‘What now, boss?’ asked Eleven.

‘You two return to the surface and keep track of me—you won’t be able to keep up down here. I’m going to follow this trail for as far as I can.’

‘Then what?’ asked Eleven.

‘Then, if we find him, I suppose we must politely ask our Prador guest to leave.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Twelve.

The Warden, as was its job, considered all the implications of a newly adult Prador in charge of a light destroyer in the sea below. What would be its aims? Not being implicated in the same ancient crimes, those would certainly not be the same as its father’s. Even under Polity law, the crimes it committed while under the control of its father’s pheromones were ones of which only its father was accounted guilty. However, there was the Vignette to consider. Its crew was missing and the ship itself at the bottom of the sea. Admittedly no Polity citizens had been hurt and the crime, if such it was, had been committed outside the Line. But this did not bode well for what else the Prador might do—possibly things that could easily fall within the Warden’s remit. There were also political ramifications. Perhaps it was time to pass the buck? Before the Warden could decide, Submind Seven started shouting for its attention.

‘Seven?’

‘Captain Sprage again, Bo— Warden. Says there’s someone you need to talk to.’

This time the Warden fully engaged with the conferencing link, relayed through Seven, and gazed into the Old Captain’s cabin. The man stood lighting his pipe with a laser lighter, his expression sombre.

‘What is it this time, Sprage?’ the Warden asked.

‘Not me this time. Ambel wants a word.’ Sprage reached out and adjusted something out of view. The link jumped and the Warden found itself looking into a similar cabin in which stood Captain Ambel and two junior crewmen.

‘Captain Ambel.’

‘Hello, Warden.’ Ambel looked equally sombre. ‘Good to have you back. That other fella was a bit irascible.’

‘Yes, quite. How can I help you, Captain?’

‘Not so much how you can help me…’ Ambel gestured at the two juniors. ‘Let me introduce crewmen Silister and Davy-bronte, lately of the Vignette.’

The Warden abruptly focused more of its attention through the link. ‘You are from the Vignette. What happened to your ship and the rest of the crew?’

Both the juniors stepped back, looking somewhat startled. The Warden realized it was projecting one of its many avatar images through the link, and that the two men were now looking at a two-metre-long grouper floating before them. It changed the image to something more human and acceptable.

‘Well the Cap’n was right pissed-off with Drooble, an’ the harpoon went through him, not Drooble you understand…’ Silister babbled, until Ambel put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I think, lad, you should let Davy-bronte tell it, just like he did earlier.’

The explanation from Davy-bronte was much more concise, and the description unmistakable.

A Prador war drone, evidently upgraded, thought the Warden. Sniper will be pleased.

‘Thank you for informing me,’ said the Warden.

‘One other thing,’ added Ambel. ‘You will be telling Windcheater about this?’

‘Certainly. He is, after all, your ruler.’

Ambel gave an ambivalent shrug and the comlink cut.

So, confirmation, if any more was needed. An upgraded war drone had been used, which inferred that systems aboard Ebulan’s ship were in a good state of repair. The same could be inferred from the fact it had been moved undetected. Also, the fact that the adolescent Prador—the Warden checked its records—Vrell, had survived Ebulan’s traps meant it was a very capable Prador indeed. Deciding it needed further advice, the Warden opened a communication channel through its own runcible, and through five other runcibles, right to the heart of things.

‘Yes?’

The Warden transmitted all it had recently learnt, in detail, the information zipped into a package even some AIs would have had trouble deciphering. A microsecond later the reply came back.

‘Work to your remit as best you can, Warden. Thrall codes within the ship will have been changed, and without signals for you to intercept you will not be able to break them, so there will be no repeat of Sniper’s… lucky shot, and you do not have the armament to deal with a functional Prador light destroyer,’ the Earth Central AI advised the Warden. ‘I am now informing all interested parties.’

‘Interested parties?’

After a delay of nearly half an hour, EC replied, ‘The nearest Polity warship is two hundred light years from you. However, there is another warship much closer.’ Earth Central then transmitted all relevant information, and a recording of a recent conversation in which it had participated.

‘Is that a good idea?’ the Warden asked.

‘It is in the nature of a test of agreements.’

As the communication channel closed, the Warden could not decide if things had got better or infinitely worse. Certainly the stakes had just gone up: Earth Central was gambling with a planet and its population. The AI scanned round inside the moon base at the crowds of Polity citizens. No need to start a panic just yet, so it put a message up on the bulletin boards in the main concourse and arrivals lounges:

BUFFER TECHNICAL FAULT DETECTED

The submind at the planetary base immediately queried this, and the Warden told it what the real problem was.

‘Oh fuck,’ said the submind.

The Warden added, ‘It would be convenient if those travellers on the surface were encouraged to leave.’ Shortly after, the Warden observed that the departure bookings began to rise when the news-net services began speculating about a rumoured mutation of the Spatterjay virus into a lethal form—a rumour neither confirmed nor denied by the planetary base submind.

Then an hour later:

FAULT CONFIRMED. INCOMING TRAVELLERS ON BLOCK OR DIVERT. WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. FURTHER MESSAGES TO FOLLOW…

Now no more Polity citizens would be coming to the moon, and increasing numbers of them were already leaving. This meant that if things went pear-shaped, at least the body count would be lower.

‘Okay, lads,’ said Ambel, leading the two crewmen out of his cabin onto the deck. ‘Peck will show you to your bunks. Tomorrow we should be reaching the Sargassum.’

‘You gonna put us on another ship to go back?’ asked Silister.

Ambel paused.

‘Be a bugger to stop,’ said Peck, who was standing underneath a lamp, peering out into the darkness.

The man, Ambel noted, had been very reluctant to be more than a pace from his shotgun, and cradled it now. Perhaps understandable with what was evidently following them. And he was right about stopping, too. The moment they did, the giant whelk now somehow swimming after them would be all over the Treader in minutes.

‘Peck’s got that right, I’m afraid. We’d end up in the sea if not in our friend’s guts.’ He stabbed a thumb behind the ship. ‘So you’ll have to stay with us for a while.’

‘Good,’ said Davy-bronte.

Ambel peered at him curiously.

Davy-bronte continued, ‘We been on the Vignette, Cap’n, so we know a good ship when we’re on one.’

‘Okay, lads. You get some rest now.’

Ambel turned away as Peck took the two juniors below. He glanced up to Boris at the helm, nodded to him, then strolled to the stern. Ambel—always calm and not prone to panic—realized Silister and Davy-bronte’s service aboard the Treader might be limited indeed unless he could think of a way to deal with the giant whelk. Perhaps after the Sargassum, find an island, break out the harpoons and every other available weapon, beach the ship and… get things sorted. Ambel winced at the thought. Jabbing harpoons into giant leeches was all very well, but he knew a bit about the thing following them.