Neal Asher - The Engineer Reconditioned

“You,Tanis.”

The man by the mast stands and looks to Hinks with a kind of hope. Hinks keeps the Book firmly tucked under his arm as he gives his orders.

“Help him… in whatever way he requires.”

Tanis gazes with compassion to his companion on the deck and draws a knife from his belt sheath. Cheyne is still grieving but now Jan is with him and they hold each other. Hinks does not want to go below decks just yet. He does not want to see what is there.

“Hinks… sir,” the other crewman calls to him.

“What is it… Lai?”

Hinks walks over and stands beside him.

“Watch,” says Lai.

The man skewers a piece of the Fage and throws it into the sea — as it hits the water it changes into a turtle crab, the next piece turns into a green mackerel, and the next into a small shark. Hinks understands now why the Captain was always frightened. The Book is heavy under his arm and he has only seen a few of its many thin pages. He wonders what the Captain read that frightened him so badly, and if he ever read any more.

To Mark, the runcible was the altar to some cybernetic god of technology, and he felt like an acolyte come before it for the first time. He considered it the nearest thing to an icon in this Godless society, and consequently looked upon it as an enemy of his faith.

Skaidon technology.

The religion.

The room containing the runcible was a fifty metre sphere of mirrored metal — the containment sphere beyond which the buffers operated. It was floored with black glass, and mounted on a central stepped pedestal or the same substance, were the ten metre incurving bull’s horns of the runcible itself. Between these shimmered the cusp of the Skaidon warp, or the spoon. Mark could remember someone trying to explain five-dimensional singularity mechanics to him, but the subject did not interest him. They dined on mince and slices of quince.

He was to be quince: he was to be a mitter traveller.

He advanced into the room, across the black glass to the steps, mounted them. Before the cusp he paused for a moment and tapped the cross, tattooed on his wrist, for luck. Our Father who art in Heaven —

He stepped through.

STOP/START.

Hallowed be thy name.

He had travelled by runcible many times before, and on every occasion found it a deeply disturbing experience. He could not grasp that the step he had just taken had been light-years long. The universe should not be so big. He refused to believe there were things the unaugmented human mind could not understand.

“Mark Christian?”

He turned his attention to the woman waiting on the black glass of this second runcible chamber. She was short, with the muscular body of one raised on a plus G planet. Her hair was cropped and dyed with rainbow spirals and she wore skintight monofilament overalls. Her eyes were the eyes of a cat. In terms of Earth fashion she was about two years out of date.

Mark allowed himself a smug little smile as he walked down the steps to meet her. “Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you.”

He pumped her hand and gazed beyond her to the door of the chamber. Where was the Director? Who was this woman? He would have to have words. Didn’t they realise who he was? “I am Carmen Smith. Welcome to Station Seventeen.”

“Oh, really?”

Mark released her hand with a touch of distaste. She had calluses!

“If you will come with me I will show you to your quarters. Sorry not to have a welcoming committee here, but we are very busy and don’t spend much time on the social niceties.” He only realised his gaffe when he was following her out.

Carmen Smith… Oh God!

He had just met the Director.

Xenoethnologist my ass. I don’t need this.

“I take it you received all your immuno treatments?”

It was a stupid question to ask, she was well aware, but she did not think she would be having a sensible conversation with this idiot.

“Yes,” said Christian.

Carmen noticed he was a little pale. “You do know this is an open runcible?” Mark nodded. Carmen studied him for a moment, wondering what his problem might be. Perhaps he knew of her objections to him coming here. She shook her head and turned to the door. It slid open and they stepped outside.

The sky was alien. No other word applied. He could have said it was the colour of blackberry cordial shone through with a sun lamp or that the clouds were like the froth on fermenting red wine. But those were descriptions taking as their basis things from Earth — things familiar. The sky was not familiar. It was something seen in Technicolor nightmares and the strangest of dreams. He stood under a sky an unimaginable distance from Earth. Another world. Another place. An element in the dreams of another species. Abruptly he realised Carmen was speaking to him.

“—it’s fatal to anthropomorphise.”

“Sorry…?”

“The Orbonnai are very like us physiologically.”

“Oh, yes… I am trained in these matters.”

“I thought it best to warn you. There have been members of Station Seventeen who had formed too close an attachment to the likes of Paul.”

“Paul?”

Carmen gazed at him speculatively. Abruptly he felt foolish, but the sky and the weird contorted landscape below it had denuded him of words. He shrugged as if making himself more comfortable in his fashionable jacket.

“That is anthropomorphising in itself,” he said. “I myself adhere to Gordon’s dictum; ‘If it is alien, give it an alien name’. ‘Paul’ is far too prosaic.”

He glanced at her again and took in the angular beauty of her tanned features. She’d had alterations other than her eyes, yet, because she was out of date she seemed more… plausible. She said, “The runcible technicians named him Paul. Edron, the co-ordinator of the planetary biostudy team, then tried to have his name changed to Xanthos or some such. Never caught on.” Mark nodded to himself like someone with access to privileged information. “I would be most interested to view any studies made of him.”

Carmen glanced at him. “I’ll have the recordings sent to your quarters directly.” After leaving the shower and donning his silk Faberge lounging suit, Mark dropped in the chair before his viewing screen and caressed a touch-plate with his finger. The screen flickered on to show him a scene of dense jungle on the edge of a stream with banks of blue sand. He fast-forwarded it until there were signs of movement from the jungle. A narrative began as he watched. He jumped with surprise then glanced around guiltily before returning his attention to the screen.

The orboni edged out of the jungle, wire-taut as it surveyed its surroundings, then squatted down in the sand at the edge of the river. It was difficult not to ascribe human characteristics to it, with its bilateral symmetry, arms and legs, and its upright stance. Yet, it was bone-white and with a head like the bare skull of a bird. Half listening to the narrative, Mark watched it intently.

“—and the immediate and invalid assumption being that Paul was a tool user. Note the three fingered hands and opposable thumb. As we now know, Daneson was in error. It is far too easy to anthropomorphise when faced with creatures which bear such a close physiological resemblance to humanity. Here we see the true use of that opposable thumb, and more importantly, the long mid-finger with its hooked point. It is relevant at this point to add, that the Orbonnai do not have nails. As Gordon once had the temerity to conjecture; ‘If they don’t have nails they don’t use tools. Imagine bashing your finger with a hammer.’ A most dubious—”

Mark turned the sound down as he observed Paul. He did not need the distraction of this babble. He knew what he was searching for, and he knew he would find it. According to the highest Church authorities the Orbonnai were pre-ascension.