Cowl

by Neal Asher

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Tack, remembering an interminable film series on dinosaurs. ‘Velociraptors?’

  ‘Wrong. The name for these in your own time is troodon, or wounding tooth. Velociraptors are quite smallish feather-covered egg thieves, so they would avoid us. Hopefully these will too, as they usually go for smaller prey.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’ Tack aimed his seeker gun at one of the advancing creatures, but the gun refused to acquire—its template being for human recognition only. Tack lowered it again and punched in the code to set a blank template. Flipping up the square sight he aimed at the leading one. A small grid flicked up in the square and froze the creature’s image, which told him that the template had been established and his target acquired. He then acquired each of the other two creatures in turn. Saphothere watched him with paternal amusement.

  ‘I never scanned that weapon of yours,’ he admitted. ‘How does the round guide itself into the target?’

  ‘The initial charge fires a cased round,’ said Tack. ‘The case is dropped when quite close to the target, then the explosive shell opens wings powered by synthemuscle. The target template is uploaded to a micromind in the shell—running a program that is a direct transcription from the mind of a wasp attacking a human.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Saphothere, then raised his own little gun and pointed it at the vegetation between themselves and the approaching troodon. The weapon emitted a muzzle flash like that of a machine gun firing in darkness. Involuntarily, Tack staggered back, blinking away after-images, as a swathe of vegetation a couple of metres wide ignited as if soaked in petrol. Squawking and cawing, the hunting dinosaurs turned tail and ran.

  Quickly holstering his weapon, Saphothere nodded towards Tack’s seeker gun. ‘You see, such surgical precision was not really required.’

  Feeling foolish, Tack returned his weapon to its holster and, following the direction of Saphothere’s gaze, spotted an object approaching at speed from Sauros itself. Soon this resolved into a hemisphere of grey metal, its curved surface facing downwards. Soundlessly, it settled in towards them and landed. Running around the inside this object was seating, and at its centre a single column supporting a basketball-sized globe.

  ‘In,’ Saphothere instructed, and Tack clambered aboard.

  Once seated, Saphothere reached over to the globe, which split like a flower head to reveal a hand-shaped indentation.

  ‘Wrong person puts his hand in this thing and the globe closes, snipping his hand off at the wrist,’ Saphothere lectured.

  As the hemisphere rose into the air, he gestured over the side with his other hand. ‘Now a little fire would not have put him off.’

  Looking over the side, Tack did not need anyone to tell him that he was seeing his first tyrannosaur. As the monster stepped delicately through the vegetation, tilting its enormous head from side to side to observe the rising pall of smoke, Tack felt a surge of joy at the sight, tempered with gratitude for not being at ground level. Here was a creature that even the andrewsarchus might flee.

  ‘Beware the jabberwock, my son,’ said Saphothere. ‘The jaws that bite, the claws that catch.’

  Tack looked askance at him.

  ‘Beware the jub-jub bird, and shun,’ the Traveller continued, ‘the frumious bandersnatch.’

  Tack peered back at the ground, wondering if he might see such creatures.

  AFTER BLACKING OUT AGAIN because of lack of air, Polly felt a creeping horror that this would happen to her again and again, until someone or something killed her. There was an aching weariness in her and the flesh felt loose on her bones. But, as was usual, the hunger impelled her more than the need for rest. Pushing herself to her knees, she looked around. The surrounding marsh was still and eerie, and even though the sun was shining the air was cold and damp.

  ‘Where and when the hell am I now?’ she asked, her voice rough. ‘And why didn’t I grab some food before I shifted?’

  If you’d taken time to grab some food, I suspect you’d have received open-heart surgery without the benefit of an anaesthetic. As to when we are, I suspect that each jump you make takes you back a multiple of the previous one, so this is certainly more than a thousand years before Claudius came across the Channel to slaughter the ancient Britons.

  By now she realized there was no going forward again. This time, as a sensation much like huge acceleration took hold of her, she’d been able to sense, somehow, the direction she must go in order to travel forward in time. At the root of her being she had known that the scale could take her forward, but all effort to shift in that direction had been thwarted—as for a swimmer fighting against a riptide.

  Finally finding the energy to stand, Polly was alarmed by a nauseating movement, until she realized she was standing on a mat of reeds that ringed a small island. Moving inwards to firmer ground, she glanced from side to side and all she could see was an expanse of water dotted with more islands. Licking the water soaked into the sleeve of her greatcoat she found it salt, so it seemed that not only was there no prospect of food here, but nothing to drink either.

  ‘I wonder if I could get this thing off,’ she said, running her hand over the surface of the scale, which was now utterly smooth to the touch.

  Why? Do you want to stay here?

  The minimum she wanted was to be back in her own time, with access to the comforts of civilization, but with her head as clear as it was now. But she was ambitious for more. She wanted the advantages ‘Muse Nandru’ gave her and continued use of the scale, so she could choose exactly where to travel in time.

  ‘Somehow I have to learn how to control it,’ she muttered.

  An unlikely possibility. Monitoring your blood sugars has confirmed that it is some kind of parasite, and that basically for it you are only an energy source powering each of its leaps through time. That’s why you feel so hungry on each occasion—it burns away every available resource inside you. On the plus side, you’ll never get to be a size twelve.

  ‘Fucking ha-ha.’

  Uh-huh, here come the natives.

  Looking through Polly’s eyes, Nandru had spotted him first, for on one of the salty waterways a coracle was coming into sight. As it drew closer, Polly noted that the man sitting inside it was short and squat, with dark oily hair and a knotted brown body. He wore breeches of some kind of animal skin, a sleeveless top of rank-looking fur, round his throat a necklace of shells. Once he saw her, he immediately stopped paddling and snatched up a spear with a long serrated-bone blade. Gazing at him Polly wondered if this time might be the Stone Age. She had found that mentioned in an encyclopedia disc left behind in her apartment PC by the previous owners—a disc she had studied for a little while till growing bored and using it as a coaster.

  ‘Stone Age?’ she asked.

  Probably, so watch yourself. This guy probably hasn’t heard of female emancipation.

  She watched the intruder put down his spear, a look of infinite distrust still on his face, and take up his paddle to row the coracle closer. Wondering if it might now be judicious to take another jump through time, she tested the webwork lacing through her body, but received only a sluggish response. Reaching her island, the prehistoric man took up his spear again, probing the mat of reeds with its tip before stepping ashore. He gabbled something, in which Polly could identify no single word.

  ‘What did he say?’ she subvocalized.

  My best guess would be, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I’m getting nothing through my translation programs.

  The man repeated it louder and more insistently, gesturing first at her with his spear, then towards the coracle. He was eyeing her in a way she recognized and was strangely reassured by. At least his intentions were not entirely hostile. She gave him a smile and after a fleeting frown he smiled back. Retaining a half smile, she stepped forward, clutching at his arm to steady herself over the carpet of reeds, and climbed shakily into his coracle. The primitive followed her, and the coracle dipped alarmingly as he took his place. When he spoke
again, she merely smiled at him again, but this now seemed to annoy him. He reached out, yanked her towards him, then pushed her down into the belly of the coracle, where he pressed one filthy possessive foot on her.

  THE HELIOTHANE HERE WERE all beautiful, but in the same way as tigers—they were endowed with a grace and symmetry best admired from a safe distance. In one of the many narrow corridors leading outwards to the viewing windows, Tack encountered a goddess over two metres tall. Her skin was the colour of amber and possessed some of that gem’s translucence, her yellow hair intricately braided, and her eyes utterly weird—gold irises set off by black sclera. She wore clothing much like Saphothere’s: a long coat of black leather, loose trousers tucked into spear-toed boots, and a shirt of rough red canvas. What jewellery she wore—in her ears, around her neck, and threaded in her hair—was of polished bone. Gaping at her, Tack did not realize he was blocking her path, until, showing a flash of irritation, she slammed him into the wall and strode past. Winded, Tack continued on towards the windows, as directed by Saphothere, where thankfully there was more space to move.

  Gazing out over the vista below, Tack first located the dying fire, then the tyrannosaur. The controls, set low in a corner of this particular window, were not so simple as Saphothere had suggested. Trying to track the moving virtual buttons, Tack managed to flick the window to infrared, which only worsened the view.

  ‘What are you trying to do?’

  Tack froze. Thus far no one but Saphothere had spoken to him in his own language. Thus far he had found it prudent to avoid all other Heliothane. Apparently it had taken much persuading on Saphothere’s part to prevent some of these people from just cutting off Tack’s arm and lodging it somewhere safe. He turned round slowly.

  Whereas most of the Heliothane that Tack had seen were tall and rangy, this man was of a more normal height, which he more than made up for in breadth, for his shoulders had to measure one full metre across. He wore a loose shirt and trousers of a material resembling thick white cotton. His skin in contrast was jet black, features negroid, and eyes mild brown. Tack also noticed that much of his exposed skin was laced with fine scars.

  ‘I’m trying to get a closer view of a tyrannosaurus out there,’ Tack replied.

  The man humphed and reached out an arm as thick as Tack’s leg, which terminated in a boulder-crushing hand. Half expecting to receive a blow, Tack jerked back, but instead the man ran his fingers over the virtual controls, and the window flung up the required view of the creature outside, tracking it as it moved in its endless search for prey to chew on.

  ‘An impressive creature, but strictly speaking it has evolved only to exist within narrow parameters.’ He looked at Tack. ‘You realize that people of your time were misguided in their belief that tyrannosaurus was merely a carrion eater? That all came from their softening outlook on existence—a political correctness engendering the attitude that at their root all creatures are good. They were in fact right the first time: tyrannosaurus is a vicious predator that will rip apart anything that moves, usually to devour but sometimes for the fun of it.’

  Tack grunted in understanding.

  ‘Another myth was that their front claws serve no purpose. Try telling a creature with a set of teeth like those that two handy toothpicks are useless. They like their meat fresh, not trapped decaying in their mouths.’

  Gazing back at his companion, Tack noticed over his shoulder the tall woman he had earlier ‘bumped into’ entering the viewing area and heading in their direction. She appeared distinctly irritated. Noting the direction of Tack’s gaze, the big man looked round. Coming to a halt, the woman licked her lips nervously before starting to speak in the Heliothane language.

  The man interrupted, ‘Tack here does not understand our language, Vetross, so to use it in front of him is impolite.’

  The woman bowed her head. ‘My apologies, Engineer.’

  ‘So, tell me, what so urgently requires my attention?’

  ‘The spatial scroll extending … has will extend … stretch …’ Vetross paused before saying, ‘This is not a suitable language for the subject.’

  ‘The mind, like the body, requires exercise,’ said Engineer. ‘You are just using different muscles this time. Think about it for a moment, then continue.’ He turned to Tack. ‘Have you seen enough of your dinosaur?’

  Tack nodded. In truth he could have watched the beast for hours, but he did not think this was the answer Engineer wanted, so Tack wasn’t about to argue.

  Engineer continued, ‘When Vetross finally gets around to telling me her news, I suspect that Saphothere’s departure, and yours, will be brought forward. Do you know where he is at present?’

  ‘In the recovery ward.’ Tack removed from the pocket of his new coat the palm computer that had belonged to Coptic, and which Saphothere had reprogrammed specially for him. Once he opened it, the device—consisting of what appeared to be two sheets of smoked glass hinged together—displayed a map of the interior of Sauros. In one corner was a small icon of a control panel which, when touched, expanded to fill one half of the computer with a static virtual panel. Using this, Tack was able to confirm Saphothere’s location.

  ‘Ah, simple but exclusive of some useful information,’ said Vetross suddenly.

  Both Tack and Engineer turned towards her.

  She continued, ‘The energy dam in New London is functioning at full capacity and all abutments are field stable. We are ready for the shift. All that has to be decided is whether or not we maintain the one light-year span, or allow the one-third light-year extension.’

  ‘You see, it’s not so difficult. I will join you shortly to begin the shift.’

  Vetross nodded sharply and, without even looking at Tack, moved off. Engineer turned back to him. ‘Tell Traveller Saphothere that I require him at abutment three.’

  Tack risked, ‘What was all that about?’

  Engineer smiled. ‘The energy required to shift Sauros back in time a hundred million years is now available. And, while making that shift, the tunnel’s span will become unstable, which is why you must go now.’

  The big man turned and began sauntering away, adding over his shoulder, ‘Tell Saphothere not to delay A solar flare could crack the dam, which would put the project back months in New London time, if that place were ever to survive the event.’

  Following his map, Tack negotiated the corridors of Sauros, by travelling ramps and walkways whose floors flowed like mercury but somehow maintained a surface solidity. In the vast interior spaces of the city he observed massive walls of balconied dwellings, around which travel hemispheres buzzed like insects; immense machines labouring to some unknown purpose, but which caused some sort of inductive tug at his skin; huge ducts and conduits, and spaces curtained with nacreous energy fields. Everything was composed of metal, plastic and other manufactured materials, and all served a definite purpose. There were no statues, nothing built for simple aesthetics, no gardens, yet the place possessed an awesome functional beauty.

  The recovery ward lay at the rear of one of the residential blocks, its panoramic windows overlooking a well, at the bottom of which rested a machine consisting of what appeared to be randomly cut concentric gear rings shifting against each other, as if searching for some final combination. Every time they shifted it seemed as if the very air changed all its directions of flow and some force pulled at Tack’s insides. Saphothere lay on a metal slab, pipes conducting his blood from a plug in the side of his chest to a wheeled machine nearby—which, so Saphothere had informed Tack, cleaned out the poisons and directly added nutrients along with complex enzymes that accelerated tissue repair and the growth of fat cells, so in effect Saphothere was being endowed in just a few hours with what would otherwise have needed days of rest and sustenance. As soon as Tack entered the room, Saphothere opened his eyes and glared at him.

  ‘I told you to keep yourself occupied for five hours,’ he said.

  Tack told him of his encounter by the viewing
windows.

  ‘Engineer?’ Saphothere sat bolt upright, then leant over and made an adjustment to the revitalization machine. After a moment its pipes were clear of his blood, then one of them filled up with some emerald fluid. Saphothere gasped in pain, picked up a wad of white material from an inbuilt dispenser, waiting until the emerald fluid cleared, then yanked all the tubes from his chest, slapping the wad quickly into place to soak up any spill of blood. None of this surprised Tack now. His surprise had been earlier, when Saphothere, without assistance, had opened up his shirt, placed the plug against his chest, and explained through gritted teeth how its connection heads were now digging inside him, searching for his pulmonary and ventricular arteries. It seemed Saphothere had no time for anaesthetics or the ministrations of a nurse, had there been one in evidence.

  ‘I take it he is an important man?’ asked Tack.

  ‘He’s the Engineer,’ said Saphothere, as if that was all the explanation required. He swung his legs off the slab, kicked away the wheeled device, which rolled back to the wall, sealed up his shirt and stood. ‘I would have liked more time here, but it seems your education will begin sooner than expected.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I will not be flying the mantisal all the way to New London.’

  EVEN YGROL, THE TOUGHEST and most dangerous member of the Neanderthal tribe, was tired and knew he was fighting a losing battle. The aurochs he had killed would keep his fellows supplied with food for some time yet, but no matter how much meat he brought to the encampment, his people were still weak and incontinent, blinded by the blisters around and on their eyes, still dying. Only Ygrol was still physically untouched by this terrible malady, though it hurt him in many other ways.

  Inside the yurt he wrapped the dead girl in a tanned goat fur to keep her warm for the journey and began sewing it shut. He did this because it was always how the dead should be honoured, though he would not bury her, for the one on the mountain demanded the corpses. After dragging her outside the yurt, he first went over to check that the stew, in its hide pot over the fire, contained sufficient water, for without it soaking through the hide, the pot would burn and the contents spill into the flames. From the other yurts he could hear the moaning and the demands for water and food, but ignored them—that they were making a noise meant they were still alive. Returning then, he threw the girl’s corpse over his shoulder and walked back through the forest towards the mountain, where it awaited.