Splintered Suns

by Michael Cobley

  “One thing did,” said Van Graes. “The Angular Eye.”

  Pyke’s eyes narrowed. “Wait—this eye-widget came from that ship? How do you—how could you know?”

  “Arravek science scaled heights in some fields that our age has yet to even attempt,” said Van Graes. “Para-quantal alteration of material properties, distinct property states, sub-quantum data storage and even programming. The Angular Eye can analyse a sliver of any material and then show the way to more of the same, perfect for finding anything from mineral deposits to missing persons. But if you leave the little sample chamber empty the Angular Eye points out at the great desert east of Cawl-Vesh!”

  “Because it’s only analysing itself?” Dervla said. “Sounds a bit thin to me.”

  “The Angular Eye has in recent times passed through the hands of just three people, a Sedlu tomb scavenger who lived over in one of the northern stilt-towns about four hundred years ago, an offworld antique broker who murdered the Sedlu for the Eye, left Ong, made enough of a fortune to buy life extension treatments, came back to Ong two hundred and fifty years later in search of Vesh relics only to die in a freak accident. After that it came into the ownership of the museum, whose directors have mentioned in their reports activity similar to that noted in the Sedlu’s diary and the offworlder’s private logs.”

  “It points towards the desert,” said Pyke.

  “It does indeed.”

  “But we don’t have it … ah, you said something about some doctor who can track it while Raven’s using it?”

  “Lieutenant-Doctor Ustril,” Van Graes said. “During her time on Ong, her researches have led her to make some interesting discoveries in the south-eastern sand seas.”

  Pyke gave a quiet chuckle.

  “So, Mr. Van G, now that we’re fully informed and up-to- speed …”

  Over her shoulder, Dervla heard Kref yawn capaciously.

  “… what is the meat of your proposal?”

  “As I stated before, if you meet with the good doctor and, after assessing the chances of success, decide to continue the hunt for the Mighty Defender and all its treasures, I’ll treble your payments and add a bonus, too. Or, if you decide against any further involvement, you will still be paid the original amount.”

  Pyke stroked his chin. “But you want us to fly out into the desert for a gab with your scientist before we make up our minds?”

  “That would be my preference, yes.”

  Says the man who holds the purse strings, thought Dervla who then leaned forward. “There is still some risk involved in such a voyage,” she said. “Duststorms can spring up any time and what with Raven Kaligari’s thugs running around …”

  “I see,” came Van Graes’ voice. “Perhaps an additional risk fee might compensate for taking you out of your way and for any potential difficulties?”

  Dervla smiled hungrily. “A most thoughtful notion—perhaps the original fees plus thirty-three per cent would convince these rascals to gamble on such hazards again?”

  “Very well, agreed. Captain, when would you be ready to depart?”

  Pyke leaned over and bumped fists with Dervla as he spoke. “Any time you like, Mr. Van Graes, so long as you give me some idea of where I’m heading.”

  “I have a precise idea,” Van Graes said as he started to read out a set of planetary coordinates.

  “Right then—all aboard!” Pyke said once he’d keyed the data into the navcomp screen. “Anything we need from the cave before we dust off?”

  “Ancil’s just gone back for his goody bag,” said Moleg as he followed Kref into the shuttle and along the seating compartment.

  “Ah, the infamous goody bag,” Pyke said as Ancil re-emerged from the cave, dashed over and scrambled aboard, with a dark-camo holdall clutched in one hand.

  “Are we all set?” said Pyke, prodding the “seal all hatches” control.

  Ancil grinned. “You know my motto, Chief—leave nothing useful behind!”

  “Crazy scrounger,” Pyke said. “Mr. Van Graes? You still there?”

  “I am, Captain.”

  “That’s us crewed and buttoned up, ready for departure. You’ll be telling your friend to expect us?”

  “The moment this conversation is done, Captain, I shall be sending her a message to that effect.”

  “We’ll speak later, then.”

  “Safe journey, Captain.”

  The comm link went dead.

  “Okay, you lucky people!” Pyke sang out as he engaged the autopilot. “Time we weren’t here.”

  The shuttle-barge rose smoothly on humming suspensors, rode a widening spiral up into the clear blue sky then settled into a steady, south-westerly course.

  “How long till the rendezvous with this scientist?” Dervla said.

  Pyke glanced at the navcomp readouts. “Three and a half hours, give or take.”

  “Enough time for you to finish your epic tale, then!” She gave a sly smile. “You were about to tell us what happened after you got chumped by Raven and her goons …”

  “Aye, and I will, soon as I compose myself.”

  “Oh, and we were promised scenes of extravagant, brain-scrambling weirdness and, so far, not so much.”

  Pyke nodded with a knowing smile. “You want weird, my sweet? I got weird for yeh, plenty and then some!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  (Pyke continues his account.)

  Pyke came to out of an uncomfortable half-sleep. His sight was blurred but he thought he could hear several voices, adding to the impression of being in a small space; along with the sudden awareness that he was propped up and strapped to a framework, there was the sense of someone moving in close, waving something strong-smelling under his nose.

  The acrid odour penetrated his senses like an electric jolt. Everything snapped into focus. The tilted prisoner-gurney he was lying in; the Henkari, Runken Burlet, sitting in a chair, bound hand and foot; the three or four shabby merc types gathered near an examination table where the Construct drone sat, looking dead as murdered dust. A battery of de-energiser probes hung over it like a row of chrome fangs, clearly holding it immobile. And in the middle of it all, there, right there, hint of a certain fragrance, sweet and inveigling without being engulfing, coupled with the sense of someone standing behind him.

  “Hi, Raven,” he said. “Haven’t lost your knack for subtlety, then.”

  A statuesque, dark-haired woman in close-fitting, midnight-blue body armour stepped into view holding a pair of matching gloves in one hand. Raven Kaligari, six foot one out of heels, face of an angel, heart of a homicidal killer, skilled with every weapon designed for hands, human or otherwise.

  “Bran!—it’s been … let me think. Three years? Four?”

  “More like two and a half. Two and a half wonderful, terror-free years …”

  “Oh, but the times we had!”

  “Yeah, I remember, like the time you branded one of my crew …”

  “Just a passing whim which got out of hand.”

  “… and then tried to sell us into slavery. Now that was just plain mean.”

  Raven nodded wryly, leaned on the side of the gurney and brought her face in close.

  “And as bad as that could have turned out for you, Bran, it doesn’t compare to what’s going to happen next.”

  She straightened, pulled on the gloves, reached into a waist pouch and took out a long, curved object, dark brown with the dull sheen of leather. At first Pyke thought it was a dagger in a scabbard, but the wide end looked too short and bulbous to be a hilt. Holding it so that Pyke could see, Raven unfastened a couple of straps and opened the odd leather case to reveal an opaque shard of crystal. It was frosty in colour, cold white with a hint of blue. Smiling now, she took the shard, still in its case, over to the table where the inanimate Construct drone lay, and to one of her henchgoons said:

  “Report?”

  “Scans say the AI core and support peripherals are still functioning.”

  “Good. F
ound me any inputs yet?”

  The goon reached in and pointed to a small gaping hatch. Without hesitation she pushed the crystal down against the exposed inputs—at once thready webs of energy erupted from openings all over the drone’s armoured casing. Raven Kaligari made no sound and did not so much as flinch while electric webs jittered and danced around her hand and crawled up her arm. Then, as suddenly as it had flared up, the energy discharge abated. The crystal shard, jammed into the casing, gave off a stuttering glow for a moment or two before fading away, returning to its former appearance.

  Raven Kaligari inhaled noisily through her nose and let out a whoop of exhilaration. She lifted the leather-cased crystal shard away from the dark and lifeless drone then staggered back over to Pyke, face brimming with a drunken glee.

  “What a rush!—fascinating experiment,” she said. “Wonder if any transition took place?”

  With her free hand she stroked his chin then let her fingertips trail lower to his chest and began popping open buttons on his shirt.

  “Raven, darlin,’” he said. “I thought we had something, you and me, despite all our mad adventures, y’know? You’re not seriously going to burn my brains out, too, are ye?”

  She laughed. “No one’s brains are getting burned, boiled or fried. You should, however, get ready for a profound shift in your perspective!” She gave his cheek a couple of light slaps. “Enjoy yourself, Bran—it’s gonna be the trip of your life!”

  Her other hand snaked inside his shirt and slapped the crystal against his bare skin. The icy chill bit into him, spreading outwards and upwards. Transfixed, a panicky hyperawareness brought him a wave of sensation, the pulse and churn of blood through his flesh, a blood that was turning cold. It surged up his chest, up his neck and through his skull to lap at the shores of his brain. Another heartbeat brought a fierce tide of icy blood which froze every channel and junction of thought. Silence clamped itself around his ears. His view of Raven and her bootlicking creeps blurred and slid sideways. Faint feeling of vertigo, head over heels tumbling, falling, rushing along a frost-streaked fissure. And there was the weirdest impression, not quite vision, of something monolithic and menacing hurtling past him, going the other way …

  The plummeting slowed. The ungainly spinning wound down as his downward motion became a lazy spiralling gyre, so calm and peaceful that he actually felt like closing his eyes … then he frowned, feeling something hard beneath him, something hard and cold. He sat up and opened his eyes, saw only blur for a moment, rubbed them and looked again.

  “What the …”

  He had been lying on a long white marble bench, one of several ringing the inside of a circular wooden structure that was open to the sky. Leaves lay scattered across S-shaped tiles, seemingly from the nearly bare bushes and small trees which were planted around the inside of the structure. The place had an autumnal feel to it, enhanced by the dusky evening light, the mildness of the air and the candles.

  Candles were everywhere, in sconces, in candelabra on tall iron supports, and in clusters spread all across the tiled ground. Cone-shaped, barrel-shaped, triangular, helical, decorated with inks, adorned with tiny tokens, large ones burning in niches, small ones laid out in patterns, sitting in a line on the backs of the marble benches, dripping wax beards. Strewn with soft glows, the enclosed area was pretty and somehow welcoming.

  “Where the hairy hell am I?” Pyke murmured.

  “You’ve arrived on the Isle of Candles, Human,” said a voice from nearby. “Seems fairly obvious, I know.”

  There was an opening in the open-roofed, gazebo-like structure where a tiled walkway led to a broad stairway curving up through rocks and bushes to a large shadowy building. By the opening a short, bristle-snouted Gomedran leaned against a low square pillar topped by burning candles. The greyness of its fur indicated that it was past its prime, and the shabby, patched combat-style gear suggested a military background. Wonder if he saw how I got here, Pyke thought.

  “You been watching me the whole time?”

  The Gomedran shook his head. “Just got back from a walk along the beach, and there you were.” He sniffed the air. “My name is Vrass.”

  “Pyke.”

  “Greetings, Pyke. Well, if you’re here, that can only mean that the Legacy ain’t—which is a something of a novelty.”

  “Legacy? What’s …”

  “In a moment,” said the Gomedran. “First, I need to know if you touched anything unusual before you got here? Anything … odd?”

  “Yeah, a chunk of freezing crystal,” Pyke said. “That witch Raven slapped it against my chest and moments later I’m rollercoastering my brains out.”

  “Raven … Kaligari?” said Vrass.

  “The same. You’ve met her?”

  “She’s been a loyal follower of the Legacy, in recent times. Previously, others have been the shard’s custodian.”

  Pyke got to his feet. “And who’s the Legacy?”

  Vrass’s snout wrinkled with a grin. “The Legacy is a what not a who, some kind of machine intellect, even though it affects the traits of organic existence.”

  “You said this was the Isle of Candles,” Pyke said. “Where is that? What planet are we on?”

  The Gomedran shook his head sadly. “We are probably in the same place you were when Kaligari swapped out your mind with the crystal. You see, you and I and this island are all inside it, inside the crystal!”

  Pyke’s first instinct was to laugh out loud, but the recent accumulation of undiluted weirdness was sufficient to make him pause and give the notion serious consideration. “What? This is a virtuality? But if I’m in here, what’s happening to my body …”

  He paused, suddenly recalling the hallucinatory journey and the ominous presence that passed him going the other way.

  “Well, I’m afraid your flesh and blood is now playing host to the Legacy,” the Gomedran said. “Or, to give its full ceremonial title, Culminant Legacy Zovaxa-Jant. We’ve all had that privilege.”

  “We?”

  Vrass pointed to the large building at the top of the winding steps. “I am not the only occupant of the Residency. There are another two of us, both of whom have been detained, shall we say, for a lot longer than I have.”

  Vrass indicated the stairway and started upwards. Pyke snorted and went after him. “Skag it,” he growled, rubbing his face, tweaking nose and ears, then scratching the back of his neck before grabbing a fistful of shaggy, unkempt hair. The Gomedran Vrass watched him with a smile.

  “Feels quite real, doesn’t it?”

  Pyke nodded. “Certainly does. Impressive level of sensory detail for a persistent virtuality—in fact, it’s too good, too perfect …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been in my share of BTL suites,” he said. “Headgeared my way through every kinda scenario you like, and an enviromatrix this good needs a mountain of processing traction and a honking great power source to boot …”

  “Each of us has, on realising where we were, made similar guesses,” said Vrass. “Although I have heard that a few earlier guests were convinced that all this was actually the nightmare dream of some god, or even the universe itself … wait, are you okay?”

  They were halfway up the stone steps when Pyke slowed, overcome by a wave of dizziness. He staggered over to lean against the cold face of a moss-patched boulder.

  “Not sure—I feel …”

  His sight blurred as another vision overlaid it, far sharper and clearer than where he supposedly was. And he knew exactly what he was seeing—Runken Burlet, still tied to the chair, eyes closed, lips drawn back, trying to endure a succession of blows coming from … himself! Pyke was enraged to see his own fists slamming Burlet repeatedly in the face, chest and stomach. The vision sharpened and scratchy fragments of sound came through. His perspective moved back a step, looked sideways, straight into the wide, eager eyes of Raven Kaligari. Give me your knife, said a voice, his voice. A moment later her heavy combat knif
e was in his hand and he turned back to the restrained Henkari, sagging against the bonds, blood dripping from a burst lip. And without hesitation Pyke’s own hand rammed the blade into the side of Burlet’s neck, up to the hilt.

  “No!” Pyke cried out.

  The sheer shock and horror at this slaughter—by his own hands!—severed whatever link had existed. He was back on the stone steps, leaning against mossy stone, fighting a wave of nausea.

  How thoughtful of the designers of this place to include the puke reflex! he thought. Maybe he should check for the whereabouts of the jakes as well, just in case.

  “That’ll be your first echo from your body under the Legacy’s control,” said Vrass. “Usually the early ones are the most intense but you’ll feel better quite soon. Come—I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  The Gomedran was right—the discomfort was abating swiftly, which is more than could be said for those bloody images. At the top of the stairs short pillars bearing large, plain candles flanked an open gate to a small seated area where they encountered a male Bargalil. There was a clattering as it brought all six of its hooves to a halt, then he stroked his curly beard as he regarded Pyke with a kind of startled delight.

  “A second guest!” he said. “Two in the one day …”

  “A second?” Vrass said. “Oh—ah, Pyke, this is T’Moy of the Mavtal Bargalilan. T’Moy, this is Pyke of the Humans.”

  Pyke and T’Moy exchanged nods.

  “We shall take time to become acquainted later,” the Bargalil said. “For now, we should hurry into the cloisters—Klane is trying to communicate with the other newcomer.”

  Beyond the seated area, double doors led through a shady corridor to a large open courtyard. Gravel paths quartered it diagonally, with grassy stretches occupied by bare-branched trees, a fountain and a group of statues. At the point where the paths intersected, a tall broad-shouldered sentient stood facing a hovering, oval, black object, like a dense of curved splines about a metre long. As they drew near Pyke could see that the close-packed splines shifted eerily, tiny ripple motions as if something restless lay within.