by Neal Asher
The first nanofactory changer had been given to the Cult of Anubis Arisen—their shot at resurrection. It had never worked: of the first three reifs to use it, two had come close to life before collapsing to sludge, and the third was now an exhibit in a museum on Klader. He was subsequently named the bone man. Over the years many others had taken the chance, and none had succeeded. The tales of what had happened to them were all grotesque: there was the reif who nearly made it, but as his blood began to circulate he sprouted hands all over his body before falling into a pile of those members; there was the one whose head turned into a single glistening eye; and another in whom the process generated so much heat that he simply exploded. Sable Keech, during his relentless pursuit of the Eight, had never learnt of this history. But then he had never been a member of the Cult, which was something Cult members had never publicized. Bloc only learnt the truth when he bought out what remained of the Cult, and transformed it to his own purposes. Where Keech had obtained his changer, no one knew. His use of it, even in extremity, obtained from his ignorance of what it might do to him. Yet he had succeeded: it had resurrected him. He was the Arisen One. It somewhat annoyed Bloc that, having returned to life, Keech had then returned to his old existence as a policeman—such a prosaic denouement.
Bloc replaced the device in his suit’s pocket, unplugged his cleansing unit, then looked down at the towel behind him. The beetles were marching out in a neat line, stacking dead maggots before returning to the hole in his back. They were not finished yet. He would wait with the patience of a corpse.
* * * *
Sitting alfresco at the Baitman, sipping a tin mug of rum, Janer wondered if it was true they made the stuff by straining rocket fuel through a bag of sea-cane. It certainly seemed that those Hoopers who smoked were wary of lighting their pipes or cigars in the proximity of their drinks. He scanned around. These outside tables—a new addition since he was last here—were mostly occupied, as from them it was easy to see the raised platform nearby over the heads of the growing crowd. Evening was now closing in and electric streetlights—another addition—were coming on and igniting all with lurid greenish light. Forlam, sitting in one of the three seats around the table, had not taken his avid gaze away from that platform since they arrived. The other seat was empty, but the large tin mug before it engraved with the word ‘Ron’ was enough to deter any of the surrounding Hoopers from sitting there. Janer remembered a conversation with Keech in this very street. ‘He, I would guess, is an Old Captain, and has authority by dint of the simple fact that he can tear your arms off.’ Janer had just met Captain Ron for the first time.
‘I didn’t know you did this sort of thing here,’ Janer said conversationally.
It was the hive mind that responded: ‘It was going to happen to Captain Ambel.’
Forlam said nothing, just kept on staring.
Janer nodded. Of course, had the Convocation of Old Captains found Ambel guilty, the sentence would have been death, though the method different. He looked up as the crowd parted and Ron came through to reclaim his seat.
‘What’s happening?’ Forlam asked, licking his lips.
Ron eyed him. ‘Two lads off the Vignette, they slipped some sprine into a fellow crewman’s tea after a fight over money. Can’t say I’m surprised. Convocation sentenced ‘em to the same end.’
‘Convocation?’ Janer peered around. ‘Where are the rest of the Old Captains?’
Ron glanced at him. ‘Seems we’ve entered our technological age. Not sure I like that.’
The hive mind chipped in with, ‘All the Captains now use holographic conferencing links for Convocation. They now only meet physically if the matter is really serious.’
How serious was ‘really serious’, Janer wondered.
‘Why aren’t you surprised?’ he asked.
‘The Vignette, bad ship, and Captain Orbus…’ Ron trailed off into an embarrassed silence.
The three returned their attention to the platform as the first of the Hooper crewmen was dragged up onto it, fighting all the way despite the ceramal band around his body to which his wrist manacles were secured, and the manacles around his ankles. The man was naked, and by the look of him Janer reckoned him to be a Hooper of about a hundred and fifty years. Those wrestling with him attached a chain from the band to one of the two heavy iron posts protruding from the platform.
‘Fucking bastards!’ the man yelled. ‘He was squeaky weed-head slobber-arse!’ Released, he yanked at his chain, glared around.
The second man walked calmly onto the platform. His expression contained some of the craziness Janer had seen only recently in Forlam’s expression. He stood meekly as they attached him to his post. When the platform was clear but for these two, an Old Captain stepped up and stood with his back to the abusive Hooper.
‘Orbus,’ Ron muttered. ‘There won’t be any fancy speeches.’
‘Well, you know the decision,’ the Captain said, ‘and it’s my job to deal with my crewmen.’
He pulled on a set of gauntlets, drew a dagger from the sheath at his wide belt, and inspected the blade. Before the Hooper behind him could react he turned fast and drove the dagger into the man’s guts, withdrew it, then stepped away from him. The man grimaced, did not bleed.
‘Sprine on the blade,’ Forlam informed Janer irrelevantly. Janer realized it had to be that. Stabbing a Hooper with a clean blade would not kill him, only irritate him.
Orbus returned the dagger to its sheath, rattled it up and down for a moment then took it out for his inspection again. The second Hooper was watching his companion when the dagger, more sprine on it from the sheath, went into him. He oomphed, turned to Orbus with an expression of hurt accusation.
‘You could have let me watch,’ he complained.
‘Now,’ Forlam whispered.
The skin around the first Hooper’s stab wound turned yellow, that stain spreading. He started to shake, froth bubbling from his mouth. The crack of one of the manacles snapping was audible from where Janer sat, but the man only raised his free hand to wipe his lips. The second man was going the same way. Now the first one’s eyes rolled up into his head and he issued a long-drawn-out groan. A split appeared in his torso and black liquid began to run out. Other body splits appeared; more liquid poured onto the platform. Then he really began to come apart. One of his biceps departed his arm bone. His guts began to bubble out of the first split. The victim started to sink down, still coming apart. What remained was a steaming pile of separated bone, flesh and organs, as if the man had been slow pressure-cooked for a day. The second man reached similar pilehood shortly after him. Janer gulped some rum. ‘I nearly gave you the power to do that,’ he said, peering down at the encased hornets on his shoulder.
Ron and Forlam glanced at him, saw who he was addressing, then returned their attention to the platform, where a group of Hoopers had climbed up with shovels, buckets and mops.
‘If you recollect, you did give it to me, but then Captain Ambel took it away again. But be assured, in my possession such power would have been rarely used. What one of the older minds might do with it, even I am loath to speculate.’
‘What are they like then, these older minds?’
‘Unfathomable,’ was all the reply the hive mind offered.
Janer returned to easy conversation with his two human companions, as the rum began to work its familiar magic on him. At one point he commented, ‘They showed little fear.’
‘Hoopers don’t fear a quick death,’ Ron replied.
‘Do they fear anything?’
‘Oh yes, young Hoopers fear falling into the sea and not dying.’
‘Old Captains?’
‘What young Hoopers fear, plus the fate they avoided when Jay Hoop was in control here: they fear and hate the prospect of coring or having a thrall implanted,’ Ron explained.
‘Still… it was all such a long time ago.’
‘Never underestimate how Old Captains feel about that,’ Ron warned.
<
br /> Seemingly without transition thereafter, they were sitting in twilight reliving old battles. Janer asked Ron if he knew what Keech was now doing.
‘Last I heard, he’s back on Klader working for the Polity monitor force,’ the Captain replied.
‘Still a policeman?’ Janer asked incredulously.
Ron eyed him. ‘Seven hundred years being dead didn’t put him off, so what do you think?’
Thereafter Janer and Ron became intent on extracting from Forlam the truth about what he had done with a certain female Batian mercenary. The other tables were empty now and no one objected when someone brought a chair to their table and joined them. Janer studied the dark-browed Hooper, trying to figure what it was about him—something out of kilter.
‘I want to join your crew,’ said the man to Ron.
‘And you are?’
‘Isis Wade.’
‘What experience do you have, Wade?’ Ron asked genially. Janer had lost count of the refills now.
‘As much experience as I want or need,’ Wade replied.
Ah, that’s it, Janer thought. The man was dark, his skin was patterned with leech scars, and he moved with that Hooper rolling gait. But Janer could see the difference. It was in the minutiae: mannerisms, exactitude of speech, how precisely soiled was his clothing, how his breathing was not quite in synch with his speech and movement—and probably also in things below conscious perception, like pheromones. Now why would a Golem android want to join Ron’s crew, and, for that matter, the Captain’s crew on what vessel? Ron was not returning to the Gurnard, and his own sailing ship had ended up at the bottom of the sea ten years ago.
Janer lost track of their conversation for a while, then came back to hear Ron saying, ‘Okay, you’re on. One like you might be useful.’
‘When does she sail?’Wade asked.
Ron replied, ‘They’ve got some of your kind working day and night on her, so not long. I’m getting some others together, but most are already on contract.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Janer asked.
Ron eyed him. ‘Why, we’re talking about the Sable Keech. What else?’
* * * *
A skirt of warty flesh, hard as stone, oozed up the beach, and a long tentacle uncoiled from it. Erlin glanced back at the dismembered whelk on her surgical table and guessed the monstrous mollusc rising out of the sea was not looking for explanations. Its shell, encrusted with flatweed and alive with small prill, was the size of a large house. It rose up on a mound of flesh and in that mound two eyes blinked open, then everted from the main body on stalks thick as her leg. More tentacles unrolled up the beach, then a longer one with a wide flat end snapped back behind the rising shell then slammed forward and down exploding a shrapnel of stones in every direction. The tentacle tip rested momentarily a few metres from her door before the creature drew it back again. It was coming on rapidly, having now risen over the underwater ledge. Erlin dived aside as the pillar of stony flesh slammed down where she had just been standing. Rolling to her feet, she saw the tentacle slide quickly inside her house. There it paused, and a deep bass groaning issued from the monster. As the tentacle withdrew, a second one of the same type hammered down, and Erlin stared aghast at her home of a year. She had hoped to dive back inside, retrieve some weapon, but the dwelling now looked like a simnel cake that someone had smacked squarely with a lead bar. She glanced back towards the sea, and the two eyes pivoted towards her. She ran inland.
Stupid stupid stupid. What catastrophe had denuded this island of large animals? What had smashed peartrunk trees and driven a lane through the island’s central jungle? Well, her answer was coming after her now, by the tonne.
As she neared the island’s centre she looked back to see the monster revealed in all its glory, ploughing up the lane it had made before her arrival here. Sunset light glinted on a shell similar to that of its young, just rougher, older, and a lot lot bigger. Its visible body, stretching out below that shell, resembled that of an octopus, though the eyes extruded on stalks, the tentacles were without suckers, and the skirt between them extended further from the body itself than it did on the Terran cephalopod. Its upper surfaces were warty and a greyish purple, whilst its under surfaces were almost white—a pastel lavender shade. Had she not been running for her life, Erlin would have been fascinated.
She turned abruptly to her right and entered the dingle. A few hundred metres inwards, the island rose to a rocky peak which the monster might not be able to reach. Immediately, as she ran into the gloom, a leech the size of her arm dropped on her head and attempted to slide down round her neck like a feather boa. She grabbed it and flung it aside as its bubbling and churning tube mouth groped for her cheek. Other leeches fell around her in an awful fleshy rain, but she was moving too fast now to allow any of them an opportunity to feed. She crashed into a stand of putrephallus, held her breath going through it, and for as long as she could after departing the other side. Even so, when she did take a breath, she nearly vomited at the stench.
Now a slope lay before her, thick with bubbleweed. She skirted this, knowing that running up a slope this covered was almost impossible, as the weed bursting underfoot would turn the surface almost frictionless. She mounted a stone ridge snaking down the slope, and ran up that, slipping once and banging her knee, then again as she departed it at the top. From down below she heard the creature’s crashing commotion as it entered the dingle. Glancing back she saw it wrench from the ground the peartrunk tree from which the leeches had been falling, lift it ten metres into the air, then hurl it. The tree crashed into the slope below her. Leeches, pieces of wood and sods of bubbleweed rained past her. She fell flat to avoid a flying branch, rose again to see the monster now reach the putrephallus stand. It hesitated there, drew back and began to skirt it, but still it came on.
Erlin laboured up the slope to the highest point on the island. Many times she had come to this rocky prominence to survey the surrounding gleam of green-blue balmy seas. Even as she reached this height she realized there would be no safety here. A tentacle slammed down only metres below her—the creature, now past the putrephallus, had slowed not at all. Her only option was to just keep on running round and round the island. Even if she managed to stay ahead of the monster during the approaching night, and not make just one fatal error, her tough Hooper body would eventually give out. For the giant whelk only needed to be relentless. Erlin felt sure she was going to die, and all her thoughts on the matter of her death—the malaise that had first brought her here to this planet to find Ambel, and here to this island to ‘think’—seemed so inconsequential in that moment. She had never felt so alive.
‘Fuck you!’ she shouted at the monster.
‘Face Death, and know it as the enemy,’ spoke a voice, as wings boomed above her and shadows occluded the darkening sky. Then long-fingered claws gripped her shoulders and hauled her up into the firmament.
* * * *
The juvenile glister, being small and necessarily opportunist, had been waiting in the depths for just such a moment, its antennae up as it ascertained that the giant whelk had definitely gone ashore. It rose up onto its multitude of legs, flicked its tail, and just gently touching the bottom with its sharp feet, bounced along towards the brood of young whelks. It came from down-current, and its camouflaged carapace gave it added advantage. Every time a stalked eye swung towards it, it changed its buoyancy, dropped to the bottom and froze. When it was close enough it gave a powerful flick of its flat tail and came down on the nearest whelk. The glister closed its claws in the flesh directly below the whelk’s shell before the creature had time to draw in its tentacles and the main mass of its body. The rest of the whelks immediately withdrew into their shells, but the glister had enough here—it was not greedy. It dragged its prey clear of the others, and with one claw remaining clamped into its flesh so the creature still could not escape, began tearing away lumps of it and feeding. The whelk thrashed at the glister with its tentacles, but those tentacl
es had not yet gained the concrete consistency of its parent’s. Its eye-stalks slapped from side to side until the glister snipped them off with its free claw and fed them into its mandibles. Soon it was into the guts of the thing, discarding the long serrated beak, sucking in loops of intestine. Then abruptly its antennae flicked upright as it detected something else in the water. It dropped the shell, despite it still containing plenty of flesh, pushed itself off from the bottom and swam away just as fast as it could. The problem it had always found, with dining on the sea bottom, was the uninvited guests.
The turbul shoal, forever patrolling the depths—feeding and being fed upon—their outer flesh constantly needing to be replaced, were always hungry. The scent of ichor in the water drove them to a frenzy with half-remembered feasting on the contents of easily broken shells. However, the still-present other scent from the giant whelk itself reminded them of near escapes, the loss of outer flesh and sudden reductions in their number.
The first turbul nosed cautiously up out of the depths—a long five-hundred-kilogram creature with caiman jaws and bright blue fins grown seemingly at random from its cylindrical dark green body. It sucked the water in through its nostrils, blowing it out through the gill holes down its length, flicked its whip tail, the hatchet fin on the end of that dislodging rocks down the slope behind it, and came on. Ahead of it the infant whelks again extruded eye-stalks and tentacles to test the water, immediately became agitated and drew closer together. The turbul circled, joined by others of its shoal. Then it shot in.
