Ancestral Machines

by Michael Cobley

  “Oh, we’re focused, all right. You can be sure of that.” Pyke’s thoughts were full of violent imaginings, smashing an elbow into that throat, a fist into that face. Instead he spread his hands. “Let’s waste no more time–let us get on with this black business.”

  Khorr had then muttered into a cuff communicator and less than a minute later a second lighter swept into the gloomy clearing. Small leaves were swept up in its a-grav helices as it descended, access ramp already extended. Khorr was first to hop up and inside and before long Pyke and his crew were aboard and aloft, speeding off into the darkness, closely followed by Dervla and Win in the first lighter. They were in the air for only a matter of minutes, during which Khorr failed to order the pilot to deploy the canopy so all had to endure the chilly buffeting of the slipstream. Pyke felt the cold biting through his skin but was resolute in maintaining a matter-of-fact demeanour in the face of this icy blast, especially whenever Khorr glanced back at his passengers. To which Pyke would flash a grin and a wink, just for the hell of it.

  But his private assessment of the situation was stark–in taking Win and Dervla hostage, Khorr had cut his crew’s combat effectiveness in half; Kref and Ancil were thoroughly at home with a variety of mayhem-dealing weapons but Mojag and Punzho’s skills lay elsewhere. He had considered asking that skagbucket Khorr to swap Mojag and Punzho for the women, but not only might Mojag and Punzho be less than appreciative at such a deal, they would almost certainly be less able to cope with captivity than Dervla and Win. So, what with it being just a right crappy deal all round, Pyke decided to stick with the hand he was dealt.

  Khorr’s ship was parked on a level barren ridge overlooking dark, unbroken forest. Bay doors parted as they drew near, a broad fan of light in the murk. The leading lighter, with Dervla and Win, swung smoothly down towards the bright entrance and glided inside but by the time the second had slowed and manoeuvred in beside the first there was no sign of its occupants. As the lighter came to a halt Pyke got to his feet, ready to raise a protest but was forestalled by Khorr.

  “They are safe,” he said. “Merely being confined to suitable quarters. For their own protection.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “You and your people can resume your seats.” Khorr made a small gesture. “In a few moments we shall be under way, a short journey to the nearest monoportal, no more than a couple of hours.”

  “Monoportal?” said Pyke.

  Khorr let out a dry chuckle. “How to explain… simply put, most of the worlds of the Warcage are linked together by a network of instant transfer portals. Most have one or two that still function, while worlds newly integrated with the Warcage start off with the full complement of four. The bridging point for one is not far from here…” He shook his head. “On new worlds like this, the portals are only partially anchored so we need to stabilise it before sending you on your journey.”

  Pyke’s mind raced on hearing this. “So we step through one of these portals and we’re on Armag…”

  “Not so simple. Unauthorised portal travel is a capital offence so portal snaggers are a cautious bunch, jealously guarding all their tiny secrets. Once we’ve stabilised the portal’s anchorpoint we can send a coded message through to the snaggergang on the other side, on a world called Kothahil. They’ll be expecting our contact and once you’re through they’ll set up the next stage taking you to Armag.”

  Pyke, still standing, glanced at his crew and saw edgy mistrust in their faces.

  “And when we’ve danced your little dance and done what you want,” he said with undisguised bitterness, “how do we get our people back? Where do we meet? Not back here, I’m guessing…”

  “No, not here–modulator teams will have secured the portal bridge by then. More likely somewhere on Kothahil, or on Armag if we can be sure of our safety. And we’ll do what we can to recover your ship.”

  Pyke nodded as he regarded Khorr, almost feeling as if he were seeing him for the first time. Apart from the details about the journey to Armag and what they had to do there, everything else he said felt like a lie. Everything.

  So Pyke sat down on one of the aisle-facing seats, rested his left leg across his right knee and gave an easy smile.

  “In a way this reminds me of that time we had to collect a package from an antiquarian on Nightlantern on behalf of an anonymous client. Oh, the trust issues we had, and the never-ending ganshing over it all! But it all worked out in the end. So we’ll just settle down and take our rest, get some of our energies back. I’m sure we’ll be busying around soon enough.”

  As he made a show of relaxing the others did too, reassuring evidence that they’d got his message–any mention of Nightlantern was code for “life or death situation, play it very cool”.

  “How reasonable of you, Captain. I approve…” Khorr paused as the bay doors closed to a chorus of machine-actuations, followed by a series of muffled thuds. “Seals are secure so we shall be under way in a few moments. I leave you under the attentive custody of two of my most trusted guards. There is a food dispenser and a waste stall in the corner over there–my guards can demonstrate any operations as required.”

  With that he clambered out of the lighter and strode along a narrow walkway to a hatch that slid shut behind him. Pyke waited three seconds before sitting up and turning to face the others.

  “What’s the plan, chief?” said Ancil. “Please tell me that you’ve got a plan.”

  Pyke raised a finger to his lips as he regarded the others. Punzho the Egetsi was hunched into his seat, tall bony frame almost crammed in on itself. He held his pouch of Weave figurines in one hand, long fingers tracing their shapes through the material. Mojag sat in a seat towards the rear, tensely watching Pyke, his features a mask of weariness yet there was something sharp in his gaze, an echo of Oleg, perhaps? Pyke knew that he had to find time for a private gab with Mojag, just to find out the state of his mind. Or minds.

  Kref the Henkayan occupied a whole double seat, a stolid formidable bulk, sitting there with arms folded, craggy features seemingly composed, but there was a perceptible furrow on that wide brow and he wasn’t saying much. Come to think of it, he hadn’t said anything for hours.

  And here was Ancil, his face an open map to all the thoughts and feelings currently bouncing inside his head. Pyke recognised them all in himself, the anger, the frustration, the hate, self-recrimination, all funnelling into a burning need to act. But Pyke was the captain, and he could not afford the luxury of acting on instinct…

  This is my crew, mine, and I’ll keep them alive no matter what…

  “Sure, I gotta plan,” he said. “We endure. We lost the ship and these gouging scumsuckers have our weapons, so we endure, we survive, and we wait for our moment.”

  Ancil looked at him. “And this isn’t it? Our moment doesn’t happen before we and Dervla and Win end up worlds apart?”

  Pyke locked gazes with him, leaned forward, raised a finger then pointed off to the side. “If you cast your gaze forward to the ceiling above the walkway where our custodial goons are parked, you’ll see what appears to be a pair of circular housings jutting slightly proud of the ceiling, which is probably semi-hollow, strutted plastone. Remind you of anything?”

  Ancil gave a sideways glance, angry eyes taking in the details. Then his shoulders slumped. “Armoured turret recesses. Tell you, chief, this Khorr—”

  “Is a lying, thieving murderer, oh yes, I can practically smell the kills he’s made.” He gave them all a hooded look. “So when I say we must endure it is for a reason, trust me. We’ll survive, we’ll watch each other’s back, and we’ll wait…”

  And as he regarded Khorr’s brawny, slope-browed, body-armoured guards he suddenly remembered the language teachers, those pills made by Hechec, G’Brozen Mav’s Toolbearer. He took the little transparent pouch from his chest pocket, tipped one out onto his palm, and stared at it for a moment. We mustn’t be the ignorant playthings of others. Then, taking a deep breath, he
swallowed it back. Ancil and the others were wide-eyed as he smiled, and licked his lips. “Tastes of absolutely nothing, lads, so here, share them around. I’m pretty sure they’re not poisonous but you can keep an eye on me just in case. Or just take the damn things now–up to you.”

  Hesitantly, suspiciously, one by one they followed suit, with only Punzho taking it with a little water from his waist bottle. After that everyone tried to get comfortable enough to rest, if not actually drift off into sleep. At some point Pyke found himself fuzzily awake, muttering something in an unknown language, before lying back with eyes closed, dozing on and off until a sharp tapping jolted him into full awareness. One of the guards, a scar-faced, bull-necked humanoid blessed with what looked like an ingrowing nose, grunted a few words that sounded like “hey, butt-scum, boss is here”, and gestured over his shoulder.

  Khorr was standing on the dockside walkway, prodding and tapping a thin, triangular datapad of some kind. Seconds later the bay doors parted and began to open, admitting a grey, watery light. Khorr then glanced down at Pyke, lips halfway between sneer and smirk.

  “So, how is your facility with the Omnilect, Captain?”

  Khorr had started the sentence in Anglic and halfway through switched to the alien language. Pyke felt an odd delay in hearing the words and understanding them. He levered himself upright and caught sight of the dull grey of an overcast dawn beyond the bay doors. He scratched his head, combed back his hair.

  “Not too sure, yet–I’ll have to see how some traditional limericks come across in it.”

  “I’m certain you will find out in due course,” Khorr said as he clambered down into the lighter, followed by three of his over-brawny guards. “It is time for you to leave this world.”

  Minutes later Khorr was guiding the craft out of the bay. On this occasion the canopy was activated, unfolding in sections over the seating, its opacity shimmering into hard transparency. It shielded the interior from the squalls of gusting rain that battered the lighter from all directions as it swept away from the parked ship and out over a dense forest.

  Beyond the trees Khorr brought the craft down near the bank of a wide river. By now he was taking readings from a blue hemispherical device sitting neatly in the palm of one hand. With the lighter now at rest on a pebbly strand, Khorr rose and looked at Pyke.

  “Not long now, Captain.”

  Part of the canopy concertinaed open and Khorr stepped out, followed by one of his pet goons carrying a large hiking pack of some kind. Pyke gave a sideways glance at Ancil, who was leaning on the seat in front of him, his expression morose. A few minutes later the two remaining guards stirred, gnarled hands raised to their earpieces before beckoning the crew to disembark. Pyke was first out, clambering down onto the strand, pebbles crunching underfoot as he shivered and drew his jerkin tighter against the cold breeze.

  Khorr waved at him from over near the water’s edge, about a dozen yards away. With the others at his back, and the armed goons flanking them, Pyke strolled over with as much swagger as he could muster.

  The bulky pack now sat splayed out on the pebbles and Khorr was standing over a tripoded device whose glowing panel he was poking with a thin stylo. There were also a couple of silvery poles sticking up from the water several paces out. As Pyke drew near, faint pencil-thin beams sprang out from the device, stuttering in a seemingly random fashion, but then blue outlines emerged from this activity, growing from the tops of the poles, curving over into an archway. As they watched, the view through the arch darkened and dissolved into blurry waves that pulsed towards its centre.

  “Quickly, Captain,” said Khorr. “We can only maintain portal stability for another minute or so. Step through and the Kothahil snaggercrew will be waiting to take you to the next stage in your journey.”

  “I really hope that proves to be true,” Pyke muttered as he splashed past Khorr and out into the shallows.

  Up close the portal had no edges as such, instead a fuzzy outer boundary that circumscribed the murky nothingness. Pyke glanced back at his crew, saw their nervous faces, gave his best devil-take-the-hindmost grin and stepped into the pulsating gloom…

  And stumbled as his foot landed on a hard stone surface somewhat higher than the pebbly shore he’d just left. First impression was that he had emerged amid a cone of pearly radiance surrounded by inky shadows and an atmosphere that was cold and damp… Before he could turn to see who was following someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back from the quivering face of the portal.

  “Out of the way! The incoming margin has to be vacant!”

  Pyke’s manhandler was short and bundled up in tawny furs topped by a hairy, bearded face with intense eyes. In the background a handful of similar fur-clad beings–who had to be the snaggercrew Khorr mentioned–busied themselves with handheld devices with which they were scanning the portal, and Pyke suddenly realised that he was in a cave with an uneven ceiling. He was about to utter a hearty greeting to all and sundry when his snagger guide stepped smartly around and was just in time to catch Ancil as he emerged from the portal and tripped on the exact same spot.

  Mojag made it through without mishap, as did Punzho although he had to duck under the arch. Kref also ducked and while his large leading foot found safe purchase his trailing foot caught on something, causing him to swivel round, fall backwards, and land with a hefty thud that drove a wordless snarl of exasperation from his lips. Yet when Pyke helped him to his feet the Henkayan gave forth only a grunt and his craggy face looked dark and surly.

  Straightening, Pyke turned to the fur-clad snagger he’d spoken to first, and said, “Profoundest apologies to you–we’re usually a bit more coordinated than that. So, this is Kothahil, then—”

  “This is a cave, a stinking damp cave riddled with gegishi nests…” The diminutive snagger let out a curse-sounding word and lashed out with his foot to stamp on something in the shadows. “Hate the verminous infesters. My name’s Feskavoy–are you Pyke?”

  “That’s me, all right, and that over there is—”

  “Don’t want to know names, don’t care, no time for it anyway. We’re in a hurry to get out of here before any of the Governor’s padfangs come sniffing around.”

  Sure enough, the rest of the snaggers were hastily breaking down several wall-mounted, U-shaped sensors along with the tripod device and stowing them away in blue leathery sacks which were slung over shoulders.

  “Padfangs?” said Ancil.

  “That’s right,” Feskavoy said with a wicked leer. “Four-footed death-machines, all lean muscle, gleaming talons and rabid snouts that can’t wait to bite your face off! So–less jabbering, more speed. Here…”

  Pyke suddenly found himself holding armfuls of musty-smelling fur cloaks.

  “Get these on, all of you, and be quick about it. We have to leave now.”

  Minutes later the crew were lining up after the Kothahil snaggers, all enfolded in odour-heavy furs, even Kref who had one that was clearly two stitched together. A narrow passageway led out of the cave, its air growing colder with every step as they shuffled along in single file. A couple of their guides carried lamps but these were dimmed as the passage widened out. Frost glittered on all rock surfaces, freezing gusts brought in swirls of fine snow to be caught on cloak fur. Pyke was first out, his throat chilled by the air. They were on a high mountain track, that much was certain, but heavy snow mixed with mist made it impossible to tell if there was a gentle slope just feet away or a plummeting drop into some abyss. Without pause or explanation the snaggers strode vigorously onwards, descending the path which at times was no wider than an arm’s-length. After a few minutes, though, the path led to a slope scattered with heaps of ice-bearded boulders half buried in the wind-driven snow. Peering beyond the boulders Pyke got an impression of murky emptiness, a void. Then came a point when a greater blast of wind tore a fissure in the even greyness and for a second Pyke was staring out across an immense gulf at a sheer black peak crowned by a dark citadel speckled wit
h tiny window lights.

  Then a great curtain of snow swept in, the gap was gone, and freezing mist closed in, cutting visibility to only a few yards. The freezing wind rushed and moaned around them. Snow gathered on shoulders, stuck to bare faces and hands, leaching a deadly chill into the bone. No one felt like talking in the cold, muffling deadness.

  By now their path was following the line of a ridge and had just begun to slope upwards when a high wavering howl rose out of the unseen depths off to the side. Footsteps slowed and widening eyes stared into the greyness as mouths puffed white clouds.

  “Was that…?” Pyke began.

  “Padfangs,” Feskavoy said as he came back along the single file to speak with the rearmost snagger. “Brekin, that sounded as if it might have come from Fulcrum Three–when did you last check the intrusion readings?”

  Brekin, who was shorter even than Feskavoy, dug madly through his cloak pockets. “Not since we left the cave… here it is.” He yanked out a thing like a knuckle-duster with an opaque flattened oval attached to its underside, nestling in his palm as he studied it. “Yes, right, it’s… they’ve…”

  Feskavoy silenced him with an upraised hand. “What about Fulcrum Seven?”

  Brekin stared at the device while thumbing several dimples along its edge. Pyke peered over his shoulder, saw coilesque symbols flicker and change.

  “Secure, unchanged,” was the verdict.

  “Good, then we have a change of plan,” said Feskavoy.

  “That’ll be plan B, then,” said Pyke. “To get us where we’re going.”

  Feskavoy gave him a sharp look. “Yes, after a fashion.”

  Before Pyke could quiz him further, the snagger leader started barking out orders and moments later they were turned about and heading back along the snow-choked pathway. Feskavoy led them to a sidetrack Pyke had missed seeing and soon they were descending a steep path consisting of cracked and worn sections of stairway interspersed with stretches of gravel and loose scree. All of it was being buried by the ceaseless snow, though, and the footing was becoming uncertain. After going to Kref’s aid three times and Punzho’s twice, Pyke was relieved when the slope flattened out. Under cover of the snow he sidled forward and nudged Brekin’s shoulder.