by Neal Asher
He hesitated before giving his diagnosis. “There is indeed a hound in the Hogger Leads Inn, hiding at the top of the building. It has been genetically altered by one at my Shrine.”
Nirian babbled, “Remove it, remove it!”
“Very well. You must all stay here.”
Edward left the common room and ascended the stairs. From a pocket he pulled out a portable communicator of the type used by street people. (I mean, beggars. Sorry.) I heard every word that he spoke into it. “The hound is still inside the inn. Do you want me to carry on?”
It was difficult to locate the frequency of the carrier wave but I managed, three-fifths of a second later, to hear, “… I do, inform me when the union is complete. I'm standing outside.”
“Very well.”
Edward found the hound without difficulty, whistling and calling, until the creature emerged from its hole and began licking his hand. Edward picked it up and took it to the nearest network port. With a single swipe of the nails on his right hand he cut the hound's throat. Then he twisted off its head and touched the bloody central unit to the port matrix. When I realised what he was doing I tried to close down the port, but it was too late. The union of hound and network had been made. Edward ran down the first flight of stairs then made to a south-facing window, where he tapped the glass and waved an all-clear sign with one hand.
Outside, I heard Harold sniggering.
It was only then that I realised what was happening. Bringing the hound in its basket had been the first part of Harold's devious plan; what he had really wanted to introduce was a priest of Canis.
Far worse was to come. Now I feared for the safety of Nirian, her staff and guests, and even for my own future.
“Huh! Sheer melodrama.”
Information Nugget sdh3
Subject: Harold
Content: a male aged twenty-eight, sold at age sixteen to the Shrine of Rhiannon, evaluated by High Priestess Tamara and sent to the Kitchens for the delight of defender-class women. Abandoned son of the Shrine of Canis. H 6'1”, W 12-5
“This also is nonsense – Harold was thirty-five and suffered from cancer. He weighed nine stone six.”
You did not know him. You have only recently arrived here from the west.
The noise of hounds howling can be horrific. I know from history computers that hounds were once the pets of human beings, that many were pleased by the presence of hounds in their homes. But not in Shrewsbury… not now. Hound howls strike terror into everyone in Amwythig.
Before he departed, Edward showed Nirian the body of the hound and told her, “Here's your problem.” There was silence, then the thud of Edward closing the outer door.
Oleana said, “That's odd. I've never heard of a Canis worshipper killing one of their own.”
Nirian shrugged. “Who cares? The Hogger Leads Inn is safe.”
Those few people in the common room relaxed, Delia and Perria setting up a microphone, Nirian pouring a nightcap tot of whiskey. An hour later nineteen people lay asleep.
They awoke to howling. I can remember exactly what the servant Morgan ap Nirian said. “Blue blood will spill. We're surrounded.”
And they were.
Overnight, a dozen hounds had migrated from Milk Street, settling in a circle, so that from every window – from the common room, the back kitchen, the side chambers, even from the garret under the roof – the shape of a hound could be seen, black upon grey, sheltering as best they could against the sleet. I can recall every human curse, every vile epithet, but such language is inappropriate to my tale and I will forbear from setting the reactions down. Suffice it to say that fear, even terror were abroad. Such a scene had never before been witnessed outside of the Shrine of Canis.
“That clearly can’t be the case if the words of the tale as related so far are true. If, as I suspect, some words are false, then such a scene had been witnessed before. Incidentally, Morgan is not related to Ninian – you didn’t correct that did you? Yet another mistake…”
Are you relating this tale or am I? And who found it, me or you?
“Huh! I have more outputs than you realise.”
It was Oleana who once again took the first step towards understanding. “It's like wolves seeking one of their kin,” she remarked.
Jane nodded. “They sound like wolves,” she said. “Howling, howling…”
Judging from the expression on Oleana's face, she was cogitating. “But there's no hound here,” she said. “That priest took it away.”
Nirian muttered something that even I did not hear, then added, “Probably the stench of that foul Edward. The hounds will depart tonight for the Abbey ruins.”
And yet, unbeknownst to all, Harold's plan was proceeding. All six guests took their leave. Come evening there was a pile of cash on the bar, everybody paying up in full, everybody gone. Nineteen were reduced to thirteen. No hound departed the gardens. A siege mentality began to form.
A meeting was held in the common room. Nirian began by saying, “There's no hound inside this inn, we've nothing to worry about, it's just the canine aura of that priest.”
How different was the truth: the aura of a hound, haunted networks. Of course the hounds outside could sense this aura.
“Haunted networks, you say? And were there seven guests or six?”
At length Oleana said, “What exactly was the hound Harold brought here?”
She was quick, Oleana, some quirk of her background or her thought process leading her down the correct path, though she did not know what I knew, that Edward had acted for the greater good of Canis. But Oleana did know that a hound would attract other hounds of its immediate family to the Hogger Leads Inn. That this was a virtual hound made no difference to the canine kin.
“What are you talking about?” Nirian asked.
“I think you're wrong,” Oleana replied. “I don't think these hounds will go. That man Harold… how did he get hold of a hound? Why dump it inside the common room?”
“To kill us,” came the answer from various people.
Oleana nodded. “Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe there is something more.”
Nirian tapped the table with her tankard. “If those hounds don't leave soon,” she said, “the Hogger Leads is dead and gone. Without guests I'm nothing, even in these times of Welsh Supremacy.”
Oleana looked at her. “That is true, isn’t it,” she said.
Nirian had in one sentence enunciated my fear. If people departed, what would I do? Communities and technologies are interdependent, each reduced, even destroyed without the other. I wanted to survive. I wanted Harold's plan foiled. But I could do nothing. I was helpless.
They had to get rid of that network hound.
But how? How, when they did not even know it existed? And they had but days to act. Soon the rumour of the Hogger Leads Inn would not be one of warmth and light and folk music, but one of hounds and terror. I knew I would not survive such a rumour.
That night nobody slept well. I heard every occupied bed squeak as the person upon it tossed and turned, or dreamed dreadful dreams.
It was the following morning when Oleana initiated her plan. I saw nothing of her walk through the alleys of Amwythig, of her search in Market Square. I saw nothing of the package she purchased, until she returned to her room.
Oleana was a thief, she was a magpie. She had to be: stone deaf, she had stolen two slug-like computerised ears. Blind in one eye, she had also acquired a sensor eyepatch. Her room was paradise: soft rugs, a large couch, multi-coloured cotton on the walls. She survived by trading illegally. Technology mostly, though she also dealt in small animals.
This background allowed her to access the more sophisticated parts of Market Square. In her room she unwrapped the package to reveal a black lump, which she connected to other technological oddments strewn across her table until, after one and three-quarter hours, she had constructed a device. At first I did not recognise it, but when I saw the type of port interface she had chose
n – the mate of the matrix on the port used by Edward to begin the canine haunting – I knew it must be a simulation module.
At last I saw what desperate ploy would be attempted to chase away the virtual hound.
Information Nugget zxn435n
Subject: Old Quarter Simulation Module BX3-T
Content: devised by Cerys to complement the software architecture of her partner Bryn. Details, a stand-alone module with morphic ability, mimicking any network environment so that the defence systems of said network are not alerted, at the same time allowing the user to manipulate said network to the desired end, most often through the use of camouflage.
“I know that to be true.”
You think you are so clever. But you do not exist, Scourger. You only believe you do.
Oleana, I think, knew what she was doing. She had considered the evidence and drawn her conclusion. The simulation module would be used to struggle with the virtual hound. So the day passed, then evening, then it was night, and one by one people went to bed. No hounds had tried to enter through door or window, but still they howled, frightening off anybody brave or foolhardy enough to tread the street outside. When all was silent Oleana crept up to the port through which the virtual hound had leaped, connecting her machine, switching on the monitor, then sitting cross-legged with the device on her lap. In her hands she held two joysticks. Beep. The connection was made: device to network.
It seemed to me that a new wing had been added, but it looked normal, and I wasn’t sure for how long it had been present. I have a long memory. I can recall inn designs from way back. I wasn’t worried by this new bit of architecture.
Using the twin joysticks, Oleana navigated her representative (which she had chosen because it had the fastest weapons) down the stairs to the common room. With little traffic coming in from external sources, the simulation was smooth, the action fast. Oleana was familiar with her machine. She used IR-mode to scan the chairs for heat signs of the virtual hound. I remember seeing displays pop up on her monitor warning her of loose objects and so forth.
At this point I became aware of damp shapes slinking in between the curtains of downstairs windows.
While Oleana sought the virtual hound I looked out into the gardens, to see a unique sight. All twelve hounds stood poised as if to pounce, tails swishing, eyes and ears locked on some presence inside the common room. Yet they did not move. Knowing they were enhanced I scanned frequencies, detecting their gestalt influence three and a half seconds later. I knew then that Oleana faced not one but thirteen virtual hounds.
Tiny forms were bounding along corridors and across rooms to get to the common room.
Of course, there was nothing I could do to help, I could not even warn Oleana. She had taken this task upon herself. If her representative was killed, the hounds would stay and my future was bleak.
Now the common room was full of silent menace. Thirteen canine shapes faced a single person who could not hope to kill all of them before the hounds bit their throat out. The situation was a standoff. The weapon muzzle trembled. Thirteen hound tails swung from side to side, slow, deliberate, as if to deny me the possibility of action.
And then I had an idea. My perfect memory could import any scene it desired. In microseconds I caused a simulation of Edward re-enter the virtual common room then pause by the door, so that every virtual hound turned to look at its totem. Oleana took a deep breath, straightened her back and gripped tight the joystick controls. In one fluid movement she fired and swung the muzzle across the line of hounds. Her monitor showed the result: every one burst into flames.
The hounds vanished. I leaned back against the bar and blew across the smoking muzzle of the weapon. A green sign flashed upon one wall of the new wing: simulation complete.
Success. The attention of the hounds had been diverted long enough for Oleana to make one attack and destroy them all. Together, we had won. I looked out into the garden to see the hounds slinking away. The gestalt entity was shattered, the virtual hound no longer attracting them. I was safe… until the English should come again.
The English will never return to claim back what they once held. And if they try, we shall oppose them. The dragon shall oppose them with every last drop of blue blood.
“Croeso y Cymru.”
O’n i’n aros mewn gwesty gerllaw’r Afon Hafren ar y pryd.
“Ceir cyfoeth o atyniadau gerllaw.”
Ha ha ha ha ha ha!
“Do you seriously think people are going to believe the version you’ve just related?”
Occupation
Colin Harvey
Doctor Hue was on the beach teaching José to read when the Nzaghi craft crashed in the bay off Puerto Rosario.
They’d sought peace and quiet in the bay next to the village, one of a chain of scallop-shaped inlets stretching down the coast to Tarragona. The February afternoon was cloudy, the still air redolent with pine, sage and the tarragon that gave the region its name. Birds chirped and insects buzzed.
“Bueno, José. ¡Qué es esto?” Hue underlined another word. The boy mouthed the word, wrestling with its meaning. José was the brightest child in the village, but he struggled with even simple words. While most of the older villagers could read, the skills weren’t being passed on. Without Hue’s teaching, José’s generation would have faced a long slide toward barbarism. Perhaps that’s what the Nzaghi want, Hue thought, they watch while we fall from grace.
A roar from the North rent the afternoon: a small flyer, perhaps a single seater from whose side smoke and flames boiled. It lurched crazily sideways through the air, as the pilot fought for control. Then it disappeared behind the headland. Hue stood statue-still until galvanised by the explosion that followed seconds late.
He rushed over the rocks of the headland, almost breaking his ankle several times. Even so José passed him, and was dancing with impatience when Hue finally caught up.
The flyer had sunk. The only trace was a pall of smoke hanging over the water. Hue was about to trudge away when José plucked his arm. “Mira!” José pointed. Look!
They waded into the surf to retrieve the bobbing Nzaghi. Hue felt a moment’s anxiety when the shore dropped away beneath his feet, then he swam strongly out into the brown scum, cheered on by the shrieking boy, trying not to swallow any of the polluted water.
Hue had intended to save the alien; the idea of losing a patient – any patient – bothered him. But when he reached the body, a sudden rage seized him and he pushed the helmet under the water, in revenge for Tranh and the billions of others the creatures had murdered.
“Doctor!” José’s voice cut through Hue’s rage. The boy was wading out further and further. “¿Es muerto?” Is it dead?
Hue waved José back and grabbed the alien’s body under the arms and pulled. He was helped by the alien’s flotation suit, but had to stop for a breather every few metres, and when he felt sand beneath him, he collapsed in a fit of coughing.
He regained his feet, slowly hauling the body up the beach beyond the tide-line. The alien was taller than him, but surprisingly light, and Hue moved it quickly, Jose dancing attendance all the while.
“José!” Hue urged. “Help me get its suit off! Quickly!”
Between them they removed the suit, and Hue rolled the alien onto its side. He had never been near an Nzaghi, and was painfully aware of his ignorance. He could only hope its lungs were in the same place as a human’s, as he pumped the chest. This seemed to work. The alien coughed, retching water. It doubled up, still coughing, and he leaned back, watching.
The Nzaghi looked like an upright panther without the tail, its skin colour a mixture of blues, purples and greys: Hue had heard the blotches were a means of identification, and could change as part of their language, though he had no idea if this were true. The creature wore a vocoder round its neck, a box about fifteen centimetres by five by two deep, growing into the flesh beneath its throat.
“¿Habla español?” Hue asked. The creature said
nothing. “English?” Hue persisted, then switched to Vietnamese, tried his French, and even prised a little Chinese from his memory.
The alien lay there blinking, eyelids closing from the sides. Its jaw was more pointed than a panther’s, but the overall resemblance was remarkable. Hue sighed, and helped it to its feet. He had to think it as such: he had no idea whether this was male, female, or neuter. “Lean on me.” Hue propped it up. “Get my things,” he commanded José, “and bring them to my house.”
The village was barely a kilometre away, but they made slow progress.
Hue was surprised that no one met them. The villagers must have heard the crash. There were a few olders too frail to work, and mothers nursing their children; they stared in bemusement as he shuffled the alien to his house. At this time of day most villagers gathered food. They fished from the rocks, risking broken limbs to cast drift nets; the aliens sank any boats that broke the interdiction. The young men dived to gather the molluscs beneath the water. A few tilled the fields inland or gathered nuts, berries and fungi from the scrubby forests. Hue’s status made him probably the only able-bodied person exempt from the all-consuming need to gather food. The villagers accepted that his skills were needed elsewhere.
“They think me more than half mad, anyway.” He said to the alien in Spanish, still unsure if it understood a word he said, not really caring: it was a relief to have someone new to talk to: maybe someone of his own education and intelligence. “Their uncertainty has probably kept me alive over the years. And the fact that at my age, I’d probably taste foul.”
One of the women ran off, and Hue guessed El Jefe would arrive soon.
José waited for him. “You’d better go,” Hue said, dropping the alien onto his bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
