Now, I've not seen a whole lot of this world of ours. The furthest north I've been is to the Dead Forests, and that was far enough, but I knew a hunter when I saw one. This Kinn was looking for someone.
Inevitably its eyes came to me and they lingered. I'd been a hired gun for seven years at that point and I ain't ever felt a shiver up my spine like I did then. When his gaze moved on it was if a weight had been lifted.
Then the queerest of things happened. I got the urge to look over the room myself, see if I couldn't suss out the Kinn's target. Everyone in that dump looked shifty. Some were darting glares at the Kinn and idly touching their nine-bolters, not that I felt any had the guts to use them. I certainly didn't.
One man stood out from the others. His name was Guss and like me he was hired muscle for the baggage trains. The train master had about twenty boys for this trip. New faces every time and Guss hadn't really stood out. Just another worn out Spacer kid fallen into the wrong line of work. He didn't strike me as the nicest guy but there were a hell of a lot worse out here.
Guss was nearly as white as the Kinn. He was trying to keep his head down and play it cool but the kid was no poker player. The black eyes reached him and they stuck there like glue. The kid looked left and right but no-one would meet his eye. Guss was all alone in a room full of people, poor sod.
I expected him to grab for his gun, to make the first move. I didn’t expect him to run. He blundered out through those swinging doors and no-one even blinked an eye. The Kinn stood and calmly followed, its expression unreadable. Everyone just kept drinking. Like Scale-Calf after Old Moon dinner, relaxing in the knowledge that their death wasn't coming, not tonight at least.
Curiosity killed the cat but who wants to live forever? Almost as fast as Guss, I was up and out of my chair. I was nearly at the doors before someone grabbed my arm. An old fellow blinked at me with yellow eyes and warned me in a rasp:
'We don’t get many of them tree-folk down this way, not seen one for years. If there's one here now, chances are something of theirs has been taken. Don’t go getting involved.'
I'd smelt better breath on a mule but there was some kindness in his words. The old man was trying to warn me. I didn't know poor Guss from Adam but I know it ain't right to leave your fellow man out for the dogs. I pulled free of that gnarled hand and strode out into the warm, dry night, all righteous fury and purpose.
Guss hadn't gotten far, just down a side alley a stone's throw from the saloon, but I was too late all the same. A pool of blood was already spreading out around the lad. Some kind of exotic knife had been plunged between his ribs into his heart. A quick death. The kid's jacket was torn open and nearby lay an empty bag. I'd seen him with that bag a few times - it never left his sight.
Something taken, the old man had said. The bag was empty. Using it as a glove I gripped the knife and pulled it loose. The blade was translucent and gleaming even through the blood. It had the soft amber colouring of tree sap and the handle was that of a twisted root. The Kinn was gone, swallowed by the night, but his abandoned blade was a calling card and it brought to mind a nursery rhyme my mother used to sing:
Father’s in the forest,
Mother’s in the den,
Brother’s gone to find him,
All lost in the fen,
Blunt your axe,
Break your shears,
We will not find them maimed,
Burn the forest,
Bring the light,
Father shall be reclaimed.
It was old, about the first human colony here, back when the Kinn were more widespread. Whatever Guss had taken I still wonder if it was worth dying for. Then again, everyone has their price. Guss paid his all those years ago.
By daybreak the snake-worms had eaten his body of course and the baggage train moved on without a backward glance. I've seen a lot of death since then but I always remember Guss. I've never seen one of the Kinn since and I'm a ripe old age now, but if you'd been in that saloon that night, if you'd seen its eyes - that's not a race that'll die out. The Kinn are still out there. One day we'll spread out too far and there'll be war - a war we ain't prepared for.
Pandemonium
Valus glared into the roiling muck below him, grateful that he couldn't feel the cold against his synthetic skin; he'd deliberately deactivated his sensation receptors before leaving the comfort of his shuttle. Had he neglected to do so, standing here atop the cliff might have been agony.
In its present state the planet he stood on was not habitable. Were he still completely human the toxic air would have choked him, and the wind would have cast him from the cliff whilst tearing his flesh into bloody ribbons. Fortunately for him, Valus had long thrown off the restrictions of flesh.
He looked, to all intents and purposes, like a small boy. Were someone to see him, who knew little of modern augments, they would judge him to be around twelve or thirteen. In reality Valus was closer to two hundred years of age. His original body long gone, replaced with a blond, mostly mechanical, cherub wearing robes woven with diamonds.
His likeness was that of the God of Destruction. Perceptions of Gods change throughout history; the cherubic destroyer had come into the social consciousness roughly three hundred years ago, just after the dawn of the 25th Century, and persisted ever since. The illusion was perfect, and apt, considering his intention.
He didn't need to leave his shuttle at all. He could have achieved his goal from almost anywhere across the planet but Valus cared for the proper order of things. Currently the planet had one landmass. This small, solitary patch of terrain had a singular cliff. Here Valus was drawn by his innate flair for the dramatic, carrying a substance of some importance.
His plan involved the ocean below, which was not an ocean at all, not in any conventional sense. It was a thick and viscous substance born of a laboratory – a synthetic primordial ooze – which had been deliberately spread across the planet. Eventually it would dissolve and leave behind the beginnings of an accelerated eco-system. For now it was a stinking sea of slow moving chemicals.
Valus glowered at it with disgust. His small, delicate looking face contorted into an ugly snarl. The foul ocean represented everything that he considered wrong with the Union. Certainly, the planet would be made fit for human habitation and would inevitably become a home to countless people. Yet it would be a world commandeered by the Union in its inception. Valus saw this as a great injustice. The Union, as far as Valus was concerned, was unfairly playing the role of creator, when it had no right to do so. Thus he stood atop the windswept cliff in his borrowed godly body and judged the Union, and their chosen world, and found them wanting. The irony was lost on him.
Machines sat in orbit triggering fluctuations in tectonic movements that would eventually birth continents. Valus could sense them up there in the night sky via his bio-cortex augmentations. Each vessel was a swirl of automated calculations and readouts on the periphery of his consciousness.
Via the Eternal Net he could also see, if he concentrated, the azure spider web of the Union spread out across vast swathes of the known galaxy. If the Union was the muscle of humanity, then the Eternal Net was its nervous system. The two were irrevocably linked. A person was part of the Eternal Net from birth till death - whether augmented or not - and to disconnect was to forfeit everything humanity had become. So said the propaganda, at least.
With a sudden movement his hand snatched at something hidden in his ear. He yanked it out with a wince and cast it to the ground. Little more than pea sized the item was immediately snapped away by the wind. His connection to the Eternal Net was now disconnected. It was a state he had never experienced before.
The pain was indescribable, bordering on existential; like thrusting jagged glass into the memory of first love. Enhanced senses that he had long taken for granted abandoned him and his mental horizons faded into near nothingness. For the first time in his life he felt alone. He wavered, the pain seemed insurmountable. A single word kept
him focused: 'Pandemonium.'
That the planet was named as such was nothing short of destiny. With a final mental push he disconnected himself from the Eternal Net entirely, rapidly targeting and deleting emergency programmes buried deep in his brain which sought to create a new link. He sat and pulled his knees under his chin and groaned. He rocked back and forth and gritted his teeth. It was, he reflected, as though his entire species had suddenly died out. All of humanity vanished, even the machines in orbit faded and vanished, their monotonous calculations seemed blown away by the wind. Each second stretched out torturously.
When it finally passed he was left in a lonely mental silence. He felt stunted, what few senses remained to him seemed underdeveloped. He blinked in the gloom with his basic, synthetic eyes, now barely able to spy the fake ocean below. He stood again and fumbled inside his elaborate robe before pulling out a small vial. The contents emitted a gentle green glow. He held it up to his face and watched as it swirled and glistened, as though it were a living thing.
Like the shimmering ocean, this substance was also born in a Union lab. Unlike what waited below this did not work to any strict guidelines.
Valus knew the gravity of what he held: the antithesis of ordered creation. Immense planning went into terraforming, the Union had long held the ability to grow perfect worlds, but this planning was also its weak point. This planet was an open wound, the scab had not healed over. It was vulnerable.
Without struggle, how can we really grow?
The thought gave him strength. With trembling hands he broke the encryption sealing that security cap of the vial and slid it back. This was the triumphant culmination of a life’s work, and an end which justified all the risks he had taken to get this far.
He stepped to the edge, his bare toes curling on the lip. He stretched out his arm, knuckles white around the glass vial. Slowly, the green fluid poured out, immediately whipped away and downwards by the strong winds.
A split moment later a rail-bolt slammed into his shoulder and sent him spinning back from the edge. He landed in a crumpled heap several feet away. The Union, he realised whilst regaining his feet, had arrived sooner than he'd expected. Valus glanced at his shoulder which was now a burning red hot hole. His right arm refused to respond.
The Vulture-Drone jumped into view, looking more like an airborne spider than its namesake. Had he still been connected to the Eternal Net Valus might have been able to communicate with the drone, instead he did his best to ignore it. It had arrived too late after all.
He stumbled back to the cliff edge and looked down. The artificial ocean was at war with itself; broiling and bashing against the cliff, like a creature in agony. There was a green glow below, ever increasing, and he knew for certain that he had been successful. This world would not belong to the Union - this world would truly live up to its namesake. Valus was only sorry that he would not be around to see it himself.
He smiled as the Vulture-Drone's spotlight landed on him, catching his diamond studded robe in a flare of white light. The drone watched but did not try to intervene as Valus leapt out into the void. The spotlight followed his descent, giving his young façade a halo of light. The false cherub hit the synthetic ocean with enough force to shatter bones. In their civil war the substances barely paused before tearing his body apart.
The post-human, Valus, died without a murmur, but by his actions Pandemonium lived.
Machine Monk
Old Corretta was knocking at death's door when the Machine Monk came to the outpost town of Haildock. One of his sort hadn't visited since she was a little girl, back when the Church Mechanicus was widespread throughout all the outpost towns.
Her abundant, extended family were gathered at her deathbed, when her grandson of barely twelve years came bursting in.
'Nana Corretta!' he spluttered, oblivious to the looks of reproach from those gathered, 'Machine Monk is at the town limits!'
'Dammit Nathanial can't you see tha-' began his father.
'I ain't dead yet, Tobias!' snapped the old woman, turning her head towards the boy.
'You seen him?' she asked, her eyes gleaming.
Nathanial nodded.
'He come from the cities or from the wastes?'
'The wastes, Nana!'
'Not had any Monks out here for a long time,' said one of Corretta's five daughters, 'I find it hard to believe!'
'He ask for anything?' Corretta asked, ignoring her daughter's gabbling.
'Only for a place to rest for a day or so, and he asked if the faith ran strong here.'
Now the room exchanged worried looks.
'How did you answer, boy?' Corretta asked, slowly.
Nathanial began padding from one foot to the other.
'I said that he'd have to ask you.'
Now the room looked back to their sickly leader, all bundled up in bed, still wearing a nightdress and matching dressing gown.
To their surprise her wrinkled face split into a toothy grin, all her own, and she clapped her hands together.
'Good lad!' she declared, 'All these layabouts,' she gestured at her gathered loved ones, 'all keen to say their goodbyes but you're out there looking after the town and getting business sorted.'
She pulled the boy closer and whispered into his ear:
'Run and get him, lead him directly here and don't let anyone get close enough to talk to him. If anyone gives you trouble tell them you're following Corretta's dying wish. Got that?'
Nathanial gave a serious nod, turned on his heels and sped from the room.
Corretta turned her attention back to the others
'Well, can't you see I have a meeting planned!?'
They all kept staring, uncertain about what had just happened.
'OUT!' Corretta roared, so as to dispel any confusion.
She managed to stop herself from cackling until after they'd all tripped over one another to get away.
***
Nathanial came knocking just shy of an hour later.
'What took you?' she asked the boy.
'Sorry Nana,' he said, 'but the Monk wanted to go around all the streets before he came here.'
'I was worried he might,' she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.
'Off you go then, tell him to come in,' she said gruffly, then before the boy reached her door she added, 'You're one of the best, Nathanial.'
Nathanial left the room with significantly better posture; an air of pride about him.
The Machine Monk looked just how she remembered them. Head and shoulders taller than most, over seven feet at least, by her reckoning. Dressed head to toe in worn brown leather and yellowed robes, muddied and torn by travel. On its head sat a wide brimmed hat, which it politely removed on entering the room.
Its face had no expression, it being a smooth approximation of a human head, albeit with no visible features. Corretta knew that under its metal skin sat sensors and scanning equipment which far outstripped any human alive. On its forehead was a symbol of the Church Mechanicus; a simple cog with a sun behind it. A badge of eternal faith.
With polite reverence the machine closed the door behind itself and pulled up a chair. It sat down with a whir of motors.
'Welcome to Haildock,' said Corretta, with as much grace as she could muster.
'Thank you,' replied the Monk
Despite its inhuman appearance its voice wasn't harsh, but rather lilting and melodic.
'You've been through the wastes?' Corretta asked.
The Monk nodded.
'It was my holy pilgrimage to do so.'
'You programmed to say that?' Corretta asked, before she could stop herself.
She raised her hand in an attempt to wave away her own words. Before she could add anything she began to cough, great chesty wheezes that took some time to subside.
'Can I get you some water?' asked the Monk.
'No you bloody well cannot!' Corretta snapped.
Silence fell between them, punctuated only by Cor
retta's ragged breaths. Eventually the Machine Monk began speaking.
'My pilgrimage began over seventy years ago. I was to walk as deep into the wastes as I could. I was to try and reach the First Mountain.'
'I thought that was just a story?'
The Machine Monk turned his faceless head towards her.
'You must have faith,' he said.
Corretta rolled her eyes but the Monk seemed not to notice.
'I walked for forty days and forty nights before I was finally beset upon by the Enemy. Beasts made of substances you could never imagine fell upon me without fear or hesitation.'
The Monk pulled back his robes and extended one metallic arm, pocked with dips and furrows and indents that looked an awful lot like teeth.
'One hundred times I was defeated and ruined; one hundred times I pieced myself back together again.'
Corretta's expression had shifted from scorn to something else, pity perhaps.
'Such is the will of the Church Mechanicus,' it intoned, woodenly.
Corretta reached out an unsteady hand and lay it upon the Monk's arm.
'What about your will?' she asked.
'My will?' it asked.
'You are sentient and sapient, ain't you?' Corretta asked, 'So you must have your own will.'
The Machine Monk considered this for a moment.
'My will is insubstantial to the will of the Church. You speak of heresy.'
Corretta yanked her hand back and scowled.
'Don't you speak to me of heresy!' she snapped, 'The Church promised many things to the outpost towns. It promised protection and safety. It promised a dozen Monks to every town, yet you are the first to come this way in nearly a generation. We've had no contact with the cities beyond the occasional scant supply train and they're drying up! Heresy indeed!'
She spat across the room with practiced precision.
The Monk took this tirade in without interruption, when it spoke it sounded sympathetic.
'I have been gone a long time. It is easy to forget about the rest of the world.'
Death Echo - Volume 1 Page 3
