She put a mug in the microwave. ‘There’s another ship arrived.’
‘Christ, now what?’
‘It’s called the Refuge of Hope, and it’s scooped up humans from the exodus. I think they came from two new planets.’
‘Shit. The exodus? Man, that’s bad. They’re hunting us, then?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, but it was inevitable. They are fanatics.’
‘Damn, I wonder who it was.’
‘I can try and filter a little deeper.’
Callum took the mug she was offering him. ‘Thanks.’ The liquid tasted of nothing: warm white water.
‘There is one thing that the fullmind is examining in a primary consciousness routine,’ she said. ‘They’re concerned. They know about the exodus and what its goals are.’
‘The exodus goals? You mean, that humans are supposed to be building up our military strength to fight back?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘And more.’
‘More?’
‘They must have interrogated people, extracted memories directly from their brains. The Olyix know who we are. The five of us are featuring pretty heavily in the fullmind’s thoughtstream.’
Gox Quint
Salvation of Life
Nullifying the neuralstratum’s perception in the hangar is an easy accomplishment, a few simple misdirections in the autonomous routines of the local nexus. I don’t enjoy concealing my activities from the onemind, but I don’t have a choice; the onemind is mistaken about its priorities. Those bastard humans are still alive in here somewhere, so I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do.
Everything that’s happening is just more proof I’m right. I’m amassing the information brought to us by the redoubtable Refuge of Hope, who carries so many of this vile human race. Didn’t expect that, did you, you little shits? Didn’t expect us to come chasing you across lightyears and centuries. We’ve seen it all before, you know, all the treachery and villainy overrated simians like you represent. We know how to deal with you.
You will be brought to account for yourselves at the end of time. There is no escaping that noble destiny we are charged to deliver.
I mean, did you really think your pitiful little brains could outsmart us, even with those fucking Neána scum pushing you, lying to you, giving you false hope and better technology they probably stole from us or the Katos? No, my deluded friends. That’s not how this universe works. Not at all.
And how dumb was that plan, anyway? Run away and breed like deviant rats until there are enough of you to swarm our enclave? Have you no intelligence at all; can you not even try to imagine what we have amassed to defend ourselves? We have been shepherding and saving other forlorn, misguided races since before your squalid zero-sentient ancestors even learned how to use fire.
So you sneaked your way on board? So fucking what, assholes? Nobody’s ever going to hear your Signal. Not over that distance. You lost.
And now all I need to do is finish my one final clean-up assignment. Because I’m going to find you, no matter how long it takes. I am going to kick your loathsome –
–
Oh. Interesting. That’s it? That’s them? The best of the best? You call them saints now? Really? Them? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’ve had bodies that are already dead and rotting who would be a better choice.
Still, that means you’re mine now; I fucking own you. And I’ll enjoy every second of it. I might even hook into the local environment biostructure plexus to smell your fear when I find you. And, yeah, I know I should hand you over for a cosy little suspension in the limbo ships until we reach the end of time. But, hey, accidents happen, and your bodies are feeble; they damage easily in a fight. I know that. Do I ever! I’m good at it, too.
See, the trick to hunting terrestrial animals is putting yourself in their position, adopting their mindset, understanding their motivations. Once you are centred in that place, their options become clear to you and their moves easy to anticipate.
When I draw out the memory of the stolen transport ship from the neuralstratum, I know the exact position it rested on the floor. I stand where the nose was, pointing towards the wall. I feel it, build the memory into a solid vision. I am the transport ship. They move inside me. They skulk. Shuffle from day to day. Their primitive brains spark dully as they formulate their pitiful plans.
Everything the humans did on the day they launched their S-Day attack against us was designed to put that one ship on board the Salvation of Life. Big deal. It took everything you had, cost every last wattdollar – your entire output from every industrial station, all your dirty political deals, just to place five people here in this very hangar.
And here they remain – somewhere close. Don’t you? I know it, even if the Salvation of Life won’t acknowledge that. That onemind is too far up its high and mighty ass to listen to me.
Well, I know you now. Saints.
Yuri Alster, a has-been secret policeman and alcoholic miserabilist incapable of relating to another human.
FBI senior special detective Alik Monday. Professional ass-licker to politicians, the most corrupt high-lever fixer you can get.
Callum Hepburn, disgraced engineer, weakling and moral coward, Emilja Jurich’s court eunuch.
Jessika Mye. Neána construct. Not even alive by any definition.
And Kandara Martinez. Oh, Kandara, you think you’re tough, don’t you? Ms Virtue, a black-ops illegal murderer of gangstas. So badly damaged by your parents’ death, your ruined mind has to be controlled and calmed by drugs, lest your own fury burn you up.
I will find you, Kandara. I promise I will find you and finish what you and I started on Verby. I’m going to remind you what your kind used to call me back then when I moved among you. It was a good name, too, because every human knows, Cancer always gets you in the end, bitch.
Morgan
