Neal Asher - Cowl

Uh-huh, here come the natives.

Looking through Polly’s eyes, Nandru had spotted him first, for on one of the salty waterways a coracle was coming into sight. As it drew closer, Polly noted that the man sitting inside it was short and squat, with dark oily hair and a knotted brown body. He wore breeches of some kind of animal skin, a sleeveless top of rank-looking fur, round his throat a necklace of shells. Once he saw her, he immediately stopped paddling and snatched up a spear with a long serrated-bone blade. Gazing at him Polly wondered if this time might be the Stone Age. She had found that mentioned in an encyclopedia disc left behind in her apartment PC by the previous owners—a disc she had studied for a little while till growing bored and using it as a coaster.

‘Stone Age?’ she asked.

Probably, so watch yourself. This guy probably hasn’t heard of female emancipation.

She watched the intruder put down his spear, a look of infinite distrust still on his face, and take up his paddle to row the coracle closer. Wondering if it might now be judicious to take another jump through time, she tested the webwork lacing through her body, but received only a sluggish response. Reaching her island, the prehistoric man took up his spear again, probing the mat of reeds with its tip before stepping ashore. He gabbled something, in which Polly could identify no single word.

‘What did he say?’ she subvocalized.

My best guess would be, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I’m getting nothing through my translation programs.

The man repeated it louder and more insistently, gesturing first at her with his spear, then towards the coracle. He was eyeing her in a way she recognized and was strangely reassured by. At least his intentions were not entirely hostile. She gave him a smile and after a fleeting frown he smiled back. Retaining a half smile, she stepped forward, clutching at his arm to steady herself over the carpet of reeds, and climbed shakily into his coracle. The primitive followed her, and the coracle dipped alarmingly as he took his place. When he spoke again, she merely smiled at him again, but this now seemed to annoy him. He reached out, yanked her towards him, then pushed her down into the belly of the coracle, where he pressed one filthy possessive foot on her.

The Heliothane here were all beautiful, but in the same way as tigers—they were endowed with a grace and symmetry best admired from a safe distance. In one of the many narrow corridors leading outwards to the viewing windows, Tack encountered a goddess over two metres tall. Her skin was the colour of amber and possessed some of that gem’s translucence, her yellow hair intricately braided, and her eyes utterly weird—gold irises set off by black sclera. She wore clothing much like Saphothere’s: a long coat of black leather, loose trousers tucked into spear-toed boots, and a shirt of rough red canvas. What jewellery she wore—in her ears, around her neck, and threaded in her hair—was of polished bone. Gaping at her, Tack did not realize he was blocking her path, until, showing a flash of irritation, she slammed him into the wall and strode past. Winded, Tack continued on towards the windows, as directed by Saphothere, where thankfully there was more space to move.

Gazing out over the vista below, Tack first located the dying fire, then the tyrannosaur. The controls, set low in a corner of this particular window, were not so simple as Saphothere had suggested. Trying to track the moving virtual buttons, Tack managed to flick the window to infrared, which only worsened the view.

‘What are you trying to do?’

Tack froze. Thus far no one but Saphothere had spoken to him in his own language. Thus far he had found it prudent to avoid all other Heliothane. Apparently it had taken much persuading on Saphothere’s part to prevent some of these people from just cutting off Tack’s arm and lodging it somewhere safe. He turned round slowly.

Whereas most of the Heliothane that Tack had seen were tall and rangy, this man was of a more normal height, which he more than made up for in breadth, for his shoulders had to measure one full metre across. He wore a loose shirt and trousers of a material resembling thick white cotton. His skin in contrast was jet black, features negroid, and eyes mild brown. Tack also noticed that much of his exposed skin was laced with fine scars.

‘I’m trying to get a closer view of a tyrannosaurus out there,’ Tack replied.

The man humphed and reached out an arm as thick as Tack’s leg, which terminated in a boulder-crushing hand. Half expecting to receive a blow, Tack jerked back, but instead the man ran his fingers over the virtual controls, and the window flung up the required view of the creature outside, tracking it as it moved in its endless search for prey to chew on.

‘An impressive creature, but strictly speaking it has evolved only to exist within narrow parameters.’ He looked at Tack. ‘You realize that people of your time were misguided in their belief that tyrannosaurus was merely a carrion eater? That all came from their softening outlook on existence—a political correctness engendering the attitude that at their root all creatures are good. They were in fact right the first time: tyrannosaurus is a vicious predator that will rip apart anything that moves, usually to devour but sometimes for the fun of it.’

Tack grunted in understanding.

‘Another myth was that their front claws serve no purpose. Try telling a creature with a set of teeth like those that two handy toothpicks are useless. They like their meat fresh, not trapped decaying in their mouths.’

Gazing back at his companion, Tack noticed over his shoulder the tall woman he had earlier ‘bumped into’ entering the viewing area and heading in their direction. She appeared distinctly irritated. Noting the direction of Tack’s gaze, the big man looked round. Coming to a halt, the woman licked her lips nervously before starting to speak in the Heliothane language.

The man interrupted, ‘Tack here does not understand our language, Vetross, so to use it in front of him is impolite.’

The woman bowed her head. ‘My apologies, Engineer.’

‘So, tell me, what so urgently requires my attention?’

‘The spatial scroll extending… has will extend… stretch…’ Vetross paused before saying, ‘This is not a suitable language for the subject.’

‘The mind, like the body, requires exercise,’ said Engineer. ‘You are just using different muscles this time. Think about it for a moment, then continue.’ He turned to Tack. ‘Have you seen enough of your dinosaur?’

Tack nodded. In truth he could have watched the beast for hours, but he did not think this was the answer Engineer wanted, so Tack wasn’t about to argue.

Engineer continued, ‘When Vetross finally gets around to telling me her news, I suspect that Saphothere’s departure, and yours, will be brought forward. Do you know where he is at present?’

‘In the recovery ward.’ Tack removed from the pocket of his new coat the palm computer that had belonged to Coptic, and which Saphothere had reprogrammed specially for him. Once he opened it, the device—consisting of what appeared to be two sheets of smoked glass hinged together—displayed a map of the interior of Sauros. In one corner was a small icon of a control panel which, when touched, expanded to fill one half of the computer with a static virtual panel. Using this, Tack was able to confirm Saphothere’s location.

‘Ah, simple but exclusive of some useful information,’ said Vetross suddenly.

Both Tack and Engineer turned towards her.

She continued, ‘The energy dam in New London is functioning at full capacity and all abutments are field stable. We are ready for the shift. All that has to be decided is whether or not we maintain the one light-year span, or allow the one-third light-year extension.’