Scab removed two slits from the bone in the front of his skull and lit a cigarette, dragging deeply. The Basilisk extruded the cold storage drawer with the two biotech organisms in it. Vic had started thinking of them as alien eyes and was more and more sure they were S-tech. He watched, unease trickling through him at some base, instinctual level. Scab lifted the bioware towards his head. Scab’s P-sat was hovering just over the hole in the skull, projecting a sterile field, though Scab’s own bioware and nano-screen were probably more than enough to ward off infection. Scab took another drag on his cigarette and placed the bioware into his skull.
Vic had to admit that things never got boring working with Scab. The universe might be infinite, though the sparsely starred sky of Known Space had always felt claustrophobic to Vic, but after seeing and doing the things he had seen and done with Scab, he was impressed that he could still feel horror and fascination as he watched the things crawl into his partner’s skull. Trickles of sweat made rivulets through Scab’s white make-up. Vic realised that his human partner was shaking. The bioware flattened itself into the two slits Scab had made in his skull. Tendrils burrowed into the grey meat. Vic was even sure he had seen sparks of bioelectric energy. He must be in agony, Vic thought. Good, stupid cunt.
A chair extruded from the white-carpeted floor of the Basilisk’s C and C/lounge and Scab sat down just a little too hard to make it look casual. The P-sat moved to continue projecting the sterile field. Scab reached into his suit and removed his works. Another pointlessly retro vice. Vic didn’t understand why he didn’t just download the drugs he wanted from internal storage. When he had asked Scab about this once, Scab had told him that as a child he had been the leader of a street sect on Cyst, his home planet. When they had captured him and sent him to the Legion, they had done neural surgery on him to remove some of his more dangerous traits. They had cut out the heretically religious aspect of young Scab, but ritual had remained important to him.
Not long after, Scab drifted away on a nod. Vic thought long and hard about extending a blade from one of his power-assisted limbs. Just pressing it into the grey meat. Scab’s P-sat would try and protect him of course, but good as it was, it was no match for Vic. Just a simple movement and all the madness and fear would be over.
He didn’t do it, of course. He didn’t like the way the two eye-like organs on Scab’s head above his human eyes seemed to stare at him. He felt like the coward he knew he was. He felt like he understood the politics of fear.
Instead of killing Scab, Vic went with his partner into Monarchist space, looking for the Citadel.
‘You didn’t kill me then?’ Scab asked when he awoke. Vic said nothing. ‘Good.’
The Citadel was out of phase. That much Scab was sure of. Entrance had required a different physical state. Technology, alien or not, was just something that made things happen when he wanted them to. The fragment of the god that lived with him in his skull had shown him the way. A different-coloured space. Reality was broken down to the level of subatomic particles, nothing more than a series of interlinked fields. The ancient technology meshed with human consciousness; science became instinct, matter merely vibration, and then his modified brain translated that information into something he could understand – physics as a waking hallucination. It felt like the defences of the Citadel were shredding him piece by piece, as he flitted between existences in different spaces.
He arrived naked, screaming, flayed and bloody on the cold black marble floor. It was like being born except he had been diminished. The powerful biotech implants notwithstanding, it had required every single intrusion trick he had known, and what knowledge of the Elite that hadn’t been cut out of him surgically and virally. He felt like he had been peeled back layer by layer to something raw, feral and inhuman.
He lay on the cold marble, regrowing layers of skin. Tiny nanites crawled through the pores in his skin to replace his repeatedly murdered nano-screen. He kept them close this time. This high chamber of marble was like a tomb from some xeno-archaeological immersion. There were only a few distant rays of light from some unseen source, but the light illuminated the motes of dust. Scab knew that much of that dust was nanites far in advance of any in Known Space.
He knew that the empty monolithic chamber masked the vast amounts of tech, Seeder and otherwise, that existed to support the Elite. There would be reservoirs of matter that could feed assemblers and provide solid ammunition to feed their weapons instantaneously via complex matter entanglement. Generators and controls, probably merged into the very matter of the place, to provide the defensive fields and stealth systems. Connections to the network of primordial black holes that powered Elite tech, again through complex entanglement, and presumably provided the power to keep the Citadel out of phase and in a different physical state to Real Space, assuming it was in Real Space. There would also be storehouses of forbidden S-tech, Scab imagined and half remembered.
The Scorpion was agony. It had burrowed deep into the flesh of his left arm, wrapping itself around the bones. Only the top of its back was visible, the sting twitching in and out of his skin. He could have deadened the nerve endings easily but didn’t. All sensation was a reminder of existence. The pain would end when he was finished. It was how he would know.
‘Are you a shade? Someone I’ve killed?’ The voice was beautiful, deep, resonant and so very sad-sounding. Scab rolled into a defensive crouch. The crouch in the presence of the figure that stood over him made him feel like a feral animal. Scab was fine with that. Sometimes beauty was there just to be destroyed.
The figure had a shock of the blackest hair that Scab had ever seen. Tall and so slender, he somehow looked delicate. There being no fat on him, despite his delicacy his musculature was perfectly toned. He might as well have been carved out of marble. His eyes were dark pools with stars in them. He was naked. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, Scab thought, he would have drawn his armour back under his skin.
Scab angrily drew upon his internal drug resources to subdue the feeling of awe rising in him. He knew that this was a tailored psychological response designed by the AIs and scientists who over the generations of the existence of the Elite had helped mould them into the legendary gods they were. Every movement, every mannerism designed to tell you one thing: there is no hope.
A moment of concentration and then recognition.
‘I’ve seen you before. We slew monsters and you were there.’
Fallen Angel.
‘I want the cocoon.’
‘I don’t really know what that means.’
‘The white thing you took off the Seeder ship.’
‘It wasn’t a ship, but I apologise. I have misled you. When I said that I did not know what that means, I should have said I don’t care.’
It was the tone of honest sympathy that angered Scab the most.
‘Is it here?’
‘Why would it be here?’
‘Because you brought it here.’
‘If we did, it would be because we are slaves. It will be somewhere else now.’
Scab stared at him. Still trying to shake the feeling that he was a disgusting beast in the presence of something transcendent.