A Dark Horizon (Final Dawn, Book 3)

by T W M Ashford

“Oh, I don’t know.” Despite the pain, Jack leaned forward in his seat. “Perhaps it was the death sentence your general threatened me with should I ever tell anyone what happened to that stolen Solar Core, and the coincidental attempt on my life just minutes after I went and did just that. Let’s just call it a hunch, I guess.”

  “It is rather timely,” said Grand Minister Zsal, crossing her two upmost arms.

  Grand Minister Heram said nothing, only fixed Philo Na Ji with his sagely blue eyes.

  “Obviously, I cannot speak for Scara Li Ka.” The Mansa minister addressed everyone in the room, though his fists were clenched and his eyes never left Jack. “But believe me, I speak for the Mansa Empire as a whole when I say that such an attack on Ministerium soil is abhorrent. I assure you that I had nothing to do with it, just as I had no knowledge of the threat against Mr. Jack Bishop – or any of the allegations he made in his testimony, in fact – until he spoke of them earlier today.”

  Jack gritted his teeth and shook his head. He knew the Grand Minister was lying. It wasn’t what he was saying so much as how he said it – with the same thinly veiled disdain and sense of superiority that seemed to beset every member of his species. Like he was a god, and Jack an ant.

  What had that Mansa guard said to him back in that prison tower of theirs? Oh, yes.

  Everybody lies.

  “Forgive me if I don’t give you the benefit of the doubt. But at least if somebody else tries to kill me, we’ll all know who to blame.”

  Grand Minister Philo Na Ji grumbled and shook his hammerhead, but said nothing more.

  The small bug alien finished jotting down notes and recalled the tiny swarm of fly-sized drones that had been taking photographs and videos of the body. They fluttered into a small box strapped to his back, which promptly snapped shut.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m quite impressed.” He stood up straight to his full height of twenty inches. “This one’s quite the brute. How’d you do that to its back?”

  The alien pointed to the two gaping holes just below the assassin’s shoulder blades. Jack felt his face turn red. He accidentally turned to look at Klik without thinking. He couldn’t let anyone find out who or what Klik was, especially with a representative for the Mansa in the room.

  “The glass,” Klik quickly replied, not raising her head. “The assassin smashed the mirror, so I stabbed it with one of the broken shards.”

  The alien dusted his hands and whistled.

  “You must have one hell of a right hook,” he said, nodding at the bloody pieces of glass covering half the floor. “Good thing you had your bodyguard around, eh?”

  Jack jerked his head up, smiled without much humour, and then went back to wincing.

  “Yes, very fortunate.” Grand Minister Zsal eyed Klik carefully, then turned to address her colleagues. “This attack certainly warrants further investigation, but I hardly think we’re the ones to do it. Assign an executor to this immediately. We’ve got a Ministerium to address.”

  “You’re finished?” Jack tried and failed to get up from his chair. “What did you decide to do? Are you going after Charon?”

  The Grand Ministers were already halfway out the room. Heram was the only one who paused long enough to reply.

  “You’ll find out soon enough via the monitors, same as everybody else. Or I suppose you could take a spare seat in the Ministerium, if you’d like.”

  Jack sagged back into his seat.

  “Come to think of it, I’m not sure I want to be anywhere dark and private right now.” He pointed at Grand Minister Philo Na Ji. “Is anything going to be done about… him?”

  “Accusations are worth nothing without evidence, Mr. Bishop. After all, it hardly sounds like you’ve made many friends since arriving in the galaxy. This could have been anyone.”

  Grand Minister Heram nodded at Klik’s bloodstained cloak.

  “Make sure you both visit the infirmary on your way out. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to patch you up.”

  “Don’t worry,” Klik muttered, “most of the blood’s not mine.”

  A few minutes was an exaggeration. A medical automata – so there are automata in the headquarters, Jack observed – whizzed over to the crime scene when Jack realised that walking would prove too difficult. It reminded Jack of Doc, who’d helped them escape Gaskan Troi’s battlecruiser and then gone to live in Detri with the rest of the robots.

  The automata scanned his entire body – a process that took less than twenty seconds in total – and then injected him in the neck with a specially-made concoction designed to numb the pain and facilitate the healing process. It wasn’t an instant fix, but it got Jack standing up and walking again.

  The medical automata had then turned its attention to Klik, who hurriedly rebuffed it. Besides, she wasn’t seriously hurt. She was, however, now wandering through the lobby of the Ministry headquarters in a hooded cloak soaked through with blood, which carried the added benefit of deterring anyone from coming within an arm’s length of them.

  They sat down on one of the stone benches furthest away from the central aisle so as not to bother the delicate diplomats coming and going through the main entrance. A live feed from the Ministerium was projected onto one of the stone blocks above their heads. Jack and Klik weren’t the only ones giving it their utmost attention – an identical screen was projected on the other side of the lobby, too. Many ministers paused in their tasks to watch.

  Everyone inside the council chamber had taken their seats again, a process which apparently took much longer than fixing a broken rib. The Grand Ministers were only now entering the colossal hall.

  “This is it,” Jack whispered to Klik. “In a few short minutes, Everett is going to have the whole damn galaxy closing in on him. Let’s see him escape from us this time.”

  Klik said nothing, just swung her legs back and forth under the lip of the bench and stared up through her mask at the video feed.

  Audio joined the video. There was no crackle and boom as it kicked in – despite its loudness, the sound appeared to organically swell out from the bustle of the lobby as if it had always been there.

  “Members of the Ministerium,” declared Grand Minister Zsal, “thank you for your patience. The seven of us have deliberated and come to a decision.”

  “Come on.” Jack clenched his fists so hard his nails left little red crescent-moons in his palms. “Do the right thing, goddammit.”

  The suspense was unbearable.

  “Our first priority must be to assist those affected by yesterday’s tragic events,” she continued. “The Ministry pledges to double the existing rescue budget and remain in the Proxima Delta system until its population is evacuated or its planets are lost.”

  A murmur of general agreement rumbled across the council. Jack inched forwards on the bench.

  “And? And?”

  “In response to the alarming testimony heard today, we have launched a full-scale investigation into the individual known as Charon—”

  “An investigation? What the hell do they need an investigation for? There isn’t time!”

  “—and will be pursuing all leads, including the possibility that a rogue faction of the Mansa Empire was responsible for the star’s theft. As a gesture of cooperation, Grand Minister Philo Na Ji has offered to step down from council duty until this matter has been resolved.”

  This statement roused a much louder response from their audience. Evidently there were many council members who still believed the Mansa to be the only ones capable of committing such a crime.

  “Are you kidding me?” Jack continued to stare at the screen with his mouth hanging open whilst everyone else in the lobby went back to work. “Everett steals a star to create a black hole and they want to investigate. What do they think Everett’s going to do – sit by and wait for them to gather all the facts, or something?”

  “Can’t say I didn’t see this coming,” said Klik, hopping up from the bench. “They were never goi
ng to take us seriously. Let’s get out of here.”

  “But…”

  But what? What exactly did he expect to happen if he stayed – the Grand Ministers to change their mind? Klik was right. The Ministerium of Cultured Planets clearly had no inclination to help. Sure, they’d listened… but it had been stupid to think that anyone would actually believe them.

  Besides – he’d told them everything he knew, anyway.

  Jack chased after Klik through the main doors. He found her standing down at the bottom of the steps with her face turned up to the rain. The water trickled in through the gaps in her mask.

  “I wouldn’t drink that stuff if I were you,” he said.

  Klik sighed and then, noticing a dumpster of junk a short walk down the street, pulled her bloodstained cloak up over her head. She wore a navy t-shirt and a pair of cargo trousers she’d borrowed from Jack underneath. At least she kept the mask on. Jack supposed that even with her arms exposed, there were a few insectoid species she could be mistaken for instead of a Krettelian… so long as passers by didn’t look too closely.

  “I guess that’s it, then.” She threw her cloak into the dumpster and gazed up at the neon signs that glared out from the neighbouring skyscrapers. “Better start looking for a job. I hear piracy can be profitable.”

  “What? Don’t tell me you’re giving up.”

  “Get real, Jack.” Klik threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “It’s over. We have no ship, no crew, and nobody in the whole galaxy who will help us. We don’t even know where Charon is anymore. So yeah, I’m giving up. So should you.”

  “After everything he’s done to you, to the automata, and to the poor people of Proxima Delta? No way. Everett has to get what’s coming to him. He has to, before he does any more harm.”

  “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I don’t just want Charon caught, Jack. I want him dead. It’s all I want. But it’s never going to happen without the Ministry’s help. If you’ve got a plan, I’m listening. Otherwise, I think we both need to try and move on.”

  Furious but feeling about as useful as a wet handkerchief in a hurricane, Jack stuffed his hands into the pockets of his spacesuit. His fingers curled around something cold and metallic. He pulled it out by its short, silver chain and held it up so that Klik could get a better look at it.

  The dead assassin’s bounty chip.

  “I think I might have an idea.”

  11

  The Mausoleum

  The Adeona drifted through the forcefield hidden behind one of Detri’s smallest craters. Colossal iron gears turned as the two halves of its rocky door grunted shut behind her. A small defence drone recognised the ship and, following a brief and wordless exchange between them, directed her towards an unoccupied bay just west of the open hangar in which she landed on her first trip to Detri less than two weeks before.

  They’d been expected, apparently.

  Rogan watched the secret city grow outside the cockpit windows. Brackitt sat in his co-pilot chair, scanning comm channels for broadcast chatter and keeping a virtual eye on the ship’s vital signs so that the Adeona could concentrate on her flying. Few words had passed between the three of them during their flight from Proxima Delta, but that was okay – with automata, they didn’t always need to speak. It was nice simply not being alone.

  After all, Adi felt terribly empty. She had always been a little on the large side – even for a five-person crew – but now…

  Now she felt like a house with all its furniture moved out. A house, rather than a home.

  They swept around one of Detri’s tallest skyscrapers, though even within the planet’s immense, hollow core it hardly rivalled any of those that pierced Kapamentis’ stratosphere. Rogan couldn’t help noticing that the automata builders were aping the fleshies’ designs, despite the infinite architectural possibilities available to them.

  Still, it was impressive… and unlike everywhere else in the galaxy, it was the automata’s own. Creativity would follow in time.

  Down the Adeona went, weaving between the smaller towers and past busy pavilions. Rogan watched as robotic waiters served “drinks” (these were largely oil based and tended to be applied rather than drunk) to robotic patrons sitting on the balcony walkways, as automata engineers patched up their battered companions at workshop stations, as other sentient ships swam peacefully like whales through the open airways, and broke into a sad, mechanical smile. Despite the sombre reason for her return, it would be nice to see her friends again.

  The open hangar came into view. It was a long, wide, elevated platform not unlike the flat top of an aircraft carrier, and must have easily catered to over one hundred ships at a time. Like the Adeona, many of the ships in Detri had minds and personalities of their own. Some were small and snappy, barely more sophisticated than the defence drones tasked with escorting new ships inside the planet. Others were schooners and interceptors, retired from active duty. And some were great, hulking battlecruisers a kilometre long – their flanks scorched by the fires of war, their turrets and missiles offline after centuries of use. Here they would live out the twilight of their subservient lives, tired but at rest.

  It was certainly preferable to the alternative – being broken down for scrap, which was the reason many of the frigates had torn themselves free from their masters’ docks and fled to Detri in the first place.

  The Adeona took one long, final circle around the hangar platform – it would be a while before she had a chance to stretch her thrusters again, after all – and then settled into her designated bay with a satisfying thud. All was suddenly quiet.

  “Well, we’re here,” said Brackitt, disconnecting the cable that ran between the ship’s dashboard and his curling-stone shaped head.

  “Yes,” said the Adeona, with none of her usual peppiness. “We’re here.”

  Rogan felt bad. Not for separating from Jack and Klik; that had been their choice, the promise to return to Detri already made. But bad for the Adeona. She liked Jack. What’s more, she liked all the adventure. The preceding decades spent cracking asteroids out in the Pleiades now seemed very dull in comparison.

  Still. Nobody was getting what they wanted, really.

  While Brackitt hurried down to the cargo bay, Rogan marched through the upper floor’s central corridor towards the crew quarters and tapped a code into the keypad beside one of the doors. Inside lay the simple resting place she’d made for Tuner. She carefully scooped his remains up in her hands, bowed her head, and slowly made the descent to the loading ramp.

  It was already lowered. Brackitt waited beside it at the top. He turned his head away as he saw what she carried. Rogan knew he didn’t mean it as a sign of disgust or disrespect – it simply hurt him to look at what was left of Tuner. He wasn’t that great at handling his emotions, even for an automata. Grief was a complicated process, especially for a species to which the definition of alive didn’t always strictly apply.

  They walked down together, feeling a little like the sole survivors returning from some great and bloody war… feeling a little guilty and ashamed for not coming back whole.

  It was clear before they reached the bottom that a welcome party had been sent out to meet them. A small robotic crowd bustled excitedly across the hangar in their direction. Brackitt raised a sombre hand in greeting.

  Rogan recognised many amongst their number. Chiefly 11-P-53, who had captained the Adeona upon their original escape from the Iris project. Hovering beside 11-P-53 was Doc, the medical automata without whom they never would have escaped Gaskan’s battlecruiser. Tork – Detri’s leader of sorts, if it could be said to have one – clattered alongside the rest of the group like a spider born from a scrapyard, his head, shaped like an old Super 8 camera, creaking about on its multiple rusty hinges. And whistling around and between everybody else’s legs came Kansas the tiny cylindrical robot, flashing an ecstatic ring of colourful lights around the top of its miniature body. About half a dozen other automata seemed to h
ave joined them out of sheer curiosity.

  “Rogan! Brackitt!” 11-P-53 reached them first and stood with its hands planted on its hips. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Jack went to the Ministry to stop Charon,” said Brackitt. “And Tuner…”

  When he couldn’t bring himself to continue, Rogan showed them what she carried in her hands. Many of the automata shrank back in shock and horror. Kansas peered up for a closer look and let out a mournful whine.

  “The Adeona sent a message over comms to let us know you were on your way,” said 11-P-53. “She said you had bad news, but I never thought…”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Kansas.

  Others offered their own condolences.

  “It seems each time you arrive, you do so bearing even greater loss,” said Tork, clicking his way to the front of the group. The aperture of his lone eye-lens contracted and retracted. “But you’re safe now. You’re home. Let’s get back inside. Would you like somebody to take that for you?”

  Rogan clutched Tuner’s head to her chrome chest. The red light of his depleting power supply blinked against the spot where her beating heart would have been, had she been human.

  “My apologies,” said Tork, pulling one of his rusty and over-inquisitive spider-legs back. Somewhere amongst his ramshackle body an old piston hissed. “You keep hold of him. Of course.” With the same leg he gestured towards the inner city. “Shall we?”

  Rogan nodded, and the whole group headed back in a slow and silent procession.

  The inner city was even more populated than before. News of Detri must have spread amongst the galaxy’s automata quicker than anyone expected. According to 11-P-53, the construction robots outside the city limits were struggling to meet demand.

  Lucky then, that automata weren’t too interested in private accommodation. So long as they had a safe place to recharge should they ever feel like it, most were happy.

  And the whole of Detri was a safe space – inside and out.