And his hands and feet?” said Tezla. “Still bound?”

“Yes, Guardian.”

“Ask about his boots,” said Point-Two.

She gave him a curious look but did as he asked. “What about his boots?”

“I removed them as instructed,” said Janks. “They are in the corner of the room.”

“Could his humming be a way to communicate with his boots?” asked Point-Two.

“That’s a little farfetched, isn’t it? What are his boots going to do? Kick the cell door down?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him, Guardian.”

She looked at him, analysing him carefully. “Janks. Move the boots to another room.”

“You want me to put his boots in their own holding cell?”

“Just do it.”

Point-Two felt slightly relieved. He sat down in the chair. It was surprisingly soft.

“Don’t worry, Hollet 3.2, your friend won’t be causing anyone any more problems. The 36 are very interested in meeting him. They’re sending a ship to pick him up. Mr Ubik is going to get the kind of special treatment reserved for world kings and planet killers.”

Point-Two sank into the chair, not knowing if he should feel sorry for Ubik or for the 36. They were essentially thirty-six very sophisticated computers. And Ubik had a way with computers. He’d probably dismantle them for parts and build himself a jetpack.

Book 2 – 1: Father's Son

Third Quadrant

Quicksilver Dworkin (Rapier class)

 

Figaro sat in the small cabin with the quiet hum of the ship’s engines in the background like a soft lullaby. There were two bunks — side by side — neatly made as expected of two women of the Corps. He rubbed the smooth metal of the bracelet on his wrist, keeping his breath steady. It was important he maintain his normal regime, especially now. He let his vision go out of focus and his mind floated in a sea of nothingness.

He had taken a huge risk using his organic in the manner he had. An unintegrated organic could easily overwhelm its host and leave them a mindless husk, if not kill them outright. It had been unavoidable, and he was lucky there had been no side-effects, but he had to be extra-vigilant not to let his guard down. Every episode made the chance of losing control greater.

Figaro slowly opened his eyes, his mastery over his body once again established. Everything was locked down, for now. He let out a long breath and looked around.

It was an impressive ship. Sleek and beautifully outfitted, it must have cost quite a lot of money. The two ex-Seneca women who were giving him a ride home were clearly successful in their chosen profession. And why not? If you were looking to hire mercenaries, Seneca-trained organics would be the first choice, assuming you could afford it.

From what Figaro knew of the ultra-rich, those who could afford it most likely would want things done not easily achieved through regular channels.

The most impressive thing about the ship was that it was fully grav-plated, something even luxury liners only had partially installed. A smaller vessel obviously required fewer plates, but buying in small amounts usually made the cost greater, and there was rarely any need for it in a ship that didn’t have space for a lot of movement. You were hardly going to go for a jog around the corridors when there was a single corridor and only three rooms other than the helm.

Figaro stood up and stretched his legs. They had been in transit for several hours and he had been asleep for most of it. The moment he left the Gorbol Academy, he had been hit by a wave of exhaustion and had to be practically carried to the ship.

Now his thoughts turned to what he would say to his father. What to tell him and what to keep from him. Ramon Ollo would obviously have several thoughts on the matter — the Origin simulation, the new sigil, Ubik (that would be an interesting conversation) — but most of his ideas going forward would probably not involve Figaro.

The last thing Figaro wanted was to be excluded from whatever came next, even if it was for his own safety. If he wasn’t careful, he would be protected out of events completely.

On the bunk he had just got up from was the small box Ubik had left for him to take. It was his Grandma’s soul cube, a recording of a dead woman’s life story. Why had Ubik wanted him to take it? So Figaro could return it to him? Did that mean Ubik intended to find a way to meet him on Enaya?

He bent down and picked up the box. It fit in the palm of his hand, no signs of activity. He had held it once before, back in Ubik’s barracks. It had spoken to him then, general chatter that meant nothing.

“Hello, Grandma,” he said, not expecting a response.

“Hello, dear. How lovely to speak to you again.”

“Um, I’m not Ubik.”

“I know that dear. You’re young Fig. Figaro Ollo. My grandson has told me all about you.”

“He has?” said Figaro, a little surprised. “What did he say?” It was odd talking to what was ostensibly a recording, even if a fairly sophisticated one.

“That you’re a fine young man with a brilliant mind and a glittering future.” She sounded almost proud, although whether of him or her grandson’s taste in acquaintances, he wasn’t quite sure.

“Thank you. That’s very flattering.” Even if it was just a recording, he felt obliged to be polite to the old lady.

“Not at all, not at all. He tells me he has big plans for you.”

Figaro smiled. Ubik’s plans were nothing to find humorous, in fact he should have been concerned for his own safety — to be included in Ubik’s machinations was an invitation to a maelstrom — but he couldn’t help but be amused by the idea of being part of Ubik’s schemes. Nothing seemed to faze him. There was always another play to be made, using the least likely route.

Figaro put the cube in his pocket. Whatever Ubik had in mind would have to wait. He probably wouldn’t see him again for quite some time.

He left the cabin and stood in the short corridor that connected the front to the engine room in the rear. He could hear the two women talking from the helm, their voices low and calm. He couldn’t hear what they said — nor would he attempt to eavesdrop — but their tone suggested there was no problem to contend with; not a major one, at least.

He checked the other two rooms. One was a small galley. The other was what he was looking for, a bathroom.

As he took care of his biological needs, he made note of the lack of a holding room. The two women had been sent to pick up PT and presumably they would need to keep him somewhere. It was doubtful they would offer him use of their bedroom as they had for Figaro. From what he recalled of seeing the ship from the outside, there was enough room for a cargo hold. Had they planned to stick PT in there, bound and gagged?

The Corps didn’t take prisoners, as a rule. It was part of their credo to offer no mercy and no negotiations. Ex-Seneca mercenaries were presumably not so inflexible.

Figaro made his way to the helm where the two women were seated at the controls of the ship. They turned to look at him as he entered the cockpit. There was enough room for him to stand, but not much else.

“You’re awake,” said Leyla. “That’s good. We thought you might burn up with that fever.”

Figaro felt his brow. He didn’t seem any warmer than normal. “I feel fine.”

“Good, good,” said Leyla. She was keeping something from him. The other one, too. Her gaze flicked away from him when their eyes met.

“What is it? You can speak freely in front of me. I’m not Seneca, I won’t judge you.”

Both women prickled involuntarily, their pride in the Corps deep and unwavering even now.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” said Weyla, getting out of her chair and sliding past him. She was taller and broader than him, and she smelled like crushed demillion seeds.

Leyla ran her hands over the console and the screen in front of them lit up, showing the exterior, an endless white glare.

“We’re in subspace,” said Figaro, sitting in the vacated seat.

“Yes,” said Leyla. “We were denied access to the Tethari wormhole. They’ve closed it to everyone.”

There could be numerous reasons for that. “You rerouted to Clarissa?”

“We exited a couple of hours ago. We’ll have to sub the rest of the way.”

“Fine,” said Figaro. It would take longer, but an extra day wasn’t a big deal. “If I’d had the presence of mind to suggest it, I would have recommended this in any case. Going in from the front probably isn’t a good idea for me. I didn’t leave home under the happiest circumstances. What else?” He could tell there was more.

“It’s your father,” said Leyla. “He sent out a message. A distress signal. They’ve been running it on all the news frequencies.”

Distress? That didn’t sound at all like his father. “Could you play it for me?”

Weyla returned carrying a cup of something steaming. “Here, cup of dregs.”

Figaro took it from her as Leyla reached across the console and played the message.

“...Ollo ...Antecessor ...compromised. They’re coming back. Stop them… we have to stop them. Figaro, if you hear this, you know what you have to do. I’m sorry, son. I couldn’t—”

He asked her to play it again. It was hard to hear the complete message with the signal dropping in and out and all the screaming in the background.

“Okay, thank you.” Figaro looked at the black liquid in the cup and drank it. Any drink on a ship was referred to as dregs, it was a tradition from some forgotten corner of history. It was bitter and hot but also mildly stimulating. It helped.

Weyla looked at him with a penetrating gaze, like she suspected him of something. “You don’t seem very upset.”

“About what?” said Figaro. “He’s Ramon Ollo — you should understand what that entails. He defeated your Corps, he doesn’t panic easily.”

“I wouldn’t say defeated,” said Leyla.

“And only with the help of Armageddon.”

“Yes,” said Figaro. “He had to defeat her first.” He let that hang. He knew how the Corps revered his mother. Every time he saw her come in contact with a member of the Corps, he saw it in their eyes. She was their idol, not only because she was feared by the entire galaxy, but because she had faced down the entire Seneca High Command. “My concern isn’t something he needs. And that isn’t distress you can hear. He’s annoyed. He thinks I won’t do what he’s told me to do in this sort of situation. He’s right, of course.”

“He sent that out on all frequencies,” said Leyla. “If he didn’t want help, what—”

“I expect he was making a formal claim to whatever it is he found. Hard to say with only a partial recording. The wide broadcast will be because he’s on the asteroid and had to get the message past the dampening field. Sounds like he had to use a booster, means he’s probably on the second level. Can you give me control of the board?”

The two women exchanged a look.

“Don’t worry, I won’t steal your ship,” said Figaro. “It’s a little utilitarian for my taste.”

Leyla pressed a few buttons and the console lit up on his side. The controls were familiar and he quickly brought up a map of his home system. “This is Enaya, the asteroid is here.” The screen turned away from his homeworld. “This planet is Egress-216, not much to see. This is one of its moons, I want you to come out of subspace here.”

“You want to mask our arrival?” said Leyla. “You expect trouble?”

“No. Just a precaution. If my father’s message went as wide as you say, there will be other parties interested in what he found.”

“We won’t be able to see them from behind that rock, either,” said Weyla.

“Won’t be a problem,” said Figaro. He rose from the chair. “I think I might lie down again, if that’s alright.”

He could see they wanted to ask him about what had happened on Fountain, but they were trained well enough to know he wouldn’t tell them.

“What about your mother?” said Leyla. “Do you want to send her a message?”

“No,” said Figaro. “Then we’d really be in trouble.”

He returned to the cabin. He was preventing them from getting any rest, but they were Seneca, the toughest troops known. They could nap in a chair.

He laid down and took out the cube again. Something had occurred to him. Soul cubes were a repository of a person’s thoughts linked to a retrieval system that mimicked real speech. They didn’t have short term memories. Ubik, of course, could have bypassed that — he was a hacking specialist and invalidator of warranties — but what else had he added to Grandma’s memories?

“Grandma?”

“Hello again, darling boy,” she said. It was actually quite comforting to be welcomed so warmly.

“Yes, hello. I was wondering, did Ubik, I mean your grandson, did he leave me a message or anything?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Figaro asked a few different ways and got nothing apart from the feeling he was being stonewalled. Strangely, it felt rude to press her too hard and he decided whatever Ubik was up to, it could wait. He fell asleep.

He was awoken by Weyla shaking his arm. “We’re here.”

The clock in his ocular implant showed only a few hours had passed. “That was quick.”

“This ship’s not quite as utilitarian as you think,” she said with a sarcastic smile.

Figaro followed her to the helm and was met by the sight of Egress-216’s third moon, Medina, a barren and uninteresting rock.

“How do you plan to peek around that?” asked Leyla. “We don’t have a periscope big enough.”

Figaro sat down next to her and turned the camera around to face behind them. “See that planet? It’s covered in water. Bounce your sensors off that.”

“All you’ll get is a fuzzy image,” said Weyla. A blur appeared on the screen. “See.”

“Can I have access to the sensory array?” said Figaro. He manipulated the console and the image slowly refined to a crystal sharp one. Dozens of huge ships floated next to Enaya, all pointed at the small asteroid, the wormhole providing a suitably impressive backdrop.

“Wow,” said Weyla. “They sent their whole fleet.”

“No,” said Figaro, “they’re all from separate companies.” He refined the image more and the different logos on the ships were easier to see. Every major corporation had sent their biggest ships with the biggest guns.

“How are you planning to get past that?” said Leyla.

“Easy,” said Figaro. “I’m going to scare the shit out of them. “

“Your mother?” said Weyla.

“No. My father trained me in warfare. He always found the Seneca way of doing things too feeble. Please open a channel, general frequency. Watch carefully, I’m about to deploy the greatest weapon in the galaxy.”

Book 2 – Prologue

Third Quadrant

Asteroid Tethari

Antecessor Facility, Level 2

 

Static crackled inside Ramon Ollo’s helmet. The poor signal had nothing to do with the speakers positioned next to his ears — ironically the comms were about the only system in his suit still operational.

Ollo gritted his teeth and ignored the pain in his arm. The suit’s left side was severely crushed and his arm was pinched from wrist to elbow. He suspected the only way to extract himself from the suit would be to leave his arm behind.

The polylederite shell could withstand a building falling on it — he had tested it to be sure — but the impact from the projectiles being fired by the Antecessor droids was more akin to someone picking up a building and repeatedly smashing you over the head with it.

He had seen it, though. The sigil, a new one. He had seen it flicker and change and he had recognised the pattern. It was similar to something humanity used a long time ago — a coincidence? Highly unlikely. And then he had been knocked off his feet, even with the suit’s stabilisers on maximum, and hurled out of the room.

Ollo forced himself to a kneeling position, the asteroids low gravity making it a little easier. One of his men was shouting something from the far end of the passage, his mouth moving fast inside his helmet.

It was impossible to tell what he was saying, his ears filled with hissing. The static was due to the dampening field that made any sort of electronic communication virtually impossible once you entered an Antecesor site.

Ollo had dedicated his life to understanding the alien technology that was so far superior to that of humans. He had become the foremost expert in the field, feted and revered for his discoveries and theories on how the long-dead predecessors of the human race had dominated the galaxy, maybe even the universe.

But his knowledge was less than skin deep. He scratched at the surface with no idea what might be hidden underneath, deep in the flesh.

How did the Antecessors block electronic signals? He had only unproven hypotheses to work with. Unproven and unprovable. An unknown particle was the best he could come up with, and what kind of scientific theory was that for a double-winner of the Herschmann First Principles Medal?

The pattern was there across every form of Antecessor technology. Work was being done, something was doing the work, but it was undetectable by any known form of sensory perception. The only way to affect Antecessor tech was with other Antecessor tech. The only way to pierce the signal blackout was by using an Antecessor-derived organic. Unfortunately, the one on the exploratory team Ramon Ollo had sent in to investigate the Tethari site was now lying dead at his feet.

The Antecessor droids didn’t kill him. He was responsible for the man’s death. He had forced him beyond his limit to send out a signal, a message to the rest of the galaxy. Maybe he was wrong and the sacrifice he had forced on this man had been in vain, but if he was right...

Ollo used his right arm to remove his helmet, taking it off entirely rather than just opening the visor.

“Your helmet, take it off, Andellas,” he shouted over the noise of screaming and objects slamming into each other that suddenly echoed down the passage towards him. He was reassured by the noise — at least some of his men were still alive.

Andellas, a man who had been on Ollo’s staff for twenty-some years and had never disobeyed an order, hesitated.

The air was breathable, they knew that, but it was still wise to take precautions. The first team had gone in fully suited-up. When they had suffered heavy losses and needed reinforcements, they, too, had entered the site in regulation gear. Just because the facility had decided to become more environmentally friendly didn’t mean the offered hand should be shaken. The reason for the sudden change of heart could be an act of goodwill or one of malice. Judging by how things were going, taking such precautions seemed more than justified. Indispensable, in fact.

But there was no longer any reason to opt for caution. Death was by far the most likely outcome, and minimising risks was not going to help.

Andellas pulled off his helmet and dropped it on the ground. His dark hair was slick with sweat and his eyes were red from exhaustion. “My Lord, we can’t hold them off much longer. We need to retreat and save those we can.”

Ollo felt his lips start to sneer and restrained himself. He didn’t like being referred to as lord or liege or sire. It was his birthright, but one that he had given up long ago. Only those who had been with him the longest sometimes fell back into old habits.

There was a muffled explosion followed by a whistling sound. An object flew past them at a speed that made it impossible to identify until it smashed into the wall behind, revealing it to be one of his men.

Ollo looked at the man, broken and bleeding, and then turned back to Andellas. “We need to press forward. They won’t let us leave in any case, this is a category six engagement.”

Andellas’ face reacted with shock, eyes wide, shoulders sagging. “Six? But how… why?”

Ollo had encountered all types of Antecessor sites in his time. When he was younger, he had travelled across the galaxy, looking for the most hostile Antecessor facilities to explore and plunder. There was a very straightforward relationship between how hard the engagement and how rewarding the treasure.

Some sites were harder than others, but one thing remained constant — the deeper down you went, the harder things got.

The Tethari facility was not classed as a very high-level site. The first two floors were relatively easy to negotiate and contained only minor Antecessor technology. The only thing of value that had been recovered was a human body, the rest was unremarkable. The defences were of the expected ferocity — manageable.

But now those same defences had somehow become upgraded.

Perhaps if they’d managed to find a way down to the lower levels, this sort of brutality would be expected and prepared for, but up here, there was no reason for it. No reason other than the door.

Ever since the change in atmosphere and the discovery of a sigil imprinted on the only access point to the lower levels, the droids on site had become enhanced to a level Ollo had only seen on the most dangerous sites, ones that required hundreds of disciplined men working to a detailed battleplan in order to overcome.

Not something you would expect at a small wormhole station. This was a functional service station, a necessary junction box to operate an interspatial tunnel, that was all. The only thing of note were the inaccessible lower levels, and their defences would be on the other side of the door, or so it had been thought.

Ollo put his suit into self-maintenance mode. Those areas no longer functioning would be sealed off, the rest would be boosted. The suit shivered for a moment and then stood up. Ollo’s head felt small and exposed on top of the large battlesuit.

“What we need to do is get to that door,” said Ollo.

Andellas nodded, no confidence in his face and only fear in his eyes. He was being ordered to near-certain death and he would obey. But he wouldn’t do so blindly. He was too experienced a soldier to fool himself with lies of improbable victory.

“Yes, sir.”

Ollo nodded, as much as he could from inside the suit, the collar cutting into his neck, satisfied with his officer’s resolute determination in the face of insurmountable odds. Each of these men was an organic, trained by him, taught skills and methods no other organics had access to. They were the best of the best, members of an elite company. If Ollo was a king to anyone, it was to them.

“Together,” he said, “we will test them to their core.”

Andellas nodded and turned around. Ollo moved his legs. They felt heavy and sluggish but the suit responded. He followed Andellas, limping slightly on the left side. He made a mental note to rework the compensators and smiled grimly at the foolishness of thinking about repairs when his chances of survival were next to nothing.

When he entered the room, he was met by the sight of two large droids in ultimate mode tearing through the remaining men. Eight of them, plus himself and Andellas, were left from an original complement of twenty-one. Men who could have run this floor solo were now being tossed around like dolls, disorganised and panicking, their weapons and organics having little effect on the droids.

The long black limbs of the droids pulsed with streaks of white light as they thrashed out to strike at the men surrounding them. And behind them, the door.

It had only been discovered by accident. Its edges imperceptible but marked now with chalk. It was the only substance the droids didn’t routinely wipe away. For some reason, they didn’t see calcium carbonate. Ollo had drawn it himself, a way to see the outline easily, like a child’s drawing of what a door should look like.

Ollo walked into the fray, barking out orders. The men responded and formed ranks as they had been trained to. Ollo broke into a run, the suit’s movements becoming smoother as he built up speed.

He was positioned in a blind spot. His men were drawing fire. The second droid was blocking the first so neither saw him until he collided with the first and followed through to hit the second.

The men didn’t hesitate. They swarmed in, looking to hit vital points, doing their best to stop the severed limbs from reconnecting.

Ollo’s suit was entwined in droid limbs but his eyes were on the door. The sigil was flashing between symbols, the door’s outline visible as though light were leaking through from the other side. It was open, he was sure of it. If only he could reach it.

Blinding pain blasted through him as the suit’s arm was ripped off. Instinctively, Ollo hit the eject button and was launched out of the top of the suit, his own left arm a bloody mess but still intact.

He floated through the low gravity like he was flying, and came down next to the door, landing on his feet. A strange high-pitched scream came from the droids but they were in the process of reassembling and couldn’t get to him.

Ollo looked up at the door, twice as tall as him, and put out his hand. He touched the sigil with his palm and it flickered. The door moved as he pushed, slowly but not from being heavy, it was just taking its time.

There wasn’t time. Behind him, the droids had thrown off their overly-optimistic attackers and had nearly completed reforming. His suit was still sitting between them. His suit which contained a self-destruct system. It would give him a few seconds, make the droids have to reassemble again, but it would also kill his men. His brave, loyal men.

Ollo hit the button on his belt. Nothing happened. The signal was blocked.

He took a breath of the bitter, inexplicable air and his eyes turned into balls of fire. His ability suppressed organics but they were just one form of Antecessor technology. If he could affect them, why not other forms?

It wasn’t something he had tried before, the scale was too imbalanced. He felt the enormity of the force against him and pushed at it with his mind. The strain made his skull shudder and he felt blood trickle from his nose, his ears. He just needed the smallest of windows.

There was a gap, he could sense it, the tiniest slit. He pushed the button again and the suit exploded.

Droid parts and human bones separated and flew apart. The droids began to come back together, the humans didn’t.

Ollo paid no attention. His men were all dead, fallen for their king. He pushed the door with his hands, put his shoulder to it, used every last drop of energy he had, and it gave way. He fell into darkness.

He couldn’t tell if he was falling into a hole or rising to the surface of some waterless sea. But he would find out what the Antecessors kept here and the lives of his men would not have been sacrificed for no reason.

Book 2: Chapter Thirty Five (part two)

Nic was escorted into the city, past the city walls. There was no Great Gate, this was before it had been built, there was only a stone archway.

His hands were tied behind his back and his arms were gripped tightly on either side by men who were much larger than him. They were the two biggest specimens among the men who had captured him, other than Rutga, and being put in their charge seemed to denote some kind of deference towards Nic. Or maybe to the person Nic was inhabiting.

Nic stumbled as he was pushed along, his feet tripping over each other. Everything felt unfamiliar and awkward. His limbs, his head, his stomach, his mouth — none of them fitted the way they were supposed to. Which wasn’t surprising since he obviously wasn’t in his own body. But then whose body was it?

He had been referred to as Nic Tutt by Rutga, which made no sense. It was possible he had been put in the body of some ancestor of his, another Nic Tutt, but his mother had never mentioned a namesake in the family.

Perhaps she didn’t know. His father would be the one to ask.

More bewildering was Rutga’s presence. If this was back when Winnum Roke was Archmage, that was a thousand years ago. How could Rutga be alive?

Unless he too was an ancestor; one who bore an uncanny resemblance to his descendant. An unlikely coincidence. Was any of this even real? If this was a vision of the past, visions could be amended.

“Creature, can you hear me?” mumbled Nic.

“Quiet now,” said Rutga from ahead. The man had sharp ears.

Nic stumbled again. It was like he had fallen asleep in the wrong position and woken to find he had two dead legs and two dead arms. The men holding him helped keep him upright.

“What’s wrong with him,” said the man to Nic’s left. “How could he be drunk and escape?”

“He ain’t drunk,” said the man to the right. “Must be some kind of hex.”

“You two can hold your tongues, too,” said Rutga.

Their accents made them sound like farmers, Nic thought to himself. Nothing like the fast and aloof way of speaking he was accustomed to from the denizens of the capital.

He was led through muddy paths into a maze of sheer walls. The city was smaller but it was crammed full of buildings. Entrances into courtyards appeared on either side. The buildings were small and built from stone piled on top of one another. Nothing like the tall buildings of his time. He caught glimpses of people going about their business, dressed very simply, their hands and faces covered in dirt and grime. Smoke seemed to be rising from every direction; black and sooty. There was a strong odour assaulting his nose. A mixture of cooking meat and burning wood, undercut with something more objectionable. A sharp, bitter scent he couldn’t quite place.

Nic had no idea what part of the city he was in. The walls were too tall to look over and the sky overhead was an unhelpful blank blue. Nothing made sense for the time being. He would just have to wait until he saw Winnum Roke and ask her.

He didn’t even know why he was being taken to see the Archmage. What crime had this Nic Tutt committed? Was his whole family line filled with assassins?

They came out of the maze into a large courtyard filled with men in uniform. They were in pairs, sparring with sticks and wooden swords, dozen of them, maybe hundreds. Nic was becoming familiar with his host body now. He could keep up with the men on either side without needing to be supported. His new legs seemed longer than his own. Looking down, his feet were definitely bigger. This member of the Tutt lineage was a large brute.

They kept to one side of the courtyard. Some of the training soldiers stopped their duelling to take note of the tight group of men passing through. The soldiers behind Nic made enough noise to make their continued presence known. He was clearly a prisoner who needed an armed guard.

There was a large building ahead, far more impressive than anything Nic had seen so far. Could it be the palace? It had been built around now, depending on exactly when ‘now’ was. It didn’t look very much like the modern version, though.

Before they got close enough for Nic to get a better look, the group took a sharp right turn into a more shabby construction. The ground sloped down and it quickly became cold and gloomy. Torches were lit from behind and the passage took on an eerie feel.

There was a different smell now. Damp and rot. There were no steps but the ground constantly sloped downwards until they came out into a large room with braziers providing light and a little warmth. Groups of soldiers, their shoulders sagging and their faces drawn, huddled around the fires. They showed little interest in the new arrivals.

Beyond them, the room was full of cells, separated by metal bars. The doors were also made of metal bars but kept shut using simple bolts that could easily be opened by the cells’ occupants by reaching an arm through the bars.

They took him to an empty cell, the door hanging open.

“Back you go,” said Rutga as his hands were unbound and he was tossed inside. “Try not to run off again.”

Nic fell on the stone floor, the ground slick with something slimy. There were men inside the cells on either side, maybe women, too, although Nic couldn’t tell in the gloom. The men he could see had matted hair and scraggly beards, three or four in each cell. He was fairly certain his own face was clean–shaven, so his incarceration was probably fairly recent. 

“You said you were taking me to see the Archmage,” said Nic.

Rutga had closed the metal door and slammed the bolt across. The rest of the men stood behind him, adjusting their armour and belts as though the surroundings were making them uncomfortable.

“You’ll see her soon enough.” Rutga shook his head like he was disappointed. “I don’t know what got into you, Tutt. You showed such promise.”

Nic sat up, his hands supporting him from behind, the palms threatening to slide back along the slippery floor. He took a moment to get a good look at this Rutga. His face was more youthful but otherwise an exact copy. Was he taller than the Rutga Nic had encountered? Or just younger and fitter? It seemed ridiculous to think the same man had lived for over a millennium, but why not? With Arcanum, such things might be possible.

“What am I accused of?” Nic asked.

There were snorts of disbelief and rolling of eyes.

“You’ll have your chance to defend your actions, don’t worry,” said Rutga. He turned towards the men around the braziers. “Watch him more closely this time.”

The men grunted a response. They didn’t seem to care very much about their duty. It was all a little lax, to Nic’s eyes. Were the armies of Ranvar really this ill-disciplined? How had they won so many battles with this sort of attitude? Unless he was only seeing the worst of them.

Rutga led his men away. Nic was left inside a cell he could easily break out of — not even break, he could simply open the door and leave — guarded by men who didn’t appear to care what he did.

Nic got off the floor, the seat of his trousers wet and unpleasant to move around in. The cell was completely empty, no bed or chair. No toilet either, just a hole in the corner he didn’t investigate. The sound of someone relieving themselves a couple of cells away suggested there was no standing on ceremony here.

“Creature?” said Nic. There was no response.

The creature had said it would take him to see Winnum Roke. If this was part of the process and he would eventually get to see her, what exactly would he be able to gain from speaking to a thousand–year–old memory of the Archmage?

Nic grabbed a metal bar that was part of the door and immediately let go. It was bitingly cold to the touch. He reached through and down, and fiddled with the bolt on the outside. It made a loud metallic noise that drew the attention of the guards who gave Nic dirty looks but said nothing. Nic drew his hand back inside the bars.

He looked down at himself. His clothes were similar to those of the men who had brought him here. Clean and in good condition. He checked his body — his arms and chest, then his face and head. He seemed to be fit and healthy. Short, thick hair on his head, a square jaw and a prominent nose. A strong young man, probably in his twenties.

The body moved more naturally now that he’d had a chance to get used to it. Almost like it was his own.

How did this work? He had been put inside the body of someone who had existed, who had lived their life, and now they were under his control. Did that mean Nic could change history? It seemed unlikely. But he could choose to act or not act as he wished, so he could change this particular version of it. Did that mean anything? Not if it had no effect outside of this reality.

Whatever this was, real or not, Nic had to deal with it as his current reality. He was a prisoner and he had committed a crime of some sort. From what Rutga had said, probably involving someone’s death. Perhaps several deaths. Was he innocent or guilty? It wasn’t relevant but Nic was still curious.

He had already tried escaping and failed. It was possible that Nic’s arrival had scuppered Private Tutt’s escape plans, which was a little unfortunate. Had the real Private Tutt managed to get away successfully in the original version of his life?

Nic tried to not think about the real Private Tutt and focused on his own predicament. His main goal was to get to talk to Winnum Roke. Presumably, she would be an accurate representation of the Archmage. Perhaps that was better than speaking to the current one. He might be able to get answers that she would otherwise withhold from him. The thought made Nic feel a little more positive about his situation.

A Winnum Roke unaware of the future might give Nic a much clearer idea of why she had done the things she had done.

The other prisoners sat huddled in their cells, not talking and not looking in his direction. They had their own problems to think about. Nic sat down on the driest area he could find and waited.

It was at least several hours before Rutga returned. He had the same men with him, or at least the same number. The two large men he recognised for sure.

“Come along,” said Rutga as he opened the cell door. “Seems like you aren’t the only one in trouble today.”

“What do you mean?” said Nic, getting up and approaching the open door. The soldiers put their hands to their sword hilts. Nic raised his hands to show he wasn’t going to attack anyone. It was strange to provoke such a reaction. Almost enjoyable.

“I think you know,” said Rutga. “You and the Archmage.” He shook his head, even more disappointed than before. “Turn around and don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.

Nic did as asked and his hands were bound again. His arms were gripped the same as before by the same two men. The prison guards watched him being taken out with the same impassive expressions.

He was led back through the dark passage, sloping upwards this time, but not to the same exit. A few extra turns and he was at the bottom of a wide staircase. There was no door at the top just an entrance into the large hall of a building. He was marched across the hall, into another passage and into another cell, but this one looked out into a large chamber full of people.

They were dressed in fine clothes, sat in stacked benches on all sides, vehemently arguing and shouting at each other. The sight was immediately familiar to him from an old painting that hung in the Ranvarian National Gallery. The Pride of Ranvar’s Fall. It was a famous moment in Ranvar’s history, the beginning of the Golden Age, when the mages and the nobles formed a coalition that became the template for Ranvar’s rule.

The view in front of him was so exactly like the painting — the clothing, the colours, the shouting — Nic looked around expecting to see the artist behind his easel. On one side was the High Bench where the Seven Justices sat, three on either side of the Lord Justice.

They were all large men in white wigs, but unlike the proud, nobles in the painting in the National Gallery, they were slouching and wore sneers.

And on the other side of the chamber, on a balcony, was a single woman. Winnum Roke.

“You have acted improperly, Archmage,” shouted the Lord Justice over the noise, his elevated position giving him some help. “The murder of the prince is too much.”

“Too much! Too much!” bayed the crowd around and beneath him.

“His death was his own doing,” shouted back Winnum Roke. Her voice easily transcended the noise.

“Lies!” cried out one of the men seated alongside the Lord Justice. “Your agent of treachery is there.” All eyes were suddenly on Nic. “He killed the prince on your orders.”

“The prince,” said a man on the Lord Justice’s other side, “his companions and his servants,” as though this was the greatest crime of all. “What did he do to deserve such a fate?”

“You know what he did,” said Winnum Roke.

The scene being played out was nothing like the story of Ranvar’s rise Nic had learned from history books. This was supposed to be the time when Prince Ranvir was assassinated by a foreign power, an act which united the kingdom and led to the start of Ranvar’s empire building. This was meant to be where the most powerful families came together and put their differences behind them for the betterment of all. All Ranvarians.

“If the prince offended you, madame,” said the Lord Justice, “he should have been chastised appropriately.” The crowd agreed with more shouts of, Too much, too much.

“And what would that entail?” said Winnum. “A slap on the wrist? I know too well how you operate, my lord. You act with impunity, the laws you write only applying to others. And I know the prince, a vindictive little fellow. If I allowed him to live, he would wait until I let my guard down and attack me from the shadows.”

“You slander the dead. You have gone too far, madame.”

The crowd bellowed, Too far, too far.

“It is you, sir, who have gone too far. Release this man and obey your own process of justice. This soldier was acting as he was ordered.”

“You admit it!” cried out one of the other justices. “Your lover is guilty of regicide.”

Nic was a little taken aback to be labelled the Archmage’s lover. It presented all sorts of questions if it were true.

“He is nothing of the sort,” said Winnum Roke.

“So you bewitched him and made him do your bidding,” said the Lord Justice.

“I am no witch,” said Winnum Roke with a ferocity that silenced the chamber, her eyes glowing with a crackling blue light. “I am the Archmage of the Royal College and you have tested my patience long enough.”

The Lord Justice rose out of his seat and floated into the air. He waved his arms and legs to no effect. Some of his fellow justices tried to grab hold of him but they were too slow and too slovenly.

“Put me down,” he yelled.

“Your corruption and self–serving ways must end,” said Winnum Roke. “You will serve as a caution to your successors.”

The Lord Justice began to turn redder and redder, yelling louder and louder. And then he exploded.

Nic turned away, raising his arms. He felt something hit him in the arm, pierce his skin and lodge itself there. He grabbed it and pulled it out. It was a shard of bone.

The chamber was in pandemonium, yelling and screaming as people attempted to exit all at once. There was a red mist falling where the Lord Justice had been. The other justices had sunk into their seats, their eyes wide with panic. This was not how the books had told it.

“Quiet!” boomed Winnum Roke.

The chamber immediately fell silent.

“There is a vacancy for Lord Justice. Do any of the current justices wish to apply?” She glared across the chamber at the cowering justices. They shook their head. “If you wish to resign your posts, do so now.”

The justices took off their wigs as one and vacated their seats, sliding off to the sides and slithering away.

“It seems we will need to elect new members of the judiciary council,” said Winnum. “Allow me to nominate some candidates for the sake of expediency.” She listed some names. They were familiar to Nic, the ones he had read of in his textbooks. “Do any of you wish to contest these nominations?”

No one said anything. “Very well. The seven of you nominated are now the council. I suggest you choose one from among you to be the new Lord Justice. And remember, your task is to serve the nation and its people, not your own whims and desires. Have that man released.” She pointed vaguely in Nic’s direction and then turned and left.

As soon as she was gone, the shouting began again.

The door behind Nic opened Rutga pulled him out backwards. He untied his hands.

“Now the Archmage will see you,” he said.

Book 2: Chapter Thirty Five (part one)

In Nic’s estimation, war was inevitable. It wasn’t the battle between nations that concerned him — even without dragons, Ranvar was superior in military might to her neighbours. The real fight was between the High-Father and his wayward pupils.

The creature that lived under the Librarium, the demon he had once kept as a guest in his mind, and Winnum Roke. They had formed a coalition to defeat the High-Father to stop him from using this world as his playground. 

The High-Father’s attempts at evolving his creations to something resembling free spirits came at a price — the annihilation of all indigenous life. Not really the kind of exchange rate Nic considered favourable.

The inevitability Nic sensed did not come from the determination of the three rebels to be free of the High-Father’s yoke. If he wished to stop them he could have. No, it was the High-Father himself who encouraged the struggle most of all, who kept the fire burning under the crucible. He saw it as a means to produce the best results, like metal being tempered in the fiercest flames to imbue it with unwavering strength.

Nic was sure everyone understood this. They weren’t naive enough to think their plans were succeeding by outsmarting the High-Father. They did, however, seem to think Nic was naive enough to believe his role in all this was down to blind chance or possibly a destiny foretold among the stars.

Nic had never been much of a believer in fate or destiny. His only birthright was to be a little spoiled by a doting mother, and who wasn’t born with that? 

He wasn’t born special. He wasn’t even born ordinary to become special, like the heroes in so many of the books popular with his peers. He was born with no entitlement, which made him conveniently easy to torment and dominate.

There was probably more to it than that, some trait he had that was useful to these people and their grand plans. It most likely wouldn’t be anything of benefit to him. It most likely would end up killing him, once his usefulness was at an end.

He understood all this but still he was fascinated to be in such august company. He was at the heart of world-changing events, and as much as he felt his position had been artificially elevated and entirely undeserved, it was hard not to find it tantalising, to be present, to be in the front row as the curtains rose.

What he would do, he had decided, was not try to play the hero, or even the role they were trying to tempt him with — some kind of proxy for their own ambitions — but instead to watch and learn from them. He wanted to see the way the world really worked, not the half-glimpsed truths written in books and shaped into something else entirely so as to be easier to consume and digest. And the person who could give him the keenest insight as Winnum Roke.

“It seems you have been keeping secrets,” said the High-Father. His tone was light, playful, and there was a benign smile on his wizened face, but there was a steeliness to his eyes that suggested he wasn’t entirely pleased.

“It is as you wished it to be,” said the creature’s voice from every direction, seemingly. “We act without your permission or guidance, as you wished us to.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said the High-Father. “But to have kept this ability from me, it is quite an achievement.”

Nic was more or less an observer, a non-participant in the conversation. For someone who would decide the fate of the world, he was remarkably uninvolved in most decisions. They wanted him to agree to play the game, but all the moves were made by them.

From what he had been able to work out, the High-Father’s only real interest was in creating a race of beings able to think for themselves. Free will. He wanted his creations to be able to disobey him as proof of this. He could achieve that easily enough by telling them to disobey him, but that wasn’t the same thing.

The High-Father didn’t want to accomplish this through the same method he himself had acquired free will, through the death of an entire world — which was a relief. He wanted to use a far more intricate and intensive approach. He wanted to nurture it through conflict.

The creature, on the other hand, along with Winnum Roke, had decided the sacrifice of millions was a small price to pay for defeating the High-Father’s tyranny.

Nic wasn’t sure whose side he should be on. Could a strong desire for self-preservation spontaneously produce free will? Was it worth wagering every life on the planet to prevent the High-Father continuing his endless journey of destruction from world to world? That seemed to be the experiment Nic was stuck in the middle of.

The creature didn’t strike Nic as the best person to decide the fate of his world. In some ways, it was another example of the same thing the High-Father was trying to do. Its creators had made it capable of thought and independent action, which eventually led to it deciding the best course of action was to sacrifice them for the greater good. Not all that different from what the High-Father was trying to achieve. Was that an example of free will and self-determination, or was it cold logic with no consideration for morality or compassion?

What worried Nic was that if that was how the creature thought then, there was no reason to think it didn’t think the same now. 

“Nothing has been kept from you,” said the creature. “The opportunity did not exist until now. There was nothing to be kept hidden.”

Nic recognised this form of evasion, where the technical truth was treated as a substitute for the real thing, like promising not to kill a man if he confesses to a crime, and then having someone else kill him. 

The High-Father, of course, would also know the difference. But the High-Father was the one who had encouraged the creature to go in this direction. He wanted his charges to find ways to deceive him. It showed growth.

“You wish to take young Nic to consult with Winnum Roke, then?” said the High-Father.

“If it helps him come to a decision, isn’t it a reasonable consideration?”

The High-Father looked at Nic. In the darkened room, surrounded by stars and galaxies, he appeared like a celestial being of immense size. Nic wondered if he looked the same to the High-Father. Probably not.

“The door is closed,” said the High-Father. “How will you get them together?”

“There are other doors,” said the creature. “Not as large or as convenient, perhaps, but adequate for a short conversation. He only wants to exchange a few words. Isn’t that right, Nic?”

Nic was a little caught off guard to be addressed directly. “Um, I suppose. Although, I’m not sure I believe you.”

There was a pause, a silence which suggested the creature had taken offence at the suggestion. Then the High-Father laughed. “Wonderful, wonderful. If only I could harness a fraction of the spirit you contain, Nic.” He was thoroughly amused.

“I assure you,” said the creature, “I have expressed no falsehoods to you.”

“No, I don’t think you have, either,” said Nic. “But what you say you will do, and why you are really doing it, are two entirely separate things. Whatever Winnum Roke might share with me, what she might share with you could be the more important matter.”

“I will not be present,” said the creature. “Whatever happens between the two of you, it will only involve the two of you. The method of contacting her resides with you, the map you now have access to, and the heritage you share due to being of the same people. You are linked to her as you are to everyone of your kind.”

Nic felt his brow crease. “Are you saying I’m related to Winnum Roke?”

“Only distantly,” said the creature. “As you are to most Ranvarians. The insular nature of your people has meant that you share a lot of commonalities.”

If not for the careful wording, it would have been easy to take the creature’s explanation as an insult. 

“And I can contact her through this map?” Nic looked around him at the twinkling lights. He squinted, as though he might be able to spot Winnum Roke hiding among the tiny stars.

“Yes,” said the creature. Nic couldn’t see the creature, but he had the feeling it was smiling smugly.

There was no doubt in Nic’s mind that things weren’t as simple as they were being made to be. He may well be able to speak to Winnum Roke, but what would Winnum Roke be able to do with him.

Despite his reservations, Nic was still inclined to go along with the creature’s plan. Even if he were being led into an ill-advised predicament, he would still be able to learn something about how the creature and Winnum Roke intended to defeat their vastly superior foe. The High-Father was the one Nic really needed to be wary of. If he couldn’t hold his own against the creature, he was hardly going to be able to withstand whatever the High-Father had in store.

“Do you really want them to defeat you?” Nic asked him.

“I want them to try,” said the High-Father.

“But you expect them to fail.”

The High-Father sighed and nodded. “It is the likeliest outcome. You never know, though.”

“You always know,” said Nic. When you could change reality at a whim, the future was whatever you wanted it to be. 

The High-Father smiled. “So far, yes. But this world is young and full of potential. I have high hopes. For them and for you. I think you may be what tilts the balance, this time.”

This time? Had the High-Father tried this before? A being who had existed for as long as he had probably had the time to attempt numerous experiments, the only limiting factor were the lives he needed to play with.

“What do I have to do?” said Nic to the room. Speaking to a disembodied voice with no name made it hard to know who to address.

“Nothing,” said the creature. “I will guide you.”

“Then I will leave you to it,” said the High-Father. There was a confidence to his voice, a certainty that whatever it was the creature was going to do — and Nic was sure the High-Father was as suspicious of the creature’s true motives as he was — there was nothing he needed to fear. Even with his eyes closed and his fingers in his ears, the High-Father would still be impossible to sneak up on, let alone overthrow.

The glitter in the darkness swirled and lost its shape. Nic felt like he was about to fall over. He closed his eyes to try and keep himself upright.

“I don’t feel well,” he mumbled.

“This won’t take long,” said the creature’s voice right next to Nic’s ear.

“What are you doing?”

There was no reply.

Nic had expected a door of some kind to open, maybe a hole to fall into. The last time he had visited the other place, the ship between worlds, it had felt like a physical transfer. This time his head was spinning and he felt mildly nauseous. Of course, he was just assuming he was being taken to the ship. The door was closed and another way would be needed. They couldn’t keep that from the High-Father. But Winnum Roke wasn’t necessarily waiting for him in the same places as before.

“We are going to see Winnum Roke,” said the creature. The voice seemed to be drifting away from him. 

“Where?” Nic’s own voice seemed to be drifting away from him, too.

“The place where the two of you intersect.”

Nic passed out.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on a grassy slope, looking up at a cloudless sky. It didn’t look the same as before, though. The ship that had kept Winnum Roke prisoner all these years had an otherworldly feel to it, and this… this felt normal. He could feel the warmth of the sun, for a start.

“Is he dead? We’re in big trouble if he’s dead.”

And then a bucketful of water landed on Nic’s face and he inhaled sharply from the cold and the shock.

“He’s alive. He’s blinking his eyes.” 

They were talking about him. He was the one blinking his eyes, trying to stop everything being a blur. The accent was a little strange but it sounded vaguely Ranvarian, and vaguely not. Was he in some distant outpost where the accents were different? 

Someone moved nearby, he heard their feet squelching in mud. It was a clear day but there was water on the ground. The two things didn’t jibe until he remembered the water thrown at his face. He was lying in a puddle.

A pointed cap appeared in the sky over him. “Can you walk or are you going to stay there for the rest of the day, Private Tutt?”

Before he could answer, hands grabbed him, lifting him up. The world spun again, making it hard to see where he was. And then he saw the city ahead of him. He recognised it, the tallest buildings were familiar — the palace, the Royal College, the Librarium — and then again it was all completely different. So much smaller.

“What was he doing? Deserting?”

“Dunno. Took off like he’d seen a ghost.”

“He ain’t a coward. I seen him run into a hail of arrows. Bounced off him, they did. The boy’s charmed.”

“Don’t talk rot. Hey, don’t let go, he’s gonna topple right over.”

They were talking around him now, no threat or malice. Some curiosity, a little baffled, but they appeared to know him. But not as Nic Tutt.

“Nic Tutt,” called out an imperious voice. “Nic Tutt, stand up, man.”

Or maybe they did.

Nic’s muscles tensed and he was able to support his own weight again. He looked around and realised he was inside the city walls, it was just that the city was a lot less built up and a lot greener. Swathes of open land were on either side of him. 

“This is the past,” he said out loud.

This was Ranvar City from a previous time, long before Nic was born. How was he here? 

There was no response from the creature and only bemused looks from the soldiers surrounding him. He recognised the uniforms and the armour. This was the Golden Age. A time when Ranvar was building an empire. Nations quickly fell to the Ranvarian army and every battle ended in victory, or so Nic had read. 

“This isn’t real,” he said aloud again. 

The creature had said it had the ability to show him whatever he wanted to see, had given him that ability. But it also said it had recorded every moment since arriving in this world. 

It had placed him here, in the past, when Ranvar was an unassailable force with no equal, and the Archmage of the Royal College had been Winnum Roke.

Somebody slapped him in the face. It didn’t feel like it wasn’t real. It hurt quite a lot, but it also brought his mind into focus. In front of him stood a man in brightly polished armour. He was taller than Nic, taller than everyone, with a face hidden behind a masked helmet. 

“This way,” he said.

“I need to see the Archmage,” said Nic. That was why he was here, although he wasn’t sure what he was going to say to a thousand-year-old memory of Winnum Roke. How would she be able to tell him anything? This Winnum Roke knew nothing of what was to come.

“I know,” said the man. “That’s where we’re going.” He took off the helmet and wiped his brow. The face was familiar.

“Rutga?” said Nic.

“Don’t be so familiar, Private,” said the man who looked almost exactly like Rutga, if maybe a little younger, maybe a little thinner. “Be professional, be polite, and let’s hope the Archmage doesn’t have you executed.”

“Executed? What for?”

Rutga stopped and gave Nic a quizzical look. “Treason, murder, littering — take your pick.”

“Can you be executed for littering?” asked Nic.

“When you leave body parts lying around, yes,” said Rutga. 

The men closed in around Nic and he realised they weren’t there to help him while he still felt woozy, they were an armed escort. Apparently, this Nic Tutt was in a lot of trouble. But it wasn’t like there was any danger to Nic himself. He put his hand to his cheek which still stung. If he could experience pain here, then what else?

September 2019 Update

Here to give you the details of when each of my stories restart.

Epilogue

Fourth Quadrant

Planet Fountain (orbit)

Central Authority Vessel Nirvana

 

“You are Hollet 3.2, of the colony world ship the Liberator Garu,” said Guardian Tezla. She wanted to make it clear to him that he couldn’t hide anything from her.

“I know,” said Hollet 3.2, playing it cool. That wouldn’t last long.

“Tell me the plan,” said Tezla.

She had taken him on board her ship as an asylum seeker. Whether he was actually in need of asylum from the Vendx corporation she didn’t know, but she had granted it anyway. It made it easier to question him if he was here where her equipment could observe him closely.

“Plan?” he said. “What plan?”

“You tell me,” said Tezla. “You illegally boarded a Vendx vessel and caused an untold amount of damage. Why?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “If you find out, please let me know.”

He was very calm and composed, which was impressive considering his age and the situation he was now in. He looked tough, athletic, but he was still just an FVG trainee, a mere novice according to the records she had acquired from the guild’s database. The Central Authority engendered fear and respect like no other organisation in the galaxy, yet this young man didn’t appear fazed at all. If anything, he appeared to be slightly irritated.

“Janx, what is he hiding?”

Lights flashed across the drone’s surface. “Readings suggest he is telling the truth.”

“What’s the margin of error?” she asked.

“Zero.”

Tezla took a breath. Now was not the time to start shouting at her drone. It wouldn’t look good. “How can it be zero, Janx? It’s never zero.”

“The subject’s readings are entirely unobstructed,” said Janx. “He isn’t attempting to hide anything.”

She looked at Hollet 3.2. He did appear to be wide open, no signs of deception or obfuscation. “Good. Thank you for cooperating.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Hollet 3.2. “It’s my greatest weakness.”

“You went up there to save your guildmates,” said Tezla amiably. If he was going to be open and honest with her, she was going to use the opportunity to find the issues he wasn’t willing to share, and then rip them out of him. “That’s a sign of courage and honour. Your family on the Garu would be proud.”

“No,” said Hollet 3.2, “they wouldn’t.”

“Colony ships like the Liberator Garu are very strictly organised societies,” said Janx. “Acting without reason is considered a waste of—”

“I don’t need a lesson in social norms on generational ship culture,” said Tezla. “You went up to fix a problem, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know what we were going to do once we got up here. I still don’t know what I did, other than put a bunch of people’s jobs at risk for no apparent reason.”

He looked across at his guildmate in the next chair. There seemed to be some unresolved tension between them.

“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you,” said Tezla. “You understand who I am?”

He turned back to face her. “Yes.”

“You understand the severity of the position you are now in.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem very concerned.”

“I’ve been in worse spots,” said Hollet 3.2. He looked to his side again. “Quite recently.”

“So you travelled from the surface of the planet to the Vendx flagship without a plan?” Tezla could also play it cool. “I find that hard to believe.”

“So do I,” said the other guild trainee she had apprehended, sitting with his back straight and his fingers tapping on the chair arm. His feet were also bouncing off the floor. She didn’t like his attitude at all.

“It was his plan,” said Hollet 3.2. “Ask him.” The look he gave his guildmate wasn’t a friendly one.

“You,” said Tezla. “Ubik U Ubik. What kind of name is that?”

“I don’t know,” said Ubik U Ubik. “I’m an orphan. I was named by the trafficker that sold me into child slavery.”

“Janx, can we get a measurement on him?”

“He is telling the truth.”

“He was raised by slavers? They haven’t existed for centuries.”

“He is telling the truth,” repeated Janx. “Margin of error… 96%.”

“Ninety-s…” She dragged her volume back down. “How can that allow for a valid reading?” She stood up and glared at the drone. “Are you suffering from some kind of glitch?”

“I can have a look at him, if you like,” said Ubik. “He looks like a really interesting piece.” He leaned forward in his chair, the restraints on his arms preventing him from getting up. “I’ve never seen one put together like that. Is that an argonium casing?”

“Argonium-lexim alloy,” said Janx. “Good guess, young man.”

“Shut up, Janx,” Tezla snapped. “The prisoner isn’t here to swap fashion tips with you.”

“It’s not really a fashion statement,” said Ubik. “You can tell by his construction the builder was a functionalist. It’s a very efficient design.”

“Thank you,” said Janx.

“Venting looks a bit off, though,” added Ubik. “Are those flutes damaged?”

“Why, yes,” said Janx. “I’ve been meaning to—”

“I will deactivate you,” growled Tezla. “I swear it.”

“Apologies, Guardian,” said Janx. “I overstepped my bounds.”

“Speak to me later,” said Ubik. “I think I can tweak your flutes if you—”

“Mr Ubik, you will answer my questions and only my questions. The consequences if you disregard these instructions won’t please you.”

“Yes, Guardian,” said Ubik. “Ask away.”

Hollet 3.2 sighed and shook his head. “This is how it begins.” He looked intently up at Tezla. “I want you to know if this turns into a life or death situation, I’m on your side.”

“Are you threatening my ship?” said Tezla.

“No,” said Hollet 3.2. “I’m asking for your protection. When I asked for asylum, it wasn’t Vendx I was most worried about.” He looked to his side again.

“What are you looking at me for?” said Ubik. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You should do a full check of your systems,” said Hollet 3.2. “Starting with that drone.”

“I don’t know what kind of security you’re used to,” said Tezla, “but I can assure you—”

“Has your drone ever been this friendly with a prisoner before?”

The list of claims for the ships invulnerability to cyber-attack dissipated in Tezla’s mind. She looked at the drone. “Janx, full self-diagnostic.”

“Guardian, I have been—”

“Now!” said Tezla.

“Very well. Please standby.” Lights began circling the argonium-lexim body.

Only the sound of Ubik’s fingers drumming broke the silence as they waited.

“Diagnostic complete,” said Janx. “System 32% compromised.”

“What? How is that possible?”

“Only 32%?” said Ubik. “Damn. So what, you have some kind of Antecessor hybrid-tech?”

“This, this…” Tezla was stunned. “Our firewalls are impregnable.”

“You did a physical uplink to the Vendx ship,” said Ubik. “My Grandma has this saying. When you download from the abyss, the abyss also downloads from you.”

“What does that even mean?” said Hollet 3.2.

“I don’t know,” said Ubik. “I should probably ask her.”

“Janx, do a full sweep of the ship. Restore everything that’s been compromised.”

“Yes, Guardian. Beginning.” Lights ran around the inside of the cabin they were in. “Complete. Infection located in three systems: life support, navigation, kitchen.”

“Kitchen?” said Hollet 3.2. Ubik shrugged.

“System cleaning complete,” said Janx.

“Are you sure?”

“Verifying… yes, all systems are clean.”

Tezla let out a long breath. “It was you. You redirected my jamming signal. I don’t like being made a fool of, Mr Ubik. Do you know the punishment for tampering with a Central Authority vessel?”

“Is it worse than slavery?” asked Ubik.

“You were never a slave,” said Hollet 3.2. “And if you were, it’s the slavers who would need emancipating from you.”

“That’s very harsh,” said Ubik. “I know I play things a bit fast and loose—”

“A bit?”

“—but it worked out okay, didn’t it? Everyone made it off the ship. We’re all safe now, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” said Hollet 3.2. “Are we?”

“What was your plan, Ubik?” demanded Tezla.

“I didn’t have one,” said Ubik.

“I knew it,” said Hollet 3.2.

“Janx?” said Tezla. The drone hovered quietly.

“You’re so binary,” said Ubik. “Not everything has to be one or zero. Sometimes you have to try things.”

“Yes, you’re definitely trying,” said Hollet 3.2.

“Janx…” repeated Tezla, “is he telling the truth?”

“Yes… but I am having difficulty identifying the margin of error.”

“Give me the range.”

“Range is… between one and one hundred.”

“Are you still compromised?”

“No, Guardian. All systems are clear.”

“Then how can the margin of error be anywhere between 1% and 100%? Isn’t the point of the Antecessor quantifier its accuracy?”

“Yes, Guardian. There is only one known source of discombobulation. The subject is Null Void.”

Tezla stumbled backwards, drawing her firearm at the same time and pointing it at Ubik. “You… you’re Null Void.”

“Is that bad?” said Ubik.

Tezla grimaced and held the gun with both hands. “The last person to be identified as Null Void caused the Incean War. He was also the last person to be publicly executed by the Central Authority.”

“Yikes,” said Ubik. “That does sound bad. PT, tell her I’m not going to start any wars.”

“You already sent out the invite,” said Hollet 3.2.

“That wasn’t serious,” said Ubik. “PT, come on, back me up.”

Hollet 3.2 looked at Tezla, trigger finger primed. “Prevention is better than cure, Guardian. Your call...”

“This can’t be a coincidence,” said Tezla. “Tell me what you know about the atmospheric changes happening in the Antecessor sites around the galaxy.”

“What kind of changes?” said Ubik innocently. “Breathable air?”

“So you do know.” Tezla pointed the gun at him more firmly, the muzzle aimed between his eyes.

“No, you’ve got the wrong guy,” said Ubik. “You want to speak to the third member of our team.”

“We’re not a team,” said Hollet 3.2.

“You don’t think we work well together?”

“Together? I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.”

“Of course I do,” said Ubik. “I’m a team player.”

“Janx,” said Hollet 3.2, “can I get a measurement on that?”

“Both of you be quiet,” said Tezla. She had hoped letting them squabble might allow for a slip-up, give her a clue about what was happening, but they were just annoying her. “The third member, you’re talking about the Matton-Ollo boy.”

“Fig?” said Ubik. “Yes, him. He’s the key. If you hurry, you might be able to catch up with him. He’ll have the answers you want.”

“I’ll do that. As soon as I drop you two off at the nearest Authority holding facility.”

“Can I be in solitary confinement?” asked Hollet 3.2.

“I don’t think you want to waste time with detours,” said Ubik. “Better to get straight—”

“We have a priority message coming in,” said Janx. “Tagged as imperative.”

“Put it up,” said Tezla. Imperative was the highest rating possible. It was usually reserved for disasters and mass evacuations.

The drone shone a light forming a distorted image of a face. It flickered and faded.

“...Ollo ...Antecessor ...compromised.” The sound kept going in and out. There were screams and explosions in the background. “They’re coming back. Stop them… we have to stop them. Figaro, if you hear this, you know what you have to do. I’m sorry, son. I couldn’t—”

The message stopped and then repeated.

“Where is this coming from?” said Tezla.

“It was relayed through Central Authority High Command,” said Janx. “The person in the message has been identified as Ramon Ollo.”

“But what was he saying?” said Tezla. “Can’t you get a clearer—”

“Gideon wormhole has reported an unauthorised breach,” said Janx. “A missile of unknown design has forced entry into this quadrant. Target has been calculated to be this planet. Size of warhead is consistent with extinction-level event.”

“It’s going to kill this planet? Why?”

“Eighty-two minutes standard before impact.”

“The simulation,” said Ubik. “They think it’s on the planet and they want to destroy it.”

“Isn’t it?” said Hollet 3.2.

“Maybe,” said Ubik. “How would I know?”

“What’s the protocol?” said Tezla. “How do we stop the missile.”

“Current readings suggest firepower is insufficient. Shielding will deflect too much to change the course.”

“Detonate it,” said Ubik.

“That’s what we’re trying to avoid,” said Tezla.

“Detonate it before it gets here.”

“How? You heard Janx. Our firep—”

“Ram it with the Vendx ship,” said Ubik. “Evacuate the crew and send it to meet the missile head-on. You’ve already assumed control. They’ll complain, but…”

“Do it,” said Tezla. She was expecting Janx to reel off all the directives prohibiting such a course of action, but the drone bleeped once and began sending out instructions. “This had better work.” She had no intention of losing an entire planet on her watch.

Within a few minutes, escape pods were being jettisoned from the Motherboard. They watched on the screen as the ship powered up and began to leave Fountain orbit.

“Vendx are going to be very, very upset,” said Ubik, smiling.

“What about Gipper?” said Hollet 3.2.

“Who?” said Ubik. “Oh, right.” He looked at the departing ship. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

The VGV Motherboard, under the directive of the Central Authority, blasted towards the missile.

They watched in silence as it grew smaller and smaller until it looked like one of the stars filling the screen. Janx called out the time to impact. And then there was a flash of light, sharp and brilliant.

“Okay,” said Ubik. “Maybe we should get going before the shockwave arrives.”

“Shockwave will be minimal at this distance,” said Janx.

“Yes,” said Ubik, “but I was referring to the shockwave from Vendx Headquarters when they send every ship they have to take you into custody, Guardian Tezla.”

Tezla shook her head. “Prepare to leave, Janx.”

“Yes, Guardian. Destination?”

“The source of the Ollo transmission.” She looked at Ubik. “I have a horrible feeling I’m going to regret this.”

“Don’t worry,” said Hollet 3.2. “You never get used to it, but you build up a tolerance.”

 

***

 

Fourth Quadrant.

 

Gipper opened his eyes slowly. The last thing he remembered was being in the Motherboard galley, feeling rather full. Then the alarms went crazy and people were running around in a panic.

They were abandoning ship, which was never a good sign.

He had tried to join them, hoping not to be noticed in the pandemonium, but none of the escape pods would allow him entry. He didn’t have the correct ID implant and no funds to buy temporary passage.

Then the ship left orbit very fast and he was thrown against the wall and pinned there. His natural prescience, underdeveloped as it was, told him the ship wasn’t headed anywhere he wanted to go. Once the acceleration levelled off, he managed to get to an airlock and threw himself out of it, only his spacesuit and the oxygen inhaler Ubik had given him…

Ubik, he was responsible for this. He didn’t need his prescience augmented to know it.

And now where was he? Dead?

No. He was inside a sphere. A sphere made of interlocking drones. Vendx drones. Why would Vendx…

No. Ubik again. Send him to his death and save him, all in one smooth motion.

Gipper twisted his body. Every part of him hurt. How long had he been in space before the drones caught him? How much air had he left?

Saved only to die from suffocation. Classic Ubik assistance.

And then the shockwave hit and he was sent spinning and tumbling and just before he passed out he made a promise to himself. If he survived, if he somehow managed to survive, he would make sure to find that little shit and kill him.

 

End of DEEPER DARKER Book 1: Origin

 

100: End of the Line

Fourth Quadrant.

Planet Fountain.

Gorbol Training Academy.

Simulation Room.

 

Figaro checked the sensor readings which were back up and running. The news wasn’t good.

The compound was overrun with Vendx operatives and there was no sign of them standing down despite the orders from the Central Authority. No doubt they would have an excuse for why they charged in and killed everyone. Figaro wasn’t an expert on the Central Authority but he knew enough to not expect swift action. When they moved, they moved with an unstoppable force that no one could withstand, it was just getting them to that point that took forever.

“Please hurry,” Figaro said to Princep Galeli, who was standing beside him. “They’re closing on our position.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Princep. “These are delicate adjustments I have to make. I don’t do this sort of thing on a regular basis.” He sounded a little tetchy, which wasn’t surprising.

Figaro appreciated the awkward position he’d put Galeli in. He knew the guild had the capability, and used it quite often — the trainees who had washed out had undergone the procedure — but mind wipes were tightly regulated and required consent from the subject undergoing neural reassignment.

Each person’s neural map was as unique to them as a fingerprint or retinal scan, and far more precious. Trainees would have agreed to it in the contract they signed when they joined the guild, but for a very specific, localised piece of grey matter.

What the princep was now attempting was far more crude, and far more illegal. Figaro had been surprised he’d agreed so easily.

Then again, someone who had spent time living the life of an Antecessor site raider knew there was no point prolonging an inevitable decision. You only minimised the already small benefit from an unfavourable situation.

Figaro himself had been rigorously trained to remove unnecessary considerations when making a difficult decision. A posthumous reward was the least valuable kind.

“I’m going to hit them all at the same time,” said Galeli. “Please make sure the power remains stable. It’s bad enough, what we’re doing, I’d rather not leave them with no brain function at all.”

Figaro nodded. There wasn’t much he could do if the Vendx assault team cut the power to the building, but he could at least keep fluctuations to a minimum. He glanced over at the two mercenaries who had kept to themselves on the other side of the room. So far, they hadn’t made any suggestions or tried to interfere with what had happened, but Figaro knew too well how the Seneca Corps worked to think they had decided to play the neutral bystanders.

They were waiting for the right moment to get involved, their choice of target to be decided.

“You two,” said Figaro. “If we get interrupted before we finish, I’ll need those doors defended.”

It was not something many people would do, order around members of the Corps, even ex-members. But the two of them had treated him differently since finding out who his mother was, and you used whatever tools you had at your disposal, even if it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Weyla nodded just once and moved over to the doors, followed by her sister. They were willing to comply for now, but if they saw an opportunity to take control of the situation, Figaro had no doubt they would take it. The Seneca philosophy was to consider all others to be inferior in assessment and guidance. If there wasn’t an outranking Seneca officer present, you were it.

“Captain,” said Galeli over his shoulder, “I’m going to need you to shut that down.”

Captain Hickory was with Jace, hovering over the communication device plugged into the Academy’s power network.

“One moment, we still don’t know what’s happening with the ship. It could—”

“Now, Hick,” said Galeli, his tone brooking no argument.

Frustrated, but astute enough to know where his immediate responsibility lay, Hickory tapped Jace on the shoulder. Jace pulled the plug and the lights on his device went out. The cube sitting on top continued to glow.

“Someone’s coming,” shouted Weyla.

“Lots of them,” added Leyla. They both had their firearms out.

“Don’t fire until they do,” said Figaro. “Alternative strategy three,” he added before either of them could refuse to follow his order. He didn’t even have to look at them to know the sequence of dismissiveness to surprise to outrage that had just crossed their faces.

“How did you—”

Weyla interrupted her sister. “You know how.”

“But he shouldn’t—”

“She never followed the rules.”

They were talking about his mother, and they were right. But that wasn’t how he knew how to give orders in the Seneca Corps own command language.

Their standard approach to any engagement was to attack first, with lethal force, and to leave no one alive. It was an effective if brutal method. But Figaro didn’t think Vendx would come in shooting. That would only attract attention to this facility from the drones the Central Authority would have deployed to observe and collect information. It might also damage the machine the company was so keen to get hold of.

The simulation machine was Figaro’s ultimate bargaining chip. Nothing was more valuable to Vendx than the machine, which meant he could keep it hostage. It also meant that once they had it, they would flatten the entire city. Not in any way that could be connected to them, of course.

They had landed a mobile base and then not attacked the Academy. There was a reason for that. They had used that time to engineer whatever catastrophic failure they considered necessary, using the infrastructure they themselves had installed. All they needed was to claim their objective and leave before everything died.

The Seneca Corps was used to being the meanest girl at the party, but they didn’t get to their current position by underestimating their enemy. His mother had taught him the ideology but he had gathered the rest himself, from his mother’s private vault. Like his father, she too had impressed on him the need to put emotional considerations to one side when dealing with matters of a certain magnitude, even when it came to family. It was a lesson he had learned from a very young age.

Alt Strat 3 was how you dealt with an opponent who intended to hit the doomsday button no matter what the outcome. There was no point going in preemptively, that would only accelerate the countdown.

“Everyone stand clear of the simulants,” said Galeli. He glanced over his shoulder once to make sure his instructions had been followed, and then threw the switch.

The lights went out, followed by sounds of gasping and groaning in the dark. Then the lights came flickering back on and the eleven Vendx team members were still shaking in their chairs like they were being electrocuted.

“No one touch them,” called out the princep, which seemed redundant since no one was going anywhere near them.

“They’re here,” said Weyla, backing away from the entrance to the simulation room.

“This is Chief Supervisor Mayden of the Vendx Corporation,” stated an amplified voice from out in the courtyard. “Put down your weapons or you will be considered in violation of the terms of your warranty. We are here to make repairs.”

It was standard non-threatening speech, the kind that made it possible to disavow responsibility while breaking any law that was deemed inconvenient.

“Central Authority has jurisdiction here,” Weyla called back through the door. “We will wait for them. Seneca protocols will be in effect until then.”

Figaro didn’t have to worry about how the two women would handle the situation. They were far more familiar with the Seneca playbook than he was. If they were required to stall, they would find a way.

A heavy silence followed.

Figaro had opened a panel and was stripping wires out of of the simulation machine, exposing the secondary panel to the core systems.

“What are you doing?” Galeli whispered in alarm. “Can’t you just remove the map?”

“No,” said Figaro. “Don’t worry, my father will buy you a new one.”

“I don’t think Vendx will want to keep us as customers,” said Galeli.

“My father will build you a new one,” said Figaro. He started the shut-down procedure.

“You are Seneca?” Mayden’s voice didn’t sound quite so full of bluster all of a sudden. “What’s your business here?”

“The assignment is classified,” said Weyla. “Your request for clarification will be passed on to Seneca High Command, Chief Supervisor Mayden.” She said his name with extra clarity so he knew she had it remembered.

“No, no need for that.” His voice was growing less confident with every exchange. “We only need the simulation machine, for upgrade work.”

“We don’t have you down to visit today,” said Leyla, reloading her gun unnecessarily. The mechanism made a loud chuh-chunk sound.

“Yes, it was an emergency call out. Engineer Ulanov, you can ask him.”

“No one here by that name,” Galeli shouted back.

Figaro shut off the simulation machine’s core. It would take another three minutes for it become inactive.

The console turned red and an alarm went off. Figaro had forgotten to disconnect it. Dumb.

“They’re opening fire!” said Leyla, diving out of the way as a barrage of gunfire went off and the door was blown to pieces.

Figaro took off his bracelet and ripped off the top of the secondary panel. He stuck his hand into the core.

The surge of power through him brought a scream from deep inside his soul. Darkness enveloped him. Nothing else existed.

When Figaro’s eyes opened, the room was quiet. His first thought was of his wrist. The bracelet was back on, somehow. Good training paid off even when you weren’t conscious.

People were standing around, Vendx and guild members, no sense of animosity between them.

A drone, unlike any he had seen in the guild or owned by Vendx, was floating next to Figaro, an orange insignia identifying it as Central Authority. The large cannons on either side of its body also marked it out. There were several more in the room.

“An unusual energy was recorded in this room,” said a voice through the drone.

Figaro looked around. The Vendx team were taking their people out of the simulation machine contact-seats. The guild members were standing in a close group, tight-lipped and looking at him.

The drone seemed to have identified him as the source of the energy.

“The machine malfunctioned,” said Figaro. He pointed at the console, which was smoking.

“And the Vendx team came to repair it,” said the voice, “before it malfunctioned.”

“Their service is exemplary,” said Figaro.

“You will come with me.” The tone was firm.

“I can’t,” said Figaro quietly. “I have to go home.” He felt so tired.

“You will come with me,” repeated the voice. It was cold and feminine. It reminded him of his mother.

“No,” said Weyla. “We will escort him home.”

“This is not a Seneca matter.”

“We are not Seneca,” said Leyla. “Not anymore.”

“What?” said a sharp, irritated voice belonging to a dark-haired man in a very fancy battlesuit. He began to stomp forward but stopped when canons targeted him from every angle, multiple red dots appearing on his chest.

“He is the son of Nigella Matton,” said Weyla.

“Nigella Matton-Ollo,” said Figaro. He hated his parents’ name being used to protect him, but if it was, they might as well get it right.

“Oh,” said the drone after a long pause. “I see.”

“We will see him home,” said Weyla. “You can approach Armageddon for an explanation, if you choose, through the appropriate channels.”

“Very well, but first I will deputise you as temporary agents of the Central Authority. It will avoid any further… mishaps. Do you accept the commission?”

Both women nodded and a green light shone on them from the drone.

“We should go immediately,” said Weyla, looking around the room at the heavily-armed Vendx team and the small group in the corner.

“One moment,” said Figaro. He went over to Princep Galeli. “I’m sorry about all this. I’ll speak to my father, I’ll make it right.”

“Don’t worry about that, Figaro,” said Galeli softly. “You take care of yourself.” He looked worried, far more than when they were under attack. “When you destroyed the machine, your eyes…”

“I know. It’s fine.” Figaro turned to Hickory. “I don’t know what’s going to happen with your ship.”

Hickory waved his hand. He had the same concerned look as Galeli. “Not your problem, lad. I’m sure it will turn out fine.”

“But what about Gipper?” said Bev. “He’s still on—”

“He can take care of himself,” said Hickory. “You go now.”

Figaro nodded. As he turned, Jace pushed a small cube into his hands. “He said to give you this. Said it would take you where you needed to go.”

The cube wasn’t glowing anymore but it felt alive in Figaro’s hands. He put it in his pocket and followed the women out. Time to go home.

99: And the Winner Is

Fourth Quadrant.

Planet Fountain (orbit).

VGV Motherboard.

Observation Deck.

 

Ubik had expected to be yanked out of the sim-U much sooner. His threat to the two technicians had been feeble at best. And that was putting it kindly.

No one had managed to miniaturise cold lasers to a size that would fit on a drone. They might have been two simulation machine technicians but they were still scientists, technically speaking. They should have been up on the latest developments, or lack of.

Making the vase explode had been simple enough, a silly trick using one of his discs. It hadn’t even been very impressive, more shatter than bang. They’d swallowed the lie eagerly.

He felt sorry for the Vendx shareholders. How were they ever going to make good on their investment with this sort of personnel running things?

Drones with imaginary weapons trained to fire on anyone who tried to stop him — ridiculous.

When the helmet was removed from his head, Ubik yawned. He wasn’t surprised to see Chukka standing in front of him not looking very happy. Her being there was what he wasn’t surprised about. Her not being happy was a given.

“I surrender,” said Ubik.

“No one offered,” she said. “I’ll decide what your official response to being captured will be, after we’ve had a little chat. I have some questions for you.”

Her voice was controlled and devoid of emotion. Clearly she had decided to stop letting others dictate her state of mind. Very dispassionate, very professional, as you would expect from someone in public relations. You had to look the part. How you felt was immaterial.

“I don’t think you can decide if I surrender or not,” said Ubik, wondering if he could make her pop off.

Chukka smiled. “Nobody knows you’re here, you made sure of that. Nobody’s going to miss you if you disappear. Think about that, why don’t you?”

There were armed men all around them, but none of them were nearly as threatening as Chukka, the look in her eyes was devastating. Ubik was pretty sure she would do everything in her power to make sure no one came between her and her plans for him.

“The Central Authority,” said Ubik, “they know—”

“They know what we want them to know,” said Chukka. “They think they have control over our systems.”

“They don’t?” said Ubik.

“No. They have the control we gave them, and we can take it back whenever we want. Everything you did, every system you corrupted, it’s been purged. Our safeguards are back in place and our shadow system is running. What, did you think we wouldn’t have precautions in place to prevent the CA taking control? How many years do you think we’ve had to prepare?”

Chukka gave a signal and Ubik was yanked out of the chair, the needle in his neck slipping out painlessly, which was nice of them.

It was certainly true that Vendx had had plenty of time to come up with an appropriate response, one that the CA wouldn’t be aware of. It was all about how things looked.

“I managed to give you a pretty good run around, didn’t I?”

“Only because of how janky your homebrew code was,” Chukka said dismissively. “No one would expect something that amateurish, that’s the only reason you got away with it for so long.”

“Parts of it are actually very elegant,” said Ubik, “just a little old-fashioned. You probably didn’t even find all of it.”

“We found all of it. Manacle his hands behind his back.” The metal bracelets on his wrists were removed and reapplied once he put his hands behind him. “We found every single part of it and deleted every piece, byte by byte.”

“I bet you used that antiviral programme you guys bundle with everything you sell. Everyone uninstalls it, you know? Regulation 3.2V is a bit of a joke, to be honest.”

“We’ve upgraded to Regulation 3.3V, actually. And it kicked your Grandma’s ass, thank you very much.” She turned to the two technicians who were standing sheepishly to one side.” You two stay here until I send for you. Do not speak to anyone about anything until I’ve debriefed you.”

They both looked upset. The younger one, the chief technician, shot Ubik a dark look. Ubik smiled and shrugged in response. It wasn’t his fault the head of such a grand facility wasn’t up to date on his reading. With technology developing so quickly, you had to keep up.

“I want this place cleaned,” said Chukka to the two technicians. “Full wipe. No backup.”

The nervousness of the chief technician overflowed into babbling. “But we have to keep a—”

“No backup,” repeated Chukka. “We’ll have a team take care of the rest.”

“What about the simulation machine down there?” said Ubik, nodding up. In the corner of the dome, Planet Foxtrot-435 peeked into the room. “Don’t you have to still reclaim it? I could help you. I know how you can—”

“Be quiet,” snapped Chukka “I’m well aware of what you can do. We won’t require your assistance.”

“I understand,” said Ubik, nodding his head. “That’s what the boss is taking care of down there. Making sure it’s done right. Should be fun seeing how he deals with it.”

Chukka glared at him, he could see the questions in her mind forming. What surprise mechanic had Ubik left down there for Chief Supervisor Mayden to discover? But another part of her was resisting. She was starting to learn — you don’t ask questions that tell people what your weaknesses are.

“Let’s go,” said Chukka. “I want this done by the book. No screw-ups, make sure he’s restrained at all times, keep him in your line of sight. I want him treated as a category one prisoner.”

There were some surprised grunts from the security team. They apparently didn’t see Ubik as requiring such high regard.

“Thanks very much,” said Ubik. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

“I don’t like you,” said Chukka. “I don’t like men who are so full of themselves. It makes my skin crawl.”

“Have you tried using lotion?” asked Ubik.

“No,” said Chukka. “What I’m going to do is make your skin crawl, right off your body. I think that will help.”

“Okay,” said Ubik. “Getting some mixed signals here. Maybe we should pick this up at a later date. I do have a prior engagement, you know, with the Central Authority lady. I have a feeling she’s going to want to have a word with me about a slight misunderstanding about a declaration of war.”

“I’m sure she would, if she knew where you were,” said Chukka. “But she doesn’t, and she won’t. Trust me. This area has been sealed off. It doesn’t exist as far as her sensors know.” Chukka was smiling. Her confidence in the Vendx software was impressive, especially considering how prone to screwing up it was.

The men around Ubik shifted positions so they formed a tight escort around him. Their suits worked in synch with each other, another feature of Vendx suit design to increase efficiency and generally look cool.

“The special super-duper secret hidden code that underpins the overt architecture,” said Ubik as they turned him around to face the exit, “it’s very well put together. Not at all like your usual stuff, you know, the stuff you offer to the regular punters. Someone at your main office must be pretty good, huh?”

“Wait,” said Chukka. She inspected him closely, looking deep into Ubik’s eyes.

“You’re going to make me blush if you look at me like that,” said Ubik.

“Nice try,” said Chukka. “You don’t know anything.”

Ubik looked up at the glass dome. “That’s true,” he said. “Can’t argue with that. In an infinite universe, finite knowledge is practically nothing. About here, Grandma.”

A bright white beam of light shone down from above.

“Cold laser,” screamed the chief technician.

The security guards panicked and shot away from Ubik, spreading out like petals opening on a flower.

“Get back, you fools,” shouted Chukka. “It’s just a light from the drone.”

“She’s right,” said Ubik, bathed in shocking brightness. “Light from the drone, boosted a bit, that’s all. A drone I have no way of controlling because your stealth operating system can’t be penetrated, or detected, or absorbed. Right?”

Chukka looked up, squinting, then back down at Ubik. “It’s just one drone.”

“Yep,” said Ubik. “One very attention-drawing drone, above a glass dome. Very fancy but cold lasers aren’t its only weakness.”

The light turned off and it took a moment for everyone’s eyes to adjust. Then a dozen more lights came on. These were not so bright, but bigger. A host of new drones were now over the dome, looking in. They had the orange markings of the Central Authority.

“This is the Central Authority,” said a distorted voice. It was coming in through the glass, vibrating down metal pipes attached to the dome. “This area is not showing on our sensors. This is a direct violation of Article 3 of the Tranquility Concord. This ship is now under quarantine. If any of you little shits so much as blink, I will destroy every cell in your body. I’ve been wanting to try out this cold laser they gave me, but no one’s ever been stupid enough to use this much glass constructing a spaceship.”

“I think she’s talking to you,” said Ubik.

Chukka’s nostrils flared, her lips thinned to the point of invisibility and her eyes glowed, or seemed to.

“You may think this is over, I can assure you it isn’t. We’ll hit you with every infringement and violation there is. The CA won’t fall for your excuses. We have hard evidence against you — trespass, destruction of property, identity theft, invasion of privacy…”

“Hey, those CA drones look pretty cool, don’t they,” said Ubik, staring up at the strange constructions floating on the other side of the glass. “I’ve always wanted to get a closer look at one of them.” He grinned at Chukka. “Don’t be upset. You won’t go home empty-handed. Remember that Opportunity code you got?”

Chukka looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“That cabin you registered under your name, it received an opportunity code for exemplary work. The draw was earlier. I think you won a major prize.”

Chukka shook her head, not following. “Why would you… I didn’t have a ticket.”

There was some murmuring from the men as they checked the draw on their ocular implants.

“He’s right. She won.”

“Wow, it’s the luxury cruiser.”

“She only had the one ticket. What a result.”

“Told you,” said Ubik. “Register a room down in the lower decks, have a ticket sent there instead of your actual cabin, win the big prize. Nice. Big earner like you getting a sweet bonus. One of these days the big prize will go to one of the lower-level stiffs, I mean, it’s all random, everyone’s got a chance of winning. Same for everyone — at the top, at the bottom. Just got to get lucky.”

There were uncomfortable looks aimed at Chukka. “You think this matters? You think this will make me look bad?”

“No. I think you’ll look great in your new cruiser. Wish I had one. You’ve probably got three or four.” Ubik sighed. “I aspire to have the kind of life you have. Must be great, huh?”

Ubik looked around at the men, who were all seeing Chukka as someone who kept them from getting what they wanted, keeping them from even having a chance. Not that it would make a difference. She would still give them orders and they would follow them. But… maybe one day, a time when a choice needed to be made, they would remember this moment. All you could really do was send out chances and then wait to see what the universe did with them.

“Get him out of here,” said Chukka. “Take him to shuttle bay three. Just get him off this ship.”