The Orphaned Worlds

by Michael Cobley

  ‘Would you like food to eat, Pathmistress?’ said one of the Listener sisters, leaning out of a clump of foliage above.

  ‘Thank you, but no. Later perhaps.’

  The female Listener inclined her head and withdrew into the greenery. Catriona looked upward again then approached the trunk and began to climb.

  I need to get up high, she thought. I need to see the sky, to see Darien.

  THEO

  All around, the forest was darkening as evening encroached. Theo held on to the harness handles with a white-knuckle grip as the trictra climbed a steeply sloping branch. In front, Etril sat behind the creature’s head, languidly prodding its frontal joints from time to time.

  Four weeks on Nivyesta, he thought. Dozens of journeys on these spider-beasts and still I get the fear!

  Otherwise, he reckoned he had adapted quite well to forest life. Adapt and survive was the basic axiom when you were trapped in the wild. But when he thought about Catriona – well, it was a hard thing to grasp, this notion of the entire forest having a mind which was thousands of years old and which could speak with those it thought useful. How, he wondered, had Cat adapted to that role? What had she given up? The forest undoubtedly wanted to survive but Theo knew that this stage of the conflict could not go on. Sooner or later the Brolturans would attack with overwhelming force.

  And then the entire moon will burn, he thought darkly.

  ‘We are very near to Ipolb, Karlsson,’ Etril said over his shoulder. ‘Do you wish me to watch over this steed for the evening or will you be able to manage?’

  ‘Ah, Etril, I have as much experience in the care of trictra as I have in leaf-jumping.’

  The Uvovo laughed. ‘I see your meaning, friend Karlsson. I shall remain this evening and look after this beastie … I have heard the Pathmistress use this word. Is it correct?’

  ‘I believe it is, Etril.’

  Minutes later, Ipolb came into view, a cluster of platforms, lean-tos and small huts lashed to the intertwined branches of two close-growing trees. Gantries and ropeways wound among the little community, now lit by glowing lamps in the fading light. Theo’s eyes were drawn to a platform further up one of Ipolb’s main trunks – yellow light shone from the narrow windows of a large lopsided shack, which sat there with a trictra shelter slung beneath.

  Etril let Theo off at the platform then took the trictra below for tethering and feeding. Theo could see that a pale blue curtain now hung over the door, and he pushed it aside as he entered. A small conical oil lamp shed soft golden light from a triangular recess above the bed alcove. Malachi sat at a table, a candle at his elbow, writing in his journal, a hardbound notebook that Theo had begged from one of the Human researchers at the hidden enclave. The table and chair were Uvovo-scale and Malachi was hunched over as he scribbled. When Theo stepped inside he glanced up for a moment then back and kept writing.

  ‘Hello, Major,’ he said. ‘You live so I assume that you were victorious.’

  The voice was calm and controlled, speaking Anglic with the inflexions of an odd dialect. The original complement of the colonyship Forrestal had been mainly North Americans and Germans but it appeared that the former had come to dominate.

  ‘We held our ground, they eventually retreated, and people on both sides died,’ he said. ‘Not much of a victory but it was the best we could manage. So, Malachi, why the curtain over the door?’

  The Tygran finished the sentence he was writing, closed the journal and carefully placed the pen beside it.

  ‘One of the Uvovo, not a local, came to pay a visit. I was … uncommunicative and he left. Another came, same outcome, and I thought that having a curtain would emphasise privacy.’

  Well, you are talkative today, Theo thought. ‘In Uvovo culture, hanging curtains in doors and windows is a sign of intense grief, mourning the loss of a loved one and so forth.’

  A bleak smile came to Malachi’s lips. ‘That is not so far from the truth … I am sorry, Major, but there are difficulties. You Dariens have managed to coexist somehow with these native sentients; you trust them and accept them and this seems to be reciprocal. This is not the Tygran experience.’

  Theo regarded him, recalling what he’d said before about the early history of the Tygran colony, of the wars fought against the Zshahil, a race of ruthless, savage reptilian bipeds who had presented a considerable threat to the colonists at the beginning. According to Malachi, several attempts at compromise were made but the Zshahil repeatedly broke truces and agreements. In the end, only superior weaponry and discipline defeated them and helped secure a peace treaty called the Cold Truce, after which the Zshahil migrated across the sea to another landmass.

  ‘Is that what you’re writing about?’ Theo said.

  The Tygran nodded. ‘And other things, what I observe here and the precious pieces from my life before. I can never return to Tygra – soldiers who are captured and fail to take the Night Road face only death. So I must find a new way to understand the world around me, and to understand myself. Which is why I am trying to understand you, Major.’

  Theo laughed. ‘I would not describe myself as any kind of role model, but if I can assist your contemplations in any way, please ask.’

  Outwardly, Theo was relaxed while inwardly he was delighted. After his capture, Malachi had been an unresponsive block, but after two weeks he seemed resigned to the situation and had asked for something to write on. He had also begun to talk about the Tygran colony and its origins, though only in basic terms. Until now.

  Malachi met Theo’s gaze. ‘Would you tell me about this skirmish today, especially your experience of events?’

  Theo obliged and gave an account of the fighting and how his preparation of the reserve proved useful. Malachi took notes as he listened, and throughout Theo felt a growing suspicion that his expression and demeanour were also being studied.

  ‘The Uvovo deaths trouble you,’ Malachi said.

  ‘Unnecessary deaths trouble me,’ Theo said. ‘War always contributes a cargo of unintended pain and slaughter. I don’t know who the Brolturan commander is but in the last month he has lost nearly a hundred and fifty troops for no gain whatsoever.’ Theo curled his lips in contempt. ‘He doesn’t care about his men – they’re just numbers to throw against us. A waste of life and resources.’

  ‘Battle winnows out the weak and the incompetent,’ Malachi said. ‘One of the Celestial Axioms says that the strong deserve to survive because only the strong fight to survive.’

  Theo smiled. ‘Strength comes in many different shapes, sizes and colours and I think I’ve seen them all. No commander should rely on combat to winnow out the weak or the incompetent – that’s what squad leaders are for.’

  Malachi frowned as he took this in, then said:

  ‘Your estimation of the Brolturan officer caste is correct – I have heard senior Tygran officers remark that their abilities do not match those of previous generations. The Hegemony provides them with new and sophisticated weapon systems, and this has blunted their tactical edge.’

  ‘There are no bad regiments, only bad officers,’ Theo said.

  Malachi paused, then snapped his fingers. ‘Is that not one of Napoleon’s sayings?’

  ‘General Slim, a British commander who fought the Japanese in the Second World War,’ Theo said. ‘Although I believe Napoleon said, “There are no bad soldiers, only bad officers.”’ Then, trying not to sound too interested: ‘So how does the Tygran military maintain its tactical edge? Do you have any giant battleships with extensive hull ornamentation?’

  Malachi laughed out loud, the first time Theo had heard him do so.

  ‘We do have a navy, but nothing larger than an attack cruiser,’ he said. ‘Our tactical edge is the Tygran soldier, and rather than trying to create an army encompassing a wide range of functions the founders settled on small, flexible units and intense, multiskill training.’

  It sounded familiar. ‘Security, infiltration, surveillance and sabotage,’ Theo
said. ‘And recruits are assigned to various companies or squads, each with its own little history of battles, heroes and villains, yes?’

  ‘Just so, Major,’ Malachi said with a curious smile. ‘Does your Darien military have such a system?’

  ‘Ja, only because I designed it. When I agreed to secretly train Viktor Ingram’s followers – a long story, tell it to you some time – I organised them into six squads named after old Norj gods, and when some of the town militaries came over to us we kept the names. And those names were brought into the new corps after the coup failed, Thor Company, Odin Company and the rest …’

  ‘It is similar for us. We have twelve commanderies, the Fireblades, the Nightwalkers, the Steel Hands, the Shadow Watch and others. Names were chosen that had no obvious link with the colonists’ lives back on Earth so that in time they would come to have a meaning that was all our own. Each commandery is led by its captain while the commander-in-chief is the Marshal Paramount. I am – was a tac-sergeant with the Stormlions, who are traditionally close to the Black Sun Commandery, since they fought together in the Obelisk Siege on Odusra 4 nearly sixty years ago.’

  ‘Battle forges strong bonds,’ Theo said, wondering why he was being so forthcoming.

  ‘And traditional alliances can become a disadvantage,’ Malachi said, putting his journal away in the table drawer then moving over to the pallet bed, beneath the golden lamp. ‘A few years ago, the Marshal Paramount, Aaron Ryan, was killed in action and one of the other captains was chosen, Matthias Becker, leader of the Black Sun.’

  ‘So where does the disadvantage come in?’

  ‘Upon promotion, all Marshal Paramounts undergo a brief operation that gives them a memory implant module, which provides them with the accumulated wisdom of the Tygran commandery archives. Becker was given something different, some kind of sentient cybernetic presence.’

  Theo sat on the edge of the table. ‘Sounds a lot like those AI implants the Hegemony people have.’

  ‘It is the same thing, I’m sure,’ Malachi said, crouching down at the foot of the pallet bed leaning against the wall. ‘All the Brolturan elite have them, as does your President Kirkland and his cabinet.’

  Theo swore. ‘Treasonous piece of skag! – couldn’t wait to become their creature.’ He shook his head. ‘So what happened to this Becker?’

  ‘He began to change various things, the tone of training, loyalty oaths, new kinds of indoctrination, induction rituals, favouritism and sycophancy. He also allowed the Hegemony to assign two commanderies to missions directly involving other Humans, which strains the main principle of the Eminent Treaty …’

  There was a scraping sound from beneath the floor, from the shelter where Etril was taking care of the trictra. Frowning, Theo said, ‘Did you hear … ?’

  Then he heard a footfall outside and stood. ‘Who’s there?’ Suddenly he noticed that Malachi was now standing up and holding a club fashioned from a length of branch.

  ‘I’m sorry, Theo,’ he said as the blue curtain was torn aside. ‘Truly sorry …’

  An armoured Ezgara commando burst into the hut. Instinctively, Theo grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a small plant pot, and struck him on the head then kicked his legs out from under him. But by then another two Ezgara had entered and after that the fight was settled in less than a minute. Theo, his head ringing from a glancing punch, was slumped on the floor with his hands bound, shoulders in the four-handed grip of one of the intruders. Another three were applying restraints to Malachi’s feet, knees and arms.

  A fifth Ezgara, an officer going by the silvery flash on his helmet, went over to the fettered Malachi.

  ‘We heard you telling the colonial about our private matters,’ he said. ‘What else have you told him?’

  Malachi gave a wolfish grin. ‘Everything!’

  The officer, features obscured by a full-face visor, regarded him for a moment, then told his men, ‘We’ll have to take them both. Get them muffled and harnessed – move!’

  Before Theo could speak a loop of opaque cord was dropped over his head and immediately all sounds died. As one commando tightened it to sit around his neck, Theo spoke and shouted but to no avail – he could neither hear any sound nor make any. At the same time, another Ezgara was fitting a mesh-and-struts harness around his upper chest. All of which took place in just a few moments before he and Malachi, similarly shackled, were hustled out of the door. Something was attached at his back and without warning he was yanked into the air and began ascending at a surprising speed.

  He felt leaves and sprigs brush against him and the last things he saw were the still bodies of Uvovo guards lying on the higher platforms. All in perfect silence. Seconds later he passed through the canopy’s layer of dense foliage which was suddenly spread out below him and receding, while above the open hold of a dark hovering craft gaped to accept him into its technical darkness.

  ROBERT

  Cradled, buffeted and battered by perpetual ice storms, Malgovastek City hangs from its five heavy steel cables, the Elavescent Hawsers, swaying only very slightly with the blasting, screaming winds. Vast weather systems roar through the Shylgandic Lacuna, swirling cyclonic blizzards that leave Malgovastek, like all the other penduline cities, encrusted in hoar frost and snow. But then a cunningly made heating network melts and loosens the ice, which low-grade mechanicals gather and send over the side. At its widest, across the diameter of the Supervisors Deck, Malgovastek is nearly 450 metres edge to edge and if the dock’s boom and extendable jetties are included, it exceeds half a kilometre. Only one vessel is currently moored at the city dock, a Dalo-style long-hauler with a Phusoyedito-outbound badge, a rarity in these times.

  Not that the Keklir guards in their sentry box care – all they are concerned with is the credentials of those seeking to pass between the dock and the city. And concerned as they also are about their physical warmth, they fail to notice the microinstant in which the personnel door in the big dock gates suddenly opens and closes. But they do discover that a muffler held over the heat vent proves cosily comforting when reattached to the snout.

  On board the Plausible Response, the Rosa-sim was screening a catalogue of the ship’s hull configurations for Robert, while the ship itself was having a discussion with Reski Emantes about the deepest tiers of hyperspace. All while they awaited the arrival of the Bargalil mystic Sunflow Oscillant.

  ‘… so this is our current profile, Daddy, a pocket freighter similar to those turned out in the hundreds of thousands by the Grand Gestator Ree-Ix-Dalo …’

  ‘The what?’ Robert said.

  ‘The Grand Gestators were a race of sentient, long-lived megaorganisms, whose huge bodies were essentially capable of making copies of any solid inorganic object.’

  Robert studied the image on the screen showing the Plausible Response as a bulbous craft with twin downswept vanes to the aft, each ending in a secondary thruster.

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Grew old and died out,’ Rosa said. ‘Sadly, many suffered senility in their final centuries, which left them vulnerable to the worst kinds of deceit. More than one transient cross-tier empire was built with weapons made by a Grand Gestator.’

  Robert shook his head and laughed. Every day he learned another incredible snippet of information about the tiers of hyper-space that made Earth, Earthsphere and the regions beyond seem dull. Then he had to remind himself that known space encompassed only a small fraction of the galaxy, and that his experience amounted to a mere smattering of what that had to offer.

  ‘What’s the next one?’ he said.

  Rose touched the screen. ‘An Exethi barque, which we’ll only use if we have to go anywhere near the eighty-third, eighty-fourth and eighty-fifth tiers …’

  Raised voices from down in the aft part of the bridge made them look up in surprise.

  ‘… I don’t care what your sensors picked up, you dolt!’ came Reski Emantes’s voice. ‘Stable, wide-spectrum ecosystems are impossible at that
depth. Para-entropic stresses affect submolecular forces and practically guarantee genetic drift and chaotic mutation.’

  ‘I am sorry but you are being an arrogant pipsqueak – my sensors did not lie, nor were they tricked by some projection, neither were they subsumed by a cyberattack. The sensory data was correct, therefore the planetoid existed along with its biosphere. It was real, just like that Bargalil over there.’

  What had been a closed main door in the aft bulkhead was suddenly open as a hooded, six-limbed Bargalil, dressed in what looked like layers of grey-brown webby rags, padded leisurely in.

  ‘How did … ?’

  ‘Ship,’ Rosa said. ‘Why did you allow this intruder aboard?’

  ‘I had little choice in the matter,’ said the Plausible Response. ‘Our guest appears to be employing a kind of state-causal phase-shift.’

  ‘That sounds like pseudo-theoretical waste product,’ Reski Emantes said as it floated after the newcomer. ‘Excuse me, if you insist on inviting yourself aboard, you might at least tell us who you are.’

  The Bargalil paused and swung its long-necked head round, regarding the droid with large golden eyes set in a broad, sadmouthed face.

  ‘A clever thing,’ it said in a wheezing voice. ‘Such a clever thing, full of … full of …’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said the Plausible Response.

  ‘… parts and pieces and bits, many, many bits, and I can see them all, see them forming and joining, so I can unjoin and unform them if you like. Would you like to see all those clever parts?’ The golden eyes turned towards Rosa and Robert. ‘Would you?’