By Neal Asher
The Collector rampages throughout a miles destiny Africa populated with gene-spliced vampires, resurrected huge and nutters with APWs . . .
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She unfurled a glove from a pouch pocket on her sleeve and put it on her hand of flesh. “Keep your head down,” I said as we advanced. As we moved down into the city I saw that we might soon be in trouble, or rather, Jethro Susan might. Trees encroached on the path down there and made adequate cover for an ambush. I looked around on the ground and found a couple of rocks. “Put a couple of shots into those trees—that might deter them,” I said. Obligingly Jethro Susan unhitched her rifle and put a shot in the trees each side of the path.
It was Jethro Susan who spoke. ” She said it like a curse. The name was familiar. “Z’gora . . ” Then I remembered. “The Zag people. They’re the ones with some unusual pets. I got a sample there about fifty years ago. ” Spitfire and her father made quick warding gestures. ” I looked at her. ” She snorted contemptuously and tapped the side of her rifle. “I’ve been through there before. They’re easy enough to handle. ” “Very well then. ” Spitfire and her father moved away from the fire and took off into the night.
Africa Zero Neal Asher part one As the sun sunk behind the horizon I gathered lumps of bark from a huge preconvulsion baobab dying a hundred-year-death on the cliff top. By the time I had a fire going the moon was filling the night with mercury light, reflected from its labyrinth etched face, and hyraxes were screeching like murder victims from the heather trees behind me. It was for comfort really, the fire; for that old comfort born in the hidden psyche when men crouched in caves and feared the night, the last time the ice was here.