The Orphaned Worlds

by Michael Cobley

  ‘So why is he like this?’

  Talavera moved up close to Arkady, smiled and stroked his unresponsive face. ‘Poor boy had a change of heart – instead of overpowering Thorold, he went back out to warn you. Well, I put a stop to that and persuaded him to keep to the plan, with a little improvisation.’

  ‘This isn’t persuasion!’ Julia shouted. ‘You couldn’t persuade him to behave this way in just minutes …’

  ‘But my entire ship is devoted to methods of persuasion!’ Talavera said, her features alive and intense. ‘Drastic methods, certainly, and when you’re forging a new reality sometimes you have to go to great lengths in order to be convincing. But yes, you are right – you can’t change someone’s mind in just a few minutes, unless you put someone else in the driver’s seat. Or something else.’

  She took a small dark blue vial from a pocket and held it up to one of the overhead light strips. What looked like fine powder shifted within and Julia felt an uneasy chill.

  ‘They’re such innovators, the Hegemony,’ Talavera went on. ‘Nanoengineered particulate mechanisms, designed to enter the brain and take over the voluntary physical centres and parts of the cognitive regions. These little workhorses are an entire magnitude smaller than your polymotes. Working together in great numbers they can easily simulate the host’s normal demeanour.’ She patted Arkady’s cheek. ‘Oh, he’s still in there, hearing and seeing everything. He just has no control over what his body does.’

  ‘What do you want from us?’ Julia said, fighting to keep her voice calm. ‘We’ve seen your secrets. We know about the containments.’

  ‘You have? Aren’t they amazing? You wouldn’t believe the trouble I went to, having them built by a reliable black-sector monoclan, then getting them shipped out to the Aranja Tesh.’ She paused to look at them all individually, as if pleased to see the hate and the contempt in their eyes. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You think that with your great intellects and those cortical processors in your heads you can defeat the Hegemony’s nanodust. Well, please go on thinking that because failure is so instructive. Wouldn’t you say, Julia?’

  On the shuttle compartment’s screens, the destruction of the Brolturan ship played over and over again, from the missile payload’s initial detonation, slowed down to a near-glacial ballet of chaos. A knot of blazing white energy blossomed in the huge ship’s flank, roared through the interior, shafts of actinic radiation bursting from ports and hatches in those infinitesimal instants before the raw, expanding fury tore open the hull in a hellish eruption.

  Legs trembling, Julia stood. ‘I don’t know how your dust will affect us but I promise you that we will fight you every step of the way. We will not create more destruction for you.’

  Talavera gazed down at the vial in her hand and smiled faintly. ‘I know you Enhanced – in fact I think I almost know you better than you know yourselves. Give you a big fat juicy problem full of unexplored scientific implications and you just can’t resist. You’ll all do your best work for me, I know you will.’

  ‘It will be a cold day in hell first.’

  ‘But Julia, the new reality we’re forging will be a paradise. Trust me.’

  GREG

  At the narrowest point of the glen, Greg was crouched on a ledge halfway down a tall, rocky buttress, fixing in place a second shaped charge, about thirty feet below the first one. Alexei was on the other side, planting more along the lip of the sheer cliff, hoping that they would unleash an avalanche. Once the charge was solid, Greg wiped his face then looked across the treetops to where Alexei sat on a jutting boulder. Exchanging waves, he moved down and back towards the western end of the glen, descending into its rocky tangle of roots and hardy bushes through which a rain-swollen stream gushed.

  It was mid-afternoon, a day and a half since Vashutkin’s appearance, and the sun was blazing down from a near-cloudless sky, sending bright shafts into the humid glen. The air was redo-lent of bark and leaf, of sap and blooms, and was abundantly abuzz with insects, stirred by the calls of birds and other small forest denizens. A beautiful Darien day which, unfortunately, he would have to disrupt.

  Greg found Alexei waiting for him up on a flat boulder that protruded from the side of the glen and provided a good view back to the notch. Greg held up the signal trigger, which was the size of a key fob.

  ‘Ready?’ he said. ‘Counting down from three … two … one …’

  The explosions were simultaneous. Soil and pulverised rock burst out from the charge locations. The rocky buttress shattered and fell into the glen, flattening a swath of trees while a mass of earth and rocks and uprooted trees swept down from the other side. Flocks of screeching birds erupted, some dispersing to other perches, others climbing to circle overhead.

  Then a voice crackled over Greg’s earpiece. ‘That you done wi’ Glen Nero, chief?’

  Greg grinned. Rory had decided to name all the eastern valleys after Roman emperors.

  ‘Eh, aye – I don’t think we’ll see any mobile armour coming up this way.’

  ‘That’s grand. Now if the both of ye could get over to Glen Julius it would be appreciated, like. Got a wee bit o’ a situation here.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he said as he and Alexei began heading up the glen.

  ‘Snipers – I’ve had tae change my spot three times already.’

  ‘Brolts or DVF?’

  ‘Pretty sure it’s our guys – they know the ground, and, eh … I think young Pauly’s bought it. Not seen him for near an hour.’

  ‘Right, we’re on our way back to the Har so we should be with ye soon. Keep yer head down …’

  ‘I’m way ahead of ye on that one.’

  ‘There is trouble?’ Alexei said as they hurried through the trees. ‘They’ve sent DVF snipers into the glen and now Pauly’s not been heard from for an hour.’ Greg tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Paul Svenson was a crack shot; he was also just sixteen years old and an orphan, both parents murdered by Brolturan sweep squads. He had been eager to go to Glen Julius and Vashutkin had said yes, to which Greg had reluctantly agreed.

  ‘Maybe we should get one of the mobile squads over there,’ said Alexei. ‘Pin them down if they’re trying to come through in force.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Greg said. ‘Not until we hear from Augustus and Claudius. Got to be sure they’re bottled up first.’

  There were four accessible routes to the eastern slopes of Tusk Mountain, coming from the Kentigern foothills and the coast.

  Glen Nero, now blocked; Glen Julius, a steep-sided rocky defile which led up past a series of waterfalls; Glen Claudius, a winding gully that forked at a craggy hill; and Glen Augustus which was an actual proper valley with only one possible choke point, at its entrance nearly two miles away. Vashutkin and his demolition team were heading there now and if they failed it would be up to Greg and the mobile squads to hold off the enemy advance for as long as possible before retreating to the Tusk Mountain stronghold.

  And then we have to hold that against mounting odds, he thought. With our salvation depending, apparently, on the actions of one man, Robert Horst. Or so the Sentinel claims.

  The Har was a cigar-shaped dirigible moored in a natural clearing. Her pilot, a Finn called Varstrand, was sitting in a folding chair, dressed for the sun in a singlet and shorts while still wearing a battered flying helmet complete with goggles.

  ‘Sun is good for skin,’ he said, slapping his skinny chest. ‘Vitamin C, yes?’

  ‘Fruit’s what you need, Varstrand,’ said Greg. ‘But right now, we need to get over that ridge and a few hills – and we need to go now!’

  Varstrand grinned, stood, folded his chair and slung it over one shoulder.

  ‘Ei hätää, my friend! – don’t worry. The Har is a fine and agile ship – we’ll be there fast.’

  A few minutes later they were strapped into creaking wire-and-wicker couches positioned behind the cockpit, which was only separated from the rest of the gondola by an openwork
wooden partition. The dirigible’s twin props gave out a conversation-challenging harsh buzz as the zeplin lurched, tipped backwards then swung free as the craft gained height. Greg had given Varstrand a basic hand-drawn map of landmarks and features, which had been tacked to the instrument panel, thus obscuring a few gauges. But the pilot seemed unconcerned as he worked his controls, keeping the Har on a careful heading, coasting just over the treetops.

  Rory was still available so between his directions and peering at the map, they found a particular grassy shelf part-way along a high ridge. After agreeing a rendezvous back along the gully, Greg and Alexei climbed down a rope ladder, hair and clothing flapping in the backwash of the idling propellers. Once feet were on solid ground, waves were exchanged, the ladder was hauled up, and the Har swung round to head off to the west, its underside brushing the topmost leaves of the highest trees.

  A rocky path led down a jagged notch in the crag. Greg could see tool marks where crude steps had been chiselled from the stone and wondered if this pinnacle had been a place of meditation for those long-vanished Uvovo. Or even to observe the canopy of colossal trees, the vast expanse of the world-forest-that-was.

  Soon the path emerged into sunlight and became a narrow ledge sloping down the side of a sheer drop. The bare stone was searingly hot in the sun, and Rory was waiting there, crouched down in the brightness, long-barrelled sniper rifle leaning against his shoulder. He squinted up at them.

  ‘Ye want tae mind yer feet, gents. It’s a wee bit tricky when yer heading down.’

  As they followed, Greg scanned the horizon and the sky as he had been compulsively doing all day, watching for the first sign of Brolturan air support. Personnel carriers, attack craft and combat drones – he knew that they had them yet they were conspicuous by their absence.

  Perhaps it’s a game for them, drawing us out with probing ground attacks, then when we’re at our most exposed in comes the air assault.

  In anticipation of this, Vashutkin had suggested forming three mobile squads of five fighters each, and all moving about on lightweight folding bikes. A renegade zeplin had flown in the night before and offloaded two crates of them, as well as medical and food supplies. Given the local terrain it made sense and everyone agreed.

  ‘Found just the spot for yer charges, chief,’ Rory said as they descended into the bushy green shadows of Glen Julius. ‘The next waterfall down has plenty o’ boulders and a bloody big overhang, just like the one over in Glen Augustus.’

  ‘Good to know, Rory,’ Greg said. ‘Thing is, how many DVF are down there? What are we up against?’

  ‘Four or five of them – I think.’

  ‘Ye think?’

  ‘Aye, well, I’m on my tod here, chief. Anyway, s’kinda creepy to me. I cannae understand why any of our people would carry on in the DVF, taking orders from Brolt officers. Unless they’ve been brainwashed, or got a dose of that happy dust that nearly did for you.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Greg muttered, trying not to recall the Hegemony ambassador Kuros and the engineered nanodust with which he’d pillaged Greg’s mind. ‘Some of it’ll be just loyalty to their squad mates or unit commanders. Mostly, though, I’ll bet it’s fear. Did ye hear those rumours that all DVF troops and government police have been secretly implanted with tracking devices? So anyone who goes AWOL gets chased by hunter-killer drones and permanently retired.’

  Rory gave a low whistle. ‘That would encourage me no’ to desert …’

  By now they were clambering down among large mossy boulders in the shade of the few tall trees and many bushes that clung to the ravine’s steep sides. The rushing sound of a waterfall came from an indeterminate distance ahead, through the tangle of foliage.

  ‘Where did you last spot those snipers?’ Alexei muttered.

  ‘Below the second waterfall,’ Rory said. ‘But we should be okay – Pauly’s watching for them …’

  ‘Whoa! – what was that?’ Greg said. ‘He’s not dead?’

  Rory slapped his forehead. ‘Did I no’ say? Sorry, chief – eh, aye, turns out he fell off a branch and brained hisself, the halfwit. Come to about five minutes after I called you on the …’ He waggled his fingers at his ear.

  Greg didn’t know whether to laugh or give him a telling-off. Instead he shook his head. ‘Right, can we get on with this?’

  Rory guided them to where the small river poured through a tumble of boulders and down a twenty-foot drop, all jutting rocks and curtains of spray. By the time they reached the foot of it, after a hair-raising downward clamber, they were all soaked through. Twice they heard the unmistakable thin crack of rifle shots from further along the ravine, causing involuntary ducking. Rory paused at one point, putting his hand to his ear, then he turned to Greg.

  ‘Pauly’s in trouble! – one of them’s climbed up on the left, got him pinned down …’

  As he dashed off, Greg and Alexei switched their earpieces to short range and hurried after him. There was a shout followed by shots. Moments later they found Rory crouched over a still form in DVF forest greens, lying sprawled between boulders not far from where a twisted tree leaned over the waterfall’s brink, its leafy sprigs misted in spray. Rory glanced up and shook his head.

  ‘A waste, it is. They should be fighting wi’ us …’

  Off to one side, a skinny youth in a thin camouflage cape straightened from his crouch, waved and moved along the water-fall’s boulder-choked lip to a new position. Greg and Alexei waved back to Pauly as he settled down with his rifle, scanning the foliage below. Greg thought for a moment.

  ‘I think the pair of ye should keep Pauly company in case they try it again,’ he said. ‘I’ll climb up and set the charges, soon as Rory shows me where the overhang is.’

  Rory had retrieved the dead soldier’s rifle and was just handing it to Alexei, whose eyes lit up with surprise.

  ‘A Kellerman 5.56 – nice gun, pretty rare, much sought after.’

  ‘Aye, well don’t sell it too soon, eh?’ Rory said. ‘Right, chief, follow me.’

  The overhang was everything Rory said it was, a massive outward-leaning pillar of rock. With his background in Uncle Theo’s Diehards, Rory had figured out the best detonation points, marking them with small wads of paper wedged into cracks. Moving up, from edge to edge, from point to point, Greg found he had a spectacular view of the surrounding rocky hills and pinnacles, a maze of forbidding crags and fissures. And westward, looming over it all, the imposing mass of Tusk Mountain. The entrance to the stronghold was just visible as a small dark mark against the stony grey face. The altitude there was 2,800 feet while the peak was another 1,600 feet further up, attainable only after a tough, demanding climb.

  He was about to start down when his earpiece beeped. Leaning back against sunwarmed rock, he fingered one of the earpiece studs, switching into the long-range comnet.

  ‘Greg here.’

  ‘Greg, this is Bessonov – we’ve blown the gorge wall in Glen Claudius. Bad news is that some of their troops got through before it came down.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Hard to say – perhaps twenty, maybe more. We’ve lost two from our team and we are pulling back.’

  ‘Did you call up the mobile squads?’ Greg asked, suddenly worried.

  ‘One is on its way. The others are over in the Augustus valley. Vashutkin was meeting stiff resistance and called them in.’

  Greg shook his head. Obviously, Vashutkin considered his mission of greater consequence. ‘Okay, get back to the foothills and link up with the mobile squad. We’ll be with you as soon as we can.’

  Is this it? he thought as he clambered along a natural ledge, keeping his head down. Is this where it starts to unravel?

  He switched back to short range, outlined the situation to Alexei, Rory and Pauly, then told them to move over to the opposite side of the ravine and keep back from the waterfall’s brink. Greg meanwhile had found a broad, solid shelf near the top of an overlooking ridge some thirty-odd yards along fro
m the charges. Once he was seated on the cold, flat stone, he counted down from five over the short-range, then hit the trigger.

  There was a crashing, deafening boom. Dark clouds shot out from the explosions and Greg could see the immense overhang tipping forward then falling through them. At the same time fragments big and small were flying in all directions and Greg watched, in amazement then panic, as one large piece came spinning out of the dust and chaos towards him. But its arc of flight fell short and it struck the top of the ravine wall less than ten feet away. Greg felt the impact, saw the rock face shatter and split, long shards toppling out. There was a deep crack close by and the shelf trembled underfoot then lurched. There were voices shouting in his ear but he was completely in the grip of fear as he whirled and leaped across a growing gap in the rock, scrambling madly up onto the clifftop.

  A roaring rumble filled the air. The ground shook and grey clouds billowed up. Greg had found refuge on a scree slope of a small saddle ridge overlooking Glen Julius, and he sat down heavily on a boulder, trying to make sense of it. After a few moments the rumbling faded to an eerie silence. He was about to make his way back to the ravine when he heard a hum from somewhere in the vicinity. The hum grew louder and harsher and suddenly familiar just as Varstrand’s dirigible, the Har, bobbed up from the other side of the saddle ridge and banked before slowing overhead.

  Shouting, Greg waved and saw the pilot mouthing something while pointing at his ear. Realisation struck and Greg fumbled with the earpiece’s stud controls, and was suddenly assailed by a jabber of voices.

  ‘… yes, I have him! He is safe …’

  ‘So why’s he no’ replyin’, then …’

  ‘Sorry, Rory,’ Greg said, catching the end of the rope ladder snaking down from the zeplin. ‘I must have muted the channel somehow in all the commotion.’

  Rory laughed. ‘Commotion, aye! Right, see ye soon.’

  A swift climb hand-over-hand and he was inside the gondola, dragging himself into the compartment then pulling the ladder in after him.