Africa Zero

by Neal Asher

  For the rest of the day I continued at twenty kilometres per hour. That night the Pykani found me and brought more news.

  “Another mammoth has been killed near the Kiph. The Kiphani Rainman told us the Silver One was seen in the valley.”

  It was Spitfire who told me. Hurricane was still at the river Kiph, keeping a watch on a family group of mammoth there. I altered my direction according to her instructions and increased my pace. I wanted this finished. As I ran I removed the gun I had from Thomas Canard and checked its charge. It was fully charged, and at full power would be quite sufficient to blow the head off your average cyborg.

  The next day the plain began to slope down and develop a few hills. Acacia trees became acacia groves and in places the odd groundsel grew with distorted perseverance. By the afternoon the elephant grass was thinning and becoming scattered with balsams and the occasional patch of bracken. The temperature began to drop slightly and the humidity increase. Then, as if I had run through some kind of barrier I was heading down-slope towards a wall of bamboo. At the wall I halted and removed the panga I had taken from Jethro Susan’s pack. Soon I was hacking my way through a twilight thicket. It was damp and miasmic there, and the bamboo crawled with purple slugs.

  It was probably the middle of the night by the time I broke out of the thicket and I was not entirely sure of where I was in relation to the river Kiph. I damned myself for only taking the panga from Susan’s pack and not filching her compass as well. I might have boosted senses and hyperstrength, but to my eternal embarrassment I could quite easily get lost in a small well-lit room.

  Before me was an acclivity overgrown with flowering groundsels and monolithic giant lobelias. I pushed over one of the groundsels, dragged it into a nearby glade, snapped it into metre sections, stacked it, and set it afire with the gun. Then I amused myself as I waited by watching a snail with a shell the size of a human head wearily dragging itself up a branch, leaving behind it a trail of eggs like perfect pearls.

  Morning was announced by the snarl of some big cat and the humming of sun birds round the lobelias. I had expected the Pykani to see my fire and come, but there was a lot of river valley for them to cover, so I should not have been as disappointed as I was. I threw damp moss over the remains of my fire and headed in the direction I assumed to be west. Soon I found myself in a gorge that eventually opened out into a papyrus swamp, which was difficult going even for me. As the swamp deepened I changed direction again and wondered how long it would be before I ended up going in circles. I had been lost in places of this sort before. Just as I was beginning to regret not waiting at the bamboo grove I caught sight of the river through a hanging mat of vines below which bloomed a fiery swathe of mustard yellow orchids. Eventually the swamp dried up and I was traversing rocky ground on the bank of the Kiph. Luckily, before this sank into swamp again, I saw the canoe.

  Her name was Sipana and she was returning to the Kiphani village with a catch of black bass from the river. At first I hailed her from the bank and she drew close to look me over, her unbelievably ancient Optek assault rifle resting across her lap. I thought for a moment she was not going to come to the bank, but she looked at my feet, and to my surprise, smiled and rowed on in.

  “You are the Collector,” she said cheerfully as I climbed carefully into her canoe.

  “That is so,” said I, then, “and what are you called?”

  “I am Sipana,” she replied. “You are lucky. I do not normally come this far to fish.” She smiled at me with a perfectly white set of teeth. She was very attractive: wide dark eyes, angular face, topped with coloured beads woven into her dark hair. I looked down at her catch. Each of the bass was a good ten pounds. She had been hand lining for them.

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  “No, no, our Rainman said you were coming and to look out for you.”

  I was surprised. Normally if anyone had word I was heading in their direction they were not there when I arrived. As she rowed us out into the centre of the river I looked down at the bass again.

  “You have a good catch here,” I said. Something about spending a night and a day pushing through jungle had made me talkative. Human, I guess.

  “There are many black bass up here, and trout, we do not fish down stream.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Crocodiles.”

  I grinned to myself, perhaps somewhat guiltily. I had been responsible for reintroducing the African crocodile into some of the rivers around that area. I changed the subject and our conversation lasted for the rest of the journey.

  The Kiphani village was a collection of boxlike wattle huts on stilts on the bank of the river and sometimes straying into the river itself. As Sipana rowed us to a jetty I could see almost immediately that something was wrong. A number of the huts below a huge water oak had been torn apart. As we tied up I could see the look of shock on Sipana’s face. I quickly stepped up onto the jetty.

  “Any ideas?” I asked.

  “It is the Silverman. He was seen ...”

  Silverman? He?

  I heard a click as she inserted a clip into her Optek, and I turned round to her.

  “Wait here,” I said. I removed the pistol from my pocket.

  “I have family here,” she said.

  I looked at her Optek. Responsibility. If the Silver One were to be here and to attack, bullets would do nothing. But what right did I have to prevent her from trying to aid her family? Anyway, I was not so sure the Silver One was responsible. I nodded and we advanced along the jetty.

  It soon became apparent, as we mounted the bank, that there were bodies scattered on the ground around the hut. Sipana ran ahead and I did not stop her. There were people walking amongst the bodies, loading them onto stretchers. There was a woman on her knees weeping. Whatever had happened here we had missed it.

  As I reached the bodies, five in all, I think—it was difficult to tell. Sipana was standing talking to a Negro nearly seven feet tall, obviously a throw-back to the Masai. He wore a decorous green blanket across his shoulders, monofilament trousers, and leant on a gleaming assegai. Across his back was slung an Optek even older than Sipana’s. When I approached Sipana tilted her head to look at me and I could see the same Hamitic pride in her features. She waited until I was standing close then looked meaningfully towards the water oak. I looked up and for a moment thought I was looking upon some kind of icon or other object of worship, then I realised. Hurricane had been crucified there.

  Anger is a rarity to me. I, who over the millennia of my life can be held responsible for the deaths of millions. How many people had been killed by my creations? How many more would be killed? One death should be meaningless. But as always, this was personal. I felt anger then and it was a stark actinic illumination. I advanced to the tree and looked up. Hurricane had been nailed up like the Christos of the Old God, flat broken pieces of metal driven through the bones of his wings and legs, through his body, and into the wood of the tree with great force. He had bled to death. The bark of the tree was red.

  “The Silverman came. He nailed up this Pykani and these men tried to prevent him. He tore them like paper dolls. The Rainman would speak with you.”

  I did not answer him. Instead I removed the covering from my right hand and pulled the spikes from the tree. Hurricane flopped into my arms. I lowered him to the ground—so much flesh. Nothing now.

  “One called Spitfire will come. Tell her it is a time for endings. The Silver One will die.” I turned from the pathetic corpse and looked at Sipana and the man I guessed to be her brother. “Take me to your Rain-man.”

  They led me to a dark wattle hut, this one cylindrical unlike the rest. Inside an old man lay on a pallet and was being tended to by an old woman in jungle fatigues. The Rainman was black and shrivelled like an old lizard, his hair long and white, and his eyes gleaming. He had been injured. His arm was splinted and his breathing laboured, so I assumed he must have had a few cracked ribs. As I entered th
e hut he nodded to the woman and she quickly left.

  “Welcome to my village, Collector. It is unfortunate that I cannot greet you in the correct manner.”

  “I have no use for feasting,” I said.

  He grinned at me. I continued.

  “You have something to tell me, I presume?”

  “The one we call the Silverman spoke to me. The voice was a woman’s voice and I wonder if that one is named correctly?”

  “Silverwoman should be that particular . . . honorific. I suppose the name changed over the years because she has long not been recognisable as a woman. But it is questionable if gender should be applied to us at all. That is a function of our synthetic covering and of what we were before taking on these ceramal bodies.”

  “To yourself you are a man. Would you be a woman if you had the appearance of one?”

  I warmed to him. He was not stupid. I advanced further into the hut and sat beside him.

  “Tell me. Tell me all of it.”

  “The Pykani Hurricane and Spitfire came to warn of your coming and your purpose. The Silverman . . . Silverwoman is killing the Thunderers and you seek to make her desist. Spitfire flew back to you and Hurricane remained to watch over the mammoth and to look for the Silverwoman.”

  I nodded. I knew all this. He continued.

  “Last night the Silverwoman came into the village dragging Hurricane with her. He was unconscious. She threw him down by the water oak then began to tear our houses apart. I came to her and asked her what she wanted. She screamed her reply, ‘Tell him to come himself. Tell him not to send his spies. Tell him I’m waiting. Tell him. Tell him.’ It was then that Nmoko threw his assegai at her—”

  “Nmoko?”

  “He is out there. I do not know which one he is.”

  I had thought for a moment he was the one with Masai ancestry. He must have come later. I could not see him avoiding a fight. The Rainman continued his commentary.

  “The Silver One ran to him faster than I could see—” He was obviously uncomfortable with ‘Silverwoman’— “and tore him in half. Then ... then others attacked... her. They shot her with many bullets, rolled a grenade at her feet . . . Nothing touched her. She killed them. The last of them slowly so others might learn by it. Then she took Nmoko’s assegai and broke it into pieces. With the pieces she fixed Hurricane to the water oak. I tried to stop her and she caught hold of me and spoke again; ‘This is my message to him’ she said, and she pointed to Hurricane as he died. ‘He must come. It’s his and his alone. He knows that. I will be at the waterfalls downstream.’ We call them the Iron falls, for their colour ... She then broke my arm and pushed me to the ground.”

  I nodded and rose to my feet.

  “There is something else.”

  I waited.

  “All the time she did not speak she made a sound. It was like grieving and the sounds Hurricane made on the tree . . . Please, Collector, help me to understand.”

  I considered that. This was something I had not wanted to think about for ages, let alone discuss with a tribal shaman. Yet, it seemed that for each moment since I had climbed down from the ice and the Atlas Mountains I had become more human. I held out the claw of my hand for him to see. Hurricane’s blood was drying on the ceramal.

  “A long time ago I had a wife, and like myself she was made over into metal—given a body to stand against time. Her mind did not. There was too much of the woman and she could not live without flesh. She came to despise me and loathe herself. Until her madness was such that none could draw near her, though she harmed none. Mostly she lived far up on the ice, only venturing down every so often on some aberrant impulse. Now it would seem she has recovered enough sanity to ... know what she wants. You heard her speak. You are perhaps the first to hear such in five hundred years.”

  The Rainman looked at me for a long moment and I had to turn away from the compassion of his expression.

  “What is her name?” he asked me.

  “Diana,” I said, and quickly left him, perhaps ashamed there was water enough in me for my tear-ducts, and no urge to cry.

  The bodies had been removed from under the water oak and the blood stirred into the dirt. A few villagers were wandering about as if shell-shocked and the sounds of grief could be heard, echoey, from within some of the huts. Sipana and the tall Masai waited. He addressed me as soon as I had climbed down to the ground.

  “I would accompany you, Collector, if you will.”

  I looked at him and wondered if I should allow this. My companions did not seem to do very well.

  “What is your name?”

  “I am called Kephis. I was not here.” Wounded pride and anger warred for predominance in his expression.

  I looked to Sipana. “Is he your brother?” She nodded and I turned back to him. The question had merely been a delay while I thought. “Kephis, the Silverwoman—” he looked surprised at the name, “would kill you. Neither assegai nor your rifle would hurt her. She would take you and slowly rip you into pieces so as to anger me. You have a sister and perhaps other family. Stay with them. Save your weapons for the Protestanti, the leopard, and the tyrannosaur, where they will do more than make a few scratches.”

  “I would come with you,” said Kephis.

  Sipana looked at her brother in fright. “Kephis, I think—”

  “Kephis!”

  I looked round. The Rainman stood at the door of his hut. He said, “Five good men have died this day. They fought bravely and well. It rendered them nought. I cannot command you, but for the sake of this village, I ask you to stay.”

  Kephis looked at the Rainman for a long time, then nodded his head and strode away. Sipana followed him.

  “I thank you,” I said.

  “I would ask you to go in peace,” he said. “But I think you would laugh at me.”

  I laughed anyway and set out for the jetty. I felt guilty about borrowing Sipana’s canoe, but I did not suppose she would notice for some time. She had other concerns.

  part five

  I was on the river for an hour with tension making static crackle in my hair, then, just when I was beginning to think I would have an easy ride to the Iron Falls, I saw something long and green with a conspicuous collection of teeth grinning at me from the near bank. He was a monstrous specimen: over ten metres from the tip of his tail to his snout, and no slouch when it came to sliding into the water. I shook my head and looked at the flimsy paddle I held. What had Sipana said? They do not go down river because of the crocodiles. Had I listened, learned, remembered? Of course not, not superior old me. I began to paddle as fast as I could without breaking the paddle.

  The crocodile disappeared for a short while then reappeared seven metres behind me, just eyes and nostrils and a huge disturbance in the water. Of course I could have boiled him there with the antiphoton gun. I just did not want to. I suppose, truth to tell, is that I prefer animals to humans. Had an unknown human threatened me I would have killed him without a second thought. I guess it is all to do with knowledge. This crocodile was probably only hungry. Thinking that I looked down at my feet and had an idea.

  “Here, crocky!”

  The first black bass hit the water a few feet in front of his snout. A slight twitch of his head and it was gone. I threw the second one a little behind him and while he turned for it I gained a few yards on him. But in a moment he was back in position. I suppose they were just a taster for him: an appetizer before the main course. He would be disappointed. He would find me easy to swallow—his mouth was big enough—but somewhat difficult to digest. I did not intend to give him the chance to find out. One after the other I threw the last of the bass in a wide pattern, then I paddled like hell as he swirled after them.

  The paddle was hitting the water on each side of the canoe like a propeller. I was leaving a mist of water behind me and thought I had a good chance of getting away. Then there was a loud crack and the paddle flew in half in my hands. I caught one half, but the other half landed
seven metres behind me, where there was a suspicious looking swirl. The paddle disappeared. Damn! I reached into my pocket and took out the gun. Perhaps I could scare him off. I doubted it.

  With leisurely grace he came up beside the canoe as it slowed. He was very close and I got a good long look at his two-metre long head and gently smiling jaws. He was a real monster. I doubted there were any other crocodiles on this stretch of river. This boy would have them for breakfast. The only time I had seen a crocodile of this size before was centuries back and they had been the result of some pretty weird genetic and surgical experiments. I watched him and he just continued to swim along beside the canoe as if grateful of the company. For the life of me I could not understand why he did not attack. One twitch of his head would have this canoe over and in the water. I also found I did not want to do anything about him. A suspicion was dawning—crazy, nonsense. But he was not attacking. He was looking at me with something approaching idle curiosity. His stare did not seem quite as reptilian as it ought to be.

  “You’re not a normal crocodile, are you?” I said.

  He blinked. Or was it a wink?

  I studied him further and saw that his skull was not right. It seemed misshapen. I tried to remember what those experiments had been. What had been their aim? I remembered. It had been a conservationist group of some kind, from one of the corporate families, trying to make a crocodile with enough intelligence to avoid hunters and to avoid getting into trouble by eating people. There had been some strange ideas knocking about in the corporate families in those days. But that was four centuries ago. Yet, crocodiles could live a very long time, and looking at the jaws, teeth, and size of this one he was a Methuselah.