And “mordant man.” His tax officer ID wasn’t fooling anyone. Or likely the Broken Harvest had access to some back-channel, which had “made him” even as he entered the system. Or else the divine Essiel could read minds? I mean who actually knows for sure?
“Well,” and he addressed the bivalve master, not the cyborg servant, “it is of course an honour to be in the presence. You’ll forgive me for not knowing the proper etiquette, but let’s take the awe and respect as read, if we could?”
Another basso rumble from the creature, joined by a tortured groan from the flayed Tothiat. Havaer was proud that his voice had been steady, devoid of either fear or awe. Before the Hiver could start their rigmarole again he added, “You were talking about something belonging to you that my people have no claim upon? I hope I’m not here to discuss that. I’m on Tarekuma for information. I came from Mordant House, as you say, because some spacers dragged a ship here recently—one that had been wrecked by Architects. I imagine you appreciate why that’s of interest to us.”
The Hiver took three precise steps at an angle to him, arms spread in a fan that mimicked the rayed figure on the thugs’ banners. “The drivers of destruction that have brought demise to worlds are of no interest here. We seek what’s ours. And let not Hugh or Mordant—nor the lords of the Hegemony itself—step in between us and our treasure.”
“No interest?” Havaer echoed. “The Architects’ return is of no interest?” He looked around at the audience of thugs and monsters. “You wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if one of them arrived in the sky over Tarekuma?”
They still seemed profoundly unimpressed, which was either criminal sang froid par excellence or just utterly inward-looking stupidity. Unless this Aklu carted around its own Originator defence kit.
“Well look, I don’t know what you’re seeking. But it doesn’t sound like it’s anything to do with us. I’m after bigger fish.”
The Unspeakable Aklu actually shifted slightly in its couch, and he saw the whole assemblage hinge and flex beneath its weight. The trio of red globe eyes spread wider, as though trying to find a crack through which to weigh his soul. A long, slow vibration built through the room until the walls shook, and everyone around him tensed. He saw hands go to knives, to guns… Heremon, the other Tothiat, stepped into a fighting stance and Havaer found himself matching her. He was ready to go down swinging, if that was all that was left to him. Died for the honour of Mordant House. Lousy thing to go on your permanent record.
“Know this,” the Hiver chimed, their bell-like voice clashing with the mood in the room. “Not all the nations of the worlds may stand between the Razor and its mark. We do not fear the tyranny of state nor brook the bite of laws. What we shall do is that which we decree.”
“You’re not afraid of us, right, I get that.” Goddamn gangster’s facing down the whole Colonial government, apparently, while hiding in a bomb shelter on an armpit world. “You’ll do what you need to, to get whatever it is that’s been taken from you. I get that. Like I say, it’s the prospect of Architects destroying whole worlds that has us all flustered.” On the basis that he was as screwed as he was likely to get, he wagged a finger in the Hiver’s face. “You put that in a respectful way, you hear? Because I do not know the dance steps around here.”
To his surprise the golden head revolved, giving him a moment of smiling regard from their other, benevolent face before returning to the exaggerated frown. They paced through a half-dozen stylized attitudes, strutting before Aklu like a peacock—arms folding and fanning repeatedly. The Essiel thrummed and belched, its own myriad limbs fluttering like a debutante’s fan.
“The compact is agreed, and reverence given,” the Hiver announced. Then everyone relaxed, just like that. Everyone except the tortured Tothiat, anyway, who didn’t really have the option. Havaer didn’t like the sound of the words, which implied he’d just signed up to something—possibly as a representative of the entirety of Hugh and the Colonies—but that ship had left dock and gone into the void. He’d just have to live with whatever misunderstanding had been perpetrated. Maybe I agreed to give them back their drug shipment if we get to the Oumaru first. Well, we’ll see. Other heads would handle that. And that could actually happen, if someone felt the Broken Harvest would make a useful tool in some other Mordant House gambit. A back door into the Hegemony was no small thing, even one that might slam shut on your leg without warning.
*
Back at the local office, safely in orbit, he completed his report and fed back to Albas. It was her bailiwick and she probably needed to know.
“An actual Essiel?” She shook her head, already updating the records on her slate.
“Right? Who knew?” They were eating “Colonial style,” which meant working at the same time. Back on settled Colonies like Berlenhof and Magda, people made a big show of sitting down just to eat. But this was the true Colonial custom and Havaer preferred it.
“Who knows how rogue this Aklu is,” Albas considered, “or maybe going rogue is just like a mid-life crisis for them. Or it’s pathologically insane, or ill, or… something we don’t even have a word for.”
“Well it’s doing a damn good job of playing gangster right now,” Havaer said. “And there was some damn thing those spacers took that it was really pissed to lose. Which backs up why they’d send a whole pocket warship to go meet the Oumaru. I mean, there’s a basic law of resources here, no matter who or what you are. And that’s a considerable investment. Damn me, I mean how many Tarekuman factions actually have military-grade ships to throw around?”
“Oh, enough,” Albas said, with the air of someone who’s reported the problem on multiple occasions, to no avail. “What’s your next step? How can we help you?”
“The Vulture crew has an Int so they could have gone to spread panic anywhere with that damn Architected wreck. And right now the only way I can get news is via the packet trade—so I’ll have to sit tight until I hear where they’ve docked, or…”
“Or?”
“Or we hear some other ship has been found turned inside out. Or—if we’re really lucky—it won’t be a ship, but a planet.”
*
In the end he almost missed it. However, Albas’s data crawlers were particularly thorough. He’d been looking for the Oumaru, assuming nobody could miss something like that turning up on their doorstep. But the Vulture God crew had just ditched the wreck instead, stashing the thing in the deep void. Doubtless until they could auction it to the highest bidder, if that was their plan. Although just what their plan was had become a wide-open field: they certainly hadn’t shown up anywhere Havaer would peg as a hub of intergalactic intrigue or commerce.
“I need you to send a priority packet ship. I’m going to need an Int pilot, sworn to Mordant House, if I’m going to keep up with these famies,” he told Albas. The old insult for starving spacer pirates seemed particularly appropriate for the maverick Vulture God crew.
Then he sat down to work out why in all hells the Vulture had just arrived at Jericho.
PART 4
JERICHO
16.
Kris
Kittering’s quarters were away from the human crew, a little bubble of the Hannilambra homeworld. Here he could admix the atmosphere to his own tastes, adding trace elements he didn’t need, that humans wouldn’t appreciate, but that would remind him of home. Dull reddish lighting soothed his eyes. And, whenever he wanted, he could play the staccato yattering and rapid percussion that was Hanni music. However, when Kris signalled him she couldn’t hear any music. And when his door irised open, there was almost nothing of him to be seen there at all, his things packed away in a row of plastic canisters.
“I was wondering,” she said, “if you’d stay or not.”
“This question is also being asked of myself,” came the bland voice of his translator, in response to the rapid fiddling of his mouthparts. “The skirling of home is to be heard. Some day soon there is potential to fulfil, or else never to be f
ulfilled.”
Where his software had got the word “skirling” from, Kris had no idea. “Home and settle down?” she asked numbly. “That sounds nice.”
“The mournful and the joyous occasion,” Kit confirmed. “The loss of a nurse recalls duty. Wealth enough exists for this.”
“Yes, you’ve made your pile,” Kris agreed. Kit received a percentage of every pay packet he clawed in for the crew. On top of that, he had his Landstep winnings and even the pocket change he made renting out his shell as a billboard. People who didn’t understand them said the Hanni were greedy, but what the Hanni really obsessed about was giving their kids the best start in life. Hanni biology meant they didn’t survive to see their offspring. A nest-egg to pay for a good nurse was all they could provide. Kit had considered Rollo the Vulture’s own nurse; no higher honour to a Hanni. She couldn’t quite get her head around it, but she knew she was touching the surface of a deep friendship. A meaningful relationship between human and alien, on a level seldom reached. Kit and Rollo had been together for a long time before the current crew had met either of them.
“I understand. Everyone will,” she told the Hanni. “If it’s time for you…” Some human part of her kicked in then, as she thought, But you’ll die. Don’t go. Don’t do it. Yet that was a human interpretation. Kit was the product of a different world and culture.
Kittering was still and quiet for a while, his arms moving about one another without touching. His screens were a lucent grey that steadily lightened, as though a dawn was coming.
“Soon,” he said. “Soon-ness is relative. It is unsatisfactory to leave behind more questions than answers. When there are answers, perhaps then it will be the time.”
Kris was surprised at the sudden spike of happiness she felt, that Kit wouldn’t be leaving them just yet.
They were out in the deep void now, and at that very moment Olli was cutting the Oumaru loose. It was, after all, the most recognizable piece of space junk in the Colonies right now. Olli would mark its position, so they could come back for it if necessary. In the infinite wastes of vacuum, away from the Throughways, the odds of anyone locating it here were infinitesimal.
*
“Jericho is out on a limb, location-wise,” Idris told them. “Only one Throughway goes to it, kind of the opposite to Tarekuma. Even if I took us direct, it’s a long jump.” They were gathered in the command pod again, all five of them, and he looked from face to face. “This is what we all want, is it?”
Kris touched his arm lightly, for a little solidarity. “This Trine is an old friend of yours, aren’t they?”
“Acquaintance. Maybe. It was a long time ago… You know Hivers. But Solace says they never re-instanced.”
“For, what, fifty years or more?” Olli frowned. “You’d think they’d go nuts or something.”
“They’re something of a test case.” Solace was being careful around Olli after their previous clash, speaking softly, not facing her head-on. Kris was surprised how shaken the Partheni had been by it all. Not what you expected from the genetically engineered elite.
“What have you told your people?” Idris asked Solace frankly.
“That I’m following up a lead that may be of great import to us—connected to the wreck of the Oumaru.” Solace didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “I have not mentioned the regalia. I don’t like the omission, and I am going to have to report this properly, but right now they might be fake, and then… what would be the point in stirring things up? If Trine confirms the provenance then I have to tell them. I have a duty. I’m sorry.” She looked around defensively.
“Great talks are required between us in that case,” put in Kittering. “Parthenon has deep pockets, see right?” The last two words were given Rollo’s exact bantering spin and Kris felt a catch of loss in her chest.
“The wreck’s disengaged. And the Joan’s secured to us,” Olli put in. “If we’re going to Jericho, then let’s go.”
*
The first thing Kris knew, Idris was triggering her pod’s emergency wake-up protocol. They’d dropped into the Jericho system and were being hailed by a Hugh military frigate, demanding to know their business. It was, they were being told, not the best time to visit the system.
Jericho was the last habitable world to be found by explorers from Earth, before there was no longer an Earth to be from. A survey team exploring a dead-end Throughway burst into a virgin system. They found a planet a little closer than Earth to a sun a little cooler than Earth’s. Then they found a biosphere crammed full of riotous life whose biochemistry overlapped with Earth by at least forty per cent. An Eden! surveyors crowed. Then the planet’s biochemistry ate two of the landing party and they quickly revised their estimate to A monstrous death world! But there were still scientific grants for that, and a permanent research presence was established only months before an Architect appeared over the skies of Earth. That research team was intended to be the sole presence on Jericho: an opportunity to conduct pure research into a thriving alien ecology, untouched by humanity save for the luckless surveyors.
Then Earth fell, the Polyaspora began, and Jericho received its shipments of refugees—same as everywhere else. Establishing a colony on-planet was not the nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw experience everyone had expected. Desperate humans in need of a home could tooth-and-claw right back, and twice as hard. Soon enough, settlers and scientists were developing crops for the Jericho soil and curing all the problems caused when the local life messed up human bodies. The planetary population climbed to about a hundred thousand, concentrated around the city that had by then given the planet its name. “Jericho” seemed fitting, because the first thing people had focused on—given the ravenous nature outside—was walls.
Then Originator ruins were discovered.
The original survey hadn’t picked them up, because Jericho was covered in a dense quasi-jungle and the local life generated its own electromagnetic interference. Both factors made it a hard world to survey. But eventually, settlers had started bringing back stories of strange things from the interior and the discovery was made. It didn’t seem a priority, until Originator relics thwarted the Architect attack on Lycos, and suddenly life on Jericho seemed much more appealing. Hostile wildlife beat having your world torn apart by a moon-sized alien.
Eventually the war ended and Jericho’s scientists, backed by the newly formed Hugh, asked everyone to please vacate so they could get on with their work. The Jerichan settlers refused to be thrown out of their new homes, thank you very much. This led to the creation of the Jerichan Resettlement Board, and the ongoing attempt to relocate its colonists. This led in turn to the Nativist movement’s Jericho Chapter, formed to protect the colonists’ “rights.” And to make plenty of other trouble besides.
Idris had burst into real space at what he fondly imagined was a discreet distance from Jericho. However, its entire system was buzzing with traffic. It seemed someone had turned the trouble up to eleven.
The colony planet itself should have been the crew’s main priority, but the Vulture God crew’s attention was caught by one of the outer planets. It was being pulverized into an asteroid field, and its debris trailed along the curve of its old orbit for over a hundred thousand kilometres. Idris brought up images: the planet was swarming with vast factory-machines like city-sized flatworms. Past the ravaged curve of its horizon loomed a great bristling lump of mutilated-looking technology. This was a Naeromathi Locust Ark, the Jericho system’s very unwelcome visitor.
Humans ran into the Naeromathi almost half a century before Earth fell. The creatures roamed the Throughways with an apparently insensate hunger, breaking apart worlds for raw materials and ignoring any requests to stop. For the next few decades, humans and Naeromathi would clash repeatedly. Nobody had any idea where the Naeromathi homeworld was located or even if they had a governing body. They just turned up, devoured and built more arks.
So it went, until something even bigger than the Naeromathi came along. The
joint human–Castigar colony of Amraji were fending off one of the species’ vast Locust Arks, when an Architect arrived to make the whole business moot. When the Naeromathi attacked the Architect, that established the first common ground between the species. The Naeromathi really hated the Architects, and the Architects were why nobody had ever found the Naeromathi homeworld. Which didn’t mean finding a Locust Ark chewing up planets in the Jericho system was a terribly comforting thing. Current détente suggested that they wouldn’t proceed to munch on Jericho itself, but they were a strange, lost species and there were no certainties. All of which seemed beyond the pay grade of Jericho’s lone military vessel, the tired old cruiser Samphire, which looked as though it hadn’t had an upgrade since the war. As if to compensate for its impotence against the Locusts, the Samphire was bombarding the Vulture God with demands instead.
Olli had set them up with a cover ID as the Jenny Kite, in case people were watching for the Vulture God. It was only meant to fool a cursory inspection, not a full-on military inquisition. Kris spent a few fraught minutes liaising with a suspicious navy lieutenant who couldn’t work out why a deep-space salvage vessel would be touting for work out here—and he had a point. She’d eventually sold him on the story that, as there was so much damn junk floating about in-system, the Jenny Kite was here to scavenge crumbs from the Naeromathi’s table. She had a feeling their details would be on the next military packet ship out of there.
“They think we’re in league with the Locusts?” Olli demanded disgustedly. “I mean, why all the suspicion?”
“They think we’re Nativists,” Solace put in simply. All eyes turned to her.
“Why…?” Kris asked, and the Partheni gave her an odd look.
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