Less than thirty seconds after Jacob had placed the scrambler, emergency evacuation alerts began forming in the air up and down the boulevard, rippling softly as he passed through them. AI systems for a hundred kilometres in either direction proceeded to spontaneously reboot, only to be issued with new algorithms provided by the scrambler.
The effect could only be temporary; according to Sillars, Coalition technology was astonishingly flexible when faced with the unexpected. He had nonetheless discovered that a very few parts of the world-wheel, such as this one, had not been improved or upgraded to any significant degree in centuries.
In truth, much of Darwin’s world-wheel had become a relative backwater, the majority of the action having long since moved into the frozen depths of the outer system and the dark masses scattered throughout the Oort cloud. The wheel had been reduced to the status of a dusty attic, into which unwanted possessions could be thrown against the day when they might – just might – be needed.
It was a vulnerability waiting to be exploited. And in order to maximize that vulnerability, it was necessary to cause the greatest damage possible.
After another minute, just as Jacob approached a door that marked the end of the boulevard, gyroscopic motors designed to coordinate and balance this segment of the world-wheel proceeded to power down for the first time ever.
Jacob felt a faint but distinct tremor running through the floor of the boulevard. His lattice informed him that within the hour, oscillations normally dampened by the gyroscopic systems would destabilize this part of the world-wheel, and ultimately tear it apart if drastic countermeasures were not taken by Darwin’s authorities.
The door slid shut at Jacob’s approach, barring his way. He stopped to contemplate his next step. Things had been going almost too well up until this point.
He sensed, rather than saw, defensive mechants emerging from slots in the walls of the boulevard behind him.
He turned to face them. To call them mechants, he decided, was to do them slim justice. They constantly reshaped themselves with an organic fluidity he had never witnessed before as they bulleted towards him.
Jacob felt subjective time slowing down as his lattice took full control of his body. He swept his hands outward, causing microscopic darts tipped with infinitesimal quantities of antimatter to erupt from his gloves, fanning outwards and tearing the mechants apart in a blaze of destruction that would have blinded him if he hadn’t immediately rolled into a ball and covered his eyes. His suit became as rigid as steel, protecting him as the force of the blasts picked him up and smashed him against the wall of the boulevard.
When he looked back up, the blasts had wrecked much of the boulevard and shattered the doorway that had previously been barred to him. There was little left of the mechants beyond some fragments of white-hot metal.
Jacob stood with care, testing his muscles and bones and finding he had suffered a few minor fractures. Under the circumstances, he could count himself lucky.
Flexing his hands, he continued on through the doorway, stepping around a corner – only to find himself face-to-face with something from his deepest nightmares. Its features flowed like mercury, jaws distending as it reached out for him with a thousand spiny fingers.
He recognized it as another defensive procedure, albeit immensely more sophisticated than any of those he had so far overcome: the monster wasn’t real, but was instead a virtual rendition of deadly software countermeasures designed to burn the lattice in his skull and render him mindless in moments.
The passageway in which Jacob had been standing disappeared, and he plummeted down an abyssal well that reminded him uncomfortably of the fate to which he had assigned Kulic. The monster was there, swimming through the air towards him.
He reached out both hands, brightly glowing katanas emerging from his fists, and slashed out at the monster’s throat. It died screaming, its corpse disintegrating into a jumble of subroutines and hopelessly scrambled cognitive algorithms.
As suddenly as it had vanished, Jacob found himself back in the passageway, hands clenching swords that were no longer there.
The emergency lights flickered, then momentarily brightened before fading altogether, leaving Jacob in pitch darkness. The artificial lenses in his eyes compensated immediately, rendering the corridor in pale and ghostly shades.
He stood straight and flexed his hands before advancing, his suit feeding him a message that it had fought off a counter-attack by the local security networks. There was no need to worry about any further countermeasures – at least, not for another few minutes.
A final door opened at his approach with a satisfying rumble. He stepped inside and found himself within a vault crammed full of Founder artefacts, either suspended within slow-time fields or flickering in and out of shadow-parallels; empty universes into which they could be permanently banished should they somehow be accidentally activated.
It took Jacob moments to locate the quantum disruptor he had been sent to retrieve: a dark, fan-shaped thing no more than a few inches in width, and somehow difficult to look at directly. The disruptor was held within its own slow-time field that, in turn, was contained within a kind of barred metal container, scarcely larger than one of Jacob’s fists.
He picked the container up and placed it in a zipped pocket of his combat suit, before jogging back down the silent and devastated boulevard, every piece of sub-molecular circuitry for kilometres around by now scrambled beyond repair.
SEVENTEEN
Bottomless grief knotted every muscle in Vasili’s body. Every night for the past several days had been long and sleepless, every thought wracked with remorse.
It was more than Luc could bear. He let go of the book Maxwell had left him with and fell back in his seat, the breath shuddering in his throat.
The library around him was silent and still. Maxwell hadn’t returned yet, and Luc was starting to get the feeling he might not be back for a while.
He took a breath, and again pushed his fingers against the pages.
Bright sunlight illuminated the spines of the books all around Vasili where he stood in his library. Winchell Antonov stood with his back to the patio doors, his small, inquisitive eyes set above a thick black beard. Only the faint rainbow shimmer of light around his outline revealed the renegade to be a data-ghost. Some flaw in the projection made him appear to be hovering just a fraction above the floor.
‘I’ve already proved to you that Ariadna was deliberately murdered,’ said Antonov. ‘That is what you wanted, isn’t it? Proof.’
For so very long, Vasili had been convinced of a cover-up over Ariadna’s death. The inquest had been filled with flawed and circumstantial evidence, while the final verdict implied she had been careless, ignoring and failing to take action on priority alerts issued by the very flier she had died in.
But the more he had learned, the more convinced he had become that the verdict was a crock of shit. There were too many unanswered questions over how the flier’s navigational systems could possibly have failed without it alerting anyone else to the danger, and that led in turn to the suspicion that its programming had been deliberately altered – in other words, sabotaged. And on top of that, an overseer responsible for the maintenance of many of Thorne’s fliers had died under equally mysterious circumstances before he could provide vital expert witness testimony. Vasili’s own private researches had uncovered yet further, damning evidence.