The Orphaned Worlds

by Michael Cobley

  That was it for the remaining attackers, who began to pull back while trying to lay down suppressing fire, a wildly inaccurate scatter of energy bolts that ceased as they disappeared into the tangle of roots and undergrowth. Greg laughed, checked his autopistol then glanced at Chel.

  ‘That’s quite a flingin’ arm you’ve got there, Chel. Have you been practising?’

  ‘All my life, Gregory. Even this may have been practice for something yet to happen.’

  ‘Very profound. So all we have to do is live long enough to benefit from all this practice, am I right?’

  ‘Not the way you go about it,’ said Alexei as he drew near. ‘Be more careful, Greg, and you might live as long as your uncle did.’

  Greg smiled bleakly. ‘Still don’t think he’s dead, Alexei.’ He clambered round and over the boulder, paused to inspect the blaster damage on the other side, then strolled over to the out-crop, hands empty and waving.

  ‘Dobry dyen, my friend! How are you … ?’

  He was cut off by a horrifying scream that came from the direction of the Brolturans’ retreat. Everyone looked that way as sounds of fighting came through the gloom, then more screams, cut off suddenly.

  ‘Up here, quickly!’ said one of the outcrop defenders. ‘All of you, now!’

  Something was crashing through the dense thickets of foliage towards them. As they all made a dash for the rocky outcrop Greg snatched up the big rifle lying next to a dead Brolturan while Alexei retrieved another. Clambering the rocky pile, they were near the top when the source of the cacophony burst into view. As Greg suspected it was a combat mechanoid but this one was taller than any of the others, broader and more heavily armoured. Strangely, it bore dark red and green patterns all over its exterior.

  For a moment he expected it to unleash a bombardment of firepower, catching him and the others unprotected. Instead it tore a large bush out of the ground and, without breaking step, threw it straight at the outcrop. Shedding a trail of soil and pebbles it arced through the air and struck near the summit, knocking loose one of Greg’s men, Nilsson. Crying out, he fell roughly thirty feet and landed awkwardly. Hansen wanted to go after him but the others held him back. Nilsson struggled to his feet, saw the oncoming behemoth and tried to run but a hurled length of branch caught him in the back. He dropped like a sack of stones and lay still.

  By now the rest were up on the outcrop, where Greg and Alexei brought their scavenged beam rifles to bear and opened up on the mech. Bolt after bolt struck it full in the chest or on its headlike protuberance, and Greg could see surface layers ablating and flaring off but for all that the thing staggered under the impacts it just wasn’t being seriously affected. As if in contempt for their weaponry it stamped repeatedly on Nilsson’s body, crushing his skull beneath one jointed metal claw. Then it went over and grabbed one of the dead Brolturans by his feet and, ignoring the hail of fire, charged at the outcrop.

  Greg was stunned by the machine’s sheer, brutal, almost primitive violence, and shouted at everyone to hit the deck as it came within reach. The next moment it began using the body as a club, battering the rocks behind which the defenders crouched in terror. The machine was just over half the height of the outcrop but its arm length and the length of the Brolturan’s corpse gave it enough reach. Smashed again and again into the rocks, the body split and tore and spatters of blood flew.

  One of the Rus lost control and, bellowing with rage, stood up and fired madly with an autopistol. The next moment he was swept off by the Brolturan’s corpse, now battered to a pulp and almost unrecognisable. Then the combat mech began to climb up the rocks. It only needed to ascend a couple of metres to come within arm’s length of Greg and the rest.

  Greg looked at Alexei, rapped his knuckles on the casing of the big Brolturan rifle, and said, ‘On three … two … one! …’

  In perfect unison both men shoved their rifles forward and opened fire. Energy bolts hammered into the mech’s torso plating which, incredibly, held, even though the pummelling force of the twin-barrelled onslaught stopped its ascent. In response it hurled the gory and now-headless corpse at them – Greg ducked but one crushed leg caught Alexei in the face, felling him in an instant.

  The mech swung back with both clawed hands, clambering high enough to make a snatch at Greg. He stumbled back, still firing, watching the rifle’s charge level drop by the second. The others opened fire, an awful cacophony, through which the mechanoid still came. Fear made Greg want to toss the rifle away and throw himself down the other side of the outcrop, but there was a roaring sound in his ears as he stared up into the blank metal visage of death …

  There was a dazzling flash. Greg felt heat on his face, saw a flaring burst, heard a rough metallic sound. Something had struck the side of the mech and instead of one claw-tipped arm it now had a melted stump fringed with sparking contacts. It straightened, whirled to locate its attacker, just as the second blast caught it full in the upper chest, punching through, sending shrapnel and inner workings bursting out the back. Critically damaged, the machine lost balance and control and fell back out of sight. There was a heavy thud as it landed and a chorus of small servo sounds, submechanisms scraping and grinding as they tried to function. The stunned defenders let out a ragged cheer but when one of the Rus went to look over the side Greg forcibly dragged him down, just in time. When the self-destruct went off it was a shattering explosion that sent a hail of fragments up to rattle against the rocks of the outcrop. Greg coughed at the stink of burning and charred dust as he crawled over to check Alexei who was sitting up, looking groggy and sporting an angry welt on his forehead.

  ‘Decked by a boot,’ he groaned. ‘A dead Brolturan’s boot, too!’

  ‘Well, you’re alive and he’s dead, laddie. I think my uncle would call that the best result.’

  A short stocky man in muddy battledress came over and tapped his shoulder. ‘People are coming, seven, maybe eight.’

  Greg straightened to face him and held out his hand. ‘I’m Greg Cameron, sometime leader of this motley band.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Yevgeny Markin,’ the man said, his manner sombre. ‘We were part of Vashutkin’s irregulars.’

  Greg glanced off at the gloomy, spidery undergrowth and a small group that was emerging from it.

  ‘Where are the rest?’ he said.

  ‘No one else made it out of the caves.’

  He looked at Markin. ‘Vashutkin?’

  ‘Dead.’ Markin shrugged. ‘Machines ambushed us, cut off the main entrance then hunted us in the tunnels. Vashutkin was with us then went off with his huntress to find another exit. We found one, but we also heard him shouting and firing back inside as we got out.’ He bared gritted teeth, shook his head. ‘It was terrible.’

  Dammit, Greg thought. Without Vashutkin, half the resistance in the towns will lose heart …

  Then he looked over the side as the newcomers drew nearer, and he laughed in recognition.

  ‘I might have guessed,’ he called down. ‘Nice job!’

  ‘Aye, well,’ said Rory. ‘Ye cannae beat superior firepower!’

  Rory and two others were, between them, carrying a long torpedo-shaped object cased in pale green and black.

  ‘So where’d ye get the oversized peashooter?’

  Rory patted the weapon’s tapered, slotted muzzle.

  ‘Heavy plasma cannon. This wee baby was mounted on one o’ they ground skimmers the Brolts use – we saw one on patrol and our need was greater than theirs. End of story.’

  ‘And the rest of the arms?’ Greg said. ‘Please tell me you’ve got them.’

  ‘Oh aye, and a bundle of them Brolt rifles an’ all. Sent them on to Tusk Mountain with the rest of the boys, in case things went for a dive.’ Rory glanced around. ‘Listen, chief, d’ye not reckon we should move out? It’ll be getting dark soon and I’m already getting the creeps from this place.’

  Greg agreed and with the help of Markin got everyone moving down next to
Rory and his team, whereupon several admiring eyes were turned to the liberated heavy cannon. Then Greg realised that Chel was missing, but when he asked Alexei and the rest no one could recall seeing where he went. Yet when he asked Rory there was an immediate nod.

  ‘It was him that led us through the trees,’ he said. ‘We were tracking that big beast o’ a mech ’cos we thought it was after a bunch of guys we saw down in a river bed …’

  ‘So where did he go?’

  ‘Ah, well, ye see, he told me to say that … now that he can see more, he knows what he should be looking for. Hey, those eyes of his are pretty, eh, spooky.’

  Greg frowned, wishing he’d been around to speak to Chel in person, to get him to explain the meaning of his words.

  ‘We’ll probably catch up with him later,’ he told Rory. ‘Meantime, let’s get on the road.’

  Before they left he took a last, close look at the remains of the combat mech. The burst, twisted, melted and charred mass of metal was almost unrecognisable as the machine that had attacked them with such fury. It was certainly bigger, stronger and faster than any of those he had seen previously. Was the robot factory using new designs? Peering at the wreckage he spotted a section of leg armour that had escaped the worst of the self-destruct: it still bore some surface decoration, a pattern of crimson and dark green hooked motifs. Again, unlike the other machines which had seemed to have no identifying marks at all. He fixed the image of it in his mind before leaving.

  Beyond the dark tangles of the ancient pillar tree, a dense layer of trees, bushes and vines hemmed it all around. Looking back from the edge of a wooded rise, with the light failing, Greg could see how the immense truncated tree was hidden by a canopy of foliage and how the whole mass could be mistaken for a small hill.

  From there Greg led the way back across the swampy ground and he was keen to be as stealthy as possible so there were no conversations as they travelled on into the encroaching evening. The need for quiet and speed was not helped by the Brolturan cannon’s weight and bulk so Greg changed the carriers every half-hour or so and tried to avoid the boggiest parts of the morass.

  By the time they reached the south-facing slopes of the foothills of the Kentigern range, it was after dusk and torches were out, slotted to keep the beams tight. Climbing out of the thickets of the forest, they found the notch between two hills that led up to the rocky gully. When the stony path to the stronghold of Tusk Mountain came into view, night had well and truly fallen, a deep blackness at this elevation, contrasting with the glows and shifting patches of radiance down in the forest itself. After another half an hour of gruelling clambering across slopes of loose rock and spiny bushes they reached the vicinity of the Stealth Gate. Greg knew that the observatory had IR feeds from the exterior so he wasn’t surprised when a figure emerged from the shadows and beckoned them to follow.

  All kept silent still, all the way to the secret entrance. Greg sent them in one by one, leaving himself to the last, glancing out over the forest’s uneven, glow-speckled expanse.

  The massive stone blocks were thudding into place at his back as he emerged in the antechamber where amber lamplight threw shadows across pattern-carved stone walls.

  Back to corridors and enclosed spaces, he thought. Back to cold rock, reeks of dankness and unwashed bodies, back to being in command of several hundred people, back to being responsible. Perhaps Chel had the right idea.

  He could almost feel the weight on his shoulders.

  Then he heard excited voices from the adjoining room, Rory’s among them.

  ‘… he here? Aye, there ye are! Come and see who dropped by!’ Rory stood aside from the doorway and a tall figure with a dark beard and a bandaged arm stepped out, grinning.

  ‘Ah, Gregory, dearest of all my friends! So you thought I was dead, too, eh? Well, it takes more than some clockwork monster to put Alexandr Vashutkin in the ground!’

  The two men let out roars of laughter and shook hands furiously. Greg felt a wave of relief and exhilaration yet some part of him coolly regarded Vashutkin, and wondered.

  KUROS

  After dark, the assassin, one Natalya Petrenko, got as far as the rear of the ambassador’s villa before Ezgara bodyguards caught her. They could have stopped her in the streets outside the compound but the appearance of vulnerability both justified harsh security methods and played well with the domestic audience. Inside the villa, Ambassador Kuros was kept invisibly appraised by his AI mind-brother General Gratach while entertaining several high-ranking guests from Iseri. Hacclon Adzarv was brother to the commander of the Skypalace guard and thus prosperous and well connected, and many of his accompanying family members were of an equal social stature. Kuros made no mention of the drama going on outside until later in the evening as the guests were boarding their opulent shuttle for the return journey to the Purifier. On hearing the bare details from their own mind-siblings, Hacclon and his wife approached him seeking clarification. He assured them that no one was ever in danger from a lone terrorist, no matter how fanatically determined.

  ‘Yet you elect to remain here in these frontier conditions,’ Hacclon said. ‘Dealing with these ungrateful primitives.’

  Kuros smiled stoically. ‘The responsibilities of my vocation and station, noble Hacclon. Loyalty binds, duty commands.’

  ‘You are an example to us all, Ambassador,’ Hacclon said. ‘You may be certain that I shall speak highly of you on our return.’

  Kuros answered with a bow of the appropriate depth and watched from the villa steps as the guests finished boarding, and the shuttle rose and climbed into the night sky.

  Satisfactory, he thought and went to view the prisoner.

  In the guard annexe, the Human female had already been sedated and podded for transportation. Gratach was with him as he considered the restrained form within the translucent pod.

  ‘What weaponry this time?’ he subvocalised.

  ‘Two projectors, a silenced slug thrower and a compressed-air needle gun; a thinblade; two lengths of garrotting wire; and a variety of pellet grenades.’ Gratach grinned. ‘Well armed, for a female, and sign of your importance in the eyes of our enemies.’

  ‘Background, family, associates?’

  ‘Former service worker, de-employed. Family untraceable, except for a younger brother who died in custody two weeks ago. Associates, thought to be seditious elements centred on Gagarin and Invergault.’

  ‘Your recommendation?’

  ‘Trial and execution, in public. Lessons must be spelled out so that they may be learned.’

  Kuros allowed himself a thin smile. ‘I admire your consistency, mind-brother. But our superiors permit no wastage, however appealing. If this Human had known contacts of interest it would have been worth turning her with the Dust – instead, she will go to one of our therapeutic establishments in the Yamanon.’

  Returning to the villa, he looked over a couple of procurement forms on the way to his private chambers and countersigned his approval. His vesture assister replaced his formal evening wear with heavier, more sombre attire to suit the imminent visit to Giant’s Shoulder. And on his way to the courtyard, where his personal flyer waited, he approved an equipment replacement request but denied a civilian-authority plea on behalf of a detainee. Five minutes later he was aloft, Ezgara bodyguards at his side as the flyer climbed over the dark trees of south Hammergard, curving towards the jutting mass of Giant’s Shoulder.

  As he looked down at the spread-out clusters of towns, he reflected on how well the situation had progressed since that crucial meeting with the Clarified Teshak. Hammergard and all the major towns were now locked down beneath a security net of visual tracking nodes mounted on buildings, lamp-posts and continual airborne platforms. Kuros had suggested implant-tagging every Human in the coastal area but the Tri-Advocacy Council had refused as it would almost certainly provoke strong objections from Earthsphere. Kuros was not surprised and began planning for extensions to the tracking net – in another eight wee
ks he hoped to have every settlement east of the mountains under its watchful eyes.

  If security along the coastal plain was firmly under control, the same could not be said for the hinterlands, the ridges and foothills of the Kentigern Mountains, and the Forest of Arawn. Every shadowy, tree-veiled ravine seemed to harbour a lair of Humans, aided and abetted by those primitives, the Uvovo. Every day brought reports of ambushes, raids and sabotage, but the NamulAshaph was starting to have an effect; the much-lauded mech factory had turned out several dozen combat mechs and they had proved effective in blunting the insurgents’ tactics. Their skills in forest fighting had already accounted for over a dozen units, but the factory’s production was relentless and practically inexhaustible, which could not be said for the Humans. For all their minor successes, they presented no serious threat to the security of the coast and the integrity of the ongoing warpwell investigations. Kuros could call on heavy ground armour, airborne attacks, atmospheric assault craft and, if necessary, the targeted might of the Purifier’s beam batteries.

  No, Ambassador Kuros was focusing his attention on controlling events, thereby maintaining a hidden iron grip on the entire planet. The insurgency leaders might believe that the balance could be tipped their way but he would soon make plain the hollowness of their hopes.

  His overall objective, however, was to ensure that he remained of use to the Clarified Teshak, thereby securing his place in the hierarchy along with the possibility of advancement. Which was why he was on his way to Giant’s Shoulder, in response to a terse message from Dralvish Tabri, the chief scientist.

  The shuttle alighted at one corner of the octagonal landing pad which had been laid down where scraps of ruins had once stood. Next to it was the research centre, a three-storey establisher building configured with enhanced fortifications. Thus far the autobuilder had erected two wings with standard defensive positions, but add-on template frames were already in place. The exterior was impact-resistant polymer armour patterned in blues and greens that appeared deep black beneath the four suspension floods, whose actinic light drenched the entire promontory.