The Engineer ReConditioned

by Neal Asher

  “This…is possible,” said the Proctor, David.

  “How?”

  “We have been one with the mind of the Owner for millennia. In the last fifty years the contact has been broken and we have gained independent existence. This is why we are here. We want to see and know more than this world. We want to do more than enforce the Owner’s law.”

  “You have what you seek,” said Bradebus to Manx Evitel. She looked abruptly surprised at this, then regarded the Proctor calculatingly.

  “You have not been in contact with the Owner for some time then?” The Proctor shook its head.

  “Has anyone seen the Owner since?” She glanced at Lumi and Bradebus. Lumi realised he must be the last to have seen him.

  “Twenty years ago I saw him,” he said.

  Evitel nodded and turned back to the Proctor. “What use might you be to us should we transport you from this place?”

  The Proctor said, “The Owner called them the Snark-kind in reference to a poem by one Lewis Carrol. He traded with them and observed their civilisation for two hundred years. Every one of us knows what he learnt about them. We were one with the Owner’s mind.”

  Evitel abruptly got up and faced her ship. “Ship, open,” she said. In the side of the great cylinder a slot of light appeared, and with eerie silence a segment of metal folded down, straightened out, became a ramp. Lumi stood and glanced back towards the camp where he could hear shouting. Suddenly there was gunfire. Lumi and Bradebus began running in that direction. More gunfire. A figure ahead, crouching, something across its shoulder. A spear of light.

  “Shit!” said Bradebus, both he and Lumi hitting the ground. There was an explosion behind them. In the light of the flame Lumi saw the girl Keela with the missile launcher across her shoulder. He drew his pistol, fired twice. She staggered and fell.

  The Proctor David lay on the ground, flickers of blue light on his skin. His side was open to expose something like organs and something like electronics. Evitel stood to one side. A shimmer winked out around her. All along, a personal force shield, Cromwell could not have harmed her. The Proctors began standing, something like a growl of anger coming from them.

  “How the hell did she get hold of that?!” Lumi shouted at Brown as he reached Keela and turned her over onto her back, his pistol in her face.

  “She knocked out Lambert. We didn’t think she…she is a third child…” Enough, thought Lumi, there was never any getting away from the stigma. Brown stared in terror at the Proctors, they were moving now, all their fields flicking on. Lumi watched them too, not knowing how to stop what he felt sure was to come. A Proctor had been killed, the first ever.

  “Tell them to stop,” he said to Evitel.

  “Wait!” she shouted. The Proctors ignored her.

  “Hold,” said Bradebus. He was crouched down by the corpse of David. All the Proctors froze then turned in his direction. Lumi saw the man’s rough clothing fade, become a black body suit, piped and padded and linked to half-seen machines, saw his appearance change. The Owner. He touched David. He and the Proctor flickered out of existence. There was a crack as air rushed to fill the space. The remaining Proctors turned towards the ship and slowly began to mount the ramp. More of them came out of the woods.

  Twilight, birds beginning to sing, immediate warmth in the forest. The Proctors were all aboard, but for one called Mark. He and Evitel sat by a fire with Lumi and Brown. The other constables were taking the prisoners, the wounded, and the dead, back to the town.

  “We are one with his mind again,” said Mark.

  “What is he doing?” asked Lumi.

  “He has repaired David.”

  “What are his intentions?” asked Evitel.

  “You may ask him.”

  The Owner came out of the forest with David walking behind him. He said, “It was my intention that the Proctors go with you. They have my knowledge and they have wisdom.” He squatted by the fire, the machines gone, his eyes normal. He grinned at Lumi. “I had intended not to show myself, but, six thousand years of wisdom and knowledge is too much to lose.” He looked towards David and nodded. Mark rose, the two Proctors walked towards Evitel’s ship.

  “Why the subterfuge?” asked Lumi.

  “Because I wanted it,” was the reply.

  “I would have preferred you to come,” said Evitel.

  “For that there will be no need. My Proctors will be sufficient to the Snark-kind.” He looked at Lumi and Brown, then pointed out beyond the lake. In the sky they saw falling lights like a meteor shower. “This place has remained closed for too long. Here my constructors will build a spaceport and this world will join with the human Polity. All my laws will no longer apply. There is much room in space. I leave this place in trust.” He stood.

  “Where will you be?” asked Evitel.

  “Around,” said the Owner.

  The ash of the fire gusted as air replaced him. The third moon, like a polished metal ball, rose in the twilight sky, made a right angled turn far above them, receded into dark. Lumi felt the tug of the huge mass moving away, heard waves breaking on the lake shore, squinted at the sudden flare of a star drive igniting.

  ABOUT “THE OWNER”

  There’s not much to add about this story. It’s another “Owner” one in its distinct future history, but has no history itself (i.e. wasn’t published anywhere but in The Engineer collection). I reckon I’ve got about four or five future histories going now, and probably will start more of them. Looking at the ongoing creation of the ‘runcible universe’ I wonder how many writers love or feel trapped by their speculative creations, or both.

  THE OWNER

  There is a place where stands an ancient pillar. It is taller than a man, just, and wider. It is a plain cylinder without plinth or capital and is made of grey corrosion-free metal. Its surface is intagliated with strange runes, or circuit diagrams, and it stands upon sand in a bleak place where few have heard of Ozymandias. It is real, absolutely and solidly real, as if its location has formed around it—an accretion of reality. Standing on the sand by this pillar is a swordsman. He is just in its shadow; all dark fabric and iron, and seemingly part of that shadow. Such fancy he would perhaps allow a smile, knowing a permanence greater than that of the grey metal.

  They were tired of running, tired of forever being on guard, and tired of the fear, but there was only one alternative. Cheydar knew this and it churned him up inside. Sometimes he felt a hopelessness so strong he just wanted to stop, to sit down and wait for the end, but he hadn’t, not yet. The Code would not allow him suicide without permission.

  When he saw him, the man seated on a boulder out on the flats, watching them, Cheydar thought, Here is another killer come for the Cariphe’s reward. And, as he waved his two sons to his side and moved out from the campfire he wondered if he might die this day. The boys spaced themselves and pumped full the gas cylinders of their air guns. Cheydar was weary, loath to kill yet again, frightened he might not be able to. Behind him Suen held her daughter close and looked on. Suen, wife of Tarrin, to whom he and his family were sworn service of life. All this for her and the girl now. He knew that sometimes she damned the loyalty that kept him and his kin with her, only sometimes, without it there was only that one alternative.

  The man was motionless. It seemed as if he might have sat there all night watching their camp. When he finally moved, when he finally came down from his rock, it was at the precise moment the sun gnawed a red-hot lump out of the horizon. Cheydar felt his throat clench: The Daybreak Warrior. Then he damned himself for a fool and the bitterness inside threatened to overwhelm him. He was too old for such fairy tales. If only Tarrin had been as wise.

  “He looks a handy one this,” he said.

  It was the way the man had come down from the boulder: lithe, strong. That had been a four metre drop and he had taken it as if it was nothing and was strolling towards them with the loose-limbed gait of a trained fighter…killer.

  “Not handy enoug
h to outrun an iron dart,” said Eric, Cheydar’s eldest. If only that were so, but the three would not fire at this man unless he attacked. Honour would not permit murder. They must wait until he had come close and offered challenge, and gained the opportunity to kill them one at a time. Cheydar had taken on two challengers and killed them both. Would he be able to kill this one? A bitter part of himself observed that dying first he would at least not get to see his sons die. He observed the approaching killer and shivered. The killer was a hard-faced man with cropped blond hair. His age was indeterminate. His stature short but heavily muscled. His clothing was dramatically black and leaning towards leather. Over his leather tunic he wore chain mail. Sticking up above his shoulders were the pommels of two swords. There were knives at his belt, in his boot, probably elsewhere. Three metres from the Cheydar and his sons he halted and squatted.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Cheydar demanded.

  The man looked past Cheydar and directly at Suen. “They burned your husband on the frame,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  “Have a care,” said Cheydar, and glanced around at Suen. Would she ever get over it? Would she ever look as if she wanted to live? She had bribed the Jack-o-the-frame to use green wood so Tarrin would have a quick and relatively pain-free death from smoke inhalation. He had taken her money and still used coke and dry wood. Tarrin had screamed for a very long time. Now Suen was outlawed for attempting to bribe an official of the Cariphe. She winced and turned her face away, hugged her daughter to her. Her daughter flicked a long suffering look at Cheydar’s son David, and carefully tried to extricate herself. The stranger turned his attention from Suen to Cheydar.

  “He nearly got you, didn’t he? You’re getting too tired.”

  Cheydar suddenly felt cold. This was the thought that had been occupying him for days. The last killer had nearly got through his guard, nearly gutted him. This man must have seen, must have been watching.

  “Who are you?” Cheydar asked yet again.

  “Call me Dagon. I have come to join you.”

  Cheydar felt that tightness in his throat yet again. Dagon. The name of the Daybreak Warrior. He did not need this kind of thing, not now, not when he was weak enough to hope, weak enough to believe.

  “Why should we allow you into our company? Why should we trust you?” The stranger stood abruptly. There was a look on his face. Cheydar could not identify it, but it made his skin creep.

  “Where is your hospitality? I am thirsty and I am hungry,” said Dagon. Cheydar felt a flush of shame, felt his face burning. Such was the way of things: the most basic tenets of the Code lost in only five days and strangers greeted at the campfire with hostility.

  “You will forgive me,” he said tightly, and glanced aside at each of his sons. They lowered their air guns as Dagon came forward. “Please, eat at my fire, and drink.” Even as he spoke the ritual words Cheydar was aware they could ill afford the food; straight porridge gruel and not much of that. He backed off as Dagon stepped past him, his hand on his sword. It could be a ploy. There could be one quick draw and swipe when Cheydar might least be aware. Perhaps Eric might get him, he was much faster than David, but even that was doubtful. Cheydar knew the measure of men and this one looked as if he would not die easy.

  The man squatted by the fire, smiled at Sheda and bowed his head to Suen, then with a deliberately long look at Cheydar he folded his legs and sat, not a position he could quickly gain his feet from. Cheydar nodded and moved to the fire, sat opposite him. The boys stood well back, air guns still ready, holsters for spare cylinders clipped open. Sheda, with a businesslike expression, pulled away from her mother and spooned gruel into a bowl, which she handed to Dagon. He thanked her, placed the bowl in his lap and carefully removed the pack from his back, exposing the sheaths of the swords. Well made, Cheydar observed from the glance he got. Dagon removed jerked meat from his pack.

  “Let me offer this in return. It is little enough.”

  Ritual. He knew it verbatim. Cheydar felt his mouth watering as he looked at the meat. They had eaten nothing but gruel for four days. He took three pieces and tossed two of them to Eric and David, chewed on his own piece, found it tasted wonderful, better than he had ever had before. Suen and Sheda ravenously chewed into their meat.

  “I have this also. Little enough.”

  Apples and cheese. How was it he had such fresh food so far from civilization? Cheydar did not want to ask. He asked other questions instead.

  “It is a burdensome name you carry,” he said.

  Dagon nodded. “I sometimes think that if I had been named differently I would have been a farmer, or an inn keeper.”

  “What are you now?” Cheydar shot back.

  “Many things. For your purposes I can be a killer of men. What do you say?”

  “I say tell me how you know so much.”

  “I have followed you since the burning.”

  “Why?” asked Suen, taking part at last. It was not right for her bondsman to deal in this matter. She must take on her mantle of power. Her time was now.

  Dagon said, “Because the Owner brought you people here in the Greatship Vardelex so you could build a new life. Because soon the Owner will return for an accounting, to see that his strictures have been obeyed, that the contract you people have with him has been held to. Because before the end of this demicycle the Owner and his Proctors will once again walk the world.” Suen gaped at the stranger and tried to take in his words: all that her husband believed and had understood, and they burnt Tarrin for those words in the Square of Heros before the Cariphe’s palace in Ompotec. Stupid stupid words had lost Suen her husband, a son, a home, and would soon lose her her life. She could only run so far before the Cariphe’s people caught up with her. She looked at Cheydar: grey, old. How long could she depend on his strength? For how long had she that right? Soon the priest soldiers would be upon them, for their sport, and they would die. At least out here it might be a cleaner death. She studied this young man who called himself Dagon, out of nursery rhymes and bedtime tales, and thought about what he had said. The Heresy of Ompotec. Ironically the name of the only place where it was called heresy and where the Cariphe and all his sick minions dwelt. Verbatim, but for one tiny alteration. She glanced at Cheydar and wondered if he had noticed. This man had said you people rather than we. She felt cold and she did not want to ask the obvious question.

  “If you come with us it may well be the death of you,” she said. She would give him every chance to go, every warning. This she told herself to assuage her guilt. “We have no hearth nor home—” Abruptly she stopped. No, it was wrong. “You cannot stay with us. You must go…” She gazed at him, straight into grey-green eyes that seemed too wise. That was it, she realised. Look away from him and he is a young warrior. Look into his eyes you know he makes only his own choices.

  He nodded, then lifted a strong sun-tanned hand and pointed off to their left. “It is too late for me to walk away now. They will not allow it. Guilt by association you could say, not that they observe any code.” Cheydar leapt to his feet his hand slamming down on the butt of his sword. Eight men were coming towards them at a steady trot. Eight fully-armoured and armed priest soldiers of the Cariphe. Too late now for anything but survival.

  “Into the rocks!”

  Suen went to take her daughter by the hand, but her daughter stayed close to David and avoided this mothering. Instead Suen took up a weapons belt from which hung a dagger and a short crossbow. Cheydar took up his own air gun and trotted behind her, his sons following. Dagon stood by the fire watching the soldiers approach, then after a moment he followed the others.

  “We need a vantage, a place to defend.”

  Dagon pointed up into the rocks and scrub. “Up there.”

  They took him at his word and scrambled that way.

  “I will stay.”

  As he helped Suen up the slope Cheydar watched him suspiciously. Dagon returned the look then grinned and disappeared into
the scrub of bushes and cycads. Cheydar had no time for him now. The priest soldiers had broken into a run and were spreading out.

  “Check your targets,” he told his sons. “Our friend is down there, if friend he be.”

  “Of course he is, father,” said David. “He is the daybreak warrior.” Cheydar ignored that, cracked down the barrel of his gun, inserted an iron dart, then worked the hand pump on the charge cylinder. The leading soldier was close enough now. He brought the intricately carved butt of his gun up against his shoulder, flipped up the sight, then aimed and fired in one. The crack of the air gun was vicious and immediately followed by the horrible crunch of impact. A priest soldier staggered back with his hands coming up to a suddenly bloody face. There were two more cracks and a dart hit the rocks just in front of him and went whining over his head. He ducked down.

  “Yes!” shouted Eric. Crouched down Cheydar saw that his son had hit one of them in the thigh. That one was struggling for cover. Another lay with a bloody throat. There had been no exclamation from David. The rest were now in cover provided by the bushes around their camp, and no doubt would be drawing close. Cheydar recharged the cylinder on his gun and put in another dart. Only in close fighting would he resort to the spare cylinders on his belt. His sons, he saw, were doing the same. He watched, allowed himself a little smile when he saw Eric aiming at a swiftly moving figure in black, then lowering his gun. Let us see what you are worth, Dagon. A scream was swift to answer him, followed only moments after by the gagging gurgle Cheydar recognised as the sound issuing from a cut throat. One or two? He wondered.

  “Who is he?” Suen asked.

  “Just a killer, out to make a name for himself,” whispered Cheydar, but it did not sound right. There was a yell. Two soldiers running, a figure standing. Eric aimed again and David knocked his gun aside with the barrel of his own. Cheydar felt a fist closing in his stomach. Now. It was beautiful, if death can be called that. The two swords; crescents of morning sunlight. One man down on his knees his forehead against the ground, the other man standing for a moment until his head toppled from his shoulders. Cheydar had only seen the second blow.