Ancestral Machines

by Michael Cobley

  “Honoured Captain, honoured Lieutenant,” he began. “I feel I must remind you both that you are visitors to the Warcage, and that the great crimes committed against my people naturally requires that the first to stride forth and smite the Gun-Lord’s butchers should be one who is Warcage-born. While I keep these, erm, scumbags busy the both of you will be equipping yourself for the battle ahead.”

  “Now that, Akreen, is a plan!” said Pyke. By now all three had clambered out of their couches, which were returning to their recesses. “I’ll get the ship to open the main bay door and you can go out and play ‘slap-me-in-the-head’ with them gougers. But just so long as we’re clear–yer just dealing with the nearby goons, not dashing off on some mad attack. I know how cranky old Kaldro-Vryn can get sometimes!”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I shall be doing, Captain,” Akreen lied. “Staying near the ship, eliminating goons.”

  Pyke declared himself satisfied so while he and Brock hurried off to the armoury, Akreen quickly made his way to the main hold, crossed its empty floor and descended the ramp. He was immediately targeted by a crossfire of energy bolts coming from two assailants, one firing from behind the next lower tier of seats, the other using a wide decorative pillar for cover.

  The first he buried under a heap of seats ripped up from nearby rows, and the second he surprised with a vaulting charge across the seating that ended with a shove to the big pillar. The unsuspecting Shuskar was crushed by the impact, even as he attempted to retreat.

  Akreen then paused to survey the auditorium. The grand sweep of seating was orientated towards a resplendent stage, which also had recessed rows of plusher seating, undoubtedly for visitors of importance. And upon that stage was another stage, the highest dais where an imposing array of flickering display screens spread out to either side like wings, while a solitary figure stood below, busy with glowing control panels.

  In his head Akreen could hear the voice of Kaldro-Vryn repeating with an inexorable anger, NEAR! NEAR! NEAR!–and almost feel the shards of the Incarnalith stirring within his flesh, hungry for vengeance.

  He began to run, down one aisle, vaulting across seat rows from raised back to raised back with balletic precision, ignoring the Shuskar guards firing. Any who got in his way were dealt with savagely, their weapons and armour ripped away, their necks broken. Then all of a sudden he was mounting a broad rack of steps to the wider, lower stage, and the dais came into view along with the vile Xra-Huld, in its latest stolen host, the Human female who was part of Pyke’s crew.

  “Before coming here, I had not anticipated that we would meet again so soon, you and I…”

  The Gun-Lord’s amplified voice, coming from the woman’s mouth, sounded full and rich as it echoed across the auditorium.

  “… but then you and I have both experienced life-altering events, have we not? Some subversive modification of your perceptions is making me seem like your enemy but I am not, I swear it. Come up to the command centre with peaceful intent and I can help dispel these illusions.”

  NEAR said Kaldro-Vryn, VENGEANCE said Kaldro-Vryn, hammering in his head, over and over, so loudly that his precursors could hardly make themselves heard.

  [Do not hesitate, said Gredaz. Strike with full force, disable the gun-arm then go for the head.]

  [No, regard this abomination with extreme caution, said Zivolin. Treat it as if it can see into your head.]

  “I am your end, Xra-Huld!” he bellowed. “I bring you the cold truth of death!”

  “Come then–destruction awaits.”

  Akreen charged across the grand stage. Three guards closed in to stop him and he disposed of all of them with ease, snatching the leading one off his feet then using him to batter the other two to the floor. Three swift blows laid them out cold.

  NEAR! NEAR! NEAR! cried the iron voice of Kaldro-Vryn and Akreen found himself muttering it too as he dived towards the nearest steps and rushed up to the command dais.

  Gun-Lord Xra-Huld was cowering in a gap between two banks of instruments and readouts, pleading for mercy, begging for its life. Akreen took no notice of these entreaties, or of the thread of suspicion which nagged at him. Instead he stood over the quailing, flinching figure as the shards of the Incarnalith stirred within.

  Pain exploded in his side. Akreen turned to see one of the Gun-Lord’s pale thralls holding a long heavy weapon from which a wavering stream of energy was pouring. He recognised it immediately as one of the anti-Zavri weapons that the Shuskar had developed under the Gun-Lords’ direction. Fiery coldness crawled all over his skin, sinking into his biometallic flesh. Despite the razoring torment he took a step towards the thrall–and felt a second spear of energy strike him in the back.

  The surge of unfolding from the Incarnalith shards went out like a doused fire.

  The cries of Gredaz and Zivolin were as forlorn as winged creatures in the grip of a hurricane.

  And the territory of his own body, his very own physical heartland, turned dark and numb and cold. He toppled, falling to lie on his side, but other hands tipped him over onto his back. The energy flow from the weapons continued as the grinning Gun-Lord stood over him, its good hand holding a gleaming, fist-sized object.

  “I could have you killed, Akreen, but you are still too valuable to dispense with just yet, or rather the Zavri are. In the meantime, let us keep you inert and mischief-free, shall we?”

  The object he held suddenly sprouted a ring of spikes and he slammed it into Akreen’s chest. The thralls stopped firing their weapons but the numbing web of energy still played about him, clouding all senses but sight.

  They had made him into a statue and rendered him harmless. He was defeated.

  Observing the clash from a shadowy corner deep in the auditorium’s underpinning webwork of girders, Rensik was surprised by this turn of events.

  “I must admit, I did not expect to see the First Blade get chumped so easily,” he said.

  “The beam weapons wielded by the Gun-Lord’s mutant slaves seemed to have rendered him immobile,” said Rensik 2.0.

  “Yes, then the application of that device to the Zavri’s chest–it could be a field lock of some kind. Didn’t hear what Xra-Huld said just then–he was out of range of the control board pickups.”

  “Second wave is on its way,” Rensik 2.0 said.

  Rensik 1.0 switched his monitoring to vid-feeds covering the rest of the auditorium and sure enough, two figures were heading straight for the big stage. Pyke and Brock were handling attacks by the remaining Shuskar guards with considerable skill but Rensik knew that they wouldn’t stand a chance against the biomech parasite and its mutant thralls.

  “Is there anything we can do?” said Rensik 2.0. “I am assuming that we view the biomech as a possible threat to Construct interests.”

  “Correct,” said Rensik 1.0. “Disruption to its data and communication lines is an option, but nearly all the important nodes are shelled in triple-redundant networks. We could use our onboard nano fabricators to produce neurotoxins but they would only be effective against the thralls, and in any case we have no delivery systems. It appears that a drastic solution might be called for.”

  “I agree. Although due to my own contingency preparations I now have a limited combat capacity.” Rensik 2.0 transmitted a databurst to Rensik 1.0, who was gratified to see what the small drone had achieved with such few resources.

  “Very good, nice detail, cunning delivery system,” it said.

  “Thank you,” said Rensik 2.0. “Time is running out–in the event of abrogation do you wish to upgrade me?”

  “I have grown used to a certain optimism, so it’ll just be the transfer of the case files and the beta-report. Then I can get down to configuring myself for battle.”

  During the moments when they weren’t being fired upon, Pyke sneaked backward looks at the Scarabus. He was trying to see if the sun-dive had caused any serious damage that would need repairing before they could fly back out.

  Fly back
out? he thought. Just the thought of going through that again…

  A spread of energy bolts stitched burning holes in the seating close by, filling the air with the stink of charred plastics. Pyke swore, ducked behind the row of seat backs and crawled quickly along a few places before poking his head up for a quick look. Another volley came his way but he retreated to his previous position, readied the beamer pistol, held his breath then popped up and raked the area where he’d spotted the Shuskar guard.

  Something chimed and he laughed, sitting back behind his cover.

  “If that’s that drone of yours telling me to keep my head down again…”

  “No, it’s telling me something else.”

  “Where is the wee sod now?”

  “Flying about in the heights,” Brock said. “It’s saying that the guards are actually pulling back, almost leaving us a clear run at the stage. Hmm, could this by any chance be a trap, I wonder?”

  “I reckon it’s the trappiest trap you’ll find outside one of those crazy dungeon-mazes on Meganthis 4. So what we could do is a stealth rush, hit ’em with a coupla nade waves then move in to mop up.”

  “Can we try not to risk killing Akreen?”

  He frowned. “Didn’t see you as a fan of the big silver guy but… fine, flashbangs and empers, okay? Right, well, let’s sneaky-charge up on them and not get killed.”

  Moving in a half-crouch they flanked a main aisle that led straight towards the foot of the main stage, which appeared to be empty. And sure enough, no sign of the Shuskar guards, which made the crawling sensation in the pit of his stomach crawl some more. As soon as they stepped onto the wide lower stage, beamer fire from the command dais scored smoking lines across the textured matting. Pyke and Brock dived for cover, ending up in the recessed plush seats, which were provided with strange moveable shelves and spigot-and-beaker cupolas.

  “I really have had a bellyful of this dodging-death malarkey,” Pyke said, producing a handful of teardrop-shaped flashbangs from his jacket pocket. “Time to make the teeth rattle in their skulls!”

  He lobbed them at the command dais then turned away, shielding his eyes. There was a thunderous volley of loud bangs and a flickering burst of dazzling light, some of which still managed to leak through his fingers. When he looked up Brock had her left eye closed as she waved her hand in front of her face.

  “Right eye’s a blur,” she said as Pyke helped her up out of the recess. “Wasn’t expecting it to be that bright!”

  “It’ll start to clear in less than a minute,” Pyke said. “Let’s go check on our now-blind evil mastermind biomech pusbag.”

  Grenade smoke drifted over the command dais as they warily climbed the last few steps. Three or four pale-skinned humanoids were fumbling around blindly on hands and knees. A large silvery form lay motionless over by one of the instrument boards, and sitting nearby was a familiar figure, that gross swollen arm resting on her knees, leaning on her good hand while her eyes stared bleakly, sightlessly out at nothing.

  “Who’s there?”

  It was her voice but with a tone of hardness winding through it. The warm timbre of Dervla was missing.

  “Not one of your slaves,” Pyke said.

  “Ah, the bold Captain Pyke–so good of you and your companion to join us. I mean that in both senses of the word.”

  Pyke grimaced. “Ah, what a joker you are! We’re here to kick your slimy arse and get you out of the body of my friend.”

  The parasite shrugged.

  “Understandable, of course. Both of you have been the most resolute of adversaries, with yourself, Captain, taking the accolade for the sheer quantity of havoc and destruction that you’ve created in your wake. But you see, that is the sweetest part of victory, that moment where your enemy becomes your ally!”

  Pyke stared at the creature that was wearing Dervla’s body for a moment, then raised his beamer pistol, aiming carefully at the biomech weapon.

  “Not today, you deluded skaggin’ bastard, not today!”

  And for an instant, he heard a high-pitched whine, but before he could turn to look for the source of it something unbearably sharp struck him in the side of the head. Searing agony blossomed out from it, engulfing his senses and he caught Brock’s choked-off cry of pain as the pistol fell from his enfeebled fingers. Then his legs went and he sprawled on the floor.

  “To go down in defeat to the Sko-Xra is no dishonour,” said the Gun-Lord, now standing, eyesight clearly unaffected. “We triumph because we are skilled in all the ways of winning. You see, I launched the cytoblast darts from my subsidiary tract moments before you both set foot on the command platform–while we were having our pleasant discussion I was steering them towards your undefended heads.”

  “Cyto… what…?” he managed to slur.

  “Cytoblast, a factory of genetics.” The Gun-Lord squatted down next to Pyke and patted his shoulder. “You or your allies slew my four siblings so it is entirely fitting that you are compelled to make restitution. Our great store of experience provides us with insight into possible outcomes, thus we know how to prepare for them. And with your help we shall rebuild our glorious empire, yes, your help! That hot burning sensation you can feel is the cytoblast sending the threads of an assembly mesh throughout your body in preparation for the first wave of gene-engineering. Cellular modification on such a scale takes time, but the results are exquisite and immaculate.”

  What are you turning us into, you bag of slime! was what he wanted to say, but all he could produce was a wordless gasp. Xra-Huld laughed and stroked his cheek.

  “Surely you’ve guessed–yes, the cytoblasts are rebuilding you both into new Sko-Xra! Your minds will be wiped then restocked from the shared memory RNA all of us have, and I will have two new siblings!”

  Right, Pyke thought. That couldn’t be any more horrific…

  From where he lay, Pyke was within arm’s reach of the frozen Akreen–whose eyes, he suddenly realised, were open and aware–while having a view from the floor of most of the immense array of monitor screens, and of Xra-Huld standing at the central control panel. After a moment a cluster of the screens began to show scenes from a burning valley, smoke billowing from a wrecked city, the sides of mountains black with charred vegetation.

  “This is Armag,” said Xra-Huld. “I had Armag City and its valley incinerated but there are plenty of other towns and hamlets where rebellion festers like a poison.” The Gun-Lord glanced round at him. “That makes it a primary target for my sun-weapon–oh, did you know about that? Yes, seems that the Builders modified the corona-convection regulator, turning it into a plasma-mass launcher. But they never used it, even when faced with total defeat at the hands of that Shuskar-led insurgency. I, on the other hand, am quite happy to use any method that deals with threats to our supremacy. It is, after all, just one more way of winning!”

  The Gun-Lord’s head came up again, frowning as if hearing something. There was a sudden intake of breath, an instant before something vaguely oblong-shaped and glowing zoomed into view and struck Xra-Huld high in the chest. The impact did not force him back but he was suddenly enclosed in a web of quivering energy which was having a deleterious effect on him. Groaning, he lurched away from the controls and fell to his knees, right at Akreen’s feet. The Gun-Lord’s two remaining pale thralls moved to his aid but they had barely taken a couple of steps when they stopped, swayed and keeled over.

  Pyke watched all this with a confused amazement, when he wasn’t struggling to cope with the burning sensation threading through his semi-paralysed body. Then, without warning, a small object like a few gaming dice stuck together, came into view, trundling over the floor. A tinny voice spoke.

  “Captain Pyke, Lieutenant Brock, I am Rensik 2.0–my progenitor, Rensik 1.0, is holding the Gun-Lord Xra-Huld in a kind of stasis but his substrate reserves will not last long. I calculate the odds of his survival to be no more than 1 in 655—”

  Here, Brock made a noise of protest, but it seemed, due to the
pain of the cytoblast, that this was all she could manage.

  Rensik 2.0 continued. “I have already immobilised the remaining thralls so all that remains is for you to release the First Blade Akreen from the suppressor field. With the natural Zavri strength and resolve, he would be able to kill the biomech outright.”

  Blinking away sweat, Pyke regarded the tiny machine with something like intense aggravation. “Just… how’ma… gon’ do that…” he said through disobedient lips, before Brock could respond. He didn’t trust her to care about saving Dervla, not half as much as he cared.

  “There is a field locking device attached to his chest–you must remove it. I am unable to do so as the suppressor field would erase my core.”

  “Not ezzackly… perky’n rarin t’go…”

  “The pain from the cytoblast operations is considerable, but your limbs are still under your command.”

  “Right… izzat all?”

  “Rensik 1.0’s cells will be depleted in only a few minutes, so you must act now.”

  With that the tiny machine trundled out of sight. Pyke lay on his side for a moment, steeling himself, then made his left arm stretch out to the floor while shifting his right arm to lever himself onto his elbows. Every movement felt as if ground glass was scraping in his joints. Every gasp became a groan, every groan became an agonised cry, all interspersed with as pungent a selection of curses as he could manage, given the situation. Brock looked to be having similar troubles, but he had a head start on her.

  And as he dragged himself over to Akreen, a plan bloomed in his pain-drenched mind. Ignoring the cold prickling he grabbed the Zavri’s arm and pulled his heavy mass around towards where the Gun-Lord knelt on the floor, so that the locking device on his silver chest was in easy reach. Thus prepared, Pyke wiped sweat and grime from his face, then looked straight into those eyes, Dervla’s eyes, filled with the raging hate of the parasite.