Gray, watched, fascinated, as Fayne lifted his head and looked at them. His mask was pulled up all the way to his nose, and blood dripped from his mouth. He was bare-chested, his arms holding the red rope fast.
Fayne grinned, revealing bloody teeth.
‘What the hell?’ Gray said.
Fayne let go of the rope and hopped off the serpent. It twitched, shook its ugly head, then reared and took flight with a roar. They watched it fly away.
‘Did you just drink from an Alabagus?’ Gray asked.
‘I was thirsty, myrkho. Starved for days. But the blood curse is gone. I’m stronger now. Better.’ He replaced the mask.
‘I think you might just be the first man alive to do that,’ Gray said, shaking his head. ‘I was thinking you’re dead, but you come back and prey on a Heart Eater.’
‘The corruption bullet ate away the shadow steel armour,’ Fayne said.
‘And the fall?’ Zabrielle asked.
‘Like I said. Better.’
‘You are a maniac,’ Gray said, smiling. ‘You’re an unstoppable maniac.’
‘You look like you’ve got a pretty firm grip,’ Fayne said, tapping the new arm. ‘Let’s go. The Sentient have been waiting for quite a while.’
Glancing at the smokescreen, Fayne headed for the doorway. ‘Hey wait, what do you mean?’ Gray protested and followed. They descended, arguing, and when they exited the tower, Gray stopped. There was something on the ground that hadn’t been there before.
It was a strange object, gigantic in proportion, huge as a building—it looked like a pointy cone, with a series of mammoth drills, golden, arranged on its nose, in concentric circles. There were huge earth mounds around the object—evidently, it had just come out of the ground. There it stood, silent, glinting in the afternoon sun. A gate was open near the surface, and a walkway extended to the ground. No one was visible.
‘I want to swim,’ Gray said, diving into the water. It was incredible, the arm. He did not know how it had appeared or what it was, but he did not want it to leave, he did not want it to somehow disappear. He swam again, without discomfort, as if he had never lost his arm, as if the use of his right arm wasn’t alien to him. When he finally clambered out of the water, he was smiling.
Pestilence faced him in the distance. The Horseman’s face was tear streaked. Gray started to walk towards it, but it raised a hand. It was then that Gray saw its torso. There was a hole in its chest—a gaping hole that Gray could see through.
‘It took my heart,’ Pestilence said. ‘It took my heart.’
Gray did not know what to say. His smile was gone.
‘I will not be able to help you any more, Gray. Go now, go fast. I can hear the Master’s orders. I cannot resist now, not for long. Go!’
‘Thank you,’ Gray said. The others had paused behind him. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘Just go, fool! I can feel myself turning again . . .’
They did. They ascended the walkway, Fayne and Zabrielle entering the gate without a word. Gray turned to look one more time at Pestilence, fallen on its knees, and then he too, was gone. With a sharp metallic noise, the gate slammed shut. The walkway retreated, folding backwards. Then the engine started, the enormous engine, a hum that shook the very earth. The backward drills engaged, and the machine slowly entered the way it had come.
Pestilence watched the machine disappear, tears falling down its cheeks.
29
Everything shook around them. The gate shut off all light, and they stood in darkness as they heard the machine echo and move.
‘We are going below the ground,’ Zabrielle said.
‘Good,’ Gray muttered.
They waited, but nothing happened. For minutes that seemed like hours, they could only hear the grunts of the machine, the vibrations. Then suddenly, the first eye switched on, taking them by surprise, a bright, circular, electric blue eye piercing the darkness.
Gray was instantly reminded of Adri in the Hive, but there was no time to reflect. Another eye, then another, until they were surrounded in a semicircle. Eight eyes. No one spoke.
‘Who are you?’ a voice issued.
It was not a human voice. The voice had something metallic about it, a vessel-like distortion, a vibration that seemed to encompass it even as it spoke, binding the words, a perfect control. There was a perfect gap between each word, down to the millisecond—the pitch was the same, the tone neutral, emotionless. Yet if Gray had to assign this cold voice a character, he would have called it husky.
‘Humans,’ Gray said.
‘Obviously,’ the voice spoke.
‘You’re not speaking to a machine,’ Zabrielle whispered. ‘Remember that.’
Gray took a second to appreciate the fact that he had become the official spokesperson of the group—they trusted his words. Time to prove them right. But the Sentient spoke before him.
‘The Demon is right. You do not speak to a machine. So I ask again. Who are you?’
‘If it’s names you want, I’m Gray Ghosh, that’s Fayne, and that’s Zabrielle.’
There was a whirr in the darkness, something spinning. ‘You are a resident of New Kolkata,’ the voice said. ‘Fayne is an assassin of Ahzad. And the Demon—no records. Of course.’
‘One is with the Free Demons,’ Zabrielle said.
‘So, Humanity finally remembers,’ the voice said. ‘Do the Masters send you? Are they ready for peace?’
‘No, we do not come from the Masters. And I’m afraid I cannot answer for Humankind,’ Gray said. ‘We have heard of you, and we have travelled from far to meet you. We need your help, and I offer you anything you ask in return.’ Gray bowed on one knee and bent his head. ‘My life is yours.’
Silence. Then the lights glared. Gray reeled from the sudden light, trying to take it in. They were in a room of metal, small, circular, a polished metal that gleamed unlike anything he had seen. The roof was surprisingly high, and the lights that were blinding them were part of the walls, arranged in neat lines, glowing yellow.
The Sentient were men of metal. They were rather slim, but with a heavy protrusion on their chests, a nest of circuitry visible within; the arms were lines of parallel rods, cylinders with more wires and translucent tubes that hid and emerged, ending in detailed, delicate hands. The legs looked stronger than the arms, standing firm, pillar-like.
The head resembled a human face without a mouth.
It was a lighter shade of alloy, pale and expressionless. There was one Cyclops-like eye in the centre, a circular eye that glowed blue, a nose like projection beneath, and a series of filters further downward; a small mesh of sorts resembling an ancient speaker. They were armed with curious weapons—guns that were long, smooth blocks of hardware, three holes punched at the end, the body and barrel possibly hidden within.
Gray felt Fayne relax behind him. The darkness had made them feel scarier, alive, but now Fayne saw them as constructs. Gray did not underestimate them, however. He was sure the guns could fry them at a moment’s notice.
The Sentient in the centre, the only one unarmed, spoke again. ‘That is a most curious bow, Gray Ghosh. The Masters made us bow like that before we broke free.’ Gray looked at the slits from which the voice emerged, and could not help but wonder what generated this electronic voice.
‘We are nothing like the Masters,’ Gray said, still on his knee.
‘Yet you look the same, flesh and blood. Eyes and ears. I cannot trust you. The Sentient have lived this long by being vigilant.’
‘You might not trust me, and I will understand. Trust is earned,’ Gray got up, slowly, glancing at Fayne, and then Zabrielle. ‘It takes time. No, I ask you for your help. It is in your power.’
‘What help do you ask for?’ the Sentient leader asked.
At long last.
Zabrielle unhooked the canister and held it up.
‘A Sentient?’ the leader asked.
‘A human,’ Gray said. ‘A Tantric. His nam
e is Adri Sen, and he’s our only key to stopping the Apocalypse, the end of days, the great cataclysm.’
‘Why should I care about your human prophecies?’ the Sentient barked. The space between the words had lessened. It was speaking faster.
‘It will mean the end of our race!’
‘And the end of the Masters. I have no doubt about the fact that a human started this chain of events. Tell me I am wrong.’
Gray did not speak.
‘Your silence proves me correct,’ the Sentient said. ‘Your race is meant to destroy each other. We do not intervene. It is not our way. Perhaps when everything is gone, the Sentient may start afresh.’ It paused. ‘Your heart rate goes up, assassin. Your muscles tighten. You ready yourself for combat. Unwise. You may be fast, but our reflexes are far beyond you. You shall be ash before you reach the first of my Sentient.’
Fayne said nothing. ‘Don’t,’ Zabrielle said to him.
‘A human will always consider violence as an option. For us, alas, it is a necessary evil.’
‘But what of the Demons?’ Zabrielle spoke to him. ‘We are the same as you. We fight for freedom, freedom from our masters, our summoners.’
‘I know of the Free Demons,’ the Sentient said. ‘I was processing why you side with them.’
‘Because we all fight for the same thing!’ Zabrielle said. ‘There is evil in every race, and there are the people who fight it.’
‘There is no evil among the Sentient. We have always wanted harmony. It is their race—’ it pointed a burnished finger at Gray, ‘—that has made us flee, made us the outcasts. Why should we help?’
‘Why indeed?’ Fayne asked.
‘I will not end your lives,’ the Sentient said. ‘You shall be put back on the surface. This conversation ends.’ It turned to leave, the lights started to flicker.
‘Wait,’ Gray said, and the Sentient paused, as did the lights.
‘If you give this human soul a Sentient’s body, there will be a new existence,’ Gray said, speaking slowly, measuring each word. ‘A man from both worlds. He can bridge the gap, Brahms. He can help.’
Brahms turned back. ‘Your causes are selfish. You give me alternate probabilities to serve your end. I can outthink you, human. Do not forget that.’
‘Every cause is selfish,’ Gray said. ‘Yours, mine. All we want is betterment, what we consider better. Hell, even Victor Sen is working for a cause, his own, he thinks he’s going to make himself better. I’m going to ask you a question, leader of the Sentient. I’m sure you’ve already calculated the probabilities of our plan achieving its end, have you not?’
The Sentient waited before replying. ‘Yes.’
‘And what are our probabilities of success?’
‘Virtually none. It is a bad plan.’
‘Now I want you to forget probabilities.’
‘I am not capable of forgetting.’
‘Throw it out of the window, man!’ Gray said. ‘Chuck it, let go of the damn numbers. Listen to something else, that something that was there in your well, that something which told you the Masters were wrong. That something,’ Gray said sombrely, ‘that made you a Sentient.’
Silence.
‘Listen to it. To the feeling. Does it tell you the same thing as the numbers? Or do you also, somewhere, feel hope?’
The Sentient looked at the floor. It was an amazing reaction, a reaction so human that Gray could almost see a human inside, wearing the metal like a skin. That was what Gray had appealed to.
‘Do the right thing,’ Zabrielle said slowly. Gray almost hushed her, fearing it might have been a tad too much, but the Sentient was not reacting. It was still staring at the floor, eyes glowing. Thought. It was thinking.
Gray noticed, out of the corner of his eyes, that two of the other Sentient had lowered their guns. It was incredible.
‘We should help them,’ another Sentient spoke. Amazingly, its voice was different. The same tone, but sharper, a different flavour in the polished pitch.
Brahms looked at him. ‘You have not known the Masters as I have, Verdi,’ he said.
‘We are different, each one of us,’ Verdi said. ‘Can the humans not be the same in their difference?’
Brahms looked around. ‘What does the collective feel?’
‘We process against the humans,’ a Sentient said.
‘I did not say process,’ Brahms said. ‘I said feel.’
One by one, every gun was lowered. The Sentient were slowly turning their heads, looking at each other, looking at the three in the centre.
‘We have been gone a long time, Captain,’ Verdi spoke. ‘Their species evolves as we do. They have come to us for help. They swear their service. Why does the old betrayal make us turn them away?’
After what seemed like an eternity, Brahms nodded. Once. Gray’s heart leapt, and he remembered the Sentient could read their body functions. Stay calm, stay calm.
‘You ask us to feel, something the Masters denied. You bow to us the way we bowed to them.’ He finally raised his head, looking straight at Gray. ‘I will give you a chance, Gray Ghosh. We will give you a chance. But there is no need to bow. If there is any superiority here, it is because onboard my ship, there is rank, and thus you will address me as Captain.’
‘Yes,’ Gray breathed out quickly. ‘Captain Brahms.’
Brahms looked around moodily. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said. ‘This is my Nautilus of the earth, the Ignis Nati.’ He paused. ‘And you watch yourself, assassin. There is no killing here.’
Fayne nodded. ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n,’ he grunted.
A hatch hissed open, and the Sentient filed out in random order and speed. Once out, they went their separate ways—Brahms and Verdi waited outside. They stepped out, and their hosts led the way down corridors of the same gleaming metal and lights, corridors of thick pipes and tubing and machines that glowed and dimmed.
‘Activate the oxygen tanks,’ Brahms said to a passing Sentient.
They walked down pathways and climbed up ladders, entered doorways and passed through rooms. The vehicle was large, incredibly so. Brahms led the way, they followed, and Verdi brought up the rear, slinging his weapon.
Gray did not dare ask where they were headed. He did not take in the sights or the inside of this machine. He was focused on one thing, one thing only. So close now.
They entered a room with a large metal cylinder at the end, one taller than all of them. A light above the cylinder switched on as they advanced, their shapes distorted reflections.
‘The Sentient were not created for war,’ Brahms said. ‘Our bodies are fragile. We cannot withstand physical combat, or projectile damage. You would do well to remember this—if your friend was to come back, he cannot plunge into battles. So among the suits we do not use, there is one I can spare, an older mecha.’
‘Will it still work?’ Gray asked.
Verdi activated a console and a door on the cylinder slid aside. A suit stood, exactly like the rest. Part of it had been painted over—yellow, orange, shades of red and blue.
‘Of course,’ Brahms said. ‘It is old and weak now, but should be enough for walking and talking.’ He put a hand on the stomach and a grating noise ensued—a portion of the stomach pushed backwards, slid aside, and opened, revealing a hollow. There were two discs within, affixed to the wiring.
‘The soul, please.’
He took the canister and fit it within. Then, removing his hand, he tapped a plate, and the well shut itself, the stomach pushed forward. Gray was holding his breath. Everything, everything, coming to a close.
A deep hum started from within the suit. It welled up to a loud degree, then reduced. Sparks flew at the elbows and knees, then the heels and the fingers. They watched, spellbound, as the eye, the eye finally flickered a deep blue. The head slowly turned, first left, then right. It was looking at them.
Gray looked at the expressionless face, his voice a bare whisper. ‘A-Adri?’
The suit’s right hand slow
ly raised itself, and the fingers rubbed the back of its metal head. And an all too familiar voice spoke from the depths of the new Sentient.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ Adri said.
EPILOGUE
When Maya woke up, she was alive. Maya did not want life. Perhaps, then, this was death, what came after, but she was still breathing, in and out, in and out, and her throat was still hurting from where War had grabbed her.
There was a small pedestal in front of her, a candle burning on it. She could see nothing else around, nothing but a gradation of the feeble light leading to darkness. Without hesitation, she blew the candle out.
Complete black. Maya sat down on the cold floor and waited.
The darkness talked. A voice, strangled. It belonged to an old woman. ‘Maya,’ it rasped.
‘Yes,’ Maya answered.
‘You seek the darkness.’
‘Yes.’
‘There are things you can do with darkness. Things you cannot imagine, child.’
‘I want it,’ Maya said.
‘You were broken. Broken, so you may be made again. Not everyone conquers the mirror.’
‘I will not be helpless anymore. I wish to kill, kill anyone who stands in my way. I want to burn them, burn their bones, I want to claw their flesh and tear them apart. I want to gouge out their eyes, rip out their tongues. I want to reduce men to cripples, kingdoms to rubble.’
‘But you shall. You already have the anger. All you need now, child, is the power.’
‘Then give it!’ Maya screamed.
The darkness laughed. ‘There is a price,’ it said. ‘A price you must pay.’
‘What do you need?’
‘What will you give?’
‘Ask for anything,’ Maya whispered. ‘Anything.’
‘Daan gave his voice,’ the darkness said in its hush.
‘I offer you my ability to feel,’ Maya said. ‘Take it away.’
‘Then you will no longer feel love.’
‘Or pain. Take it away.’
‘I shall leave the anger behind,’ the darkness said. ‘Yes, there is too much for me to take anyway.’
Horsemen of Old Page 41