Drolm, the third of his precursors, was descended from the malign Rajeg and was parent to the insolent Zivolin. His character was petty and irritable, qualities well suited to the low-level Chamber of Judgement functionary that he was in life. But right now Akreen needed him to use what wits he still had, just to find out a few facts.
Esteemed Drolm, forebear of shining repute, I seek your guidance in this matter, specifically your observations of my activity since I came aboard this vessel.
[Ah, young Akreen, your courtesy does you credit but it would appear that the activities you speak of escaped my attention as my thoughts were occupied by weightier concerns–Dr] [Of course, you could just be going mad!–Zi] [Begone, you worm–Dr] [Insufferable imbecile–Ca]
Akreen shook his head. Now Zivolin and Casx were joining in, which usually heralded a spiral of bitterness and invective.
Peerless precursors, I beseech you to lend me your invaluable counsel in this troubling situation!
[Scion Akreen, if this is a truly grave predicament then prudence dictates that you abort this mission and return to the Warcage–Ip]
Iphan, former Raidmaster of the 2nd Battalion and Akreen’s direct progenitor. The unanswerable truth of his words struck home. Akreen would have to alter course back to the Warcage then inform the Urtesh and First Blade Tevashir–there was no other course open to him. He swivelled his couch to face the helm controls, reached out and…
Onward they shuffled, vaporous, faceless forms. Matching them, step by trudging step, he realised that they were now journeying along the foot of a vast wall, steel blue, towering, featureless, limitless…
Then he was back in the scoutship, as abrupt as a flicked switch. But now he was in the passenger compartment, perched on the edge of one of the low bucket chairs, arms extended, silvery hands holding the broken pieces of a yellow disposable beaker. Akreen let the pieces fall, clicking, clattering on the deck, and sat back. The fear was like a high, tight whine thrumming at the edge of perception, a pervasive undertone that made his earlier panic seem like mere discomfort.
He glanced at the timer on his arm–nearly seven hours had passed since that exchange with Iphan, while seated up in the pilot booth. What had happened in all that time? He looked down at the broken beaker, the seven yellow pieces. And who had been in command of his body?
[Leaving a ship in the hands of an autopilot is like trusting a box of numbers to write poetry–Zi]
Zivolin’s voice broke through his transfixed frame of mind. Clenching his fists, he made himself stand.
Shrewd and artful Zivolin, he began, have you noticed that I am no longer in the pilot’s couch and that some hours have passed since we last spoke?
[Of course I have. I’m dead, not stupid–Zi]
Did you witness my actions during that period?
[You misunderstand–I am aware of the gap in time but have no memory of it. You should be asking which of us is conspicuous by his absence… ah, I knew that our disciplinarian would eventually put in an appearance!–Zi] [What a waste and an irritation you are–you should have died with someone’s boot on your throat–Ra] [And yet I lived to a corroded old age and died nowhere near a battlefield–Zi] [Your ignoble life concerns me not–I have spoken forth to discover when our irresolute host intends to return to the Warcage and to war–Ra]
Most fervent Rajeg, Akreen said in the field of his thoughts. Despite my seniority I am bound by the commands of the First Blade. Further, I am constrained by the unique predicament in which I am caught.
[What is the nature of this predicament?–Ra]
Since coming aboard the Urtesh there have been several intervals of which I have no memory, yet I have still been carrying out actions of some kind.
[Nullouts. Decrentia–Ra] [Too young for it and he does not appear to be drooling or giggling–Zi] [Such an impressive show of medical acumen. I stand by my judgement–Ra]
By now Akreen was on his feet and heading forward to the pilot booth. There, he paused to lean on the back of the couch as he studied the instruments. Then he pointed.
Ah, see! We are in hyperspace but the course is leading us back to the Warcage! And since I know that I did not carry out these actions I must unfortunately conclude that my body is being hijacked by one of my precursors.
[An infamous accusation!–Ra] [Slanderous upstart!–Ca] [A shameful imputation–Dr] [What proof do you have?–To]
Plentiful, abundant proof! Akreen retorted. Which you seem incapable of recognising…
And the gravity of it all suddenly struck him. If he could not convince his precursors that some malign presence was using him for unknown purposes, how hard would it be to convince someone like First Blade Tevashir?
His precursors were still declaring their innocence with varying degrees of outrage and contempt, a strident uproar that Akreen knew would eventually subside. He could, of course, leap at the controls with the goal of altering course, but such an action would doubtless provoke an intervention by his shadowy overseer. Who, if Zivolin was correct, was Gredaz, first precursor, the enigmatic presence who had almost entirely shunned Akreen throughout his life. The others had been a rambling, echoing blend of dusty memories not his own, and his inner self rebelled at the idea of any of them seizing control and blotting him out in the process.
But what could he do? He had heard several stories about ill-fated Zavri whose minds became battlegrounds where their precursors vied for dominance–such tales usually ended with the victim succumbing to a kind of mind-death, leading inexorably to physical torpidity and subscission. He wanted desperately to fight it but beyond those stories his knowledge was a blank. Perhaps, while the other six precursors were engaged and aware, he actually should pounce at the controls in the hope that some recollection would remain with them. Yet the last nullout was like having a switch in his brain turned off…
Then Akreen heard a chiming sound and saw symbols blinking on the communications panel. All of a sudden he heard Zivolin shouting in his thoughts, urging him to answer it, even as he was already pushing past the couch to lunge at the comm panel. But cloudy grey surged at the edge of his vision, and his legs gave way. In desperation he levered himself up to the control board with his arms only to find that his fingers and hands were now useless and shaking. He could see details on the comm panel, see that the incoming signal was from the Urtesh, from the First Blade’s own secure line…
The faceless, smoky figures plodded along, stooped in their gait as if from some heavy burden. The glowing mist rippled and flowed around trudging feet. Some minor compulsion made him count his marching companions, and he found they numbered six…
Before him the pilot’s control board, dull green moulding with openings for panels, instruments and displays. Timers revealed another gap less than four hours long. Beneath him, the pilot’s couch into which he was strapped. In his mind, the crawling vermin of fear, and the hard-bitten resolve to master it. On the displays, readings showed that the scout was back in normal space and heading along a high-velocity trajectory…
Akreen sat back in surprise–the scout was on a course that would soon intercept with the Urtesh. His shadowy overseer had altered the destination… and that comm signal which came through before the nullout had been from the Urtesh. He leaned forward and thumbed the comm display but all it would show was the “Unavailable” message.
[Communications disabled while the ship hurries towards the Zavri banner-vessel? What perils await us?–Zi]
Whatever we must face, Akreen said inwardly, one thing is very clear–I am no longer fit to carry out my duties.
[Without a doubt–Ip] [A correct appraisal–To] [A harsh outlook in my view–Zi]
There is no way to discover what Gredaz has been doing during the nullouts, and that makes me a security risk. As soon as we dock with the Urtesh I must ask the First Blade to confine me to quarters with an armed guard.
[You assume that Gredaz will allow you to even begin such action. But we will shortly find
out–Zi]
It was a sharp observation. One of the scout ship’s hull sensors was tracking the Urtesh while a pilot monitor showed the approach. As the minutes passed the command ship drew nearer and the quiet was reflected in Akreen’s head where all his precursors were uncharacteristically silent.
Under autopilot the scout manoeuvred smoothly back into the open launch bay. Akreen felt the knocks and lurches as the positioner guided the small craft into parking lockdown. Standing by the main airlock he went over practised lines of resignation and surrender in his thoughts while keeping his real intentions low key. The plan was to say nothing until he came face to face with Tevashir, then launch a physical attack upon him. Getting himself chained and locked in a cage would ensure that his shadowy overseer could do no further harm.
Muffled thuds and clangs came through from the brightly lit launch bay as it was repressurised. At the ready light he opened the lock, cycled through to the outer hatch where he stepped onto the embarkation platform. It deposited him before the double doors, which then parted… he had barely taken a step towards the gloomy corridor when several pairs of dark hands seized him by the arms and thrust him face down on the corridor floor.
As his exterior skinform was roughly searched for personal weapons, he realised that these were not troops from any Zavri order. Instead his glimpses revealed that they were in fact Avang sceptre-carls! Here, aboard the banner-vessel of the Zavri! What upheaval of insanity had convinced the barons and counts of their Ebony Council that attacking the Zavri was advisable?
Having relieved him of his barb-dagger, the Avang hauled him to his feet and without a word rushed him along the passageway. Dark-armoured, goggle-helmed, they were heedless of the bumps and knocks Akreen suffered as they dragged him up companionways and down narrow passages. Minutes later they arrived at the Urtesh’s bridge. Avang sceptre-carls stood over Zavri operators, still seated at their stations with hands on their heads, but it was the figure seated in the command chair that drew Akreen’s attention. Someone had turned up the overhead lightsource and the still form of First Blade Tevashir shone in the illumination. Akreen’s escort brought him up close to the command chair and forced him down onto his knees.
At first he was certain that Tevashir was dead, and that some grotesque spectacle had been arranged for his benefit–then his gaze settled upon the First Blade’s rigid face from which the living eyes quiveringly stared. Akreen felt cold horror pierce him. Tevashir’s body seemed frozen, his skinform garment looking pitted and dull, like a shell. A dim and distant memory stirred, some half-forgotten child’s fable…
“Do you recognise this punishment, Second Blade?”
The voice came from behind and had a vaguely slurred, machine-processed quality. Not knowing who had spoken, Akreen just shook his head.
“It is the inexorably terminal condition caused by a weapon designed specifically for use against the Zavri. A single round penetrates that metalloid skin, delivering a range of para-virals which alter the molecular structure of the outer layer while others eat at the inner tissues and skeletal frame, reducing them to corroded detritus—”
He could not help himself. “But the Zavri are loyal!”
“In recent times, yes, but it was not always so. During the Great Unshackling War sizeable factions of your people fought on the side of the Apparatarch. Even then, 25,000 years ago, the military prowess of the Zavri was formidable, thus a suitably lethal weapon was required.”
A short figure emerged from the shadows, a cowled Toolbearer carrying a bulky, shoulder-slung, long-barrelled weapon. One of the Toolbearer’s instrument-hands was embedded in a bulging socket in the midsection while the other was clamped around the thick, asymmetrical barrel. It looked old, its surface tarnished, dented and scratched, but status lights glowed around that rounded socket and Akreen understood the message that was being sent. Here it is, the weapon that brought your race to its knees thousands of years ago, and look, it’s still in working order.
But although Akreen knew of the Great Unshackling, the accompanying commentary sounded like Chainer lies…
“Forgive me,” he said, “but the histories I was taught said that our precursors…”
[Among whom would have been the enigmatic Gredaz!–Zi]
The revelation made him pause only for a moment.
“… they fought alongside all the other liberated species to overthrow the Apparatarch.”
“They had to be persuaded,” said the unseen speaker. “Captured, treated, rehabilitated, given new purpose then given new weaponry. Eventually we crushed that demon-ghost’s forces, threw down its orbitals, laid waste to its fleet-armies, tore open its citadels and melted its datacores down to slag. Since then the Zavri’s loyalty to we Shuskar has been gratifyingly resolute and undimmed. Until now.”
Kneeling before the wide-eyed, slowly dying form of Tevashir, First Blade, Akreen forced himself into a state of composure. The realisation was stark–only a Shuskar Lord could command the Ebony Council of the Avang to lend their soldiers in a punitive action against one of the Loyal Seven. All that remained was to discover if he was to share Tevashir’s fate.
Heavy footsteps approached from behind as the voice continued.
“The testimonials of clandestine agents have proved beyond any shadow of doubt that your superior, First Blade Tevashir, has been collaborating with the Chainers. While you were travelling in that scoutcraft, it was his intention to rendezvous with the Harvest Flotilla, board the hubship and turn it all over to a crew of malcontents and seditioners who were smuggled aboard in a backup fuel tank. However, we stole a march on Tevashir’s treason, intercepted the flotilla, exposed and executed the stowaways, then despatched the flotilla back to the Warcage on a deviated course. After which we waited for the arrival of the Urtesh–and here we are.”
The speaker came into view with a lurching gait, the tall, red-clad figure of a Shuskar Lord but then Akreen saw what curled from the side of that strong-featured face, under the jaw, round the back of the neck, a ribbed thing like a tentacle or a tail, following the line of the right shoulder and down the arm, engulfing it below the elbow. Instead of a lower arm and hand there was a bizarre organic weapon, a long-barrelled artefact thick-muzzled enough to be a beam cannon of some kind. But it had bony ridges, leathery membrane stretched over bulbous chambers, webs of thready veins, scars and lumps. It was a waxy, pale brown colour, and as Akreen stared a large bump halfway along the barrel split open and an eye gazed at him.
Not just a Shuskar Lord, but one of the five Paramount Gun-Lords! The teacher-cubes that educated every Zavri child provided only basic grounding in the history of the Warcage but the Gun-Lords featured prominently throughout. They were the Shuskar researchers who, during the early stages of the struggle against the Apparatarch, found the ancient symbioweapons buried on a harvest-acquired world. Study led to dialogue, then a merging that created the five Gun-Lords who were able to turn a desperate rebellion into the Great Unshackling. There could be no denying their power and their right to rule all the worlds of the Warcage, or the unqualified irreducible loyalty which was their due. Or the fear and awe that they inspired.
“I am Xra-Huld,” said the Gun-Lord softly. “Do you know of me?”
Akreen nodded. “The defence of Mt Krallen, the flight to Ajibhur, the Lothata ambuscade…”
“Millennia have passed yet the memories are as fresh as they were in the days that followed,” the Shuskar said.
“And Beshephis, Lord?”
“Beshephis, too, I recall in every glittering detail.” The Gun-Lord Xra-Huld wore a high, encircling collar fashioned to resemble crenellations, but his grin was still visible, revealing pointed teeth stained yellow. “An insurrection driven by a traitorous faction of the Order of Steel, colluding with Maklun’s sect of demagogues and saboteurs, rousing to revolution the underworkers of half a dozen worlds.” Xra-Huld had been standing behind the high-backed command chair–in which Tevashir was slumped and slowly dyi
ng–and now he leaned forward to rest that disconcerting weapon-arm on the raised back. “These were enemies that the Shuskar faced with unity and resolve. Now it is the Retrocessionists–a secret coterie within our own number!–against whom we must strive. Distrust is degrading the chain of command and suspicion spreads like a disease.
“Which brings me to you.”
Akreen averted his gaze, inadvertently letting it settle upon the mute figure of the Toolbearer, still standing there with the Zavri-killer gun hanging at a slant, muzzle down.
[Put iron in your spine. Accept whatever judgement is laid upon you–Dr]
“Most paramount Lord,” he said with a relaxed calm which was wholly fabricated. “I cannot understand why the First Blade would break his vows, nor why he would carry out actions designed to harm the Warcage—”
[Really? I can come up with one good reason without trying–Zi]
Zivolin’s interjection almost made him stumble but he made it look like a natural pause and carried on.
“As for myself, I can only point to my record of service, and the numerous assaults upon the Chainers and others in which I played notable roles.”
The Gun-Lord gave a one-sided shrug. “Tevashir’s record was–ah, is–more extensive and illustrious than yours by far so it seemingly counts for little in matters of loyalty. However, it is worth noting that he is the bearer of two precursors, neither of whom accounted for much, whereas your own precursor lineage possesses a greater distinction and goes back to the Great Unshackling itself.” The Shuskar’s smile was equal parts savage humour, anger and calculation. “In short we need an experienced officer to take Tevashir’s place and you appear to be well qualified. So be upstanding, Akreen, scion of Iphan, and the new First Blade of the Zavri.”
Ancestral Machines Page 14
