The Orphaned Worlds_Book Two of Humanity's Fire

by Michael Cobley

  ‘… aye, ye better let me go ’cos if I get ma hands on one o’ they plasma cannon I’m gonnae stick it where the sun don’t shine and let rip! … aaaagh! – right, I’ll no’ need a gun, just a hammer’ll dae!’

  Chel could see metallic forms emerging from shadowy curtains of creeper. Rory had been bound hand and foot then strapped to the back of one of the big combat droids. The sight was disturbing – for all the days of this long, taxing pursuit, not once had Chel seen any evidence of the Knight or its servants taking prisoners. Rory, still shouting and swearing, was being carried towards the rear of the huge factory machine where a hatch had folded open. It was easily wide enough to admit a Human lying prone, and as he watched a thick shelf with a Human-shaped recess slid out lengthways.

  Chel shook his head, a Human gesture for a Human predicament. But there was no conflict in his intentions – he would have to try and save the man. With his eyes, his Seer’s eyes, he looked at the air, at the infinitesimal motes of which it was consisted, then looked for the shell of air, knowing that his perception of it would bring it into being. The strain of observation-alteration was already noticeable but he held steady as the air around him grew opaque with faint glowing swirls. At once he rose and walked straight towards the machine that bore Rory along.

  He was yards away when he suddenly realised that the machines were all closing in on him from all sides. There was a flash of light, a dazzling burst, and the concealing air-shell vanished. From the back of the now-motionless droid, Rory stared in disbelief.

  ‘Chel! – Greg sent me to find you …’

  ‘I am sorry, Rory, so sorry,’ was all he could say before cold metal talons seized him and a needle slid into his neck, blackening all sight.

  LEGION

  Resting within the autofactory’s rebuilt storage bay, the Knight of the Legion of Avatars considered his two prisoners: one was a male of the Human species, the other the Uvovo whose steady, untraceable pursuit had been a constant irritation for days. But at that very moment when it had employed its special talent, a form of psi-cloaking, the Knight’s sensors, attuned to Forerunner methods, spotted the intrusion immediately. Then it was merely a matter of neutralising the creature before it could deploy any other trickery.

  Up till now, the Knight had been rigorous in the extermination of any primitive sentients who strayed too near, whether Human or Uvovo or Sendrukan, or any of the score of other species who were part of the infantile invasion of fanatics. Now, however, as the rhythm of events picked up and his chosen strategy carried him still closer to inevitable triumph, his new prisoners presented an opportunity for an experiment in convergence. Once the appropriate controls were established both subjects would undergo a series of implants and augmentations, thereby discovering which race would be best suited to true evolution.

  Initial preparations would begin now, ensuring biophysical compatibility with the embedded technology. In the meantime he would continue to direct the buildup of his mech army while analysing the reports from his monitor droids. The situation across the Human colony of Darien had deteriorated in the last forty-eight hours. The majority of the population of the central coastal plain had fled, either to settlements near Trond in the north, where Brolturan remnants maintained a significant presence, or south-east to the towns of the deepwater inlets where Humans were in complete control. The main city, Hammergard, was now in the hands of the Spiral Prophecy zealots, who, having put Human places of worship to the torch, were now attempting to convert the remaining Humans by coercion. Elsewhere in the south, a large force of Humans had either been wiped out by the fanatics or chased off in a rout, leaving the road to Giant’s Shoulder open. Another army of fanatics was already there and meeting heavy resistance from Brolturan troops who were holding the northern gullies, ravines and gorges leading up to the great ridge that led straight to Giant’s Shoulder. The ravines and hilly slopes had been extensively mined, while up on the promontory itself, the Hegemony ambassador, Utavess Kuros, resided with over a thousand crack troops dug in, fortified and protected by weapon batteries.

  Against the poorly armed host of the Spiral Prophecy, such a garrison could probably hold out indefinitely. But when his army of modified war mechs went into attack mode, the Knight did not expect the Sendrukans to last much longer than ten to fifteen minutes.

  He broke off from strategic considerations to study the operations being undertaken by the autofactory, reprogrammed with schemators from his own contingency store. The Uvovo’s body had started rejecting the embeds almost immediately, requiring genemorph treatments. The Human, however, was accepting the basal systems without a qualm.

  That was when a sensor alert went off, an urgent-priority one. And when he saw what it was announcing, he checked the sensor webs for any flaws, checked the datastream for anomalies, but the processed outcome remained doggedly the same. A Zyradin, a powerful artificial psi-symbiote, the key element of the Forerunners’ citadel worlds, the being that unified each of those worlds with its accursed biomass, the sentience that directed the ferocious energies of the warpwell against the Legion’s countless warriors … the very thought, the remembrance, and now this terrible, stark fact of its existence. That it should appear on the field of battle at this crucial moment …

  He paused to regain composure, to recall his duties, loyalties and warrior purpose. He also looked more closely at the locational data and felt a spike of irritation – it had appeared in that mountaintop stronghold, the insurgent hideout he had dismissed as irrelevant to his campaign. A mistake that he would take great pleasure in rectifying.

  He began issuing orders to more than half his mech forces, sending them south towards the Kentigern Mountains.

 

  34

  GREG

  ‘… on our way to one of the Uvovo hideouts when a pack of them machines, those big, hefty buggers, jumped us. It was really dark in the gorge and things went mad all of a sudden. Didn’t know where Rory and the others were, and I got clouted by one o’ them which threw me on the ground. I was scared out my wits, and wounded and dizzy, I … I crawled into a hollow under a fallen tree … Guess I was lucky …’

  Murcheson’s voice trailed off, shame writ openly in his face as he gazed down at a piece of strapping his fingers fiddled endlessly with. Greg felt a certain sympathy for him, but it was personal anxiety that gripped him.

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure that Rory’s body wasn’t with the others?’ he said.

  ‘After the machines were gone, I looked and looked, Mr Cameron,’ Murcheson said miserably. ‘I couldna find him – he must have been taken prisoner.’

  There were four of them in the small hut, Greg, Murcheson, a Uvovo healer who was attending to his wounds, and Alexei Firmanov.

  ‘Are you willing to lead another search party to that same spot?’ Greg said. ‘If we can pick up the trail …’

  ‘Greg, the forest’s far too dangerous now,’ said Alexei. ‘We cannot afford to lose any more men …’

  ‘Rory’s my friend, Alexei – I can’t just abandon him.’

  ‘He is also my friend, but we must face reality! – we have to hold on here, rebuild what we can …’

  ‘Aye, in time for when the next Hegemony ship comes along to finish the job …’

  He stopped the bitterness in midflow, leaned on the rickety wall and hung his head in despair. Was this grinding conflict going to take away every last one of his friends? Catriona, Uncle Theo, Nikolai, and now Chel and Rory … and he found himself recalling the aftermath of his father’s death and how his mother had soldiered on through it, dealing with the paperwork, the relatives, the cremation, the never-to-be-fulfilled obligations, and the outstanding debts. And the only
answer she had given to his need to understand her fortitude were the words ‘Do the work now, mourn later.’

  She was right, he thought, thankful that she and his brothers were finally safe in Camp Sanctum away to the west. I can’t afford to be distracted by my own worries – I don’t have time for that luxury.

  He looked up at Alexei with a smile.

  ‘We won’t be able to send out a search party, I guess, although perhaps the Uvovo can help, perhaps one of the Listeners.’ Greg patted Murcheson’s shoulder. ‘Ye did well to stay alive and get back here in one piece, mostly. D’ye feel up to regular activities? I can have ye assigned to light sentry duty if you want.’

  ‘I think I’m okay, Mr Cameron. Could do with a few nights’ sleep, though.’

  ‘Couldn’t we all?’ said Greg. ‘Right, take tomorrow morning off. Have some of that sleep for me, okay?’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  Greg nodded and left the hut, followed by Alexei.

  Outside, a cold evening breeze struck him and he shivered. The healer’s hut was one of about a dozen hastily erected on the few level areas around the big blast crater in the mountainside. Most were for storing lumber cut from the wooded hills below, the rest was for stone, building materials for constructing stairs and walk-ways to allow access to the ancient Uvovo stronghold. The entrance, battered and half-melted, was still serviceable, and, importantly, the stronghold itself remained unbreached by enemy forces. There were still a few figures loitering around the scaffolding and even down in the bowl of the crater, some smoking pipes. Everyone else had trooped back indoors to eat and gossip and rest.

  God knows there’s enough to gossip about, he thought, after the last forty-eight hours.

  A young Rus called Pavel, one of Vashutkin’s men, came up and handed him a folded piece of paper.

  ‘And this is?’

  ‘Report on the fortress main figures, sir,’ said Pavel as Alexei took out his squeeze-torch to light up the sheet.

  Greg looked it over quickly, took mental note of the figures on population change, food and water supplies, and armoury reserves, then nodded, folded it and slipped it away.

  ‘Any word on the hunt for a radio?’ he said.

  ‘There was a rumour this afternoon that there’s a trapper town in Nazarova Valley south of Gangradur that has a working short-range.’ Pavel shrugged. ‘Mr V sent a couple of scouts but we won’t know for two or three days.’

  ‘What about Varstrand? – he said he might be able to get the Har’s radio working again.’

  ‘He’s still working on it, he says.’

  Greg gave a resigned grimace. A radiation burst from the orbital strike had fried most of the comms equipment, leaving them unable to contact their agents and observers still present over on the coastal plain. With a few pocket receivers, however, they were picking up broadcasts from both the Spiralists and the Brolturans claiming that the ‘terrorist nest’ in Tusk Mountain had been obliterated. This propaganda clearly spread quickly as the previous night they had to chase off two separate groups of looters, fortunately without any casualties.

  ‘Where is Mr Vashutkin now?’ Greg said.

  ‘He is with foremen, giving assignments for tomorrow.’

  ‘Could you give him my thanks for the reports and say that I need to speak with him soon? Thank you, Pavel.’

  As the youth hurried off, Greg looked at Alexei with an amused, sardonic expression. Alexei rolled his eyes.

  ‘You see?’ Greg said. ‘He’s moving in and taking over, just as I said he would …’

  ‘My friend, you have to admit that he’s a better organiser than you—’

  ‘Better organiser? Based on what, exactly?’

  Alexei grinned. ‘Greg, I love you like a brother but Mr V knows how to motivate people. He gets them enthusiastic, makes them think that they’re vital to the resistance …’

  ‘Ah, that’s just the usual smarmy politician’s guff …’

  ‘Nyet, it’s more than that. It’s charisma …’

  ‘Right, I see. Didn’t realise I was such a nonentity, Mr Forgettable, or Mr F as I’m known around these parts …’

  Alexei gave him an exasperated look. ‘Are you really so angry about this?’

  ‘Nah, not really … well, I am, a bit. I just wish Uncle Theo was here – he’d cut him down to size …’

  He broke off when he heard someone shouting his name, then saw a diminutive robed figure clambering up one of the three access ladders leading out of the crater. Hurrying round, Greg and Alexei were in time to help a breathless Listener Weynl up over the temporary steps.

  ‘Friend Gregory … once more I come to you … gasping for my breath,’ Weynl said. ‘In the Hall of Discourse … Robert Horst has returned …’

  ‘Horst?’ Greg was suddenly fully alert. ‘My God, he made it …’

  ‘He is … fatally wounded and unconscious. The Sentinel said to bring you as quickly as possible …’

  ‘Did he manage to bring back this Zyradin thing?’

  ‘Yes. Please, Gregory, go.’

  Less than ten minutes later he and Alexei were hurrying into the high-walled Hall of Discourse. Glowing veils shone up from the solitary working Forerunner platform. On its intricately patterned surface a figure lay motionless, watched over by a couple of robed Uvovo. One of them, Listener Churiv, looked up as they approached, met Greg’s gaze and shook his head.

  ‘He has gone to join with the eternal.’

  Sombrely, Greg mounted the steps and went to crouch beside the body – and stared in puzzlement.

  ‘This isn’t Robert Horst,’ he said. ‘The ambassador was in his late sixties and grey-haired. This guy is a lot younger …’

  A patch of the platform’s glowing radiance brightened, thickened and coalesced into the image of a slender young woman.

  ‘Hello, Gregory Cameron,’ she said. ‘I am the Sentinel – as you can see I have adopted a Human appearance as an aid to communication.’ She indicated the still form. ‘I can assure you that this is the body of Robert Horst – soon after I translocated him to the Garden of the Machines, the Construct carried out rejuvenation procedures to enable him to undertake certain demanding tasks.’

  Greg gazed at her, then at the corpse. Looking closer he saw familiar lines in the face, the long jaw, that strong nose, the defined cheekbones. The younger Horst must have been quite formidable, he thought, but clearly not formidable enough.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He and another Construct agent were attacked by hostile creatures while retrieving the Zyradin. That he managed to reach the transfer platform to get here is a great tribute to his willpower.’

  A few feet away sat a sealed grey canister. Regarding it, he frowned.

  ‘Is it in there?’ he said. ‘This Zyradin thing – is that it?’

  THAT IS A CONTAINER I AM WITHIN IT

  Eyes widening, Greg got to his feet but before he could say anything, the Sentinel spoke.

  ‘To refresh your memory, Gregory, the Zyradin is a psi-sentient symbiote, an artificial lifeform designed by the High Ancients to focus and direct all the energies of planetary eco-entities like Segrana. That voice is the voice of the Zyradin – with its help, Segrana can take an active role and move decisively against unfriendly forces.’

  ‘A clever old bunch, those Forerunners,’ Greg said. ‘Creating a planetary defence system that won’t work without the cooperation of an exotic symbiotic creature. Add to which – Segrana is up on the moon! If we have to steal a shuttle like Uncle Theo did, we’ll have to fight our way through a war zone first, not exactly my strategy of choice.’

  ‘There are no ground-to-orbit craft available at Port Gagarin,’ said the Sentinel. She gestured and a small block of vidage frames appeared, showing glittering clouds drifting in orbit above Darien. ‘Even if a suitable one could be found, the incidence of debris, mines and hostile monitor probes of both Spiralist and Brolturan provenance makes a crossing extremely hazardous. The onl
y other way to ensure delivery of the Zyradin to Segrana is via the transfer platforms.’

  ‘And you’ve not done this already because …?’

  The opaque young woman spread her hands. ‘Unfortunately, the transfer link between this stronghold and the platform chamber on the moon was irreparably corrupted a long time ago. However, the link between Giant’s Shoulder and the moon is now operable.’

  For a moment Greg said nothing as he absorbed the implications, then slowly he said, ‘You cannot be serious.’

  ‘There are no other options left to us, Gregory.’

  ‘Look, Kuros is dug in behind heavy fortifications with hundreds of veteran troops and a battery of those tasty beam cannons. He might even have some air support for all I know. In short, it’s a suicide mission. There has to be another way.’

  ‘I was being accurate, Gregory. There are no other options. I would advise that you assemble a team and be ready to leave with the Zyradin as soon as possible. The zeplin would be ideal – with its speed you would be able to draw the droids away from attacking the stronghold.’

  ‘Whoa, what droids? There’s been no sign of any for days.’

  ‘This is because they have been gathering at a staging area over a hundred miles to the north,’ said the Sentinel, pulling up a satellite image of the Forest of Arawn. ‘The Brolturans no longer control the mech factory, the Namul-Ashaph. It was taken over by a Knight of the Legion of Avatars several days ago. It detected the Zyradin the moment it appeared here; he knows how important it is, which is why an army of mechs is heading for this mountain.’

  Greg glared at the Sentinel. ‘One of those things is here on Darien? And you didn’t think to tell me?’