“I will be greatly occupied for the next hour or two, so this sedative will help to allay any anxiety you may be feeling.”
Dervla had caught the spray in her mouth and eyes, and the effects were coming on strong, a floating sensation and a numbness on the tongue while her surroundings began to undulate and distort. As her mood lifted, Khorr’s face became a swollen cartoonish monstrosity adorned with a single immense eye. Dervla was sure that she could see tiny, toothy-jawed fish swimming around inside it. She started to giggle and was on the verge of a mad outburst of laughing when a wave of narcotic nothingness swept over her.
When she came to it was in response to a harsh tickling in her throat, which led to a vicious and extended bout of coughing.
“My god, Derv–y’okay?”
She cleared her throat, grimacing at the rawness.
“I think I’ll live though I may never sing opera classics again…” There was a knot of discomfort low down in her midriff, which quickly made its presence known. “Win, how long were we out? I’ve got an urgent need to deal with!”
“My optic timer says about five hours,” said Win. “And you’re not the only one. I woke about ten minutes ago and got a guard to understand that if he didn’t provide a bucket or something soon he’d have some explaining to do when his boss came round.” She paused at the sound of rattling from the door. “This might be him…”
One of the guards entered, flat-snouted auto-weapon over one shoulder, his other hand gripping a blue triangular tub. He put the container on the floor near Win’s binding recess then stepped back and pressed a button on a small wall panel. Released from the restraint field, Win staggered forward a pace then bent slightly, leaning on her knees.
“My companion needs to make water too,” she said. “Please release her as well.”
For a moment the guard just glared, then he grunted, thumbed the wall button again and moved to the door. It slid aside, he stepped back, gun now aimed at them, then it slid shut. Dervla sagged, rubbed her aching wrists, then exchanged a look with Win. The two women began laughing.
“I better go first,” Win said. “I really wasn’t kidding about an imminent disaster…”
The blue triangular tub had a circular twist-off lid and while Win went first, Dervla took a closer look at the restraint field controls. But all she saw was a metal panel set flush with the poly-composite wall and two round buttons likewise flush with the panel surface. Without some decent tools the anti-tamper controls were effectively invulnerable.
Then it was her turn and where Win had uttered only a long sigh Dervla let out a groan that turned into a low giggle.
“Derv, I swear you’ve got the dirtiest laugh sometimes.”
She was fastening her camo-leggings when the door slid open again. It was Khorr, flanked by his guards. The battered frontier-merc leathers were gone, replaced by a close-fitting uniform in a fabric so profoundly black that no seams or details of any kind could be discerned. At the neck was an odd high collar in a dark grey material, its sides extending to either shoulder where metallic badges sat. Matching gloves completed the ensemble.
Recalling Khorr’s predictions as to the fate of Pyke and the others, Dervla met the merc leader’s gaze, quickly glanced at the guards as if gauging tactics, then tensed her shoulders and made a sharp forward motion. Khorr immediately stepped back while barking an order and raising one arm. The guards brought their weapons to bear on Dervla, and Khorr’s outstretched grey-gloved hand blurred… and was suddenly holding a long thin blade.
Dervla just laughed, relaxed her stance and leaned back, folding her arms. She had not even taken so much as a step forward.
Khorr regarded her with restrained anger. “You seek to test me, yet I am no longer the one who controls your fate.” The slender dagger blurred in his hand, vanishing as he closed the gloved fingers in a fist. “Now, hold out your wrists–both of you!”
Opaque plastic bands were snapped into place and Dervla could feel the fetters moulding themselves to the shape of her wrists as she and Win were marched out of the cell and along a narrow passage. Survive, she told herself. Where there’s life, there’s vengeance.
After a couple of turns along short dim corridors they passed through a wide hatch and down a gantry leading outside the ship. They were, Dervla realised, in the docking bay of a much larger vessel, perhaps even an orbital of some kind. Despite the poor illumination, she straight away got a sense of the bay’s size, which was respectably roomy. Ducts and piping latticed corroded bulkheads half lit by glowspikes scattered across a ceiling that bore the scars of old cables and conduits long since ripped down.
And there was an armed welcoming party, a line of tall humanoids in shiny black goggle helmets and dark blue body armour over which a purplish, asymmetrical cloak was draped. All carried long weapons that looked as if they were moulded from night-blue glass: the barrels ended in curved, beak-like muzzles. Dervla gazed enviously at the beautiful weapons, imagining pressing the cold smoothness of one against her chin as she sighted along the barrel.
Two tall figures stepped into view, taller than either Khorr’s mercs or the armed guards. They wore grey and white robes split from the waist, with armless jerkins over their torso, their ochre-quilted chests dotted with a variety of metallic sigils and emblems. Their scalps were enclosed by close-fitting caps, the front of which extended down like a mask over the eyes, which were hidden behind dark, impenetrable lenses.
As they approached, Khorr crossed his arms across his upper chest and gave a stiff bow.
“Luxator Khorr, be welcome aboard the Deliverance of Judgement,” said the shorter of the pair. “I am Lord-Mediary Gezath, this is Lord-Mediary Mendar. The Master is discussing the Armag operation with the new Zavri First Blade but has asked that you be brought straight to the command chamber without delay. He is keen to assess your offerings.”
Dervla glanced at Win, who met her gaze with a dark and worried expression.
Flanked by the dark-armoured troops, Khorr’s party set off, led by the Lords-Mediary who headed for a tall exit in the corner of the bay. Khorr walked between them but even though they were only a few metres ahead Dervla could barely make out the occasional word above the noise of tramping feet.
Offerings, she thought bleakly. Sounds like another word for “bribe”.
The route led along corridors, up oddly springy stairs and through lobbies, all fairly spacious. While the Deliverance of Judgement was undoubtedly a capital ship, its interior design was turning out to be yet another variant of Iron-Fisted Gothic. The architecture was half temple, half monumental, and all about the worship of power. A single symbol was repeated over and over, in wall mouldings, on decorative hangings and on floor patterns, a hand holding a dagger with an eye in its blade. The warlike symbolism was obvious but the eye staring out from the blade was unusual, even unsettling when used as an omnipresent decorative element.
At last they came to a double-door entrance which parted in sections from top to bottom. It made a quiet rhythmic hiss, like a series of blades being drawn forth. Inside, the ceiling sloped up towards the far wall of a buttress-walled chamber of a fair size, although slightly less imperious than Dervla had been expecting.
Narrow spot-beams speared down upon tall silvery figures standing in motionless, glittering ranks, facing forward. As the Lords-Mediary led them into the chamber Dervla noticed that their armed escort were remaining outside and taking up sentry positions along the corridor. Dervla and Win were made to stand in the shadows at the rear, flanked by Khorr’s guards, while the gathering of shining forms continued. In the tense hush, a deep rasping voice was speaking.
“… be sealed, trapping the outworlders within Gyr-Matu’s tower. The tower guard is under orders to convey the Lord-Governor to the inner refuge and pull all their squads back to protect it. You, First Blade, and your Zavri will enter at the base of the tower and scour it from bottom to top, leaving no avenues of escape. Keep in mind that I wish the outworl
ders taken alive so that they may be displayed and seen all across the Warcage–Zavri combat skills should be equal to such a task.”
“It shall be as you command, High One,” said a second voice. “These interlopers will be no match for battle-hardened Zavri veterans.”
“An excellent declaration, Akreen! It pleases me that you have adapted to your new rank with such zeal. Leave now–when we next meet it will be to celebrate the new heights of glory attained by the Zavri!”
Typical, Dervla thought. As usual I can’t see what’s happening on-stage because of all the Tall People blocking the way!
They were flippant thoughts but the best she could do in an attempt to keep her worst fears at bay.
“Eternal loyalty to the Shuskar!” said the voice of Akreen.
“Loyalty eternal!” the ranks of silver Zavri warriors replied in unison.
As Dervla watched, the ranks drew aside to form an aisle down the centre. There were heavy footsteps and another tall silver figure, presumably the recently promoted Akreen, strode into view. These Zavri were tall and broad-shouldered with shiny, smooth forms that were seemingly sexless. Akreen, on the other hand, was decked out in ceremonial garb, bulky archaic armour abundantly provided with symbols and emblems, a glittering regalia.
Looking neither left nor right, the Zavri leader marched from the chamber, followed by a double column of his troops. As they filed out, the other side of the chamber was revealed: a low curved dais with a large chair in which there sat a Shuskar. Unlike the two Lords-Mediary, this one wore no headgear and the dominant colour of its attire was a deep red, a long plain coat-like affair with another of those high collars. It also seemed to be holding the stock-grip of a long-barrelled weapon, the bulk of which was resting on a spidery stand, angled to point at the ceiling. The array of spot-beams speared the deck before the dais like a square cage of glowing columns, yet the enthroned Shuskar leader was not well illuminated. Neither were the half-dozen shorter figures who were stationed around the edge of the dais. One of them beckoned to the Lords-Mediary, who looked round at Khorr and muttered, “Follow.”
The procession crossed the floor. Nearing the dais they passed through the bright beams and Dervla was dazzled, twice, three times, and after her vision adjusted, the dais and all it held took on more detail and clarity. As Pyke’s second-in-command she had travelled to a good number of exotic, out-of-the-way locales and clapped eyes on some conceptually and viscerally challenging sights. But few had struck as deep into the core of her fears as the creature that watched her approach.
“Ah, my offerings! A new species, new DNA to taste!”
This close, Dervla noticed the other humanoid figures spaced around the dais; gaunt, listless and androgynous in appearance, they were swathed in grubby windings of thin, pale blue material against which the waxy pallor of their skin scarcely contrasted. Bony hands held chunky-looking autopistols of an unusual design. Red-rimmed eyes stared out from folds of the same stained sheeting. When they regarded Khorr, his guards and captives, it was with a pitiless disdain; when they gazed at the seated Shuskar leader it was with adoration.
“Most paramount Xra-Huld,” began Lord-Mediary Gezath. “Your servant, Luxator Khorr, seized these two Humans in order to coerce the remainder of the outworlder party into carrying out their parts in your insurpassable drama. Shortly thereafter, he realised that these captives should be gifted to you as a tribute to your supreme greatness!”
Boot-licking barf-monger, Dervla thought.
From his throne, the Shuskar known as Xra-Huld surveyed them all thoughtfully. There was a curious atmosphere in the room, a subdued watchfulness, an ambience of something cold at rest yet with an edge of anticipation. Then her attention settled on the long-barrelled weapon, dull brown with a thick muzzle, still resting on its stand–only now she could see that it was actually an extension of the Shuskar’s arm. Then she saw where a protrusion emerged from the side of the weapon, lengthening into a flattened tentacle which coiled around the arm and up to the shoulder, looping around the back of the neck to curl under the jaw and further up to merge into the skin at the temple. Tentacle and weapon were one, a biomechanical whole, adorned with bony ridges, membranes stretched over glowing nodules, even scars and traceries of veins.
Dervla felt oddly light-headed as her deep reflexive dread transmuted into a surging, clawing terror, a terror which she was resolved not to show. Win wasn’t faring as well–when Xra-Huld leisurely got to his feet she closed her eyes and started praying.
The Shuskar lifted its gun-arm, cradled it in the other with an odd gentleness, then descended from the dais. The scrawny sheet-garbed acolytes tracked him with their revering eyes, the Lords-Mediary looked on from behind their strange dark lenses, and Khorr just grinned. Xra-Huld loomed over Win, studying her with a piercing gaze, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. Dervla’s attention, though, was drawn to the grotesque semi-organic weapon–it was clearly a biomech implant designed in accordance with some anomalous combat paradigm. Indicators glowed and pulsed beneath its blemished epidermis, so energy had to be coming from somewhere, body heat, perhaps. Also, going by the round muzzle she was pretty sure that the weapon fired a heavy slug or projectile, which would allow for a wide range of possible ammunition…
And just then, as she was studying the biomech weapon, a lump halfway along the barrel opened and an eye stared out at her. Her intake of breath was involuntary. Xra-Huld’s gaze swung round and with a single stride he was standing before her, his very presence bearing down like a weight.
Can’t cave in, she thought. Maybe we are dead, but damn them all if I go out like a whipped dog!
By sheer force of will she made herself look up into that alien gaze and crack a devil-dodging grin.
“Mornin’, yer majesty–nice ship ye got here.”
There was a palpable increase in tension and a long moment of stillness. Xra-Huld bent his head while staring down at her, as if he was scrutinising a nasty stain on the floor and wanted a closer look. Then that thin-lipped mouth widened into a horrible smile full of splintered teeth.
“A species with spirit,” the Shuskar leader said to the Lords-Mediary and Khorr. “And doubtless a world worth the harvesting. I find your offerings most acceptable, Luxator Khorr–they suit my requirements.” Xra-Huld glanced over his shoulder at one of his wan acolytes. “Prepare them.”
Khorr’s guards stepped back as four of the sheet-garbed acolytes seized Dervla and Win and pushed them away from the dais and all those gathered there. Like Win, Dervla had one heavy pistol aimed at her from the side and another pressed in the nape of her neck as they were both steered towards a concealed entrance in a side wall. A sliding door led into a small chamber smelling of something vaguely ammonia-like. There were four tall transparent cylinders, one in each corner, all empty and sitting open. From their bases cables snaked over to wall sockets, while carts like large grey bowls on wheels were parked next to them. The sight did not inspire confidence.
One of the acolytes waved her pistol in Dervla’s face and plucked at her clothing. “Outsides! Take off!”
Win was getting the same treatment and a minute or so later, barefoot and down to their underkit, each was being shoved into a big cylinder. A curved section slid shut with a faint hiss and its edges seemed to dissolve, leaving the cylinder a seamless whole. The pistol-packing acolytes then picked up the discarded garments and without a backward glance left the way they came in. Dervla watched them go, then leaned against the inside of her cylinder and gave it a shove, then again, then slammed both hands against the cold surface, finally kicking as hard as bare flesh could stand. Nothing. Not a crack, not a rattle, not the slightest movement. Not only was it made from touch, impact-resistant materials, it was also solidly anchored to the deck.
Across the room Win was holding her shoulder as she gave her prison an irritable if feeble kick. Then she waved at Dervla and said something. Hearing nothing, Dervla pointed at her ears and shook her head.
>
“Can’t hear a thing!” she shouted, even though it was pointless.
For a few moments they stood there, looking silently and dolefully out at each other. Then Win held out her hands towards Dervla with a “Now what?” look on her face but all Dervla could do was shrug. Win glowered and leaned back against the inside of her cylinder, arms crossed. They were isolated and vulnerable, the prerequisite to either interrogation or brainwashing, and since neither of them knew anything about the Chainer resistance they might be in for a bit of both.
But what did the Shuskar leader mean when he said “a new species, a new DNA to taste”?
Such speculative brooding ended a few minutes later when the red-coated Shuskar leader entered the white room and strode over to Dervla’s cylinder. Three of the sheet-wound acolytes trailed in after him, mesmeric devotion in their faces.
There they are, she thought. The brides of Frankenstein.
Xra-Huld smiled at them as they gathered around him, glancing at Dervla as if gauging her reaction. That grotesque gun-arm was now supported in a webby sling carefully positioned to allow the creepy eye a view of its surroundings. She tried to ignore it as the Shuskar turned his attention towards her, passing a gnarly hand across a point on the outside of the glassy surface. A glowing tracery of symbol-strings and odd flickering emblems appeared for a moment then melted away.
“I assume that you can hear me,” came the Shuskar’s rich yet gravelly voice.
The base of the cylinder was a couple of inches higher than the deck so, although the Shuskar was still the taller, Dervla felt slightly less shrunken and dominated. But only slightly.
She nodded. “Guess that means you can hear me too,” she said.
“Understanding each other is important, of course.” Xra-Huld raised his gun-arm and tapped its muzzle on the outside of the cylinder, quite soundlessly. The gun’s eye gazed unwinkingly at Dervla. “Your companion seemed to find my appearance frightening–what do you behold?”
Ancestral Machines Page 19
