Africa Zero by Neal Asher Page A

...”
    Silverman?
He?
    I
heard a click as she inserted a clip into her Optek, and I turned round to her.
    “Wait
here,” I said. I removed the pistol from my pocket.
    “I
have family here,” she said.
    I
looked at her Optek. Responsibility. If the Silver One were to be here and to
attack, bullets would do nothing. But what right did I have to prevent her from
trying to aid her family? Anyway, I was not so sure the Silver One was
responsible. I nodded and we advanced along the jetty.
    It
soon became apparent, as we mounted the bank, that there were bodies scattered
on the ground around the hut. Sipana ran ahead and I did not stop her. There
were people walking amongst the bodies, loading them onto stretchers. There was
a woman on her knees weeping. Whatever had happened here we had missed it.
    As
I reached the bodies, five in all, I think—it was difficult to tell. Sipana was
standing talking to a Negro nearly seven feet tall, obviously a throw-back to
the Masai. He wore a decorous green blanket across his shoulders, monofilament
trousers, and leant on a gleaming assegai. Across his back was slung an Optek
even older than Sipana’s. When I approached Sipana tilted her head to look at
me and I could see the same Hamitic pride in her features. She waited until I
was standing close then looked meaningfully towards the water oak. I looked up
and for a moment thought I was looking upon some kind of icon or other object
of worship, then I realised. Hurricane had been crucified there.
    Anger
is a rarity to me. I, who over the millennia of my life can be held responsible
for the deaths of millions. How many people had been killed by my creations?
How many more would be killed? One death should be meaningless. But as always,
this was personal. I felt anger then and it was a stark actinic illumination. I
advanced to the tree and looked up. Hurricane had been nailed up like the
Christos of the Old God, flat broken pieces of metal driven through the bones
of his wings and legs, through his body, and into the wood of the tree with
great force. He had bled to death. The bark of the tree was red.
    “The
Silverman came. He nailed up this Pykani and these men tried to prevent him. He
tore them like paper dolls. The Rainman would speak with you.”
    I
did not answer him. Instead I removed the covering from my right hand and
pulled the spikes from the tree. Hurricane flopped into my arms. I lowered him
to the ground—so much flesh. Nothing now.
    “One
called Spitfire will come. Tell her it is a time for endings. The Silver One
will die.” I turned from the pathetic corpse and looked at Sipana and the man I
guessed to be her brother. “Take me to your Rain-man.”
    They
led me to a dark wattle hut, this one cylindrical unlike the rest. Inside an
old man lay on a pallet and was being tended to by an old woman in jungle
fatigues. The Rainman was black and shrivelled like an old lizard, his hair
long and white, and his eyes gleaming. He had been injured. His arm was
splinted and his breathing laboured, so I assumed he must have had a few
cracked ribs. As I entered the hut he nodded to the woman and she quickly left.
    “Welcome
to my village, Collector. It is unfortunate that I cannot greet you in the
correct manner.”
    “I
have no use for feasting,” I said.
    He
grinned at me. I continued.
    “You
have something to tell me, I presume?”
    “The
one we call the Silverman spoke to me. The voice was a woman’s voice and I
wonder if that one is named correctly?”
    “Silverwoman
should be that particular . . . honorific. I suppose the name changed over the
years because she has long not been recognisable as a woman. But it is
questionable if gender should be applied to us at all. That is a function of
our synthetic covering and of what we were before taking on these ceramal
bodies.”
    “To
yourself you are a man. Would you be a woman if you had the appearance of one?”
    I
warmed to him. He was not stupid. I advanced further into the