‘Do we?’ She was angry now, and it was not merely because the weapon had refused to parse her most recent command. ‘Or do we just want to have him around because we like him? Think very carefully before you answer, Khouri. Our friendship might depend on it.’ ‘Thorn means nothing to me. He’s just convenient.’ Volyova tried a new syntax combination, holding her breath until the weapon responded. Previous experience had taught her that she could only make so many mistakes when talking to a weapon. Too many and the weapon would either clam up or start acting defensively. But now she was through. In the side of the weapon, what had appeared to be seamless alloy slid open to reveal a deep machine-lined inspection well, glowing with insipid green light. ‘I’m going in. Watch my back.’ Volyova steered her suit along the weapon’s flanged length until she reached the hatch, braked and then inserted herself with a single cough of thrust. She arrested her movement with her feet, coming to a halt inside the well. It was large enough for her to rotate and translate without any part of her suit coming into contact with the machinery. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering about the dark ancestry of these thirty-three horrors. The weapons were of human manufacture, certainly, but they were far in advance of the destructive potential of anything else that had ever been invented. Centuries ago, long before she had joined the ship, Nostalgia for Infinity had found the cache tucked away inside a fortified asteroid, a nameless lump of rock circling an equally nameless star. Perhaps a thorough forensic examination of the asteroid might have revealed some clue as to who had made the weapons, or who had owned them up to that point, but the crew had been in no position to linger. The weapons had been spirited aboard the ship, which had then left the scene of the crime with all haste before the asteroid’s stunned defences woke up again. Volyova, of course, had theories. Perhaps the most likely was that the weapons were of Conjoiner manufacture. The spiders had been around long enough. But if these weapons belonged to them, why had they ever allowed them to slip out of their hands? And why had they never made an effort to reclaim what was rightfully theirs? It was immaterial. The cache had been aboard the ship for centuries. No one was going to come and ask for it back now . She looked around, inspecting the well. Naked machinery surrounded her: control panels, read-outs, circuits, relays and devices of less obvious function. Already there was an apprehensive feeling in the back of her mind. The weapon was focusing a magnetic field on part of her brain, instilling a sense of phobic dread. She had been here before. She was used to it. She unhooked various modules stationed around her suit’s thruster frame, attaching them to the interior of the well via epoxy-coated pads. From these modules, which were of her own design, she extended several dozen colour-coded cables that she connected or spliced into the exposed machinery. ‘Ilia…’ Khouri said. ‘How are you doing?’ ‘Fine. It doesn’t like me being in here very much, but it can’t kick me out — I’ve given it all the right authorisation codes.’ ‘Has it started doing the fear thing?’ ‘Yes, as a matter of fact it has.’ She experienced a moment of absolute screaming terror, as if someone was poking her brain with an electrode, stirring her most primal fears and anxieties into daylight. ‘Do you mind if we have this conversation later, Khouri? I’d like to get this… over… as soon as possible.’ ‘We’re still going to have to decide about Thorn.’ ‘Fine. Later, all right?’ ‘He has to come here.’ ‘Khouri, do me a favour: shut up about Thorn and keep your eye on the job, understand?’ Volyova paused and forced herself to focus. So far, despite the fear, it had gone as well as she had hoped it would. She had only once before gone this deep into the weapon’s control architecture, and that was when she had prioritised the commands coming in from the ship. Since she was at the same level now she could theoretically, by issuing the right command syntax, lock out the Captain for good. This was only one weapon; there were thirty-two others, and some of those were utterly unknown to her. But she would surely not need the whole cache to make a difference. If she could gain control of a dozen or so weapons, it would hopefully be enough to throw a spanner into the Inhibitor’s plans… And she would not succeed by prevarication. ‘Khouri, listen to me. Minor change of plan.’ ‘Uh-oh.’ ‘I’m going to go ahead and see if I can get this weapon to submit entirely to my control.’ ‘You call that a minor change of plan?’ ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’ Before she could stop herself, before the fear became overwhelming, she connected the remaining lines. Status lights winked and pulsed; displays rippled with alphanumeric hash. The fear sharpened. The weapon really did not want her to tamper with it on this level. ‘Tough luck,’ she said. ‘Now let’s see…’ And with a few discreet taps on her bracelet she released webs of mind-numbingly complicated command syntax. The three- valued logic that the weapon’s operating system ran on was characteristic of Conjoiner programming, but it was also devilishly hard to debug. She sat still and waited. Deep inside the weapon, the legality of her command would be thrashed out and scrutinised by dozens of parsing modules. Only when it had satisfied all criteria would it be executed. If that happened, and the command did what she thought it would, the weapon would immediately delete the Captain from the list of authenticated users. There would then only be one valid way to work the weapon, which was through her control harness, a piece of hardware disconnected from the ship’s Captain-controlled infrastructure. It was a very sound theory. She had the first indication that the command syntax had been bad an instant before the hatch slid shut on her. Her bracelet flashed red; she started assembling a particularly poetic sequence of Russish swearwords and then the weapon had locked her in. Next, the lights went out, but the fear remained. The fear, in fact, had grown very much stronger — but perhaps that was partly her own response to the situation. ‘Damn…’ Volyova said. ‘Khouri… can you hear me?’ But there was no reply. Without warning machinery shifted around her. The chamber had become larger, revealing dimly glowing vaults plunging deeper into the weapon. Enormous fluidly shaped mechanisms floated in blood-red light. Cold blue lights flickered on the shapes or traced the flow lines of writhing intestinal power lines. The entire interior of the weapon appeared to be reorganising itself. And then she nearly died of fright. She sensed something else inside the weapon, a presence that was coming closer, creeping through the shifting components with phantom slowness.
