NightBird Calling

By Micah R. Sisk

Y’Goth, privateer captain of the NightBird class cargo liner Carapace, and C-Clan runaway, is on a seemingly insane mission: to rob a deep space installation owned by the mysterious Nesters—incorporeal human minds running on bio-gaseous computers.

He and three of his renegade C-Clan brothers have pulled off similar heists twice before. But their luck isn't holding. And somehow Y'Goth has burdened himself with a skittish passenger who is reluctant to participate in such brigandry.

Then comes word that their bio-dad, their biological progenitor from whom they escaped twelve years ago, has sent agents to destroy them, or bring them back under his genetic thrall. The agents are closing in, and they're not the forgiving type.

Set in a posthuman future when mankind has splintered into thousands of factions, scattered itself across the galaxy, shaped and augmented itself into endless biological, mechanical and informational forms, NightBird Calling is the first in a series of works exploring the history, cultures and societies of the posthuman diaspora: the Posthuman Cycle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Micah R. Sisk
• Release date: Feb 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311122278

Micah R. Sisk

Micah R. Sisk was born at the U.S. Army medical hospital in Landstuhl, West Germany (there was a West Germany at the time) in 1958, and has lived most of his life since in Frederick County, Maryland, U.S.A. After a close encounter with Engineering, Micah received a Bachelor of Science degree in Art from Virginia Tech. He now makes his living as a database analyst at a major U.S. corporation, while in other incarnations he is, or has been, a landscape painter, real estate agent, assistant gallery director, retail sales manager, microfilm quality control tech, musician, composer, and builder of electronic musical instruments.Micah is married with cat(s) and is often seen puttering around Frederick, Maryland on his bicycle, hanging out at coffee houses reading and writing science fiction tales.

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NightBird Calling

—A Posthuman Cycle Novella—

By Micah R. Sisk

Copyright © 2013 & 2015 by Micah R. Sisk.

Published by Micah R. Sisk at Smashwords

Cover design by Damonza

Smashwords Edition

ISBN – 9781311122278

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera!

The right of Micah R. Sisk to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

For Kimberly with a shout out to Teresia, and much gratitude to Mark.

Table of Contents

Title & Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

About The Posthuman Cycle

About The Author

Other Works by Micah R. Sisk

1.

The Present—Cargo Liner Carapace, Deep Space:

Aaand there she fucking is, Parley! Y’Goth cackled happily, pointing at the screen before him. See that? Y’Goth cocked his head away from the forward navigation screen, his voice booming as if he needed it to be heard back in the farthest cargo hold. "I fucking told you, Parley! I bloody fucking told you I’d find it!"

Parley, sitting not more than half a meter behind the privateer captain—he could hardly have missed the captain’s words even if they had been delivered in a hushed whisper—said in a quiet, controlled voice, Yes. I can see it, Y’Goth. I’ve got a screen here too, you know.

Y’Goth ignored his thin pasty companion and let out a long belly laugh, slapping his thick muscular thigh through the jumpsuit he always wore. And ain’t she purdy, Parley? Ain’t she fucking gorgeous!

Purdy? Parley mumbled. The captain’s persistent (and affected) folksy–isms had worn thin long ago.

But the object was undoubtedly beautiful. Beyond beautiful: hypnotically dazzling. At least it was when seen in this enhanced imaging mode. In normal light—that is to say, in the absolute abyssal blackness of interstellar space—the distant object was invisible. But enhanced! It was like a shimmering violet and lavender jewel, a living, undulating organic mass of—

Y’Goth, just what the hell am I actually looking at?

You, my son, are beholding the mother of all pearls. Well, at least so far. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Yeah, well, whatever. Cut the metaphor, will you? Just what the hell is it? Y’Goth opened his mouth to reply, but Parley cut him off, OK, I mean I know it’s a Nester communication array. What I’m asking is, why does it look like that?"

Ah, Y’Goth said. That. The captain paused to make the odd clucking or clicking sound with his tongue that he often did while thinking or preoccupied. Simple answer, Parley: exotic energy. It’s the unique signature of the Nesters. Like a Catanian colossus jellyfish made entirely of, not light, but exotic whatchacallit.

It looks a bit like an electromagnetic field, only—

I know. It’s indescribable, isn’t it? Beautiful.

The two sat in awed contemplation for a few seconds before snapping back to business.

Right! Y’Goth said. "Those coordinates you so kindly provided back on Scarthe have just been proven genuine, me lad. Your humble captain, navigator, engineer, mechanic and all–round good guy—that is to say, me—has miraculously projected the Nester’s course and speed correctly from those coordinates, thus bringing us, and it, to this potentially portentous collusion! What, then, is our next course of action, o faithful companion?"

Parley sighed, closed his eyes and counted slowly to himself to calm his irritation at the captain’s annoying flippancy. Faithful companion, indeed! The two had hardly known each other for three months, and most of that time Parley had spent in hibernation. There was barely any trust between them, let alone faithfulness. Tight beam our delivery request code to the Nester comm array?

Ah! No, good Parley, too soon!

OK, uh, our intent to approach code, then?

Y’Goth smiled. The friendly handshake. Uh–hullo sweet Nesters. We, your servile suppliers approach to top up your coffers with all manner of delectably rare ores and exotically poisonous gases, only that which you require for your continued health, uh–sustenance and delight!

Parley wondered if it would do any good to tell the captain to shut up. Instead he asked, "Captain, is Carapace actually carrying any of that stuff?"

What, the supplies and delights a Nester comm station would need? But of course, dear Parley! Verisimilitude—as I’ve told you on numerous occasions—is the milk of deception.

But how do you even know what they want or need? I mean, this is hardly your standard cargo run, is it? Nesters? Really? How the fu— Parley put a hand to his mouth to suppress the accidental invective.

Y’Goth grinned but didn’t comment on his recently acquired shipmate’s prudishness. What you’re asking is how could I, Y’Goth of planet Getoo, a filthy, untrustworthy privateer, know what the godlike Nesters normally receive on a bog–standard shipping run. Is that it?

Well, yeah. Exactly.

Y’Goth sighed dramatically. Do you never listen to a word I say?

Parley wished he had the choice.

Y’Goth continued unabated, The answer’s simple, Parley. I raided the storage lock–ups of the last two communication nests I hit. You didn’t think I just swiped their precious box candy and fled did you? Y’Goth finally turned all the way around so Parley could see him tap his forehead with a finger. Gotta always be thinking ahead, Parley. Always be thinking ahead.

Y’Goth turned back around and reached for the oddly hardware–based control panel before him. He pivoted it into his lap and punched a series of buttons. Here you go, Mr. Communications Officer, sir. Tight beam that to the heart of the Nest, and set it to repeat every three minutes. I’m gonna get a snack and some shuteye.

Should I wake you if they reply?

Y’Goth silently moved the impressive bulk of a body back through the cramped bridge, a room in which he was barely able to stand upright. As he passed through the bulkhead he said gruffly, They won’t. Not yet.

2.

Three Months Ago—Outskirts Of Stockdale City, Planet Scarthe:

Rain. Hard driving sheets of rain raised a thunderous din, relentlessly pounding the cheap FlexiFibre metal–composite roofs that topped the Scutter shacks in this Lo–F neighborhood. It always rained on Scarthe. Or at least it seemed to when Y’Goth visited the planet. Not that he frequented Scarthe.

Y’Goth forced his hulking frame between two close–set shacks with overlapping roofs and sniffed the air deeply. It smelled of ozone and rain–eroded clay, an earthy, flinty smell—not surprising since the whole neighborhood was built on raw clay. Hell, eroded clay wasn’t such a bad smell, especially in this rain, which had mercifully swept away the odors of stale booze, excrement and pungent bio–industrial wastes produced by the local, marginally–legal, Scutter–run cottage industries: the typical perfumes of Lo–F neighborhoods like this one. Lo–F? Looked more like No–F to Y’Goth.

Hee gaith? called a timid voice from somewhere behind him, behind the buildings under which he sheltered.

Y’Goth turned and peered into the darkness of the narrow alley—it was barely wide enough to contain his bulk—but nothing could be seen. Eh? he called out.

Hee gaith? O–arr ye? answered the voice again.

Ah, Y’Goth muttered. It was probably one of the Scutters: posthuman bio–miners, eaters of earth, the lowest rung of the local posthuman diaspora who literally ingested Scarthe’s soil, processing its mineral content via bio–mechanical organs and excreting compounds useful to the industries of higher–F sectors of posthumanity. The Scutters’ local patois was particularly difficult to understand. Who goes? Who are you? is what the Scutter had said. No troubles, friend! Y’Goth called back in his booming voice. I am but a visitor seeking shelter from the storm!

There was a pause before the local responded again. Ah–ieet. Polgee fi ti mess, ooch? And then there was a splashing sound, like someone emptying a bucket.

Y’Goth hadn’t quite caught the patois. He furrowed his brow trying to puzzle it out when the scent of the air changed drastically for the worse. Shit! Y’Goth cried and leaped back into the street and the rain. Looking down and back toward the huts he saw the contents of the local’s slop bucket empty into the street in excremental rivulets. Alright. Apologies for the mess, the local had said. Ooch being a simple interjection used in the local patois.

Mind the mess, Y’Goth grumbled unhappily, and moved on his way, glancing down suspiciously at his soaking shoes and jumpsuit pants legs.

Ooch, d’ye need seein’ after friend? called out a voice from a larger shack ahead of him. This local spoke Uspe much more fluently, his patois easily parsed.

Aye, friend! Y’Goth responded, picking up his pace through the rain with some relief. A bite and a bed is what I need. A drink wouldn’t be turned down either. Provide, and I shall toast your kindness.

Well, look no farther, friend! Bite ‘n’ bed ‘n’ drink awaits wi’in. Come an’ toast me if ye like. I’ll no mind, ooch? The local waved him on and held the door open for him to squeeze through, patting him vigorously on the back as Y’Goth crossed the threshold.

Y’Goth at your service, sir, Y’Goth said in thanks. The man just laughed, followed Y’Goth inside and closed the door