Maverick

By Robert Harkess

They settled their world hundreds of years ago, turning their backs on technology, closing the Gate behind them. When their children began to develop impossible powers they rejoiced and called them Golden – until they took over. 

Elanor comes to her powers not as a child, but as a young woman – a Maverick. The Golden are rumoured to do terrible things to Mavericks, so Elanor runs. 

Anatol has travelled from the home world, decades in suspended animation, to stop the Gate malfunctioning and destroying both worlds. 

He and Elanor collide, and form an uneasy truce of science and magic

• Language: English
• Publisher: Metaphoric Media
• Release date: Apr 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524265748

Robert Harkess

Robert Harkess grudgingly shares his writing time with his real-world job, where he does things with computers and bosses people about. He lives just north of London with a wonderful wife and two attention-seeking dragons shape-shifted into the forms of conventional felines. Robert also writes novels for younger readers as R B Harkess. Check out his other titles available on this site.  He blogs, a nasty habit that many have tried to break him of, at www.rbharkess.co.uk.

Book preview

One

Elanor’s mother screamed. The cooking pot, on the table in front of her an instant ago, was now rocking gently from side to side on the floor near the kitchen door. Elanor’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again as she wracked her brain for an explanation. Neither of them had touched the pot, so how...? She glanced at her mother but had to look away from her wide, horrified eyes. A moment ago Elanor had been angry, furious, but now it was fear that made her heart pound in her chest. Her gaze flickered around the room, looking for something to blame. I – I must have knocked it with my hand.

Her mother, Hanna, took a deep breath and closed her eyes, then drew her hands down her face and wiped on a smile. Yes, dear, that must have been it. She walked to the door, picked up the pot and put it back on the table. Picking up the paring knife she had dropped, Hanna peeled more vegetables.

Elanor dropped onto a stool beside the table and rubbed her hands on the coarse fabric of her apron. Her palms were sweating, tingling, but no amount of scrubbing would dry them. It had not been a good day. Her Guildmaster had reprimanded her for rising to the taunts of one of the apprentices, the sole of her left boot had split, and a hopeful but unwanted suitor had pestered her all the way home. Stabbing her finger with a splinter from the rough edge of the table was the final straw.

You need to get hold that temper of yours, girl. The tone was conversational, but when Elanor looked up she saw her mother’s lips pressed into a thin white line. It’s going to get you into trouble.

I try, Mum. I really do.

Her mother hacked a carrot into chunks and threw them into a pot to wash with the other vegetables. Elanor rose from the stool and went back to the meat she had been dicing. She picked up the knife but instead of cutting, she put the point onto the scarred tabletop and held the knife upright with a finger on the end of the handle, swaying it gently from side to side. She watched her mother shake the pot back and forth to rinse the vegetables then drain the water away. When she came back to the table, Elanor couldn’t look her in the face. Instead, she glanced down at the knife. The finger poised on the top was shaking.

Elanor sat in her favourite spot at the side of the house, cross-legged on top of an old barrel. From here she could watch the sun set. Spring and summer, this was her quiet time, looking out over the fields to the horizon and imagining what was beyond. She sang softly, absently, practising the teaching songs she would be drilling the apprentices on the next day. Making a mistake in front of those little horrors, giving them another chance to mock her, simply wasn’t an option. Being the first female Bard – at least the first anybody in this village had heard of – meant she had to be the best, better than any of the boys. It wasn’t easy.

She had just started Arnold’s ‘Birthing of Lambs’ when she heard voices. Both her brothers were out drinking, trying to woo unwary – or undiscerning – young ladies, so unless someone had opened a window, her parents were having a disagreement.

She couldn’t make out what was being said, but she could hear her mother was distraught and her father disbelieving. She got down from the barrel and eased closer to the back door. Elanor’s Bard training buried any guilt she felt about eavesdropping. Information always came first.

...sure I saw anything, said her mother.

Then why mention it?

But what if it’s true?

Then we... her father, Dillon, hesitated then made a frustrated growl.

They have ways of knowing, Hanna’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Says who? challenged Dillon, but Hanna didn’t answer. So we leave this. We mention it to nobody. We have nothing to tell. Agreed? Elanor did not hear her mother answer. Good, then we say no more.

Elanor stepped back around the corner as she heard someone come closer to the door. Looking over her shoulder, she realised she had missed the sunset, bar purple-bruised clouds and a fading red stain in the sky. She turned her back to it and made an obvious and noisy return to the house.

Her father sat in his chair, his arms half crossed. His right hand massaged his chin, and his eyes were looking deep into the flames in the hearth. Her mother was trying to work on stitching a rip in a shirt, but she was fussing at it and the light wasn’t good enough for needlework. Elanor excused herself, pecking both parents dutifully on the cheek as she explained she was tired and needed to be sharp in the morning. She climbed the steep stair to the first floor, where her parents and her brothers each had their bedroom, and then the ladder to her bedroom in the loft. Without changing into her nightclothes, Elanor lay on her back and stared up at the roof beams. She was still looking at them when Frank and Eli came bumbling noisily to bed, making exaggerated shushing noises.

She must have fallen asleep at some time, because waking up was a horrendous cacophony of her mother shouting up the stairs at them and her brothers clattering and crashing around the house as they dressed. Rubbing at gritty eyes, as though she had been the one out drinking. Elanor dragged herself from under bedclothes she had no memory of burrowing beneath and fumbled her way through a quick wash before changing her underclothes and shirt.

As usual, she was late to breakfast. From the edge in her mother’s voice, Elanor had missed more than one call to rise. Her mother tried to keep some food back most mornings, but it was pot luck. Today was a bad day, and the porridge had all vanished into male mouths. Elanor contented herself with a thick slice of bread liberally smeared with bright yellow butter before she pecked her mother on the cheek and set off for the Guild House.

Hodeston was an in-between place. Elanor knew most of the other towns within a day’s walk; her home town was larger than any and twice the size of most, but it was still only a town. Elanor could attach names to the faces of the majority of her neighbours.

The Guild House was a ten minute walk from her home. Most of the men and all the children she passed smiled and waved, and there were one or two saucy whistles which she pretended to ignore. The women blanked her, or frowned and shook their heads as she passed. Elanor dressed in clothes more suited to a boy; loose trews, boots, and a shirt under a jerkin of soft, brown leather. Not always, but certainly on workdays. Elanor was a Bard.

It was, she reasoned with herself, an issue of practicality. Skirts got in the way of some of the instruments, hid the footwork of dancing, and were a definite disadvantage if she needed to ride. Even her hair, somewhere between brown and chestnut depending on the light, was too long and she wore it in a braid rather than loose as a grown woman should. Not everybody approved.

In the space between one step and another her world fell silent. One of Hodeston’s three Golden was walking down the middle of the street, and straight towards her. Elanor muttered a curse through motionless lips, and her eyes flicked from side to side. Wherever she looked people had already turned away, pretending to be busy with anything they could. She was alone and exposed, standing directly in the Golden’s path. Her breath caught in her throat and she tried not to make eye contact at the same time as she tried to see if the Golden was looking at her with too much interest.

She stepped aside to let him pass. His dark cloak billowed behind him, the hood cowled around his shoulders, and the golden glow of his eyes was all but imperceptible in the morning light. Elanor placed her palms together and touched the tips of her middle fingers to the bottom of her chin in the usual mark of respect. The Golden nodded distantly, automatically, as he walked away and the tight band of fear around Elanor’s chest loosened enough for her to breathe again. She had nothing to feel guilty about, but everybody was afraid of the Golden. Today her fear had been closer to terror and she had to fight to stop herself hurrying suspiciously away.

After scrounging another slab of bread and butter from the Guild House kitchen, Elanor ambled along the corridor, chewing contentedly. She was supposed to be drilling the three youngest apprentices this morning, testing them on the first five teaching songs, but before she could get to the classroom a stentorian voice intoned her name from the floor above. She considered calling back, but pattered lightly up the stairs. It was not decorous for a journeyman – well, almost journeyman – to engage in a shouted conversation with the Master.

Master Bard Ledrin’s office was bright, with a large window that faced south. The furniture was restricted to a pair of tall stools for playing on and two comfortable chairs for talking in. An orchestra of instruments overran the rest of the space. When Elanor poked her head in the door she found Ledrin perched on a stool with a wooden flute in his hands. You bellowed at me? said Elanor.

Come inside and close the door.

Elanor wasn’t sure how to interpret his tone, and she hesitated in the doorway. I’m supposed to be drilling the tadpoles-

I’ve asked Stevan to take care of that. Please. He waved her inwards. Elanor stepped into the room, suddenly wishing she had not begged the bread from the cook and wondering where she could hide the remains of the slice. She put the food on the arm of a chair and pushed the door closed. Ledrin showed no signs of moving from his stool, so she took the other and waited for him to speak. Instead, he put the flute to his lips and began to play. The flute, an alto, had a deep and mellow tone, and softened the short, repetitive theme into something very peaceful.

What was that? Elanor asked when Ledrin took the flute from his lips. I didn’t recognise it.

You wouldn’t. It’s only taught to journeymen.’ Ledrin must have heard Elanor’s sharp inward breathe and hurriedly added ‘Which you still aren’t Elanor still opened her mouth to protest, and Ledrin raised a hand. And I have no intention of re-opening that discussion now. Your promotion must be ratified by the Mother Guildhall and that is final.

Elanor angry, then disappointed, and finally sighed. So why am I here?

Did you like the tune?

It was nice enough.

Hum it back to me.

What?

I want you to learn this tune.

On what? Elanor looked around at the instruments, expecting there to be a second flute somewhere obvious.

On nothing. I want you to be able to hum it. Better, to internalise it.

Elanor narrowed her eyes. What are you up to?

The Master Bard stiffened and for an instant Elanor wondered if he was not going to answer. His lips tightened, but after a second he let out his breath in a puff. It is a calming device. Sometimes Journeymen and Masters get involved in difficult or diplomatic situations. This is a device to help if things get difficult, confrontational. It sits in the back of your head. You know it so well that you hear it as soon as you start getting tense or angry. It helps you relax, and to keep yourself centred.

So why are you teaching it to me now? Elanor asked, but as soon as she finished speaking her face collapsed into a frown and she made an exasperated sound. Father.

Ledrin could not meet her eyes and fidgeted on his seat, but nodded. He came to see me this morning. Interrupted my breakfast.

He had no right –

Throwing a pot across the room because you got a splinter in your finger is not reasonable, Ledrin said, cutting Elanor off, this time using the tone he only got out when somebody had stepped over a line. He had not used it on her for so long it was like a splash of cold water on her face. I should not have to mention I would never recommend anyone for Journeyman status who cannot control themselves. I do not want you losing control if someone from the Guildhall decides to press you. Now, open your ears and your mind. And he put the flute to his lips and played the tune again.

Apart from lunch, and an hour in the afternoon to teach the apprentices exercises for the guitar, Ledrin drilled Elanor on the tune. He mixed in periods of calmness and controlled breathing, but when the workday finished Elanor was glad to leave. Although it had been a challenge at first, by mid-afternoon she had been fighting off boredom.

The walk home took her past the silversmiths shop where her father and older brother both worked. Most days, if she was early enough to find the shop still open, she would drop in and chat until they could all leave together. Today, she walked past.

She drew level with the town pulpit, and paused to stroke her hand across the battered wood. Ledrin or one of the journeymen would climb the pulpit to announce important news, clanging the hand bell for attention. She had been allowed to cry the news once, a glorious day, when both the journeyman bards had been away.

A shop door jangled open behind her and her father called her name. She seriously considered ignoring him and walking on, but shied away from such open disobedience. She stopped and turned to see what he wanted.

Are you in a hurry tonight? he asked.

Elanor shrugged but said nothing. He looked at her for a moment, raised his hand in a gesture that asked her to wait, and turned his head to speak to someone inside the shop. A moment later he was walking over to her, his tunic over his left arm, offering a crooked elbow with his right. Mostly from habit, she linked her arm through his.

How was your day? he asked.

Elanor shrugged again. She was cross with him, and a part of her didn’t care that much if he thought she was being sullen. Tiring, she admitted, eventually.

I suppose Ledrin told you I spoke to him? Elanor nodded. Dillon cleared his throat softly. And I suppose you are mad at me?

Elanor offered a neutral twitch of her shoulders but said nothing. The long-suffering tone her father used brought an unwelcome twitch to her lips, but she was not finished being annoyed. They took another dozen steps then her father slowed to a halt. His arm slipped away from hers, but his hand took a gentle hold of her upper arm and forced her not only to stop, but to turn to face him.

I know you are not pleased I spoke to your Master, Dillon said quietly. But think on this. If Ledrin thought my words had no merit, why would he act on them? He held Elanor’s glare, daring her to argue, and it was she who turned her eyes away first. He offered her his arm again. After a pause no longer than a heartbeat she took it, holding it closer this time, and they walked home.

Elanor was humming Ledrin’s tune to herself as she walked home. He had made her practice every day for the past week, and despite a moment or two of rebellion at the eternal repetition it had become embedded in her mind. The verminous tadpoles that passed for junior apprentices had been teasing her all day, saying girls could never be real Bards. They knew it riled her, and they knew that Ledrin would not intervene. After all, what kind of Bard would she be if a handful of preteen boys could beat her down? The tune had helped, but the boys still had the power to drain her spirit. Her heart was already heavy before she got home, and sunk further when she heard the raised voices drifting through the windows of her home.

You are not joining the army and that’s final. Hanna’s voice, shrill with fear and knowing she was losing the argument

Why not? It’s what I want, more than anything. Why not let me go now? In two years you can’t stop me and all you’ll have done is put me behind everybody else.

You can’t be sure. They may not make you a Ranger.

They have to. I’m the best woodsman for miles. I can hunt, track and scout. Why wouldn’t they put me in the Rangers?

Mother’s right, Elanor said, arriving in the doorway. They promise anything to get you in, then send you wherever they need you. Just because you’re good at something doesn’t–

"How would you know? What would a girl know about the army?"

Bards get to know lots of things about–

Bard? You’re not a bard. You’re a stupid girl that likes to dress as a boy.

Elanor gasped and her face flamed as though he had struck her. Their mother spoke sharply, but Elanor didn’t miss the worried look thrown in her direction. Eli! That’s enough.

The boy glared at his mother. It’s true, he spat. "Everybody laughs at her, and they poke fun at me about her. He jabbed a finger at Elanor as he turned to face her again. Are you pleased about that? Are you happy you embarrass me? Why can’t you act like a proper girl? The apprentices all say you’re no good as a Bard anyway. You’re a disgrace, and you disgrace our fam–"

Hot anger burst out from the bottom of Elanor’s breastbone. Distantly, she heard her mother’s voice wailing ‘Elanor, no!’ but it was too far away and too late to stop her. A soundless thud of energy picked Eli up and threw him across the house. He skidded across the table, scattering plates and cups and cutlery to the floor, shooting off the end and crashing headfirst into the wall beside the kitchen door. At the same time, everything that could move in the house rattled while the walls rang like a bell.

And then silence. It held for a beat, then another. She saw her mother cover her face in a terrible echo of the last day Elanor’s temper had bested her. A moment later a strong hand in her back pushed Elanor into the house and the door slammed shut.

Frank, go see to your brother, said her father. If he is unconscious, bring him back over here.

But... Frank’s voice was scared, confused. Her father’s decisive, commanding.

Now.

Dillon turned to his wife. She was staring at Eli, her hands still covering her mouth. Her eyes? he asked, but she made no reply. He crossed the room and took Hanna’s arm, turning her to face him and shaking her gently. Hanna? Her eyes?

Hanna’s chin bobbed in a jerky nod and Dillon’s face bleached white and he sat heavily on a stool. He looked up into his wife’s face, his words slow and desperate. You are sure?

Hanna nodded again, finally finding a weak, broken voice. Golden.

Two

Anatol’s first conscious act was to spray bright green sputum from his nose and mouth as something between a bronchial cough and vomiting convulsed him. This stuff is disgusting.

This stuff kept you alive for forty-five years said a female voice, business-like and edging towards cold. Now remember, sit up slowly. And don’t drip any of that fluid onto my deck.

Anatol said nothing, but cast an evil eye at the monitor cluster on the wall next to him. There was no other way he could have straightened out except slowly and carefully. They had drummed it in to him during training that it was very important not to make any sudden movements. His back muscles would be stiff, and they warned and he could do himself permanent injury.

His question at the time had been why the best position for him to travel four hundred and thirty-seven light years was so undignified; sitting on a block bent forward so his hands touched his ankles, in a box so small he could feel it against his buttocks, the back of his head and both shoulders, all at the same time. They had muttered about most efficient topology and compressing his body cavities to minimise redundant fluid uptake. He shifted from side to side, getting his balance ready to stand up.

Wait, said the woman’s voice. You have to scrape your upper body first, and comb your hair.

Anatol took a long, deep breath to sigh, but spoiled the effect by having another coughing fit. Clipped to the box on his left and right were, respectively, a flexible scraper and a comb with fine teeth. He took the comb first and pulled it through his hair. It had grown since they had sealed him into the tank, and become tangled. He muttered darkly as he tugged it through the knots.

Why am I doing this, Ship? he asked. It’s not like I can use this stuff to get back.

For your information, Anatol, the bioregenerative nanite solution you are so carelessly scraping out of your hair is worth slightly more than this vehicle, said Ship. Even if you can’t use it, somebody else will. Eventually.

Anatol grunted in a way that indicated he either did not believe or did not care. By the time she got back to civilisation the stuff would be old news anyway. He switched to the skin scraper and started at the back of his neck, then his arms, and finally his torso. It took him fifteen minutes to scrape off enough that Ship was happy for him to step out of the box.

Now, she instructed. Into the shower. And don’t forget to ingest the tube of reclaimant gel. The shower door was two paces away from the box. Anatol stepped inside and pressed a button for ‘hot and soapy’. What he got was lukewarm and plain. He squeezed the contents of the reclaim gel tube into his mouth then let the tepid water sluice over his body.

The shower shut off on its own. He tapped another button and the wall morphed out into a toilet bowl, and a sink with a mirror over it. He used the toilet first, then stood at the sink and looked in the mirror. Wow. Hairy.

But alive. This was mentioned at the mission brief.

It was?

Yes.

Don’t remember. I tended to wander during the tech stuff. Not really my forte. Anyhow, I’ve been in suspension for 45 years. How come my hair has all grown out like this?

Ship sighed with no attempt to conceal her impatience. You were not in suspension. You have been in an induced coma, immersed in an invasive bath of bioregenerative nanites. You lived through those forty-five years. The nanites held you unconscious and simply kept repairing you. If they hadn’t controlled the production of your follicles, your hair would be seven metres long and the box would have filled up. You would have drowned in your own dandruff.

Anatol ran his hands over his beard, then through his hair. So do you have shears? I’d like to get rid of this now.

No.

No shears?

"No, you may not get rid of it. We spoke about this, Anatol. It is possible that men in this culture tend to be hirsute. It will be a lot quicker for the nanites to break this hair off if it isn’t required, than to have them grow it from scratch.

Itches like hell, Anatol said as his dug furiously into his beard with his fingers.

Deal with it, said Ship.

Anatol stepped out of the shower and took a clean ship suit and a pair of soft slippers from his locker. Stepping into the suit made him wobble enough to suggest sitting the edge of his bunk to put slippers on. Can I eat yet?

Yes. The reclamation gel has already purged your intestines of the nanites. Your internal flora should be regenerating.

Marvellous. What’s to eat? Anatol rose and walked, stiffly, to the living area.

Anything you want, Ship replied. So long as it is one of the stored meals you asked for before the mission started.

Nice. I’m sure I ordered breakfast. Eggs, bacon, beans, hash browns? By now he was in the living area, and standing in front of the food store. The panel slid open to his touch and revealed a stack of slots, only a dozen of which contained trays. Anatol ran his finger down the labels, looking for the tray he wanted. He pulled it, slipped it into the preparation unit, and took a seat at the table. Two minutes later the door popped open, aerosoling the smell of food around the small room. Anatol took out the tray and the door slid closed.

So, what can you tell me? he asked as he shovelled the scrambled egg into his mouth. Anatol was already wondering if there was another breakfast in the food store, and if he could talk Ship around to letting him eat it. Did they send you the rest of the mission briefing?

I still find it difficult to believe you would accept this mission without a full understanding of what was involved, said Ship.

You did, Anatol mumbled as he forked food into his mouth.

I don’t have to go down to the planet, Ship countered.

While Anatol had spent a month in medical isolation, purging his system of anything that could cause an epidemic on the mission world, Ship had been with him. Most of the time. He still wasn’t sure why. They had gone over what little they did know about the mission world, trying to devise scenarios without any clear understanding of what it was they were supposed to achieve.

This was the first time he had worked with an EI; the ghost of a human mind stored in a computer. At least that’s how he had always thought of them. Ship wasn’t quite what he expected. He enjoyed needling her, trying to find the buttons that would make the dry, professional facade slip to reveal whoever was hiding underneath. His success had been limited, so far, but there had been hints of something more human. Perhaps that was why he kept tormenting her; there was something about Ship that he liked.

He wiped his mouth with a paper towel, and waved his fork in the air like a baton to emphasise what he was saying. All I know is that it’s a specialist skills situation that Collective Cultural Office thinks matches my profile. And nobody else with the right profile would do it.

But why you? Ship returned to the point that she had, in turn, tried to pressure him about during his isolation. Anatol knew it irked her, and guessed certain pages from his personnel record had been redacted from the copy Ship had.

Because CCO figure I have nobody I will miss for forty-five years, I guess, said Anatol, the humour suddenly missing from his voice. Could we get on with the briefing? He raised another loaded fork to his mouth.

Certainly, said Ship, then she hesitated for a second. Her tone on that one word had sounded uncertain, and had none of the arrogant confidence with which she normally spoke. Management summary, then. The planet was settled seven hundred five years ago by an anti-tech movement, led by a Robert Ettins. This world, catalogue number 4471-218, is too poor in tech-valid resources to interest the Collective, so was moth-balled and left with an inactive wormhole Gateway seed. When the anti-techs requested a sanctuary, this is what they got. The deal was the Gateway would be opened for the colonists to transfer themselves and their equipment, then the Gateway would be shut down.

Except that can’t happen?

Of course not. Once established, a Gateway cannot simply be switched off. At least, not if anybody ever intended to use it again. The Non-Sentient AI was instructed to put the Gateway into minimum function mode then disconnect all control interfaces from it.

And now somebody thinks something is going on?

One hundred ninety-two years ago the Collective end of the Gateway conduit showed signs of instability. A type of instability seen before where the controlling Non-Sentient AI had become aware.

Sentient AI. said Anatol. His shoulders lifted and shuddered. I thought they had nailed the whole awareness-failure thing centuries ago.

The problem is not as contained as the Collective likes people to believe, said Ship. Although Embedded Intelligences like myself are widespread, there are still not enough of us. NSAI cores are still necessary. A tiny percentage can fail and awaken. Besides, this core is over seven hundred years old. Things were worse back then

So why are we here?

Your job is to gain access to the Gatehouse, bypass the NSAI and re-establish the Gateway.

There was a three beat pause. Holy. Shit.

Wish you had asked for a more detailed mission spec before you left now? asked Ship.

Anatol said nothing and chose to ignore the smug tone. He collected the detritus of his meal and dropped it into the recycle chute before taking a plastic cup over to the drinks dispenser and dialling up a coffee; decaff, white, two sweeteners. Drink in hand, he stepped over to the couch and sat, legs out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He sniffed at the coffee and grimaced. So there could be an AI down there that has been sentient for two hundred years, and I am supposed to get around it? How come it took so long to get somebody out here?

"A hundred years to decide it was a problem and fifty years