The first Object we were to approach was the Brain. It is a fat ovoid the size of Mars. Like the other objects, it started life as a reasonably commonplace globe. Then the sculptors, using some unimaginable technology, reshaped it, etching deep and convoluted designs into its surface. The largest lines are the size of canyons, the smallest no wider than a few centimetres. Together, they form an intricate, planet-sized labyrinth of exquisite complexity, with no identifiable beginning or end, no entry point or centre.

My plan was to remain in the pool for another half an hour, watching our progress towards the Brain through the window. I hoped the water would soothe the remaining tension in my neck and shoulders, and rinse away the fatigue from my workout. When we got closer to the Brain, I’d return to my cabin to wake Adam. We’d get dressed and take tea and sushi on the observation deck at the front of the ship, where most of the crew and passengers would be gathered beneath the transparent dome to witness our closest approach.

* * *

I had begun to drift off to sleep when the water quivered around me. At first, it was a pleasant sensation, like being rocked in a parent’s arms. Then a second, stronger shudder wrenched me from my doze, and I gripped the side of the pool. The lights flickered. Beyond the window, I glimpsed a swarm of firefly sparks.

Torpedoes!

We were under attack, but by whom? And why weren’t the alarms sounding? Why weren’t we retaliating?

The engines were off, and even the air conditioning had stopped. The resulting silence was eerier and more terrifying than any amount of noise could have been.

I surged from the water and grabbed my robe. A couple of teenagers emerged from one of the saunas looking perplexed, but I pushed straight past them, shoving my way towards the corridor. There was no time now to think. No time to warn anybody else. It was entirely possible, likely even, that I only had a few minutes of life remaining, and there were things I needed to do.

Three: Ashton Childe

THREE

ASHTON CHILDE

The electric fan rattled. The air was hot down here by the equator. Humidity plastered my shirt to my ribs, and I envied the residents of the planet’s more northerly, cooler climes. Even with the office door closed, I could smell the creeping reek of the jungle beyond the airfield’s perimeter. I contemplated the gun on the desk before me. It was small, compact and efficient-looking: a black metal L-shape with a touchpad trigger and a small aperture at the business end. If I had to spend one more day in this stinking craphole, I worried I might snap and use it to shoot somebody. And I worried that somebody might be me.