The Hogman's Homunculi and the Angelwing Massacre, Chapters Two and Three!
Action, suspense, typos!
Here are the next TWO chapters (because chapter two is pretty short) of my next novel, which will be published some time in the next thirty years. If you spot any plot holes or things which don’t make sense, write them down on a piece of paper, screw that piece of paper up very tight, and pop it up your bum.
Chapter One is here.
I am a mad person who reads chapters out of order. Take me to Chapter Four, forthwith!
Also, today’s your last chance to get my sci-fi horror escapade This Burdened Clay for 99p / 99c. I’ve changed the price my end, so it’s a matter of hours before the new price goes live on the storefronts. So shift your arses and get it here.
Chapter Two: The Man from the Woods
The man followed the track through the woods for a time. It was an old animal run mosaicked with the hardened ruts from native Lemurian fauna and beasts descended of Old Earth.
Despite the man’s age, he negotiated a wobbly stile over a rotted fence easily, emerging onto a cobbled road running alongside farmland. In the fields woolly shorses panted in the warmth and were ignored by placid, grazing luminoceri. The man smiled at the animals going about their business, and for a few seconds he watched how sunlight flirted with the luminoceri’s iridescent, leathery hides.
He followed the road with the sun invigorating his old muscles, and knew he was moving south without having to think about it. He knew the wood from which he had come was called Gallmore Wood, and that the distant mountains to the south were called the Trevorrian Mountains, and that there was a mountain pass called Spaniard’s Pass there, where plants called settler’s comfort grew in profusion.
A fast-moving stream ran parallel to the road for a while and from it he filled a leather flask and drank deep. He splashed water over his sweaty head and the welcome chill made him gasp. Feeling refreshed and clear headed now, he spent some seconds running his fingers over the unfamiliar hills and gulleys of his face. An aged face, sun-weathered by the feel of it. He clacked his teeth together a few times; they felt in good enough condition as far as he could tell. He wondered if he was handsome.
Given that he could not remember his name, where he was from, or his station in life, he was remarkably unperturbed. For despite whatever misfortune had stolen his memories, there remained much knowledge within him, a great repository of understanding of the silent cycles of the world and an affinity with the beasts which fed and died upon it. This was something he felt rather than understood explicitly, a knowing stitched into the marrow of his bones and the fibres of his muscles. It lent him surety to move through the world with a certain carefree poise, and was the reason for his complacence at this moment. Still, all alone on this cobbled road out in the country, he was unsure what to do next. His stomach had begun to pain him.
In the sky far, far above the man a small machine hovered. It was powered by a thin battery pack on its underside which exploited the principles of quantum entanglement and superposition to transfer energy to four small ion thrusters, which held the whole thing aloft. Microscopic sensors informed accelerometers and gyroscopes, allowing the unit to make rapid adjustments and maintain its position directly above the man down below. On this continent such high tech devices were rare, though becoming less so.
Inside itself, the machine assembled a multitude of nanomachines from a reservoir of graphene sheets, carbon nanotubes, and programmable DNA and XNA. Guided by an invisible laser, the nanomachines were cast downward to pass unimpeded through the man’s clothes and skin and into his body. They toured his blood and organs, measuring and recording. Their findings were relayed back up to the machine above via quantum wave signals and were stored in the machine as digital information. Their job done, the nanomachines broke down into their constituent parts and were harmlessly absorbed by the man’s body.
The man’s stomach growled, and he had a hankering for green leafy vegetables and red meat. He checked the pockets of his trousers and found no coin. For the first time, he felt worried. He needed to eat, and to eat, he would need to work. He remembered little but he remembered this basic truth of the world.
His brow unclouded and he shrugged. The road must lead somewhere, so he would follow it and find work and food and somewhere to live. But this thought caused another pang of unease, a yearning for something he could not remember but could still feel. A wife? Children?
It could not be helped; what was passed was passed and he must build a new life for himself.
***
After hours of southward walking, flat farmland gave way to rolling hills and valleys. The sight of fields of azure dewgrass told him that only a little farther south grapes and melons could be grown, and were. The man knew this without knowing how.
He was very hungry now, so he left the road to gather morningstarberries from thickets of spiny bushes. A little farther into the wilds he found trees with the telltale cavities where hammerhead squrls stored nuts and seeds. He raided them and apologised silently to the absent tenants.
Sated to some extent, he returned to the road with a little more vigour in his stride, though his feet hurt a great deal. He reached a crossroads marked by a wooden sign. A little four-winged flying animal was perched on the sign preening itself, and the man knew its type without having to think about it. He was pleased to realise that he could read the sign, answering a question which had not occurred to him until now. For some reason the realisation prompted him to confirm a few basic facts to himself, an amnesiac’s reckoning. He was in the duchy of Denovia which was in the continent of Cartreffi which was in the world of Lemuria. The world orbited its star once every 333 days and had three moons, Hypnos, Thanatos and Ashley.
He knew the name of the type of wood from which the crossroads sign was made, and he appreciated the craftsmanship of the swirling calligraphy upon it. Like the man, the writer of the sign was apparently inclined to sacrifice a little clarity for the sake of beauty. The north-south arm of the crossroad sign had snapped off and was nowhere to be seen. He did not recognise the place names which remained. To the east: Dr Syntax’s Scar 120 miles, Avrana 260 miles GoT. To the west: Hightail 20 miles, Hoyle 150 miles GoT. He remembered that GoT meant Give or Take. Pleased by the name and relatively short distance (he knew what a mile was), the man turned west and headed for Hightail.
After a couple of miles, by his reckoning, he was brought up short by a sharp cramp in his belly, which doubled him over. Hissing through his teeth, he uncorked his flask and took sips of water, then remained bent over with hands on knees, breathing quickly. The cramp changed to a dizzying sensation of nausea and finally passed.
He stood erect, took a couple of steps then staggered forward as a small form leapt onto his back. It growled and beat at his shoulders with small, pale fists of which he caught brief sights in his peripheral vision. The fists closed on his neck attempting to strangle him. He threw his torso forward, hoping to fling the assailant off him over his head, but it clung to him as stubborn as a limpet. It scrabbled around the old amnesiac, and he stared into the feral eyes of a tiny maniac.
Chapter Three: The Graphomorphs
Hundreds of miles to the south, beyond the Great Central Forest, beyond the Jade River Valley and the Mount Bastard, Mina Valeria squatted beside a murdered thing. With the flat blade of her hunting knife she lifted one boneless arm and let it flop down again with a soft thump of leaves. The arm and its three long digits were pliable, tentacle-like. The torso was sunken almost flat. Not crushed, more deflated. The body was half buried in the mulch so they had missed it completely at the first pass. But then, they had not been expecting a massacre.
“They’re like the piles of my dirty laundry when I was a kid,” Valeria said, grimacing. “Smell even worse.”
Stepan Hissaq squatted in the dirt beside her. “Cartilage skeleton maybe, or some sort of liquid system. There’s a word for it.” He called over to a silvery orb which had appeared from beyond the stationary trimaran a short distance away. “Ardie, what’s the word I’m looking for?”
The orb floated past him and spoke in warm, natural tones from over his shoulder. “Hydrostatic system is the term you’re looking for, Hissaq. It’s a biological system whereby fluid pressure is used to maintain structure and enable movement. Would you like to know more about animals that use hydrostatic systems, such as moonfish? Or I could tell you about other anatomical systems. Or we could talk what life would be like on undiscovered planets. Who knows what strange life haunts the metallic clouds of Phobiton-Four?”
Hissaq ignored the jibber jabber. “How many does this make it?”
“I’m sorry Hissaq, could you clarify?” the orb said.
Valeria rolled her eyes.
“How many dead bodies,” Hissaq said tightly.
“I see,” Ardie said. “I located 283 bodies. I found no survivors.”
“Alright, see if you can find anything of interest.”
“Sure, how about this?” Ardie said. “Angelwing Forest contains over eighty-five percent of Cartreffi’s biodiversity, a mixture of native species, Old Earth descendants and—”
“Anything of interest about the bodies, fuggwitt. Examine the bodies.” Hissaq had found he could berate the Artificial Research, Development and Intelligence Escort, or Ardie for short, with impunity. He enjoyed doing so. It was liberating. He couldn’t enjoy it right now, however, not here and now. The smell of death had intensified in the warm afternoon, and he felt his gorge rising.
Valeria stood and helped Hissaq up with her. Appraising his clammy face, she tossed him a metal water bottle which he drank from. He nodded thanks and handed it back.
She jabbed a finger at Ardie examining a corpse dangling from the lower bough of a kalax tree. “Modern tech, eh?”
“Yeah. One would think the ship AI would at least stick to the topic at hand. Think in straight lines, if that makes sense. But it’s like a mad person, or some daydreamy kid who can’t focus and makes weird connections between things.”
Up in the tree a blue sheet of light played over the ruined body for a few seconds, before Ardie moved off to the next one. The dead lay all around this area of the forest as if tossed from a passing flying machine. They were draped in trees, tangled in bushes and lying on rocks and in streams with eddies burbling around their strange forms. Pale, yellow blood decorated the forest mulch. They were humanoid and lanky, small headed and long limbed. The heads sported a flared crest and were covered in a rash of eyeballs all around the circumference, dozens of them. The crest and the sharp little beak were the only solid parts of the creatures, as far as Hissaq could tell.
During Hissaq’s preliminary research a theatrical crone in a forest tavern told him the local legend of “skinny tree spirits what’s made of shadders’n and do pilfer lost babes.” The marginally more sophisticated folks of Bleujenn town called them graphomorphs, though nobody seemed to know where the name came from. Hissaq with the name. It sounded scientific and was all he had to go on anyway.
“No artifacts around, are there.” Valeria said.
“How do you mean?”
“There’s no tools or anything. No cooking stuff, no weapons, decorations. I don’t reckon they actually lived here.”
“Why were they here then?”
“Dunno. Don’t know anything about them really, do we. Except that they stink. When they’re dead anyways.”
Hissaq could not disagree. He swallowed drily and scratched at his beard.
“You’ve been itching your chin all day. Don’t you wash?” Valeria said.
He scowled. “New beard, itchy stage thereof. Not grown one for years but my boy insisted I do so, because his pal’s father has one. Big bushy specimen.”
“Looks good on you. Didn’t know you had a kid though.”
“Surprised?”
Valeria smiled like she knew something he didn’t “A bit. Want some tea?”
“Sit yourself down Val, it’s my turn.” He feared he was coming over as a bit condescending, a bit overly paternal. He liked her. She was easy going, flirty, and dished out and took a mockery in good spirits, a trait he suspected was borne of resilience, rather than insecurity. She was a bit like Tavian that way. He hadn’t known her very long though and he was naturally wary. She sat on the narrow boarding ramp, and he shimmied past her into the ship.
Kindly “making tea” for someone was rather an empty gesture in the ion-powered, AI-enhanced trimaran. Hissaq simply placed two mugs in a small recess in the wall—bulkhead, he reminded himself—told Ardie to produce tea and tea was forthcoming. Ardie was somehow the ship but was also the flying orb thing. This was a concept Hissaq had given up trying to understand; it was like something from the religions of Old Earth.
He carried the two cups of tea out to the ramp. The cups had little dials to adjust the temperature of the liquid and a digital temperature readout. Hissaq had grown up drinking from rough clay pots.
He sat next to her and sipped his tea. It was just the right temperature.
“Not exactly the plan, this, was it,” she said. She often asked questions that were not really questions.
“No. An ignominious start for Project Meet and Greet, I dare say. Our first serious attempt to make friendly with the mysterious sentients of Cartreffi and we’ve got a mass murder on our hands.”
“We don’t know it’s on our hands. We don’t know who did it. Maybe it was, like, another tribe of the same beasties.”
“That’s not what I meant, but yeah. Need to keep an open mind. And we can’t be sure they were sentient. Sapient. I still don’t know the difference. We’ll see what Ardie comes up with.”
Hissaq sipped his tea again and cried out. The stuff was boiling. “Fuggin Other!” He flapped a hand before his mouth and panted like an animal.
She giggled and pointed at his drinking vessel.” You must’ve knocked the temp dial with your sleeve, you clumsy arse. Oh those chiselled cheekbones of yours maybe.”
Hissaq made a palms-out gesture of incredulity. “Why would they do that? Of what use is a mug that makes your drink hotter than the surface of the sun? This new tech drives me round the twist.”
Valeria was still chuckling at his distress. “You should talk to my uncle. He got flushing toilets installed at his place in RLC,[1] hooked up to the new sewage system and everything. He didn’t realise what the button on the cistern was for though, afraid to press it in case he broke something, he was.” She grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. “Things got a little backed up.”
Hissaq snorted politely. “I’ve an old friend with a farm in Koessanor who acquired some swanky new farm machines, part of the pilot for Phase Two of da Vinci.[2] Changed his life, apparently, but he had to lay off most of his farmhands. Felt awful about it.”
“Don’t suppose the monarchy care about that side of things.”
“They do, actually. Her Majesty, at least. And Darov, in his way.”
She dug him in the ribs. “You’re a proper loyal subject, aren’t you?”
Hissaq’s mouth tightened little. “Credit where it’s due, is all. The queen’s trying her best but she’s got the Guild of Project Managers on her back, different factions and guilds and whatnot all with their own vested interests, trying to get a head start on all the new tech. Take the Dukes. The queen has to keep them sweet or they’ll start playing silly buggers with the economics, tariffs and what you have you, so they got their flying machines and heated swimming pools before most of their people had clean water to drink.” Hissaq chose not to mention at this point his own role in the genesis of Project da Vinci.[3]
They sat in silence and it was only when Ardie broke it that Hissaq realised the silence had been companionable.
“Hello Valeria, Hello Hissaq,” Ardie said, hovering in the air before them. “I have made captivating and mysterious discoveries about the dead graphomorphs. Would you like to know more?”
Valeria smirked. “Obviously,” she said.
“Of the 283 identified bodies, I believe 193 of them were killed instantly by an isobomb, or similar device.”
Hissaq frowned. “What’s an isobomb?”
“An isobomb is a small antipersonnel weapon which releases a highly modulated pressure wave. The wave causes catastrophic damage to the internal organs of any large animal in the vicinity, while leaving surrounding structures or foliage intact. Isobombs are often favoured by guerilla fighters. During the Weaselhead rebellion for example, at the last stand of—”
“Alright, alright,” Hissaq said. “And what of the remaining ninety?”
“Blood spatter, tissue damage and other evidence suggests the remaining ninety were killed with a variety of handheld weapons: boson rifles, bladed items and cudgels. I have a speculation also. Would you like to hear it?”
“Go on.”
“Your preliminary research sources, local mythology for example, suggests the graphomorphs had advanced camouflage abilities. This is supported by my brief microanalysis of their skin which contains pigmented cells similar to the chromatophores of Old Earth octopi. I conclude, therefore, that the assailants must have possessed technological means of detecting the graphomorphs’ presence. Infrared visual aids, perhaps.”
Hissaq hadn’t quite followed the technical mumbo jumbo, but he got the gist. Whoever had slaughtered these creatures had access to advanced kit.
“Gods,” Valeria whispered. She turned to Hissaq. “What do we do, gaffer?”
Hissaq ran his fingers through his hair. “Ardie? Any ideas what we should do next?”
“Sure thing, Hissaq. You must be hungry. The Prancing Shorse in Lilli serves amber ales and hearty rustic stews made from fresh local produce. The tavern is renowned for its hospitable ambience, and the—”
Hissaq launched his high tech imperial drinking vessel at Ardie. The cup struck the orb with a satisfying clank. “Fuggin eejit,” he roared. “What should we do about the three hundred murdered creatures?”
“Apologies, Hissaq. That is quite the dilemma, isn’t it. Sometimes prioritising a complicated workload can be really tough, so it’s important you take time to pay attention to your own wellbeing. Although your primary mission is to initiate contact with the sentient races of Cartreffi which are still alive, the late graphomorphs deserve justice. The murderers are probably still at large and could cause further harm, so I believe that finding out what happened here is takes priority. I suggest you return to Royal Lemuria City and report your findings to the kastal authorities. I have of course logged all my findings in secure data storage.”
Despite the lunatic AI rambling, he had actually made some good points. But report to whom at the kastal exactly? The queen was otherwise engaged. Josep would not be receptive and hated Hissaq anyway. Darov? Obviously not. Lord Cruzco vast store of knowledge of the history and mythology of Cartreffi might prove useful, but the Curator Royal was a bookish man, not one for navigating the complexities of the here and now.
Hissaq reached a decision and turned to Valeria. “We’ll report to the Sentinel Prime at the kastal, put it in her hands. She’s the only one with the authority and experience to know what to do.”
Valeria looked at him quizzically, with a hint of disappointment. “Bad idea, H. If these things were killed with sci-fi shooty bang bangs, what does that tell you? Who’s got access to that stuff? Not your common or garden bandits.”
Hissaq reddened. Valeria was right. Only those in positions of power would have access to isobombs and boson rifles and infrared gadgets. The logical thing was to actively avoid seeking help from those in authority until they knew more, not to go directly to them. A growing coldness settled in his guts, despite the super-heated tea.
“I made another finding which may be relevant,” Ardie said, interrupting Hissaq’s brooding. “On many of the bodies I found traces of an unusual dust about the feet. I was unable to identify it, but I do not believe it originated in the forest, nor does it appear to have been produced by the graphomorphs’ own bodies, though it does contain fragments of organic substrates as well as toxic trace elements.”
“Good work, Ardie,” Valeria said, annoyingly cheerful all of a sudden. “This is what they call a lead, gaffer. We could take the trimaran to the big university at Avrana, see if they can identify it.”
Hissaq scratched his itchy beard, which was much greyer than he had expected, making him look older than his thirty-eight years. “No. I don’t know…the university could be…” He trailed off. What he was struggling to articulate was the awful birthing in his psyche of a faceless, all powerful They. They could be linked to the Denovia Centre for Learning. They could be part of the royal kastal. They could be anywhere.
Valeria looked at him with concern but seemed to understand. She turned to Ardie. “Any ideas how we can identify this dust of yours, little fella? And keep it on the down low?”
“Certainly. The veneriads of Spank, the capital of the Duchy of Shelter, are said to be experts in chemistry and toxicology. Their taste receptors are highly advanced, rumour has it. Perhaps they could help.”
“What the Other is a veneriad?” Hissaq said.
“I have scant further information about them, other than they are native to the coastal regions of Shelter, and the people there have domesticated them and may have developed communication with them.”
“Are they sentient then?”
“Unknown I’m afraid.”
Valeria let go an indulgent sigh. “Gods. Shelter, what a dump. It’s full of skunts and stinking fisherserfs. My dad went there once. You think this place smells bad.[4]”
True, Shelter was the most isolated duchy of all Cartreffi in terms of cultural and economic exchange, but that could be an advantage. These veneriads could provide a cover for their going there, if need be; they were merely following a rumour of another sentient species. He was beginning to think like the main character of one of Prince Darov’s crappy stories.
“Alright then, we go to Spank.”
As they settled back into the trimaran’s comfortable lounge with its elegant curves and expensively understated furnishings, Hissaq wished Tavian was with him. The hogwrangler had a talent for barrelling through to the meat of a problem, despite his humble origins and lack of formal education. A deep sadness settled over him, tinged with guilt, for the sadness was not related to the poor murdered beasts outside but to Joyec, his son. He had hoped to be home with Joyec tomorrow, to celebrate with him or to share in his sorrow.
[1] Royal Lemuria City, the capital of Denovia and the seat of human power for the continent of Cartreffi.
[2] Project da Vinci is an initiative drip-feeding advanced Trappist Imperial technology to the people of Cartreffi, a hitherto low-tech society.
[3] The project was instigated after the culmination of an unlikely sequence of events involving Hissaq’s discovery of a sacred Gliesan relic, resulting in a human being installed as the Autarch of the entire Gliesan galactic Dominion. Though entirely unplanned, the crowning of the new Autarch largely removed the need for the Trappist Empire to kowtow to the Dominion and perpetuate the Gliesan dominance of Lemuria.
[4] While not operating a strict caste system, the people of the duchies of Cartreffi can be roughly divided into the following classes: royalty; the nobility with its own strata; freemen, poor but independent landowners; serfs of various type, working the land owned by the local lord; and skunts, landless wretches surviving by any means they can.
I want to know what happens next, take me to chapter four!