The Engineer Reconditioned

THE THRANKE

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 In terms of Earth fashion she was about two years out of date.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.

The orboni reached into the stream and fumbled around for a while. Eventually it withdrew its hand, holding a snail the size of an ash-tray. Mark watched it intently as it inspected its prize, and felt a momentary flush of excitement. Could it be that all the evidence he needed would be on these memory crystals? He noted a number of rocks laying nearby. Would Paul make the connection? The way he was inspecting the snail looked very much as if he was satisfying his curiosity. Mark willed Paul to pick up a stone. If there was no evidence here then he would have to go outside. He shuddered at the thought and turned the sound up again.

“—Again he was in error. This ‘turning’ of the nautiloid is not due to aesthetic appreciation. It is an instinctive behaviour that mimics the tumbling of the mollusc in the current of the stream when it has been dislodged from its hold on the bottom. Shortly we will see the reason for this.” Abruptly Paul darted his ‘long’ finger inside the snail, twisted it, and pulled out the white squidlike body it contained. With relish he pecked this up, tipped his head back and shook it to get the morsel down. He discarded the shell.

“There. A study of nautiloid behaviour shows they open the clypeus of their shells to re-attach themselves to the bed of stream after about thirty seconds ‘tumbling’. This is what Paul was after. Other studies have shown that the Orbonnai still follow this instinctive behaviour even with empty nautiloid shells taken from the beds of the streams. Empty or otherwise, these shells are always discarded after thirty seconds. It is well to note that the blue nautiloid, which has a tumbling response time of fifty seconds, has displaced the green nautiloids in the Graffus island chain, as it is slowly doing here, and that there are no Orbonnai there.”

“Stupid woman,” said Mark, and ran the recording forward.

“—the miracidia of the so-called ‘brain fluke’ parasite are caused to break secondary encystment by the heating of the faeces. Their vector here is—”

“—once in nautiloid waters they begin their cyclic swimming patterns. This greatly increases their chances of finding a host—”

“—a matter of conjecture. If green nautiloids are the infested form of blue nautiloids then—” Mark swore and jerked the memory crystal from the machine. He looked at the label in disbelief.

He closed his eyes and tapped his cross for luck, then reinserted the crystal and ran it to near its end. When he turned it on the scene presented to him froze him in his seat.

“—but of course the thrake has no need to be this mobile. It is my opinion that this is a throw-back to the tumbling delay, and a time prior to such widespread infestation. This is, of course, based on tenuous evidence. There may be a cyclic—”

Mark was not listening. He was staring in horror at the creature on the screen. It bore the appearance of a giant metallic wood-louse bent into an L. It had four short insectile legs on the ground, and six of what could only be described as arms. They were long, had two joints. The pair nearest its head ended in crablike pincers, and the pair below ended in clubs. The final pair Mark could not see because they were the ones holding down the orboni, while the thrake dismembered it with its pincers, and conveyed it piece by piece to its nightmare, machine-like mandibles and grinding mouth.

“My God!”

He had never been more sincere in that exclamation. He felt sick. He jerked the crystal from the viewer and tossed it to one side as if it were infectious. He then took up the next crystal. SOME XENOETHNOLOGICAL ASPECTS OF THRAKE…

“Barbarians!”

He tossed the crystal aside and took up the next.

“Let me get this right. You wish to go out alone to study the Orbonnai. I do hope you are aware of the… difficulties,” said Carmen.

“I saw that obscene recording of the thrake creature,” said Mark. Carmen looked askance at him then shook her head.

“They’re no problem—”

“I beg to differ.”

“You can beg all you like, but no amount of begging is going to get you near the Orbonnai. They move very fast when they want to… well, in most cases. Most of the recordings we’ve managed to make have been by remote chameleon drone. Paul was the exception. He came close to the station to feed because he was old and had been driven away from his group by a younger male.”

“Then perhaps he is the one I should seek. In that other,” Mark pursed his lips in distaste, “recording, I noted that Paul had been radio tagged.”

“Which crystal was that?”

“You are well aware of the one I am referring to.”

“Oh yes, ‘Sexual Dynamics In Orbonnai Family Groups’. I remember it — a most definitive study.”

“I still wish to make my own observations.”

Carmen stared at him in annoyance for a moment. “I will do everything I can to prevent you. You were foisted on us here at Seventeen by the New Christian Church at Carth. It is unfortunate that Earth Central have not seen fit to keep the likes of you off our backs.”

“I resent your inferences, Madam.”

“And I resent your beliefs. I find the practising of your particular brand of pseudoscience here, where real science is being carried out, most distasteful, and quite possibly damaging. I know why you are here. Your Church knows there are creatures of near-human appearance and all of a sudden they’ve got the missionary bug. When are you going to learn—”

“I do not have to tolerate this. Creation Science has its basis in the most sublime of works. The New Carth Bible is — Where are you going! Come back here!”

Carmen ignored him.

Once back in his room Mark picked up a memory crystal at random and smashed it against the wall. Then he dropped to his knees. “Oh Lord, give me the strength to go on. Give me the will to bear this ignorance of your plan and your presence.” He bowed his head and clasped his hands below his chin. Didn’t they understand? What worth had their universe of facts without a binding deity? How could they believe the magnificent complexity and pattern of the universe was not created by God? He hated so-called ‘true’ scientists. Where would the human race be without God to guide it? He unclasped his hands and stood up. As a Christian in the face of adversity, he would do what he had to do. It had always been so. Their science was irrelevant. He opened his case and removed some things he would need.

Carmen slammed the door to her office. She was angry because she had allowed him to get to her. But what other reaction was there in the face of such pig-headed stupidity? She sat down at her desk and stared blindly at the papers before her.

He had not studied the crystals fully, else he would have realised the futility of his mission. But then that was always the way with people like him. They based their ‘science’ on a false premise and discarded anything that did not fit. They rambled on about watchmakers and complex construction and gave simplistic explanations: a human being is complex therefore it was made, because conventional science does not have all the answers, the ones it does have are wrong. For his kind facts were twisted to match theories, rather than theories proven or disproven by facts.

Carmen repressed the urge to smash something and reached across and pressed the button on her intercom. “Davidson?”

“Here, lab twelve.”

“If you’re not on anything important can you come up to my office.”

“Just running some computer models. The AI can handle it. I’ll be up in about a quarter of an hour. What’s up?”

“What do you think?”

“No word from Earth Central yet?”

“There was a vague promise of a monitor being sent, but you know how it is with them. They think that causing a furore is free advertising for the Churches. Best to let them die a natural death. Interference is frowned on. Freedom of choice and all that.”

“I preferred the pre-runcible attitude: belief in superior ‘It’ll be all right in the end’ deities equated with dangerous irresponsibility.”

“Yeah, see you shortly anyway. We’ve got to sort out how to deal with the arsehole. He wants to ‘make his own observations’.”

There was a silence before Davidson replied. “Freeman told me he saw him down at the stores kitting himself out. You mean you haven’t given him permission?”

Carmen closed her eyes and rubbed at her forehead. She was getting a headache. She suspected it would get worse. “We didn’t actually get to that. Got side-tracked. Go to the stores yourself will you and see if he’s taken a radio tracker. Also get Freeman to charge up that last chameleon drone.”

“I’m on it.”

Carmen leant back in her chair and stared at the map up on her wall. She had been going to warn him. Him with expensive clothes, city ways and archaic beliefs. Outside Station Seventeen was a wilderness that thus far had claimed three lives, and they had been professionals. Did he think his God would help him once he was lost and starving? That would be a first. All the proteins and sugars out there were inverted. You could eat your fill of fruit and meat every day and still starve to death, if you were not poisoned beforehand. No matter. The water would get him first. It was so contaminated with mercury salts it was a standing joke that the streams grew longer in warm weather. Carmen shook her head. The ache was growing worse.

“Ugh! Filthy creature!”

Mark stamped the leaf-shaped worm into the ground and winced as his boot rubbed on the raw spot on the back of his ankle. Then he inspected the red ring on the back of his hand where the worm had clung for a moment before convulsing and falling off. This was just too much. He looked around at the nigh impenetrable jungle then continued on down the track he hoped had been made by Orbonnai. He would show them that a creation scientist was as capable of doing field-work as the best of them. The sky was growing darker by the time he reached the stream and he offered up a silent prayer of thanks before stooping down at its edge to fill his water bottle. Once that was done and he had drunk his fill, he unhitched his pack and took out the tracker. The direction finder pointed roughly up the course of the stream. There should be no problem. His God was with him. He sat down on the blue sand to rest for a moment. He was tired, but well-satisfied with himself. He had made a stand, as all good Christians should.

The nautiloid was bumbling along below the surface directly in front of him when he saw it. With great daring he reached into the water and took it out. With a click it retracted into its shell. He held it in his hand, checked his watch, then began turning it as he had seen Paul do. After thirty seconds nothing had happened. He tossed it to the ground and stood up.

“Rubbish,” he said, and went on his way.

The blue nautiloid, with its fifty-second response time, crawled back into the stream once he was gone. Carmen studied the man seated opposite her and felt bewilderment. He represented Earth Central, yet, he looked so… mediocre. It was obvious he had no alterations. The face he wore had not seen cosmetic surgery since his birth. His eyes were muddy green and there was a scar on his chin. His clothing had nothing to recommend it either, other than functionality. He wore a green monofilament coverall and cheap plastimesh hiking boots.

He steepled his fingers before his face before commenting on what she had told him. “The orboni he showed greatest interest in is this Paul. What would you say are his chances of reaching this creature without getting himself killed?”

“Quite good. Paul is dying and cannot move about very much. He has already started to venture into the less complex environment of the savannah.”

“And you have a chameleon drone following Paul.”

“Yes… we couldn’t think of much else to do really. An air search… I mean… the jungle… ”

“I take your point. But you do have more than one chameleon drone.” Carmen nodded.

“Then I would suggest you send them into the jungle to search the area between here and Paul’s present location. Mark Christian did take a radio tracker so it is likely he is heading directly toward this orboni.”

“I suppose we could.”

“There is some problem?”

“The remaining drones are being used in an intensive study of the Thrakai. The study has prime status.” The man pressed his finger against his temple. It was a gesture Carmen had seen before. Visible alterations were not the only ones. He was direct-linked to the runcible AI.

“I see,” he said, and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “A class three sentience?” Carmen nodded again. It was not polite to interrupt someone when they were in the midst of a conversation with an AI as those intelligences tended not to repeat themselves. Eventually he shook his head and showed signs of annoyance.

“And this fool is trailing after the Orbonnai?”

“We passed all the recordings on to him. He did not see fit to study them.” The monitor bowed his head for a moment before going on. “It would appear this is an intervention situation rather than a monitoring one. He must be stopped. The policy of Earth Central is one of

’observation only’ during encounters with any sentience above class eight. We cannot have theocratic interference with class three sentiences.” The monitor looked thoughtful, finishing with, “Recall your drones and send them into the jungle. This man must be stopped.”

Mark was stillness itself as he watched the orboni, even though the pains in his stomach had increased. It was Paul. He knew it was Paul.

And he is praying!

This was what he had come for. Here was purpose.

Paul knelt at the edge of the stream with his head down on the blue sand. He had remained so for some time. Mark maintained his position and slowly lowered his holocorder. His arm was beginning to hurt, but he believed he had enough evidence for the Bishop. He continued to watch, gradually becoming more uncomfortable, and wondering when Paul was going to move. Some time passed before the orboni jerked upright and shuffled to the edge of the stream. Mark raised the holocorder again. Paul was poised at the edge of the stream for some time before he dipped his hand in and pulled out a nautiloid. He held it up before himself for a long time.

He’s not turning it!

Abruptly his arm jerked to one side and the nautiloid was smashed on a rock. Yes! Yes!

In a moment he had the nautiloid in his beak, but then he seemed to lose interest, and the fleshy body, crusted with sand and broken shell, dropped to the sand. Mark lowered the holocorder. That was not relevant and could be deleted from the crystal. He followed the orboni as it stood and began to make its unsteady way along the bank of the stream.

It seemed almost as if there was no transition at all when they came from the jungle out into the open. Twice Paul fell to his knees in an attitude of prayer. On the second occasion Mark only got to film part of it, because he was suddenly and violently sick.

Backwoods worlds!

He felt hot and shivery and the light seemed too bright.

Oh Father, give thy servant the strength to go on.

It was only as the glare seemed to clear, that he saw the pyramid of skulls — Orbonnai skulls, stacked so their beaks were all pointing to the east. The stack was higher than his head.

“Thank you, Lord,” he said, and filmed the pyramid before continuing to follow Paul. This was proof that the Orbonnai respected their dead. Better than tool using, as good as the act of worship. Mark walked on with the light in his eyes.

The third time the orboni went down the light seemed to turn to a heavenly glare. Mark nearly fell over the creature, but instead fell to his knees at its side. He clasped his hands before his chest just as the creature was pulling itself upright. He gazed at it, searching for some sign of fellow feeling, of an understanding of the mystery of worship. The orboni made a squealing sound and he felt something rake his face.

“No, wait! I understand!”

Paul was staggering away. Mark stood to go after it when a silvery sphere materialised in the air above him. He glanced up at it then ignored it, for he had more important things to do. It was a chameleon drone with its emulation field off. He wiped blood from his face and went after the orboni. Paul stumbled along ahead of him. But for some reason he could not catch up. He felt slightly drunk. His legs did not seem to be obeying him.

“Wait! Come back… please.”

He stopped and took a breather. Liquid bubbled in his chest and his stomach heaved again, but he was retching dry.

“Wait… ”

When he finally got the retching under control he looked for Paul again. And saw horror. Paul was bowed to the ground again, and rearing above him was a thrake. Mark froze, his brain working sluggishly. He had not realised they were so big. The thrake towered over Paul — it must have been over ten feet tall.

No, not that, that is not The One.

Mark unhitched his pack and removed from it a small glassy pistol. He fired once, but his hand was shaking too much, and scrub began to smoke beside the thrake.

“Get back! Get away from him!.. Paul, that creature is no god. It is… an icon… God is…” The thrake turned its nightmare mouth and convolute sensorium towards him. He swallowed bile and fired again. This time his shot hit and it emitted a bubbling scream as part of its hide gusted smoke, then turned and ran.

“God is… ”

A dark shadow blotted out the sky above. He looked up and saw someone looking down at him.

“God?” he said, and fainted.

“Feeling better?”

Paul nodded to the kind-faced man and took another drink from the pure water in the flask. He tried not to look at Carmen Smith, who was standing beside the raft with her arms folded and a look of disgust on her face.

The man said, “We would have taken you back, but your condition is not too bad. Those injections will keep you going until they can give you a transfusion at Seventeen. The cut on your face should cause no problems. Anyway, I believe Professor Smith has something to show to you.” Mark nodded and got unsteadily to his feet. He was feeling better. He may have been delirious, but he had seen what he had seen. He looked to Carmen.

“Please, come with me,” she said, all politeness.

When he saw where she was leading him he said, “Paul…” Paul, still frozen in an attitude of prayer.

“Yes, Paul. He is quite dead, though you did not make his dying any easier.”

“The thrake… ”

“The thrakai feed on the Orbonnai. They always have done.”

With more certainty he said, “That does not make it right.”

Carmen smiled with nasty relish. “You know, we picked up on you by the stream when you first saw this orboni. What did you think you saw there?”

Mark straightened up. “I saw a reasoning creature taking the first steps toward tool using.”

“And this attitude? An attitude of worship?”

Mark nodded, less sure. He glanced around at the man and noticed for the first time that he was clothed in the workmanlike gear of an agent from Earth Central. He was not sure if the man’s expression was one of sympathy or contempt. He turned back to Carmen and saw she now held a small surgical shear.

“I suppose you saw that this orboni’s God was the thrake — a monster. I wonder what it saw?” She stooped to the orboni and sliced off the top of its skull. A writhing ball of flatworms spilled out. “In the end it saw nothing at all. It was blind.” She prodded at the worms with the toe of her boot. “You know what I saw at the stream? I saw an animal with a brain so badly damaged it had lost the use of its normal instinctive abilities. When it fell to its knees, it did so, not to worship, but because its inner ear was full of parasites and it kept losing its sense of balance. Look at them. Look at them, Mark Christian.” Mark stared at the writhing mass of worms as they broke apart and began to die on the bluish dirt. Carmen continued, relentlessly. “Tell me, did your God that made the lion and the lamb make the worms that eat them from the inside out?”

“I have faith.”

At that point the monitor stepped between them and stared down with clinical detachment at the opened skull of the orboni.

“I presume,” he said, “that the thrake has its place in this parasite’s life cycle.” Carmen looked to him. “Yes, the thrake shits their eggs. The parasite goes from there to the water and into the nautiloids. The Orbonnai ingest them and become so riddled they’re easy prey.” As she finished the anger drained out of her.

“Are the thrakai damaged in any way by these parasites?” asked the monitor. Carmen shook her head. “It’s difficult to tell. The life-cycle is so interlinked that you cannot make—” They are ignoring me.

“—an easy assessment based on—”

Suddenly angry, Mark interrupted. “Do you think you’ve won? Do you think that somehow you have proven to me that the Orbonnai are not pre-ascension! I will return to Carth and report my findings. Those skulls… On the basis of them, a mission will be sent here for the…” He trailed off when he noticed they were not listening to him. They were looking past him into the scrub. He turned and saw the thrake he had shot at, standing no more than ten yards away.

“My God! Shoot it! Drive it away!”

He turned and saw the monitor and Carmen looking at each other.

Carmen said, “We can’t have that… a mission here.”

The monitor nodded. “It won’t happen.” He turned to Mark. “You will not be returning to Carth. You will be coming with me to Earth Central to answer to the charge of attempted unlawful killing.”

“What?… Who?”

The monitor pointed at the thrake. “You attempted to kill a grade three sentience. That is a serious offence.”

Carmen said, “The Thrakai were the ones you should have been studying for your spurious proofs. They’re the ones that build those mounds of skulls. Perhaps they worship the Orbonnai. Members of the prehistoric societies of Earth used to worship the animals they ate.” They turned from him then to watch the thrake. It started to move in, slowly, like an animal stalking its prey. Mark could see it had its many joined arms opened out ready to grab any of them that tried to escape. He started to back away, but the monitor’s hand came down on his shoulder with the finality of a guillotine.

“There’s no need for panic,” the monitor said to him, then to Carmen, “What should we do now?”

“Back away slowly, towards the raft. It only wants the orboni. They’ve tried human flesh before, and found it distasteful.”

Mark wanted to shout out how wrong she was as they moved away from the body of Paul. He wanted to run, but the hand on his shoulder seemed to suck the will out of him. It was all he could do to keep his legs moving. Soon, the three of them were backed up against the raft and the thrake had reached the corpse. Mark watched in horror as it severed Paul’s head, then continued to advance on them, with the head held in its lower appendages.

“My God… do something!”

Suddenly Carmen was walking forwards, her arms spread wide, like the thrake’s. Soon she was standing before it, below it. It paused over her like a wall of scrap-iron about to fall, then slowly it stooped, placed the head at her feet, then turned and moved away. In a moment it had picked up the rest of the corpse and was loping for the horizon. Carmen stooped down and picked up the head.

“Souvenir?” she asked Mark.

He stared at her, feeling sick. She tossed the head back on the ground.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, tiredly.

The monitor’s hand did not leave Mark’s shoulder as they boarded the raft.