Cowl (36 page)

Read Cowl Online

Authors: Neal Asher

BOOK: Cowl
10.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Palleque came over and picked up the displacement generator. ‘I'm surprised you had any of these to spare.'
‘I made sure there was one,' replied Goron. He waved a hand around Palleque's erstwhile apartment—now his cell. ‘You deserve better than to die here.' He turned to go.
‘Goron,' said Palleque, halting the Engineer's departure. ‘Good luck.'
‘Let us hope that is something we don't need too much of,' Goron replied as he left the cell.
Palleque:
As if he too would not sacrifice his life to that end, my brother Saphothere feels I too fanatically seek to avenge the death of our sister, Astolere. That I have become Cowl's agent he attributes to Coptic and Meelan. But those two are not really accepted by the other Umbrathane. It is fortunate that my ostensible fanaticism prevents him from asking further questions. I was always Cowl's agent, and have remained in communication with him. The destructive war between Umbra and Heliothane is an utter waste, and I considered the preterhuman the ideal candidate to rule us all. It was I who passed on the displacement technology to the Umbrathane, to enable them to escape Heliothane oppression, and much else have I done. Cowl was suspicious at first but, upon discovering that I supposedly did not know what had happened to my sister, concocted the story that she, along with the entire population of Callisto, is with him behind the Nodus. I was wrong: Cowl is too careless of human life to rule us. And at the least he must be made powerless—the very least.
 
W
HEN THEY GOT HIM ashore and Tacitus started work on getting the water out of his lungs, Polly stepped back, her hand dropping to her taser in its waterproof pouch at her hip, then sliding across to the sheath knife beside it. Tacitus did not notice this movement as the rescuee now coughed sea water and blood from his lungs and the Roman, as he had been taught, turned him into the recovery position.
‘It is surprising that this man is still alive,' commented the Roman—in the Heliothane language they all now spoke after an instructive session connected to Aconite's Pedagogue machine. Tacitus then grabbed hold of the man's arm,
putting a foot in his armpit then pulling and twisting, relocating his shoulder joint. The rescued man groaned, fell back into his prior position and curled up his legs.
‘His name is Tack. He is the man I told you about a while ago—the killer I dragged back with me for a few shifts,' Polly told him.
Speaking out loud through a link established to Wasp shortly after Polly's rescue, Nandru interjected, ‘And now things become clear. You recollect that a piece of your tor, in its still nascent stage, was left embedded in this U-gov bastard's wrist?'
‘I still can't see what's worth saving here,' said Polly.
‘Things have changed and we all know so much more,' said Tacitus, looking up. ‘I would even save enemies of Rome, here and now, should they survive Cowl's ungentle ministrations.'
‘You hear that, Polly?' Nandru asked. ‘I hope so, because I've just informed Aconite that friend Tack here is still alive. Come on, you know U-gov assassins aren't my favourite playmates, but I damned well want to hear what this one has to say for himself.'
Polly let her hand slip away from her knife, not exactly sure what emotion she was feeling. There was anger, yes, for earlier this man had been intent on killing her, but that anger was no longer a savage thing within her. Where, in the end, would she be now without Nandru and then this one? Rotting in her bedsit, and perhaps moving onto the needle like Marjae had, blowing U-gov officials in back alleys when not being screwed up against a wall, dropping her price as the goods became more shoddy. The more she thought about it, the more ambivalent her feelings became.
‘Come on, let's get him onto Wasp,' she decided abruptly.
For Polly only, Nandru said,
Of course, I don't think he'll live that much longer if Cowl or the Umbrathane realize he's still alive. And if they don't know yet, they can find out soon enough.
Between them, Polly and Tacitus picked up Tack and dropped him into Wasp's rear compartment. Studying him, Polly saw that his injuries were extensive. He certainly had a compound fracture of his ankle, for bone was sticking out of his flesh. Deep wounds in his chest were seeping blood, and the medscanner Tacitus had pressed against his neck showed his vital signs on the wane. But it was unlikely he would die irrecoverably because, even if his heart stopped, Wasp possessed the facility to plug into a person's neck and keep an oxygenated haematic fluid circulating around the brain, which was all Aconite
needed to maintain someone's life—other repairs she could perform in her surgical facility.
They headed back towards their hostess's home, glancing back occasionally to check for any activity apparent in Cowl's citadel, but all remained quiet out on the sea as if, having spat out the indigestible remains of some meal, the place was now contemplating what to eat next. As they reached her home, Aconite and the others came out to meet them.
‘Another man,' snorted Cheng-yi, before heading back inside.
Lostboy stared long and hard at Tack before something seemed to go click in his mind. He jerked his head up, pointing out to sea. ‘The beast.' They all turned to look.
Polly had wondered at the earlier stillness and now realized why. The Umbrathane customarily ceased their constant maintenance of the citadel and fled to its interior safety chambers whenever Cowl summoned all the energy from the geological taps for the purpose of linking to the torbeast. Now, the very air around the citadel seemed full of distortions and hints of nightmarish shapes, where the beast encroached upon the real.
‘Coming after
him
?' Ygrol asked, stabbing a thumb towards the unconscious Tack.
Aconite shook her head. ‘Cowl would not expend such energy. He'd just send Makali out here, or fire a missile direct from one of the citadel's emplacements.'
From Wasp, Nandru said, ‘But not a coincidence, I'd warrant.'
‘Certainly not,' Aconite replied. ‘Cowl is no doubt acting on information obtained from this newcomer.' She was studying her palm screen. ‘Our friend here has been comprehensively mind-fucked.'
They carried Tack inside and laid him down on Aconite's surgical table. Polly was the last to leave the room as Aconite began pulling her medical machines into place.
‘He's the one I dragged back … the one who tried to kill me,' she said.
‘So Nandru has informed me,' Aconite replied. ‘Be assured, though, that this is not the same individual. The one who attacked you was a human automaton programmed by your controlling government. That automaton has since, unless I am mistaken, been reprogrammed by the Heliothane. And since then, again, has had his programs and much of his mind ripped apart by Cowl. I don't know how much there will be left of him—he might be another Lostboy by the time I've finished.'
Polly gave a small nod and exited the room.
 
 
ITS HUNGER WAS IMMENSE, but each time it fed it pushed itself even further down the probability slope, yet it knew that if it could somehow feed enough, things would change for it. Thinking, as it perpetually did, in five dimensions, it was aware that oblivion lay in both directions on this temporal line. Allowing its consciousness to fall into the past, it dropped back to its secondary inception—from when its consciousness had materialized in the Precambrian. Pushing into the future, it found long slow starvation in a world in which it was the only life form, resulting, at its death, in the truncation of that alternate in vorpal and thus temporal terms. Only here, holding its position in what it defined to itself as the
now
, where up-slope energy was being fed down to it, could it maintain temporal life. Now, and always now, the energy being fed to it was huge—and growing.
The Maker wanted something of it, as he always did, but the torbeast was never anything less than utterly grateful and adoring. Every time he wanted something, the opportunities given for feeding far outweighed any concomitant pain. On many occasions the beast had suffered loss of its mass through attacks from the enemy, but with side-branched feeders it hoovered up biomass from alternates further down the slope, and this, though not commensurate, satisfied sufficiently its endless urge to
feed
. But this time there was something different. The promise this time was of unrestrained feeding on the enemy, the life system of a whole alternate to denude, without consequence—billions of human lives and vast biomass, with which it could achieve …
all
.
Drawing on the energy font, the torbeast shoved its mass over those alternates it had previously denuded, and which had been the cause of its fall down the slope. It manifested thus in the skies of barren Earths—a glimpse of organic hell—then shifted on. On a world where the sea was occupied only by single-celled organisms, it flooded out around another energy font, drawing all of itself through as, over the span of millennia, the first font died.
The beast's substance drew in from its secondary inception point, and in from that future of its own death. In a wave of living tissue, kilometres high, it flooded across a barren continent, ripping aside mountain chains and tearing up the plains before it. Storms dogged its progress, cloud formations boiling across the sky above it, and lightning walked across its flesh. Then, reaching the ocean surrounding the continent, this wave broke into a chaos of filter-feeding mouths like stalked whales, plunging into the waters and driving a second tsunami ahead. Spreading out into the oceans, it fed, sucking up biomass by
the kilotonne, digesting lakes of organic slurry, driving on in a global apocalypse. Only the heat of volcanic vents diverted this progress, as did the steam explosion from a volcanic island chain now swamped by the wave. At the font its substance poured in slower then slower. Then, with a thunderclap that blew hurricanes across the beast's heaving landscape, the flow ceased. But by then the torbeast had met itself on the other side of the planet, and it now wholly occupied this alternate Earth.
 
A GREY-SKINNED WOMAN STOOPED over him. He recognized her in some fragment of his mind. At the foot of the table he could see the fleshy squid-like tentacles extending from the carapace of an autosurgeon and he felt their wet touch on his leg. As the bioconstruct straightened his ankle, pain briefly laced together the elements of his sentience, and he found enough strength to yell out and jerk upright. A heavy three-fingered hand stilled his protest by the sight of it, even more than the pressure it exerted against his chest to push him back down.
‘You surprise me,' she said.
He gazed at her disparate arms and couldn't find any meaning in her words at first. Then something meshed in his mind and he understood.
‘Why?' he grated. But the question was not directed at her.
Why am I? Why is this? Why everything?
‘I see that your shut-off point is graded somewhat above that occasioned by your trauma. Deliberate but cruel augmentation I think.'
That meant nothing to him. He blinked and listened to the sound of a storm outside.
‘I'm Tack,' he mouthed silently to himself, and wasn't sure what that meant either.
His mind consisted of disconnected monads, now shaping themselves to each other and searching for connection. On some level he realized he was rebuilding himself, but not quite in the same way as before—like a demolished house rebuilt with the same bricks, a house would result but the individual bricks would not be in exactly the same positions. Foundations did remain, but Tack had memory of things that no longer controlled him, found voids, and sought structure. With all the rage and love of a living man he sought to
be
, and felt dread, and a terrible yearning.
‘There. The anaesthetic doesn't work, but this will.'
Blackness interminable, filled with leviathan structures falling against each
other and bonding. Then terrible thirst and a massive hand supporting his head to the cool rim of a glass against his lips. He drank cold water.
He'd earlier seen the girl Nandru Jurgens had used, and whom his Director of Operations had subsequently ordered him to kill, but that he discounted as hallucination. This grey-skinned woman, with her strange hands and penetrating golden eyes, he could not deny. He stared at her as she withdrew the glass, and operated some control to raise the backrest of the surgical table further, but then she moved away about her tasks amongst the esoteric machinery that surrounded him.
Now he observed his naked body. Pipes ran from his chest to a wheeled machine nearby, and fluids—dark, clear, bloody and translucent blue—ran through those pipes. He saw that the wounds in his chest were now just sealed lines and that the autosurgeon had withdrawn, leaving an organic-looking surgical boot enclosing his foot and ankle.
‘You've been unconscious for three days and I've repaired most of your internal injuries. The bone glue is very effective, but I wouldn't advise any gymnastics just yet,' the woman warned him, her back turned to him.
The voice was as calm and modulated as that of a professional killer, Tack thought. He wondered if it was this about her that bothered him, but, no, he hadn't heard her voice before, had he? He realized then what was familiar about her. Though distorted, she had much of the physiognomy of another.
Cowl.
With a lurch of dread Tack instantly realized that Cowl must not see into his thoughts again. Now, Tack's mind being in such different order, he realized that in his eagerness, Cowl had not delved deeply enough. The being had not heard the one called Thote saying,
‘Like the girl who passed through here fifty years ago, you're just a piece of temporal detritus. In your case primed and filled with poison, then sent on its way.'
And Cowl had not felt Tack's later puzzlement at why he had not been provided with weapons capable of a distance hit, nor why he had been so ill-prepared for a fight involving time travel.

Other books

Three Little Words by Maggie Wells
Leaves of Flame by Joshua Palmatier
Stage 6 by James, Dylan
The Sun Will Shine Tomorrow by Maureen Reynolds
Lost in the Barrens by Farley Mowat
The Laura Cardinal Novels by J. Carson Black