Neal Asher - The Engineer Reconditioned

Erlin was indecisive. “They say you were an acolyte, but that you ran away, that you are a heretic and unbeliever.”

“They say right,” said Beck with some viciousness.

“How does it feel then to come back as a Baptiser?”

“It feels like Hell.”

“How do you reconcile your—”

There came a rapping on the door before it was suddenly opened. Morage stepped into the room with a sneering grin on his face. Behind him came two priests obviously selected for their size rather than their piety.

“The Wife of Ovens awaits you, Sirus Beck. It would be better if you followed your calling willingly.” It was a mild dig. Morage’s attention was on Erlin rather than Beck. Beck stooped and took up his pack. He caught Erlin by the arm. “The Wife awaits the both of us, as it happens.” He led Erlin past Morage and his two thugs.

“Wait,” said Morage, angry, but unsure.

Beck turned and addressed the two thugs. “I am a Baptiser. Do you seek to delay me?” When this elicited no response he hurried Erlin down the corridor.

“Damnit, stop. Stop them,” Morage hissed, but the two thugs were too confused and scared to take any precipitate action.

“I never did like that one,” said Erlin, once Morage was out of sight. “Something sneaky about him.”

“Morage is a thief and a sadist. He strips the acolytes of their personal effects when they join the Church and he has been responsible for the deaths of many.”

“The Wife allows this?”

“He would have taken you for religious counselling. You would have been stripped of your belongings and part of your skin before the Wife found out. She would have forgiven him his fervour. Why are you here, Earther?”

“I can look after myself,” said Erlin, avoiding his question.

“Then do so!” he snapped, and left her as he took the most direct route to the tank room. They sang hymns while Sirus took up the small carry-pot containing his unwelcome companion for the rest of his life. The tempo of the singing changed as he walked to the door and he knew, that once the door was closed, the rest of the day would be spent in sermonising, for most of the Clergy anyway. There was one there, crouched coughing up blood in a corner, who would not make it through the day, let alone to the new year’s Eucharist. Not that the foul water of the new Gurnard would have saved him. Something had died inside him, too deeply imbedded to be ejected as was usual, and the smell of death was on his breath.

As the outer iron-scaled doors of the church closed behind him, Beck lengthened his stride. It wasn’t so bad really. The pot was not too heavy and wherever he went people would give him food and lodging for free. Some would resent it and others would make him welcome, but no one would dare refuse. He gazed at the hills, and at the mountains beyond, and strode on into his new life. Hanging at his left side, under his left arm, the Gurnard swirled in its opaque water reminding him that it was not his life. There were no more choices.

The church was out of sight and he was following a narrow path through a forest of heather trees sprung up through ground covered with blanket fungus, when a familiar voice called to him.

“May I join you for a little way, Sirus Beck?”

Erlin came toward him through the trees, her boots sinking into the blanket fungus. She had come prepared, carrying a large pack and wearing a rain cape. There also appeared to be some kind of weapon holstered at her hip. She was regarding the pot hanging at his side, not even trying to hide her fascination.

“You realise that if the Inquisition find out you are with me you’ll end up in a drowning jar?” he asked.

“Yes, I realise that, but I don’t know why.”

Beck continued walking and Erlin fell in at his side.

“Neither do I,” said Beck. “But then the Church has many rules that make no sense.”

“Yet here you are, a Baptiser, carrying a Holy Gurnard to the Waters of Change.”

“If I had a choice this pot would be smashed on the ground and I would be going my own way.” And even as he said it he felt a stab of pain in his guts. It was dangerous even to think like that. There was a long silence between them, which Erlin eventually broke.

“You wanted to know why I wanted a blood sample?” she said.

“Yes, I did.”

“I have an interest in parasites, and I have come here to study them.” Beck looked at her. The only parasites he knew anything about were sheep ticks. Erlin went on, “There is a parasite here with a very strange life-cycle. Its eggs hatch out in the mountain springs.”

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“Well, parasites have all sorts of strange strategies for survival, breeding… sometimes they use more than one host, though I don’t think this one does. There’s one on earth that actually gets into an ant, makes the ant climb to the top of a blade of grass and there cling on until a passing sheep eats it. The sheep is its next host you see—”

“On Earth sheep eat ants?”

“No, grass.”

Beck snorted his disbelief. “If you’re not going to tell me why you want a blood sample, just say so. I don’t need this bullshit. I had enough of it in the Church.”

“No, really, I’m not lying.”

Just then there came a coughing snort from the shade of the heather trees. This was followed by a low moan and a raspy panting. Erlin pulled her weapon from its holster and looked around carefully. Beck glanced with idle curiosity at little flashing red lights on the gun. After a moment he said, “No need to worry yet. That’s only a sugar dog. Save your worrying for when we get beyond the trees. It’s flockland there.” To himself he muttered, “Grass indeed.”

The sugar dog came out of the trees far to their right, paralleling their course. Erlin stared at it in fascination, took a device from one of her pockets and pointed it at the creature.

“What are you doing?”

“Recording images of it.”

Beck studied the glinting little device she held. It was just the kind of thing Morage would like to steal. How it must burn him that she had escaped him.

“Why?” he asked her.

“I’ve never seen one before. It looks like a cross between a bloodhound and a bull frog.” The words were familiar to Beck, but not in that combination. Bull he knew as a word for untruth, just as he knew of the little black frogs that lived in the southern swamps, that ‘hound’ was another word for dog, and that ‘blood’ was red in his veins and green in the translucent flesh of sugar dogs. So much was different about Earth. Perhaps if he had not been so wrapped up in his own concerns he would have been fascinated by this. Perhaps she hadn’t been lying about the sheep. The sugar dog huffed and wuffled through the leaves near them as they followed the trail, then it moved away to the West. In the distance, on the faces of the hills, flocks of sheep could be seen hunting, but they were no danger to sugar dogs. Sugar dogs were as poisonous as the plants they ate.

“Do you know why they are called sugar dogs?” Erlin asked.

“Because they like sweets,” said Beck.

“Sugar kills them though.”

“Yes, it also kills anyone caught feeding it to them.”

Erlin waited for an explanation.

He told her, “They are protected by Church and civil law. Anyone caught feeding any form of sugar to a sugar dog is executed by posting.”

“Posting?”

“Chained to a flockland post.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You will soon.” He pointed ahead to a distant object jutting up out of the leaves. They walked in silence until they reached it. Here was a steel post cemented into the ground, from which hung a chain and a steel collar. All around it the leaves were trampled and scattered with chewed human bones. At the base of the post lay half a human skull that had been scraped empty. Erlin quickly grasped what it meant to be posted.