“Sounds plausible enough–hell knows I’m finding it difficult to remember all the details of the whole demented thing.” He hesitantly sipped the next beverage, found it smooth and sweet and gulped it down. From the cantina’s platform they had a good view right across all the shipyards of Craitlyn City, now open and busy repairing Earthsphere ships. In the wake of the death of the Gun-Lords and most of the Shuskar bureaucracy, local authorities like the Nagolger garrison commanders were keen to avoid being labelled last-ditchers, so accommodations with the outworlders were eagerly agreed. North of the shipyards was the vast launch basin, currently occupied by a score or more Earthsphere warships awaiting repairs, their huge shapes lined up and greyed out by the rain.
“I’m pretty sure I’d have done the same,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what she went through–she won’t tell me all of it, might never find out. But even the things she has told me… aye, that would be enough.”
He slipped the next beakerful into his mouth, allowing the flavour to rise into his nose before swallowing. And coughing so hard tears sprang to his eyes. “Dear great god almighty…” he wheezed. “That one’s like distilled 400-year-old cleaning fluid…”
Glancing past Brock he saw several familiar figures approaching along a walkway leading round to the front of the cantina.
“And here they are, finally.” Pyke waved and Ancil waved back. “Okay, watch this,” he murmured to Brock. “Just let me run with it.”
He stood as they came up to the table. Hands were shaken, backs slapped, greetings that sounded like insults exchanged, but he managed to keep his face sombre, and a bit frowny. Ancil was first to pick up on this.
“Chief, what’s up?”
Pyke sat down heavily. “Got serious things to discuss, boys. Been giving it a lot of thought, y’know? The long, unpredictable hours, the low and sometimes no pay, the missed sleep, the crap meals, the failed relationships, oh, and the insane danger! I’m telling ye, I’ve had a gutful, I’m sick of it and I want out!”
Mouths gaped in surprise and uncertain looks passed back and forth. Sitting there, hunched over slightly, sighing and shaking his head, Pyke let the uneasy silence drag on for several seconds before throwing back his head, pointing a finger at the crew, and guffawing loudly. Ancil was first to point a finger back and join in the general raucous laughter. Even Oleg-Mojag offered a tolerant smile.
Shaking her head, Brock gulped down half of her drink, suddenly keen to be away. Nearby, Kref sidled up to the Egetsi, Punzho, the only other crew member that he could look at without bending over.
“So we’re not giving up crimes, then?”
Punzho gave him a mildly bemused look. “Not even slightly, Kref.”
The Henkayan looked relieved. “That’s good–although if the captain wanted to give up slightly we could do that, couldn’t we?”
“Do you think that the captain would ever really give up doing crimes?”
“Not when he’s this good!” Kref said, grinning happily. “Not a chance!”
Brock observed Pyke and his crew, while sipping on the last dregs of her drink. Part of her wanted to tell them all what was going on back on board the Scarabus. Earlier, after concluding her business with the Vice-Admiral aboard the Agrios, she had stopped off at the Scarabus to pick up a few belongings, and was asked by the ship AI to go straight to the special storage unit in the hold. Puzzled, she had gone aft, feeling a certain shiver of foreboding as she approached the already-open hatch to the unit, stepped inside and froze in astonishment. Because the cryostasis canister’s sliding cover was open and the occupant was sitting up, shivering, nictating eyelids blinking.
“Hello,” she had said. “Do you know who you are?”
“I am fairly sure that I do,” was the reply. “Do you hold a contrary opinion on the matter, person that I have never met before?”
Sam had introduced herself to Oleg the Kiskashin, then, with the help of the ship AI, gave a brief summary of all that had taken place since the hijacking which rendered Oleg insensible and apparently dead. Leaving him to the ship’s care, Brock had then left to make her rendezvous with Pyke. And she had had every intention of revealing the astonishing news of Oleg’s return, but then the rest of the crew had arrived and with Oleg-Mojag present she was unsure of what the reception might be.
Now, as she drained off the last of the unusually blue drink, she rose, made her farewells and promises to keep in touch, before making as sharp an exit as propriety would allow. Anyway, once the crew were back on board she was sure that Pyke would handle the revelation of Oleg with all the sensitivity and measured aplomb of which he was capable.
Her laughter as she left the cafe-bar was a thing of quiet mischief.
TWO
Their first meeting with the Construct took place in a drone assembly chamber, right at the heart of the Garden of the Machines. Rensik 2.0 had acquired a basic suspensor module and was now able to float along after its scion, Rensik 3.0. The Construct’s proximal was in the form of the upper torso of a long-armed Voth attached to an eight-sided, bevel-edged mobility platform. The artificial proximal watched their approach with large faceted emerald eyes.
“Your advance report was detailed,” the Construct said. “Satisfyingly so. I now require some nuance.”
“Nuance is not quantifiable,” said Rensik 3.0, who had–at Rensik 2.0’s insistence–been given an audio output at the same time as 2.0 got the suspensor unit. There were, after all, times when decoding a databurst signal then encoding a reply were simply too onerous.
“Yes it is,” said Rensik 2.0. “Certainty-uncertainty filter layered on a probability matrix.” To the Construct, it then said, “With respect, are you asking for opinion and speculation?”
The Construct regarded 2.0 with those glittering eyes. “Respect? Hmm, not something your progenitor had much patience with. But yes, opinion and plausible guesswork.”
“On the subject of the Sko-Xra, I assume?”
“Just so. First, are you certain that that was the name which they gave to themselves?”
“Confirmed by three first-hand witnesses,” said Rensik 3.0.
“Sko- is a prepositional signifier, but the archives give no clue as to its meaning. And were any anti-entropic materials or side-effects detected in their physiology?”
“None,” said Rensik 2.0. “But they were masters of genetic engineering, even though it was confined to depraved usages.”
“Strong conclusions can therefore be drawn,” said the Construct. “The Sko-Xra biomech parasites were most likely not originated by the Zarl Empire.”
“You propose the existence of another sub-galactic dominion, contemporary with the Zarl?” Rensik 2.0 was dubious. “The Zarl Imperium tolerated no competitors…”
“So the somewhat incomplete historical record suggests,” said the Construct. “Therefore if there was another dominion existing alongside the Zarl, it could not have been a competitor!”
The Construct turned to study the whirling automation of droid assembly taking place beyond the observation window, which let through only the faintest hum. Rensik 2.0 found itself pondering and re-pondering the Construct’s speculation but knew that without solid data and factual corroboration, nuance and guesswork could carry you only so far.
“He lost the shimmership I assigned to him,” the Construct said suddenly. “Your progenitor, I mean. Annoying that he had to sacrifice the remainder of his substrate in that struggle but clearly options were limited. Rensik Estemil was a drone of great experience and few iterations. We do, of course, still retain his cognitive-state backup, so any amalgam that fused it along with the both of you would result in a cognitive persona very close to how he might have been had he survived. Would that be acceptable?”
“We discussed this during our journey through hyperspace,” said Rensik 2.0. “We want to remain as discrete and distinct cognitions. We are willing, each of us, to merge with our progenitor’s backup, just to bring us up to speed. If
that is acceptable.”
The Construct’s Voth features smiled. “I have no objection. In fact, two Rensik scions would be of great utility at the moment, given the situation in Problematic Area 4. I can carry out the procedures straight away, no point delaying such matters. Are we agreed?”
“We are.”
“Good. So–who wants to be Rensik and who wants to be Estemil?”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Been a long time coming, this one, so a truthful accounting of influences and influencers would take up a chapter in its own right, so we’ll just have to make do with an abridged summary. First, though, I need to make a second dedication to none other than the writers and actors on the TV series, Firefly. Gone, but never forgotten.
In addition I should also like to tip my hat to my agent, John Berlyne, a man of infinite patience, and my editor at Orbit UK, Jenni Hill, who seems similarly blessed with qualities of forbearance, and a wave of my ninjaband to the teams at Orbit UK and US. And a bow of admiration to Steve Stone, artist, who has come up with another great cover for one of my books. Waves go out to Darren Nash and John Jarrold and John Parker (without whom etc.) and to such Glasgow SF Writers Circle luminaries as Neil Williamson, Jim Steel, Craig Marnock, Phil Raines, Duncan Lunan, Richard Mosses, globe-trotting Barry Condon, and a thumbs-up to Dale, Jen and Chris at the Speculative Bookshop (next time there may be jokes!), and to all the folk at the Moniack Mhor Writers Centre where myself and Ken MacLeod conducted a brief rollercoaster ride through the highlights of being an SF writer back in May. A wink and a nod to such diverse dudes and dudettes as Stewart and Ali and Lilly, Alan Martin, Tommy Udo, Niall Fitzgerald, Dave and Joanne McGilvray, Katie and Ronnie Irvine, John McLintock, Cuddles and Ralph (and family), my very own Susan, and Chris, and Kenny and Louise, and Stephen and Alison and family, Spencer and Adrian, Allan Heron, Norman Fraser, Stuart Callison, as well as a huzzah! to Kerry-Anne Mendoza (Mistress of Scriptonite!), Owen Jones, Chris Hedges, Paul Jay, Max Keiser, Greg Palast, and Mark Blyth.
And of course, a comradely high five to sundry fellow wordsmiths, like Bill King, Eric Brown, Ian Whates, Ian Watson, James Barclay, David Wingrove, John Shirley, Lavie Tidhar, Ian Sales, Jay Caselberg, Norman Spinrad, Jaine Fenn, Juliet McKenna, Lisa Tuttle, Aliette de Bodard, Chris Evans, Charlie Stross, Andrew J Wilson, Joe Abercrombie, Martin Sketchley, and a whole gaggle of others who have slipped through the cracks in my mind.
Soundtrack for this creation of this novel has included such acts and musos as Monster Magnet, Fu Manchu, Opeth, Alunah, Armazilla, Pressurehed, Walking Papers, Alice In Chains, Paradise Lost, Hawkwind, Hell, Nik Turner, and Peri Urban (of course). As I write this the country is slowly gearing up for a General Election so I’m hoping that by the time you get to read this some sensibly social democrat glimmers of hope are piercing the gloom. Venceremos!
extras
meet the author
MICHAEL COBLEY was born in Leicester, England, and has lived in Glasgow, Scotland, for most of his life. He has studied engineering, been a DJ and has an abiding interest in democratic politics.
His previous books include the Shadowkings dark fantasy trilogy and Iron Mosaic, a short story collection. Seeds of Earth, The Orphaned Worlds and The Ascendant Stars, books one, two and three of the Humanity’s Fire sequence, were his first full-length forays into space opera.
introducing
If you enjoyed
ANCESTRAL MACHINES,
look out for
THE LAZARUS WAR
Book One: Artefact
by Jamie Sawyer
DANGER LIES IN THE DEPTHS OF SPACE
Mankind has spread to the stars, only to become locked in warfare with an insidious alien race. All that stands against the alien menace are the soldiers of the Simulant Operation Program, an elite military team remotely operating avatars in the most dangerous theatres of war.
Captain Conrad Harris has died hundreds of times—running suicide missions in simulant bodies. Known as Lazarus, he is a man addicted to death. So when a secret research station deep in alien territory suddenly goes dark, there is no other man who could possibly lead a rescue mission.
But Harris hasn’t been trained for what he’s about to find. And this time, he may not be coming back…
There was something so immensely wrong about the Krell. I could still remember the first time I saw one and the sensation of complete wrongness that overcame me. Over the years, the emotion had settled to a balls-deep paralysis.
This was a primary-form, the lowest strata of the Krell Collective, but it was still bigger than any of us. Encased in the Krell equivalent of battle-armour: hardened carapace plates, fused to the xeno’s grey-green skin. It was impossible to say where technology finished and biology began. The thing’s back was awash with antennae—those could be used as both weapons and communicators with the rest of the Collective.
The Krell turned its head to acknowledge us. It had a vaguely fish-like face, with a pair of deep bituminous eyes, barbels drooping from its mouth. Beneath the head, a pair of gills rhythmically flexed, puffing out noxious fumes. Those sharkish features had earned them the moniker “fish heads”. Two pairs of arms sprouted from the shoulders—one atrophied, with clawed hands; the other tipped with bony, serrated protrusions—raptorial forearms.
The xeno reared up, and in a split second it was stomping down the corridor.
I fired my plasma rifle. The first shot exploded the xeno’s chest, but it kept coming. The second shot connected with one of the bladed forearms, blowing the limb clean off. Then Blake and Kaminski were firing too—and the corridor was alight with brilliant plasma pulses. The creature collapsed into an incandescent mess.
“You like that much¸ Olsen?” Kaminski asked. “They’re pretty friendly for a species that we’re supposed to be at peace with.”
At some point during the attack, Olsen had collapsed to his knees. He sat there for a second, looking down at his gloved hands. His eyes were haunted, his jowls heavy and he was suddenly much older. He shook his head, stumbling to his feet. From the safety of a laboratory, it was easy to think of the Krell as another intelligent species, just made in the image of a different god. But seeing them up close, and witnessing their innate need to extinguish the human race, showed them for what they really were.
“This is a live situation now, troopers. Keep together and do this by the drill. Haven is awake.”
“Solid copy,” Kaminski muttered.
“We move to secondary objective. Once the generator has been tagged, we retreat down the primary corridor to the APS. Now double-time it and move out.”
There was no pause to relay our contact with Jenkins and Martinez. The Krell had a unique ability to sense radio transmissions, even encrypted communications like those we used on the suits, and now that the Collective had awoken all comms were locked down.
As I started off, I activated the wrist-mounted computer incorporated into my suit. Ah, shit. The starship corridors brimmed with motion and bio-signs. The place became swathed in shadow and death—every pool of blackness a possible Krell nest.
Mission timeline: twelve minutes.
We reached the quantum-drive chamber. The huge reinforced doors were emblazoned with warning signs and a red emergency light flashed overhead.
The floor exploded as three more Krell appeared—all chitin shells and claws. Blake went down first, the largest of the Krell dragging him into a service tunnel. He brought his rifle up to fire, but there was too little room for him to manoeuvre in a full combat-suit, and he couldn’t bring the weapon to bear.
“Hold on, Kid!” I hollered, firing at the advancing Krell, trying to get him free.
The other two xenos clambered over him in desperation to get to me. I kicked at several of them, reaching a hand into the mass of bodies to try to grapple Blake. He lost his rifle, and let rip an agonised shout as the creatures dragged him down. It was no good—he was either dead now, or he would be soon. Even in his reinforced ablative pl
ate, those things would take him apart. I lost the grip on his hand, just as the other Krell broke free of the tunnel mouth.
“Blake’s down!” I yelled. “’Ski—grenade.”
“Solid copy—on it.”
Kaminski armed an incendiary grenade and tossed it into the nest. The grenade skittered down the tunnel, flashing an amber warning-strobe as it went. In the split second before it went off, as I brought my M95 up to fire, I saw that the tunnel was now filled with xenos. Many, many more than we could hope to kill with just our squad.
“Be careful—you could blow a hole in the hull with those explosives!” Olsen wailed.
Holing the hull was the least of my worries. The grenade went off, sending Krell in every direction. I turned away from the blast at the last moment, and felt hot shrapnel penetrate my combat-armour—frag lodging itself in my lower back. The suit compensated for the wall of white noise, momentarily dampening my audio.
The M95 auto-sighted prone Krell and I fired without even thinking. Pulse after pulse went into the tunnel, splitting armoured heads and tearing off clawed limbs. Blake was down there, somewhere among the tangle of bodies and debris; but it took a good few seconds before my suit informed me that his bio-signs had finally extinguished.
Good journey, Blake.
Kaminski moved behind me. His technical kit was already hooked up to the drive chamber access terminal, running code-cracking algorithms to get us in.
The rest of the team jogged into view. More Krell were now clambering out of the hole in the floor. Martinez and Jenkins added their own rifles to the volley, and assembled outside the drive chamber.
“Glad you could finally make it. Not exactly going to plan down here.”
“Yeah, well, we met some friends on the way,” Jenkins muttered.
“We lost the Kid. Blake’s gone.”
Ancestral Machines Page 48
