Ancestral Machines

by Michael Cobley

  “You’re looking better, Toolbearer,” he said, glancing at the examination table’s monitor panel. “Not so close to death’s door, at least.”

  “Yes, Captain. The Gatherer had to leave empty-handed.”

  “This time,” G’Brozen Mav said. “He waits still.”

  The bearded warrior held Hechec’s gaze for a long stern moment, which made Pyke realise just who was top dog among these strange passengers. Hechec broke the gaze first, his expression submissive. G’Brozen Mav glanced at Pyke then back at Hechec.

  “Say your words, Toolbearer.”

  Hechec nodded and he moved away.

  “Captain,” he began, “our destination is another foundling world, another innocent planet singled out to be wrested away by the thieves of the Shuskar. The brute Khorr will be on the surface, near one of the four shroud-pillars–your ship’s instruments will lead you to the correct one. But the thieves’ own vessels have detection devices so you will have to find a way to get there unseen.”

  “Ah, we’ve got that covered,” Pyke said. “Had some stealth systems installed a couple of years ago, and not long afterwards a rich and grateful client gave us some milgrade enhancements which allow the Scarabus to be almost invisible, if that’s what we need.”

  “Is your shuttle fitted with these devices?”

  “No, only the Scarabus, but she is planet-capable.” Pyke chuckled. “Not only can she fly in atmo, she can ghost right into a planetary sensor-matrix, slip past the detection layers and land soft and quiet as a feather. After that, there’s just the matter of tracking down that ripoff gobshite, Khorr.”

  “Khorr is a veteran of the Shatterground, which makes him a lethal adversary. Be sure of your preparations, Captain, before beginning the hunt.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Hechec,” said Pyke. “I’ll pass that on to Win and Kref–they’ll make sure that we are completely ready.”

  “They must! Khorr is not to be taken lightly.” The Toolbearer closed his eyes and sank back against the inclined backrest, seemingly exhausted. Pyke frowned and looked closely at the biomonitor readouts.

  “Scar,” he said. “What’s our patient’s prognosis?”

  “Quiet rest for several more hours, Bran.”

  “I thought you said that he would be up and about sooner.”

  “The patient’s energy levels have been more severely suppressed than originally anticipated, Bran. Even this aided recovery period may have to be extended.”

  “Right, I see.”

  Hechec now appeared to be sleeping, while G’Brozen Mav stood nearby, arms crossed and regarding Pyke with apparent distrust.

  As Pyke turned to leave, the bearded warrior cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Thank you for your help.”

  He looked back. The dark gaze now seemed tempered by something like grudging respect. “Thank you for all you have given us.”

  “Well, we both benefit from this,” Pyke said. “Mutual aid, sharing information, a bit of medical treatment, and we’re back in the game, eh?”

  A wintry smile creased the warrior’s mouth. “Back… in the game. Yes, this is so.”

  G’Brozen Mav said no more, just gazed down at the Toolbearer. Pyke nodded, said something about being about his duties and left sickbay.

  As he hurried off in the direction of the bridge he sighed. Embarrassment always stuck home whenever people started being grateful to him, whether he deserved it or not. He was a hard-bitten, border-defying, sanctions-busting smuggler who laughed in the face of boundary police–gratitude just didn’t seem appropriate somehow.

  When he reached the hatch to the bridge he took one step over the threshold and froze–only Ancil and Win were there and they were wrapped in each other’s arms. Pyke carefully, soundlessly retreated, moving back several paces, then with a heavy tread resumed his approach, adding a cough to the performance. When he entered for the second time Ancil and Win were settling into their respective workstation couches.

  “Did you get a chance to run those diagnostics?” Pyke said while dropping into his own chair.

  “Mojag was good enough to set them up for me, while I was helping Kref,” Ancil said. “I’ve been going over the results and so far I’m only seeing minor calibration issues–other than that the defences are at optimum readiness should we need to kick some arse.”

  Pyke laughed. “And arse-kicking could well be on the menu! Scar, what’s our ETA?”

  “ETA has been updated, Bran. Due to unexpected hyperspace energy conditions we shall reach the edge of the target star system in less than thirty minutes.”

  Pyke shrugged. “Sooner we’re in, sooner we’re out. Have you dug up any more info on the oddly named Tigimhos?”

  “It is within the average planetary diameter for E-type worlds, and has three large landmasses, two of which are spread across the equator. Indroma records state it to be a class D colonial holding, since current macro-policies are focused on upgrading existent industrial base worlds. However, since it lies in the twenty-light-year strategic buffer zone it qualifies as a third-rank tactical asset and was assigned a Guardian Station, which is essentially a manned outpost capable of deploying interceptors and drones. However, a five-year-old secret Earthsphere intel report which I acquired some time ago reveals that most third-rank systems instead received an AI drone retasked for monitoring and oversight.”

  “Which makes it an attractive proposition if you’re a gang of planet-jackers looking for some real estate that’s desirable and lightly defended.”

  “Exactly so, Bran. However, we can be sure that the planet-jackers’ sensornet will be on high alert.”

  Dervla entered the bridge during the exchange and Pyke met her gaze as he continued.

  “Then we have our stealth systems ready so that we hit the ground running when we come out of hyperspace.”

  “No problems, chief,” said Ancil as he exchanged a grin and a wink with Win. “We’ll be like a shadow in the blackout, and if the worse comes to the worst we can always throw them a squawker.”

  “Sounds like just the thing,” Pyke said. “What kind of frightener are you thinking of?”

  “I thought I could configure the emission profile to look like a Lion-class Earthsphere assault corvette.”

  Pyke laughed. They had a small battery of missiles adapted to serve as decoys, their payloads replaced with multiband emitters capable of projecting a complex energy signature to match almost any kind of vessel. More than once a squawker had led pursuing hostiles on a merry chase while the Scarabus had made good its escape.

  “I definitely approve,” Pyke said. “Musical accompaniment?”

  “Hmm, Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’, or Godfog’s ‘Hole in the Universe’?”

  “Go with the Godfog–should scare the guts out of ’em!”

  After that Pyke went over the equipment manifest for the mission, the field packs and weaponry needed by himself, Dervla, Krefom, Ancil and Win. Then he moved on to the defence diagnostics and saw that Ancil had been as sharp-eyed and thorough as ever. Which still left over ten minutes till the drop from hyperspace. On the holoconsole he went into the shared crew files, opened the folder where Win occasionally left short stories and poems for the others to enjoy, chose something short and began to read. He was halfway through a curious tale about a tree whose fruit were tiny books when Scar announced a twenty-second countdown.

  The all-too-familiar vertigo-squeeze came and went and the Scarabus was back in real-space, stealth systems running, masking the ship as it curved away from the exit point on a decelerating trajectory.

  “Lots of activity around the planet Tigimhos,” muttered Win. “No sign of any Indroman monitoring post though.”

  “Anything on the jacker ships?” said Pyke. “What kind of sensor web are they putting out?”

  Dervla uttered a low whistle from where she sat. “There’s a cluster of small ships in surface-synch orbit, five all told, but there’s this bigger one which is
enclosed by a strange field of some kind, and it’s giving off bizarre surges and bursts of energy.” She shook her head. “Details still hazy–getting in closer would be better, if certifiably crazy.”

  “Scar,” Pyke said. “Any signs of long-range sensor scans?”

  “Nothing recognisable as such, Bran, but as we reached the dehyper point I detected intermittent patterns in the pattern flows near this system.”

  “No way to assess threat levels?”

  “Sorry, Bran–insufficient data.”

  “Then we do what Dervla suggested, get in there, close and personal, eh? Set us up for a microjump, aiming for high-orbit distance, with the planet between us and them. Ancil–better fire up every one of your stealth gambits. We’re about to walk in the front door!”

  The hyperspace microjump went perfectly, taking the Scarabus from seven million miles away to fifteen thousand miles above the surface of Tigimhos in little more than an extended instant.

  “Jacker vessels still holding position,” Ancil said. “No change in ship-to-ship comm traffic. Hah hah, they don’t know we’re here!”

  “Scar,” Pyke said. “Any more on those hyperspace patterns, and what about the strange field surrounding the big jacker vessel?”

  “Only that some eddies in the patterns seemed to correspond to the planet. As for that field, it is more a proximity effect shed by some kind of generated force. It appears to be a transboundary conduit carrying a torrent of energy into hyperspace, into Tier 2. There’s something vast there—”

  “Chief, they’re onto us!” said Ancil. “Two of those five ships have broken orbit and launched several missiles, all heading our way.”

  “Time for a crazy, noisy squawker, I’m thinking.”

  Ancil laughed, fingers dancing across the touchboard. “Oh yeah, a squawking, screeching delight–and it’s away.”

  “Bran,” said the AI, Scar. “I’ve picked up drive emissions exactly matching those of Khorr’s vessel–it is down on the planet’s surface.”

  Pyke felt a surge of exhilaration. “Do you have precise coordinates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get us down there,” he said. “Full burn!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “… this kind of thorough, disestablishing destruction can be found across every city and nearly every town of significant size. Only a few hinterland villages seemed to escape the bombardments and ground assaults but according to your sampler probes they didn’t escape the chemical and biological weapons. Toxic residual readings for most rural settlements are similar to those found in urban zones.”

  Sitting in the passenger recess, Brock paused in her recitation from the datapane projected before her, made a few notes on an archaic leafed-paper pad balanced on her knee, then nodded.

  “Is there more?” said the drone, Rensik Estemil.

  “Yes indeed, sir. Your clever probes have uncovered a rough timeline of planetside events from analysis of the various macroweapon residues,” Brock said. “Incorporating dating results from organic remains, it appears that the initial attack on this Nadisha II took place over a century ago, a devastating nuclear bombardment of all main cities. Over the following decades there was a series of lesser conflicts centred on the ruins of the cities and the towns scattered all across the largest continent.”

  “How many of these lesser conflicts have there been?” said Rensik.

  “This is where the conclusions get hazy–your smart probes can only offer an estimate ranging between 150 and 280. They say that most of these battles took place repeatedly in the same locations, such that the destruction of one conflict could partially obliterate the evidence from a previous one… erm, may I ask if you’re displeased with my performance, sir?”

  “Why do you ask, Lt Commander?”

  “Since our arrival in-system you have been nestled in your niche and your responses to me have been somewhat terse.”

  “If I was unhappy with your abilities you would know about it, trust me. Don’t worry, I am listening to every word you say and devoting all necessary attention to their consideration.”

  Which came to roughly 4.8 per cent of his core processing power. The rest of his attention was intertwined with his ship’s Construct-designed sensor arrays, overseeing the streams of incoming raw data, directing or modifying the analytic sub-cognitives and piece by piece assembling a story that explained what happened to Nadisha II. Or whatever name this ravaged world once bore.

  “I see, sir. Shall I continue?”

  “Please do.”

  “Good, because this is the interesting bit…”

  She then went on to tell him that the probes had found skeletal remains from a number of species–at least nine, perhaps as many as fifteen–clustered around the battle sites. Which he had already figured out: this poisonous, irradiated world had clearly been used as an arena for savage, staged clashes between opposing armies. But according to the Construct’s archived abstract the Great Harbour had last been sighted two and a half centuries ago in one of the galaxy’s minor peripheral stellar clusters where, true to form, it left a trail of havoc and destruction. Which implied that there had been another stopping-off point prior to its arrival here.

  As Brock continued her recitation of the probes’ findings, the drone Rensik deepened its focus on the data flowing in from the sensors. Immense structured forces had been deployed in the second tier of hyperspace and vestiges, impressions almost, still remained, fading but perceptible. That was where this world had been parked, its vectors matched with the real Nadisha II until the time came for the in-orbit substitution. And after that…

  The analysis results at this point were reduced to a thin skein of conjecture stretched across too few verifiable event pivots. The sensors were still gathering data though, and luckily a further scatter of coherent additionals gave the picture more clarity. After the planetary switcharound, a cluster of drive emissions had then moved away a few tier-hours–the hyperspace equivalent of light years–before splitting, a single dense emission trail continuing along the initial course while a group of lesser trails veered off in another direction. This told Rensik a number of things: that the hijacked Nadisha II was on its way to a rendezvous with the Great Harbour, and that the rest of the planet-jacker flotilla was heading for its next target. Which implied that a second toxic, war-burnt world was also in transit to the same destination.

  Uncovering the second course was something of a relief. The drone had already requested trans-tier scan records from the nearest Construct overwatch station (down on Tier 18) to track down non-standard drive activity in this area. It would be humiliating to have to send another begging message.

  “… a thirty-eight-character alphabet and a fondness for adorning all their important civil buildings with quotes and sayings. All the important structures were pounded to rubble, of course, but the probes still managed to extrapolate a few things, including what they looked like…”

  A 3D image popped up. The original Nadishans had been bipedal, with squat physiques and a distinctly saurian appearance. They reminded Rensik of the Jegiska, an offshoot of the Kiskashin.

  “Excellent work,” the drone said.

  “Thank you, sir, but all I did was present the summary.”

  “I know but I’d rather have you in a positive frame of mind, given the nature of what we’re seeing.”

  The Human paused, but only for a second.

  “Sir, I would describe my frame of mind as resolute. Those responsible for… this should be held accountable.”

  “History is full of murderers who should have been punished, Brock. Our job, just to refresh your memory, is to track down the Great Harbour, find out what level of threat they present or intend, and spike their guns. So I’m sure that you’ll be pleased to know that the ship sensors have uncovered the course they took away from the Nadisha system. We’ll be ready to depart as soon as the last probes are aboard.”

  “That’s good news, sir. Is there time for me
to finish the findings summary?”

  “Ah–you have numbers.”

  “Yes, sir. Population estimate for the original inhabitants comes in at 1.4 billion, plus or minus 150 million. The estimate for total subsequent combat deaths is much more problematic–between 5 and 15 million, the probes reckon. In effect, the entire planet is a graveyard.”

  The drone Rensik Estemil did not have to remind itself of Brock’s Tygran background. While hidden from Earth’s authorities for over a century, Tygra’s Human settlers had carried out massacres of the low-tech sentient natives. After the Darien War, when Tygran history came to light, the Tygran leadership had instituted an Office for Remorse and Contrition to demonstrate their stricken collective conscience. However, some Tygrans emigrated, claiming that official declarations of regret were insincere, and among them were Brock’s parents.

  And here you are, carrying the burden of their remorse, with your own thoughts finely attuned to any evidence of injustice and malice, even as we head towards a virulent nexus of it. I can only assume that the Construct knew what it was doing when it chose you for this mission.

  “You haven’t mentioned where this course might lead, sir,” Brock said. “Will we end up at the Great Harbour?”

  “It’s more likely that we’ll find another planet like this one, Lt Commander.”

  She nodded, glancing at a nearby datapane. “All probes now aboard, sir.”

  And with that, the Construct ship broke orbit from that brutalised, contaminated world and sped off into clear space before making the jump to hyperspace.

  CHAPTER SIX

  From the bridge viewport Pyke was staring at the wide blue and white immensity of the planet Tigimhos, just as the Scarabus’s auxiliary thrusters kicked in, accelerating their plunge into the atmosphere. A new subharmonic became perceptible at the edge of audibility, made clearer by the tense silence.

  “Ancil,” he said. “How’s our squawker doing back there?”

  “Shouting out loud and clear, chief. Missiles seem to be taking the bait.”