Ancestral Machines

by Michael Cobley

  “It slopes downwards but not too steeply,” Vralko said. “Make up your minds who is to go first, but I’ll have to be last to seal up the pipe. And be careful at the other end–the concealed exit is a hanging cover made to look like part of the wall.”

  It was a generously proportioned pipe so Pyke led the way, then Kref, Mojag and Ancil. He wrinkled his nose at an acrid sewage odour and ignored whatever was squelching underfoot as he reached the camouflaged flap and cautiously pushed it open. Vralko had given him a cunning little torch embedded in a wooden peg and after surveying the vicinity of the opening he decided all was clear and climbed down. Kref was next and after a minute or two everyone was out of the pipe and standing in an oasis of torchlight in the pitch-dark tunnel.

  “This passage is just one long stretch with a short branch tunnel not far from here,” said Vralko, pointing in one direction, “and a second back along at the other end. They were put in as spurs for tunnel extension but the plans were shelved and they didn’t go anywhere until the Chainers figured out how to…”

  “Chief,” Kref muttered. “We ain’t alone in here.”

  Someone off in the darkness coughed theatrically and a sneering voice spoke.

  “Heh, looks like a hulking brute but has good tunnel ears. What is he, Vralko? One of those Treneval fur-chewers?”

  Pyke and Vralko both pointed torches towards the voice, and a strange figure was revealed. It was a short muscular Gruxen, wearing a long, ripped and ragged robe over nondescript labourer gear, and a helmet with a visor that only came down to the nose. Below that was a mouth full of discoloured teeth widening into a grin while one gloved hand brought a short heavy weapon down from its resting place at the shoulder. The other hand caught its undergrip, steadying the aim, and Pyke found himself staring into the business end of a triple-barrelled shotgun.

  “Nice piece ye got there,” Pyke said. “Must be weighty, though, eh?”

  The helmeted intruder gave a chuckle which turned into a grating cough.

  “Hello Relch,” said Vralko. “Still scavenging for some badge-wearing arm-twister? Who is it now–Jorf?”

  Relch spat. “Shows how long you been away, you old turd. Vixo’s dead and Jorf got sold. No, I’m getting orders from higher up these days.”

  While the exchange took place, Pyke was studying Relch’s headgear, which had to be some kind of visi-augmenter set to auto, providing nightsight and balanced filtering. Vralko’s old chum might be the target of their torchbeams but his lack of anxiety suggested that he could see perfectly behind that visor.

  “Stampers, is it?” Vralko’s contempt was open. “So after growing up with their boots on your neck you wanted to find out how it feels to wear the boot. Must be lonely, though, being a betrayer.”

  “He’s not alone,” came another voice from the tunnel darkness behind them.

  Relch laughed. “There, see? So let’s have some answers, y’old wrinkler–who’re yer friends and what’s your business down here? What are you smuggling?”

  Vralko’s shoulders and head sagged, and he sighed. “Syntharush, golden syntharush.”

  Suddenly there was a tension in Relch’s stance. He reached out a greedy hand. “Show!”

  A puzzled Pyke watched Vralko produce from his coat pocket a large black button-like disc with a yellow line around its edge. Despite the poor light he saw the old Chainer surreptitiously press one of the faces before tossing the disc to Relch. And as he did so, Pyke saw that Vralko had palmed a second thick black button…

  Must be charges, something anti-personnel, Pyke thought madly. The mad old bugger is going to try to take them both down…

  “It’s in powder form,” Vralko said as Relch neatly caught the disc. “Careful not to open it by mistake.”

  “Not seen it come in flasks like this afore,” Relch said, holding it up to his visor.

  “High-quality merchandise, that is,” Vralko said, suddenly looking at Pyke. “Down a spoon of that in yer wyne and it’ll show you something amazing…”

  That was when it went off with a sharp pop sound, and a burst of vision-devouring, dazzling light.

  Damn, a flashbang! thought Pyke, now unable to see anything more than shadowy blurs. Yet he ran forward, arms outstretched, towards where he last saw Relch standing. Pyke’s last sight had been of Vralko turning to lob the second flashbang at Relch’s companion. Shouts and curses had accompanied the first flash and Pyke was vaguely aware of another outburst as he charged forward, determined to deal with Relch. Instead he collided with a wall, cold grimy stone against which he crouched, backing away from the bright flare of torches.

  Sounds of struggle, a strangled cry. Pyke cursed and rubbed at his stinging eyes, and shapes grew clearer and less bleary. In the beam of fallen torches forms came into focus. Vralko and Kref were drawing near, carrying a struggling captive while several paces further along the tunnel Relch lay immobile in the iron choke hold of… Mojag?

  Pyke got up from his crouched position and peered into the shadows. “Mojag, is that you?”

  Mojag, features drawn with effort, glanced up at Pyke then gave a slight shake of the head. Pyke stared back, confused, but only for a moment. As realisation struck it felt like having all his senses spun around for a second before lurching back into normality. Oleg? Really? So the digital copy of Oleg which Mojag was carrying around is now in charge? What the hell’s normal any more?

  Ancil, now carrying both torches, joined him. When the beams settled on Mojag and his prisoner, Ancil was startled.

  “Mojag, you’ve got… I had no idea you knew moves like that…”

  “I’ve been tutoring him on the sly,” Pyke said quickly. “Thought it was long past time that he learned a grip or two.”

  Ancil looked puzzled and was about to respond when Vralko and Kref arrived with the now-limp form of Relch’s companion.

  “You’ll need to give Relch a blackout,” Vralko said. “Press the soft area beneath his ears and he’ll become as agreeable as his ally here.”

  Pyke and Ancil obliged and a moment or two later Relch’s struggles ceased.

  “Good,” said Vralko. “Let’s get these two mudmouths along to the spur passage at the end of the tunnel. The Favassy Nightfinders will know what to do with them.”

  The tunnel sloped gently down into inky darkness. Pools of water had gathered near the end, adding to the already dank atmosphere. Vralko led them along to the end of the spur passage where he made a section of the wall swing up on creaking hinges. Torch beams probed the dusty space within, revealing wooden steps leading down.

  “Into the depths,” Vralko said with relish as he waved the others on. “Quickly now.”

  Kref was carrying Relch’s mate under one big arm while Ancil and Mojag were managing Relch between them. Pyke followed behind Kref, carrying the ambushers’ heavy shotguns. Vralko closed up the secret entrance before hurrying to catch up.

  “So, Vralko,” said Pyke. “Who are these Nightfinders you mentioned?”

  “They are the rare ones, Captain, the artisans of shadow, the dismal pilgrims.” The old Chainer chuckled. “Down here in the sunless Favassy netherstreets, it seems almost natural for people to form small closed circles for protection, sadly, even against neighbours and other groups. The darkness can hide much, including spying eyes. Yet higher aspirations persist along with an angry need for a life in the sun. The Nightfinders know all the footpaths, old and new, trodden and abandoned–if there is a way to the city that bypasses the underfactory they will know of it.”

  “Someone is waiting up ahead,” Kref said suddenly.

  Everybody came to a halt. The passage they were traversing was low and narrow, cramped with crude supports that elbow or feet could easily catch on in the gloom. Pyke peered over Kref’s brawny shoulder and saw a wavering pocket of dull light and a silhouette standing still. Then Vralko shuffled up, ducking to squeeze past Kref and his insensible burden. Reaching the front he raised his torch and flicked it on and off in some
sequence only he knew. Finished, he angled the torchbeam down at the ground and a moment later the distant glow winked out. A grinning Vralko turned to Pyke and the others.

  “And so we wait–one of the Nightfinders will be here soon to guide us—”

  “Only if we don’t decide to drop your bodies into a dregpit!” came a voice from very close by in the dark.

  “Who is this?” Vralko said, sounding rankled. “Someone who fails to recognise Vralko Dusktreader, obviously, some untutored novice—”

  “Vralko, eh? If so, why bring these unknowns down into the netherstreets? A veteran would surely know better.”

  “Has your life below ground blinded you to the onrush of events? I am here by order of T’Loskin Rey, general of Chainers, and my companions are the point of the spear that will bring down Lord Gyr-Matu!”

  For a moment the silence was broken only by breathing and the shuffling of feet. Then there was the glow of an opening door in the right-hand wall a few paces further on.

  Another secret door, Pyke thought. Hell’s teeth, this valley must be riddled with tunnels!

  “We do know about the uprisings, Vralko, so perhaps your claims deserve closer scrutiny. Pass within and take the first turning.”

  Some minutes later Pyke and his crew were lounging on several crates at one end of a long, low lamp-lit room while Vralko was engaged in heated discussion with a tall, stooped Gruxen dressed in a rumpled dark green outfit. On their arrival they had been met by the owner of the distrustful voice, one of the Nightfinders, a Gruxen in an ankle-length coat and a mask that covered his nose and mouth. Introducing himself as Mokle, he whistled up four brawny helpers to relieve Pyke’s crew of Relch and his companion who, still insensible, were then lugged off down a shadowy passage, along with their weapons. Now the Nightfinder was leaning against one of the stout wooden supports holding up the braced ceiling, languid eyes flicking between the newcomers and the argument going on at the far end. Whenever that distrustful gaze settled on Pyke he made sure to greet it with as rascally a grin as he could muster.

  When Vralko at last came over to join them, his face was pensive.

  “Sorry to be the grim teller,” he said. “But the most direct tunnels into the city’s subculverts are either caved-in or being watched by the likes of Relch. The only sure way in now left to us is through the Favassy underfactory.”

  “The Iron Theatre,” Ancil murmured.

  The elderly Chainer gave a sombre nod. “An unpleasant name you will come to understand.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Nightfinder Mokle, who was now conversing with the taller, green-garbed Gruxen. “We’ll get you all armed-up before we go, because there will be dangers and Fate favours a well-aimed bullet–or so I’ve been told.”

  Kref brightened at the mention of weaponry and even Pyke felt more upbeat as they were led through to a small armoury. One wall held a few racks of blunderbuss-like shotguns, as toted by the now-absent Relch, and large-calibre clumsy-looking rifles, while the other had about a dozen chunky-bodied, short-barrelled handguns hanging from nails and hooks. A few boxes of parts were stacked along the back wall. And when Pyke reached for one of the shotguns, Mokle shook his head.

  “We must insist on keeping the damage to a minimum,” he said, indicating the handguns.

  A stinging riposte immediately came to mind, begging to be verbalised, but before Pyke could reply Kref shouldered his way past, grabbed one of the big rifles from the end of the rack and started giving it the once-over. Nightfinder Mokle tried to get him to put it back but the big Henkayan just gave him looks of irritated puzzlement between working the action and crack-and-slamming the magazine.

  “Er, Kref?” Pyke said eventually. “Best if we take our hosts’ advice, or we’ll not get to where we need to be, get me?”

  Kref grunted and reluctantly returned the rifle to its rack. “’S got a decent action as well, Captain. Better than those little peashooters.”

  “They’re more powerful than they look,” said Ancil, who was behind Pyke, leaning in close to scrutinise one of the handguns. “Rifled barrels and high-capacity magazines.”

  Mokle took one of the guns from the wall and offered it to Pyke. It had a satisfying weight and the action was indeed smooth, more finely machined than the unfussy casing would suggest. He looked up at Ancil and the others and nodded.

  “These’ll do.”

  Once they were kitted out with Gruxen guns, ammo clips and waist holsters, Vralko and the Nightfinder Mokle steered them out of the armoury and along a narrow passage, torchbeams wavering jerkily before them. After turning along a couple of side tunnels they arrived at a small round room with a trapdoor. It was hauled open to reveal the top of a ladder, and Mokle was first in.

  It was a long descent, taking nearly ten minutes to reach another small room with a heavy black door. The room was so small that Kref had to ascend the ladder again a few rungs so everyone was gathered close enough to hear Vralko speak in low serious tones.

  “Through this door is the Favassy estate underfactory. I will not try to describe it–you must see it for yourselves. Be as quiet as you can in there, be stealthy.”

  The black door was angled back slightly and when Vralko pushed it open trails of dust and grit fell from the lintel. As they followed in single file Pyke heard the sound of machinery, a blend of motors, hammering, clanks, rhythmic clatters and the whine and shriek of power tools. Then he caught the odours, metal and burnt oil with the sharp flavour of chemicals and wood and… something more pungent, acrid.

  From the door, whose outside was camouflaged to merge with hard-packed stony dirt, a short tunnel soon opened out to a shadowy ceiling criss-crossed with girdering. Their pathway sloped up to the brink of a drop, hung with dark ragged mesh curtains, meant to blur the shapes of any who paused here to observe.

  “Part the curtains carefully,” said Vralko. “Try to keep your faces back in the shadows.”

  Crouching before the ragged veil Pyke reached out and pushed the frayed layers aside to get a decent view. At first all he saw were production lines with rows of workers labouring on either side of conveyor belts, half-clothed forms sweating in the noise and the heat…

  That was it, the other odour he had noticed, the sweat of never-ending toil, a desperate taint.

  Then he began to notice details, like the thin cables that hung from overhead housings in clusters of six, each cluster plugged into a worker’s neck, spine, upper arms, and thighs. Pyke suddenly realised what he was seeing but Ancil spoke its name.

  “Neural slavery,” he said. “Everyone on those lines–they’re all remote instruments for some low-grade central machine intelligence, am I right?”

  Vralko nodded. “We call it the Stage-Master. It grips the players in its rigging, decides what work is to be done, directs their every step and motion.”

  “The Iron Theatre,” Pyke said.

  “So it’s known to some,” Vralko said. “Others less poetic call it the Meatgrinder.” He pointed leftwards. “The underfactory is a linked series of large chambers, each containing twelve assemblage tracks, and our way out of this place of torment is in the third chamber along, a forgotten duct which leads to a service tunnel.”

  “I expect that there’s a few guards patrolling the area,” Pyke said.

  “Just one guard for each chamber,” Vralko said. “Each sits in a small windowed cockpit overlooking the main track. The Stage-Master watches everything on the assembly ways and the manipulators that it uses to handle materials and finished items are also used against intruders and any workers who disobey orders. One of the guards is a Chainer sympathiser so he at least will not raise the alarm when we pass by, although the aim is to remain unseen at all times!”

  “Friends on the inside,” said Kref. “This is good!”

  “How many are there down here?” Pyke said, still staring at the nearby assembly line.

  Vralko frowned. “Guards, do you mean?”

  “No, how many are working dow
n here?”

  The old Chainer shrugged. “Varies from day to day. Each assemblage track could have between twenty and forty labouring at it–averages out at thirty–and there are twelve tracks per chamber and thirty chambers which makes… roughly ten thousand.”

  Pyke shook his head. Ten thousand.

  “Are they awake while they work?” he said. “Do they know what they’re being made to do?”

  “At the start of their shift they drink something called the sleepkey. Supposed to turn off the mind but leave the body ready for the rigging instructions.” Vralko snorted. “The truth is that it’s not sleep you fall into but a kind of hole in your mind, a grave for something half dead that gets stabbed and choked by shadows.”

  All eyes were on Vralko. Hunched down next to them, his features revealed a look of far-away dread, memories of horror.

  “You survived,” said Mokle.

  Vralko eyed the Nightfinder. “They had me rigged up in the Krenza estate underfactory for five years until the rasp crept into my joints, then I was put in a garment hut for two years, off to the farms to pick for a year, then barn sweeping for two. Back when I was on the lines, me and two others were caught trying to escape to the north so when we got back to the underfactory they put us on punishment pacing.” He poked Mokle’s shoulder. “You youngers’ll have heard bloody tales about what the Stage-Master’s rigs can do to the body but I’ve seen it and felt it! Spines damaged, organs ruptured, cracked bones bursting through the skin, limbs half torn off but the exposed muscles still spasming as the rig keeps making the body do the work! And you think I survived.” The old Chainer gritted his teeth. “Only part of me survived.”

  Pyke had watched the forms labouring out there in the glare of angled lamps, and listened to all that Vralko said. And a certain type of resolve stirred at the core of his spirit, something quite different from the hot glittering hate he felt–still felt–towards Dervla’s captor, Khorr. It was cold resolve, patient and ruthless.