Authors: Neal Asher
‘Hey, it’s carrying someone!’ shouted Lember, now gazing through Sprage’s tripod-mounted binoculars. Sprage dropped his feet from the rail, stood, and walked to the front
ladder of the forecabin, puffing on his pipe. Soon he was up standing beside Lember.
‘Spot who it is?’ he asked.
Lember jumped back from the binoculars, and glared at his Captain. Sprage might be ancient, but he certainly moved soft.
‘Can’t really see,’ said the crewman.
Sprage gently pushed past him and, moving his pipe so it jutted sideways from his mouth, he put his eyes to his binoculars.
‘Olian Tay,’ he said, and stepped back to watch the sail come in to land.
This sail was a big one, and the boom of its wings had its smaller kin on the spars flinching back. It deposited Olian on the main deck then, hovering above her, it stretched out its neck
towards the other sail.
‘Bugger off,’ it said succinctly.
The smaller sail hurriedly released its grip on the spars, furled its wings, hauled itself higher up the mast and launched away from Windcheater. The bigger sail now descended and quickly
settled himself into position.
‘Interesting,’ said Sprage.
Lember watched as Olian climbed to her feet then came stomping towards the forecabin.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘You don’t often see them doing that.’
Sprage faced him, pointed a finger to one side of his own neck, then pointed down at the sail’s head.
‘Ah,’ said Lember, squinting at the aug Windcheater had acquired.
Sprage moved away to the ladder and climbed down to the main deck. As Tay approached him, her face was flushed and there was a touch of exhilaration in her expression.
‘I was just about to send for you,’ he said. ‘Interesting times.’ He turned to regard the new sail, that had swung its head round the mast to watch the two of them.
‘They are that,’ agreed Tay.
Just then, Sprage spotted the holocorder sliding around them in a wide arc.
‘I would guess
you
know about Frisk?’ he said with a raised eyebrow.
‘I know about her – and I want to be in at the kill.’
‘Like you were with Grenant?’ Sprage asked, fixing his attention back on the sail.
‘If possible,’ said Tay, trying to keep an impassive face.
Sprage nodded as he once again puffed at his pipe. After a moment he said, ‘Welcome aboard, sail, how are you called?’
‘The name’s Windcheater,’ said the sail. ‘And I’ll want paying for this.’
The sun edged over the horizon, and turned umber clouds to turquoise silk. About their business over the sea, three sails glided across the face of this orb as its light
revealed a ship far out on the water, and decked it blue with gleams of emerald. Ambel stared at the vessel for some time, then turned to Peck, crouching by the rail and staring down into the
water. Peck looked distinctly unwell in this morning light. The scars on his face were livid and his eyes were dark with blood.
‘What is it, Peck,’ Ambel asked him at last.
‘Bugger,’ muttered Peck.
Ambel waited for him to continue. It took him a while.
‘It
calls
me, Captain,’ Peck said.
‘It calls to us all. It’ll call to any who listen.’
‘It called and I went,’ Peck confessed.
‘What have you done, Peck?’ Ambel asked calmly.
Peck rested his forehead against the rail. ‘Wouldn’t stop. It had its hunger. I fed it to shut it up,’ he said.
Ambel glanced back at his cabin and considered, having spent the night in there, how the head had been strangely silent.
‘Did you release it?’ Ambel asked.
‘No, Captain.’
‘What did you give it, then?’
‘Remains of the baiting steak.’
Ambel was about to make a reply to that when Boris yelled down from the nest, ‘It’s the
Ahab
!’
Ambel shaded his eyes to gaze out at the distant ship.
‘Now what’s Ron doing out here? Last I heard he was off after a load of turbul,’ he observed.
‘Maybe it calls him, too,’ said Peck.
Ambel stared down at his crewman and wondered if that might be true – for the Skinner called in different ways. Perhaps Ron was coming to deliver some long-avoided Convocation decision on
the matter. But he would soon know, as the
Ahab
was heading straight towards them. Ambel walked back to the door of his cabin and locked it. The next time he went in there, he would take
with him a harpoon wet with sprine. He didn’t like to think about what might be going on inside his sea-chest.
‘Get a cask up, lads,’ he yelled generally. ‘You know how thirsty Ron can be.’
And general laughter greeted this comment, though it was subdued.
The rowing boat approaching from the
Ahab
had six people in it. Ambel immediately discerned the large, bald-headed shape of Captain Ron at the tiller, and he guessed the
two at the oars to be Forlam and Goss. The other three were dressed like off-worlders, and for a moment he didn’t recognize any of them.
So he felt a momentary flush of pique when Boris recognized her first.
‘It’s Erlin!’ the crewman yelled from the nest.
Ambel squinted his eyes at the Earther woman. The last time he had seen her, she’d told him he was dead inside, and she seriously doubted if he was human any more. He wondered what she
wanted of him now. Was she starting to comprehend things beyond her own small compass? Was time now doing to her what it had done to him so long ago? Ambel doubted it. He shook his head and
concentrated his attention on the other two off-worlders. The blond-haired man wore the utile clothing of a seasoned traveller, and he wore it with the casual air of one who had not just donned it.
That one might be an interesting person to meet. The other man looked ill – or as if recovering from a long illness. He was bald and scrawny, though his bone structure was that of a
heavy-worlder. He was wearing monofilament overalls – utile garb again, but the kind worn by Golem androids and the like: individuals that did not worry too much about either the temperature
or their appearance. Was there something familiar about this man? Ambel felt the nag of memory and a surge of both apprehension and excitement. Perhaps he was from
before
? No, unlikely:
there were few off-worlders of that age. Ambel tried to dismiss these thoughts, but he still felt a nagging doubt.
The boat clunked against the side of the ship and greetings were shouted back and forth as a rope was thrown up for them to secure it, then a ladder lowered. Ron was first over the rail and
Boris thrust a jug into his hand. Ron downed it in one and handed it back for a refill.
‘How are y’, Peck m’boy!’ he bellowed at Peck, after he had bellowed greetings at each other member of Ambel’s crew.
Peck just stared at him, and Ron turned to Ambel.
‘Still a bit . . . y’know?’ he asked, making a wiggling motion with his hand.
Ambel nodded.
Erlin was next over the rail and, while each member of the crew greeted her, she kept her eyes fixed on Ambel. When he winked at her, a slow smile spread across her face. Goss immediately
started to come on to Boris, and Boris suggested showing her around the ship. Anne stared speculatively at Forlam, then filled a jug and took it over to him.
Ambel watched the blond man as he came over the rail assisting the bald one up behind him. The look blondy gave Erlin told Ambel all he wanted to know. He allowed himself a little smile, as it
wasn’t important. He stepped forward to greet the two new off-worlders.
‘Welcome to the
Treader
,’ he said.
With deep-blue eyes the bald man stared at Ambel, and an immediate shock of recognition ran between them.
‘This is Janer Cord Anders and this is Sable Keech,’ said Erlin, still smiling.
Ambel had only time to raise one hand before the first energy pulse slammed into his stomach. The next burnt a hole in his chest and the next blew away part of his shoulder. Collapsing, he
turned and ducked to protect his head. Another pulse hit him in the back and he lost it for a moment. As he came to, he groaned and rolled over, agony blurring his vision and sapping his
strength.
He looked up to see Keech glaring at him with flat hatred, while he tried to bring his weapon to bear again. Ron, Forlam, and Boris were all three having trouble restraining him, which was very
surprising. His struggles against them lasted only so long as it took Ron to get a hand free to slap him on the side of the head. As Keech went down, Ambel tried to rise, but that was not a good
idea. He felt the blood draining from his face and just had time to see Erlin crouching over him, peeling open a drug patch, before he lost consciousness for the second time.
Keech regained consciousness to find himself roped in a chair, with his head throbbing and an ache in his torso that evidenced the fact that someone had put the boot in as he
went down. He sat for a moment with his teeth firmly clenched against the vomit that threatened to rise into his mouth. As the nausea slowly started to recede, he tested the rope and found it
strong enough to restrain his human muscles. Next, he found that direct brain-to-cybermotor link that had nearly killed him, and tried again. This time the ropes stretched and the chair creaked.
But still he did not have the strength, augmented or otherwise, to free himself, so he scanned the cabin for some other means of escape.
No knife was lying handy on the desk and there were no useful sharp edges anywhere else, as was to be expected in a ship’s cabin. There were cupboards that might contain something he could
use, but what chance did he have, without being heard, of manoeuvring his chair to one of them and opening it? So he waited and, as he waited, he became aware of a sound . . . or something like a
sound. The sea-chest by the wall drew his attention. Before he could wonder what it was about this chest that increasingly riveted his attention, the door slammed open and Ron stomped in.
‘Give me a reason why I shouldn’t let the boys chuck you to the leeches,’ growled the Captain.
Keech tested his bonds again then let out a sigh. ‘My name is Sable Keech,’ he said.
‘I know that, but it don’t sound like reason enough for me.’
The Captain was angry, and Keech knew what damage an angry Hooper of his age could do. He suspected that if he didn’t explain himself soon, he wouldn’t even reach the sea in one
piece.
‘I first came here seven hundred years ago, with the ECS mission that released Hoop’s slaves. I was part of the attack force that raided Hoop’s stronghold – and I was the
one who subverted the program running the slave collars Hoop was using.’
In shock, Ron stared at Keech, then stepped back and sat down on the sea-chest. He shook his head, appearing confused for a moment, then realized where he was sitting and abruptly stood
again.
‘Keech?’ he said. ‘I came here after the war, but I know about you.’
‘I’m the same Keech who killed Frane and Rimsc, and I can recognize one of the Eight no matter how scarred and changed they may be. Ambel – a ridiculous anagram. So
you
don’t recognize him, even though you were present when the ex-slaves threw him into the leech swarm,’ said Keech. He spoke with the calm of utter certainty.
‘Gosk Balem,’ whispered Ron.
Keech awaited some explosive reaction, but there came none. Ron looked thoughtful for a moment, then he shuddered. He rubbed a hand down across his bare chest, where the leech scars were
thickest.
‘Are you going to release me now and let me finish what I started?’ asked Keech.
After a moment Ron said, ‘No.’
Keech felt a momentary sick anger. Had he misjudged? Could it be that Ambel was not the one he thought him to be? Or was Ron not who he thought either? So many memories crowding in his mind
– so many to sort, to know.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s not Gosk Balem,’ said Ron.
‘What makes you so sure of that?’ Keech sneered.
Ron advanced to stand over him, placed his hands on the arms of the chair.
‘It’s the sea, Sable Keech. It takes.’
With that, he turned from Keech and left the cabin. Keech stared at the door for a moment then slowly began to work his arms and legs against the rope. Motor and muscle. He broke skin and
ignored the pain. The chair began to creak. From the sea-chest there came sounds of movement – and that other sound, that whispering.
Keech worked harder at loosening his bonds, a sudden ludicrous idea occurring to him as to what was inside that chest.
The third male glister – the last one of this particular family had he but known it – was feeding with the female upon a turbul the size of a rowing boat. It
sensed that something was very wrong, just before a hawser of a tentacle wormed into view, coiled and crushed the female, then snatched her backwards, squealing, through the murk. This last
remaining male fled as fast as his flat tail and paddle legs could propel him. Another tentacle whipped out and slapped his side, cracking his armour, but driving him beyond the
predator’s reach. The monstrous whelk was unconcerned about this escape, as it crunched down the female glister, then turned its attention to the plenitude of turbul corpses and their
concomitant crop of leeches and prill. Perhaps it should have been more concerned about the heirodont, irate at having been deprived of the giant whelk it had been pursuing, and now ascending
through the waterfall of organic detritus in the hope that its source might quell the grumbling of its gargantuan stomach.
With so many eyes keeping watch for it in so many places, the Warden did not feel any guilt in allowing its attention to stray beyond Spatterjay to observe such momentous
events. In this particular observation it was not possible to easily maintain a direct link, so it created a submind ghost of itself that it sent hopping for lightyears: from runcible to runcible
and onwards to AI ships and ship’s drones, until it reached its destination. Here, as just one of many thousands cramming together to view one scene, it watched through the eyes of a Golem
– linked by virtual fingernails – while the essence of the ghost ran itself in the huge processing spaces of the thinly disguised AI battleships poised above the Prador world. It
recorded the momentous events, the AI reactions and net-space discussions, and relayed them back to itself every few seconds – a veritable age in AI terms.