“Have we any idea at all what that is?” asked Abaron.
“Could be anything. It might use it to prepare its food, make drugs, or it might even serve no purpose at all. Imagine an alien watching a human paint a picture… ”
“I think it serves a function.”
“It’s a step or two beyond complete analysis,” said Box in an unusual interruption. “But there are nanomechanical structures in there and as a consequence we must limit scan.” Chapra said, her voice flat, “Then its function could be anything, and might even be everything.”
“What do you mean?” asked Abaron.
“Nanomechanical — it’s likely it can make whatever it wants from the molecular level up. I would guess the only constraint to be materials, environment, and the size of those tubes.”
“It might make something to break out of there,” said Abaron. Chapra looked at him. “It is not a prisoner. If it wants to leave at any time and shows that capability, then we should allow it to leave.”
Abaron shuddered.
“That bothers you?” Chapra enquired.
“It bothers me, but I can live with it… what’s it doing now?” They both turned to the projection. The creature caught one of the larger crustaceans, but rather than eat it, fed the crustacean into one of the tubes of the strange machine, then coiled around it.
“Feeding it?” wondered Abaron.
“I don’t think so,” said Chapra, and her fingers went reflexively to her console. After a moment she lifted her hands away. “Box, I’m not getting anything on scan.”
“Scan is inadvisable at this time. The radiations of scan may damage the nanomechanical structures or interfere with whatever process is taking place.”
“Ah, Schrödinger,” said Chapra tightly, but she allowed a little smile at the irony.
“You’re not letting us look,” said Abaron in disbelief.
“Precisely,” said Box.
To Abaron Chapra said, “He’s right, X-rays and ultrasound could wreck things on a molecular level, and the other spectrums of scan aren’t likely to do any good.”
“What about underspace?”
Box said, “An underspace scan still requires a real-space medium after gating.”
“Oh,” said Abaron, and looked embarrassed.
“That’s my lot for now,” said Chapra, and she stood and left the room. Abaron sat for an hour analysing all extraneous data, but when the creature made no further moves he decided it was time for him to sleep. After he had gone, Judd entered the room and stared at the projection. Communication between Golem and ship AI was silent but long. Eventually Judd leaned forward and turned off the display, then just stood there still as something dead. Once in her quarters Chapra sat on her bed and stared at nothing in particular for a while.
“Box,” she eventually said, still staring, “There’s huge potential here.”
“We have no suitable scale of measurement or comparison,” the AI told her.
“I was just thinking,” she went on. “The scientific community is not the only group that’ll be taking an interest.”
“This has been noted.”
“I am glad… you are only a science vessel.”
“I am.”
“What is being done?”
“As soon as nanomechanical structures were discovered in the device Earth Central was informed and has since taken appropriate action.”
Chapra lay back on her bed. “Every world that’s in the net but outside of Polity control will be watching, if not doing something. Separatist organisations are almost certainly looking for ways to capitalise on this. What exactly is being done?”
“The dreadnought Cable Hogue has been dispatched and will arrive in two solstan weeks.” Chapra swallowed dryly. That if anything brought home the seriousness of things; dreadnoughts were not put into action for anything less than interplanetary war.
“Will we come under military control?”
“No,” said Box.
Like a million scientists before her Chapra did not believe that.
Kellor watched Conard’s reaction with some amusement as the vendor thanked them for their custom and floated on to the next table. Separatists were uniform in their hatred of all machine intelligences. Kellor sipped his cool-ice and waited. He reckoned on the transportation of weapons or as an outside bet a military strike, which was fine by him so long as the target was not actually within the Polity.
“We require your services,” said Conard.
Kellor obliged this comment with a, slight tilt of his head.
“There is a science vessel that poses a threat to the Confederation. We need to take it out.”
“Polity?”
“Yes.”
“Expensive.”
“Ten million units of irradiated platinum.”
“Behind the Line?” Kellor asked, preparing to get up and walk away.
“What do you mean?”
“Is it in Polity space?”
“No.”
Kellor sipped some more of his drink and allowed a chunk of the psychedelic ice to melt on his tongue. That was a lot of irradiated platinum for destroying a science vessel outside of Polity space. There had to be a catch. There always was.
“Where is this vessel?”
“Its last reported position was at the edge of the Quarrison Drift. Entering the Drift. I have that position to within a light year. There must be no survivors; total obliteration.”
“For my own sake I have to agree. I don’t want the Polity taking an interest in my affairs. What complications might there be?”
“The ship could be planetside by the time we reach it.” Conard gave a bleak grin before sipping his glass of mineral water. Kellor distrusted people who made a point of staying sober. It probably meant they needed a clear head to keep track of their lies.
“I don’t have the equipment for a large-scale planetary action. All I have is delta wing landing craft adapted for orbital bombardment.”
“We will supply soldiers and landing craft for any ground action. You have the hold space.” Kellor nodded then tilted his head as the crodorman came staggering into the vending area. The man looked drunk and angry. Kellor shook his head in mock sadness and dropped a hand down to his belt. He felt nothing but contempt for bad losers.
“How soon can you be ready?” asked Conard.
“There are a few loose ends… ”
The crodorman approached their table, pulling something from his bulky garments.
“Trazum speck!”
Kellor knew enough crodorun to recognise the challenge and threat. He stood as the crodorman finally pulled free a cylinder of grey metal. The end of the cylinder shot away to a distance of a metre and hovered suspended, the vague shimmer of field-stiffened monofilament between it and the cylinder. Kellor drew a small flat gun and pointed it. The crodorman paused; that moment again. The gun made a sound like a plastic ruler slapped against a table. The crodorman’s arm fell off. The weapon fell with it and sheared in a half a recently vacated chair. On his feet now Kellor aimed again. The crodorman had time only to look down at the blood pumping from his stump. Again that sound. A hole the size of a strawberry appeared in ridged forehead and spattered customers behind the crodorman with pieces of skull and brain. He fell back over the vending machine which whined under his weight and thanked him for his custom. As Kellor holstered his gun he noted Conard clipping a similar weapon back into a wrist holster. He filed the information away for future reference.