Stormblood

by Jeremy Szal

  That much I could agree with. ‘I think someone else might be able to help us,’ I said. I thought of the symbol I’d seen in their hideout. It was a long shot, but there was a chance. ‘Stay here, dig into anything that could be useful. Ryken’s key areas of study, his pet projects.’

  Grim pulled a face that said there were other things he’d rather be doing. He held up a tome. ‘Vak, the covers of this book are too far apart.’

  ‘You better get started, then.’

  He made another face, indicating I owed him big-time for this. ‘And where are you off to, Mister Reaper? The bar?’

  I grinned. ‘I’m going to class.’

  21

  Who Goes There

  The Shenoi Collective was part of the Academy’s xenobiology faculty. I’d assumed they’d be right next door. In a sense, they were. Only, their doors were two hours and four kilometres of study halls, auditoriums, laboratories and access tunnels apart. I was in a sour mood by the time I hiked up a hairpin stairwell racked with cable conduits and instrument paneling along the upper cervical of the building’s spine and stood at the entrance of the Shenoi Collective.

  Based on what I’d heard – that they considered the study of these long-dead aliens to be of prime significance to an almost religious degree – I expected to stride into a darkened hallway filled with symbols and sinister towering statues, rites playing from the speakers. Instead, I found myself in a long, sunlit room dotted with plants and antique wingchairs. Paintings of spacecraft and ominous-looking landscapes, presumably a Shenoi homeworld, were rendered in thick, oily brushstrokes. As if reminded of its ancestral origins, my stormtech was already reacting to them, flaring up in broad blue strokes. I locked it down, hard as I could.

  ‘Can I help you?’ At first I’d thought it was a Rubix sitting behind the reception desk, but it was a lissom young woman, fixing me with an all-too-human glare as if I’d disturbed her meditation.

  ‘I’d like to speak with the teacher in charge, please.’

  An arching of a perfect eyebrow. ‘You mean the Head Professor?’

  ‘Yes.’ I gave her a sour smile. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m afraid I take meetings by appointment only, son.’ I turned as a hale, middle-aged man seemingly appeared from thin air behind me. He had wine-dark eyes, shrub-thick eyebrows and unruly dark hair, shot with grey. The tan trousers, ruffled shirt and tweed jacket fit him to a tee.

  I remembered just in time to offer my forearm rather than my hand for him to shake. ‘Vakov Fukasawa. And I’m afraid I must insist.’

  ‘Michael Luciano.’ His grip was stronger than expected. He glanced at the stormtech swirling around my wrists, but didn’t offer a comment. Did he see a lot of Reapers and skinnies in here? ‘It’s exam season and I don’t have time today. You’re welcome to visit the library and lecturelog hall if you—’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about this.’ I showed him the mysterious symbol I’d sketched on my palmerlog. His face turned ashen, mouth slowly hinging open.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked. I said nothing, hands held behind my back, waiting for what I knew would happen. And it did. Luciano turned to his receptionist. ‘Cancel all midmorning appointments.’

  She didn’t look too happy about it, but obliged.

  He led me into an obscenely narrow hallway that smelled of oiled wood. Light easing through the louvred shutters painted rows of golden slices on the floor. Modest posters about the Collective’s teachings, appointment bookings, and history lined the walls. Students sitting in alcoves glanced up at us from their quiet studies as we brushed past. It reminded me of the school libraries I’d hung out in to avoid going home as long as possible. I felt underdressed in my one-piece underskin, but Luciano struck me as the sort of person who’d say if it bothered him.

  ‘Where are you from, son?’ Luciano asked. ‘Palakin? Borr? New Vladivostok?’

  ‘What gave me away?’ I asked.

  He grinned. ‘The features.’

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘Once. The people are lovely. The weather? Not so much.’

  Surprising. New Vladi’s on the outer edges of the galaxy and just outside of the Common’s territory. Most people in the Common don’t pay attention to worlds outside of it, let alone find reasons to head over there.

  If Luciano’s office was anything to go by, the man thrived on disorder. Drawers hanging open like extruded tongues, terrariums scattered around like abandoned afterthoughts, dusty books squeezed tight as molars along the bookshelves, reams of papers piled on his heavy wooden desk threatening to spill to the floor. Looked like the guy had hardcopied every message and datasheet he’d ever received in his life. Between the gaps in the heavy drapery, stained-glass windows peered out to the pinnacle of a black spire.

  ‘Coffee?’ Luciano asked as I eased into a highbacked leather seat, indicating the fancy-looking machine. ‘A good cup of gold’s my speciality.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ I suggested.

  ‘You might need it soon.’ Luciano rubbed his face as he eased into the seat opposite me. ‘I’d hoped never to see that mark again.’

  ‘It’s not just a mark,’ I said softly. ‘The House of Suns are a cult.’

  It was only an educated guess, but I got some grim satisfaction from Luciano’s grave nod of confirmation. ‘Cult ain’t the half of it. They’re psychopaths.’

  I settled deeper into my seat.

  ‘What do you know about our Collective, son?’ Luciano asked.

  ‘Not much,’ I admitted. ‘You study the Shenoi, almost obsessively. Think they’re of high value to the greater galaxy.’

  ‘Close enough. Though you can study the Shenoi without assigning them a special significance. Hell, we keep a closer eye on those students who start to move towards faith rather than science. Everyone likes developing their own ideas and theories. You can’t expect someone to dedicate their life to something and not be passionate about it. There’re big enough gaps in what we know about so many species for wild theories to fill them. But when someone starts elevating a dead species to a cult-like status and spreading their own theories as dogma, we do try to suppress it. We usually manage to squash the crazier ones before they go too far. Emphasis on usually.’

  ‘It’s always the one percent that kills you,’ I offered.

  ‘Heh. Very good. We’ve become more alert to it since a group formed within the Collective. Our “status quo” wasn’t good enough for them. We were too old-fashioned. Boring old men held back by tradition, all the usual crap about wasting our time with books and research, when we should be out in deepspace, conducting interstellar expeditions for burial sites and ruins among the stars. Like there’s not enough people doing that already.’ Luciano sniffed. ‘The universe is full of people concerning themselves with what others do, if only to tell them they’re wrong for not doing it their way. But these guys got louder and louder and eventually broke away as an offshoot from the Collective, forming their own crazy little echo chamber. And then that got bigger and bigger.’ He pointed to the symbol on my palmerlog. ‘They became the House of Suns. They believe the Shenoi are still hiding out there in some far-flung region of the galaxy. That we haven’t received all their power yet because we’re undeserving and unworthy. They’re obsessed with finding the damn creatures and earning their approval. Siphoning their power. And they’ll do anything: extortion, sabotage, or murder.’

  There was the small hiss of drones jetting past the window. I shifted in my seat.

  ‘You know what?’ I said carefully, ‘I think I’ll take that coffee after all.’

  Luciano got up to prepare them. I found I liked him. A man of his calibre could be doing anything in life and he’d funnelled his energy and intelligence into education and study. You’ve got to appreciate such clear sincerity.

  It seemed I’d found the House of Suns.
I knew who was behind the deaths, but that was only half of it. I was in the dark as to why they were killing Reapers and skinnies and setting Harmony up for the fall. I’d have known if these people were on Harmony’s radar.

  ‘So this band of enthusiasts are on a scavenger hunt for an alien civilisation that’s been extinct for millions of years?’ I asked as Luciano returned with two small porcelain cups of steaming coffee. No milk, no sugar. Just straight, the way I liked it.

  The professor tapped the side of his head. ‘You’re forgetting: these sons of bitches don’t think straight. One of our core theories is that knowledge of the Shenoi strengthens us in a way that other alien species don’t. Their existence as a sentient organism that’s also a drug – a drug that has the same effect on a human’s body and an alien’s – opens up entirely new areas of study in the fields of biology, physiology. The House of Suns took that further: they theorise that greater knowledge of the Shenoi is fundamental to your existence in every way. They’re quite intransigent in that regard. Anyone who questions their vaunted word, or dares to hinder them in their pursuit, is an enemy. So, yeah, they’re out there, sniffing out alien scraps in an interstellar treasure hunt.’

  That explained why they were collecting stormtech, but not why they were poisoning it. I downed my coffee and let the silky bitterness melt down into my stomach. ‘I’ve had a few run-ins with these people. Most of them don’t have stormtech. If they’re already that obsessed with the aliens, why haven’t they shot themselves up?’

  ‘Some are naturally resistant to stormtech. Others leave their obsession at a distance. The one thing we agree on is that stormtech is lethal and makes you unpredictable, prone to urges. You can’t risk that around your fellow cultists. You can be obsessed with chainships while still knowing taking one for a spin through an asteroid field like those lunatic racers is a bad idea.’

  ‘Do you think they killed Viklun Ryken?’

  ‘You’ve done your homework, son. Ryken was a stubborn old bastard. His works are in our archive, but he kept the best findings for himself, to publish when he was ready. They got wind of it. I can’t imagine they asked nicely. If he found something they wanted, or they didn’t like what he stumbled upon, they’d have killed him.’

  The warble of a speeding chainship rattled through the windows as I turned this statement over. There’ve been plenty of fanatics, cults and crazies floating around, before and after the Reaper War, some more dangerous than others. But these people were spreading corrupted stormtech around for some more immediate reason than finding their beloved aliens.

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward about this?’ I had to ask.

  ‘To who? Harmony?’ He flapped his hand, made a pfft sound. ‘You think they’re going to listen to me, ranting about aliens and super-secret cults? I’ve been dismissed before, and it doesn’t get any more fun the older you get. Besides, Harmony’s hardly the most approachable of organisations.’

  I thought of Kowalski, the authority and respect she commanded over her men, how she’d looked after me because she saw me as a human being. Not another disposable tool of Harmony. She’d listened to me when I’d told her about Artyom, and she’d put her career in my hands in an effort to clear stormtech off the streets and make a difference in the world. If I trusted this man, then I knew she would. She’d make this work.

  ‘Now, if you’d be so kind, tell me where you saw their mark,’ said Luciano. By the time I finished telling him, his face had turned white as the reams of papers around him. ‘They’re back on Compass?’

  ‘Everything you said matches up,’ I said. ‘They’re the ones Harmony’s after.’

  Luciano chewed his lip. ‘I was wrong. We have to alert Harmony to this and make sure they don’t leave Compass and hurt anyone else.’ He looked straight at me. ‘You did well coming to see me, son. I’ll go to Harmony, tell them everything I know. The universe is better off without them, believe me.’ He raised his coffee mug in salute. ‘I’ll go after this.’

  I settled into my seat, at ease for the first time in weeks. If Luciano knew these people and who was leading them, we’d solved half the problem. It wouldn’t clear up Artyom’s involvement, or give us a motive, but you’ve got to take one step at a time.

  Kowalski would love to hear the news. I reached for my palmerlog to tell her. I frowned and my body tensed two seconds before the reality of the situation caught up with me. Opposite me, Luciano jerked hard, his coffee cup thunking to the carpet in a spreading black stain. He was frothing at the mouth as he collapsed. I rushed to roll him over but only got halfway when a laser sight on my chest froze me in place.

  ‘Neurotoxin,’ someone whispered. ‘Just like you used on my man. Only, I use the deadly stuff.’ The Jackal stepped into the room, eyes trained on me like restraining bolts. He gestured at me with his handgun. The silver-bodied weapon glinted dully in the light. ‘Hands behind your head. Now.’

  The palmerlog was active in my hand, but if he saw me flick the switch to call Kowalski he’d put a shell through my face. Without taking my eyes off him, I pressed the closest button on the scroll-down menu. No way of knowing if I got it right. I dropped the device, fists clenching.

  Luciano was clawing his throat with gnarled fingers, gasping. His feet twitching violently.

  The Jackal tilted his handgun. ‘Go for it. Help him out. Maybe you can do something.’

  I knew an invitation to get myself shot when I heard one. I stayed put and glared at the Jackal. He’d been a part of the Suns this whole time. Tipei, his biolabs and darkmarket connections, all channelling their resources into the one cult. No wonder they’d been able to take root so deeply in Compass.

  The Jackal smiled, as if knowing I’d figured it out. He gently tilted Luciano’s head, ensuring he didn’t choke on his own tongue while the neurotoxin ran its full, brutal course. ‘Remember what I said in the alleyway?’ He leaned over to press the handgun against my forehead. The cold touch of death against my warm flesh. His face twisting with an arrogant streak a kilometre long. ‘I don’t need augs to hunt a man down.’

  I was starting to wonder how many holes I’d have punched in my chest before I tore the Jackal’s throat open. I looked over his shoulder and saw the receptionist in the doorway. Of course she was one of them, right here in the Shenoi Collective. She must have seen the symbol and known to call the Jackal. Next I saw Simmons step into the room, a perverse hatred burning in his eyes. The stormtech screamed at me to charge them. I made my fists tighter and forced myself still as Luciano continued to splutter and twitch, glaring at the killers who had invaded his sacred place of study, unable to raise a finger to stop them.

  ‘Miss me?’ Now Lasky walked in, his grin wide. The little bastard grabbed me and locked an arm around my neck with his handgun pressed against one eye, his chin resting on my shoulder. You never appreciate how big handguns are until one’s jammed square in your face. ‘We’re going to have fun, you and I.’

  Simmons rifled through Luciano’s books, ripping the pages in full view of the dying man. The Jackal stopped him with a hand. ‘No, no. That’s not the way we do it. He loved his papers so much? He can choke on them.’ The Jackal bundled the shredded sheets into a tight roll, thick as a rifle’s muzzle. His eyes locked with mine. ‘I’m not one for metaphors, you see.’

  Then, his gaze still fixed on me; he shoved the roll of papers deep into Luciano’s frothing mouth. I shook with fury, the handgun against my eye keeping me parked where I was. The Jackal gave a faint smile and drove the papers deeper and deeper. Luciano squirmed feebly under him. His eyes twitched to the side and met mine, filled with a furious determination that I put these people down as we’d agreed we would. I bit back my rage and nodded, once.

  Something cold and wet punched into my neck. I felt myself lurching forward, like it was happening to someone else, before I was jerked backwards, smothered by the darkness collapsing around me. />
  22

  Ashes

  There’s nothing like seeing a planet slaughtered.

  I knew the war-sims and visualisation packages they showed us in training weren’t telling half the story. Turns out, they weren’t telling any of it.

  The stink of grasslands burning. Highrises collapsing like they’re made of paper, the concrete smashing down the length of a city. Screaming civilians. The ear-splitting sirens. Blaster cannons streaking gunfire down from fighter-ships in a blazing hailstorm, scarring the sky with lacerations of fire.

  It’s so bizarre, so outlandish it’s almost unreal. Like you’ve been dumped in someone else’s fragmented nightmare and told to fight your own way out.

  Harvest turned its bloodthirsty sights on Renchio, so Renchio has become the frontline of the Reaper War. I’m sent with Fireteam Ghost to rally points across the planet, co-ordinating with my Battalion or any other Companies that make up the grizzled constellation of Harmony SSC infantry. We see destruction and terror wherever we go. Roads filled with fleeing civilians like clotted arteries. Dockyards for interstellar ships smashed to blackened ruins. We walk through the smoking shell of a once-opulent coastal city where pylons jut through the rubble like broken fingers. What looks like black snow swirls around us. I stretch out my hand to let it melt in my palm.

  Ash. It’s raining ash.

  But the killzones are the worst. The towns and cities Harvesters seized for a tactical advantage. They sealed them off, marched inside and killed every man, woman and child. Any civilians they didn’t kill, they enslaved or used as target practice, or for whatever other sick game passed the time. There are so many bodies on the streets you can barely see the pavement. Sometimes, we find survivors. Kids, usually, pushed into some small crevice when their parents heard the door crashing in. Cable’s the best with them. He gets his helmet off, kneels down to their level and speaks to them in their language, lets them grieve. But they’ve all got this dead-eyed gaze, staring at the blackened, ashen wreckage of what used to be their home. Sometimes it’s an accusatory stare, levelled at us. Asking why we didn’t do something. Why we didn’t stop this.