Ancestral Machines

by Michael Cobley

  “Because someone over there doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Pyke said. “So the entire Warcage and all its planets can be steered, like some massive bombship…”

  “Yes, Captain, although from what I have been told it would take some time to prepare the drives for such a journey…”

  Pyke suddenly heard a faint chiming, realised it was coming from his headset and fumbled it back on. “Hello, hello, yes, it’s me, stop the damn ringing…”

  The chiming cut off and Sam Brock spoke.

  “Hello Captain, still not dead yet, then.”

  “Well, various types of scumbag have been having a go, Lieutenant, but here I am, still in the game, large as life and twice as handsome!”

  “All across the Warcage hearts will be a-flutter at the news.”

  “That could be both true and worrying,” Pyke said. “So, how did you get on with saving that fleet of yours?”

  “Managed to save some of it,” Brock said, sounding subdued all of a sudden. “Made contact via the Scarabus, spoke with Vice-Admiral Ndoga and filled him in on his situation, advised him to hold position while we work on the whole hyperspace defences problem. I omitted to give him too many details of what we’re up against, just gave him the broad-brush picture, so to speak.”

  Pyke glanced at Akreen, who was frowning as if in concentration.

  “Just as well,” Pyke said. “The truth about our friend, Gun-Lord Xra-Huld, might be a bit hard to take. Especially as that body-jacking pusbag is over in the Sunheart, getting ready to rev up the engines for a spot of crash-bang mayhem.”

  “Not as such,” Brock said. “I’m in the command chamber at the top of the tower, just got here a minute or two ago, me, Rensik and a squad of Malginori… after decamping over to this Sunheart bunker or whatever it is, Xra-Huld managed to disable the portal gate over there, which stops us dead in our tracks. Not only that, it looks as if several key control functions have been transferred over there as well…”

  “Just a second,” Pyke said, looking up at Akreen. “Can you hear what we’re saying?”

  The Zavri was composed. “The conductive nature of my physiology allows me to attune myself to your device and pick up your discussion.”

  Pyke nodded. “Okay, Lieutenant, so what are these functions you mentioned?”

  “Controlling the sun,” Brock said bluntly. “Rensik is still scanning the control panels and displays but he’s going on about ‘coronal mass ejections’, ‘guided plasma bolus’, and ‘multiple targets’…”

  “Whoa, what was that?” Pyke said. “What d’ye mean ‘coronal ejections’? Yer not seriously saying that he can fire missiles out of the sun?”

  “Rensik thinks that a rudimentary pressure regulation system has been modified for that purpose, but never used. The most obvious threat is the ES fleet, so perhaps that’s what he means by multiple targets.”

  “Captain,” said Akreen. “I think that it is more likely that the Gun-Lord would deploy such a devastating weapon against those worlds seeking to defy Shuskar authority, although the intruder vessels could be considered secondary targets.”

  For a moment Pyke was speechless. “The ships I could understand–but throwing chunks of the sun at planets? What the hell would that do to one?”

  “There would be havoc and widespread destruction,” said Akreen. “Continents would burn, super-heated plasma would raise atmospheric temperatures and there would be mass-deaths…”

  Pyke could feel the headache coming back and kneaded his temples. “The more I learn about these sentient biomech deathmongers from hell… I just wonder what kind of mad, vicious bastards could set them loose on the universe? I’d get them all together on one asteroid and carpet-nuke it from every direction!” He paused and glanced at Akreen while continuing to talk down the channel to Brock. “What about missiles? Any way we could get one through that would throw that filthy skagger off his stride?”

  Akreen was shaking his head even as Sam Brock replied.

  “Can’t be done–the Sunheart refuge is apparently suspended about five hundred miles beneath the corona and no military missile could survive contact with superhot plasma for the time it would take.”

  “And even if one could endure it long enough to reach the Sunheart,” Akreen pointed out, “the detonation might kill or stop Xra-Huld, or it might equally destroy some system essential to the Warcage’s equilibrium. We could accidentally fulfil the Gun-Lord’s lust for destruction.”

  “Does that mean that we’re boned?” Pyke said, gnawing on his lip. “I refuse to believe that there’s no way to stop that pus-sucking vermin.”

  And no way to get Dervla back.

  “Rensik says that rebooting the hub-gate system here might force the isolated portal gate in the Sunheart to reset itself into open mode,” Brock said over the comm. “But he also says that it would take several hours due to subsidiary systems sequential something-or-other.”

  The silence that took hold then was dismal. Then Akreen spoke.

  “Captain Pyke, there is one hazardous way in which a small task force might reach the Sunheart. However, you may not like it.”

  “Why?” Pyke said. “What is it?”

  “Ah, well, of course,” said Brock slowly. “Yeah, you wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, this is rich,” said Pyke. “The two of you aren’t even in the same room and you’re giving each other nods and winks, practically…” Then the import of Akreen’s words finally struck home. “Ah right, I see…”

  “Exactly,” Brock said. “So what we need to know is, how much punishment can the Scarabus’s shields actually take?”

  From his mesh cage’s position atop the heap of cases and crates, Rensik had a front-row seat as Gun-Lord Xra-Huld’s plans gradually came to fruition. Here he was at the very pinnacle of the Sunheart, a colossal edifice of galleried platform and grandiose halls and arches piled on top of each other in towering succession, flanked on all sides by forcefield walls filtering the ferocious blaze of the sun to a rippling pale orange. Right here was where the long-vanished Builders had decided to locate their main control and observation nexus. Huge display sections spread out like wings to either side above wide banks of instruments and interface stations. The whole setup looked like a stage upon which great dramas could be played out. And not far away, behind the stack of cases that was Rensik’s perch, were curved rows of plush seating awaiting patrons.

  But Rensik was all the audience there was for Xra-Huld’s unfolding schemes, not counting the dozen or so pale and wordless thralls doggedly obeying the Gun-Lord’s every command. There were also a few armed Shuskar guards around, somewhere; the drone’s field of vision was limited to this vicious and bizarre creature and its enigmatic plans. At the moment, one whole wing of displays was devoted to visual feeds from outside and inside the Citadelworld base. Tracking shots of fighting or pursuits through the empty chambers of the Shadow Bastion were intermingled with static views of dead bodies and smouldering debris.

  The other wing of monitors showed scenes from various worlds, scattered across the Warcage. Fighting and explosions, a common theme, feeds from handheld cams following troops retreating from cities, from towns, from a river or a burning forest, and occasionally there were shots of large transports loading passengers or taking off. The Gun-Lord was in conversation with a high-ranking Shuskar whose decoration-bejewelled uniform proclaimed his title, Lord-Governor Pukari of Torghav. His features, however, were stricken with dread as the Gun-Lord aimed question after question at him.

  “… training exercises at this time every year, Most Exalted,” said the Lord-Governor. “We had no warning.”

  “When the Chainers began their campaign of sabotage and ambush over a month ago, all planetary governors were strongly advised to vary the timetables of all military movements.” Xra-Huld pointed at the Lord-Governor. “You chose to ignore this advice, and look! Endolak raiders now hold all three of your fortified garrisons, along with their stores, munitions and vehicles.
Unsurprisingly, the capital is also in enemy hands and your unsupplied forces are in full retreat to the spaceport where you…” Xra-Huld paused to smile cruelly, “… you and your court await my judgement!”

  “If it pleases you, most Exalted One,” said Pukari, dabbing at the sweat on his face and neck with a gauzy cloth. “Our loyalty has never wavered–I ask, I beg for your aid and assistance, for evacuation from Torghav to the Citadelworld. There we can mend our wounds, rebuild our strength and with your blessing prepare a mighty counterattack.”

  “Gross incompetence like yours would normally be rewarded with a lavishly public and inordinately painful death,” said the Gun-Lord. “But in the aftermath of the triumph-to-come I shall have need of bureaucrats to run the agri-worlds. So be of good cheer, Pukari–your miserable carcass has been saved by your underlings and beancounters. Now go and prepare for evacuation–transports shall arrive soon.”

  Xra-Huld cut off the Lord-Governor in mid-gratitude grovel.

  Rensik noted how the biomech parasite took great delight in subjecting its subjects and servants to sadistic levels of misery and anxiety–yet another in a long line of confirming instances in which organics just loved torturing other organics. Because that’s what the biomechs were in the end, cyborged amalgams of living tissue and lab-grown pseudo-polymer which could grow and act like organic matter while retaining certain conductive properties.

  But observing this repellent tyrant was really a matter of collecting details, information which would help to solve the mystery that had been building ever since the Gun-Lord’s arrival on the Citadelworld. The drone had known that the command centre at the top of the Shadow Bastion was not Xra-Huld’s final destination back then, especially when the toadying attendants quickly activated that big, elaborate portal gate and began energetically shoving crates and other luggage through it.

  This vile, parasitic half-machine is planning something massively, extravagantly horrific, something lurid resulting in havoc and death, a lot of death. Nothing less will satisfy its ego.

  Among the crates and cases was one which Rensik thought might be a piece of advanced comms tech, and the way it was plumbed in soon after arrival confirmed it. Not being able to use his sensors was intensely aggravating, forcing Rensik to rely solely on visual data.

  And now a new image had appeared on one of the displays, the familiar shaven-headed features of the Gun-Lord’s operative, Khorr. The background looked like a dark corridor lit only by slotted torches. Khorr was armed, as were the troops behind him.

  “Summarise your position,” said Xra-Huld.

  “The Chainers pushed the Cregrin and the Avang back into the tower,” Khorr said. “But, Exalted One, they’ve been using some kind of portal generator to hit our forces from unexpected directions–we had to pull back or be cut to pieces.” He paused. “Do you… know about the other Gun-Lords, Most Exalted?”

  “I felt their passing,” said Xra-Huld. “Were there any witnesses?”

  “None, only rumours of another mystery weapon, Exalted One.”

  “We shall exact a vengeance price,” said the Gun-Lord. “And it shall be easy now that G’Brozen Mav and his rabble have effectively trapped themselves on the Citadelworld, or will have done once you render that outworlder ship useless.”

  “Should I attempt to sabotage it?”

  “No, I want you to go to my flagship and use its weapons to wreck the outworlders’ vessel. The flagship crew have been told to expect you–also I have promoted you to Shuskar Admiral and added you to the roster. The ship will now obey your commands.”

  “I am deeply honoured, Exalted One. When does the scouring phase begin?”

  And at that very moment a small pointy shape edged into view right outside Rensik’s mesh cage. It was Rensik 2.0.

  “What in the name of mechanical hell are you doing here?” he said. “Did you send that message?”

  “I ensured that it was taken care of,” said the minidrone. “I came after you because my analysis revealed that your incarceration would remove a crucial variable from all possible incident-strings. Conversely, your freedom to act shifts all other variables into less disastrous outcome configurations.”

  “Less disastrous? Scarcely an inspiring qualifier.”

  “Once free from captivity, your actions can directly influence the outcome configurations themselves. In the meantime, I would strongly suggest departing from your prison, since the tyrant’s discussion with its underling appears to be reaching a conclusion.”

  There was a soft click and the mesh wall of the confining box slid upwards.

  Ah well, Rensik thought. It would be a relief to be back out in the world of signals and data again. And after all, the youngster has clearly gone to a lot of trouble…

  Silently hovering, Rensik floated out of the cage and stealthily followed his scion down from the stage dais, then slipped into the shadows beneath the nearest staircase. Below the entire auditorium was a web of supporting frameworks, and a network of heavy-duty feed cables.

  “I know how much you like raw data flows,” said Rensik 2.0.

  “Most thoughtful of you,” said Rensik 1.0. “Time we got to work on shifting those variables.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  With Punzho using the portal generator to create a series of portal bridges, Pyke and Akreen and the entire crew were able to leapfrog from the tower balcony to the Scarabus’s dockside berth in a matter of minutes. Some moments later Sam Brock arrived in a double-rotor, two-seater flier steered by one of the Malginori. The small craft was little more than a functional chassis with bolted-on seats and a safety cage that looked like an afterthought. Pyke grinned widely as the lieutenant clambered unsteadily out, clearly relieved to be back on a solid surface.

  “Nothing like a bracing dash through the air while strapped to a rustic eggbeater, eh?”

  “Brings a whole new meaning to the words ‘hair-raising’,” she said, standing back as the flier pilot took off with a clattering buzz and headed back to the tower.

  Brock faced Akreen and gave a snappy salute. “First Blade Akreen, I am Lieutenant Brock, Earthsphere Naval Intelligence. I look forward to helping you bring this situation to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” said the Zavri. “I am seeking the death of the last Gun-Lord and vengeance for my people. I gladly accept your aid in such a task.”

  “Don’t worry, Akreen, me ould sweat,” said Pyke. “Once we rescue Dervla, you can have all the death and vengeance you want. Now, the good lieutenant’ll take you aboard, show you the bridge and all that, while I give out some orders, here.”

  Brock frowned darkly at him, then shrugged and went to usher Akreen up the ramp to the main hold. Pyke watched them go then turned to face his crew, but it was Kref who beat him to the punch, seeming to read Pyke’s intentions on his face.

  “Are you making us stay behind, Captain?”

  “Not fair, chief, not fair!” said Ancil. “You’re letting the Lady Lieutenant go along—”

  “Letting? She told me she was going, and besides, she does happen to be a trained combat officer—”

  “Oh right! Stronger than Kref? More explosives-cunning than me? I don’t think so.”

  “No, yer staying here and that’s final, get me?” Pyke’s anger surged to the surface, almost boiling over. This on-the-fly plan to slam the Scarabus into the sun was deranged, beyond demented, the sort of plan that only a crazed metal man and an Earthsphere officer berserk enough to take on the Warcage with only a robot for company could dream up. In truth they had run out of options but this time he could not in all conscience bring the crew with him, not when the chances of survival were slender at best. He could imagine the choice curses Dervla would rain down on his head if he told her he’d asked the crew to fly into the pestilential sun to win someone else’s war. Breathing in deep, he reached for composure. “Look, me boys, this is the maddest stunt I’ve ever got m’self mixed up in, and I have to take a swin
g at it otherwise things could get really crazy-ugly–but this time I want you daft gougers safe and out of it, am I clear, now? This is an order.”

  Ancil shook his head in disbelief. “How am I ever going to find Win?”

  “I’ll get the truth, Ans, even if I have to cut it out of that evil biomech with a blunt knife! Now, are we settled, or do I have to wrestle each and every one o’ ye over it?”

  There were resentful looks followed by sorrowful nods. Good, Pyke thought. Better for you to be alive and resenting me than burnt to a crisp! Then Ancil brightened.

  “Well, if we can’t come along, we could steal that Shuskar ship for ya, chief–whaddya think?”

  Pyke glanced down at the huge, ungainly vessel. “Bound to be guards on board,” he said.

  Ancil shrugged. “Never stole a ship that big before–could be fun.”

  “Ach. Just be careful about it, ye mad skaggers!” Pyke said, raising his hand in farewell before climbing the ramp up into the Scarabus’s main hold.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain,” said the ship AI. “Are the other crew members accompanying us?”

  “Nope, they’re sitting it out for this jaunt, so we’ll have to manage by ourselves,” Pyke said. “You can button her up tight and prep for departure. And ask the lieutenant and our Zavri guest to meet me in Engineering.”

  “Will do, Captain.”

  The hum of servoed hydraulics closing the cargo bay door thrummed in the air as Pyke took the small lifter platform up to the catwalk level. The ship was quiet, in its own way, providing that background murmur made up from innumerable systems and vents and pumps and the occasional leakage of audiocode as systems talked to one another. Pyke found it soothing, oddly restful. This was a bit how the Scarabus felt after they’d just completed a mission and got paid, when the crew were usually out on the town or orbital station, heading for party-wired oblivion. Except that there was also an underlying tension, making it feel like the lull before entering the arena.