Total Conflict

by Neal Asher

  A door slid open and his aide stepped out into the icy wind.

  “They’ve lost him, haven’t they?” he said, pre-empting the news.

  “Yes, sir. Target has evaded neutralisation. Our operatives are under fire and disengaging from brigand territory.”

  “And no sign of the coalition’s agents?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Right – evacuate the squad then implement Plan B. That should put an end to this chase.”

  Shivering, his aide assented and went back inside. The Techmeld Jekahaka, armoured in furs and steelskin grafts, smiled and waited for the spectacle to commence.

  13. The Obsession Attrition

  “Cawneelyus!” came a wavering, fearful voice over the bridge communicator. “The puzzle! – the puzzle!”

  “Udroom….please, do not be upset….”

  But still the gestator called out to him. Trying to ignore the creature, Cornelius began flicking the switches which disembedded the anchors and wound them back into the hull. And between three and four, power in the bridge suddenly died. The boards went dead in the abrupt gloom for a moment, then the backup brought some of the lights and lamps flickering on again. The fourth anchor switch, however, was unresponsive and the anchor barbs failed to retract. Then the status monitor blinked and updated to show a huge power drain taking place in the cargo hold, the Grand Gestator Udroom’s quarters….

  When he reached the hold, Udroom, now grown huge, was sprawled across the hold deck, scared eyes tiny in that neckless head.

  “The puzzle, Cawneelyus – I made another piece, a good piece. You have to do it, get them to fit…”

  The puzzle pieces from the locker lay strewn on the deck, and they were all glowing as if from some inner energy. The new piece sat on the tray and was shining too. And from the moment Cornelius laid eyes on them all he knew that he had to put them together, knew this was vital, knew he could get them to fit. Part of his mind was distraught and practically bellowing at him to deal with the crisis, even as the aircruiser jolted massively again. But he patiently brought all the pieces together in their box and began gauging, aligning, testing them against each other. Occasionally his eyes glanced at the auxiliary command station over in the forward bulkhead, but otherwise he was utterly engrossed by the puzzle.

  Then one piece slid into place on another, giving off a musical ping and a pulse of radiance. He grinned, Udroom chuckled in delight, and the ship jerked, quivered, and suddenly Cornelius felt the drop, the moment when the hawsers parted and the ruined city of Twilight began to fall.

  But the puzzle, he had to finish it, just had to. As the plummeting city accelerated, freefall took over and unattached things, Cornelius, the Grand Gestator, the puzzle pieces in the box, began to drift and float gently upwards. Ping, another joined piece, another bloom of light, while Udroom clapped happily. The voice at the back of Cornelius’ mind was now shrieking with fear, imagining what would happen when the plunging city impacted one of the plateau-shelves that had to lie directly beneath, at some depth. But the puzzle was the thing, the whole thing, the only thing he was interested in. And finally, nine minutes and 43 seconds into the descent, the last piece pinged into place, and in quite a different voice the Grand Gestator said, “Well done, Cornelius! Well done!”

  14. By An Invisible Road

  On board her deep-range flier, parked near the edge of the plateau-shelf of Dihamu, the Concubiness Semmry stared in horror at the transmitted image of the falling city.

  “These mercenaries have gone too far!” she said. “Remoter Lisho – have you found the ship yet?”

  “Still searching. The debris and freefall conditions are proving hazardous to the probe.”

  The remoter was in her own tiny craft, tethered to the edge of the plateau and hovering out in the turbulent air, thus maintaining contact with her covey of probes. She had managed to get one inside Twilight City before the hawsers were severed, while the other three fell with the doomed ruin, tracking its descent.

  On the flier’s bridge, the Concubiness Semmry regarded the various views of the plunging city as the minutes ticked by. Periodic explosions ripped through some of the decks, sending clouds of wreckage spewing out, starting fires that raged through the corridors and chambers, driven to incinerating fury by the rushing air that blasted through the city. Flames grew and merged into great tongues and sheets, trailing like burning banners.

  “Found it!” came the remoter’s voice, triumphant.

  One screen showed a tangle of spars and girders, shaking, jostling and shuddering, with the outlines of a vessel visible beyond them. The probe ducked through to where Jamal’s aircruiser hung amid debris, drifting and bumping against larger pieces and restrained by a cable fixed to the deck.

  “So that is why he has not left,” the Concubiness said. “Can you use the probe to cut that line?”

  “Possibly,” said the remoter.

  The probe slipped through the larger gaps in the debris but before it could get close to the taut cable, the ship itself seemed to quiver like a plucked string then vanish. An instant later the image was blotted out by static. The remoter was apologising profusely over the link but the Concubiness just laughed.

  “Call back your probes, Lisho,” she said. “Our assistance was not required after all.”

  On the screen the burning wreck of Twilight City fell away through ice storms and snow-dense wavefronts like a dwindling ember.

  15. Time’s Devouring Hand

  Beneath a purpling sky, inverted mountains drifted, trees sprouting from dark, uneven crags, bushes, grass and moss cloaking their upper ledges. The aircruiser sat on rocky ground near the edge of a small lake, its cargo hold gaping while two figures, one prodigiously larger than the other, sat at the top of the loading ramp.

  “A cunning device,” Cornelius said. “Reached by an astonishingly indirect route.”

  “Self-preservation usually makes its provision,” said the Grand Gestator.

  Cornelius held up the assembled puzzle, eye searching for the seamless joins. “So this is – I hesitate to say it – your brain and a propulsive engine permitting travel between the tiers, all in one.” He gave Udroom a baffled look. “Why do such a thing?”

  “Ah, Cornelius Jamal, I am so very, very old. Boredom leads one down some odd sidetracks in search of the extraordinary!” The Grand Gestator gave a deep, rumbling laugh. “I have undertaken the forgetful sidetrack five times now and this has been the most fun by far!” The great creature’s eyes, aglint with a ferocious intellect, stared out across the placid waters and a sad weariness crept into them. “To know much is to be surprised by little. It is our curse.” The Gestator glanced at Cornelius. “I have a gift for you, a reward for all your hard work, and something to help you understand the value of things. Firstly, I must sleep.”

  So saying, the ancient being shambled back into the shadows of the hold, leaving Cornelius to the breathtaking view and his own rising tide of yawns. Ten hours of solid sleep later he came down to the hold to retrieve the jacket that he’d left there….and was startled out of his wits when a slender woman stepped unannounced out of the dimness.

  “… by the Abyss!” he gasped. “Who are you? How did you get on board…”

  Then two things forcibly caught his attention – first, she was wearing his jacket and the linen cloth from the duplicates tray, and little else. Second, while she was about his height, she was facially identical to the Concubiness Semmry.

  “Well, my name is Natira,” she said. “Don’t know how I got here or where I came from. But I do know that your friend over there is hungry.”

  Cornelius turned up the lights, revealing a greatly reduced gestator Udroom, looking much as it did during that first fateful visit to Teqavra Zoo.

  “Chelgo beans, Cawneelyus? Do you have some for me?”

  16. Mystagogic Logic

  At first he thought that the puzzle was gone, until he found two pieces of it fixed to the auxiliary command sta
tion in the hold. Pressing either one brought up a screen interface querying the required destination tier – it was the hypertier engine, another gift left behind by Udroom before his descent from intellect’s pinnacle.

  Two years later, as Natira went into labour with their first child, Cornelius finally understood ‘the value of things’. Looking down at the bright, open eyes of their new-born son, he realised what it meant to pass on the mark of a maker, the consequences, the responsibility, the possibilities. Later on, he went down to give Udroom an extra portion of chelgo beans then sat and listened to the Grand Gestator’s happy gurglings, just in case a glint of that fabulous mind revealed itself.

  Brwydr Am Ryddid

  Stephen Palmer

  Information Nugget 43v98

  Subject: The Hogger Leads Inn

  Content: an inn in the Old Quarter of Shrewsbury

  “Your nugget is nonsense – the Hogger Leads Inn is in St Collen’s Quarter.”

  Although nobody in Shrewsbury has ever spoken to me, nor even noticed I exist, I am the only one who can relate this tale since I alone know every relevant detail. Innkeeper Nirian missed the early events. Jane was fascinated by her tambourines and did not notice how the incident ended. Delia and Perria were busy playing their flutes. Only I was aware of everything from start to finish.

  “For goodness sake. This paragraph contains untruth. Already!”

  It was a cold evening a few weeks after the Day Of Canol Gaeaf and my joints were creaking fit to wake the dead. But winter already showed signs of coming to an end: blustery days, nights bright from the town-glow reflecting off low cloud. Less snow, more sleet. I noticed a few snowdrops in the back garden.

  It all began with an argument between Melody, a priestess of the Shrine of Cambria, and her partner Harold, a man who had been plucked from the kitchens at the Shrine of Rhiannon and become – after a fashion – a free man. Melody had rented a room in which she could enjoy a passionate affair without interference from her colleagues and peers. Every night I would hear the couple panting and groaning.

  On the last day there was a blazing row. I can remember every word.

  “That’s impossible; it’s been proven.”

  Harold had not realised that the fourteenth day of the affair would bring his return to the kitchens. He had assumed that Melody would# continue to protect him against his former owners, the priestesses of Rhiannon. Melody, who had just turned fourteen, was so naive she had not realised she might have to provide shelter and support for the man she had plucked from slavery. Harold was shocked when he realised he would be cast adrift in the town without means of survival. “You mean you will simply let me go?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Melody retorted in her high-pitched, almost wheedling voice. “I've got to get back to the Shrine of Cambria.”

  “But—”

  “There's only another three years before I'm too old for them. No time to hang about.”

  “But how will I eat?”

  “Don't care. You should be happy I got you out of the kitchens.”

  Harold bellowed, “At least they fed me there!”

  “Don't shout. Go away, leave me alone. I've got to pay Nirian for renting this room, I don't suppose you'll be able to help me with that.” And, pulling her coat over her shoulders, she made for the door.

  She was only a girl.

  Harold tried to get work, but Nirian knew where he had come from, she knew his character – immature, opportunistic -- and she wanted nothing to do with him.

  I saw him only once more, when he brought the hound. It was that same evening. I can see his face now. Angry. Revenge twisting his features, brow furrowed from the intense concentration required to carry such a dangerous beast. Of course there was astonishment when he entered the common room, threw a wicker basket to the floor and shouted, “This is for you, Melody! This is for everybody here!”

  He ran off faster than a beggar after a crust of bread.

  “Oh, yes? Following the Month Of Scourge no hounds have lived on the streets in Shrewbury.”

  That is not true. Two months after the scourging a pair of hounds, one male and one female, were found in a hidden cellar beneath Dogpole. Apparently they were killed. I acquired that from the same source as I acquired the original tale.

  That hound! At first it did not leave its basket, so nobody knew what lurked inside. There was chortling from the regulars, wags muttering and suchlike. But then the hound leaped through the basket door and onto an empty chair, its back curved, barking fit to wake the nonliving. For two and one third seconds there was silence; then a scream changed everything. This was a beast whose envenomed slobber would kill everyone in the room, whose teeth were deadly. Panic spread. People ran everywhere, bumping into one another, into chairs and tables; chess pieces and boards scattered to the floor.

  Now, I know much about hounds. Popular opinion claims all hounds are deadly: this is the logic behind scourging. In fact only one in three will attack in the street: the rest hide down holes. Our hound was one of the latter. It jumped off the chair, eyes big and round, then howled once and skittered through the doorway leading to the main staircase. It vanished.

  Then there was silence. Nirian walked in from the back kitchen and said, “What in the name of the Rhiannon is going on here?”

  There was nobody left who could provide an answer. But forty seconds later Oleana crept into the room brandishing a laser pistol. She said, “Get your gun. Hound loose!”

  Nirian swore in the Welsh tongue and pulled a long-nose revolver from behind the bar.

  Welsh, of course, is no longer spoken in Shrewsbury – I leave the sentence unedited.

  “Yes, it is. Shrewsbury is part of the Cymru Protectorate.”

  The Cymru Protectorate is not yet recognised as a legitimate land.

  “Oh yes it is.”

  Here, then, was the dilemma upon which my tale focuses. A hound with the potential to kill everybody present was at large, hidden in some nameless hole. Four paws with five claws each. Possibly the creature had been genetically enhanced; as yet I did not know. There would have to be a hound hunt.

  Nirian first took a head count. There were four permanent staff, including herself. Add seven performers who paid for their accommodation and food by attracting custom, plus Delia and Perria, the flautist twins. And that night there were seven paying guests – I know. The total number of people was nineteen and all were present. I can remember Nirian's sigh of relief when she realised the hound had not attacked anybody. Everyone stood huddled together in the common room – nineteen weapons pointing out, like the spines of a sea-urchin.

  A nasty state of affairs, but at least the panic was over.

  “This is what we'll do,” Nirian whispered. “We'll go from room to room, maybe three of us, open all the windows and hope the hound jumps out. If we don't see it… I'll have to assume the thing is still hiding somewhere.”

  Oleana looked the most nervous. “Then what?” she asked.

  Nirian grimaced. “Then I'll decide what to do.”

  The search proved fruitless. Cold air blew in through the windows and everybody was annoyed. Three hours passed and again they were clustered together in the common room, with not one of them aware that the hound had stuffed itself like a dirty flannel into a cupboard on the top floor.

  It was midnight, but how could they sleep?

  Nirian's face had changed from pale to bone white. This was a nightmare she did not need, like the threat of a sarin cloud, deadly on a westerly wind. She said, “There's only one thing we can do. Set a hound to catch a hound.”

  There was a general response of, “What are you talking about?”

  Nirian explained. “We'll have to get somebody in—”

  “Wait,” Oleana interrupted, “you can't bring anybody here from the Shrine of Canis.”

  There was agreement all round on this. People sat squirming, so uncomfortable was the notion.

  Nirian was adamant however. “If
it's not scared of us, then the hound might jump out of a window. But I can't risk not knowing. I've got to get someone in to tell me it's definitely gone.”

  “Fumigate the place,” Delia suggested.

  “What with? Your stinking breath?”

  Jane the percussionist said, “Make lots of noise, then when it appears, shoot it.”

  Nirian was scornful. “And what if we scare it so much it just finds a deeper hole? Then crawls out a day later and bites you in the face? One dead Jane.”

  Megan the folk-dancer nodded. “We have to be sure. A hidden hound makes this place uninhabitable – we can't leave the windows open for ever.”

  “Exactly,” said Nirian. “Think of the talk. The inn with the hound in it.”

  Much cursing ensued at this point, but I knew that Nirian was right and everybody would come around to her way of thinking before long. Of course, I saw nothing of Nirian's journey to the Shrine of Canis, of her discussions with the people there, and I have no idea what payment she made for the service of the man who followed her home.

  This man was called Edward. I can see now the expressions on the faces of the people in the common room as he followed Nirian inside: disgust, terror. Edward wore a cloak of hound hair sewn with silver threads, the symbols of his religion hanging on chains around his neck: hound teeth in silver, a dangling paw. Without a word he sat on a chair, cradling his head in his arms, bent over, silent, until he began howling like some banshee of the Weme Marsh. Then, sudden as an off-switch, he stopped. There was a momentary echo. Edward and I knew that it had issued from the hidden hound, but nobody else did.