Cowl

by Neal Asher

  ‘Push that out,’ said Traveller, nodding to a pumpkin-sized mirrored sphere attached loosely to one of the struts. Tack pulled it free and slipped it out through a gap in the structure. Glancing down he saw other mantisals appearing all round, and people running to board them. Then they were up and away from Pig City, hurtling out over the scrubland.

  ‘Don’t look back. It will blind you,’ warned Traveller.

  Tack turned away just in time from the burst of harsh white light, which refracted through the body of the mantisal and threw midnight shadows beyond rocks and trees on the landscape below. Momentarily he glimpsed the familiar shape of a nuclear explosion, before the mantisal folded them into between space.

  But even then it was not over. Against the surrounding blackness he saw a spreading cloud of escaping mantisals.

  ‘Don’t look,’ Traveller warned again.

  Fire bled through and painted red light across colourless space. Immediately after, they flew on through the vorpal and human wreckage evaporating in a place unable to sustain it.

  ‘I saw you get the one called Coptic,’ said Traveller.

  Tack merely nodded, too stunned still to speak.

  ‘My given name is Saphothere,’ Traveller conceded.

  8

  Engineer Goron:

  The energy dam still functions, but with the orbit of Io perturbed I don’t know how long this will last. We assumed there was to be another attack when the Umbrathane fleet displaced into orbit around Callisto, and in response missiles were launched from Station Seventeen. They didn’t impact, for the fleet shifted inside the temporal barrier englobing the moon. What readings we were able to take showed us that the entire moon was a few degrees out of phase. Attempts at tachyon communications failed. Luckily Seventeen did not orbit Callisto, since, like the rest of the stations that were there then, it would now be drifting erratically in the Jovian system—the phase change having negated the moon’s gravity-well before the final apocalyptic event. It seems stupid to ask how we could not have predicted this when we have access to time-travel technology. But who would have thought only a month ago we would have needed to look to the immediate future? It is certain that the entire population are all dead. It was only the Umbrathane fleet and the research facility that shifted.

  AS THEY THAWED, THE apples became pulpy, but Polly still managed to eat four of them. Then she gnawed her way through to the frozen core of her pie as she walked some miles along the watercourse. Finally stopping to rest with her back against an oak tree, she slept until what was, in her estimation, midday. When she woke her mind seemed a lot clearer.

  ‘I don’t want to just survive. I want a life as well,’ she abruptly stated.

  Nandru’s reply was some time in coming, as if he too had been dozing.

  You are alive.

  ‘I want to understand, to experience. So I should view this … journey as an opportunity. There is so much I can learn.’

  All you ever wanted to experience before was as many highs as possible with the fewest hangovers.

  Polly unbuttoned her coat to check the contents of her hip bag. It still contained some heroin patches and pearlies.

  ‘No, I’ve changed,’ she insisted.

  She ignored the patches, taking out only her tobacco to roll herself another cigarette. It occurred to her that she only had enough for a few more days. Not having experienced withdrawal from the other drugs she had used before placing the scale on her arm, she might avoid tobacco withdrawal as well. She had no intention of getting hooked again on patches though, so considered throwing them away. However, they would serve as analgesics should she be injured—which was now looking increasingly likely.

  So your plan is?

  ‘To learn, to experience. I need to see things in this time before I get dragged back again.’ She assessed the food bag. ‘I have enough supplies here for a few more days, but what after that? I’m hardly equipped for this kind of life.’

  You’ve done pretty well so far. You’ve acquired rather more suitable clothing than that you started out with—as well as a gun and a knife—and, of course, you’ve still got your taser.

  Reminded of this last item, she removed it from her hip bag and studied it. It was not yet recharged, so she moved back to the open area by the river and rested the taser on a log, where its solar cells would benefit from direct sunlight.

  Yours seems an admirable aim, but surely, in a such a barbaric age as this, you’d do better to keep your head down and wait for the next time-jump.

  ‘But then I’d continue doing nothing—just existing.’

  Then, when your taser is fully recharged, we must go and look for whatever passes for civilization here.

  When later she came upon it, the military encampment was undoubtedly the work of man, but whether civilized or barbaric was still to be seen. Polly had entered an area at the forest’s edge where some trees had been felled, coming in sight of a tented city surrounded by an abatis and earthen banks. Outside these, soldiers stood in neat ranks facing funeral pyres—Roman legionaries burning their dead. Seeing heads already turning in her direction, and word being passed along, she sat herself on a stump and started chewing on another pie. Shortly after, a small group of heavily armed legionaries was approaching her, their cloaked commander riding along behind. She noticed how clean-shaven and neat these people were, how polished was their steeped-leather armour, how their short swords gleamed. She also noticed how frequently their attention shifted to the forest behind her.

  They suspect an ambush.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to ambush them, unless they get nasty,’ Polly replied out loud.

  The men gazed at her in puzzlement as she finished the last piece of pie crust.

  ‘Quis’s, pro Ditem?’ asked the legionary now closest to her—a brutal-looking man whose clean-shaven skin only revealed more clearly an ugly scar across his face.

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you said just then,’ said Polly, standing up and sliding her hand into her pocket to grip the comforting weight of the automatic.

  He said, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘You can understand what they’re saying?’

  Just about. In here Muse has dictionaries for about a hundred languages. By simultaneously accessing all European languages, I can get a rough translation, as many of them have Latin as their root.

  ‘Fugite,’ said the mounted officer, urging his horse forward. The men parted to let him through. He dismounted and tossed the reins to Scarface. ‘Qua loqueris? Certe nil horum barbarorum.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just an ignorant savage and don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  I think he just said you don’t sound like an ignorant savage.

  ‘What’s he saying now?’ Polly asked. The officer had turned to Scarface.

  He’s pointing out that you are talking in your strange tongue to someone apparently unseen, so you are either fifty men short of a cohort or touched by the gods. I suggest you continue talking to me out loud, so that they may retain that opinion of you and not think to satisfy their curiosity by means of the numerous sharp objects they seem to favour.

  ‘A cohort is one tenth of a legion, and usually consists of between three and six hundred men,’ said Polly, shivering.

  Yes. So what?

  ‘That’s something I never knew before. So how do I know it now?’

  You haven’t figured that out?

  ‘Apparently not.’

  When I put Muse 184 onto you, it immediately established a nanonic linkage through to your spine and up into your head, where it has since been making numerous connections—an example of this being that you no longer really need the inducer in your earlobe to hear me. Its library—and something of me too—have been bleeding over into your mind ever since. You didn’t notice it at first because the heroin abuse kept you on the edge of moronic most of the time. Then the scale cleaned out your system and ever since you’ve been growing continually more knowledgea
ble. Besides that, Muse has also been upgrading your linguistic ability in English, so that you would become more able to communicate with it coherently.

  The Roman commander turned and gestured towards the encampment. Scarface reached out to take hold of Polly’s arm, but desisted when the commander spat another order at him. Looking round, Polly saw awe in the faces of the soldiers, and something like fear.

  ‘But I’m talking like I’ve always talked,’ argued Polly.

  Another soldier now moved in beside her, while the commander remounted. Scarface gestured towards her food bag. She handed it over and he peered inside, wrinkled his nose at its contents, then tossed it to the other man to carry. Whatever happened now, Polly was determined not to hand over any of her weapons. But Scarface baulked at the prospect of searching her further, after nervously eyeing her clothing. Perhaps he thought she might put a curse on him, or perhaps he thought she had fleas. After a moment he ushered her on ahead of him.

  Polly returned to her exchange with Nandru. ‘Can you control my upgrading? Can you … teach me things?’

  Not at present. The Muse element of myself follows a program originally designed to supply necessary information during battle. It operates mainly when you are under stress, and opens sections of its library to certain connections in your brain only when specific types and quantities of neurochemicals are present. Believe me, it’s complicated enough in here—I don’t want to interfere recklessly and end up lobotomizing you.

  The smell of burning pine wood and burning flesh became stronger now. Perversely, the aromas caused her further pangs of hunger. The pyres were burning low and the legionaries beginning to march back to their tented city beyond. But a grey-haired old man wearing elaborately chased armour awaited Polly and her escort. This personage was obviously someone most important, for a gilded litter with bearers in attendance awaited his pleasure, and a cohort of men in splendid armour stood by. As they drew closer, the mounted commander hissed warningly to Scarface.

  Well, you certainly seem to be receiving the grand tour.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  The old fellow waiting there is the Emperor Claudius no less. I’d advise you to take your cue from others in showing due signs of respect. The Romans weren’t exactly distinguished for their record on human rights.

  Finally they reached the Emperor’s presence and, though bows and salutes were exchanged, she noticed there was no outright grovelling. Polly remained standing meekly where she was while the commander dismounted and explained the situation with numerous gestures and puzzled frowns. At an imperial signal, two of the Emperor’s personal guard approached her. Both possessed a polished Teutonic look: one of them as slim as a whippet, while the other appeared capable of crushing walnuts with his eyelids. They had no reservations about laying hands on her and half carried her before their master to thrust her down on her knees before him.

  ‘All right, no need to get tetchy!’ she protested.

  Walnut eyes seemed about to strike her, but desisted when Claudius raised a finger. He then crooked the same finger at her.

  ‘Surge.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  I think you can stand up now without getting thumped.

  Polly stood and waited in silence. The guards stepped back a little way as the Emperor folded his hands behind his back and limped one circuit around her. Stopping in front of her again, he reached out and felt the fabric of her greatcoat, touched each of its brass buttons in turn, then stared at her boots. After a moment he gave voice to some drawn-out utterance, stammering his words, and smearing his chin with spittle.

  ‘What was that?’

  I’m not entirely sure. Translation is difficult enough for me with clearly spoken Latin. I think he wants you to take off your coat, but maybe it would be better if you pretended not to understand too much.

  She addressed the Emperor, ‘Sorry, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. You see, I’m a time traveller, and your language died out quite some time before I was born. I’d like to oblige you, but no way are you getting your mitts on my gun.’

  The Emperor tilted his head, listening to her closely and frowning in puzzlement as he wiped the spittle from his chin. In a circular gesture he indicated her coat, then putting his hands together, parted them and moved them each to one side, clearly indicating that she should remove it. Polly considered pretending further that she didn’t understand, but Walnut Crusher was staring at her with alarming hostility. She slowly undid the buttons then opened wide her coat. The Emperor’s puzzlement increased when he saw what she wore underneath. He again made that removing gesture. When she did nothing, he flashed irritation and pointed at her hip bag.

  ‘I guess I’m going to have to act now before they strip me of everything. You said they might be thinking I’m touched by the gods?’

  Be very careful, Polly. I would hate to lose you now—what with all you mean to me.

  Polly grinned at the Emperor, pointed up to the sky, then held out her hands in some strange gesture of welcome. She then reached into her hip bag, removed the taser, turned quickly to one side and fired at the walnut crusher. The result couldn’t have been any more spectacular. He went up on his toes, with small lightning flashes zipping around his inlaid breastplate, then down flat on his back like a falling log. Weapons were drawn all around, the soldiers shouting and moving in. The whippet had his sword poised to stab her, and looked terrified. Calmly putting the taser back in her bag, Polly surveyed them all in her most queenly manner, then returned her attention to Claudius, going down on one knee before him and bowing her head.

  Oh, fucking wonderful, and there I was thinking you were getting brighter.

  The uproar all around continued, as Polly waited for the sword stroke that would take off her head, and almost not caring. When it died down, she glanced up to see the Emperor had raised his hand again. As he addressed his men, it was evident some of them found him incomprehensible, so badly was he stammering. When he gestured Polly to rise, she did so quickly.

  ‘Can you tell me how to say, “He is alive”?’ she subvocalized.

  Try ‘Vivit.’

  Polly gestured to the prostrate soldier, and repeated Nandru’s words. Claudius, his expression frightened, spat an order and swords were immediately sheathed.

  ‘That seemed to work,’ said Polly cheerfully.

  Well, they haven’t nailed you to a tree yet, so that’s a plus.

  The soldiers loaded Walnut Crusher onto the litter, and he was rapidly born back to the encampment. Polly followed on foot beside the limping Emperor.

  TACK WAS FOOLISHLY PLEASED to be given the honour of addressing Traveller by his true name, though Saphothere was a mouthful to someone from an age when appellations of more than two syllables were considered excessive.

  ‘Saphothere.’ He tried it out. ‘What was that weapon you used on their fence?’ he asked, staring into the darkness outside the cave mouth.

  Saphothere turned on some kind of palm torch to illuminate the interior beyond. ‘Molecular catalyser. The palisade was constructed of a steel composite and ceramoplastic. The catalyser caused them to react with each other: the iron in the steel combined with the oxygen in the organic molecules of the plastic, turning the fence into a powder consisting mainly of iron oxide and carbon.’ He glanced at Tack. ‘Understand, Tack, I have given you permission to use my name, but you will also use my title. The correct form of address is “Traveller Saphothere”. Your actions at the Umbrathane stronghold were admirable, but they do not entitle you to overfamiliarity.’

  Tack grimaced as he followed Saphothere deeper inside. Studying the cave floor, he spotted broken bones and the skull of some bovid that had been crushed by the large teeth of a predator, and was grateful that Traveller had retrieved and returned his seeker gun.

  ‘What period are we in now … Traveller Saphothere?’

  Saphothere looked at him askance, perhaps regretting the leeway he had granted. ‘
It’s the Palaeocene—sixty-three million years in your past. There are not so many large animals around just now, as an extinction event occurred not long ago in evolutionary terms.’ The man then noticed the direction of Tack’s attention and added, ‘Some carnivorous dinosaurs did survive, but they will not survive the coming competition with the mammals.’ At that moment Saphothere’s torch revealed something that—like Pig City—did not belong here: a steel door.

  ‘They knew of you: Coptic and Meelan. She spoke your name when they saw you running towards them … Traveller.’

  With no evident movement from Saphothere, the round door suddenly released from its surrounding metal frame and hissed inwards, revealing a well-lit room stacked with equipment.

  ‘The Umbrathane should know my name—for most of my life I’ve been hunting and killing them across half a billion years.’

  Saphothere led the way past the stored equipment and into a spartan living area. Here, there were rough wooden chairs around a table, bunks for four people, equipment that might have been equally domestic or the control system for launching atomic weapons for all Tack knew, and supply boxes containing packets of food and drink. Saphothere touched a console as he walked past it, and a horizontal bar rose above it, dragging up behind it a screen of translucent film on which image-enhanced exterior scenes were instantly displayed, along with scrolling pictographic script and mobile Euclidian shapes that meant nothing to Tack.