by Neal Asher
‘You go there, ahead of us,’ Coptic told Tack, gesturing towards one of the rocky outcrops, then turning to pick up Meelan and following as Tack forged a path. Glancing back again at the water, with his eyes adjusting to the the dearth of light, Tack saw that the wallowing creatures resembled hornless rhino, and were grazing on the plentiful waterweed. That they plainly weren’t carnivorous was no comfort, since the deinotherium they had earlier encountered had been a herbivore. Obviously a vegetarian diet did not necessarily guarantee an even temper or a convivial nature.
‘Just watch where you’re going,’ said Coptic. ‘Moeritherium are only dangerous if you get between them and the water—they’ll not come out of there after you.’
Moeritherium?
Tack wanted to know how these two had so quickly acquired his language, to the extent that they could easily name varieties of prehistoric beast in it. And he wanted to know what they intended for him—and if he might survive it. Soon he reached the edge of the vegetation and climbed up onto an expanse of mossy stone. Coptic followed him, setting the incapacitated Meelan down on her feet again, then shed the pack he was wearing and opened it up. Tack noted that its contents were much the same as Traveller’s, and guessed they must derive from the same time.
Coptic removed a heat-sheet sleeping bag and unrolled it over a level area coated in a thick blanket of dark green moss. Without a word, Meelan climbed inside the bag. Once she was comfortable, Coptic keyed a control on the oval object attached to her throat. She sighed and instantly lost consciousness. Coptic now took a box from his pack and, with the various implements it contained, set to work on Meelan’s injuries. Squatting nearby, Tack watched the big man trim back her arm stump until he reached white bone and bleeding flesh. A pumping artery he closed with a small clip, before sealing the whole stump under some sort of spray-on dressing that set in a hard white nub. The other lesser-degree burns running from the arm up to her neck, he now revealed by cutting away her clothing, then he covered the area with another spray that set in a pink skin. Finally satisfied with his work, he rocked back on his heels and gazed at her intently.
It struck Tack that Coptic was contemptuous of him, for during this entire procedure the man had not looked round once. But judging by the man’s abilities, perhaps he had that right. Tack turned away and stared towards the imminent sunrise.
Abruptly Coptic swivelled, stood, and walked over to him. ‘Come with me.’
He led the way to a jut of crystalline stone rising a couple of metres high at the end of the outcrop and, gripping him by one shoulder, pulled Tack up beside him so they both stood before this glittering face. Coptic then reached out and pressed the flat of his hand against the surface, which immediately took on a strange translucence. Something like a tangle of tubes—some complex mechanism—came out from the depths of stone and seemed to bond to Coptic’s hand. Then slowly a face became visible behind this—a woman bearing characteristics similar to those of Traveller and both Tack’s kidnappers. She spoke, obviously angry as she berated Coptic in their staccato language.
Coptic turned to Tack. ‘Hold up your arm.’
Tack obeyed and observed the avidity in the woman’s expression when she saw the band around his wrist. Coptic’s riposte was brief and at the end of it he gestured to where Meelan lay. The woman in the rock dipped her head in acknowledgement, said something more, then faded. Back by the fire, Coptic stared into the flames for some time, then with a hint of suspicion glanced at the rock before speaking.
‘The one you name “Traveller” killed Brayak and Solenz, which is the inevitable result of a violent encounter between a heliothant of his status and low-breed umbrathant,’ he stated flatly.
Tack remained silent, having not yet been given permission to speak. He guessed who the two named were, for it hadn’t escaped his notice that four individuals had originally disembarked from the mantisal they had used to get here.
‘Such is natural law,’ Coptic added. ‘But we are high-breed Umbrathane and shall prevail. And when Cowl sweeps the Heliothane from the main line, we shall travel to him beyond the Nodus to be at one with the new kind.’
Who, Tack wondered, was this man really addressing his words to? It seemed to Tack that Coptic was speaking accepted doctrine because he thought the woman in the rock might still, somehow, be listening.
‘You may speak,’ said Coptic unexpectedly.
‘What do you want of me?’ Tack asked him.
Coptic nodded slowly. ‘We detected only the travel of a heliothant through interspace, so sought to sabotage whatever plans the Heliothane might have. But now we have you and the means of learning some things Cowl would not allow us.’ He gestured to the ring around Tack’s wrist. ‘No doubt the Heliothane themselves sought to assassinate Cowl. But they would not have succeeded—they are low-breed by comparison.’
‘So, like Traveller, it is only the tor you really want?’
‘Tors he allows us, when he brings us to him.’ Coptic stared at him. ‘From the one that is growing on your arm, and about which he knows nothing, we can learn a great deal.’
So, despite their doctrine, there was little trust between Cowl and the Umbrathane.
‘You say that you are an “Umbrathane”, and that Traveller is a “Heliothane”. Are these two warring factions in the future? What are you trying to achieve?’
‘You will now remain silent,’ said Coptic.
Tack nodded and turned away, watching the sun finally breach the horizon.
USING THE SENSOR’S FACILITY for penetrative scan, the watcher tracked the girl inside the house to its kitchens, then through boiling steamy chaos observed her sating her ravenous appetite. The travelling entertainer, Berthold, had set up camp on one of the big house’s lawns, where the staff and servants of the various nobles here were also encamped. The watcher now tracked the girl, Polly, out of the house to where she helped erect the awning that extended from one side of the wagon, and under which she had slept like a corpse the night before—though a corpse, it had to be noted, with its hand on the automatic under its greatcoat. Afterwards, at Berthold’s insistence, Polly practised his act with him.
‘Do you mind me doing this, Mellor?’ Polly asked after Berthold, satisfied with the way she threw him objects, and her ridiculous prancing around him as he juggled them, had gone off to chat to the men in a neighbouring encampment.
‘Not really.’ Mellor grinned at her with bad teeth, then held up his hands and wriggled his fingers. ‘Gettin’ stiff as dead rabbits nowadays, and someone who looks like you do should help pull in the shillings.’
‘But I won’t be around for long.’
Mellor gaped at her. ‘What you gonna do then?’
The watcher knew, and wondered just how Polly intended to explain herself. Already she must be feeling the pull from her tor, and must be preventing it from dragging her downtime at that moment.
‘It seems I have a journey to make,’ Polly replied.
‘Where?’
The girl did not know, could not know, and the watcher pitied her.
Polly said to Mellor, ‘I don’t know yet, but I do know that when I assist Berthold tonight it will be for the one and only time. Then I will be moving on.’
‘Oh.’ The old man appeared genuinely disappointed. The unseen observer supposed he had been relishing the new-found prospect of a life of ease and pheasant pies. Then scanning forward to evening, as nothing of note seemed to be happening, this watcher observed the King’s hunting party return: all those richly clad men on their richly caparisoned horses, a chaos of hounds milling about below mud-spattered hooves, and servants trotting along behind with cut larch poles bearing the blood-dripping kills. The womenfolk came out of the house to greet the returning hunters and to congratulate them shrilly on their successful venture. The scene was bright and gay and appropriate to its time, and hopefully appreciated by Polly, what with all she would suffer soon enough. Smiling then, enclosed in living glass, the watcher observe
d Polly giggling on seeing Berthold dressed up in his diamond-patterned suit, silver bells and ridiculous footwear with turned-up toes. It wasn’t enough, could never be enough. It was like seeing a child walk smiling into a bear pit.
AFTER SUNRISE THE MOERITHERIUM departed the lake to graze their way through the thick surrounding vegetation, mooing and grumbling as they went. They passed close by, but their only reaction to the three humans was to pause while they chewed and peered up with close-set eyes, before snorting and moving on. Seeing these creatures’ continual munching reminded Tack of his own hunger, and he wondered if Coptic would ever bother to feed his prisoner.
‘There is food in the pack,’ said Coptic later, but only when the sun was high. All morning the man had been sitting utterly still and silent in a lotus position, next to Meelan. And I would appreciate coffee now. If there is anything there you do not know how to use, you are permitted to ask me how it functions.’
Being already familiar with the contents of Traveller’s pack, Tack found himself some food and the makings of coffee, and had only a little trouble setting up the small electric stove. Taking up a collapsible water container, he folded it open and stood dutifully waiting until Coptic looked his way.
‘Proceed.’ Coptic gestured irritably towards the lake.
From their outcrop Tack walked back along the trail crushed by the moeritherium herd. As he stooped down by the water’s edge, he became aware that if he wanted to escape now was the time, since Coptic, though possessed of superhuman speed, might not be prepared to leave Meelan’s side. But what would he be escaping to—a lonely, possibly all too brief life in a prehistoric wilderness? For he had no idea how to summon a mantisal. After filling the container, he returned to the outcrop, where Meelan was now sitting up and looking much healthier.
Ignoring the muttered conversation of the other two, Tack filled a kettle and set it on the stove, and while watching it, sought to untangle his confusion. Though Traveller had reset Tack’s loyalty, the man had left him greater free will than he had previously experienced. Working for U-gov, Tack never had the time or inclination to consider his life as a whole. He had been nothing but an organic machine, but now he had acquired a wider compass. Now he genuinely wanted to know more about the workings of his surrounding world, to participate fully, to experience and to truly feel. To fulfil this hazy aspiration he must be free; freedom from programming and the will of others must now be his ultimate goal.
The three of them drank coffee and ate some of the supplies in the pack, while cautiously observing the nearby wending progress of three large bovids. These strange creatures bore a resemblance to both oxen and deer, but could not be firmly identified as either. Tack knew that with Traveller he could have satisfied his curiosity, but not with his present companions. Their repast finished, Coptic instructed Tack to put all the implements away and take up the pack. As with Traveller before them, Tack must act the beast of burden, though he suspected Traveller regarded him as somewhat less of a beast than did Coptic and Meelan. At the lake’s shore the mantisal again folded into existence in response to some inaudible instruction. They embarked, Coptic once again piloting the bioconstruct, and instantly fell into achromatic void.
UPON ENTERING THE HOT and noisy banqueting hall, Polly reeled at the wave of human stench that hit her, and gazing round decided she had never seen so much bad skin gathered in one place. This was something all the historical dramas and interactives had never been accurate about.
‘God, they’re ugly!’
Poxed, the lot of them. There’s no vaccinations in this period. What you are seeing here are the few who have survived to maturity. It’s probably why Berthold thinks you’re such an asset—you’re a rare unmarked beauty. But then Berthold doesn’t know you like I do.
‘Bring on the juggler!’ bellowed the King.
‘Let us begin,’ whispered Berthold, turning to Polly with the bells on his jester’s hat jingling. He then cartwheeled onto the empty floor between the tables, finishing upright after a somersault. The King threw a chicken leg that bounced off Berthold’s face. To a tumultuous roar, other food was hurled at him from every direction. He sinuously dodged these items, then held up his hands.
‘Enough! Enough I say, good sirs! Would you bury me in your generosity?’
To much hilarity, the rain of food finally halted. Berthold stepped to a table and gathered up a goblet, half a loaf of bread and a chicken leg.
‘Good crowd tonight,’ said Mellor from behind Polly. She turned and stared at him, wondering if he was quite mad. Suddenly she felt the overpowering urge for a cigarette—elsewhere.
‘Now, let me introduce to you my beautiful assistant: that Far Eastern Princess, the lady Poliasta!’
Polly walked out to catcalls and shouts of, ‘Get yer dumplin’s out!’—and not all of them from the men. Following Berthold’s earlier instruction, she bowed elaborately towards each table, holding out to one side a sack containing the various items Berthold would use in his act, and into which she must secrete any coins tossed onto the floor.
‘Let me begin with a simple demonstration of the juggling art!’
Berthold set the three items he already held into motion. His competence was quite evident and even caused the surrounding uproar to quieten a little.
‘But such skill is not easily acquired. I had to travel to the far realms of the East, where I found my lovely Princess here, and there I learnt this craft under my wizardly master, the Great Profundo!’
With that Berthold stepped on a stray pheasant carcass and slipped onto his backside—the chicken leg bouncing off his head, the loaf of bread rolling away, but the goblet dropping neatly into his hand. He pretended to drink from it.
‘My master, Profundo, always used to say “Watch your footing.”’This comment was almost drowned by the howls of laughter. A few coins tinkled on the floor and, as instructed, Polly set about collecting them. And so it went. The crowd particularly loved Berthold’s obscene juggling act with the painted wooden phalluses, especially when he caught one in his mouth. His knife act he curtailed because this crowd stopped laughing and began to watch him warily. The performance closed with him juggling seven wildly different items, including a codpiece that somehow ended up stuck over his face, before the other props rained down on his head. Finally Berthold and Polly were summoned before the King.
Henry VIII was red-faced, and obviously too pissed to see or talk straight, so it was Thomas Cromwell, leaning in close to him, who began relaying his words.
‘The King congratulates Berthold on his skilled and entertaining performance …
The King showed signs of anger, and Polly surmised that Cromwell was not relaying the royal sentiments with any precision.
‘The King wishes Berthold to accept this purse …’
Cromwell picked one up and tossed it to Polly, who expertly caught it in her open prop bag, then curtsied.
‘The King now wishes to retire.’
Evidently that was not precisely Henry’s intention because he was still giving Polly a look that should have been censored. Then Cromwell helped King Henry to his feet, and away to his bed.
After the royal departure the party swiftly dissipated—spreading to some of the tents pitched outside for those who wanted to continue.
‘God’s blood!’ Berthold exclaimed, counting out the money collected, and eyeing the sack of leftover food Mellor had collected from the tables. ‘We could go right now and live on this for a year or more!’
‘But not yet,’ insisted Mellor.
‘Two more nights at most,’ Berthold replied. ‘By then they’ll start losing interest.’ He unstoppered a jug from a nearby table, and took a deep slug of its contents.
BETWEEN THE LAYERS OF black and grey something was becoming visible; glittering like nacre and expressing rainbow hues at the edge of the visible.
‘Fistik,’ spat Meelan, now much recovered.
This word being one Tack now identified as a curse, he
more closely studied what was angering her. The thing extended as a line between the two surfaces, stretching in either direction to far-off dimensions beyond where Tack could easily focus without feeling as if his brain was tearing away inside his head. Occasionally this object drew close enough to take on substance—the only apparent solidity in this place beyond the confines of the mantisal itself. As he stared at it, Tack felt a growing frustration at knowing he could not ask. But time spent gazing into this etioliated infinity took its toll as his vision blurred and weariness descended on him like a brick. He dozed off, coming half-awake later to see Meelan thrusting her remaining arm into one of the mantisal’s eyes. Meanwhile, Coptic withdrew and turned away, his eyes suddenly dead black.
Then a brightly coloured crowd was feasting nearby and throwing food at a man who was juggling clocks … while, with the insane logic of dream, Tack collected up the shattered amethysts into which the dropped timepieces had transformed. All was now colour and that colour became the smell of heated sand, then a boot inserted under Tack’s side rolled him rudely into wakefulness, falling onto that sand.
Coptic’s laugh was hollow as he too dropped down beside Tack, its humour buried in weariness. Meelan also seemed weary, her eyes turned black like her partner’s. Lying there, Tack observed the mantisal disappear, folding itself away in exactly the same manner as when viewed side-on. He stood, taking up the pack that had dropped beside him, and panted in the sudden heat.
Again they were on a shore—only this time it was a seashore. Scattered along the strand were turtle shells, mounds of fly-blown weed, and nearby the desiccated remains of a shark being pecked at by birds like raggedy miniature vultures. Behind the shore lay a coniferous forest, its trees gigantic. A constant din issued from amid the trunks, some of it identifiable but much of it utterly strange. The singing of the birds was harsher here and possessed an angry immediacy. Occasionally a mournful hooting crescendoed and somewhere a sonorous groaning bemoaned the constant racket.