Having stowed Essien Nkanika away in the Cielo corps and covered his tracks as best he could, Watchmaster Orso Vemmet did his best to forget the Hadiz Tambuwal affair and go back to blissful obscurity. His workload had doubled as a result of the Ansurrection crisis, as it was now being called. Along with the rest of his department he was now devoting most of his time to analysing Step traffic on known construct-controlled worlds in order to extend the ever-growing map of Ansurrection space. The worlds were not given names, only numbers, in arbitrary order of their being discovered and mapped. So the first world, where that ill-fated survey team had met its demise, was A1. Currently the count was up to A110633. It was beginning to look as though there were more machine worlds than there were worlds under the aegis of the Pandominion, which was not a thought to dwell on at night.
Work was continuing on the Robust Rebuke project, the search for an ultimate weapon that would end the war, but that was a very long way above Vemmet’s pay grade. His work, as always, was data-sifting. One day, when he was doing exactly that, his mind a very long way from the figures in front of him, his internal array was commandeered out of nowhere by a priority message. It opened in his sensorium without waiting to be asked and it refused to go away until he replied. He was once again being summoned to meet with Coordinator Baxemides. It was some consolation that this time he wasn’t being escorted at gunpoint, but his heart clenched just the same when he got to the where of it (a shipyard on the planet Tsakom) and the when (immediately).
Like all the great manufacturing worlds of the Pandominion, and especially those that produced munitions for the Cielo, Tsakom had an evil reputation. When Vemmet Stepped through less than an hour later he could tell at once that the reputation was deserved. The sky of Tsakom was not blue but orange-brown like a rusted shutter, thick with industrial pollutants that would have been illegal on any world with a civilian population. It tasted, Vemmet thought, like the upwelling of blood you got in your mouth when you bit your lip, and it smelled like the toilets of hell.
He knew breathing that air for any length of time would take a serious toll on his life expectancy. He also knew that he should be extremely careful what he drank while he was here: the rivers ran with poison, and untreated water was essentially a carcinoma in a cup. But there was no incentive for the Omnipresent Council to detoxify the environment. The workers here were mostly constructs, who didn’t need to breathe at all. The rest were convicts working out their sentences, typically for offences against the person. An entire planet of murderers, army deserters and sexual predators. Who cared if more than half of them died before they worked out their tariffs?
There was a ceremony going on for the launch of a new fleet – an event that (thanks to the eye-watering losses that were being incurred every day in the Ansurrection war) had become comparatively common. Baxemides had just delivered a speech to the hastily assembled scum in a vast outdoor arena. The speech was about honour, vision and fortitude, and the coordinator’s voice rang with conviction, but when she stepped down from the rostrum to the enforced cheers of the shipyard workers, field engineers and weaponsmiths, Vemmet found her to be in an even sourer mood than the last time they met.
“Ah yes,” she said, eyeing him coldly. “Watchmaster Vemmet. Walk with me. There’s something I very much want to show you.” Her grim tone confirmed Vemmet’s suspicions. This was going to be an evisceration. In spite of his best efforts, he had been found out and was about to be called to account. He marshalled his best lies and circumlocutions and braced himself for the shit-storm.
Baxemides led him away from the arena into a hinterland between towering hangars and warehouse spaces. The coordinator’s security detail fell into place around them, a phalanx of soldiers and security constructs. The latter towered over the two unaugmented selves like giants from a storybook. Their weapons, kept hot and ready in case of any unruly behaviour from the disaffected labour force, made the air ripple as if this was a hot summer day instead of chill spring in a high northern latitude.
“I had reason just recently to reread your report from two years ago on the drone incursions,” Baxemides told Vemmet.
“I hope its conclusions still hold up, Coordinator.”
She gave him another glance, no more favourable than the first. “Really?” she queried. “Why do you think I’ve dragged you all the way over here, then? To reminisce about old times? To congratulate you on the accuracy of your spelling?”
She picked up her pace, so Vemmet was forced to break into a trot in order to keep up. “I… I had no expectations…” he stammered. “That is… the case… I believed it to be closed. Is that not so?”
Baxemides spoke over her shoulder without turning to look at him. “Well, Vemmet, let’s consider the facts as we have them, shall we? Your conclusion, per your report, was that the death of this scientist, this Hadiz Tambuwal, drew a line under the business of the incursions. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Coordinator.”
“In spite of the fact that – again, if my recollection is not mistaken – her death was impossible to verify.”
“Officer Sostenti shot Tambuwal in the chest with the plasma stylus built into the gauntlet of her armour. The weapon was on its highest setting. In addition to the actual puncture wound, Tambuwal would have suffered third degree burns across much of her torso.”
“I see. Thank you for those colourful details. They bring the scene to life for me. And you maintain that Tambuwal was acting alone? Even though you apprehended her in the company of another self who appeared to be a collaborator.”
“Not a collaborator, no.” Vemmet tried to keep his tone dry and disinterested. The unwonted exertion made this harder. He was already starting to pant for breath, his lungs burning either from the poisonous air or from the hypochondria it induced. “The self you’re referring to, Essien Nkanika, was subjected to an intensive CoIL interrogation. I conducted it myself, and I found that his knowledge of Tambuwal’s operation was virtually non-existent.”
“And you saw no evidence on world U5838784453 to suggest the existence of any other collaborators?”
“Quite the contrary, Coordinator. All the notes we found were in Tambuwal’s own hand. There was a single data storage and processing point, an apartment optimised for single occupancy… Everything pointed to Tambuwal’s acting alone.”
“I see,” Baxemides said. “I wonder, then, how you’d go about explaining this.”
They had come to a dead end, a sort of dumping ground behind a factory where steam hammers and welding rigs were booming and shrieking in conflicting rhythms. In the far corner stood a prefabricated shed, grey and windowless, covered in what looked like decades of weathered-in filth. It was an insta-build, a strange thing to find in a place like this. Insta-builds were for battlefield use. They could be dropped out of a transport skimmer from hundreds of feet up to make an ad hoc command post or field hospital. Packed flat, made of virtually indestructible steel-weave plastic, they assembled themselves in the course of the fall and took no damage at all when they landed. This one, though, was old enough that the steel-weave had begun to delaminate. Holes had opened in its walls where the latticed sheets that were meant to hold it rigid against g-forces and impacts were now pulling themselves slowly but inexorably out of true. White mould clustered in these gaps like foam spilling from rabid mouths.
In front of the insta-build, where Baxemides was pointing, an object lay on the ground. Vemmet was still too far away to identify it by its shape, but he knew what it was at once from the bright yellow stripes along its side. It was a drone, of the exact same design that Tambuwal had used for her earlier forays.
“Is this…” he managed after a long silence. “Is it recent?”
“Is it recent?” Baxemides repeated, with sardonic emphasis. “If you mean, ‘Was it up to a few days ago tacking between the Unvisited and Pandominion space?’ then the answer is yes. This isn’t some memento of our past adventures that I’ve held on to for sentimental reasons. But I’d quibble with your choice of words because ‘recent’ specifically references the past. ‘Ongoing’ might be a better word. There’s a pattern of unlogged Step transits matching the mass and make-up of this ugly little contraption. They began some months ago and they continue to be detected, though at variable rates. On an average day we might get one or two, but on some days the number goes up into the low hundreds.”
She turned to Vemmet, who was too stricken to speak. “You understand what this means?”
“Y—yes,” Vemmet stammered. “Yes, of course.”
“Summarise for me, then.”
To Vemmet it meant complete and all-encompassing catastrophe, but that probably wasn’t the answer the coordinator was looking for. He swallowed. “There is,” he ventured, “there must be, after all, a confederate. Tambuwal’s assistant, perhaps. Or… or an automated system that she set up before she…” He stopped himself before he finished the thought, but he was queasily aware that the trap had already been sprung. “That’s a very interesting hypothesis,” Baxemides said. “I wonder, though, whether it’s entirely consistent with your report. You said you dismantled Tambuwal’s laboratory.”
“Thoroughly.”
“And you set up a scanning grid. Determined that there were no other active Step plates in the vicinity.”
“Of course!”
“Which leaves us with a conundrum. Where could this assistant or automated system be based? And why has the scale of the incursions, after a brief pause no doubt occasioned by Tambuwal’s death, now started up again using exactly the same equipment and exactly the same operating principles? It’s almost as though, rather than bringing down a brilliant lone wolf, you’ve arbitrarily executed a minor functionary in a larger organisation – who might, if still alive, have led us to her superiors or at least elucidated their intentions.”
“It’s possible, yes,” Vemmet acknowledged, quickly retreating to a new position. “Yes, entirely possible that I may have missed something, despite my thoroughness. If you’ll allow me to co-opt troopers Sostenti and Lessix again, or… or perhaps a full Cielo tactical squad, I’ll send them back to U5838784453 with strict orders to search the entire—”
Baxemides cut the air with her hand, silencing him. “You’re very kind, Watchmaster,” she said, in a tone of paint-stripping venom. “But to the seventh band of brass with your strict orders. The investigation will continue under other hands. Our Pandominion – possibly you noticed this? – is at war, and the Omnipresent Council has issued an edict calling for a scorched-earth response to any breach of our borders. And here I am, presiding over a breach that has been going on for years, unchecked. Why? Because your epic incompetence turned a routine surveillance into a dance with disaster. Everything that it was possible to fuck up, you fucked as far up as it could possibly go. Then you invented some new things and fucked those up too.”
Vemmet flinched from the lash of Baxemides’ rage and contempt. But then her tone went suddenly and startlingly from rage to sweetness. She smiled – a disconcerting rictus. “But you still have a part to play, Watchmaster,” she assured him. “A vital and important role, at this time of crisis. Tell me, what do you think of Tsakom?”
“I’m… I’m sorry?” Vemmet was sure he must have misheard.
“This place.” Baxemides indicated their surroundings with a roll of her eyes, that eerie smile still occupying the rest of her face. “Do you like it? Does the air suit you? The picturesque scenery?”
Vemmet hesitated. Was this another trap? “Tsakom is a testament,” he said carefully, “to the indomitable spirit of the Pandominion. A marvel, really.”
“I’m glad you think so. Because this is your new posting.” Baxemides pointed to the insta-build. “And that is your new office. It’s also your new living quarters. I’m afraid I can’t, given your track record, leave you in charge of this mission. But by the same token I feel you’ve thoroughly earned an ongoing place in it. So I’m putting you in charge of this drone. It has already been examined down to the molecular level by my engineers, but it’s possible that we might need to examine it again at some future time. You’re to stand guard over it and make sure it remains in good order.
“You should move it indoors with all speed, because there are a great many impurities in the air here that are capable of corroding exposed metal. As we bring down more of these devices, which seems almost inevitable, I’ll arrange for them to be sent here to add to your collection. I’m afraid the only available storage is in your living space, but perhaps you can make a feature out of them. You should also count them every six – no, let’s say every four – hours, and send a full tally to my office after each count. Perhaps you should polish them too, and lubricate them to protect them against the onset of rust. You’ll need oil and rags, of course. And work overalls. You can request any such items from the site supervisor in the factory behind us, to whom you will be responsible.”
Vemmet was close to fainting. Every sentence Baxemides had just spoken added a new layer to his distress. He had known her reputation for vindictiveness but even so this seemed excessively cruel and arbitrary. “The site supervisor would typically be at administrative level five or six,” he managed at last. “My own level is fifteen, which means I would technically outrank—”
“Did I forget to mention your demotion? I apologise. Your new level is three.”
Vemmet choked back a sob.
“Come, Watchmaster,” Baxemides coaxed him, a grimace of pure undiluted malice turning up one corner of her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, I misspoke. I meant to say junior administrator. No one can be exalted unless he’s first been humbled. This may very well be the start of a spiritual journey that will astonish all of us. You’ll eat in the shipyard canteen, rub shoulders with thugs and deviants. Messiahs have been made from less.”
Panic drove Vemmet to desperate expediencies. “Coordinator,” he cried, throwing out his hands in one last supplication, “you’re imputing the failure of the original assignment entirely to me! Remember the two Cielo officers who were working with me. Officers who were not of my own choosing but yours. It was one of the two, Moon Sostenti, who shot Hadiz Tambuwal. And between them they were responsible for conducting the physical search of Tambuwal’s lab space that failed to turn up any sign of her collaborators. It’s surely not reasonable to heap the blame for their shortcomings on my shoulders!”
Baxemides shook her head in wonder and contempt. “It’s hard to see what holds your shoulders up, Vemmet,” she said coldly, “given that you’ve got no spine. You’d throw anyone on the pyre to save your own skin. Again, let me assuage your concern. When a subordinate lets me down, I make it a point of principle to ensure that the rest of their career is as miserable and unfulfilling as possible. Trooper Lessix has pre-empted me by dying before I could get to him – an atypically astute move – but I haven’t forgotten Trooper Sostenti. I’ve marked her file with a letter A stamped in red but outlined in black. That signals her availability for assignments outside the ordinary, with high risk. I could have her seconded to you here, though, if you’d prefer. I love the thought of the two of you sharing recriminations under this sky, year on year. Let me know. Or let one of my underlings know. You can have Sostenti whenever you’ve a yen for some company. I’m sure she’ll find her own way to thank you.”
Baxemides indicated the about-face to her security detail. They and she moved as one entity to turn their backs on Vemmet. “Don’t be tardy in sending those tallies,” she called over her shoulder. “Obviously the count at the moment is one, but I’ll expect you to conduct it regularly and scrupulously and send in your reports on time. Indiscipline on Tsakom is usually rewarded with a flogging. I’ll have the supervisor keep a close eye on you in case that’s needed.”
Vemmet watched the party until they were out of sight. “I did nothing wrong!” he shouted. Given the clamour from the nearby machine shops there was no way his words could be heard, but he felt they needed to be said. He was bearing witness to his own perdition, monstrously unjust and yet unalterable. “I only did what I was ordered, to the best of my ability! I’m being punished for no reason!”
As if in answer, it began to rain. The drops were brown and made spreading stains on Vemmet’s robes wherever they landed. He made no effort to avoid them. In fact he welcomed them. His self-pity rose inside him like a tide and overflowed in tears that the rain washed away.
Let the whole universe lend its weight to his destruction. It only made him that much more sinned against and that much more betrayed.