The Gabble

Choudapt

A single biolight clung to a hull bone, its tick head thrust into a ship’s artery. In the light’s dim blue luminescence Simoz observed the generator palpitating like a sick heart as it drew in plankton-rich sea water. Canvas straps secured the generator to the inner hull and a heavy skein of cables issued from under the dripping rim of its bivalve shell and was stapled to hull beams that disappeared into the darkness where the motors hummed. Simoz subvocalized an acid observation.

Very nice.

The doctor mycelium, the symbiont which monitored and repaired his body and fought off those things beyond the compass of his immune system, was of course defensive.

Biotech is efficient, cheap, and self-propagating.

Yeah, but what people fail to mention about it, is the smell.

This is a crosstech ship.

Mike, it stinks like a Billingsgate gutter.

A nicely colourful historic reference only marred by the fact that you have never been to Earth.

Picky.

‘The motors are ceramic nanofacture,’ said Harbing.

Simoz supposed they must be — biotech ship motors made a sound he usually associated with wet sex.

‘Where from?’ he asked, not allowing the internal bickering to affect his outward demeanour.

‘Nanofactured on the Outlink Station Ooerlikkon and transmitted via Circe,’ Harbing replied.

Simoz studied the Mate with interest, consciously not focusing on the man’s more obvious augmentations and adaptations, which was difficult. From his two-toed feet to the hairless white dome of his head the Mate was a full choudapt with numerous cyber implants. His mouth was the worst; with its feeding palps moving across his chin to emphasize his words.

Simoz looked him in the eye and showed no evident reaction to the flickering of his nictitating membranes.

‘You’ve had no rejection problems?’ he asked.

This question puzzled Harbing. Simoz allowed his gaze to drop to the scanner link Harbing had grafted just above his hip. There were pustules around the disc of bright metal and a slight leakage of pus from behind it.

‘I don’t quite understand what you’re getting at,’ said Harbing.

Simoz nodded to himself.

Sharp drop in IQ a couple of weeks after infection.

Obviously … I am ready now.

Simoz concentrated his gaze on the link and Harbing glanced down. His puzzlement increased when he saw the signs of his own body rejecting its technology. Simoz let things go no further than that. He quickly reached out and put his right hand behind Harbing’s head. His left hand he clamped across the Mate’s mouth and he winced as the palps pinched at his palm.

Harbing struggled, but to no avail, then his eyes grew wide in shock as Mike extended its nano-mycelium body from the palm of Simoz’s hand down the man’s throat.

Are you in?

I am in … cutting motor functions.

Harbing dropped as if someone had cut his strings. Simoz knelt with him as he collapsed, his hands still in position.

Can you link?

Parasitic fungus is primitive form. Aggression. Fungal form, dead.

What happened?

No link established.

‘Damn!’

You are vocalizing.

I was aware of that. We’ll try again in the Wrack. Withdraw from him and blank out the last minute or so.

Withdrawn.

Simoz removed his hands and cradled Harbing’s head. After a moment Harbing opened his eyes.

‘What. . what happened?’

Simoz gestured to the generator.

‘You were showing me the generator then you just keeled over,’ he said.

‘I feel sick,’ said Harbing.

Understandable. The fungus is breaking down in his lymphatic system.

Will he be all right?

He will not notice as soon as he is reinfected.

How long till that happens?

It has probably already happened. I have noted a high degree of spore incursion on this ship.

And that means?

The spores are in the air of this ship. Forty per cent of my function at present is keeping them from infecting you. They are especially prevalent in here.

I thought they wouldn’t infect me.

Not a primary infection, but they could make you ill.

What about the retrovirus?

I am keeping it in somnolent form until I have made sufficient alterations.

What?

The fungal form here shows extreme divergence and I am altering the retrovirus to suit.

A mutation? Could that be it? Something the original virus missed?

There is that possibility.

Simoz helped Harbing to his feet then pointed to the scanner link at Harbing’s waist.

‘It might have something to do with that,’ he said.

Harbing gaped at the signs of rejection. ‘Yeah. . yeah, I gotta do something about that.’

‘Perhaps you should see the ship’s doctor.’

‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’

Somewhat bemusedly Harbing turned and tottered from the engine room. After casting a glare of suspicion at the generator, Simoz followed.

Here was a city enclosed in a translucent bubble, steady on a copper-coloured sea. It could have been mistaken for something built had it not been for the veins in the surface of the bubble. The crosstech ship, apparently the bastard offspring of a dredger and a manta ray, circled the bubble to where a split developed in the meniscus and it drew aside like stage curtains. On the deck of the ship Simoz noted the stench of decay wafted to him on the sea breeze, then glanced aside to where a cluster of smaller, house-sized bubbles surfaced and were drawn away by the tide.

These bubbles were mostly opaque but with inset glass windows. Through some of these he saw human faces staring out — faces blank of human expression.

They keep washing up at the mouth of the Thranx.

It is where the currents take them.

Some of the other Wrack cities have taken to burning any that get close.

A perhaps understandable reaction.

The ship motored in through the opening and drew in to docks in the shape of lily pads clustered around the organic city. Ramps terminating in spiked hooks lowered from the crosstech ship and punctured the pads, securing the vessel in place. Simoz picked up his kitbag and quickly moved to one of them, but before he reached it, Harbing and another crew member moved in on him.

‘Why are you here?’ Harbing asked.

Simoz studied him. ‘I told you: I have some biotech samples I hope to sell here. There some problem?’

‘There’s problem,’ said the other crew member.

‘I don’t see it,’ said Simoz, moving to go past the two men. As he did so he kept a wary eye on the other crewman. This man was shorter than Harbing, but heavily muscled. A computer link below his right ear was leaking pus and a suppurating hollow above his hip indicated where a scanner link had once been seated.

Late stages of infection.

I know.

The man reached out and caught hold of Simoz by the biceps, his expression alternately puzzled and blank.

‘Problem,’ he said leadenly.

Simoz caught hold of the man’s wrist, pulled him in and thumped him hard under the sternum. The man went down coughing and wheezing.

Harbing stood back gazing at the scene in bewilderment. ‘I don’t … I don’t understand.’

‘You will,’ said Simoz, and quickly headed for the ramp. Two other crewmen were watching him from the bows of the ship. They too were without expression.

We’ll have to move fast. There’s a defensive reaction here. I guess I don’t smell right.

It was predicted.

Once on the queasy surface of the docks Simoz quickly headed for an entry portal, meanwhile passing a female choudapt walking a pet on a lead. This pet was a sea louse a metre long, its ribbed black shell painted with flowers and rococo patterns, its mandibles and saw-toothed mouth grinding and dripping foamy saliva.

Choud.

I see through your eyes.

Simoz felt there to be something quite perverse about these people keeping as pets the creatures whose genome they had spliced into their own bodies. He increased his pace as the choud turned to watch him with its glowing eyepits. He was through the entrance portal and moving quickly into the alleys and precincts when the creature started to fight its leash and show an inclination to come after him.

This could get ever so slightly lethal. Can’t you do anything?

I can try to copy the pheromonal signature.

Do so.

You will not know right away if it is working.

Simoz found himself in a dank alley free of choudapts or chouds. The floor and walls of the alley were dead biofacture and for a moment he felt safe enough to open his kitbag and quickly remove the tools of his trade. At his belt he holstered a thin-gun. Over his shoulder he slung the strap of a laser carbine. In his pockets he placed various smaller implements of destructive potential. Then he stood and kicked his bag to one side.

Chouds. Jesus. Some idiot must have brought in a wild one. What other explanation is there? Probably full of fungal spores. I’d bet it was found in a freed bladder.

People quickly forget. And there are other explanations.

Yes, I know. I’d imagine you find the life-cycle interesting, there being certain similarities with yourself.

I do find it interesting though I would dispute that it is similar to myself. The parasitic fungus here is without sentience; the subminds it develops are of the level of an ant or a bee. It is also worth noting that it is wholly natural and was here long before humans arrived and turned seaweed into living accommodation and spliced themselves with native life-forms.

Do I detect disapproval?

Only of incompetence. The original bioengineers should have detected the choud parasite and its method of transmission. Subsequent generations should have been given immunity to it by taking on a different adapted form.

Should haves and should haves. We’ve a job to do. Will you try not to kill it this time? We need that location.

I will try.

Simoz moved to the mouth of the alley and studied the crowds. On the other side of the flattened pipe of a street he saw the choudapt woman walking her choud. It showed no reaction to him, so his body must now be emitting the pheromone. As he stood there watching the people of the Wrack, and trying to decide who to go for and how, a young choudapt woman walked past him and turned into the mouth of the alley. He nodded to her, but she did not acknowledge his presence. He silently turned and followed her. Halfway into the alley she realized he was behind her and abruptly turned, opening her mouth, perhaps to say something, perhaps to scream. He slammed his hand over it, tripped her and forced her back against the ground. Mike went in.

Parasitic fungus primitive form again. I try to…

Come on Mike — just do it gently.

Fungal form, dead.

Oh for chrissake.

It would seem that the fungus is unable to achieve adult form in humans and in juvenile form cannot survive my… inspection. I would suggest that we take an actual choud next.

Oh great idea.

Simoz removed his hand and the woman abruptly opened her eyes.

‘You all right?’ he asked. ‘You just keeled over.’

‘It’s dead. You killed it,’ she said.

‘You got me there,’ said Simoz, reaching into his pocket for a shock stick.

‘How did you do it?’

The woman sat upright. She was a choudapt without evident augmentations. Her hands and feet were two-toed and her skin a bluey green with the angular hardness of exoskeleton. She had retained her hair, which was long and anaemic blonde and spilled all the way down the plastimail slip she wore. She had used iridescent paint on her mouth palps so that they looked like some curious item of jewellery.

‘I have a doctor mycelium inside me,’ Simoz replied.

‘Then you must be ECS.’

She is showing surprising acuity in the circumstances.

Not surprising.

Mike’s reply had a hint of dry sarcasm behind it.

I suggest you elaborate.

She is Earth Central Security as well. She is a Monitor. Her boosted immune system must have resisted infection for a long time and it is helping her recover very quickly now.

Simoz left the shock stick in his pocket and helped the woman to her feet.

‘Simoz,’ he said.

‘Haline,’ the woman replied.

What a gas.

Simoz frowned. It was very unlike the mycelium to make jokes. Perhaps it was feeling the strain.

‘What’s happening here?’ Haline asked.

Nodding to the mouth of the alley and heading in that direction, Simoz said, ‘I’ll tell you while you lead me somewhere I can, without interference, get hold of a choud.’

Haline stared at him then turned to the left as they departed the alley.

‘Something was controlling me,’ she said.

‘A parasitic fungus,’ said Simoz. ‘It was here when only chouds lived in the bladders of the wracks. Fairly simple vector: it lives in the choud’s body and drives the creature to climb into a bladder and cut it free. That bladder drifts to another wrack where there are uninfected chouds.

There it makes the choud find a secure place to encyst. . cocoon itself. It then feeds on the choud’s body and produces spores which spread through the wrack and infect other chouds. The set-up in the wrack is then something like that of social insects on Earth — the main fungus has a primitive mind and it controls the others by means of pheromonal messages. Those other chouds, once infected for a number of years, then act like new queens leaving a bee’s nest; they climb into a bladder and cut it away to start the cycle all over again. They start their own colonies. Only the fact that infected and uninfected chouds can detect each other has prevented a complete takeover by the fungus, but then that’s evolution for you.’

‘But. . us?’ said Haline.

‘Come on, you’re a choudapt. Ninety per cent human and ten per cent choud. It’s why you like the horrible things as pets.’

‘Oh yes, of course, but. . how is it I don’t know about this. . this fungus?’

‘It was supposedly wiped out two centuries ago by a manufactured retrovirus.’

‘Then how has this happened?’

‘That’s one of the things I’m here to find out,’ said Simoz as he gazed around, ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the centre. You can buy a choud there.’

‘I see.’

‘What else do you need to know?’

‘I need to know where the encysted choud is hidden. That’s why I need to lay hands on another one. Mike can winkle the location of the “mother” fungus from one of its mature kin. We tried it with you but the fungal form apparently doesn’t mature in human hosts and is a bit delicate.’

And while I’m thinking about it, Mike, how the hell am I going to put my hand over a choud’s mouth.

Unfortunately there is not enough seal in such mouth parts.

What?

You will not have to put your hand over its mouth, but in its mouth.

Oh great.

As they walked down the flattened artery of a causeway, beyond whose translucent walls bubble houses clustered like giant eyeballs, Simoz watched the folk around him. Many of them had obviously been having problems with their augmentations — the cyber implants and links that joined living human to his technology. None of the humans showed any reaction to him, but the few chouds he saw turned and fought their leashes, foam dripping from mouth parts like slime-coated cutlery sets.

How long will she hold out?

Her immune system is boosted but not as efficient as myself. She has been reinfected already, but the fungus will not be well established for an hour or so.

Efficient as yourself?

Mere fact.

Okay, what about the pheromonal signature?

She is giving it off.

So she can go buy us a choud and bring it to a suitable location.

Very practical of you.

Improvisation my friend. Improvisation.

The centre was the point from which branched all the main causeways of the Wrack.

Those causeways ran down the sepals of the giant pseudo-flower of the plant, which was also the city. Here the bubble buildings were stacked in profusion like berries heaped over a spread hand. Myriad tubeways connected these separate bubbles, some of which were houses and some of them offices, shops, restaurants — all the usual paraphernalia of that entity called a city.

By way of these tubes and through some of the bubbles, Haline led Simoz to her home. Then she went alone to make the required purchase. Simoz made himself comfortable in a chair fashioned from the scales of a giant fish and scanned his surroundings. He noted the veins in the ceiling at which a couple of biolights were feeding, and on the floor the slow traverse of a tile-cleaning slime mould. He saw that she had a food plant of old biofacture and one he recognized as producing a fruit that in its ancestry had both apples and pigs. He only gradually became aware of how dim it was in the place and how few biolights Haline seemed to have. The sudden simultaneous agony at his shoulder and calf told him abruptly where the other biolights had gone.

‘Shit!’

Simoz jerked from the chair and felt the chitinous legs of the biolights dig into his calf and his back. He pulled his thin-gun from its holster and pointed at the biolight on his leg. The pain was incredible and it took him a moment to realize that with such a shot he would likely blow his foot off. Gritting his teeth he reholstered the gun and took the shock stick out of his pocket. He touched the end of the stick to the biolight on his back and pressed the button. The shock convulsed the light and he felt it rip from his back and heard it thud on the floor. A spill-over of energy paralysed his shoulder and sent him stumbling.

‘Fucking hell!’

You are not thinking straight.

‘Oh fucking brilliant!’

I am blocking this light’s breathing holes. It is detaching.

The second biolight fell from his leg and scuttled across the room. Simoz drew his thin-gun and aimed at the one that had fallen behind him. The light emitted by its baggy body had taken on a reddish tinge from his blood. It was on its back, its six legs curled in tight, its tick mouth bubbling. The thin-gun coughed and the biolight exploded, spraying glowing ichor and translucent organs in every direction. Simoz noted half its body stuck to the side of the chair, its legs quivering, before he turned to search out the other light. It scuttled from under a synthewood coffee table and he shot at it twice, leaving smoking holes in the floor. It ran up the wall then came across the ceiling at him. He hit it as it dropped towards him. Warm flesh and glowing ichor plastered his face and shoulders. He wiped the substance from his eyes and stepped out from under the other two lights on the ceiling. They showed no sign of moving.

What the hell was that?

There was a delay before Mike replied. Simoz felt the wounds in his shoulder and calf being sealed by the mycelium, the pain fading.

Choud DNA has been used in all biofacture here. These lights are fifty-three per cent choud.

Enough for a mature fungal form?

Yes.

Did you read it?

I did.

You have the location of the mother fungus?

I do.

Just then the door to the room opened and Haline entered with a small choud straining at the leash she held. Simoz studied her and she blankly returned his gaze before absently releasing the leash. The choud surged forward, its many legs rustling against the floor. Simoz shot it through the head and it stopped dead, then slowly curled into a perfect ball. Haline showed little reaction.

‘Why have you done this to my home?’ she asked, her words dull.

Simoz walked towards her, but as he drew close she suddenly stepped forward with her hands held out like blades. Simoz touched the shock stick to her forearm and she slammed back against the door then slid down it to the floor. He dragged her aside and stepped out of her home.

I take it you stopped producing the pheromone?

I did not have spare function. My repair of you and my continued alteration of the retrovirus used it all.

Continued alteration?

The divergence of this parasitic fungus is greater than I thought.

Simoz stooped down and parted the rip in his trouser leg to reveal a ragged circle of pink scar tissue.

Quick work.

You need to be completely functional. You have a bit of a journey and anything of more than forty per cent choud biofacture will be trying to kill you.

Where to?

The anchor root. The encysted choud is there.

Perhaps it would be better to release the virus here.

That would defeat the object of us coming here. I need to read the mother fungus. It will be the only way for us to find some clue as to how it got here.

A dubious bet at best I think.

Our only one. If there is even the slightest evidence that the fungal infection was deliberate then there must be an investigation, as that would likely mean Separatist activity. If there is some other cause, we need to know that, to prevent it happening again.

At the centre point of the Wrack lay an open well around whose edges were gathered leaf-shaped platforms. Simoz watched people walk on to these, whereupon they dropped gently into the well. Thick stalks from the platforms were rooted into the wall of the well and slid down as if following invisible grooves.

There must be another way down.

It is likely that this living elevator is based more on wrack DNA than choud DNA.

I think we should find out before we try it.

Walking across the wide plaza, Simoz was conscious of puzzled stares cast in his direction and of chouds straining at leashes. He noted a floor-cleaning creature, like a flattened choud, become aware of his presence then turn after him in painfully slow pursuit. He also noted a heavily choudapted human: a man wearing only a pouch belt, his body completely sheathed in plates of exoskeleton, turn in his direction and slowly come after him. Upon reaching the well Simoz reached down and pressed his hand to the rough surface of one leaf.

Are you in?

I am.

Come on, things are getting fraught round here.

This biotech is ninety per cent wrack-based.

Simoz glanced back and saw general movement in his direction as of a crowd attracted by a curiosity. He doubted he would be able to survive their attention.

Out of choices.

Simoz stepped onto the leaf and it immediately swung out over the well and slowly began to descend. He observed that the stalk penetrated the woody wall through a wet slot, a slot that opened before it and closed after it like a zipper. The leaf platform reached ten metres down when he glanced up and saw the heavy choudapt follow him over the edge on another. Another ten metres down and he saw something fall over the rim above to come hurtling down with a whistling squeal — the cleaning creature. It hit the edge of his platform to scrabble for a moment with inadequate legs, then fell out of sight. Returning his attention to the man above, Simoz saw him staring down, his saw-toothed palps clacking before his mouth.

He could jump.

Thank you for that.

Simoz drew his thin-gun and held it in his right hand, retaining his shock stick in his left.

Standing close to the edge of his platform, the man did not jump, but withdrew something from one of his pouches and pointed it at Simoz. No time to react — Simoz had not expected personal armament here. Something slapped his leg and he peered down at the ugly dart buried in his thigh. It consisted of a glassy blade with feathery flights, with two testicular sacks pulsing between the two.

Neurotoxin.

Simoz’s leg went completely dead and gave under him. He grabbed the dart and pulled it free, black poison dripping from its hollow point. He fired upwards blowing a lump out of the edge of the platform above, driving his attacker back out of sight. Two more shots blew holes straight through the upper platform, but his choudapt attacker abruptly jumped over the edge.

Simoz fired at him again as he hurtled down. One shot took a lump from the man’s shoulder and tore away a plate of exoskeleton. Without apparently noticing his wound, the man landed solidly, his clawed toes driving into the material of the platform. Simoz snap-shot at him as the numbness spread to his other leg then edged up to his sternum. The shot missed.

‘Earther!’ the choudapt snarled and flung himself forward. Simoz shot again and had the satisfaction of seeing an arm cartwheel away as his attacker fell back off the platform, then his own arms went dead and his vision faded.

Simoz.

…

Simoz.

I hear you.

That is good.

Is it?

Yes. Had there been no immediate response from you …

What?

You would have been dead.

How damaged am I?

The neurotoxin has caused extensive nerve damage. I am now controlling all your autonomous functions.

What about my unautonomous ones?

I am using myself to establish links across the damaged areas.

My feet are hurting.

…

That’s better.

Re-establishing visual cortex.

Simoz blinked as his vision returned, but there seemed to be something wrong with it.

Though everything was sharper it also seemed somehow false. He blinked again and tried to move his arms. They responded to him, but yet again there seemed to be something wrong -

some feeling of disconnection. Levering himself upright, he attempted to stand, but only got halfway before falling flat on his face.

Something not quite right here.

There is a disparity of function. Try again.

Simoz finally managed to stand. As he stood there swaying, his hands suddenly seemed to catch on fire. He screamed and abruptly sat down.

I must use one hundred per cent of my function. Disconnecting from cerebrum.

Mike, no, wait!

The burning in his hands became a deep soreness, a tingling, numbness, then went away completely. Warily Simoz stood again and checked his surroundings. Everything seemed to be working perfectly now, only inside him there lay a terrible emptiness.

Mike?

…

Mike?

Simoz nodded to himself, then stooped and retrieved his weapons. He was alone in the anchor root, and especially aware that no corpse without an arm lay here on the floor where the platform had come to rest.

I don’t know if you can hear me, Mike, but this has to be Separatist terrorism. Why else would someone be wandering about with a neurotoxin weapon?

Simoz stepped off the platform and walked to where an arm lay in a pool of watery blood.

He circled until he found a smeared area of the same then followed the dripped trail into a side-branching tunnel of the anchor root, stepping warily on slippery floor under the blue luminescence. The biolights were restless on the ceiling and it was because he was keeping half an eye on them that he did not immediately see the choudapt. There came a low whickering sound and Simoz ducked before he knew why he was ducking and glanced behind him to see one of the neurotoxin darts bouncing across the floor. He fired reflexively at a half-seen shape, then pursued when that shape rose from the shadows at the side of the tunnel and fled.

Damnit Mike, this is the only way. You didn’t give a precise location for that encysted choud. I’d bet this bastard knows where it is.

Before rounding a corner in the tunnel Simoz slowed to a walk, since he had no wish to run straight into one of those darts, and glancing back had the dubious pleasure of seeing biolights dropping from the ceiling and scuttling towards him. Not allowing himself panic, he reached into his pocket, removing a shock grenade the size and shape of an acorn. He then edged to the corner and carefully peeked round, guessing the dark shape squatting in the shadows to be the choudapt. Simoz flipped the cap on the grenade and tossed it round. A white flash followed by lots of electric sizzlings ensued. Glancing back at the biolights that were approaching he flipped a grenade in their direction too, closing his eyes against the flash. He opened his eyes to see biolights scattered across the floor of the tunnel, their legs in the air and the luminescence they emitted faltering, then he stepped round the corner.

The choudapt lay sprawled across the tunnel. Simoz advanced on the man and kicked away the tubular dart thrower lying next to his outstretched left hand. The stump of his right arm had some sort of bio field-dressing over it, as did the wound in his shoulder, and he was breathing raggedly. Simoz squatted down next to him and removed the shock stick from his pocket. He altered a setting on its thumb wheel and touched the end of it to the choudapt’s neck.

The low buzzing convulsed the man and he immediately opened his eyes and started to move, but froze as the barrel of Simoz’s thin-gun pressed against his forehead.

‘Separatist?’ asked Simoz.

The man just sneered at him. Simoz altered the setting on his shock stick and touched what he assumed to me the man’s most sensitive area. Judging by the screech that followed he guessed he had been right.

‘Separatist?’ he asked again.

‘Yes,’ said the man.

Simoz noted the slight distraction in the man’s expression. Keeping the shock stick to his groin he turned and shot the biolight that had been creeping up behind. Before the man could react Simoz had his thin-gun back in his face.

‘The parasitic fungus, where did you get it from?’

The man showed an inclination not to answer. Simoz made that inclination go away.

When the man had stopped screaming he seemed more inclined to cooperate.

‘We got it from a preserved choud exported before the retrovirus was used here.’

‘Is it just you here? No, silly question. You’d only lie. I want you to stand very slowly and carefully, then very slowly and carefully I want you to walk to the encysted choud.’

The man looked at him blankly for a moment, then obeyed. Simoz tried to analyse that blank look, knowing that somehow he had made a mistake here.

‘What was the plan? You knew someone would be here with the retrovirus at some point.

Or is this just the usual terrorism?’

‘Yes, terrorism. It works.’

Now that, Mike, was a lie. I wonder what’s really happening here.

‘Just show everyone what big guns you’ve got and they’ll do what you want?’

‘That’s right,’ said the choudapt.

‘Okay, stop there. Turn round.’

The choudapt halted and turned. He was grinning.

Simoz continued, ‘The fungal form has been altered to counter the retrovirus, but you knew that the virus would be altered to suit. You also knew that at some point it would be released here. So the question is: what result are you after?’

The choudapt’s palps moved in what Simoz could only assume to be a rude gesture.

‘You won’t get out of here,’ the choudapt said. He nodded back down the tunnel. ‘It won’t just be the biolights. Every piece of biotech will be after you. Right now the lifting platforms have ceased to function.’

‘You know, I’m carrying the virus in my body. The fungal parasites would die very quickly,’

said Simoz.

‘Then release it.’

‘I see. . turn and continue walking.’

Mike, do not release the virus. Whatever happens, do not release it.

As they reached the end of the tunnel Simoz tossed a shock grenade behind him to deter the pursuing biolights, which had now been joined by some armoured multi-legged thing whose function he could not guess. The choudapt led him through another tunnel, a narrow tunnel that seemingly terminated at a wall, but then the wall parted before him. In the place beyond the choudapt turned to Simoz, who peered past him at the second choudapt crucified by woody growths to the wrack wall. This other one opened crusted eyes but did not speak.

‘Tarin controls the Wrack city. He controls every fungal parasite and therefore all the biotech here. Go on, Earther, release your virus — kill them all,’ the first choudapt said.

‘I see,’ said Simoz. ‘You’ve undermined all the biotech. If I release the virus what happens?’

‘You destroy the Wrack and kill a hundred thousand people. We claim extreme incompetence on the part of ECS and recruit a million to our cause.’

‘Then I won’t release the virus.’

As he said this he heard the wall opening behind him. Without looking he shot behind himself and heard a bubbling squeal.

‘You’ll die either here or on your way out and someone else will come and release the virus here. We win all ways.’

‘You don’t,’ said Simoz.

The choudapt had time only to raise his remaining arm. The thin-gun coughed, the side of the man’s head opened like a hinged lid and a haze of bone and brain splashed out behind him.

He staggered back and fell at the feet of the encysted choudapt, Tarin. Simoz now turned and fired twice, splashing luminous blood up the walls. He tossed a shock grenade out into an encroaching wall of chitinous legs, glowing bodies, and hints of armour. The wall fell in chaos and he counted the last two grenades in his pocket. Then he turned, walked forward and stepped over the dead choudapt to look into Tarin’s eyes. There was a ripping sound as Tarin opened his crusted lips.

‘No win. . Earther,’ he said, spittle running from the side of his mouth.

Knock once for yes and twice for no. Are you hearing this, Mike?

Simoz’s stomach muscles clenched twice and he grinned at his doctor mycelium’s little joke.

You have to go in, Mike, and take over. This was always a possibility: you have to leave me even if that means you leave me to die.

There was a long pause then his stomach muscles clenched once.

‘I always win,’ said Simoz.

The choudapt Tarin opened his mouth to make some reply. Simoz didn’t wait for it. He slammed his hand over that crusted mouth.

Goodbye, Mike, he managed before his legs went numb and the sight faded from his eyes. As he fell he could feel his hand bonded to the choudapt’s mouth. The thin-gun fell from the numb fingers of his other hand before a pool of blackness filled his skull.

…

Simoz.

…

Simoz.