“So, tell me,” he said. “When we reach the tunnels on the other side of this, are there any power couplings we can sabotage that would shut it all down?”
“The main supply for all the estates runs through here,” Mokle said. “But that’s an armoured conduit which shields the cable all the way out to the distribution blockhouse–we would need upper-tech weapons to crack it.”
Vralko’s grin was dark. “That conduit runs up to a switching station that sits by the city’s lower boundary wall–sabotage that and you’ll also cripple some of Armag’s outer defences.”
Pyke chuckled. “Now that sounds like our kind of uproar.”
“Good,” said Vralko, standing. “All we have to do now is creep through this place of deadly devices. The safest route is to stay in the shadows all the way round the walls of the underfactory–however, a lot of debris and discards end up there so we may have to go over or around at certain points.”
“Lead on,” Pyke said. “We’ve had experience with garbage before this.”
Only a few hitches hampered their progress during that stealthy voyage across the underfactory, like a series of heaps of armoured panels, twisted frames, wheel rims, stanchions, engine components and weapon parts, all cracked, split, bent or sheared off, always smeared with oil and tangled up with wire and cabling into the kind of obstacle that only Kref could haul aside. Of course, no one heard the scraping, grinding sound that this made since the machinery noise levels were ear-shattering.
But still they had to conduct their infiltration as clandestinely as possible. While the sentries in their booths had vidcam views of the production lines and adjacent areas, it was the overhead rig-eyes which had wider observation arcs. Shepherded by Vralko and Mokle, they made uneven progress, via darkened corners and pitch-black slants of shadow. Everything seemed to be going without a hitch until they reached the junk-strewn shadows along the wall-edge of the fourth factory chamber. Vralko had just nipped across an illuminated gap when a high-pitched beeping began to sound. There was a mad scramble for cover. Pyke dived behind a rusty heap of debris and saw a startled Mojag trip over a jutting piston and fall flat on his face. Lamps were flickering in time with the alarm and a narrow bright beam suddenly lanced out from the overhead gantry–for one horrible moment Mojag’s struggling form was perfectly illuminated, then Vralko popped up and sprayed a cloud of something dark grey and seething with glittering motes into the beam. The diffused light made the cloud glow and the motes flash like miniscule stars. Under the temporary veil of vapour Vralko grabbed Mojag’s arm and dragged him to safety.
By now the assembly line had ground to a halt, idling engines providing a low, background rumble. Separated by several metres, Pyke was trying to ask Vralko what was going on with hand gestures and facial expressions (provoking only looks of bafflement from the Chainer) when, without warning, the docile line workers started rising into the air, drawn by tethers attached to an overhead catenary. Not having really noticed it before, Pyke now saw the catenary system which shadowed the assembly lines, curving, branching out across the factory chamber. As he watched, the limp, narcotised forms were swept off into the gloom, spreading along this or that track to their destinations.
The nearby production track seemed to be shutting down. The idling engines slowed to a stop while the lamps and spot-beams faded to a battery of dull pulsing glows. In the ensuing hot-oil darkness Vralko and Mojag sneaked over to join Pyke behind the compacted junk heap.
“Let me guess,” Pyke said. “Those poor bastards are not being taken away for a rest and a snack in pleasant surroundings.”
Vralko gave a bleak nod. “The Stage-Master is always seeking ways to increase the underfactory’s output–at any time any worker can be decoupled from one station, moved to another and recoupled. Stronger, fresher workers replace the tiring or slightly injured ones, who are relocated to less demanding tracks.”
Pyke peered at the now-still and silent assembly line. “So the aristos literally work your people to death.”
“On this and every other inhabited world in the Warcage,” said Vralko. “The machine of war is a hungering beast–it eats people whole, makes weapons for other people to use and eats them too in the end. This circle of blood has ground on and on for centuries while the Shuskar preside over lavish ceremonies of slaughter.” Vralko paused, regarding Pyke and the others. “Perhaps now you are beginning to understand.”
Pyke inhaled noisily through his nose and grimaced, a soundless half-snarl. That other smell wasn’t sweat after all, but death.
“Get us out of this place,” he said.
From there it was a comparatively short distance to the chamber in the far corner of the underfactory. The assembly lines here were turning out small armoured vehicles and were therefore wider and heavier, as were the component bins and the handler grabs. To accommodate the bulk of likely offcasts and breakages a large recess had been scooped out of the nearby chamber wall. Predictably it was filled with mounds of useless parts, shells and sub-assemblies and it was up one of these jagged heaps that Vralko led them. Hidden in the upper gloom was a small ledge and another camouflaged entrance. Vralko brightened his torch, angling the beam to find the door release.
“There is a secure hatchway from the chamber to the power-cable passage,” he said. “Only senior Favassy officers have the open codes, so expect no more than one or two guards. This passage joins up with the cable passage which is usually unoccupied.”
Pyke nodded as he followed the old Chainer through the now-open door, pushing through dark curtains. The tunnel was a section of forgotten pipe which sloped down and curved along for about twenty paces before ending at an oval concrete barrier. Mokle pressed a switch hidden in a slot then pushed on one edge of the barrier and with a quiet gritty sound it swung open. Mokle and Vralko shared a satisfied smile, and the latter leaned out to survey the passage, which Pyke realised was below them. The older Gruxen glanced around, nodded, then clambered through and disappeared.
Making sure his Gruxen pistol was safely stowed in one of his ragged gown’s deep pockets, Pyke winked at Ancil before following the Nightfinder, who had already gone after Vralko. The wall of the corridor was surprising high and a few hand- and footholds let him descend halfway, after which he had to drop onto his feet. Last down was Kref who, hanging from the edge of the secret exit, stretched out one hefty leg towards a lower foothold, then seemed to have a change of mind, opted for a nearer jutting projection… then he looked over his shoulder at the ground, shook his head and muttered as he turned round to face outwards before leaping down the full height, landing with a thud that resounded along the walls. Pyke and the others turned appalled looks on the Henkayan but before anyone could speak voices called out from the passageway up ahead.
About twenty paces further on a steep flight of steps rose to the next section of corridor. From up there a not-so-far-off voice was demanding anyone down there to come up and show themselves.
Pyke grinned. “Well, now, boy, let’s not disappoint the man.”
Weapons drawn, the six advanced to the stairs and began a stealthy crouching climb.
“This is not wise,” said Mokle. “City guards are armed with more accurate flashguns.”
“And we have surprise,” said Pyke. “When we get near the top, Vralko, Ancil and me will dive forward on our stomachs, firing as we go, while the rest of you aim over our heads at the nearest target, which is the nearest guy with a gun, okay? Let’s go!”
But they were only halfway up when a solitary figure sauntered into view at the top. When he saw what was creeping up towards him he grabbed at his slung rifle while drawing a desperate intake of breath, clearly intending to bellow a warning. However, six handguns of various calibre targeted the guard and, with a cacophony of firing, a fusillade of bullets tore into him and knocked him off his feet. At once a second voice cried out a name, twice, three times, before the sound of running feet reached Pyke and the others, along with fearful shouts o
f “Invaders!”
“Out… of my way!” said the Nightfinder Mokle as he tried to get past the others. “Need to stop him!”
Then he was gone, feet pounding the stone floor as he gave chase.
“And now we have a problem,” said Vralko, dusting himself off.
Pyke knew what he meant straight away. “The guard back down there at the locked door?”
The older Gruxen nodded. “He couldn’t have missed all the gunfire, so right now he will be running off to tell a senior overseer who will have a squad at his back when he comes to unlock the door.” Vralko shrugged. “You and your crew should hurry after Mokle–he knows how to get into the city, and which contacts to take you to. I’ll stay here and hold them off for you.”
“Or,” Ancil said suddenly, producing a couple of blue-grey, palm-sized pyramids from a pocket, “we could blow the ceiling, block the tunnel and be off into the city before they even get here.”
Vralko chuckled. “Timer charges–you lifted them from the Nightfinders’ armoury!”
“Kref ran interference for me.”
Pyke snapped his fingers. “That whole waving-the-rifle-around business! Gave you the chance to grab some contraband, eh? Incorrigible, that’s what you are.”
Ancil theatrically held one hand to his chest. “My mother despaired of me, chief.”
“I’ll despair of ye too, if that’s all you got.”
Grinning, Ancil brought out his other hand to show another four charges. Pyke smiled approvingly.
“That’s my boy!”
Vralko reached over to take three of them. “With these I can block the passage and sever the power conduit. The best place is back along at the first stretch leading to the underfactory door–ceiling is at its lowest there. So all of you hurry on your way–now! Tell Mokle that I’ll get out through the tunnel and see him in a day or two.”
“Sure you won’t come with us?” said Pyke.
“Armag City is much more Mokle’s territory. Besides, there will be more than enough excitement happening across all the estates to keep an old pilgrim busy. Now please–will you go!”
Following the maintenance passage Pyke and the others were five flights up and ascending the sixth when a muffled boom reached their ears. Ancil looked at Pyke and was about to say something when the sound of hurrying footsteps came from up ahead. With silent gestures Pyke stopped everyone in their tracks.
Has to be Mokle, he thought, staring up at the head of the stairway, readying his handgun. Has to be.
The footsteps slowed. And four outstretched pistols had the Nightfinder squarely in their sights when he came into view. Still masked about his lower face, his eyes told all as he glared unflinchingly down at them. Pyke coughed and gave an embarrassed smile.
“Sorry, just a bit edgy, there.”
“What was that noise?” Mokle said.
“Vralko took three charges and went back to blow the power conduit and block the corridor,” Pyke said, going on to explain that Vralko was heading back to the Favassy estate. Mokle nodded, unperturbed.
“He has a veteran’s sense of strategy–the Nightfinders will need to know exactly what has happened here.”
“Did you deal with the guard?”
Mokle nodded. “And now we must run–if Vralko managed to cut the power then alarms will surely be going off in the city as well as the estates. So we have to get outside before the retaliation squads arrive.”
“Lead on,” said Pyke.
As they set off Ancil said, “This is no way for a band of daring interstellar smugglers to have to get around.”
“Things could be worse,” Pyke said. “In numerous different ways.”
“Okay, chief, that is true… ah, dammit, he’s picking up the pace!”
It could be as bad as being held prisoner on Khorr’s ship, Pyke thought. I look forward to making him pay for that.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The night sky over Armag was clear, a sable canopy strewn with glitter and frost, like a thousand jewelled hoards carelessly stirred together.
“You are absolutely clear about the purpose of this assignment?”
“Yes sir, thoroughly–meet with G’Brozen Mav, introduce myself as an operative from an unnamed starfaring polity, persuade him that we share his goal of overthrowing the Shuskar, and assure him of our assistance.” Sam paused. “Which sadly does not extend to shipments of arms.”
During their clandestine pursuit of G’Brozen Mav’s stolen vessel, Rensik had listened in on communications between them and several other rebel groups, including T’Loskin Rey. When it became clear that Mav and Rey were agreeing to meet each other, with little trust on either side, Rensik proposed a low-key intervention.
“Sidebar dissent aside, you appear to be properly briefed,” said the drone. “Stress our wide-ranging and unhindered access to all Shuskar communications and point out that we can provide the Chainer leadership with accurate advance notice of all enemy troop and vessel movements. That should sweeten the deal.” Lieutenant Sam Brock, resigned to Rensik’s strategy, nodded gravely. “What of the flotilla of troop transports now on their way here? Is it permissible to mention them, sir?”
“Leave them to me. Just focus on brokering cooperation between G’Brozen Mav and T’Loskin Rey; stress the importance of being seen as allies while their Armag revolt is getting under way, rather than carving lumps out of each other.”
“And you will make sure that the flotilla never makes planetfall?”
“Hacking into their stone-age navigationals will be child’s play,” Rensik said. “Once I’ve got them locked into looped manoeuvre patterns I shall hurry back here and find out how your negotiations are progressing.”
Brock nodded and went over to sit on a mossy boulder near the cliff edge. Rensik’s shimmership was a grey bulbous shape half hidden by the bushy fringe of a stand of stunted trees, their foliage too meagre to block the soft pearly glow emanating from the open hatch. Other similar straggly copses were dotted back along the high, dark mountain valley which stretched off behind them. From the cliff edge they could see, beyond a long jagged ridge, the blazing radiance of Armag City. Bright tapered towers rose amid clusters of square, blue-faceted buildings from whose roofs sprouted numerous pillars of light. Flying craft hovered and swooped through the city, gathering mainly near an asymmetrical structure that was engulfed in fire and gouting spark-laden smoke into the night sky.
There were other, lesser fires on the city’s periphery and several scattered throughout the noble estates to the east. Rensik had expected more, going by some of the comm traffic being intercepted by the shimmership’s sensors. What was certain was that the Gruxen rebellion had taken hold in a number of strategically important areas and had a real chance of success–so long as the Chainer insurgents kept the Governor’s troops trapped in their garrison twenty miles away on the coast. And that the Shuskar flotilla was halted.
“Time I was leaving,” said the drone. “It’s still less than an hour before your meeting with G’Brozen Mav–shall I transport you down to the riverbank?”
“I’d prefer to arrive when they do,” Sam said. “It’s a good view from here and the breeze is very light so when they put in an appearance I’ll just deploy the wingpack, glide down and walk into view.”
“Is the translation pill working? If you are having problems, I can have one of the fabricators stamp out another variant, perhaps a different vocabulary–syntax balance in the RNA-analogue.”
“It seems to be working,” Sam said. “I listen to the comm recordings you provided and I can understand nearly everything now.”
“Good. And the personal shield I gave you should keep you safe–well, short of cannon-calibre plasma rounds.”
“Comforting to know, sir,” she said.
“Sounds like you’re ready, but if a dire situation develops don’t forget…”
“… about the panic button on my handcom,” Brock said. “I think I’m fully prepared, sir.”
/>
“Good. Explaining your demise would be awkward and tedious.”
The drone Rensik rose from the very lip of the cliff’s edge where it had anchored itself. “If all goes according to plan I shall return to collect you in about six hours. But since the cosmos laughs at plans and those who make them, perhaps we should treat that as a flexible aspiration!”
“Ah, the realist approach.”
The bright-cornered cuboid glided over to the shimmership. “Good luck, Lieutenant,” the drone said. “And try not to scare the locals.”
“I shall be the epitome of benevolence, sir.”
Once back inside his vessel, Rensik resynced his analytic cores with the onboard sensor hub while the autonav took care of the repulsor liftoff, a steady ascent into the atmosphere. For the last two hours the long-range detectors had been tracking that four-ship flotilla since its launch from a world called Venstak, about a third of the way round the Warcage’s encircling grid of planets. Three of them were transports, each carrying a thousand battle-hardened troops of a species called the Avang. The fourth ship was the flagship, heavily armed and–unlike the others–capable of hyperspace travel. That was where the command nodes would be found, so that was his primary target.
The flotilla was burning up the distance to Armag with very powerful reaction drives, giving them an ETA of less than three and a half hours. Rensik decided to make a micro-hyperjump, thereby intercepting the flotilla after a flight-time of roughly seven minutes, ample time in which to take stock of their mission.
The shimmership’s hyperdrive was engaged a moment or two after departing the upper atmospheric boundary. Transition took several seconds and the sensor hub cognitives switched to its hyperspace presets as a matter of course. Rensik had seen scan data of the Warcage’s hyperspatial substructures during the stealth pursuit of G’Brozen Mav’s vessel on its approach to Armag. But now here he was, travelling into its convoluted interior. Chains of worlds, over three hundred of them, orbited the Warcage’s sun, all held in place by forcefield frameworks of astounding sophistication, powered by massive energy convertors feeding off the sun’s fusion reaction. In hyperspace the frameworks manifested as a vast interconnecting web of field lines, a mazy obstacle of huge rods and stalks of energy through which the ship’s autonav was able to neatly manoeuvre.
Ancestral Machines Page 22
