Free The Line of Polity by Neal Asher

" the face on the screen informed them later on. "It is unfortunate that a member of your group was killed today — may she rest in the arms of our Lord — but it must be understood that you are indebted for your lives to the people and planet of Masada and to the God of the Faithful. A small portion of this debt can be cancelled by your work upon this ship, and finally in the yards on Flint..." The Deacon went on and on about the wonderful things they could do, and the projects in which they might become involved. He then told them they were the defenders of humanity.
    "Perhaps you are unaware of what caused the destruction of Outlink station Miranda ... Some of you may know the story of the system of Aster Colora, some of you may know of the more recent events on the way-station world of Samarkand. On the latter world, thousands of people were killed by the transgalactic servant of Satan that names itself Dragon. It used a nanomycelium to destroy the buffers of an interstellar runcible so that a man arrived on Samarkand as photonic matter. His arrival was the cause of a fusion explosion that killed many. Many more died in the aftermath, for Samarkand was a cold world heated by energy build-ups from the runcible. The rest of the population froze to death. Know now that the nanomycelium used to destroy Miranda was the same one — that Dragon destroyed your home. You must work now to ..."
    So it went on and, each time they thought it had finished with a 'God defend the faithful', Deacon Chaisu would start up again.
    "Propaganda officer," said someone nearby.
    "They're religious," observed Apis's mother.
    "So?" asked the speaker.
    "They believe their own propaganda. It's where the word originates," she replied knowledgeably.
    Apis asked, "What is going on?"
    "There is an old word for what we are to become," said the man nearby.
    "What is that?" asked Apis.
    "Slaves," his mother told him.
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    The sprawns were the blue of tool steel and over ten centimetres long. Their wings made it necessary for nets to be stretched across their ponds at all times, to prevent them flying off to die in an environment hostile to them. As Eldene understood it, they were another expensive delicacy destined both for the tables of the Theocracy and for them to trade in exchange for luxury goods from other worlds.
    "They say these are an adaptation from an Earth creature," Fethan said as he and Eldene laboured at digging a sluice ditch leading to one of the ponds.
    "I might like to believe your stories about the Underground, but I don't believe the ones about Earth, old man," Eldene replied.
    "Why not?" Fethan sounded hurt, as he shovelled out another clump of black mud.
    Eldene watched the nest of green nematodes the old man had uprooted, as they writhed and burrowed back into darkness. "The great mythical empire where everyone is free and everyone has their portion of plenty. I know the difference between what's possible and what's wishful thinking. If this Earth even exists, it's far from here and not doing anything to help us. And as for this Human Polity run by godlike AIs..." She snorted and shovelled more mud.
    "But it's true," Fethan protested.
    "Oh yes, then why aren't there Polity ships amongst the traders?"
    "How do you know there are not?" Fethan asked.
    "Well, if some of them are Polity, they seem glad enough to buy refined squerm and sprawn essence," Eldene spat, thinking of the buyers the Vicar of Cyprian Compound sometimes brought out on tour, who did not seem overly bothered by the penitential lot of the pond worker.
    Fethan said, "Most of 'em are scum of the Line."
    "Yes, and I'm a gabbleduck's mother," said Eldene. And there the conversation ended, as it was drowned out by the racket of Volus's aerofan landing nearby. Now silent, the two of them dug their way closer and closer to the heavy iron sluice gate across which they must fit nets before draining the pond. Before they reached the gate, a shriek had them peering over the